​They’re all dead now, every single one of them. I was a self-conscious teenager, who rolled her hair in pink curlers every night. And what gorgeous hair I had back then, not thin and spindly and white as it is today. Dad asked if we wanted to visit our cousin Donny Garber at Case Western Reserve in Cleveland.
            “Yes!” I called from my upstairs bedroom, where I lay on my white bedspread, reading a library book from the Bertram Woods Library. The library is still there. My sister Donna came into my room. She had bouncy brown hair from the rollers she put in her hair every night.
            “It would probably be boring,” she said.
            “Why don’t you come? We could have a ‘doozy.’” I suggested.
            “Nah, I’ll get together with my friends,” she said.
            Why did Donna have so many friends and I had only one or two? We’re both still alive now. One of her friends died on a roof top while she was getting a sun tan. Cause of death: a heroin overdose.
            Mom always stayed home. Her mother, Gramma Lily, lived with us, and insisted that my mother keep a clean house. Mom had special knee pads – like hockey players wear – to scrub the kitchen floor. We did have a maid – Gloria – who I was insatiably curious about. A Black woman. I wondered how Black people lived. I knew they were poor, but didn’t know why.
            Mom made sure we had plenty to eat before we left. Succulent lamb chops, mashed potatoes, which, for some reason, made me drowsy, La Sueur Peas, from a can, and brownies, for dessert.
            I yawned. The mashed potatoes.
            We Greenwolds always had brand-new cars. I’m guessing we had our pink Mercury station wagon. It was huge when all the seats were put down. I got to sit up front since Mom wasn’t there. Immediately, Dad lit a cigarette. His smoking career began at age eight, and ended at 42, when on Yom Kippur, he quit. Cold turkey.
            Surreptitiously, I cranked open my window a tiny crack.
            Oh, he died anyway of lung cancer which metastasized to his brain. Fifty-nine.
A skyscraper growing in his brain. 
Case Western Reserve was half an hour away. Throughout the drive, I’d cough into a piece of tattered Kleenex. Second-hand smoke. Since I ain’t dead yet, I dunno if I’ll die from cancer or not. A variety of other candidates wait in the wings.
The scenery was fascinating.  We drove through the impoverished parts of Cleveland. A funeral parlor “Kirk and Nice” – Black men congregating on street corners, some in undershirts, others in their church finery – Church’s Fried Chicken – boarded-up gas stations – Kentucky Fried Chicken with the Colonel smiling broadly, seemingly innocent of the unhealthy diets that would kill Black people – huge billboards – one mentioned a dentist you could pay on the installment plan – another mentioned “The Settlement Music School,” where we’d hold our piano recitals.
Clutching my Kleenex, I coughed again. Dad couldn’t hear me above the radio. The program was quite clever. The narrator, with a smooth voice like Earl Nightingale’s, pretended we were at a ball room.
“Coming out onto the dance floor now,” the voice said, “is none other than Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.” He paused for effect. What he didn’t say was that Fred Astaire was half-Jewish, but his mother converted to Roman Catholicism. Another Gustav Mahler, who became a Christian.
Dad never lost a moment in praising the Jews. George Jessel, Ernie Kovacs, Hank Greenberg, of the Cleveland Indians – “Hammerin’ Hank” - Maury Salzman, a Cleveland philanthropist.  
The GPS – Global Positioning System – was not in wide use in the ‘sixties, but Dad seemed to know how to get everywhere.
And there he was: Donny Garber - Donald Israel Garber, PhD - standing outside his school, bald head glimmering in the light.
Dad grabbed his movie camera and panned slowly. Every one in the family was used to Dad and his movie camera.

“Pain in the neck,” I thought.
I didn’t learn to curse until I got to Goddard College in Plainfield, VT.
Donny led the way to his work area. I stared at the man, since I, well, lusted after him.  His smarts, for sure, but there was something else. A hidden knowledge he seemed to possess, as if he knew me and what I was all about. Even if I myself had no idea.   
Revolving wheels, like on tape recorders, are what I remember. Those and sneak peaks at Donny, who still lived at home. His mother, Evelyn, was imbued with a sparkling personality. Their home was a showcase of antiques. Not my taste. What I loved were movie-star homes I would look at in movie magazines I’d buy at Gray’s Drug Store – Photoplay or Modern Screen. I hid them from my family in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Hid? Impossible.
Evelyn Garber, Donny’s mom, was banished from Sterling Lindner Davis, Halle’s and Higbee’s department stores. Everything she bought, she returned. Obsessions. Good to have if you’re a scientist.
            Finally, “Don-Coo” as his mother called him, took a bride.
            Liz. Short for Elizabeth. Both were scientists. And childless, which we believed was tantamount to a sin.  
            Late in life, Donny got leukemia. Leukemia, for chrissakes. Oh, my aching heart. He rallied. But then failed. And died. Do we know when we are dying?
            My mother, in her nineties, was devastated. Dad, remember, had died of cancer at 59.
            Liz is still alive.
            She hasn’t a clue who she is.
            She is living with relatives in Wheeling, West Virginia.
            Alzheimer’s is the deadbeat victor.   
 

​During the early days of my failed marriage, I went to the polls in Houston, Texas, and pushed the button for George McGovern, the earnest man with the smiling false teeth.

I sobbed when he lost.
Of course, I was an emotional girl back then, wearing an invisible black veil of mourning for marrying the wrong man. There was never anything to talk about. We’d hit the sack each night on those lovely lavender-striped sheets, keep our backs a few inches apart and somehow end up twined together in the morning.
Whoever awoke first, licked their dry mouth, checked the digital clock and softly eased out of bed so as not to awake the sleeping monster.  
The last words I said to him before I went back home to Pennsylvania were, “Keep the Nissan and take up painting again.” 
Thirty years later I found myself in the tiny cramped office of Pennsylvania State Congresswoman Allyson Y. Schwartz. I looked forward to meeting this tough but soft-spoken woman who let her hair grow gray and stood with her arms crossed in the photographs.
She never showed up, but I met Nate and Barbara and Katy and basically the whole crew who were coordinating the 2008 election campaign of the first black man to run for president of the United States. 
“Canvass” was a word I didn’t know how to spell and now they wanted me to canvass. I would do anything for this black man, including buy a $20 badly designed T-shirt with his face grinning on my chest. His brilliance dazzled me and I was positively in love with that smiling wife of his, with her straightened hair and sexy ways.
As usual, I pictured us being best friends
“Michelle,” I’d say to her. “It’s my turn to drive today. Where to? The Barnes is having a lecture on Renoir and those curvaceous models of his.” 
“Look, Marsha,” she’d tell me. “I have nothing against fat white girls in pinafores, but I’d rather go kayaking on the Delaware.” 
Canvassing, that strange word. The Team paired me with a woman who looked as if she could be in a Picasso painting and even one of his lovers, until she opened her mouth. Betty had black flyaway hair that spread out from her oval-shaped head in curlicue black tresses, sort of like Marie Antoinette, her head still attached.
Betty and I filled our arms with manila folders holding sheets of potential voters, their names, phone numbers, No. 2 pencils with pink erasers that left horrible splotches on the page. They wished us Godspeed, as we drove out to - of all places  - a nursing home in Elkins Park, PA.

I waived the right to take my car by lying I was low on gas. In truth, I could not keep more than two hubcaps on at a time. The car was an embarrassment, as were my second-hand clothes, my unkempt hair, and my refusal to pay attention to myself. People liked me anyway. I got by with my great personality. Charm, you might call it.  

The silence in Betty’s car was absolute. 
“Those your grandkids?” I asked, looking at the dashboard which contained posed shots of perfect little beings. I couldn’t care less.  
“Help me out,” she said as she drove, slower and slower. “Where the hell is this nursing home?” 
“You said you knew,” I almost shouted back at her. “Now we’re lost and have no idea where we are. Where the hell is the address?” 
I grabbed the sheet of paper from her lap and stared at the directions. 
“You’ve overshot the mark, dammit!” I said. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s someone who pretends they know everything.” 
Rolling Hill Hospital, a huge brick building filled with sick or dying people was off on our right.
After passing Rizzo’s Pizza Parlor that one of my loser boyfriends took me to, a college professor who had stacks of porn magazines by the side of his bed, I pointed to a white sign that read “Rolling Hill Nursing Home.” 
She parked and we entered. The plan was to give a good Obama pep talk to all the people on our list. Their names were clearly printed out with those square-ish letters from the computer. You read the column as it marched across the page, you know, party of affiliation, date they last voted, DOB and even phone number. We could’ve had phone duty but we each wanted to be part of the “Vote Yes for Change Campaign” and meet voters face to face. 
 The home was equipped with a lovely blue patterned carpet as we walked in, a piano in the lobby, and a counter behind which no one sat.
The smell of lunch attracted us. 
“We should wait here until someone comes,” said Betty. 
“Well, you can wait here,” I said. “But, me, I’m gonna find the voters.”
I was ravenous to begin.

Old people interested me. They were twisted caricatures of what they used to be. The faces on the women were like puffy croissants but not half so tasty. Men had those horrid big brown age spots in odd places on their face, which they should simply, I thought, scrape off with an X-Acto blade. You see, I never felt comfortable with old people. But I took this as a challenge to see if I could get over my distaste. 
The first thing I noticed after I broke away from Betty was the smell of the place. I don’t have to tell you what it smelled like. Unemptied Depends. In the old days when people didn’t shower, they would douse themselves with perfume. Why didn’t Rolling Hill do the same? 
I was on the stairs when I heard Betty’s high-heels clopping behind me.
“Nothing to do, so I guess I’ll come with you. Where should we start?” 
We were now on the second floor. A nurse in one of those snappy overblouses that look like a well-worn maternity frock snapped, “And what do you think you’re doing in my nursing home?” 
“Oh, we’re just canvassing for Obama,” I chirped.  
“Did you get permission to come up here?”  
Betty started to say something, but I quickly said, “Of course we did. We’re just going to peek in the rooms and see who’s in there. It’s our job. Allyson Schwartz, the State Congresswoman sent us.” 
The nurse, clipboard in hand, nodded and disappeared down the hallway. 
There are only two times in my life I’ve felt really important. One was today, canvassing for Obama. The other was in a supermarket when a young man flopped on the floor in the juice aisle and took a seizure.  
I knelt down and cushioned his head with my hands.

"You are welcome, sir," I thought.

With Betty in tow, I entered a huge room that was making all sorts of noises, from both machines and human beings. Where was I? How had I gotten here? How might I leave? Was I on an alien ship with Spock and crew slumbering to slow their beating hearts to get back to Planet Earth?    
“Oh, for chrissakes,” said Betty. “Look what you’ve done. Look where you’ve taken us.” Her arms were flailing.
“You’re crazy. I’m getting out of here," she said.

“Don’t drive off without me. I’ll be down in a minute,” I said, looking down on the bed at was once a woman but now resembled an inflatable still-breathing corpse with cactus-like stubble growing over her face. 
And you know what I actually thought when I saw her? Well, two things. “This could be me,” was the first. And the second was, “She once made love and had fine spongy breasts.” 
I roamed along the long room, taking my time to look at each living carcass, none of them awake. I sat down on a bed and looked at the Italian name of a woman. I lay my hand on her arm, just below where the bruise was where the intravenous went in. I squeezed a tiny bit and she awoke. Or, I should say, her eyes opened. But was she awake? Was she cognizant? Was she a sentient being? 
“Mary?” I said, staring into her blurry gray-green eyes and open mouth. “I’m here to tell you about Barack Obama. Do you know who he is?” 
Her eyes blinked. I had practiced my speech back at headquarters and I recited it now on the side of the bed to Mary Italian last-name. She snored through my presentation. I was confused. Was she snoring or was she walking her way into death? And how long would it take? And did anyone care? 
 Can’t say that I did. Mostly, I felt sorry for myself, a witness to this human decay, stench and degradation. 
A handsome man who looked like an orchestra conductor walked into the room. The stethoscope gleamed in the light of the ever-present fluorescents on the ceiling. On second thought, he was not so handsome at all. He had a washed-out look, a sadness in his eyes.  
“Visiting?” he asked. 
 “Sort of,” I said. “I’m making new friends. Canvassing for Barack Obama, our first black president.” 
 “Seems like a smart man,” he said. “Give me your pitch,” he said staring at my grey turtleneck from Impact Thrift Store. 
He listened to me and nodded his head.  
“Would you let me listen to my heart?” I asked him. He seemed pleasant enough and I wanted to give him a break from all these dying chickens. 
 He put the stethoscope around my ears and placed the shiny silver disc in my hand. 
 Thump. Thump. Thump.
 “Hey, I’m still alive,” I said. “What I imagine to be a strong steady beat.”
 “You bet,” he said, moving down the rows to study the remains of what once were people in the Rolling Hill Nursing Home. 
Betty was sitting with her legs kicking in the lobby with that glamorous rack of untrained curls radiating the only joy in the place.  
“Ready?” I said.  
I refused to apologize as we walked to her shiny white car whose battery turned nicely as we headed back to the office.             
Obama won and I ran out to buy a copy of the New York Times with the headlines reading "Obama Elected President as Racial Barrier Falls." 
 I keep it in the bottom of my underwear drawer, where it gets frailer with every passing day.
 

​     Betty Bertolucci experienced an epiphany when her daughter’s first spoken words (mother, smother) formed a perfect rhyme. The two-year-old clearly had all the talent it takes to shoot straight to the top. From that illuminating moment, in 1931, two years deep into a misguided marriage to the third most successful accountant in town, Betty threw all her weight behind Bernice’s career as a performance-poet. First the child star would make it here in Brale, BC. Then she would go on to conquer Hollywood.
     Bernice seemed eager to realize her mother’s dream from the start. She never whimpered with hunger from the strict diet necessary to maintain a svelte figure for the stage. She didn’t struggle against the straps that bound her to her practice chair six hours each day. When production of her poems slowed to a crawl, the little girl obediently entered the composing closet and invented a quota of verses in darkness that would be unbroken until her mother unlocked the door at dawn. During nights leading up to an important engagement, Bernice rehearsed her gestures and poses and expressions until four in the morning without complaint. “She’s far more determined than me,” swore her mother. “I hardly ever have to get out the practice whip.”
     Betty made enormous sacrifices for her daughter’s career. She didn’t spare herself in the process of encouraging Bernice to perform her original rhymes at every opportunity that arose in the small smelter town. The little girl treated customers of Tognotti’s Grocerteria to on-the-spot renditions of her latest stanzas, and entertained the line-up for both early and late shows at The Royal Theatre. “You never know where or when or how you’ll be discovered,” Betty pointed out. “They found little Deanna Durbin slaving for ten cents a week in a cotton gin at age five. Now, thanks to her mother, she’s enjoying the fruits of a seven-year contract with Universal. Although perched on the very top of the box office, Deanna hasn’t forgotten who put her up there. Furs and limousines are the least Mrs. Durbin deserves. The very least.”
     By age six, Bernice had become a fixture on the local entertainment scene. She received headline billing at every Lead & Zinc Fair after wowing the crowd with the unveiling of her instant classic “Yellow Clouds of Sulfur, Grey Clouds of Lead.” Revealing a knack for reciting while balanced on a sheet of ice, she was named permanent feature performer for the curling club’s Winter Bonspiel Wingding. Once her mother drilled enough Italian into her, Bernice was able to accept an invitation to entertain at The Colombo Lodge Annual Banquet and expand her demographic in the process. A stunning debut at the Brale Literary Festival, in 1936, earned the young artiste the first of what would be sixteen consecutive “Bright Brale Star of Tomorrow” honors from Tiny McGuire at The Daily Times. This unprecedented string of victories would certainly have been extended were it not for the cheap tactics of a tap-dancing tot who went on to complete a painfully simple paradillo at the Junior Miss Variety Show after breaking both ankles in her opening pass.
     Soon every hostess came to soothe pre-party jitters by booking Bernice to guarantee the success of their affair. Faced with a slate of weak students on the eve of her spring piano recital, Carole Bouquet once placed an emergency call to Betty at two a.m. With several conditions, the last-minute engagement was accepted. Bernice demanded twice her usual live performance fee, special guest star billing with a full Bernice Botticelli biography in the recital program, plus a car and driver to and from Carole’s event.
     The child star enjoyed less success at school than on stage. Her attendance suffered due to increasing demands to rehearse and to entertain. Publicity obligations further limited Bernice’s ability to participate in the first and second grade. With Tiny McGuire and his news camera in tow, she toured the children’s wing of the Regional Hospital to cheer the sick kiddies up with Bernice Botticelli balloons. As a generous gesture toward the disadvantaged, she handed out half-price coupons for her next show to residents of the slum that sprawled over muddy shore down at The Flats. Candid photographs in The Daily Times captured the entertainer in the act of cutting ribbons to open local businesses, presiding as patron of the East Brale United’s Charity Bazaar, and waving from the lead float in the Brale Day parade. 
     Most of the hours Bernice did spend in the classroom were spent catching up on sleep. When the teacher managed to wake the exhausted celebrity to ask her to read aloud, she prettily replied that Equity forbid her from performing for less than scale. At recess, she was regularly stoned on the playground for offering civilian children autographs in an attempt to gain their affection. “A star doesn’t need friends,” Betty consoled her. “Only fans.”
     When the school board declined her daughter permission to withdraw from formal studies at age eight in order to concentrate solely on her career, Betty didn’t hide her disappointment. She pointed out that a precedent for this step had been set not so long ago. At just six, Stanley MacKay was allowed to end his academic education in order to dedicate every minute to the keyboard. Bernice was certifiably more talented than the piano prodigy; Stanley’s twelve Bright Star titles couldn’t hold a candle to her sixteen. And unlike that gifted yet illiterate boy, Bernice was able to sign autographs, read reviews and study scripts. Because she had no desire to follow in her father’s accounting footsteps, and since a whole team of money managers would be in place to invest and protect her movie-star income, arithmetic skills were apt to be acquired at the cost of more essential ones, such as learning how to find your key light and how to steal parts from other actresses. At being denied “The Stanley MacKay Exemption,” Betty bitterly guessed that poetry remained the poor cousin among the arts.
     She began to feel apprehensive about the future when her daughter turned nine. It seemed obvious that Bernice was growing discouraged at remaining still undiscovered by Hollywood. She brooded as Deanna Durbin and Judy Garland and Baby Jane Withers received the kind of break that should have gone to her. Bernice’s thwarted desire to become a viable replacement for Shirley Temple was made especially galling by the propitious timing of Little Miss Sunshine’s stunning decline. The undeserved success of Mickey Rooney and Freddie Bartholomew and the rest of the boys only sagged a drooping morale further. Bernice felt these injustices all the more keenly because no child star except her wrote a single word of their material. Judy couldn’t spell so much as c-a-t. Her autograph was forged on fan photos by secretaries at the studio.
     The window for the child star to make it big is narrow as a needle’s eye, Betty knew. Few bright-eyed moppets transcend an inevitably awkward adolescence and go on to shine as adult idols. For many, the window slams shut before the first pimple appears. Poor Cora Ann Collins found herself washed up at nine. One year after sitting pretty on Louis B. Mayer’s lap, the has-been was reduced to scrubbing dishes in his studio commissary.
     Betty advised her daughter that she needed to work harder. Maybe being a performer-poet double threat isn’t enough at any age. Maybe Bernice needed a third talent. Look at Edna St. Vincent Millay. Her rhymes had been able to take her only so far. At that critical point in her career when she needed to branch out, Edna turned down a very nice offer from Columbia, which had plans to turn her into a love goddess in the Nancy Carroll mold. Now Edna was finished, now Edna was through.
     Bernice’s efforts to master a third talent met with little success. She seemed unequipped to add tap dancing to her repertoire. The problem was her feet. They insisted on starting to bleed after just eight hours of tapping. Betty’s heart sank. All at once the smelter-scented air seemed more acrid. Visions of a toast-of-the-town daughter doing a droll bob and shuffle while putting over poems at the Hollywood Bowl evaporated in the same way that a dream of becoming the next Mary Pickford, or at least the new Lillian Gish, once had.  
     Bernice’s performances began to deteriorate. On stage at the Civic Auditorium, she stuttered over chestnuts recited flawlessly for years. Gestures and postures once executed with military precision grew increasingly uncertain. At the 1940 Lead & Zinc Fair, the child star was booed off stage after changing the title of her most popular piece to “Yellow Clouds of Cancer, Grey Clouds of Death.” Her appearance at The Literary Festival, the same year, was a fiasco. Winking and leering at the audience, Bernice sing-sang an obscene limerick she must have learned from the barefoot children from The Flats. For an encore, she took off every stitch of her clothes then started to scream. Pete Henderson was called to the Botticelli house that night to calm an out of control Bernice with what would turn out to be the first of many after-show shots. The MD categorically denied the injection contained a horse tranquillizer. The cocktail consisted merely of a bit of chloral hydrate, a few healthy vitamins, and one or two other harmless things, Pete airily attested.
     “What would Ethel Gumm do?” Betty asked herself, turning once again to the example set by the role model of every stage mother worth her salt. By means of a brilliantly waged campaign, Ethel had shaped pudgy Frances Gumm into Judy Garland against all odds. She abandoned a husband and dropped two dead-weight daughters from the Gumm Sisters act to put Judy over properly. To get the girl through the gate at MGM, Ethel followed the advice of her Christian Science guide and slept with every executive, including Benny Thau, on the lot.
     Like Ethel, Betty would do everything humanly possible plus more for her daughter. The child star’s decline obviously stemmed from a deep unhappiness with her image. Upping her glamour quotient would undoubtedly restore Bernice’s artistic confidence; a second mortgage on the Botticelli house might bring enough to finance the necessary step. The deluxe services of the premier stylist in town would not come cheap, Betty realized.
     Patrick Parker was a true artist. He had been doing beautiful work in the basement of his family’s funeral parlor for years. While Paul, the less sensitive Parker, handled the draining and the embalming and the rest of the dirty business, Patrick was in charge of the final presentation of each client. (“Not corpse,” he would correct his brother, with one of his patented winces.)  Patrick could fashion a withered crone from The Gulch into the spitting image of Jean Harlow overnight. One of his most noted achievements involved styling the few bits and pieces that remained from a zinc boy’s fall into one of the bubbling vats. The coffin in question might have contained a matinee idol by the time Patrick Parker was through.
     In the basement of the funeral parlor, the artist would labor over a body from midnight until morning for as long as it took. He wore elbow-length gloves of white silk and a matching smock with tasteful gold appliqués. A light powder and a touch of rouge flattered his face. Perfumed by its signature Vol de Nuit, the space was illuminated by several dozen slender tapers. Anguished Maria Callas arias further inspired the thrilling and ultimately triumphant aesthetic adventures undertaken by Patrick Parker after dark.
     Every Bradanac show-wife made certain to arrange for her final presentation before age thirty in order to avoid being caught off guard by the inevitable event. Patrick had the ladies hopping in and out of caskets until the appropriate one for each was found. Like any authentic visionary, he refused to compromise. “Absolutely not,” he pronounced with a wince when Sissy Soles pleaded for permission to wear a lime green polka-dotted pinafore and yellow pigtails for her final rest. “A purple turban and tangerine hostess pajamas?” he demanded of a pouting Eunice Thompson. “I think not.”
     Clarissa Bond held on through one excruciating summer, during which her cancer-riddled body became reduced to little more than half a dozen enormous tumors, because she had been advised that autumn tones offered the only acceptable palette for her corpse’s coloring. In other cases, individuals who were failing would quietly let go in time to have frozen features softened by gentle spring light.
     When a woman carelessly neglected to secure Patrick’s advance approval of her coffin look, he thought nothing of dispatching the bereaved husband down to Spokane to buy her a suitable ensemble. The Très Chic Boutique, located just around the corner from Parkers, was never a viable option. “Hortense’s coffin couture is hideous,” Patrick stated succinctly. Despite this slur, the boutique owner persisted in hoping that one day Patrick would design an exclusive Last Look line for her. The man’s sensibilities forced him to refuse to entertain this offer. He also declined an invitation to leave the funeral parlor for The Silhouette Salon, although Stella promised him a deluxe front-window station with its own sink and hot dryer. The thought of having to touch live flesh to perform his artistry made Patrick shudder as well as wince.
     Only in the case of Bernice Botticelli did he ever manage to overcome this aversion to styling a breathing client. For a ten thousand dollar non-refundable advance, plus eighty percent of her future earnings in perpetuity Patrick Parker agreed to oversee the creation of a brand new look for the ten-year-old star, with the stipulation that he have complete control over every aspect of the process. At the end of a complex journey involving numerous instances fraught with dizzying highs and desperate lows, frequent displays of a touchy temperament, and just as many hand-wringing last-minute reconsiderations, he put Bernice in a sophisticated ensemble of silver lamé cocktail sheath with a plunging décolletage and spaghetti straps, set off by matching silver stilettos. Stella was tasked with dying the girl’s mouse-colored hair to the shade of platinum precisely specified by Patrick. Using cosmetics manufactured exclusively for corpses, he designed an appropriately heavy theatrical make up for Bernice and applied it himself. The face is wiped right out by stage lighting unless punched up by several layers of pancake and a bucket of black mascara, he explained. And crimson lipstick must always triple the size of the mouth. As a final touch, Patrick added drops made from a rare African oil to Bernice’s eyes to render them luminously large for her audience. While not approved for use on humans, the drops didn’t seem to have damaged Tallulah Bankhead’s vision, at least not yet. If Bernice did happen to lose her sight at some point down the line, that would only increase her sympathetic appeal. As an added bonus, she could corner the market on all the blind girl roles.
     For a year, Bernice proved that once again her mother’s career instincts were flawless. A baby-pink spot set off the performance-poet’s stage look with an effectiveness that seemed to leave Brale audiences stunned. Her fans didn’t appear to mind that Bernice often posed silently, like a piece of living sculpture, before them now. At other times, she broke out in what sounded like gibberish or baby talk. Heavily beaded lashes blinked over alarmingly dilated pupils; a crimson-exaggerated mouth moaned a sound that might have been language. Shivering in the silver lamé, teetering upon the silver stilettos, Bernice would nibble the platinum ends of her hair like a starved rabbit. From the wings, Betty scanned the rapt crowd for talent scouts. A seven-year MGM contract for her baby was all but signed. Down there in Hollywood, Judy Garland must be shaking in her ruby slippers out of fear of being shipped back to Cedar Rapids, Michigan on the next bus.
     So what if Bernice had to wash down a few of Pete Henderson’s cute “babydolls” with a swig of gin before going out on stage. What’s the difference if a high-strung performer needs a little shot to soothe her nerves at the end of every show? The studio doctors had been keeping Judy going with amphetamines and so on since the age of eight; go ahead and look how that medical support was boosting Judy’s career. What did it matter, anyway, when a third mortgage had to be taken on the Botticelli house after Patrick Parker decided that without another ten thousand he couldn’t in good conscience continue to ignore the valid needs of corpses by devoting himself exclusively to Bernice.
     Discovering she had carved her very first poem (mother, smother) into her arms, Betty was heartened by this evidence that her daughter was prepared to make the kind of painful sacrifice demanded of every top star. Bernice wouldn’t cheat her audience by resorting to paper cue cards as long as she had some blank flesh left to write on. In spite of her recent fondness for chewing her hair, she refused to eat. Unlike Judy, she was determined to avoid endangering a glittering career in show biz for the sake of a few too many chocolate sundaes. When Bernice refused to stop shrieking one of her poems for three hours after the audience had left the Civic Auditorium, this signaled a trouper’s determination to give her all to the fans. “She’s a real thoroughbred,” Betty murmured admiringly from the wings.
     Bernice insisted on sleeping in the composing closet every night now. She had become so dedicated to her craft it wasn’t necessary to lock her inside the cramped space any more. Silently productive in the dark, Bernice etched a considerable number of additional lines of poetry into her arms and legs. No longer bothered by fists pounding on the closet door or whimpering from behind it, Betty was able to concentrate on furthering her daughter’s celebrity career. At her desk upstairs, she wrote letters to Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons to alert the columnists that the next big child star was waiting to be discovered in Brale, BC. Canada had already given its own Mary Pickford and Fay Wray to the silver screen. Now the country was ready to make a third precious gift to Hollywood.
     Pete Henderson rang the doorbell one night. Disturbed by sounds of his office being broken into, he found Bernice to be the burglar. She had swallowed all the babydolls Pete had on hand and lay unconscious on his examining table as he spoke. The doctor felt it best not to risk taking the girl up to the hospital until he could determine whether she had sunk into a coma or was enjoying a deep sleep. Betty agreed with this course of action. The last thing they needed was for the press to get wind of the little accident. A hint of the wrong kind of scandal could kill a squeaky-clean career more quickly than the taint of communism.
     Bernice woke up after three days. Her speech would come back sooner or later, Pete guessed. He had done his best to clean up all the gashes on Bernice’s arms and legs, and he didn’t believe they’d become more seriously infected. “A touch of gangrene isn’t anything to worry about,” the doctor assured Betty. “Not when your little girl has a heart as big as a barn.”
     Betty was forced to cancel her daughter’s engagements for the next month and to refund advance payments for the bookings at considerable cost. Although she slowly recovered her speech, Bernice insisted on continuing to slur. She refused to be encouraged by the rehearsal whip to remember all those years of enunciation drills. Fortunately, maternal love empowered Betty to comprehend the stricken celebrity’s moans. “She’s saying she’s just dying to get back on the stage,” Betty translated while her daughter, strapped into the practice chair, slobbered and drooled beside her. Bernice’s head lolled to one side or drooped over her chest. Without further African drops, her pupils remained dilated, and were filmed with what resembled yellow mucus. From a slack mouth, spittle dribbled steadily.
     What would Ethel Gumm do in this situation? Betty had no one else in the world to turn to. Claiming to be swamped by work, her husband was camped out at his office for the duration of the tax season. “You’ve always known what’s best for Bernice,” said Lloyd, when Betty finally got him on the line. She felt under siege, to say the least. The curtains had to be kept permanently closed after Tiny McGuire and his camera began lurking around the clock in the rhododendron bushes outside the house. Someone must have leaked Bernice’s condition to the newsman. A statement Betty issued to the press, informing Bernice Botticelli fans that their favorite performer was slaving over a new repertoire sure to make them love her even more, apparently failed to erase Tiny’s hunch that he had the hottest scoop in years on his hands.
     Was it Pete Henderson or Patrick Parker who tipped Tiny off? The family doctor dropped by the house every other day with a fresh supply of babydolls for Bernice. Pete expressed delight at the patient’s progress. The rot of odor rising from her limbs seemed less strong each day, which signaled there was probably no need to change the bandages. “Give me a good moan,” the doctor would request of Bernice, after shooting her up with another of the energy cocktails that were pretty sure to get the girl back onto her feet. “She’ll be up and about in no time,” Pete declared. “It doesn’t look like we need to worry about amputating her limbs, at least not all of them. Look on the bright side, Betty. Sarah Bernhardt enjoyed her greatest stage triumphs after losing a leg.”
     Patrick Parker appeared at the house to express his condolences and to resign his position as Bernice’s exclusive stylist. “For obvious reasons,” he winced, possibly referring in part to his ex-client’s last public appearance, on the night before her suicide attempt, when she paused in the middle of her acclaimed one-woman show Bernice By Herself to squat on the Civic Auditorium stage and then defecate while gazing expressively at her admirers through pin-wheel pupils.
     Patrick seemed to be more interested in Bernice now that he no longer advised her in an official capacity. He expressed not a moue of distaste at the stench emitted by the yellow- and brown-soaked bandages wrapped around her limbs He bent over Bernice for a close inspection then retreated one step to place a considering finger to his lips. “I’ll have to design an entirely different look for the coffin,” Patrick decided. “The silver lamé is quite unsuitable, I’m afraid. What works on the stage doesn’t always do off. I see auburn ringlets in a loose French twist. A halter top patterned with blue and red stars, with matching shorts. Sandals with sea shell appliqués. A casual beach look for a summery July coffin. When Betty Grable wore something along this line in her latest picture, she smashed every box office record. In light of our past association, Betty, I’d look to do no more than cover my costs. Just one or two thousand, I estimate, plus the unpaid balance of my fee.”
     Inspiration woke Betty the following night. She ran downstairs to inform her daughter that the guiding beacon of Ethel Gumm’s wisdom had illuminated a revelatory dream. Instead of hiding from the press, they needed to court it. A full-size photo of Bernice slumped in her practice chair ought to be blazed across the front page of The Daily Times. With his canny make-up tricks, Patrick Parker would be able to accentuate the stream of drool and the slack mouth for maximum effect. A world-exclusive interview with Betty would offer an intimate account of a valiant star’s struggle to return to the stage. Beneath the cool exteriors of Hedda and Louella beat a tender heart. As soon as they read Tiny McGuire’s affecting story, both columnists would urge their vast readership to deluge every major studio with letters urging them to give brave Bernice Botticelli a chance before it was too late.    
     Betty found both the practice chair and the composing closet empty. The front door stood ajar. At the end of the block, Tiny McGuire, Pete Henderson and Patrick Parker were sharing a cigarette. Armed with a news camera, a medical bag and a make-up case respectively, the three men had apparently been lingering outside the Botticelli house on the hunch that events inside might take a tragic turn and require their professional presence tonight. When Bernice dashed from the doorway and raced away down the street, the threesome had decided to shout an alert up to her mother’s bedroom window rather than give chase.
     None of this made sense to Betty. She felt trapped inside one of the dream sequences through which Ingrid Bergman liked to wander. “Lead the way, boys,” she said, before pushing past the fools and letting them follow her instead.
     They found Bernice on the muddy shore down at The Flats an hour later. She was dressed in the silver lamé sheath and matching silver heels. You wouldn’t guess she hadn’t taken a step for a month. As though her heels were running shoes and the muddy shore cement, Bernice darted from one tin shack to another. Each remained silent and dark when her fists pounded on the door and a voice drilled into crystalline clarity by a decade of enunciation drills cried out: “Please help me. I must find Judy Garland before it’s too late. Unless I save her at once, she’s going to be murdered by Ethel Gumm.”
     Betty realized the time had come to cut her losses. It was clear what Ethel Gumm would do in this situation. As Tiny McGuire snapped a photo of Pete Henderson tackling her daughter in the mud, Betty turned away. She strode to the Greyhound station without stopping by the house to pick up a few things. In a sign that the fickle gods of show business were truly on her side, Betty boarded the southbound bus one minute before it departed Brale at two a.m. She would transfer at Spokane for Seattle. From there, she would be carried down to Portland then Eureka then San Francisco. In two days and two nights, she would be in Hollywood. It hardly mattered that she was going to arrive with no luggage and just two dollars. Ethel Gumm would be waiting to sweep her off to Beverly Hills in an air-conditioned limousine.
     Following her mother’s sudden departure from Brale, Bernice made an astonishingly swift recovery. She was sent home from the hospital after only one week by the head nurse who took the case over from Pete Henderson. He’d done all the really heavy lifting involved in restoring Bernice to health, Pete amiably suggested. Let the candy stripers do the rest with their lollipops and magazines. The doc would have been happy to stop by the Botticelli house to oversee the convalescence of this special patient had she not declined to continue receiving his treatment. Bernice wouldn’t swallow another babydoll or accept one more energy shot. Peering at him through eyes that would always remain moony, speaking in the deep tone that soon became her natural voice, she ordered Pete out of the house.
     Bernice cancelled her standing appointment with Stella. When the platinum grew out, her hair took on a lustrous shade quite unlike its original mousy brown. Out of a sheet from her mother’s abandoned bed, Bernice fashioned the first of her white togas. The flowing garment was fastened loosely at the waist with a belt made from the unraveled rehearsal whip. Sandals shaped from the straps of her practice chair completed the ensemble.
     Lloyd Botticelli was warned that his daughter would catch her death of cold traipsing about in the snow in just that bed sheet and those sandals. Couldn’t he persuade Bernice to put on socks, at least? And why did she insist on wandering the fields in all weather to begin with? If the girl wasn’t going to resume her entertainment career, shouldn’t she be doing some housework? Betty had never been much of a homemaker, true. But in her absence the Botticelli place was quickly turning into a disgrace.
     “Bernice has always been beyond me,” her father confessed. His struggle to prevent the bank from taking the house left Lloyd with little time to worry whether it was spick and span. Besides, Bernice seemed to flourish from roaming the far-flung fields in search of inspiration from nature.  Her complexion remained ruddy in every season. The scars on her arms and legs faded until they would be unnoticeable to anyone not knowing they were there. Daily outdoor exercise gave the girl an excellent appetite, and she became almost plump by the time she turned sixteen.
     Bernice had apparently evolved into the purest essence of a poet. She wouldn’t contaminate her free-form rhymes by writing them down or by performing them for a paying public; instead, her lips moved and shaped as she wandered silently about. Beneath the stars at China Creek, or in fields of yellow wildflowers, a whisper that might have been a poem could escape her mouth.
     Fruitvale farmers elected not to chase Bernice from their pasture when she bothered the cows by muttering haikus in their ears. The local RCMP constable received few complaints about her habit of plundering East Brale gardens for flowers to weave into garlands for her hair. When she failed to show any inclination to attend Brale High, Sam Marlowe didn’t bother to pick the girl up for truancy. For some reason, his dereliction of duty seemed to have the support of the school board’s iron-fisted president. “Brale could use a few more Bernices,” stated Mrs Helen Forrester. Coming from the most powerful figure in local politics, this astonishingly uncharacteristic utterance had the effect of seeming to give official endorsement to someone who might, without protection, have been regarded as an obvious candidate for Loon Lake Lodge, where the shrieks of inmates floated all night across cold, dark water.
     “From what?” Bernice would wonder when asked whether she had retired. Once in a while, on a slow news day, Tiny McGuire hinted on Page Six that Bernice Botticelli was preparing to launch a big comeback. According to inside sources, she had found inspiration in Judy Garland’s triumphant return to The Palace after attempting suicide then being fired by MGM and dropped by her agents. Little Miss Show Business concealed the scar on her slashed throat with a chic scarf, flushed some of her pills down the toilet, and knocked Broadway dead.
     Publicly, Bernice responded to polite disbelief to this tale of her contemporary’s revitalized career. “Judy Garland died long ago,” she would say. “She was murdered by her mother. Ethel’s serving a life sentence for the crime. They’re keeping her locked in a dark cell no bigger than a closet.”
     Rumors of a Bernice Botticelli comeback might have been prompted by the dearth of further local prodigies to appear in her wake. It became common knowledge that a dozen double-glazed donuts from The Honey Bun Bakery could inspire Tiny McGuire to feature any brat in town as a Bright Brale Star of Tomorrow these days. “We’ll never see another like Bernice,” the veteran newsman lamented to Pete Henderson, whose nerves appeared to be affected by his experience with the child star. When his eyes weren’t glassy, the doctor’s hands tended to shake like those of an apprentice angel-maker operating out of The Gulch. As well as prescribing liberal numbers of babydolls to himself now, Pete acquired the habit of boosting his energy between patients with what had come to be called “the Bernice Botticelli shot.”     
     The only souvenirs preserved by Bernice of her show business career were the silver lamé sheath and matching silver stilettos. Showing signs that a father’s accounting blood might run through her veins after all, Bernice leased the glamorous ensemble to neighborhood girls. They could wear it for one night--to a spring formal, say, or to a country club cotillion--for a single dollar. Bernice put this rental income toward a debt supposedly owed by her mother to Patrick Parker. Besides claiming not to have been compensated fully by Betty for his work, the stylist threatened to sue her husband for the damage that an unfortunate involvement with Bernice had done to his reputation. Both Stella and Hortense continued to suggest the child star had smashed up because her stylist let her down. This slight whiff of doubt in his artistry was sufficient to undermine the kind of confidence necessary for creating at the very highest level, and Patrick’s presentation of corpses became increasingly equivocal, until clients began to insist on a closed coffin in their will.
     Monthly payments by Bernice mollified the man to a degree. After a decade, the outstanding balance was reduced to only several dollars. It must have been in 1957 that a knock sounded on the basement door at Parker Brothers late one night. Opening the door quickly, as though he expected a visitor, Patrick seemed unsurprised to find Bernice. A Maria Callas aria thrilling the candle-lit space behind him now began to drift through the quiet East Brale night then up toward the stars. Patrick looked at Bernice expectantly, without a hint of a wince, while she regarded him with the vagueness that made everyone wonder just how much lasting damage had been done to her vision by the African drops. Bernice tightened the knot at the left shoulder of her white toga, which was decorated with a typical number of grass stains and mud splatters. She straightened the dandelion crown on her head.
     Bernice placed the last installment of her mother’s debt into one of Patrick’s white-gloved hands. Then she removed a silver lamé sheath and a pair of silver slippers from beneath her toga. “We almost made it,” said Bernice in a low, clear voice. She shook her head twice, to erase wrong words. Her fingers fluttered, as though strumming a tone poem from the air. “I mean I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said, expressing her gratitude to Patrick by returning a gift.  

​If only she were less reckless, or had the courage to admit she’d been caught and face the damage she’d caused. The people she’d cheated may have even offered her a second chance—there was time to make things right. But pride presented itself far too strongly in Marcia. Begging for forgiveness was never an option.
At the peak of her disruption that night in that lonely bar that hid beneath the streets, Marcia retreated backwards into the corner, seeking safety. The palms of her hands were pressed against the flaking paint of the wall, and her body was lifted upon its toes as she inched away from the gnawing faces who sought to make her pay. But it was through regular confrontations with this kind of trouble that Marcia had developed deft abilities in persuasion. The barman, looking on from across the room, wanted nothing but for the ruckus to cease, or take place elsewhere, where he would no longer be responsible. Marcia appealed to the man with (feigned) helplessness in her eyes as she made her case to the insatiable assailants. She promised she was more than capable of mending the situation, and that come breakfast tomorrow the entire dilemma will have been rectified and forgotten. Besides, this conversation was best reserved for the morning, so that all involved parties could have the opportunity to sober up, she pleaded. Sensing an easy solution ahead, the barman supported Marcia’s case, and together they convinced the group to postpone her trial.
The delay was as good as an acquittal. Marcia took this gift of faith and disappeared from her hotel bed in the middle of the night, leaving nothing but crumbs and empty bottles behind. With a few phone calls to her friends at the port, a space barely large enough for a young woman was made available in the rear of a cargo ship, and her escape was complete.
The only light in the cold, windowless hull of the ship came from four tempestuous light bulbs. With each footstep the soft pat-pat-pat of her rubber soles connecting with the metal floor echoed off the metal shipping containers packed around her. When she stopped pacing, there was only silence, save for her chattering teeth. This was not a room suitable for human life, but Marcia understood she didn’t deserve much better. Near the right wall, she found the narrow slit between two crates where she was meant to stay. She shimmied into the gap with effort and sat down on the featureless floor. It was a tight squeeze. Her hips were pressed into the shells of steel on either side, the cold of the surface leached into her body through the fabric of her pants. Luckily, her friend loaned her a blanket, which she pulled over top of her knees and shoulders. It was thin, but it made her feel warm again, almost comfortable. Her shivers calmed away, and her breath no longer turned to mist and condensed into droplets on the corrugated wall. By the time the ship lifted off and soared into outer space, the remnants of an alcoholic buzz sent Marcia to a distant dreamland, where she walked through an open field awash with colourful plants that grew from the soft soil which squished beneath her feet as she stepped. A breeze brought fresh air from miles away, and it felt warm.
#
The ship was taking basic supplies to the outer edge of the galaxy, to worlds largely unknown to the interstellar human endeavour. Marcia had hitched a ride from a popular vacation destination for gamblers and part-time dealers of contraband such as herself—a planet named Getti, the final lamppost of civilization in the northwest quadrant of the Milky Way galaxy. Only untamed wilderness lay beyond.
Marcia was due back to her work on Earth in two weeks, so she got off the cargo ship at the first stop: the planet Egrestte, a small, mostly unpopulated world covered in plants. That’s about all the information her galactic map could give her. After the ship landed, the crew emerged, commercial shipping business commenced, and Marcia sneaked out through the front door and melded with the crowd. Many men and women were hurrying in and out of the now-open cargo hold, removing boxes and placing them in the back of a truck that waited opposite a grassy, muddy clearing. Marcia traced a wide berth from the yard to avoid being roped into the labour. In the cab of the truck, she found a young man with a beard down to his sternum. He greeted her with a friendly smile, and, with effort, she returned one.
“When is the next flight to Getti?” she asked.
“Not for a week I’m afraid, miss,” he answered, with a low, bouncing tone.
Marcia cursed under her breath, then asked where he was going.
“Oh, just back to town. Not like we got a choice, the road only goes that way.”
“Can I hitch a ride? I’ll sit in the bed, I don’t mind.”
But she didn’t have to. One of the other young gentlemen kindly offered the lady his spot in the middle of the cab, so Marcia sat squished between the driver and an equally large man in the passenger seat, both of her shoulders pressed against walls of unforgiving mass. She much preferred the company of the shipping containers, which weren’t slick with sweat, and, like the thugs on Getti—with whom she had much more in common, apparently—didn’t demand that Marcia converse with them about vacuous nonsense regarding life on Earth.
At the first gap in the conversation, Marcia broke free from her role as the centrepiece and leaned forward to look through the windshield. The truck had suddenly slipped behind a curtain of shade. A scattered forest of thick tree trunks surrounded the road on both sides. Marcia craned her neck to follow the trunks upwards as they stretched into the sky, disappearing into a mat of interweaving foliage spotted with sunlight.
“They’re something, aren’t they,” the man in the passenger seat said in the same slow, melodic voice as the driver.
“I’ve never seen them so tall,” Marcia said.
He chuckled. “You’ll like it here.”
Each of the men offered Marcia a place to stay, and it was only after she deflected the entire series one-by-one that they escorted her to the inn, the only establishment in town—and by extension, the planet—where she could purchase accommodations. Like every other building she saw, the inn was built out of amber-brown coloured timber, the same hue of the tree trunks of the forest. Marcia’s heart fluttered when the old man behind the desk provided his quote for a week's stay. She paid four times that for rent back home.
After dropping her belongings in her room, Marcia went out to inspect the trees up close. The forest surrounded the inn and the road, and stretched to the farthest distance she could see. The ground beneath the canopy was covered by mounds of green-turquoise coloured moss and decaying matter in which Marcia's boots sank a half-inch without much pressure. She approached one of the immense towers—with timidity, as a toddler meets a new grown up—inching closer and closer, eyes locked on the thick wall of bark that revealed more detail with every step—more gnarled knots and ridges and canyons—until, at touching distance, the tree and the miniature world upon it was all she could see, or think about. There at the base of the trunk, with her gaze pointed upward, the full might of the Egresttian forest revealed itself to the tiny creature who rested her toes on its bark. The great tower was but one of many—a stick among the horde that covered the entirety of this planet, for all Marcia knew. The forest was the true ruler of this domain. The space-faring primates who scurried among its roots were no more significant than the ants beneath their boots.
A patch of light slipped through the leaves, glanced off a rock, and caught the corner of Marcia’s eye, and she turned. In a clearing, a boulder no bigger than her fist jutted through the moss and dirt. As she turned it over in her hands, spots of light dancing on the surface revealed the stone’s silvery lustre—peculiarly metallic for a surface rock. A peculiar but particular sheen, that, after hurrying the chunk up to her face, Marcia believed she recognized... but it couldn’t be! There was no way.
She dashed back to the inn for her pocket-sized mass spectrometer and vaporized a pebble in the sample chamber. She tried another, just to be sure. The mass spec. was never wrong twice, and it confirmed her hunch, as unbelievable as it was. The rock was made of pure platinum—one of the most essential commodities in the galaxy. She brought the hunk of metal before her eyes again, close enough for it to consume her thoughts.
Marcia returned the stone to the clearing and bounded through the overgrowth of the forest floor, taking no notice of the trees that watched over her. Surely it was a fluke, somehow. Some crazy fluke of foreign geology. But what if it wasn’t? Her eyes searched for glints of treasure piercing the canvas of green and turquoise. Before long she found another, slightly smaller than the first. Within a minute, she had one more, and Marcia began to hyperventilate then collapsed, her knees sinking into a patch of moss. Her company spent buckets of money and whole months digging hundreds of metres into the Earth to find deposits like this. The forest must be covered in it, just sitting there, on the surface. Who knows what lay just beneath the dirt. She forced herself to breathe, to calm her heart’s racing, and looked around. The inn had disappeared from sight. She spun in place a few times, peered behind the enormous, scattered trunks, and then, with relief, found the small, wooden building which blended into the forest. She placed the pieces of platinum in her pocket. She needed to sit. She needed to think.
Marcia ate the innkeeper’s dinner while enduring an excruciating conversation about her first impressions of Egrestte. The friendly old man continued through his stories about the history of his humble home planet, despite the fact Marcia’s mind was clearly nowhere near the dining table, or the inn, or Egrestte, for that matter. Instead, she thought of colonial excavation permits, business loans, and coastal mansions in Central America.
At dawn, Marcia returned to the forest. Numbers raced across the screen of her gravimeter, confirming her wildest dreams. Monolithic deposits of heavy metals had been waiting beneath the soil since time immemorial for some lucky soul who possessed the perfect mix of ambition and knowledge to retrieve them, and claim their fortune. With these riches Marcia could quit, immediately—leave the company she was bound to on Earth, and perhaps never work again in her life. Forget the faceless name stitched into her work uniform. Her turn to be the lucky soul had finally come.
Marcia rejoined the road, headed to the inn for a break. “You must be the visitor from Earth,” a voice called out.
Behind her, a woman of middle age sat on a bench. Her hair bounced in thick locks to just below her shoulders, and shone a shade of orange-brown reminiscent of the trees, the inn, and the exquisitely carved wooden bench she rested on.
“That I am,” Marcia replied, her hands stuffed into her pocket, a palm pressed over a nugget of platinum. “News travels quick.”
“When there is not much news to tell and fewer ears to tell it to, yes, indeed it does.” The woman rose from the bench, then extended a hand. “I’m Tara.”
Marcia returned the greeting and introduced herself, but had difficulty detaching from the woman’s gaze. Her face was spattered by light which descended from the canopy and flitted across her eyes, inciting a brilliant display of turquoise sparkles that would transfix even the most stolid observer.
“I just wanted to say hello, and, if you’re up to it, invite you to my place for lunch and tea,” the woman said. “We rarely host travellers all the way from Earth.”
Marcia coughed, finally breaking free from Tara’s face. “Now?”
“If you’d like. I can wait, too—I’m not a busy person.”
Marcia had no immediate plans, and hence no viable excuse with which to defend herself from the woman’s offer.
“Okay, sure, I’ll come by in an hour,” Marcia said.
The innkeeper offered Marcia lunch when she came in. She relayed her plans with the woman with auburn hair.
“Ah, you’ve arranged a date with the witch,” he informed her.
“Witch?” she said, quickly, in a fright. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ll know soon enough, I suppose,” he said, stoking the confusion in her eyes with the same, low melody of the men from the truck. “I only joke. No reason to be afraid, Tara has a big heart.”
Marcia followed Tara’s directions to her cabin in the woods, double-checked by the innkeeper. As she stepped through the beaten, dusty path shaded by the leafy canopy, her mind drifted to dreams of her platinum mine—of wealth and liberation. It was still unclear how she could have been the first to come up with the idea, given chunks of platinum were strewn about the surface of the planet in plain sight. Curious that this woman with the mystical eyes appeared at the precise moment of her discovery, Marcia thought. Had she been watching her in the forest? Was she aware of the platinum, too, but had no means of extracting it? Perhaps Tara wished to wedge herself in on a deal. So be it, let her try. In the realm of business, Marcia feared no one, not even a witch.
Through the thick trunks of the forest Marcia spotted a house fitting Tara’s description: a flat home with flowers tall and short blooming at the base of each wall, hiding the auburn of the timber behind a veil of bright, pastel colours reminiscent of the sunset and the baby blue of the sky. At the end of the path which sprouted from the road there was a door, to which no response came after a couple rounds of knocks. Marcia spotted smoke billowing from the centre of the dome-shaped roof, and was about to try the doorknob when a quiet growl emanated from the ground behind her feet.
Marcia turned, and a furry, six-legged creature shorter than her knees looked up at her, before bounding away towards the forest and growling again, and again, until Marcia moved closer. At which point, it continued on further into the forest, periodically checking over its shoulder to ensure Marcia was still in pursuit. At the top of a hill, Marcia caught sight of Tara, who was bent down at the base of a distant tree.
Tara heard Marcia’s footsteps as she approached, but first locked eyes with the furry creature, who curled beneath her fingertips as she scratched the line of its chin.
“This is Calvan. He’s a close friend of mine,” Tara said, then waved Marcia over to ask if she knew the name of the plant she was inspecting at the base of the tree. Marcia shook her head. She knew of three varieties of flora: flowers, trees, and grass.
“It’s a powerful herb called yarrow. It grows on Earth but I think it would like this forest too. So long as it plays nice with the other plants, and the insects, and gains a little courage.” Tara slid her fingers through the stem of the herb, and touched the bark of the tree in front of her. “This tree will watch over this one for me, try to keep her from harm, make sure she fits in.”
Tara looked to Marcia for the first time. “Are you hungry?”
Beside her house, Tara tended to an assortment of vegetables, some of which Marcia recognized—tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage—though their leaves were not coloured in the rich, emerald green familiar to Earth, but a dull green-blue, which matched the local ferns, moss, and leaves. Tara had left a stew to bubble before the hearth of her fireplace, filling her cabin with the savoury aroma of tomatoes melting and melding with the bitterness of herbs and spices. There was a pungent, sweet, delicious smell too, like a cross between a mango and a squash, which Marcia identified with a slice of yellow-green fruit floating in her bowl. She balanced the food in her wooden spoon, and drank a lungful of the scent. The fruit was native to Egrestte, Tara told her, and the townsfolk were crazy for them. They ate them raw, boiled, grilled, by themselves, in a sandwich, in a stew. As Marcia squished the slice between her teeth, juices ruptured from the fruit and dribbled out the corners of her mouth. It tasted sweet like pineapple but thick and hearty like lentils, and Marcia was instantly an admirer of this fruit the Egresttians called a pram.
Throughout lunch Tara spoke very little, and then only to offer brief tidbits of Egresttian peculiarities, or observations about the weather, or friendly greetings to Calvan, who slinked in and out through the windows as he pleased. To follow the stew, she offered Marcia a cup of her homemade tea. Tara was proud of the fact she concocted her own blends from the dried leaves of the Egresttian forest, to wide acclaim from her neighbours. She picked a bunch of fresh leaves from a potted plant in the kitchen window, and packed these leaves inside a closed fist and gently massaged them. After a moment they began to hiss, like a pursed exhale, and a light mist escaped between Tara’s fingers. She unfurled her hand, revealing a dried, crumbled pile of foliage in her palm, which she sprinkled into a jar of other dried leaves. Then, with a metal kettle, Tara collected water from the pump in the corner of the kitchen, and with a few, swift, circular motions of her hand across the bottom of the kettle, steam began to fly from the spout in a shrill whistle, and she poured the boiled water into a teapot.
“That’s incredible,” Marcia said, as Tara presented her with a mug. “How did you do that?”
“An old friend taught me how, along with the importance of practice, and patience, and an open heart,” she said. “There’s no magic. All people carry this ability inside them, somewhere.”
Marcia accepted Tara’s offer for a late afternoon stroll through the woods. She wanted to know what other feats this strange woman was capable of, and it’s not like she had any activities planned for the evening. The sun had begun its descent towards the horizon but remained high in the sky. They walked through a path that Tara seemed to know well, and Marcia couldn’t help but watch the trees, which towered over her like the skyscrapers of her home city. Sounds of animals and birds echoed from the leafy canopy, but Marcia could hardly make out the individual specks of the wildlife that scampered far above in the sea of blue-green.
At the top of a hill, the forest of trunks thinned until suddenly they stood before an enormous cliff face, overlooking a valley of rolling turquoise hills thrumming with the distant tweeting and chirping of thousands of creatures. The sun was pitched high above, tinging the wide river of black water which carved through the base of the hills in shimmering gold. To their right, the cliff cut out towards the valley, exposing a rock face spotted with patches of lustrous metal that scattered the sunlight in all directions.
“This is one of my favourite places in the world,” Tara told her. “I like to lie here on sunny days and try to count all the different voices of the birds. Most times, I fall asleep first.”
Marcia followed Tara’s lead and laid down on a soft patch of moss back from the cliff, resting her eyes. She tried to count the voices herself but had trouble distinguishing them from each other. Before long she was asleep, dreaming that she was flying over the canopy and the valley, whistling a song of her own.
#
No week passes on Egrestte without the bonfire—a grand party in the forest that takes over the town every seventh night. Tara insisted Marcia attend the next one, which was in a couple of days. “No pressure, of course,” she said. “But the people here are very kind, welcoming folk. I think you would enjoy yourself.”
Marcia didn’t immediately say yes. The only party scenarios where she ever felt comfortable were those with a predefined activity, such as card games or a show of some kind. She relied on this structure as a limitless source of excuses to be used when conversations inevitably dried and lilted, and a quick, forceful ejection was necessary. Gatherings where the sole intention was to socialize with friend and kin—or strangers, worst of all—frightened her. She told Tara she would think about it.
Until then, Marcia spent her daylight hours in the forest. The innkeeper—whose name was Dion, she learned, after asking—told her of a few more local sights in response to her fond recollection of Tara’s cliff.
Out in the forest, in the opposite direction of the cliff, there was a creek, which eventually flowed into the enormous river she met in the valley. Marcia followed the creek for hours, staring into the fluid that was clear as glass, offering a bubbling window into the bed of sand where twinkling rocks and pebbles of pure platinum slept. At one point she bent down to cup a portion of the invisible liquid in her hands. It smelled of nothing, and tasted like nothing, too. Several kilometres upstream, Marcia found the lake Dion had described.
No sound travelled across the surface of the water, save for the hollow whooshing of the wind, and a few wayward chirps and tweets. On all sides of the lake, trees with thick trunks lined the shore. There were no great plains on the tiny planet of Egrestte. Tara had told Marcia as much, but now she understood what she meant. The forest was ever-present. There was one clearing, at the spaceport, but that area was not large—only just wide enough to accommodate the vertical take-off and landing of the smallest frigates. The ground at this clearing was muddy, and only sparsely covered by grass. She had seen no terrain like it since she’d landed. Likely the workers at the port had to continuously fight off encroachment from the trees. Unlikely the forest appreciated that battle much.
Marcia had never considered the landscape that preceded the gouged craters she worked in. The world she knew on Earth was primarily barren, dusty plains. There were some trees, and birds, but no forests. Back home, nothing was lost by digging through tonnes of rock with the hope of finding thin veins of platinum or gold within them. No one—nothing at all—had been living there before. Or so she thought.
As Marcia retired to the inn a couple of days later for dinner, Dion asked if she knew of the bonfire tradition, and offered her a second invitation to take part. She’d completely forgotten. Usually, she would spend the afternoon mentally preparing herself for such events. Oddly enough, now that the time had come, she wanted to go, or at least check it out for a bit, much to Dion’s delight. She surveyed her wardrobe, uncertain about what the proper attire for a party in the woods should be. She landed on an outfit that was a common companion at dinner parties on Earth, accompanied by a thin sweater in case the night air was cold.
“Just follow the sound,” Dion answered when Marcia asked for directions. Indeed, the Egresttian forest was so still at night that the hum of music and celebration carried across the length of the town. Marcia followed her ears to the outskirts, in an area off the road, where laughing echoed upwards from a crowd of bodies and into the canopy. Behind the shoulders and heads of the crowd, a light of brilliant, dancing orange illuminated the trunks of the nearby trees.
Marcia circled the crowd, not wishing to take anybody head-on, and found a quiet spot against a tree where she could observe the party and orient herself. Her shadow from the central fire stretched out into the blackness of the forest behind her. The ridges and crevices in the thick bark beside her shoulder were also darker, and deeper, in the firelight.
There were enough people (some hundreds) that Marcia believed the entire population of the town had come together. Tables made of the reddish wood were laid about, lit by oil lamps at their centre, crammed full of folk young and old engaged in spirited debate, storytelling, jokes and laughter. Marcia had never seen a party where words were listened to so carefully. Conversation crashed about the tables, all eyes and ears swerving to focus on the voice and face that was currently in charge. She wondered what they were talking about. Not strongly enough to sit down and ask, though.
Groups of children sat together on the moss, playing games on handheld screens, or with figurines. Others ran around, trading roles of pursuer and pursued. To aid their adventures, they wielded sticks and stones (shiny chunks of platinum) close to their body, which were no longer ordinary scrap of the forest but powerful, magical items: wands, pistols, and enchanted gems, plausibly. Marcia watched their games for a while, attempting to discern the plots of their adventures. She yearned to join them, too.
Across the crowd, Marcia locked eyes with a familiar face. The woman smiled, gleefully, and left her group, taking a bottle and a cup from the table with her.
“Marcia, I’m so glad you came,” Tara said, her cheeks rosy, the sparkling blue-green of her eyes barely visible in the dim light.
“Me too. Everyone seems to be having such a great time.”
“Yes, it’s almost magical, isn’t it?” Tara said. The alcoholic steam in her breath slid across Marcia’s face. “Would you care for some brandy?”
Marcia nodded, and sipped. “This is fantastic,” she declared, honestly, in response to her friend’s inquisitive stare. She had tasted many liquors in her life, most of which was cheap, bootlegger swill, but she had on rare occasions enjoyed humanity’s finer spirits. This Egresttian brandy surrounded its soft, alcoholic burn with warmth and a thick sweetness. Naturally—Marcia could tell—prams had been involved at some point.
“Thank you, I make it myself, up at the house. They call it ‘The Witch’s Brew’,” Tara said, followed by a hearty laugh. A cackle, almost.
With a wandering gaze, Marcia spotted a game of cards unfolding at another table nearby—a game she recognized as a popular pastime among the galaxy’s gamblers. She watched a few rounds pass, and concluded there wasn’t much skill at the table. None of those folk would have lasted very long in the dens on Getti. With or without cheating.
“Do you want to join? I could introduce you,” Tara asked.
A desire to play—to do something with her mind other than watch, or talk, or listen—had been itching inside her mind, but she shook her head. These were decent, unassuming folk. That night, she wasn’t interested in playing the ruffian—the outsider who trounces the hospitable locals and cleans them of their earnings.
“They don’t play for money, you know. Just for fun,” Tara informed her, causing Marcia to ponder—with horror—whether mind-reading was included in Tara’s witchery, or if she simply had strong, humanly skills in face-reading. She found no answer in Tara’s face. “Here, take this with you,” Tara said, giving Marcia the bottle of brandy before shoving her along, in encouragement.
As Tara approached the card table, all eyes looked up to her, and smiled—a common greeting for Tara among the townsfolk, Marcia had noticed. She introduced Marcia, without mentioning her Earthly origins, as had been requested, but there was no fooling the table of folk who’d been born and raised on this forested planet. Clearly, this quiet, secretive woman who attended their forest party in a button-up shirt was far from her home.
When asked if she needed a briefing on the rules, Marcia shook her head, silently, but returned a firm “thank-you” when the dealer cut her a stack of chips. Winning this game took both luck and skill. Players were dealt a random set of cards every round, but the best knew how to play their cards right, when to utilize their strongest moves, or save them for later. After letting the first few rounds pass uneventfully, Marcia was dealt a particularly strong hand and she engaged, with full force, claiming the round swiftly, and the next few rounds came just as easily. No one at the table saw this coming. This game was primarily enjoyed by the little folk: labourers, bottom feeders, and sometimes indecent criminals—not by people who dressed like Marcia.
A chord of music cut across the murmurs and laughter, silencing the crowd. A whoop of cheers erupted in its place, as every person left their post—their table, their circle of conversation, their collection of figurines, their game of cat and mouse—and pranced towards a wide space behind the campfire, lit brightly by rows of lights and lamps dangling above their heads, strung up by nearby branches. A drum set the pace--thump-thada-thump-thada-thump-thada-thump—and a violin began a jumping jig, pursued by a chorus of flutes, whistles, and guitars. The bouncing melodies soared into the clearing, rippling through every set of arms and legs. Everyone knew this dance and its patterns of steps, twirls, arm-hooks and claps—except for Marcia, who had never witnessed such a spectacle in her life.
Tara appeared from behind and offered to lead her through the dance, which seemed to be enjoyed best in groups of two or three, but Marcia declined, politely. Tara smiled respectfully and spun to latch onto the arms of a man standing at a tree by himself. The pair joined the crowd in a twirling circling of their own.
From the table, Marcia watched a few more songs and dances unfold, and then the crowd slowly fragmented as people split off to rest and recover their energy with a snack or a drink. A man and his daughter returned to a grill beside the fire, where thick chunks of fruit had been left to sweat above a pile of smouldering embers. Drops of juice slipped through the grates to the pulsing heat below and then burst in a series of fizzles, releasing the delicious aroma of grilled pram into the breeze. Some table groups were reformed, and some kid’s games resumed, though a dedicated patch of musicians and dancers seemed happy to spend the rest of their night with the jigs and slow twirls.
A pair from Marcia’s card table returned, and after sharing a short, uncomfortable silence, the man leaned over to Marcia, with a question.
“Say, where did you learn to play cards like that?”
The woman added, “You’re very good, much better ‘an any of us.” They both spoke in the low, bouncing tone that was ubiquitous in Egrestte.
Marcia attempted a smile, then said, “I’ve played a lot, with people from all kinds of places. I guess I’ve picked up a few tricks on the way.”
The man and woman looked thoughtfully at Marcia, then at each other. They hadn’t moved through the galaxy much. They pondered the litany of questions they could ask someone as well travelled as Marcia.
“Do you think you could teach us?” The man asked. “I’ve never won before, not once.” The woman nodded in agreement.
Marcia chuckled, and grabbed the cards from the table and started shuffling. “Of course. Come close, though, let’s keep this between us,” she said.
The man and woman squished around Marcia and the glow of the lamp, produced a fresh bottle of brandy, and poured a round for the table. Marcia explained the complex intricacies of the game—how to think beyond the cards in your hand, and towards the cards that may be in your opponents’ hands too, and the ways they might use those cards in the future, to get you. The man and woman listened to Marcia’s words with wide ears, and wider eyes, as if she were a sage wielding infinite wisdom. Tara looked on from across the clearing, with a happy tingling in her heart.
#
The next morning Marcia headed to Tara’s cabin. At the bonfire, she’d claimed to have devised a hangover cure—or, at least, a moderate remedy to the lethargy and throbbing headache that proceeded a night with her brandy. When Marcia arrived Tara was sitting in a rocking chair holding a mug, watching the sun split the sky through the trees. She passed her guest a mug, after warming up the beverage in her hands, as she had done with the kettle. Marcia wondered how long she needed to wait to be rid of her headache.
“Did you have fun last night?” Tara asked, after the pair swivelled back and forth in their chairs for a few moments.
“Very much,” Marcia replied, not afraid to show the surprise in those words. She had learned something new from the community on Egrestte, where people took the time to get to know their neighbours. Marcia felt more comfortable with the man and woman from the card table last night than any of the one thousand people in her apartment building, whom she’d seen day-after-day for several years. She’d been pondering why this was true, and what was stopping her neighbourhood from hosting bonfires of their own.
“I suppose you’re leaving on the flight to Getti tomorrow, then?” Tara asked.
“Suppose so. Back to work,” Marcia replied. That was the plan she had devised about a week ago, after all. To go back to Earth, quit her job, and gather belongings from her apartment. She owned few items with sentimental value and would likely sell most of her clothes and furniture, or give it away before she left. Then she would return to this forested planet with saws, diggers, and smelters, and make herself a fortune.
What would become of Egrestte? She pictured the mining outposts that she hopped between on Earth, from project to project. People flocked to these outposts to work for the mines because they made good money there—enough to buy all the ale and powder their hearts could manage. Then, when the money ran out, everyone fled, all at once, leaving ghost towns in their wake.
“I work as a miner, back on Earth,” Marcia said, revealing this fact to Tara for the first time. “I drive machines that dig metals out of the ground.”
“Wouldn’t have to dig very far here, would you?” Tara replied, staring directly into Marcia’s eyes. “This planet is full of platinum. Sits right there on the surface. But you know that already.”
Marcia nodded. “I’ve been wondering why nobody has dug it up yet.”
“We have all we need right here,” Tara said, with a shrug. A silence passed. She stood up from her chair and placed her mug on the table. “I want to go check on a few plants in the forest, care to join me?”
Marcia agreed. Miraculously, her headache had nearly fully retreated.
Calvan the six-legged, furry creature slinked alongside Tara’s footsteps, growling softly and affectionately as they walked through the forest. Tara stopped when she found the yarrow plant from earlier. At the end of the stems, white petals had bloomed, and the once sharp, emerald green had taken on a turquoise colour, approaching the dull hue of the other flora in the forest. Tara squatted close to the moss and the soil, rubbed her fingers through the stem of the yarrow plant and along the roots of the great tree towering above them. She waved Marcia over to squat beside her, smiling.
“Touch the stem, right where the flowers fork,” Tara instructed her. “Now try to relax a bit. Take some big, slow breaths. Empty your mind. Focus on the feel of the stem, in your fingertips.”
Marcia closed her eyes, and pushed out what surprisingly few thoughts were circling her mind, and replaced them with an awareness of the wind through her hair, the slight dampness of the remnant morning dew on the leaves of the stem in her fingers. Then, Tara gently clasped her hand over Marcia’s, and connected the two women to the yarrow, the roots of the great tree, and the moss beneath their feet.
The image was faint at first, but Marcia chased it, and willed it forward until the details were suddenly clear, as if her eyes were open. In her mind, a physical map of the space around her appeared, not just visually, but in touch too. She felt the squishy embrace of the mud around her feet, and around the roots of the trees, as well as the ticklish skittering of insects traversing the moss. Attached to the end of her fingers was Tara’s own hand—bone embedded in flesh, fed by the slow, steady trickle of blood, wrapped in skin—and at the end of their hands was the taut stem of the yarrow, covered in beads of dew which she could feel sliding between the fibrous tracks of the stem as if the cool water slid across her own skin. She felt the pull of the roots that anchored the young, thin plant—and herself—to the forest floor. The fibrous roots slithered through the soil to the base of the great tree, which appeared before her now not simply as an ancient, unmoving tower but a conscious being with a will of his own. Marcia could feel it’s gaze upon her, from way above the forest floor, in the leafy canopy, and in the back of her mind words appeared—or, at least, foreign thoughts shaped into words, spelling out a greeting in a low, melodic, and echoing tone.
With a frightened gasp Marcia released the yarrow and fell backwards into the moss. The real world returned to her vision. She clawed at her face to ensure she was back in her human skin. Looking up the tree she felt no gaze and heard no voice, and saw only the still pillar of bark from before.
Tara clambered over to her fallen friend and took her hand. “Thrilling, isn’t it?”
Marcia was still collecting herself. “What was that?”
“The tree, he spoke to you. Perfectly normal to be a little frightened the first time.”
Tara sat beside Marcia for a few moments, until her normal breathing returned, then pulled her off the forest floor. “Let’s walk a bit, get some fresh air going in your lungs.”
Ever since she arrived, Marcia sensed a mysterious, omniscient might coming from the forest, guarding some precious secret. She had assumed this secret was the troves of platinum covered by moss and soil, but the forest cared not for this metal, not in the way most of humanity did, at least. Its true power came not from its material riches, nor the height of its canopy, nor the thickness of its trunks, but the length of its roots, which united the lives of every tree, herb, grass, moss, insect, bird, and human on the planet.
“I was thinking of staying, actually,” Marcia called out. “Not taking tomorrow’s flight, but a later one.”
Tara stopped walking. Her auburn hair shone most brilliantly in the daylight of the forest, among the trees. “What about your job?”
“I want to try something new.”
“Here?” Tara asked. “On Egrestte?”
Marcia nodded.
“Huh. Well, if you’re handy, I think they could always use help with the machines at the port,” Tara said.
“What about you?” Marcia responded.
“Me?” Tara said, smirking, as she reached down to scrub behind Calvan’s ear, “I have plenty of company already.” She paused, offering Marcia an opportunity to retreat. She didn’t budge. “But, if you’re serious, I do feel short-handed in the forest from time to time. If you wanted something really different, I could certainly cover more ground with a partner.”
Marcia played with the tips of her fingers, and didn’t meet Tara’s turquoise eyes as she said, “I’d be happy to help, if you wouldn’t mind teaching me how.”
 
THE END

​ 
            The black sky spread over the beat-up sedan like a piece of velvet. Under the hood, the engine rumbled with unease. Tye gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, his eyes darting to the left and right as he looked out at the empty street ahead of him. He glanced at the dashboard clock, noting the lateness of the hour, and he tried to ease the urgent pounding of his heart.
            If she doesn’t get out here soon…
            As if to answer his thought, she came running down the front steps. The lavish apartment building loomed over her as she rushed to the curb, opened the passenger’s side door, and leaped into the vehicle.
            “Go,” she hissed. “They’re awake.”
            Tye needed no further cajoling. He stepped on the gas and sped off down the road, his car bumping along the broken pavement. The heat was destroying the roads. Lawns had turned to little more than yellow grass. Yet the lavish apartments still stood, with air conditioning and fresh water. Tye’s family had been forced to swelter. Their electricity had been turned off, likely for the last time -- Marcus had been fired, and he had been their man. The only one who would listen to their plight and would grant leniency.
            “Do they know where we’re going? Did they see the car?” Tye asked. He tried to modulate his voice, but his tone was cracking.
He braked at an intersection, looked both ways, then turned right. Yellow lights from large apartments glittered against the night sky. Tye had never been to this part of the city before. He doubted he would ever visit it again.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I just heard them talking and then a light turned on. That’s when I left.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “That’s fine. We should have enough time to get ahead of the Force.”
She was silent. Tye looked over at her and saw she was picking at her fingernails. Dry paint was flaking off - nail polish that had lost its luster. He turned his gaze back to the road.
“Can we turn on the radio or something?” she asked. Her voice was shaking, though he could tell she was more resilient than the others had been. Perhaps that was a product of her environment, or maybe an indication of her spirit.
“Yeah, of course,” Tye said. He reached out and clicked on the radio. Static buzzed as he fumbled with the dial. Then a station came in clear, and an auto parts store’s jingle filled the car. Tye would have preferred silence.
The lights of the city were far behind them as he turned onto the highway, heading north. The world was quiet and the roads were relatively empty. Every now and then he would come across the golden sheen of headlights. He knew the roads well. More importantly, he knew which ones to take and which ones to avoid. His mentor, a kind man named Caesar, had taught him the importance of knowing back roads, of memorizing the city like the lines in his palm.
It makes the difference between getting caught and getting across the border, Caesar had said. Yet, no more than two weeks later, his body had been found by the side of the road: dumped into the gutter, surrounded by a pool of his crimson blood. 
Two bullets in his chest and one in his head. 
The Force’s handiwork.
The woman he had been ferrying was nowhere to be found. She had likely been returned to her home.
To her prison, Tye thought.
The music on the radio cut out suddenly, switching from some classic rock song to the three long, tonal beeps that signified a Presidential address. Then his gruff, angered voice tumbled through the speakers.
My fellow Americans. I regret to inform you that one of these ANIMALS, these INDECENT IMBECILES, has captured another one of our women. In our own backyard, to be precise. I have ordered the Force to find them and to bring her back to us. Please keep her family in your thoughts and prayers during this difficult time.
She reached forward and turned the radio off. It was then that Tye noticed the swollen lump of her abdomen for the first time. Everybody was at a different stage in their pregnancy, though most women tried to find a Ferry sooner rather than later. He was no expert, but it looked to him like she was at least three months along.
“I have some CDs in the glove box if you want to listen to something else,” Tye said. “We’ll be stopping for gas in about an hour, and then it’s another forty-five to our motel, at least.” He paused. “Just a long time to sit in silence is all.”
“It’s okay,” she said. She offered him a small smile. “Thank you, though.”
            So they sat in silence and watched the dark, bare trees pass by the car. Every few seconds, Tye checked his mirrors. He was confident they had escaped a tail. That was what got most Ferries. If anybody, or any camera, caught sight of the vehicle in the ten minutes following pick up, they would be doomed. If they didn’t, the rest of the trip would be a breeze.
 
            Fifty-eight minutes later, Tye pulled the beat-up sedan into a small gas station. It only had two pumps, but it was open twenty-four hours and the attendants were all in their network. They couldn’t offer deals on the gas but they looked the other way. Their cameras had long been deactivated, too.
            Tye turned the car off and turned to the woman. “Do you need anything? Something to drink? Eat?”
            “A bag of chips would be nice,” she responded. “And maybe an iced-tea?”
            Tye nodded. “Bag o’ chips and an iced tea,” he confirmed.
            He stepped out of the car and checked his surroundings, looking both down the expanse of road and up the street into the deep darkness.
            No lights. 
            No sounds.
            Those weren’t even perfect indicators anymore. The Force had gotten some of the military budget pumped into their system and now they were riding around with windshields that had night-vision capabilities and drivetrains specially designed to silence all engine noise. Tye was convinced they weren’t following him, though. He could feel when the Force was nearby. It was like seeing a ghost: the hairs on his neck would stand up and the blood in his veins would turn to ice. At their inception, the government told everyone they were a peacekeeping force - non-violent and there to help. Of course, that was sixteen years and one working government ago.
            Tye walked up to the door of the gas station and entered. A bell jingled overhead and he nodded to the man behind the cash register. Wally. He was nice enough. Quiet, but he had been one of the first to join the cause. He was the reason the gas station was a viable stopping point at all. Before, there had been talks about carrying containers full of gasoline in the trunk, but that brought its own issues -- issues that were difficult to resolve.
            Tye grabbed a bottle of water from the coolers in the back of the store and picked up a bag of potato chips. Then, he approached the register. 
“Hey, Wally. Can I get thirty on two?”
            Wally nodded. He brushed his stringy, gray hair behind his pale ear and punched the numbers into his old register. The till popped out, and Tye handed over the cash. Wally made change.
            “How old’s this one?” he asked as he dropped the coins into Tye’s hand.
            “Seventeen, I think,” Tye said. “Barry didn’t give me all the details.”
            “Rich family?”
            “Always is,” Tye confirmed.
            He thanked Wally and exited the gas station. As he approached the car, his heart stopped. Ambling up the highway was a black car, headlights off, engine purring. 
Tye pretended to receive a call, slipping his burner phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen, and flipping it open.
            The car turned on its blinker. The orange light flashed, and the car pulled into the gas station.
            “Fuck,” Tye said under his breath.
He maintained his façade and strode over to the gas pump, making eye contact with the girl. He could see fear lingering in her eyes, and he did his best to comfort her with his countenance. Tye put his phone in his pocket, pulled the nozzle from the pump, and undid his car’s gas tank.
            The black car pulled into the second pump. Its brake lights shone a deep crimson as it braked. Tye stuck the nozzle into his car and began to pump his gas.
            “Nice night tonight, isn’t it?” a deep voice said from the other pump. Tye turned and saw a man in a dark, black suit. He was bald and his pink head gleamed under the yellow lights. He had one hand in his pants’ pocket.
            “Yeah,” Tye said. “Yeah, it is.”
            “Strange to see someone else out so late,” the man continued. “My work has me out late sometimes. The roads are always so empty.” He paused. His gaze traveled to the woman and he nodded toward her. “Your wife?”
            “That’s right,” Tye said smoothly. “We’re just passing through. Heading up to Vermont.”
            “Ah,” the man said. He smiled. There was a dangerous glint in his eye. The kind of look from which Tye could infer his intentions. 
The man didn’t say anything further. He took one final look at Tye, turned his heel, and walked into the gas station.
            Tye checked the pump and watched the numbers climb. The flow of gas stopped and he returned the nozzle to its spot. As he was closing his gas cap, he heard the chime from the gas station door. The man had returned. He was stuffing his wallet into his back pocket.
            “You off?” he asked. 
            “Yes, sir,” Tye said. “Back out on the road. We’re trying to get up north as soon as we can.”
            “Where are you off to again?” the man asked.
            Tye’s heart was pounding in his chest. “Vermont.”
            “That’s right,” the man said. “Sorry. I have the world’s worst memory.” He flashed a bright smile.
            “Well, you have yourself a good night now,” Tye said. He turned and opened the driver’s side door.
            “You too,” the man said. “Drive safely.”
            Tye pulled the door closed and buckled his seat belt.
            “Who was that?” the woman asked.
            “Don’t know,” Tye responded. He stuck his key in the ignition and turned. The engine coughed to life. He pushed on the gas and pulled out, driving forward into the expanse of night.
            “He’s new,” Tye said as he checked his mirrors. “I don’t like new.”
            “Was he with the Force?” she asked.
            “I don’t know,” he responded. “But I want to get as far away as possible so we don’t have to find out.”
 
*
 
            The motel was rundown, with peeling paint and a structure that sagged into the ground, as though rot had eroded its foundation. The neon sign buzzed and some of the letters were burnt out. All that could be made out from afar was MTL - VCNY.
            The parking lot was largely empty. They had made a deal with the owner to perpetually pay for six of the eight rooms, leaving two open for actual guests. They were barely ever occupied, and they weren’t kept up to any sort of standard. For the average customer, that was a sign to take business elsewhere; for Ferries, it was a haven.
            “We’re going to lay low tonight,” Tye said as he put the car in park and killed the engine. “We already have a room - #3. I’m going to keep the key on the nightstand in between our beds. If anything happens to me, you take the car and you drive north. There’s a compass in the glovebox. Follow the signs to Vermont, pass through, and keep going to Canada. If you drive consistently, you can be there in 24 hours. Maybe a bit less.”
            He reached into the glove box in front of her and pulled out a silver snub-nosed revolver. He opened the cylinder to make sure it was loaded and then snapped it shut.
            “This will also be on our nightstand,” he said. “It’s loaded. All you need to do is cock it, aim it, and fire. The Force only ever has up to three men at a time. You have six bullets here. Just make sure you aim well.” he paused. “Got it?”
            The woman nodded. “Yeah, I got it.”
            Tye gave her a small smile. “This is just a precaution,” he said. “Most of the time the rest of the journey goes smoothly. We always need a plan B, though.”
            The woman returned his smile. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
 
            Tye was never able to sleep in the motel. Something about the silence unnerved him. He had grown up in the city his entire life, listening to the sounds of cars backfiring, people conversing with lively passion, music blaring from some apartment or house nearby. It was comforting to him. Silence always held the air of possibility: that something horrible could happen. And if it did, his community wouldn’t be there to help him.
            “Why do you do this?” the woman asked. She had chosen the bed furthest from the door and she had turned on her side so her back was facing him.
            Tye considered the question for a moment. A long, pregnant pause filled the space between them.
            “It’s the right thing to do,” he said. “And the money’s decent. Folks in my community are lucky if they bring home three-hundred a week.”
            “I guess that makes sense,” she said. “Don’t you get scared, though?” 
She turned over onto her other side so she could look at Tye. He had closed the curtains, but a small sliver of light had pushed its way through and was illuminating her face, tinged with red from the buzzing neon sign.
            “At first I was,” Tye admitted. “My mentor, he got shot pretty soon after I joined. Nobody investigated. No justice. Just a corpse. His folks didn’t have the money to bury him properly, so he was cremated. The Force kept his ashes.”
            “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was soft. Calming.
            “It’s okay. Once you get the hang of it, your fear goes out the window. You just do your job and hope you’ll make it home.”
            “Do you have a wife?” she asked.
            “Husband,” Tye responded. He smiled. “And a daughter.” He looked over at her. “You?”
            She shook her head. “Before I was taken, there was a boy I was seeing. He was nice. A little strange, and he had these speckles of acne on his cheeks. But he held the door open for me. He always made sure that I felt safe and comfortable before we got into his car to go somewhere. For a while, I thought I was going to be able to stay with him.” She paused. “Then, they came. The Andersons. Came with all their money and all their influence and ripped me right out of house and home. So, here I am.”
            Silence regained control of the room. Tye turned to look at the curtained window and the light that was slashing through it. 
            “What’s your name?” the woman asked.
            “I’m sorry?”
            “Your name,” she repeated. “I don’t think you ever told me.”
            “No, I guess I didn’t,” he said with a smile. “My name’s Tye.”
            “Tye,” she said under her breath, letting the words escape her mouth, roll off her tongue. “Tye,” she said again. “That’s a good name.”
            “How about yours?” he asked.
            “Ivy,” she said. “My Dad had split, and my mom was in the hospital room all by herself. She told me she was scared about the future. She hadn’t planned this, hadn’t been able to remedy the situation. And she looked outside and saw some ivy that had climbed up the wall. Birds were fluttering around it in the sky, and just at that moment the gray clouds that had covered the sky broke apart, and through it, yellow rays came. She told me she knew, at that moment, that she wanted to name me Ivy.”
            Tye smiled. “That’s a lovely story,” he said.
            “Thanks,” she said.
            She turned over on her side. A few minutes later, Tye heard soft snores coming from her side of the room.
            He looked back out the window, at the curtains and the light. He tried to ignore the image of the man at the gas station, tried to ignore the fear that was in his heart.
At some point, he fell asleep, too.
 
*
 
            Blue and purple joined together in the morning sky. Tye noted the beauty of the moment, allowing himself a singular instance of quaint quiet. Birds were chirping: Robins, who lined the dead, brown branches and hopped around with childlike joyfulness.
            Ivy was already in the passenger’s seat digging through the glove box. Jewel cases clattered as she poked through the CDs Tye had. He closed the driver’s side door as he slipped behind the wheel.
            “How about this one?” Ivy asked. She lifted an album, and Tye smiled.
            “Perfect choice,” Tye responded.
            He started the car and checked his mirrors as Ivy pulled the CD out and put it in the car’s player. As Tye pulled out of the parking spot, piano began to tinkle through the speakers. Breezy harmonica followed it, and Bruce Springsteen’s rough voice floated into the car as “Thunder Road” began to play.
            “God, I love this song,” Tye said. He cracked a smile and hummed as he pulled the car out onto the road.
            “Me too,” Ivy said. 
            For a brief moment, Tye thought he saw a flash in his mirror: a black car sliding through the intersection behind them or pulling into a parking spot. 
When he looked more closely, there was nothing there.
 
The wind whipped through the windows; Ivy’s hair was a tousled mess of madness as she rocked her head to the music. Tye had one arm on the wheel, the other arm out his window, his fingers brushing the top of the door. Tye was diligent about checking his mirrors every five minutes. Nobody was following them and the road was empty. The sun was high in the sky, beaming down yellow rays.
The song ended, and there was a moment of silence before a cacophony of drums introduced Tye’s favorite song: “Born to Run”. Ivy turned it up, and he didn’t mind. 
He checked the mirrors again.  
Still nothing.
The road ahead bent toward the right, pulling them down a back road that was surrounded by lush trees and vegetation. The sun was blotted out by thick branches and large leaves. Neither Tye nor Ivy cared. They were both singing along to the song. Ivy was playing air drums, her arms moving at a frenetic pace as she tried to match the beat of the drum. Tye looked over at her, and she at him. They shared a smile, and for a moment Tye knew why he went through the trouble he did to help these women. He knew his purpose. It was shining there, in the corners of her eyes, in the creases of her smile, in the jubilant laughter that lifted his heart.
He looked in his mirrors. 
Nothing there.
The road bent further right, and the trees shrouded them from light. Cool darkness covered the car. The wind garnered a sharper bite. The music continued to play, and Ivy continued to drum, and Springsteen continued to sing. Yet Tye could tell something was wrong. The terror sprouted in his gut, bouncing around and seeding further worry into his heart and his throat. His palms grew clammy, and he drew his left hand back into the car. 
He checked his mirrors.
Still nothing.
The trees were choking the light from the road, so much so that he had to turn on his headlights. He had traveled this stretch of road before, had driven other women down it. It was a reliable road, a safe road. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Birds chirped, insects buzzed, leaves whistled in the wind, yet all of it felt wrong.
The song’s bridge exploded through the speakers. Ivy was enjoying herself and Tye saw no reason to stop it. She deserved the comfort of joy for once in her life.
Then they were free from the forest, free from the shade, free from the darkness. The sun bore down on them with thick, hot rays and Tye felt comfortable warmth on his arm.
He checked his mirrors.
The trees were receding into the distance. Clouds unfurled and sifted through the sky overhead, white fluff hovering over an outcrop of green. Dust from the road had kicked up behind their car and small particles filtered through the air, some catching the light, others falling back to their original spot.
            Tye turned back around. 
            It was too late for him to do anything.
            A single bullet passed through the windshield, followed by an explosive crack that was louder than the music. The song kicked back into gear: drums, guitar, Bruce’s voice soaring high on the track. 
            “Get down!” Tye yelled at Ivy.
            Another bullet. It hit Tye in the neck. Blood spurted out onto the windshield, dousing his hands in crimson. Instinct wrestled his hands from the wheel of the car and toward his throat. Crimson bubbled and spilled out of his mouth.
            Another bullet. Another crack. It hit Tye in the middle of the chest. Warmth encompassed his mind and pain took hold of his body. The world swirled in front of him. Ivy was screaming. Bruce Springsteen was crying loud for everyone to hear:
            ‘CAUSE TRAMPS LIKE US, BABY WE WERE BORN TO RUNNNNNNN.
            The car was spinning. Dirt sprayed in the air. The metallic odor of blood was omnipresent.
            Another crack rang out. Tye didn’t see the bullet. A loud pop followed, and the car bucked into the air. It tumbled end over end. Ivy was still screaming. Crying. Springsteen was still singing, his voice skipping on the CD, repeating the same phrase.
            Tye’s head banged against the wheel as the car turned over, and what little consciousness he had was knocked away.
            He came to a few seconds later. The car was turned on its right side. His seatbelt was the only thing holding him in place. 
            “Tye!” Ivy yelled
            He couldn’t speak. He could feel the bullet lodged in his throat. To his surprise, he could still breath; it had missed his trachea. Every effort was pained, though, and produced a bloody gurgle.
            He motioned at the glove box. Ivy was confused at first, but she opened it. Loud voices were yelling, orders being called and heeded. Feet stamped in the dirt. Tye pointed at the revolver. Its silver frame glinted in the dusty light. He motioned for her to give it to him. She pushed it into his right hand.
            “Tye, we have to go!” she said.
            Tye shook his head. He pointed at her and then pointed at the back seat. Ivy followed his motions.
            “Get out of the car right now!” a voice yelled.
            The man from the gas station.
            Ivy saw what he had been motioning at when she was in the back seat: she pulled the cushions from their spot and looked at the hole that led into the trunk. Tye snapped to get her attention and pointed at the keys in the ignition. He had no idea whether she would be able to pop the trunk, but she had to try.
            She took the keys out, and the music stopped. Everything went silent.
            “I’m not going to ask again!” the man yelled. “Get out!”
            “Thank you,” Ivy whispered. Tears were in her eyes. “Thank you.”
            She gave Tye one last look before crawling into the trunk. She pulled the cushions back into place behind her. Then everything was silent again.
            Tye pulled the hammer down on the revolver.
            The car was jerked to the side and pulled down onto the ground. Everything shook as it crashed, rocked, and settled. Shadows appeared through the grimy, shattered windows. 
With a few, powerful tugs the passenger’s door opened. A Force agent stood outside, an assault rifle in his hands. Tye fired. The bullet hit the agent in the chest. He spun backward, his face cracking against the dehydrated soil.
Tye felt the weight of the car shift. Ivy had gotten out. He envisioned her running, her feet kicking up dirt in its wake, her determined eyes pushing her forward, her resolve keeping her hidden. He saw her approaching the border, speaking with the agents, telling them what happened.
He saw her safe.
He saw her happy.
Tye used the last of his strength to pull the hammer of the revolver down again. His vision was fading. He didn’t have much time left.
He fired through the cracked windshield. The man from the gas station cried out in pain. Then, an eruption of gunfire tore through the car.
Tye didn’t feel any of it.
 
*
 
The border was imposing, with its concrete structures and armed agents. Yet, birds were flying above it. She saw one of the guards, a woman who looked to be in her late twenties, point at them, smile, and laugh.
Ivy limped forward. She had cut her foot on a sharp rock. Blood was trailing behind her. Other than that, she was remarkably uninjured. The Force hadn’t even noticed her, what with Tye killing an agent and injuring another one - one in a suit, who she presumed was important.
When she was ten yards away, a guard may eye contact with her.
“Help,” she said. Her vocal cords were still broken from the screaming. It had been five long days, and yet the crash felt like it had happened only hours before.
The border agent motioned for another to join him, and then he gestured for Ivy to approach. As she did, she overheard the agent telling his partner to call for a first aid team.
“Ma’am, what’s going on?” the agent asked, urgency lacing his tone. “Do you know where you are?”
Ivy looked at the border, at the red and white flag with the maple leaf hanging from the structure, billowing in the wind.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I do.”
            “What can I do to help?” he asked. “Come.” He motioned her past the divider and into the cement office. She thanked him over and over, from when he grasped her hand to help her walk to the moment she sat down in the chair and felt relief wash over her.
The agent grasped a bottle of water that was nearby and gave it to her. She unscrewed the cap and drank greedily.
“What happened?” he asked. “What can we do?”
Ivy lowered the bottle and leaned her head back against the wall. A cool breeze was filtering through a window to her left. She looked out it.
“I need to apply for asylum,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” the agent said. “Of course. Let’s wait until first aid gets here. Then, I can walk you through the steps to do that. Does that sound okay?”
“Yes,” Ivy said. “Yes, that does.”
            The agent stepped out of the office, pulling a cellphone from his pocket. Ivy’s gaze traveled from the doorway to the small window. To her surprise, she noticed Ivy was growing in the cement, poking through, green and vibrant.
The clouds broke and the sun shone through.

It was a hot summer, and I was “sweating” my physics final exam. I was required to take physics for a second time during summer school after failing the course during the Spring Quarter of my sophomore year in college. I was also “sweating” the grueling, twelve hour days, I was working as a rideshare driver.
My family lived in a large, luxurious home, in an affluent part of town. My parents were both successful professionals.  Although I wanted to become a software engineer and design new App’s, I spent most of my time playing video games, drinking with my friends, and slacking. I attended a rigorous STEM university, and the students were very competitive. The coursework was tough and required intense study.  Nobody reached out to one another to share notes, or help explain difficult subject matter. Our access to the professors was limited, and we waited in line to approach overworked graduate students, serving as teaching assistants, who had limited time, and patience for our questions.
Distraught because I flunked physics and wasn’t devoting the necessary time to my studies, my parents meted out “tough love” to me; they kicked me out of the house for the summer with no money, and told me “to make it on my own.” They explained the experience would be “good for me” and motivate me to take my “studies seriously.”
 I found a friends couch to sleep on for the summer. I needed spending money, fast, and signed up for a ride share job using my hybrid car which was ideal because it had great gas mileage. Being a ride share driver had its advantages because I could “cash out” my earnings daily which were immediately deposited into my checking account without tax withholding. I drove twelve hour days, earning about $200, less gas money. After twelve hours of driving in heavy traffic, I returned home, hungry and exhausted. After a few hours of physics study, I’d fall asleep after eating a frozen dinner.
The job took me all over town, and into neighborhoods, I didn’t know; mostly lower income. I’d often race through these “bad” neighborhoods, running red lights, to avoid potential car jackers, and fearful of the menacing appearing homeless who roamed the neighborhoods.  It was tiring work but I met interesting people, beautiful girls, and felt a satisfaction from a hard day’s work.
My rideshare App alerted me to a pick up at a downtown, budget motel, which always resulted in a scary ride. The passengers were usually frantic after being evicted, intoxicated, or mentally ill. I accepted the rides because I needed the money, and, all rides have the potential of becoming long and lucrative.
 
I arrived at the motel where an elderly, grey haired, Black man, was tending to an elderly, frail, silver haired, Caucasian woman in a wheel chair. As I approached, he was eager to see me, waived, and approached the vehicle. He told me they were only going a “few blocks”, and apologized for the “short ride.” It was a hot day, and I gave them my last bottle of water because they were perspiring, and I feared they were suffering from heat stroke. They were thirsty and grateful for the water. I noticed the elderly woman’s hands were grotesquely twisted, and she had difficulty holding the water bottle with both hands. The Black man gently held the bottle to her mouth, allowing her to sip the water.
I opened up the trunk. The man carefully lifted the elderly woman from the wheel chair, and buckled her into the rear seat with tenderness and care, suggesting a relationship similar to a mother and son.  He folded the wheel chair and placed it within my trunk. This man was large and imposing but exhibited chivalry, kindness, and love for the crippled old woman.
He thanked me for “picking him up” which suggested he may have been the victim of rideshare discrimination by frightened or insensitive drivers. He remarked,
 “I’m sweating worse than an Arkansas mule.”
I had never heard that expression before, asking, “Where did that saying come from?”
“My pop was a sharecropper in Mississippi and used it and other sayings often.”
He was perspiring and distraught about his cell phone battery dying. I plugged his cell phone into my recharger cord, cranked up the air conditioning which calmed him down, and he thanked me. We immediately liked each other.
 He introduced himself as “Rollo”, short for “Rollin’ On”. He described himself as a “rolling stone”, never spending too much time in one place. He introduced the old woman as “Beatrice”. I introduced myself as Zack.
Rollo was an imposing figure but a “gentle giant”. He was about 6’2”, 220#, and his body looked beaten down from a long life of grueling work. His face also showed the many years of a difficult life. He was maybe seventy. The elderly woman looked to be pushing eighty.
“What’s your story, Rollo?”
“I grew up in rural Mississippi and I was a troublemaker raised by a single mom. We got by on food stamps and a vegetable garden. Despite our frugalness, the food stamps would run out by the third week of the month. Mama was a great cook and could make a nutritious meal from very little foodstuffs. After the food stamps for the month ran out, I wanted to surprise her with a good cut of meat. I got caught stealing a chuck steak from the market, and the judge gave me a choice of spending a year in county jail or joining the Army. I chose the Army which provided me discipline, a work ethic, self 
respect, and “straightened” me out. I was happy to send most of my Army pay home to mama. I did one tour in Vietnam and was honorably discharged in 1972. I was spat on when arriving home at the airport up north by war protestors, and caught the first bus home, back to my poverty stricken town in Mississippi. Life was slow, no work, so I took to the bottle, and fell in with the wrong crowd. Mama was having difficulty walking and complaining of numbness in her feet. White doctors wouldn’t treat Black folk so I took mama to the only Black doctor in town. He diagnosed mama with Type 2 diabetes. He couldn’t treat her and urged me to take her for treatment to the nearest town with a university medical school hospital. Despite her Medicare benefits, the treatment was too costly for mama to pay. I took to stealing to pay mama’s medical bills. I stole anything I could pawn or fence for immediate cash.  When she asked me where the money was coming from, I said I was sharecropping by day, and working as a night watchman.
“I was eventually arrested, convicted, and I spent two years on a chain gang. Mama’s condition continued to worsen while I was on the chain gang but she managed to survive until I was released.
“After serving my sentence, and with the help of a veteran’s organization, I found work as a truck driver trainee, offering full training; decent pay which enabled me to pay all of mama’s bills, and the job had good benefits, including medical insurance for mama. I moved to Phoenix where the trucking company was headquartered. Man, I loved driving.  I drove the entire country and Canada, digging the freedom, and independence of working for myself. North America is one of the most beautiful places on earth, Zack.  I’d call mama every week from a different state or province, and mail her a souvenir. She was proud of me which gave me the self respect I sorely needed. Over the years, I developed lower back pain from hours of driving, and was prescribed opiate based medicines which hooked me. I drank booze along with the opiates. The booze and opiates created a wonderful high and removed the back pain but I became addicted.
“When I returned the rig to Phoenix after a thirty day run, I failed my drug test, got fired on the spot, lost my commercial driving license, and ended up on the streets as a homeless man in hot as hell Phoenix. I survived on unemployment benefits for six months, and then turned to welfare. I took on odd jobs, when and if I could find them. I didn’t have the heart to tell mama I was fired, and was too ashamed to call mama or return home to Mississippi. I became a drug addict. Within a year, the trucking company forwarded me a faded, official letter from the Mississippi Coroner’s office informing me that mama died ,and was cremated because no next of kin could be located. I suffered, Zack. The guilt of abandoning mama was so intense; it could only be quelled with heroin, booze, and meth.”
Beatrice couldn’t talk, except to mumble. Rollo reached over to wipe the spittle dripping from the side of her mouth. She was petit, and held tightly on to the arms of her car seat as if she was holding on to life. Rollo explained, “Beatrice was evicted from a hospice where she was expected to die from liver cancer. Her Social Security disability benefits weren’t enough to cover the expenses even in a poor quality hospice. Beatrice has no family. She is going to die on the streets, alone, without me. Until her time comes, I’m determined to make her life as comfortable as I can. We’re like family, Zack.”
“Where did Beatrice come from?”
“I met her at the Salvation Army, sitting alone in the corner of the cafeteria, having difficulty feeding herself with her shaking, twisted hands. I sat next to her and fed her. We’ve been together ever since.”
“How did she end up at the Salvation Army, Rollo?”
 “Back in the eighties, politicians closed all the mental institutions and released helpless psychiatric patients, who had spent their entire lives under the care and supervision of mental health professionals, into the streets.  Beatrice had been placed in a mental hospital for developmentally disabled children as a baby. She never learned to speak nor walk, but could hear, and understand most of what was said. She has Cerebral palsy which crippled her hands. She never knew life outside of the state hospital. When they closed the hospital, she met briefly with an overworked social worker who couldn’t understand her, handing her a list of privately owned, overcrowded, board and care facilities, and a pharmacy where she could get her medications filled. It was like casting a newborn to the wolves. Most of her life has included short term stays in emergency rooms, prison cells, or sleeping on the sidewalk.
“I’ve never let go of the guilt associated with not being by mama’s side when she died. Beatrice reminded me of my mother. I was drawn to looking after her because it dampened the guilt raging within me.  You like this ride share driving gig, Zack?”
 “No, I hate it.”
 “Why the hell do it then?”
“Because my parents kicked me out of the house for the summer for failing physics and I need money.”
“They kicked you out of the house for flunking a course?”
“You have to understand, my parents are over achievers. Dad’s a neurologist and a clinical professor of neurology at the medical school, and mom’s manages a Wall Street investment fund. They think by kicking me out of the house, and forcing me to “make it on my own for the summer”, they’d “toughen me up”, and I’d take my college coursework more seriously.”
“Well son, I can tell you stories about tough love.”
Rollo pulled his shirt up over his head revealing scars on his back. 
“The scars on my back are from whippings my drunken father gave me trying to straighten me out. I begged mama not to intervene because he would turn the whip on her. He eventually split, leaving me and mom to fend for ourselves, never returning. “I’ll take “tough love”, rather than no love, anytime, son. Your parents are showing’ you how hard life can be. Me and Beatrice are perfect examples. It was fate that led you to pick us up. Maybe we’ll teach you about life?”
Beatrice tapped Rollo on the shoulder with her disfigured hand as if in agreement.
“I don’t even know what physics looks like, but I flunked life, Zack. I wish I could get those years back because I’d accept all the “tough love” my parents could give me, if it would provide me with a future like the one you’ll enjoy. You just treat this summer job as a brief stay in hell, drive the long hours, and remember the faces of the many homeless you’ll see.  Take each day at a time, put one foot in front of the other, and hope for the best. If the wisdom you learn passes through one ear and out the other, or remains embedded in your memory, is up to you. When you go back to school, attack your subjects like your life depends upon your passing each course. Any time you find yourself backsliding, remember me and Beatrice. We won’t forget you.”
I drove them a few blocks to skid row where he asked me to drop them. Rollo unloaded the wheel chair from the trunk, and carefully helped Beatrice into the chair. I felt guilty leaving them on a busy, hot street corner, amidst despair. Rollo thanked me for the ride, shook my hand, offering me the following advice, “Zack, you make your own luck in life.  You have all the tools necessary for success. Don’t squander them. Seize every opportunity. Failure is your friend because it will eventually lead you to success. Nothing can stop you, brother.”
Beatrice nodded her head in agreement. She pointed to a faded, green, plastic, shamrock amulet, attached to a tattered string around her neck she must have worn for decades. Beatrice motioned Rollo to remove it from her neck and give it to me.  The shamrock had the date of her birth inscribed upon it and must have been a present from jubilant new parents to their baby girl. The faded green paint, and lack of a chain, was like a metaphor for parents who gave up when they discovered their new born was disabled for life. I pondered the pain or relief they must have felt leaving their baby at a state hospital, never to see her again.
 I was saddened watching Rollo carefully wheel Beatrice down the sidewalk to a rescue mission. I hung the faded shamrock from my rear view mirror as a reminder of my new friends.
As the remaining weeks of summer grinded along, I treated my rideshare job like a sociology class. I purposely sought out rides in the downtrodden parts of town, and was pleased to pick up riders who I would have previously shunned for their appearance, mental condition, or economic standing. I was eager to learn who they were, what they thought, and how they came to be? I always learned something new about life and humanity from these sages of the streets.
It wasn’t until I began receiving voice mail and text messages from my parents demanding to meet with them and “discuss the lessons I learned from my summer job” that I realized the summer had ended, and the fall term was soon to commence. I dreaded the specter of having to explain to my parents “what I had learned” from my summer of driving. They wouldn’t understand, and it wouldn’t be what they wanted to hear.
I was the first student to complete the physics final, racing through it as if it was an elementary school math test. I received an “A”.
The summer of rideshare driving changed me. I didn’t want to return to the comfort of my home and plush bedroom, full of distractions, and light years from the reality of the streets I witnessed. I was independent now. I sought out minimalist accommodations within walking distance to campus hoping it would keep me grounded in reality, and permit me to focus on my studies. I was fortunate to find a small apartment above a liquor store a few blocks from campus.  The proprietor was the owner of the liquor store, giving me a bargain rent because I was a “responsible college student”, and would watch over the liquor store during closing hours. Although the apartment was a single room, dingy flat, with an old refrigerator, Murphy bed, and small stove, it was mine. I was beholden to nobody’s rules but my own.
I made contact with my parents by text message, with a lyric from a tune from my playlist. I chose Bob Dylan’s album, “Highway 61 Revisited”, hoping the lyrics would convey to them what I had learned over my summer of “tough love”,
                         “When ya ain't got nothin', you got nothin' to lose”


At night, I lay in the Murphy bed, and thought of Rollo and Beatrice, alone in the world, roaming from soup kitchen to homeless shelters. Rollo and Beatrice profoundly changed my life from that of a slacker to a motivated student because I saw the pain or affluence life can mete out.
When the college term began, I attacked my studies with a new resolve. I couldn’t relate to my former classmates. I was a changed person.  I fondly recalled the loving assistance Rollo extended to Beatrice and, whenever I encountered a student struggling with the coursework, I volunteered to help them.
 I approached the university and volunteered to become a tutor in those courses I now was mastering. My offer was gladly accepted by the university, and, as students began attending my tutoring sessions, additional gifted students volunteered as tutors. I’m happy to say, I changed the reputation of my college major from a competitive, “lone wolf” major, to a collegial, “help thy neighbor” major. My ​efforts were not lost on the Dean of Students who promised to write me a letter of recommendation upon my graduation, and encouraged me to attend graduate school at our university.
My father and mother were very proud of my academic success. My father invited me to the Faculty Club to show off his over achieving son. After lunch, we headed back to his laboratory where some medical students were dissecting, and studying the central nervous system of a cadaver. To my dismay, it was Beatrice lying on the stainless steel autopsy table. The autopsy technician approached saying, “She was brought into the ER yesterday by a large Black man. She was diagnosed as having terminal liver failure. She died in the ER. The man wasn’t a relative but produced a legal document showing he was conservator for the woman, and he produced a notarized Last Will and Testament, including a “Statement of Donation” of the woman’s body to our medical school.”
 A medical student spoke up while dissecting Beatrice, “We lucked out with this cadaver because it gives us the opportunity to study her liver disease, palsy, and developmental disability. We might find a link!” I was tempted to reply, “Her name is Beatrice and treat her with dignity!” 
I approached the autopsy table and stroked Beatrice’s fine silver hair. She was a small, frail woman, and terribly thin from years of starvation. I stared at her mouth closely, and could make out a glimmer of a smile. I was surprised to find that both of her hands were free from the contortions of cerebral palsy. Her fingers were straight, long, thin, elegant, and resembled those of a pianist. I asked the autopsy tech,
“I’ve seen this homeless woman around town and know that her hands were severely contorted by cerebral palsy. Why are they straight?”
My father overheard my question and answered, “I’ve seen this before, Zack. For some misfortunate people, the gift of life carries with it  a price in the form of unfair burdens they must carry throughout their lives. For this woman, it was cerebral palsy of her hands and developmental disabilities. Over the course of my career, I’ve seen death provide a “repayment” of sorts for their burdens, and for this poor woman, it was the reward of beautiful hands.”
I suspected Beatrice was happy to leave this world, and I’m certain she was delighted to donate her body for the furtherance of medical science.  I excused myself, entered the men’s room, closed the stall door, and wept. I was happy Beatrice found peace and beautiful hands in death, but wondered about Rollo’s fate, recalling the lyrics to the Dylan song,  

​“How does it feel?
How does it feel?
To be on your own
With no direction home
A complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?”

​I knew he missed Beatrice and his mama. I also know he would take delight to see the gift of beautiful hands death provided Beatrice. I washed and dried my face while looking in the mirror, and recited Rollo’s advice, “I’ll take “tough love”, rather than no love, anytime.”

​June 2014
               We landed on Earth just after sunset. My two comrades and I adjusted to our new human forms. Our life forces were now tied to these fallible bodies. This was the last opportunity to learn what intergalactic threat humans posed.
September 2014
               Applebee’s was selected for our parting dinner. We wanted a location with privacy, but instead settled for a restaurant with terrific appetizers. Seated across from one another, Urkel, with his youthful black skin turned towards me. He had requested an appearance similar to a classic television character he binged watched after our arrival (thankfully he omitted the glasses from his disguise). He randomly asked, “Eve, how come we never see you wearing high heels?”
               The Council had given my two comrades male bodies. I was given the weaker female one (on our world, neither gender nor bodies existed). Vlad patted the few white hairs on his elderly head. The loose, pale skin on his neck jiggled as he grabbed a breath mint.
               Vlad said to Urkel, “I bet Eve doesn’t know how to walk in ‘em, my dear chum.”
               I said, “You’re going to Russia, Vlad, not England. And to answer your teasing, I’ll never wear any of that stupid attire. What if a lion escaped? How fast could I run in those? Always dress for survival, nothing else.”
               “Aye aye, captain,” Urkel said. Vlad did a fake salute.
               I shook my head. “I would laugh, if I knew how.”
               We got down to business.
               “Our objective, to learn the likelihood of war with humans, and if needed, order a preemptive strike,” I whispered. A toddler seated at a neighboring table was trying to eavesdrop on our espionage. “I’ve secured an internship with NASA. I’ll relocate to Florida on Friday. Vlad.”
               Vlad accidentally swallowed his breath mint. “Tomorrow morning,” he coughed. “I hop on a flight to Moscow. I’ll interview for an engineering position with the Kremlin next week. I’m the only candidate in their 90s.” He belched. “They won’t be able to resist me. Urkel.”
               Urkel cracked his knuckles, a gesture neither Vlad nor I had mastered yet. “I began work for the junior congressman from Virginia last Tuesday. I’ll get him on the Science, Space, and Technology Committee before he can sleep with another hooker.”
               “What?” I asked.
               Urkel sighed. “The congressman had an ‘encounter’ with a prostitute in a Denny’s restroom. After he showed me my desk, I was tasked with buying her silence.”
               “Bloody hell,” Vlad said as he stood. He hobbled off to the restroom.
               Urkel scooted towards me. “After I paid the woman off, I was walking down this dark alley and some kids jumped out from a corner. One put a switchblade to my throat.”
               My breathing halted.
               “Kid with the knife goes, ‘Give us the money and all your shit!’”
               “I knew it! These people even have their youth ready for combat. And what is ‘shit?’”
               “Excrement,” Urkel shrugged. “What value that has, I’ll never know. They took eight dollars and my watch. I was going to call the authorities, but a lady nearby told me they don’t come to that neighborhood.”
               “Impossible. The Council didn’t prep us for this.”
A yellow crayon landed in my tomato soup. The toddler giggled. He brazenly launched another wax laden missile. We were under attack until the child’s mother intervened.
               Vlad waddled back. “Sitting hurts my buns.”
               “Urkel,” I said, “we’re stuck in this country. We have to be extra cautious. If these bodies perish, we die. Understand?”
               He nodded. “Here’s the strange thing.” Vlad and I were on the edge of our seats. Urkel revealed, “I felt more alive while getting robbed than all the days I’ve been here. It was exhilarating, a total rush. Life slowed and I remember every detail, and I mean every detail. The blade was two inches. One boy had the aroma of lavender soap. The evening was chilly. My heart almost burst from my chest, and an onslaught of feelings hit at once. As the boys ran off, one of their feet banged against a gutter, and the sound of metal echoed violently through the alley. And my hand, the left one, shook.”
               “That’s awful,” Vlad said.
               “No,” Urkel shook his head. He stared into my eyes. “Now I know what it means to be alive. And I’ll never forget, for better and worse. I hope you eventually know. It changes everything.”
November 2014
               The three of us did a monthly Skype call on a secured network. Urkel then reported our progress to The Council. On this night, we became distracted.
               “After not getting the engineering post,” Vlad explained, “it’s been tough. I like selling my roasted nuts during lunchtime, but the scientists at the Kremlin never discuss government secrets while eating almonds. Maybe that’s a Russian thing.” Vlad clapped his hands. “But on the bright side, my shot at glory arrives in three days!”
               “Why do you keep betting on those damn ponies?” Urkel asked.
               “I’m due. Speaking purely from a probability standpoint, I can’t lose this Saturday. I finally got it all figured out.”
               “Whatever you say, Vlad.”
               The man had lost two grand at the racetrack.
               Vlad readjusted his thick glasses and looked at me. “Is my camera faulty, or is your human suit expanding, Eve?”
               I shrugged. “It turns out all the hype around McDonald’s is legitimate. The Big Macs, the quarter pounder with cheese, the McFlurry--”
               “I love the McFlurry,” Urkel interjected.
               “It’s better than cocaine,” Vlad said.
               Urkel and I stared. “Have you really done cocaine?” I asked.
               Vlad played with his hearing aid. “Yeah, I did a little ‘blow.’ I heard it clears up sinus infections. Didn’t work though. I also heard it was better than love-making. But I can’t make the comparison, just yet.”
               “Love making?” I asked.
               Urkel leaned into his camera, “I can tell you all about that. So you remember when The Council explained the difference between males and females? The equipment Vlad and I have between our legs tell us we need to ‘get some,’ if we go too long without ‘gettin’ some.’ You still look confused. So sometimes I see a woman with a large bosom and I think about copulation…see, I figured you’d know that word. And sometimes my female neighbors jog in yoga pants and my pistol is ready for action. It’s a strange device.”
               “I’m glad I don’t have one,” I said.
               “Mine hangs low,” Vlad announced.
               “Anyway,” Urkel continued, “I created this account on Christian Mingle and the lady let me ‘get some’ on the first date. And, we both screamed from ecstasy!”
               Vlad said, “I’ve been thinking about getting my noodle wet. There’s a great grandmother who lives down the hall. She’s in poor health. So since she’s always in bed anyway--”
               I pounded the table, “Let’s get back to work.”
               “Hold on. How’s it being female? Pop a guy’s cherry yet?” Urkel asked.
               “Gross.”
               Vlad unscrewed his flask.
               I took a drink from my McCafé. The allures of Earth were corrupting us, just like the humans would want. “Hey! Those transmissions of mass explosives and death aren’t going to explain themselves. If they can get messages past the Milky Way, humans are capable of far more than we give them credit for.”
February 2015
               Through hard work, I had progressed from intern at NASA and was now a Computer Engineer. I worked on communication devices that astronauts used outside Earth’s atmosphere. The work was straightforward, which gave me plenty of time to gather intel.
               Every morning before going to NASA, I waited at the bus stop with Pastor Curly, an old, scrawny man. He often rambled about the return of Christ, requesting forgiveness, and pizza being addictive. Pastor Curly, with his salt and pepper beard was a local celebrity. Bolstering his mythology, he even wore a court jester’s hat while delivering sermons.
               On this particular morning, he preached, “We disappoint our savior daily with our nonsense. And why don’t we ever learn from our mistakes? Abel and Cain didn’t have any books to learn from. Cain just didn’t know any better, y’all know Abel was a snorer. And Eve,” Pastor Curly pointed at me, “Eve, your namesake didn’t know any better. Hunger in the morning is a bitch! An apple provides sustenance. She and Adam didn’t mean any harm. What do you think?”
               Pastor Curly liked participation from the people at the bus stop. I usually indulged the old man.
               “Just like you say, ‘once we know better, we do better.’”
               He did a fist pump. “I want everyone to keep an eye on this young woman. She’s going places that none of us have gone before. The used and abused need to open their ears. And for the love of God, they need to stop buying that nasty pizza!”
               Pastor Curly proved to be the wisest person I met in Florida.
***
               At work, Ernie, a colleague, took an interest in me. He was two years older and had a father, Ernest Sr., who was in senior management. Some women referred to Ernie as “dorky,” but he always displayed gentleness. More importantly, Ernie said he was close with his father. For reasons that to this day are unknown to me, Ernie still lived in his parent’s basement. He also liked to impress me with his knowledge on the future of space exploration.
               During a lunchbreak, he said the following: “Jeepers Eve, your guess is right. We are increasing our outreach in space. But the press gets all distracted with thoughts about a…let’s call it ‘Space Force.’ The bigger, more pressing issue is the harvesting of natural resources on other planets. Obviously, the resources here are diminishing fast, so if we can…you like Star Trek?”
               “Spock.”
               Ernie grinned like he won the lottery. Sliding his chair closer to mine, he dabbed his index finger on his tongue and smoothed out his thick eyebrows. The intensity of his penetrating stare made me wonder if he saw past my brown skin and dark eyes, to my ethereal blue light. I’d later learn Ernie’s attentiveness climaxed when talking about Star Trek.
               Anyway, Ernie disclosed that his father had gone to a classified meeting, revealing the Russians detected a signal from an unfathomable source, just beyond the largest ring of Jupiter.
               “There’s a power out there. And, given time, we’ll harvest it. Young Eve, how come I know so little about your life?” Ernie mischievously grinned.
               Both Urkel and Vlad warned against being mysterious. Looking normal was paramount. Urkel had a girlfriend in D.C. Vlad lived as a playboy at the Moscow Geriatric Center. Ernie was nice enough, and our lunch conversations needed to continue. I agreed to go on a date with him to the Broward County Library, the largest archive in the state.
***
               Besides going to work, and also keeping a detailed log of Earth life, I had developed a fortuitous friendship with Lisa Romaine. She lived in the apartment across the hall and we waited for the same bus in the mornings. The self-described “rocker” had a propensity for changing her hair color. She also had tattoos covering both arms. Lisa played bass for the band Cat Shit. My favorite song of theirs was “Florida’s on Acid.”
               Lisa’s actual occupation was overseeing data security for a bank. Her expertise proved useful. Slowly, I grew to enjoy her company.
               Our routine became playing truth or dare on Friday nights after Cat Shit finished their gig. Last time she chose dare. I had her do a hand stand in the middle of a nightclub. I, as usual, chose truth. Lisa asked, “Why don’t you ever talk about your family?”
               “There’s little to say. I don’t have much family. I’m alone, for the most part.” There was some truth to this, my comrades and I were not reproduced. We created ourselves and, after a millennium, evaporated.  
               Lisa moved right into me, close enough that the tip of her nose grazed mine. She whispered, “You’re lying Eve. I’ll find your secret. I’ll get inside you.” She smelled of lilacs.    
April 2015
               At our monthly meeting, Vlad kept coughing. I asked, “Did you get the money Urkel and I sent?”
               Vlad blew his nose and nodded. “I did. Thank you. I’m afraid it’s still not enough to get my prescription. I’ve been cutting my meds in half to make them last longer.”
               Urkel said, “I can’t believe Russia just abandons the sick like they do. Shame on that country.”
               “Your nation isn’t much better,” Vlad said through the coughing. “Let’s get to it. How’s everything with the congressman, Steven?”
               Urkel said, “I’m not sure if he’ll get on the committee anymore. At a town hall he wondered aloud if women who dress provocatively want to be raped. He’s curious like a cat.”
               “And what are you doing about it?” I asked. “We need him on that committee.”
               “Eve, I know.” Urkel picked up a poster. The image had the congressman’s solemn face on it with the caption: Anti-Rape. “We’re releasing these on his social media pages and around Virginia. The finished product will be in red, white and blue. That should do the trick.”
               “Good. Ask for assistance if you need it. Vlad, any update?”
               Vlad, sweating, opened his mouth and had another coughing fit.
               “Can’t you go to the emergency room?” I asked.
               “They just send me back home. Anyway, last week, a couple of the scientists switched from almonds to cashews.” Vlad coughed. “Make sure The Council knows that, Steven.”
               “Top priority, bro.” Urkel looked at me. “And what about you, Eve?”
               “Next month in The Astrophysical Journal an article about an unknown energy will debut. Theories on ways to harvest it are discussed. The Russians made the discovery, but the Americans believe they can manipulate the source.”
               “Okay, so we didn’t mask the energy we used to teleport here well enough. Have you met your boyfriend’s father yet?” Urkel grinned.
               Vlad started laughing. And then he started coughing.
               “I don’t call Ernie that.”
               “What does he call himself?”
               “Fine Urkel, you win. The couple times I’ve gone to his place, Ernest Sr. hasn’t been around. I still plan on making contact though.”
               “Alright, good work team. I’ll send the report tonight. You okay, Vlad?”
               Vlad coughed onto his webcam, blurring his image. “Wintertime I’m coming to sleep on your couch, Eve. Russia’s too damn cold! When I’m outside I can’t even keep my nuts warm. How much time we got left?”
               “The mission is another four years. We must pace ourselves.”
June 2015
Lisa said, “Hell, I started floating when I got the news.”
I stopped. “Floating?”
“You know, shit load of happiness. Anyway, I’m rambling?”
               We were hanging out at the bar. The beer we drank was satisfying, but the alcohol had no effect on my wellbeing. The Council made our bodies alcohol tolerant, unless I drank enough to intoxicate a baby elephant. I finished my bottle and Lisa stared at me.
               “You don’t get drunk. All these months we’ve gone out and it’s like you’re drinking water,” she said.
               “Come on, truth or dare,” I pushed.
               Where we sat was deserted. Things were starting to quiet as the place prepared to close.
               Lisa said, “Truth.”
               “Name a time you were ashamed.”
               “I didn’t say ‘I love you’ to my grandmother when she was in the hospital. I was 17 and we had mostly stopped talking. She didn’t approve of my life choices. The old bag said I was destined to be a lonely freak, between the hair and the facial piercings…and other stuff. In the hospital, while she was conscious for the last time, I didn’t say anything as she drifted off.” Lisa paused. “Funny thing is, some of my happiest childhood memories are of her. That means something, doesn’t it?”
               “Sure.” I played with my empty bottle.
               “There has to be some reason alcohol doesn’t affect you.”
               “I’ll take dare.”
               Lisa had been waiting for this.
               She took me to a tattoo parlor. We agreed it would be a small one. On the top of my right shoulder I got the Olympic rings imprinted. For whatever reason, the image moved me. The pain wasn’t too bad. Lisa held my hand.
***
               Next morning I got the call from Urkel. I canceled my meeting with Ernie. He offered to come over, but I told him not to, being alone was best. He had flowers delivered with a card that read, “Sorry for your loss.”
               Vlad died. It was pneumonia. 
October 2015
               Urkel and I met at a local D.C. coffee shop. I was in town for a conference. Urkel wanted to personally convey the inheritance Vlad had left me. It was two bags of almonds, a Tolstoy biography, a bag of pistachios, and a poster of President Putin.
               “The Council reports they’ll no longer send agents in the bodies of nonagenarians,” I said.
               “Poor Vlad,” Urkel shook his head. “He had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
               “With our Russian contact lost, we have to make extra ground with the Americans. What’s the latest with the congressman?”
               “He’s now an official member of the Science, Space, and Technology Committee. A briefing from last Tuesday showed the Americans are appropriating a five-percent increase towards outer orbit weaponry. But, the money is being concealed under the national defense umbrella. A functional Space Force is looking real.”
               “What else?”
               “The congressman inquired about light sabers for the troops. He’s an avid fan of Star Wars.”
               “Ernie scoffs at it. He says that series is inferior to Star Trek.”
               “When’s the wedding? Will you two honeymoon in his parents’ basement?”
               I finished my coffee and wished it was a McFlurry. “That situation is complicated. He’s clingy.”
               “Meet his old man yet?”
               “Only once. He treated me like a nincompoop. Probably because I’m his son’s plus one. Anyway, the guy was tight lipped about his daily activities.” A man and woman held hands outside. “You know, I don’t really get the whole coupling thing humans do. Just reproduce and prepare for death.”
               Urkel grabbed his phone. “I’m engaged.”
               “What!?”
               He showed me a picture of a beautiful woman with long dreadlocks. “This is Jasmine” he said. “She totally gets me, and she’s a great cook. But to be honest, I really do love her.”
               “Steven, you know love is a mental illness. Are you okay?”
               Urkel laughed. “You spend too much time in a science lab. Love is irrational, but it’s not bad. Love just enhances everything. It’s living life to the fullest. Jasmine’s essence has seeped into my bones. Her warmth is part of my being.”
               I’d known Urkel a century, and he’d never spoken in such an exaggerated way before. “What about the mission?”
               “I’m still committed. Jasmine is a PR consultant. She can help me next time the congressman talks like an ass. And, after our five years is up, I’ll stay with her. I’m sure The Council will approve. I can be a long-term agent.”
               “Wow.”
               Urkel moved next to me and outstretched the hand that still held his phone. He took a selfie of us and went back to his seat to type. “Don’t worry, my Facebook page is private.”
               “I just don’t get it.”
               He put his phone down. “This isn’t like our world, Eve. It’s okay to open up. Don’t be afraid of what you might feel.” And as an afterthought, “You should try Beyoncé. She knows a lot.”
October 2016
               Ernie and I were holding hands as we strolled back to his residence. The evening was cool as the sun disappeared into the clouds. The lawn smelled freshly mowed. Ernie proudly took out his keys as we got to his front door. He had finally moved out of his parents’ basement. He now lived in their guest house.
               Once inside, Ernie flipped on the lights. “Would you like some wine, young Eve?”
               “Nope. Where did your dad go again?”
               A deflated Ernie sat on the couch. “Amsterdam.”
               “His annual conference is in Luxembourg.”
               “This one is…listen Eve, why don’t you sit next to me?” I then noticed Ernie had gotten rid of his D&D throw pillows. I acquiesced.
               He put his hand on my knee. “Let’s talk about us, my young Eve. You’re my double hydrogen, and I’m the oxygen. You know what that makes you?”
               “Water.”
               “Wet.” He kissed me. His left hand massaged my right breast. Urkel had warned after an entire year, Ernie was antsy “to get some.” His libido had been restrained by his mother not wanting any ‘hanky panky’ in her basement. Now our barrier was gone. I shoved Ernie back. Weirdly, I wondered what Lisa would have said. My relationship with him embarrassed the both of us.
               Ernie’s eyes watered. “I don’t get it, Eve. Don’t you like me?” Something stirred in me. He sniffed loudly and turned away. The Star Trek figurines were gone from his nightstand. And then I noticed Ernie, who rubbed at his teary eyes, was actually wearing cologne. I was overwhelmed with a sense of pity, like that time I had seen a commercial for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.
               I had prepared for such a moment. On the Discovery Channel was an episode of two wildebeests mating. Pulling my sweatpants down, I bent over the edge of his bed.
               Two minutes later, Ernie wiped the sweat from his brow and confessed, “I never knew a woman could make sounds like that.”
November 2016
               Urkel and his fiancé married in D.C. Ernie and I attended. It was a small, but energized occasion. We all socialized.  Urkel did a dance called “The Moonwalk,” people applauded.
November 2017
The fire from the human military devoured my neighbors. The combination of heat with our celestial gas caused for a series of explosions. Members of The Council were destroyed one after another. Off in the distance were murmurs from the humans. Every voice sounded the same. Even though their soldiers varied in color and age, they used the same language with identical codes to murder.
I flew west to the community I called home. All I could do was wait for one of the soldiers to aim their flamethrower at me. In the furthest corner of my vision was a photograph. An image of Lisa and “Eve.” She and I stood on a boardwalk. The Atlantic Ocean was in the background. Lisa’s arm with the weeping willow tattoo was around my shoulder. My right hand rested on her lower side, a mere centimeter from her hip. Despite the surrounding danger, I was transfixed by the picture. I didn’t recognize “Eve,” the brown skin, or dark hair. A stranger stood next to Lisa. I wanted to see myself as the reason for her smile, but couldn’t.
“Fire,” a soldier screamed.
Pain everywhere.
I woke, breathing rapidly, in my dark studio apartment. I had never experienced a nightmare. The Council designed our bodies to sleep peacefully. I could only wonder if this was a malfunction. Or even worse, a premonition.
Lisa had recommended using my feelings to create. There’s something great you’re hiding, Eve. I didn’t reach for a pen and paper though. I was no artist.
Emergency sirens howled outside. I turned on my light and got out of bed. My nerves were shot.
November 2018
               Lisa had transferred to Miami for work. Weeks had passed since we’d seen one another. I was working lots of overtime, trying to jolt myself out of professional stagnation. Little information came from management about an organizational mission.
               Lisa and I reconnected at a trendy, rooftop bar. For this meeting I had curled my black hair with moderate success (hairstyling was something I spent little time on). I wore an expensive crimson lipstick, a gift from Ernie. A gold necklace dropped down to my modest cleavage.
               Tonight, her short hair was violet (my favorite color). We kissed each other on the cheek and hugged. The small rings in her nose and eyebrow sparkled as she eagerly smiled at me.    
               We sat down with drinks.
               “So what is this favor you need?” Lisa asked.
               “You think maybe you could hack an account?”
               “Is that a challenge? You know I can.”
               “The thing is,” I said, “this hacking job won’t be for fun. This one is risky.”
               After I explained, and Lisa crazily agreed, we went to the dance floor. The saxophones blared and the drums boomed. I swayed awkwardly. Lisa laughed.
               “Trust your pelvis,” she said. “Let it take the lead.” She grabbed my hands and we moved closer together, than further apart, and repeated the process. Never once did our eyes drift.
January 2019
Urkel and I hugged. His wife had business in Florida and he tagged along. The muscles of his back were firm. His biceps had grown.
“You look strong,” I told him.
“Jasmine has me on this health diet,” he sheepishly grinned. “No carbs, lots of protein. I’ll look like an underwear model soon.”
“Your next profession. Speaking of which, I saw your boss on CNN last night.”
“The congressman says Germany was once pregnant with Jews, so they got an abortion. According to him, you’re either Pro-Life or Pro-Adolf.”
“I’m grateful we’re sterile.” 
We headed to the County Fair. I justified the trip by assessing American livestock as war weapons. Such an explanation might satisfy The Council. Urkel didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
 Urkel and I watched children pet hogs. The animals laboriously ambled and it was quite obvious they posed no threat. Urkel tapped my shoulder and pointed toward the stables.
“Vlad would want us to check the horses out,” Urkel stated.
I said, “I can see Vlad at the racetrack now. He’s not dead, but he’s dead broke.”
Urkel smacked his knee. “You made a joke!”
I shrugged; a quick smile escaped. The sun shined as the wind brushed against my face.
The horses varied in color. Some were scrawny and grey, others were thicker and had glossy coats. In the messages our planet had intercepted, the humans were conducting warfare on horseback. From what Urkel and I gleaned, that was an outdated mode of battle.
I whispered, “Humans can’t slaughter one of us with these slow beasts.”
“Eve,” Urkel said, “these people are friendlier than you give them credit for.”
A couple of mustangs stood in a corner of the stable. Urkel walked up to the brown one and petted its head. The horse stepped closer. I fed it a cube of sugar.
Urkel asked, “You think things can ever be the same after you’re done with the mission?”
We moved over to a black and white Gypsy horse.
“Maybe,” I said. “Debriefing The Council is a challenge. The constant danger involved with this species is puzzling. They won’t understand.”  I fed another cube of sugar to the horse. The animal moved closer to lick my face and I jerked back.
“He likes you, for some reason,” Urkel said.
“This thing has fleas on it.”
“Fear and danger. Is that all you get from Earth? You should report on everything.” Urkel moved closer and petted the horse. “This guy here knows you’re good. Animals can sense it. I bet if you go left, he’ll follow. He’s attracted to your positive vibes.”
“There is something elegant about him, for being a dumb animal.” I took four steps to my left. Sure enough the horse followed. He stuck his head out and this time I let my right hand stroke its silky, dark mane. I placed my cheek to the warmth of its thick neck. Hot air from his nostrils hit the back of my neck, slowing as he became comfortable.
I stepped back to a grinning Urkel.
“You’re right,” I told him.
“Damn straight I’m right.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “But just to be sure, I dropped a piece of sugar in your back pocket.”
We laughed. Blood rushed to my face. The horse moved his head towards my back pocket. People in the barn admired Urkel’s robust laughter. His eyes watered.
***
I pedaled harder as I approached the incline. My body heated so much I perspired, a rare occurrence. When I reached the hilltop, nighttime reigned. Being this far away from the city provided the optimal space for stargazing. 
My phone rang. Lisa was on the other end.
“I bet you’re out of breath,” she said. “You know, we can always do this online.”
I sat on the park bench, totally alone, except for her. “This way is better. You outside?”
The formation of stars were slowly appearing.
“Alright, so if you look to your southwest,” I said, “you can see the Eridanus, the river constellation.”
When we were both free, and the forecast was clear, we stargazed together.
April 2019       
               Sounds of disruption erupted from my tiny kitchen. Ernie walked over to the bed with two glasses of milk while I scrambled for my pushup bra. I took a glass from him. Looking up, Ernie already had a milk mustache.
               “My young Eve,” Ernie said, “make sure to drink it all. After last night, we both need nourishment.” He licked the mustache away. 
               Intercourse with Ernie was like drinking a carbonated beverage hours after it had been opened. I would never be able to explain it better than that.
               I stood up and felt bloated. In celebration of his latest raise, Ernie brought over pizza and bread sticks. He was now making forty percent more than me. This led to him saying, “Of course, it’s no competition.” Fortunately, Ernie was great at analytics, so I took solace in that.
               “I’m flatulent,” I warned. I finished my milk and rubbed my grumbling stomach.
               “Jupiter is comprised of the highest proportion of methane gas. Know which planet comes second?”
               The answer to his foreplay was Uranus. Maybe it was the bra and panties, but Ernie clearly wanted something to hump. With that in mind, I released a monumental fart.
               His eyes enlarged. “Jeepers, time to get dressed.” He jettisoned the smelly room.
               “Darling,” Ernie said from the kitchen, “I been thinking about this summer. As you know, I’m frugal, and it’s time to reap the reward. I’ll be treating you to a first-class ticket to Comic-Con, my love. We’re going to have ourselves a jolly good time in San Diego, as the Brits like to say.”
               The leather wasn’t coming past my hips. I jiggled side to side in vain.
               “Hear what I said?” Ernie asked as he quickly dressed.
               “Yeah. San Diego. Good.”
               “You’re wearing leather pants to work?”
               “Our supervisor doesn’t notice me.” I jumped to get the fabric over my buttocks. “Forgot to tell you. After work, I’m spending the weekend in Miami.”
               “Nice of you to even let me know. Thanks a lot.”
               Since surpassing age 30, I had gained weight not in the chest area, which anthropological studies showed would have been advantageous, but instead in the hips and backside. Ernie grabbed two handfuls of leather and forced it over my rump.
               “Didn’t Lisa buy you these?” he asked.
               “A year ago.” I sucked in my stomach and pretended not to have a wedgie. I couldn’t fasten the pants.
               “Bend and you’ll tear it.”
               “I’m too fat?”
               “For this, yes.” Ernie grabbed his backpack and headed to the door. “After you give up and put something practical on, I’ll be in the car.” He opened the door. “You’re making us late.” The door slammed shut.
               I waddled to the bathroom mirror and saw the ridiculousness. Pastor Curly was correct. Everyone needed to stay away from that awful pizza. I told The Council if war does ensue between our race and the humans, we should dispense free fast food and cigarettes worldwide. In my reports to The Council I had referred to this combat strategy as “The Trojan Horse.”
               The pants were jimmied off. Holding the leather in my hands incited anger. Then I glanced at the clock and saw I was late to work for the first time. That made me sad, not because my perfect attendance was ruined, but because I didn’t care. Next came the thought of hugging Lisa that evening, and I felt uplifted, until I remembered poor Ernie waiting in his car.  
               A swirl of thoughts flooded my mind. My heart-pump malfunctioned and my head hurt. I decided to call Urkel and that gave me relief, until I realized what I’d confess, and then came an onslaught of despair. There was no clear answer. Staring into the mirror, I whispered, “What now?”
               I stripped all my clothing. The mirror told me this was what I had become. A breathing, mortal, “woman.” No blue light showed. I closed my eyes and visualized my actual home, a place where the light never dies, only dims, and enlightenment existed as the highest commodity.
               My eyes opened on my dark bush. The only terrain of myself left unexplored. Vlad once described in extravagant detail his favorite film, a porno where a spunky librarian pleasured herself.
               My left hand slid down my bare belly and into my thick, curly pubic hair. I began rubbing my mound. Heat flushed throughout my body. I propped my left foot on the toilet seat and entered myself. Moisture flowed. With my eyes closed, I massaged my clitoris with my thumb as my fingers dove deeper, faster. And then. A face.
               “YES!”
               I stopped. My mind whirled. Everything seemed disoriented. I threw on a dress and left the apartment. While descending a flight of stairs, that majestic face stayed with me, haunting my psyche.
May 2019
               I thought about my last meeting with Urkel as the bus moved. The congressman had announced his candidacy for president. He’d given a speech at a political convention and said the opposing party “can kiss my chicken nuggets!” The phrase became a viral sensation. His polling was improving, and Urkel felt optimistic. The press loved the congressman, who’d be handing out free chicken nuggets to the children of Detroit that week. If the congressman actually made it to the White House, we’d have all the access we needed.
               Anyway, the bus ride to work was an unusually quiet one. Pastor Curly, with his now white beard, appeared solemn. Only once did he lean over to speak. He said, “Corinthians 13:4 ‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.’” He patted me on the shoulder as he exited.
***
               Next night I had dinner with Ernie and his parents. These tedious dinners were what millennials called “soul crushing.” Ernest Sr. was largely quiet, with the exception of calling his only son a loser.
               Ernie’s mother said to him, “Bunny, I tweaked my back carrying in the ice cream you like.”
               “Rats.”
               “Bunny, can you give me one of your special massages after dinner?”
               “Sure can, mama.”
               For all the time I was with Ernie, he never provided a clear answer as to why at age 32, his mother still referred to him as “Bunny.”
I looked at Ernest Sr. as he viciously bit into a dinner roll. “Sir, what are your thoughts on the magnetic pulses originating from Mars?”
Ernest Sr. prepared to shovel a serving of mashed potatoes in his mouth. “Work is for work.” In the mashed potatoes went. Our delightful conversation ended.
               Later that night, after massaging his mother, Ernie was erect. In the guest house he snuck behind me and hiked my skirt up.
“I have something special for you, my young Eve.”
He yanked my panties down.
“I’m done,” I shouted. “Ernie, we’re breaking up.”
He jolted back. “Oh, Eve. I understand things are moving too slow. Mama told me I can’t make a good one wait forever.  And that’s my fault. I do love you.  About time I made you into an honest woman. I have something special for you.” Ernie got down on one knee and pulled out a diamond-speckled ring. “You’re my Captain Kirk.”
                           Right then I heard Pastor Curly. I was neither patient nor kind. I told Ernie, “No. It’s over. Sorry.” 
He cried.
I left.
Did I float as I departed the premises? Maybe.
Two Days Later
               There had been a shooting at a school playground in Detroit. A presidential candidate was handing out free chicken nuggets. Seven people were injured. A teacher died. A little girl died. Urkel died. One bullet burst into his upper left breast, another tore through his neck.
               The congressman blamed himself, showing up to a school without his rifle, defenseless. Of Urkel, he said, “He was the first black friend I had. Best way to honor his memory is enact the death penalty nationwide. Please vote for me. Also, prayers and condolences to his family.”  
               The day he died, a few newspapers ran obituaries on him. Shortly after, I looked for his name online. His story got consumed in numbers about black on black crime and mass shootings. A week later, my comrade only existed as a statistic.
June 2019
               The bus rides all blended together. After Urkel’s murder, Lisa invited me to stay for a week. It took a lot of time on Lisa’s part, but she was finally able to hack into Ernest Sr. secured NASA email. Reading over government documents, the transmitters they used were more sophisticated than I had predicted, but they still had a long way to go. Even colonizing Mars was years away.
               The bus shook as Pastor Curly stood and pointed at me. His court jester hat nearly covered his left eye.
               “We have a visitor from another planet,” he shouted.
               Silence.
               He yelled, “This lady is spying on all of us! She’ll go back to her planet and will deliver a verdict. And what will it be?  She’s going back soon. We must repent now!”
               Someone from the back shouted, “Sit down, you son of a bitch!”
               Pastor Curly sighed. “Frogs in boiling water.”
               That was the last day I went to work.
***
               Lisa played the greatest hits from Fleetwood Mac. Her plush couch had us both reclining back as we stared at one another. Her index finger gently rubbed her pouty lips. My face was flushed with anticipation.
               “Alright Eve, truth or dare?”
               “Dare.”
               The first kiss was everything and beyond. My fingertips on her cheeks and neck became a sublime homecoming. With each kiss I only felt an insatiable lust, not for her, but for all of life. Ernie once showed me a silly film where one actor said to the other “You complete me.” It didn’t seem silly anymore.
From what I remember, we moved off the linear track of time and were simultaneously ravishing each other in bed and laughing together in a bar. We panted each other’s names in bed as we dove deeper into the scars of the other. We said we loved one another under the sheets while watching the same falling stars from miles apart.
               Afterwards, her sleeping head rested on my breast. A streak of sunlight flowed through a crack in the blinds. Tears flowed down my cheeks. A beauty proclaimed. Totally fulfilled. Elation.
The Departure
               I’d report the truth. Every message of distress intercepted was from what humans termed World War I. They were no threat. Their habitual act was self-destruction. They’d never speak the same language. The Council has nothing to worry about.
               And as for Lisa, will I come back from my “sabbatical?” After a swelling of melancholy, I left her the following:
There were no feelings before you
Stared into the abyss and I found my home
Now my affection will never roam
Bow your head, you enchanting creature
My love for you supplants a universe, in this enthralling adventure
There are only thoughts of our future, after you
~Eternally Yours, Eve
 

 
“Have you lost your—”
 
“Please save the Boomer humor, Bernie,” interrupted Al Jordan. “We’re talking serious money here.”
 
Barb and Bernie Silver, semi-retired private investigators, were discussing a possible new case with their former supervisor at the Alpha Insurance Company, Al Jordan.
 
“Like 72 cents?” queried Bernie. “I used to have hundreds of marbles when I was a kid, but nobody ever offered to buy one for anything more than a nickel.”
 
“Times may have changed in the last 60 years,” chimed in Barb, holding out her smartphone. Pictured on it was a small white orb with green swirls called a Peltier Pearlized Patch Marble, selling for $31.
 
“So,” Bernie responded, “if this chap—what’s his name?”
 
“Edmund Salter III,” interjected Al.
 
“If, to coin a phrase, he lost all of his marbles--even if he had 1000 of them--it would still add up to only enough to pay us for a few weeks, let alone to pay off any insurance claims.”
 
You’re right about that, Bernie,” said Al, “and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your rates, but we’re talking more about marbles like this.” He took out a picture of an Onion Skin Blizzard Marble, containing a starburst of colors from suspended bits of mica. “This puppy sold for $9775 in 2009, and it hasn’t gotten any cheaper since then.”
 
“I told you we were in the wrong business, Bernie,” moaned Barb. “How do we get in on the action, Al?”
 
“Well, you can start by taking this case. Mr. Salter’s marble collection, worth over $1 million, has been missing for ten days. Need I say that Alpha insured it?”
 
“Why don’t you just send out one of your in-house investigators?” asked Bernie. “Why pay our per diem, which, by the way, is at its highest for lost marbles?”
 
“Quite frankly,” Al responded, “putting it as delicately as I can, our investigators are too young to relate to the 81-year-old Mr. Salter.”
 
“So am I!” exclaimed Barb.
 
“Maybe so, but you’re a lot closer in age to Mr. Salter than my crew of millennials. Also…Mr. Salter may not be playing with a full mental deck.”
 
“And what makes you think that we can deal with that?” grumbled Bernie.
 
“All I know is that my young investigators can’t.”
 
“Baby Boomers to the Rescue?” asked Barb.
 
“You might say that,” said Al. “Show me what ya' got.”
 
 
*****
 
“Millions for marbles, who knew?” asked Bernie when they were driving back to their home south of San Francisco. 
 
Barb’s phone rang. “Long time, no see, Al,” she said. “I’ll put you on the speaker.”
 
“Forgot one little detail that also caused my investigators some heartburn,” Al said. “Mr. Salter has a yappy pooch named Snowball.”
 
“No problem,” exclaimed Barb, “I’m a bit of a dog whisperer.”
 
Bernie added, “Resisting Barb’s charms, that dog doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in—”
 
“Love that Boomer humor,” interrupted Al, and he hung up.
 
 
*****
 
   
“I’ve searched the web,” Barb mentioned later that day when she and Bernie were enjoying Margaritas before their dinner of chicken fajitas, “and marbles are a well-known collectible in certain circles. They’ve been around since ancient times. Take a look at this online catalogue.”
 
“Buy me one of these for about $500, please,” requested Bernie, pointing to a translucent marble containing the figure of a white frog.
 
“Surely you jest, Bernie.” 
 
“Nope. Al has told Edmund the Third we’re qualified for this investigation because we’re marble experts, and this marble is special enough to be a great icebreaker with this grump. Plus, it’s a business expense that, I am sure, Al will pay with a smile after we save him his million bucks. In short, my dear . . . we’re going for all the marbles.”
 
*****
 
   “My father is awaiting you in the study,” directed the middle-aged man with a vague wave. He was wearing a blue Oxford shirt, a down vest and khakis as he greeted them abruptly at the front door of the home of Edmund Salter III in San Francisco’s Presidio Heights neighborhood. “I hope you do better with him today than I did,” he muttered, as he stalked out the door.
 
The first sound Barb and Bernie heard as they approached the solid oak study door was, as Al Jordan had predicted, some yapping. As they entered the wood-paneled, book-lined room, Edmund Salter III shot them an unpleasant glance and returned his attention to his oversized computer screen. Although he was a little stooped, he had the build of a former athlete, strong features and a full head of iron-grey hair.
 
A little white dog approached Barb, stopped barking hysterically and started tentatively and slowly wagging her tail. “She’s a rescue mutt,” said Salter gruffly, without looking up.  “She likes--maybe ‘tolerates’ is a better word--only me.”
 
“May I sit on the floor at her level for a moment?” asked Barb.
 
“Knock yourself out,” continued Salter sarcastically. “Her name is Snowball, but my late wife called her ‘Snowbie.’”
 
Barb got on the floor and held out her hand, which retained a slight scent of the filet of sole she had eaten for lunch. Snowball’s wagging tail accelerated, and she let herself be petted by Barb. “You are a sweetheart, Snowbie,” purred Barb.
 
Salter brightened. “She never acts friendly like that. Must be that you resemble my late wife. Snowbie still remembers her even though she’s been gone five years. They had a unique bond, especially after Jane got sick.”
 
“I always carry dog treats for just such an occasion,” responded Barb.  “May I give her one?”
 
“If she’ll take them, sure,” answered Salter, warming up to this unexpected friendship.
 
“She would be the first to ever refuse them from me,” said Barb, handing a treat and then two others to the dog, which looked like an oversized, curly-haired Chihuahua.
 
“My wife loves dogs and vice versa,” said Bernie. “And I love marbles, which I played endlessly as a kid and which is what brings us here today. Thanks for agreeing to help us start our investigation of your missing marble collection. I just purchased this,” he said, removing his recently purchased marble from a pretentious silk pouch and holding it up for Salter to admire.
 
“Hmm, a sulphide frog marble,” Salter mused. “May I take a closer look?”
 
“Sure,” answered Bernie, “take your time.” He handed it to Salter.
 
“Nice,” commented Salter after inspecting it for a few moments under a magnifying glass. “You know, those insurance investigators who came earlier didn’t know the difference between alabaster and clay marbles.”
 
“Neither do I,” thought Bernie. All that came out of his mouth, however, was “Millennials think they know everything, but between the ‘likes’ and ‘you knows’ in their conversation, no one could accuse them of being articulate.”
 
“You betcha,” said Salter. “Even my only son doesn’t approve of my marble collecting.  In fact, he doesn’t approve of most things I enjoy. Sometimes I get the feeling that he thinks I’m just wasting his inheritance.”
 
“Speaking of that,” re-directed Barb, “we were sorry to hear that your collectible marbles have gone missing. Can you tell us a little bit about your collection?”
 
“I’m advised on collectibles by Patricia Selden at Sutter Auctions.  She has given very profitable advice over the years and has also become a good friend. She brought some valuable specimens here two weeks ago for possible  purchase, and we compared them with some that I had in my safe. I told her I would think about it. Several days later, when I opened the safe to look for some marbles to show a friend, they were gone. They were in a big cherrywood box, hard to misplace.”
 
“Who has the key to the safe?”
 
“Patricia does, because sometimes, when I am not available, she needs access to show the marbles to potential buyers. Also, my son has access, because the safe contains the documents pertaining to my final arrangements. That’s it.”
 
“Do you mind if we speak to your son and Patricia?”
 
“Not at all,” said Salter as the doorbell rang, setting off a new round of barking from Snowball, who had been resting peacefully on Barb’s lap.  He looked at his watch and said, “That must be my yoga instructor, Karen. You’ll have to excuse me.”
 
“No problem,” said Barb, rising as she brushed off some dog hair. A fit young woman carrying two blue yoga mats entered the room.
 
“Carol, meet Mr. and Mrs. Silver,” Salter said.
 
“Nice to meet you,” said the young woman, “but, Edmund, after five years, you should know my name is Karen.”
 
“Yes, yes, Carol,” stuttered Salter, “I mean, Karen.”
 
 *****
 
“Well, that worked out better than expected,” said Bernie when he and Barb were back in the car. “Once Snowball became your friend, Ed became much more cooperative.”
 
“That feigned marble enthusiasm of yours didn’t hurt either,” responded Barb. “Also, I thought Ed was sharp, at least until Carol a/k/a Karen made her entrance.”
 
“I agree,” said Bernie. “It will be interesting to speak to his collectibles adviser.”
 
 *****


Patricia Selden was, as the Silvers had expected, fashionable and attractive, as she greeted them in her ultramodern office, with a view of San Francisco Bay, at Sutter Auctions. She was a bit younger than they had anticipated. With a professionally practiced smile, she quickly got to the point: “I assume you’re here about the lost marbles.”
 
“Literally and perhaps figuratively as well,” responded Bernie. “Jumping right into our interview, do you think Mr. Salter has any memory or other mental issues?”
 
Selden reddened a bit, then said “I think he’s doing well for his age.”
 
“Could you be more specific?” queried Barb.
 
“Well, his memory is not always perfect, and he is a bit frail, but, to me, he seems perfectly competent. We discuss his marble collection at least once a week at his home, and sometimes we travel to marble collector shows together. I’ve been working with him since I was a young intern here. The older advisers were not very interested in collectible marbles, so I’ve made that my niche. Fortunately, the marble market has been good to my clients, especially Edmund.
 
“How good?”
 
“In round numbers, he’s invested $300,000 in a collection that’s now worth $1 million.”
 
“Given that high number, I assume you haven’t had any problems with Mr. Salter.”
 
“Not with him. But from time to time his son, Edmund IV, calls to complain that this is not a good way for his father to spend money.”
 
“Speaking of that, how do you charge Mr. Salter for your services?”
 
She hesitated a beat before answering. “Since I started out advising him when I was an intern, my hourly rate is low for an auction house like this one--$25--but over the years, as Ed and I became closer, he has mentioned providing me a $100,000 bequest in his will. So, I have kept the hourly rate low.”
 
“How friendly are you, if I may ask?” inquired Barb.
 
“I. . . I understand that this is a serious matter, so no offense taken. I would say that, to Edmund, I am the daughter he never had.”
 
“We appreciate your candor,” said Bernie, getting up. “Please let us know if you observe any unusual activity in the marble market.” 
 
 
*****
 
Back in the car, Barb said “Shall we go from the daughter he never had to the son he did have?”
 
“Good idea,” responded Bernie. Edmund IV is an English professor at San Jose State, which is not too far from here. He’s expecting us this afternoon.”
 
“Do you think he will have motives anywhere near as compelling as Patricia’s?” asked Barb.
 
“Despite her obvious motives,” observed Bernie, “I don’t see her as a thief. I think she might be playing a longer game.”
 
 
*****
 
 
Edmund Salter IV’s cramped office at San Jose State was filled with books and several pictures of his wife and two teenage children. There was one photo of his late mother and none of his father. Commenting on that absence while the professor was getting them coffee from another room, Bernie said “Why am I not surprised?”
 
The younger Edmund returned and inquired, “Have you found those stupid marbles yet?”
 
“We’re just starting our investigation,” demurred Barb. “I take it that you’re not a fan of marble collecting.”
 
“Not at all, but it’s no worse than many of the other expenses my father incurs on a regular basis.”
 
“Like what?”
 
“Oh, he has a half dozen or so young women servicing him every week. Also, I would say that his little mutt lives like a queen, but most queens would envy Snowball’s lifestyle. Have you seen her palatial doghouse in the backyard?”
 
“Servicing?”
 
“Not what you’re thinking. But all these young women think he’s somewhat helpless, tend to all of his needs and provide him with companionship.”
 
 
“We’ve met Patricia Selden and his yoga instructor—I think her name’s Karen. Is there anyone else?”
 
“Oh, yes. There’s his physical therapist, Heather; and his masseuse, Tara; and his housekeeper, Marta; and his dogwalker, Brittany.”
 
“Can you give us their contact information?”
 
“With pleasure. Although they’re independent, sometimes I think they all work for the same company, which I have nicknamed Vultures R Us.”
 
“Is it possible,” asked Barb, ignoring the sarcasm, “that he’s just lonely?”
 
“Perhaps,” the son answered, “but would that be so unusual for an 81-year-old widower?”
 
“I don’t know,” answered Barb. “Your family photos are lovely. How often does he see your family?”
 
“Before my mother died, he was still busy with his neurosurgery practice and they travelled a lot, particularly to international conferences where he was the featured speaker. After mom died, we had him over for dinner every Sunday, but that sort of petered out. Somehow the financial advantages of being a medical doctor rather than a doctor of philosophy in English literature would always come up when he visited.”
 
“Is he close to your children?” asked Barb, trying to fill out the family dynamic.
 
“Generally, teenagers are not very interested in their grandparents, and mine are no exception,” answered the professor.
 
“Changing the subject a bit,” said Bernie, “he mentioned that you have access to his safe, where he keeps the collectible marbles and his will. Is that true?”
 
“Yes, but anyone who’s been to the house regularly knows that he keeps the key to that safe in his unlocked desk drawer. He’s always pulling the key out when he shows off those damnable marbles.”
 
“Have you seen his will?”
 
“Which one? One of his lawyer friends showed him how to do a handwritten will, and he seems to write a new one every month.”
 
*****
 
“He has more motives than Patricia,” observed Barb as they headed home. 
 
“Let’s reserve judgment until we talk with Karen, Tara, Heather, Marta and Brittany,” responded Bernie. 
 
“Sounds like roll call at a Girl Scouts camp,” murmured Barb.
 
 
*****
 
 
The next Saturday, they drove to their favorite hotel in Carmel, La Playa Blanca, to rest from the eight interviews of the preceding week. “Let’s see,” said Bernie while brunching on an egg white omelette, sipping a mimosa and gazing at the ocean, “We’ve talked to six daughters that he never had, plus one son that he wishes he hadn’t.”
 
Added Barb, “These lovely and talented young women all track the pattern we saw with Patricia Seldin. They practically give away their services to him in exchange for being promised $100,000 in his will…and I wouldn’t be surprised if these constantly changing wills provide handsomely for Snowball too.”
 
“So,” Bernie observed, “everyone’s a suspect, and therefore no one is a suspect. They all seem nice enough, except Ed the Fourth, and it’s hard to blame him for being a little testy, living on a professor’s salary while his dad’s harem, when providing companionship, has strawberries and cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
 
“I wouldn’t call them a harem,” Barb rejoined, “just a very high form of assisted living.”
 
“I’ll say,” agreed Bernie. “One of them comes to his home every day but Sunday.”
 
Assuming an attitude of prayer, Barb added, “Even the Lord needed one day of rest.”
 
*****
 
“Today can’t be our day of rest,” said Bernie the next day, “because we owe Al Jordan a report tomorrow.”
 
“I have a feeling we’ll hear something today,” responded Barb. “These interviews will have created some pressure, and someone has to have a guilty conscience.”
 
Just then the phone rang. “Bernie, this is Ed Salter. . . the marble collector,” said the voice, somewhat haltingly, over the speaker. “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but something has come up. Can you and your wife stop by at 4 p.m. today?”
 
Bernie looked at Barb, who nodded. “Barb says she will be delighted to see you and Snowbie then, Ed. We’ll bring some dog treats.”
 
 
*****
 
 
When they pulled up to Salter’s home later that day, all the shades were down and they heard Snowball barking incessantly in the backyard. After no response to the doorbell, they circled behind the house and saw Snowball standing in front of a rather elaborate doghouse. She was barking because the entrance to the doghouse was blocked by a large cherrywood box.
 
“This doesn’t look good,” said Bernie. “Why don’t you take Snowball to our house, if she’ll go with you, while I call Joe Kelly at the SFPD?” 
 
Enticed by some treats from Barb’s purse, Snowball allowed Barb to pick her up and carry her to their car. 
 
*****
 
About three hours later, Bernie and Joe Kelly arrived at the Silvers’ Tudor-style home, looking grim.
 
“We found Ed sitting at his desk, unresponsive,” said Bernie. “There were no signs of forced entry, but, of course, all seven suspects have keys to the house. I’ve told Joe about all the suspects, and he will start investigating immediately. His team is finishing up now at the Salter home.”
 
“No need for more detective work,” responded Barb. “Snowbie has given us the solution. This was wrapped around her collar.” She held out a piece of onionskin paper, handwritten and headed “Last Will and Testament. “I tried calling you when I found this, Bernie, but your phone was off.”
 
“Yes, I generally don’t take calls at crime scenes.” 
 
“What it says,” Barb continued, “is that Ed had recently been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Because, as a retired neurosurgeon, he knew what suffering lay ahead, he thought it was best for all concerned if he accelerated his demise.”
 
“What did he say about this?” asked Kelly, holding up a clear evidence bag containing a large cherrywood box with the top removed. It contained rows and rows of colorful, glistening marbles.
 
“I’ll read you that paragraph,” said Barb, taking the will back from Kelly. “Salter says, ‘In an effort to stave off the loneliness of old age, I ended up promising bequests of $100,000 each to the young women who provided priceless help to me in various ways. Unfortunately, the recent stock market dip caused a shortfall in my estate plan of approximately this $600,000, plus another $100,000 to insure that Snowball will be well cared for. The proceeds from the insurance on these marbles would have more than made up that shortfall, so I falsely reported them missing, hid them, and started sending out feelers in the black market. I now realize that what I did was foolish and wrong. Don’t ask me why, but, somehow, I felt that life owed me something for inflicting me with old age. Luckily, I came to my senses before it was too late, realizing that, as someone once said, youth is a gift but age is an art. Perhaps that’s a bit trite, but it is my truth at the end of this road.’”
 
“What about his son?” asked Bernie. “Did Ed the Third leave anything to Ed the Fourth?”
 
“That’s the last paragraph,” responded Barb: “’It’s sad that my ambition for my son wasn’t right for him, which prevented us from having the relationship we both ached for. Hopefully that will not carry through to the next generation, so I give all of my estate--minus $700,000, divided equally, for my female service providers and for the care of my late wife’s beloved dog, Snowball--to my son’s two children, to be administered by my son in trust until both of the children are 30 years old. Hopefully that will relieve my son of enough expenses, like college tuitions, so that he can research and write about English literature in a way that, I am sure, will make me proud. I know he will let my grandsons live their lives as they wish, regardless of what he thinks is best for them.’”
 
*****
 
 
“So, you’ve solved the case of the lost marbles,” said Al Jordan, with a satisfied grin on his face. “I guess Baby Boomers rule.”
 
“Not so sure, Al,” replied Barb. “The young women we met during this investigation were all impressive, and I think they genuinely cared about Ed. Who’s to say what the last years of his life would have been like without them?”
 
“You might be right,” observed Al. “In order to understand the elderly, you have to walk, or limp, for a mile in their shoes.”
 
“Now who’s attempting Boomer humor?” asked Bernie.
 
“On that rare occasion when it’s done right,” responded Al, “it can be funny. Oh, one other thing. Salter’s son dropped by earlier today to take custody of the marbles and to sign a release. When he learned how much their value had appreciated, I think he had a renewed respect for his dad. He seemed to be at peace with the situation, except for Snowball. He’s never warmed up to her, and--having heard from his dad how well Snowball and Barb got along--he asked whether you would be interested in adopting her.”
 
Barb reflexively smiled, but Bernie held up a hand before she could utter a word, saying “Not if that’s how you think you can pay our fee, Al.” 
 
“Not at all,” responded Al. “But, somehow, you owe me one for Snowball’s trust fund. Spending that amount, even on the greatest canine luxuries, would take at least 20 years, and Snowball is no spring chicken. Plus, I can see from Barb’s glow that Snowbie will hardly be a burden.”
 
Grinning, Barb rejoined, “You are right about that, Al. It’s not even profane—because it’s literally true--to say that Snowbie has become one rich. . .”
 
She paused. Bernie thought it was for effect, but she surprised him by saying “pooch,” and then “I think the Millennials are right--we should declare a moratorium on Boomer humor.”
 
*****

R.E. Hagan is a writer, director, and artist. His other works include "A Collection of Bygone Poetry," "Drag-On, Draw Motor," and "Smelted Jaw," as well as the stage play scripts "Twin Figures" and "Teo." He is currently toughing through the pandemic by working on a novel, numerous short stories, and film scripts.

​One by one, they replay in his mind. His past affairs dance around him like shadows under a revolving light. His first ex’s form steps forward. She elongates, tweezing at the top. Her face is a mess of levitating tree branches. She loved plants too much for his liking, so much so that she left this world. He claws at her angrily, but hits an invisible wall made of sounds — horrible, scratching sounds that burrow into his ear. Rolling out of her form, two glass Spheres klink at his feet. Within one is the crystal-blown shape of a Lion; within the other, two Dolphins. Then, the ex’s shadow melts away into the Lion Sphere. It hangs, suspended like the sun.
#
Two lovers stand, hands clasped, gleeful smiles parsing across their faces. The low sun beams onto them. The girl — an auburn-skinned eighteen-year-old with short black-died-green hair — shoves a playful fist into the boy’s shoulder. The boy — a nineteen-year-old of moderate stature with blonde-died-black hair — recoils in delight. His euphoria shines as bright as the glint off of his four piercings…
That was the evening of our first date: his prime time.
I know that picture of us is still his phone’s background. He finishes staring at it and stows the device. His pale face radiates desperation and madness. I hate to see him like this, but it can’t go on. Not since I’ve learned an even more unsettling truth about the creep than the one I’ve accepted about myself.
“How many times do I have to say it?” My breath hits the dancing candles between us.
“Until it makes sense, Darlene. Did I do something wrong?” He displays his typical charming spite. A younger me would’ve found it endearing, but now I find it disgusting.
“N—no, I just—”
“Then why aren't you feeling it anymore?”
I sink into the red booth. “Did you even listen to what I've been saying?”
He pokes at his cold meat, keeping his eyes on me for thirty seconds, unblinking.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
The lamppost outside casts a sharp glare on my windshield. For a moment, I twitch at the boy in the reflection. Upon further examination, however, I’m put at ease.
Still getting used to the new look.
The boy with auburn skin and pure black hair fiddles with surprisingly feminine knick-knacks as he drives. He stares back at me through the windshield, illuminated by the soft morning sun. I smile at him.
He’s me.
I spin the steering wheel in my hands. My car rumbles along, giving my bald passenger and me a nice massage. Our ski gear bounces in the backseat.
“Not all snowboarders are dicks, Jeremy,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “Every one I've met is super kind to me.”
Jeremy, my passenger, laughs lightly. “Yeah because you're Dylan Ollison: top-ranked competitive skier-in-training for our age class.”
I wave him off. “Knock it off! You're embarrassing me.”
“It's true, though. People are extra nice to you all the time.”
My face gets hot. I can’t fight the flattery forever. “Just get on with the stupid story!”
Jeremy claps his hands together. “So then I said to him — the dick snowboarding guy — ‘Yeah, I actually am a better skier than you are a snowboarder.’ I asked if he was familiar with you.”
I almost protest at the fact that he mentioned me by name, but he keeps talking.
“He said ‘Yeah, that girl's fast.’ I said ‘He's the fastest and I'm the second-fastest.’ His jaw fell open so wide it hit the snow. He still challenged me to a race though. Guess who ate the ice?”
My best friend and I share a laugh. “You're too much, man.”
Jeremy sighs and holds his gloves up. “Another weekend, another practice.”
I glance at his dark gray ski jacket and then at my own black jacket with pink highlights. “Yep.”
“Sheer-Deer sure works us hard,” Jeremy says reluctantly, hiding a light sniffle for his departed weekend.
“We're in the top private ski team in Colorado. Of course it works us hard.”
“It’s probably a cinch for you,” he mumbles. I’m the only person he’d admit weakness to.
“Dude, I'm not that good,” I say, trying to divert the praise.
“Yes you are!”
My turn to admit something. “I'm still getting used to being on the guy's team, remember?” I level with him.
“Yes, I do…” He looks at me for a few seconds, debating whether or not to bring up an uncomfortable subject. I know exactly what he’ll ask, and he should know I truly don’t mind. “Hey, honest question: How's your new…you know. How do you feel about it?”
“My body? I've never felt better.” I motion to myself.
“Good.”
“Yeah. I'm right at home.”
“For the first time?”
I nod. “First time in my life.”
I turn the wheel. The melodic bumps in the road rub my back. My old knick-knacks bounce along with our ski gear. Jeremy reaches for the pink dangly hearts and fuzzy dice, holding them towards me.
“When are you getting rid of these?”
I smile. “When I find the time, and someone who gives me my money's worth.” I grab the dice and hearts and stuff them into my coat pocket, pulling the pink zipper shut. It’d better stay zipped; this old jacket has only one more run left in it. “Hell, if we're going to really adopt the new me, the true me, maybe I'll try to pawn them off today. Let's hope someone on the hill wants some car decor.”
“I doubt that.”
“Honestly, same. It's the thought that counts.”
We round one last corner. Now, it’s winding roads for five more miles; lots of weaving back and forth, under tunnels and over hills. I pretend I’m doing a slalom with the car the whole way there.
#
We drive under a gate woven out of logs and branches. Little red flags adorn the entrance, greeting us with a flutter of their silk as we pass them. Oversized ornaments hang from wires above, sparking my yearly holiday nostalgia.
“Well, well, well. Here we are,” I say. We pull into the Razor Tuft Mountain ski resort.
Jeremy smirks at the unspoken name. I can’t fault him for that. We skirt mounds of snow and ice, our tires rolling into a white-coated parking lot.
I scan the lot for our team, gazing around rows and rows of cars until my eyes hit the most obvious place: right at the resort’s on-foot entrance. The team’s signature red and black vests stand out like a wine stain on a white carpet — even though that carpet (the resort) is trampled by hundreds of other snow-sporters like us.
“And there’s the rest of Sheer-Deer.” Jeremy is already watching for the parking spot nearest to the team huddle.
“No shit,” I reply in a lighthearted tone.
A rusty old car catches my attention. Instinctually, sweat begins to build up between my skin and my layers. Flashes of intimacy pin my eyes open. ‘Fun’ times in his rusty truck after ski meets come back to me. My submissive past life wrenches my gut. I try to put it out of my mind, but I can’t ever truly let it go. My attention becomes fixated on locating one single person even though he’s not here anymore. I’m so cautious that I skip a bunch of spots, which no doubt gives Jeremy immense anxiety.
“Just take whatever spot you want,” he says impatiently.
“I was doing that, man. Settle down.” I’ll only feel safe once I know where he is. I keep scanning for him. The tires keep going ‘round and ‘round. My gears spin. My brain overheats. I plan out what will happen if I see him. “We've got a handful of choices—”
“What's wrong? Take one!”
“Are you kidding me? You're actually being competitive about parking spots too?” I prepare to turn into the spot nearest to us. I decide to put it behind me for now, to let my guard down for once. “Fine, here’s your spot—”
“Wait a second!”
Out of the corner of my eye, a chunk of snow falls off the mound right next to our parking spot, landing in front of my tires. Something black is inside there — like someone’s bag. Too late. I run it over. A crunch sounds out.
I hiss. “Crap!”
I open the door and dash to Jeremy’s side of the car. The halfway-crushed bag lies beneath the vehicle’s frame. Something glints in the snow patches scattered about the pavement. A vaguely face-like lump pokes out of the bag’s rough surface. I reach down to investigate, but Jeremy grabs my hand.
“Come on, leave it alone. I don’t want whoever owns this thing to see us here.”
I pause, about to protest, until I consider that it’s not the worst idea. “Fine, sure.”
<><><><><><><><><><> 
His second ex was a fluke. Every day she’d wear the same, restrictive clothing, play the same, boring music, and read the same, fluffy books. Her form flutters before him now, flecks of dry skin flipping like pages. He remembers when the book fell over her face, its pages wrinkling at her every breath. Tragic way to go… She cries out in agony. Her shadow retreats into the Dolphin Sphere, forcing it to roll away from him. An internal imbalance drives it. Story of his life… Third time’s a charm. Another girl could balance this feeling out for him:
#
Darlene leaves the restaurant, slamming the glass door behind her. The moonless sky is black, illuminated by orange street lights. Their glow creates a bubble between the ground and the sky. Isaiah runs after her, cutting through the orange air, his face consumed by its own wanting. He catches up to Darlene, clasps her abruptly.
“Don't do this to me. I can't lose you on top of everything else I've lost.” His two exs flash before him again — the constant regret overtaking his tongue and sewing it to the floor of his mouth.
She pushes his arm away, a nervous smile appearing. “Don't be so melodramatic. We're cool. I'm just…not happy with what I see in the mirror,” she over-simplifies.
This revelation comes to him again. “Darlene—”
“No, hear me out. If you can't accept me when this is through, that's ok. I get it. But don't hold it against me for too long.”
Isaiah pulls out his glass Spheres and fiddles with them. How, he wonders, am I to keep my psyche intact? A large part of him doesn’t care. He wants the pleasures waiting for him, lined up like kids at an ice cream stand. Nothing less.
Darlene puts her hand on his. “Don't go there. Not with me.”
Isaiah forces a nod. She lightly punches him in the shoulder.
“I'm still here for you if you need help. See you around.”
Isaiah looks at his phone background again — at the smiling couple that is no longer real. He feels a tingling sensation inside his abdomen. He leers at the thought of getting her — or him as he wants to be called — back against all odds. His excitement surges when he breaks rules, ignores polite requests like the badass he is. That’s why he liked Darlene initially: She ate that kind of boy up.
He tucks away his phone, inspired by the tingling.
A certain ‘weight’ comes over him, bouncing around inside his head like a rogue electrical signal. He clenches the Spheres. He yanks them out from his vest pocket again and swaps them between his hands. Blown into each of them is a 3-D symbol: A Lion with an eerily terrified expression inside one; a pair of Dolphins intertwining into a heart shape inside the other. Isaiah holds the orbs at different heights from the ground. Orange light refracts through them. One feels heavier than the other, corresponding to the rogue signal in his mind. He physically shifts the Spheres in his hands to balance himself, but he wavers like a spinning top.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
Jeremy and I stroll up to the resort’s central plaza, rubbing shoulders with all sorts of people. All these skiers and snowboarders move about with pride. Masks and goggles — tints of orange, green, blue, and black — meld themselves to helmets blossoming in equal diversity. That’s one thing about us snow-sporters: We have a knack for showing our style.
A warm wind rushes by. Fake trees flank the pathway to the plaza. Giant red flags perched within their gnarled branches drape over more snow piles. Our boots thump across the cobblestone until they are lost amongst a hundred others.
    We join the team huddle. Coach mingles with us, the cool guy he is shining through his ageless enthusiasm. His white hair peeks out from under his hat. His wrinkles fold with his smile. He talks to Cooper — an oddly-built boy with a paunch. Despite his belly, Cooper is in peak physical condition.
Coach scratches a check mark across a sheet of paper and hands Cooper a lift sticker. “Is food the only thing that gets you going, Coop?”
“No sir. But carb overload is a good kickstarter for kicking ass on the slope,” he retorts, folding his sticker over the metal wire attached to his zipper.
Coach shrugs, clearly having had this discussion before. “Fine. Whatever helps.” He pats him on the back, then turns to us.
Cooper ambles over as well. “Yo,” he says with a nod.
I nod back. “Hey, Coop. How goes it?”
“Not bad, not bad…”
Coach puts his hand on my shoulder. “How are you, Dylan?”
I stand tall and push my fist into the air. “Like Cooper, sir: I’m ready to kick this practice’s ass.”
“Good, good.” He pauses and monitors the rest of the team. He sighs. “Well, I’ve got to count heads. If I don’t see you later, good luck.”
I feel another warm wind hit me — an unpleasant and unnatural thing. It reminds me of Isaiah — of our final night together. He steers clear of everyone on the team now. He used to be a star skier before I left him; used to be. A shame, really: He has all the tools, but he doesn’t have his head on straight. A crowd of kids moves through us. Flags blow in the wind.
“Coach giving you a hard time about the diet again?” Jeremy asks Cooper out of Coach’s earshot.
“Yet again. Dude, I'm severely underweight.”
“…Maybe. By your standard.”
“Ok, yeah, maybe I’m overweight by your perfectionist standard.” Cooper gets frustrated at Jeremy’s ultra-competitive teasing. “If we weren't friends I swear to God I'd beat your ass.”
“How about both of you shut up with the ‘standard’ nonsense? We're all on Sheer-Deer. That alone means something.” This fact gives them pause.
Cooper smacks his belly. “Yeah, Jeremy. This thing gives me good momentum anyway since I naturally hug the slope closer.”
“I guess,” Jeremy finally concedes. “Your times ain't bad.”
Cooper nods confidently.
Two boys approach him from behind, placing fingers to their lips. Both Jeremy and I keep our mouths shut. The pair pokes Cooper in the sides so hard that he yelps.
“Assholes!” Cooper flails around to face them.
The two boys are Will and Fin. The former has a long face and a blue coat; the latter has a round face and a red coat. The trio of goofballs starts teasing each other about physical features and other petty things. Though I’m always a bit distant from the day-to-day banter, I enjoy their company. I’ll always count on Fin to tell me stories about his cute dog. The boy’s team is a great fit for me so far, largely because these assholes, foodies, and competitors have been so welcoming.
“Ok, bring it in!” Coach calls out through cupped hands. We listen to him and obey. I can’t locate Isaiah, which scares me. But then, I tell myself the truth: He isn’t here. “As usual, fifteen minutes to suit up and settle in. Don’t be late. We’ll go through our drills at the top of the mountain.” Coach looks to me. “Dylan, break us down.”
I get in the middle of the crowd and raise my fist. “Sheer-Deer on three! One, two, three—”
The team finishes the chant for me. I feel the euphoria surge up. My bright red vest fits me perfectly as I lock the velcro down.
In that moment, I couldn’t be happier.
#
We start towards the lodge, bags in hand. As more people brush around us, my blood rushes. I feel my coat pocket. It’s unzipped. My hand plunges in and pulls nothing except crumpled stickers out. I lost my knick-knacks. I panic, scanning the ground around me. Nothing is on the cobblestones except salt and snow. Without saying a word, I leave the group. I double-back the way I came, trying my best to replicate my path against the crowd’s shoves. I find myself next to the one of the giant red flags on the plaza’s edge. I get down on my knees. Still nothing. I dig in the snow, my hands numb from the cold. Suddenly I feel something soft. I pull it out and gasp. It’s a red hunk of…something living. I throw it back and rub my hands through the snow to get the blood off. A fresh trail leads behind the statue, so I follow it. Back there, a single, lone paw sits atop a thin layer of leaves.
Someone walks by slowly. For some reason, I’m inclined to keep quiet. A pause. Labored breathing echoes: in, out, in, out; a small clinking noise tapping away.
Nothing but endless chatter remains.
I emerge from behind the red flag. Both of my knick-knacks rest on the cobblestone walkway. I stuff them into my pocket and jam the zipper closed, breaking it.
#
Yanking the lodge door open, I run downstairs to the locker room. The second I enter, the team greets me with open arms. Surprisingly — or perhaps not so surprisingly — the boys are already gleaming with sweat. Gus — quite possibly the best-built of us all — takes his coat off, revealing his wife-beater and big muscles. He has too high a metabolism for his own good… A part of me wishes I’d dated him once upon a time.
“There he is!” Gus shouts joyously.
I retreat into myself. “Here I am.”
Jeremy — who is flanked by Will and Fin on his left and Coop on his right — looks up from his ski boots. He clamps the locks down. “Where’d you go off to, man?”
“Nothing. Nowhere,” I stammer. I awkwardly bury the truth down.
Will, bless him, speaks up. “Oh, it’s the one who's going to save us an hour of dry training with his sick times. Thank God he came back.”
I feign confusion. “Who? Not me.”
Fin clicks his tongue. “B.S. We're going to atrophy because of how often you keep the Coach happy.”
Gus holds out his hands. “Here's to Dylan: our best and newest skier! Pump it up.” He gestures to Coop, who pulls out his wireless speaker and blasts music.
The team shouts ‘hey' in unison. Coach peaks out of the bathroom, bopping his head.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
The boy smiles at the sharp casings and the black metal. He zips his old bag closed, using a pencil to etch his plans onto his skin. He enjoys searing the symbols onto himself. It’s the only satisfaction he has left to bring his aching, purposeless body before this final escapade. A day-owl coyote howls into the yellow sky.
He stands, mouth agape at the loss that has overtaken him. The world is like a bountiful treasure trapped in an abyss. Everything is ripe for the taking, and yet nothing lets him take hold. He pushes, but nothing gives. He has to force things to give — pluck the apple from the bleeding tree as it begs him to save the fruit for some other creature. Father taught him how to force things, and Mother hated it. House after beat-up house over his head showed him the truth: Fixating on the things you hold most dear and using your imagination to bring them to new heights is the way you survive. This has kept him alive through all the mold and roaches.
He marvels at the red and gray gashes on his arms. He is higher than kings in this moment.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
Cooper, Jeremy, Gus, Fin, and I exit the lodge. The smoke from the indoor fire wafts into my nose. I take it in, the cold air nipping at my nasal cavity. The late morning sun bounces off the snow, making everything below my main sight line a literal eye sore. I slap my goggles over my eyes. I hobble behind the boys, my shorter legs giving me a hard time. My skis clack in my hands. “Slow down, guys. We’ve got plenty of time left before practice officially starts.”
Jeremy stops to let me catch up. “How much time?”
I read my sleek sports-designed wristwatch. “Nine minutes.”
“Then I'm sure you can guess my next move.” Cooper taps Fin, who elbows Will.
“Pre-game food?”
Cooper gives Jeremy a thumbs-up. “Be right back, dude.”
Will and Fin change course, joining Cooper. “We’re coming too,” Fin says.
They turn back to the lodge. That leaves only Gus, Jeremy, and me.
“Let’s wait up for them,” I say. “I feel bad about rushing ahead of the foodies. I want to see what that other lodge across the way has anyway.” I point to the place. It is styled like an old German house, which contrasts with the main lodge’s log cabin aesthetic. Like the rest of the resort, mistletoe and ornaments are strung along its roof.
Gus nods. “That’s cool.”
Jeremy is silent.
“No protest, mister competitive?”
Jeremy sighs. He holds his feet down to prevent spontaneous flight. “Not as long as Dylan keeps watch on the time.”
<><><><><><><><><><> 
Will and Fin follow Cooper back to the lodge. They’re all as interested in food as anything else. Each one fantasizes about a nice, fatty appetizer or a gooey snack. Fin in particular thinks about a corn dog. His mouth waters.
A coyote calls out. Suddenly, his trance crashes down. The sound is enough to give him pause. It shouts for affection and help.
“You hear that?” He halts in his tracks.
Will tilts his head. “Hear what?”
“The dog! It’s hurt.”
“That’s got to be a coyote, Fin.”
“They’re the same to me.”
Cooper motions for Will and Fin to keep up. “What’s wrong back there?”
“Fin’s being an animal lover again.”
“Do neither of you hear the poor thing?”
Will folds his arms. “Nature’s cruel. Be thankful it’s not your dog.”
“Yeah, but…”
Cooper backtracks a few steps. “I get you, Fin. But we don’t have all the time in the world.”
Fin clenches his fist. “Then go on without me.”
Will throws up his hands. Cooper looks at Fin and shrugs; he thinks Will is being heartless too. Fin pivots away, his curly hair getting in his eyes. The howling is desperate, though none of them can hear the desperation like he can.
He tracks the sounds like a bloodhound, veers towards the resort’s edge and goes around the back of a medical shed and into the woods. The howling turns to yelping. He picks up the pace, reminded of his own dog’s cries. A wet crunching sound echoes off the trees. The coyote ceases its call. Fin runs after the wet chumble. The snow churns at his feet.
The coyote is splayed across a tree, a stake driven into each leg at angles placing metal between bones. Its underside has been lashed raw with tree branches which rest in a pile at the stump. Fin gags, spinning around to leave. He can’t tell the exact way he came, but he rushes away as fast as he can in his restrictive boots. He breathes heavily. His footsteps seem to double. He thinks he is hearing things until a man in a dark coat steps around a tree, catching him in the jaw. Fin touches his mouth. It snaps at his finger’s tap. He shouts, but his shout is garbled. The man with no identity wears a featureless mask. He pins Fin into the snow and pulls out a sharp tree branch. Fin feels a prick at his neck, then air slipping away.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
I evaluate the new lodge’s German aesthetic. Jeremy and Gus sit across from me. Gus patiently twiddles his thumbs while Jeremy bounces his leg. I place my hand on his knee, meeting his nervous gaze.
“You about done?” he asks.
The clock ticks above us.
“Almost. We’ve got a few minutes.” I continue scanning the place, watching the staff walk about in their lederhosen and leather boots. Part of the lodge’s allure lies with the consistent role these people must play. It reminds me of my past life…
“Come on!”
Gus hits the table in front of Jeremy. “You’re acting like a kid. Shut up.”
Jeremy rolls his eyes.
I open my mouth to deliver my verdict. “I’d give this place a seven out of ten.”
“And why is that?” Gus asks out of genuine curiosity. “Because you dated a German and you’re a culture expert?”
I grit my teeth at the reference to Isaiah, but I respect that Gus isn’t being malicious. “I suppose you could say that.” I acknowledge Jeremy. “It’s about time… Where’s Coop and the other foodies?”
Jeremy shrugs. “That's what I'm wondering. He'd better be almost done stuffing his face or he won't make it.”
I respond with a simple “Hmm.”
<><><><><><><><><><> 
Cooper scarfs down some mozzarella sticks dipped in marinara sauce. Will is on the lookout, his pizza slice getting cold. He places his palm against the polished wood.
“Fin still isn’t back.”
Cooper stops eating for a second. “It has been a while, huh… We should probably look for him. I’d hate for Coach to forget. You know how he is once practice starts.”
“I’ll do it.” Will stands up. “I was a bit of a dick to him.”
Cooper nods. “That’s nice of you.”
Will pushes the styrofoam plate across the table. “And take my pizza.”
#
He exits the lodge, leaving the log benches and greasy food behind. Cooper keeps on eating. Come on Fin, Will thinks. Where’d you go? He follows the path he and the foodies took away from Dylan, Gus, and Jeremy. He re-traces their parallel steps to the point where Fin stopped in his tracks; a cluster of prints makes a small circle there. Will parses Fin’s tangent from the rest. He paces down the lone line of indentations, which leads him to the Razor Tuft resort’s edge. The wind kicks up snow. Passing right by a chair lift, he overhears its operators talking.
“Power’s being weird today,” says one of the pair.
“Yeah, I keep finding screwed-up cables. Some rat is chewing on them.”
Will does a double-take. A figure sits perched on a tree stump, staring at the operators like a bird. It wears a white mask with vaguely feminine features. Red mascara streams from its eyes; a motionless wing ordains its left eye-hole.
Will advances into the woods. He looks back once more. The figure is gone. The sun blinks through gnarled tree branches. He hears a soft hiss.
Something scurries. He calls out Fin’s name.
The hissing gets louder, morphing into popping punctuated by hissing. It is mechanical. Will proceeds under a few more ancient trees. The sound stops. When it starts again, Will sees a spurt of red liquid sprinkle up from behind a fallen log. He gets closer. The spurts keep flying. As he approaches, damp, curly hair appears at the base of the red plumes. Will’s mouth hangs open. The Masked Man fires another silent bullet into an unknown body. A branch cracks at Will’s feet. He flinches. The Masked Man stands over the corpse. He points his gun at Will. Will mumbles in fear, his trembling hands held high. The Masked Man cocks his neck. 
“S—sorry,” Will stammers. “I’ll leave you alone.”
The Masked Man pulls the trigger, catching Will in the thigh. Will shouts in pain. He limps away as fast as he can. The Masked Man pursues him at a steady pace.
Will tries to call out for help, but the Man shoots him in the calf. Will tumbles to the ground, reeling from the bullet lodging itself in his flesh. The Man fires another shot into his other calf. He gets on top of Will, turning him on his back and sitting in his lap. He places the gun to his forehead and puts a casing through it.
The Masked Man slices long gashes into Will’s body, grunting between each thrust.
#
Strips of gooey cheese plop to the styrofoam plate. Cooper finishes up his mozzarella sticks and Will’s pizza. He takes a moment to digest the food, wondering how much longer his friends will take to get back. His stomach churns at the idea that they’d both go missing. He eyes the clock. It’s two minutes to practice time. Coach will be far too involved in the drills to worry about Fin and Will. Crap, he thinks. For all I know, they’re dicking around, but… Cooper stands up, crumples the wrappers, and tosses them in the trash where countless food stains cover the wooden wall.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
Jeremy catches sight of my rumination. There is only so much I can do to put the past behind me, and Jeremy is familiar with how quiet I get when my ex becomes the topic of conversation. “Is Isaiah still bothering you?”
I rub my eyes, half-expecting eyeliner to appear on my fingertips. “No offense, but stop asking me. I can't worry about Isaiah anymore.”
Jeremy, like a kind, accepting friend, leans back. “None taken.”
There is a tap at the window. Cooper waves at us… Something about his raised eyebrows concerns me.
“A-ha, there he is!” Jeremy leaps to his feet.
I lift my watch. A little under two minutes remain until call time. “Perfect timing. Coach is expecting us.”
We go to meet Cooper outside. The air nips at us again.
“Where are Will and Fin?” Gus beats me to the question.
Cooper shakes his head. “I don’t know. Fin heard a coyote and went to look for it. Will went to look for Fin since he didn’t come back… I’m a little worried about them.”
Jeremy throws his skis onto the snow. “C’mon, they’re jokers just like you. Would you not put ducking out of practice past them?”
“They love the sport, though,” I say.
Cooper agrees with me silently.
“I’m not about to be late because of them, sorry.” Jeremy peers at Gus, who also places his skis down.
“I’ve known them for a while. So has Cooper,” says Gus. Cooper holds his tongue. “They’ll turn up, Dylan. I promise.”
Still wary of the situation, I put my own skis on the snow, which flies onto my snowpants in small, wet specks.
#
We pop our boots into our skis, locking them tight. I stab my poles through the snow and shove my weight forward. Gus and Cooper tail me down a slight slope. We skid across patches of ice and waddle up a few mounds. Bright red vests identical to mine clump at the end of the lift’s line. I push my way over to them. For mobility reasons, Coach does not have his skis on; he carries them on his shoulder.
“Let’s go. We’ve waited long enough. No excuses!” Coach marches ahead like a drill sergeant. The kind old man buries himself inside a ruthless, angry personality.
The team organizes itself into red lines interspersed amongst groups of casual snow-sporters. I place myself in the ranks. My friends do the same. A tree branch cracks in the woods. It echoes in contrast to the chair lift’s soft hum. I turn my head to the sound. A shape is there, standing between two evergreens… He is a figure in a dark coat wearing an ominous, androgynous mask. It is a curious thing: a white piece of rubber with no nose or mouth. Two red dots rest below its eye slits and a wing folds out of its left eye. It stands still, studying me. I leave the shape behind as it looks on.
#
The lift creaks up the ski hill. Jeremy, Cooper, and I sit together and chat about the same stuff we usually do. The lift sways softly in the wind. We keep ourselves glued to the seat, which hovers over a deadly-looking gauntlet of natural hazards. It takes me a moment to process that I’m looking at the toughest run in the resort.
“Y'all should be thankful I don't make you go down that thing,” Coach shouts from ahead. “Triple-blacks are a bit much for practice.”
Cooper leans over the edge. “God, look at the rocks.”
Subconsciously, I find myself analyzing the route. “The path is pretty clear though.” I point to several plain snow patches. “There, there, and there… Run done!”
“Easy for you to say.” Jeremy is clearly upset at me for showcasing my skills.
“Is Dylan bragging again?” Gus calls up from behind us.
“Maybe,” I admit.
“He is!” Jeremy confirms.
Coach looks back at us. “Ok, settle down with the chit-chat. Don't get too comfy up here.”
Cooper fidgets. “How can we? My ass is freezing on—”
The chairlift comes to a sudden halt. The cables above us teeter.
“—Frick.”
Jeremy slaps the seat next to me. “Come on! I got all hyped and now look!”
Coach examines the cold wheels and the metal wires resting upon them. “Oh, calm down. We'll be back up and running in like thirty seconds.”
“Yep. Right.” I watch the woods, holding my breath. Nothing is there. A long silence lingers as the wind whistles between my helmet’s holes.
Jeremy moans. “So boring!”
I think of a way to pass the time. “You never told me about your Friday, Coop.”
“I didn't…”
“So?”
“Well, I had a big test yesterday in chemistry. I think I did well. I hope I did.”
Jeremy’s legs are bouncing the whole chair. “Oh now you're all conversational?”
Cooper clicks his tongue. “There's nothing else to do.”
“What happened to ‘don't get too comfy,’ eh Coach?” Jeremy replies.
“Chill out.” I shake my head.
Cooper chuckles. “Nice pun.”
“Wow.” Jeremy rolls his eyes.
I zone out as Jeremy starts talking. Something is gnawing at me. I grit my teeth; the rattling and creaking of the lift penetrates the enamel. I feel cold. A breeze hits me, and yet the sun keeps laughing at me, vanishing behind a tall tree. Rustling and thumping vibrate in my ears. Thumping and rustling and rattling and gasping — they whisper in the depths of the shadows. Then, the sound is isolated, alone. “Be quiet… You hear that?” I hold up my hand.
“Hear what?” Cooper focuses on my open palm.
The sound is gone, replaced by a hollow hum.
“Nothing… I guess.” I let out a laugh.
Cooper copies my chortle. “I can't believe we're still up here.”
“Me neither.” I smile.
Suddenly a soft, concentrated gust whisks by. Coach flies back, his body convulsing as crimson liquid sprays up into the cold air. His head is gone. A popping pulses out, then a decompression. The cable buckles. Some people nearly fall off. Screams fill my ears. A gunshot sounds out. Something clips Gus in the arm. He spins around and plummets out of his chair. I don’t see him, but I hear a crack and a thud. More shots, more people dropping, more cracks and thuds sounding off like a rhythm. Heat rubs my face. I almost get shot three times. I snap my skis off and kick them onto the triple black diamond.
Jeremy is wailing in terror. “Jesus Christ! Oh God, oh God.”
Another shot wooshes by. Another twangs off the steel right next to my fingers.
“Dammit!” I shout through locked teeth.
The lift drops a foot lower. The cable above us groans. I look down at my skis and brace myself.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jeremy cries.
“Follow me!” I jump out of the lift. Jeremy shouts after me. I land on the ground fifteen feet below. My knee pops as I hit the snow and rock. My friends kling to the broken lift. “Get off there!”
Cooper follows, but he doesn't take off his skis. One gets caught in the snow at a diagonal angle, jolting his leg forward. Something white pokes out of his skin. He cries out, lifts his limp leg onto his intact ski and sits down, riding it like a sled. Jeremy drops next. I have no time to check up on either of my friends. Bullets are in the air. The snow flies up around us, heat glazing past us. The sun glints off the shooter’s scope. I catch a glimpse of him. It is the Masked Man — the shape watching me from before. The Man stops to reload. He throws the rifle away, reaches for his pocket — has to be for a handgun.
“Move!” I yell.
I slam my boots into my skis and dash down the hill at breakneck speeds. I weave around stones and trees. I scrape over trunks and across ice. My balance shifts faster than I can keep track of. I check ahead of me for Cooper. Since he is sitting down, he is making it through fine; slow, but fine. I check behind me for Jeremy. He is on his skis, following my path’s every curve. I turn my head and almost hit a jump. I holler. A few bullets wing me. The shooter is on the move. I locate him, but he vanishes behind a rock. He’s fast, probably on skis as well. I catch up to Cooper, whose slow sliding is losing momentum.
I notice a lodge at the hill’s halfway point. “Coop! The lodge there! Go!”
I hope Cooper can hear me. Thankfully, he does. He forces himself in that direction, leaning back to maximize his speed. I follow closely.
Cooper comes to a stop. He falls on his side, the half-broken ski sticking up. I leap out of my own and run over to my friend. “Coop? Coop!”
He rolls over and screams in pain. His horribly contorted leg is jammed into his ski.
“You're gonna be ok. You're gonna be ok.”
Jeremy skids right up to us. “W—well how is he?”
“Great, just great,” Cooper forces out. He grunts and grits his teeth on his helmet strap. He tries to laugh, but tears roll down his cheeks. His eyes flutter.
I slap his cheek. “Come on, stay with me, Coop!”
Jeremy pops out of his skis. “We've got to get inside. He could be anywhere…”
I crane my neck rapidly. There is no sign of the Masked Man “R—right.” I try to pick up Cooper. When his legs give me trouble, I force my weight onto his skis and get them off.
Jeremy is still in shock. “Who the fuck was that?” he says with a quivering voice. “Who’d do this?”
“Give me a hand here!”
Jeremy scrambles, gets under Cooper’s arm and helps us inside the lodge. my eyes dart around for the attacker, but he is nowhere to be seen amidst the broad daylight and blinding white snow. The only thing that stands out is a large pool of blood from Cooper’s leg.
#
We burst into the lodge carrying Cooper. His feet drag along a wet, worn carpet. Candles dance and a fireplace crackles. Everyone inside is shocked and confused by the sight of his leg, though us bringing an injured man in here is likely what’s really throwing them off. The clock on the wall ticks as a hush comes over them. They all move closer, away from the rocks fused to the walls; morbid curiosity, I guess.
“Give him some room, come on!” I say, waving them off.
A young snowboarder steps forward. He is a lanky guy in his late 20s. “What happened to him?”
“G—gun—” Cooper sputters through a spit-filled mouth.
“Don't speak!” I hold his head and lay him across a table. He kicks the salt and pepper shakers away.
A worker approaches. She’s a facility girl a few years older than us decked out in lederhosen; some poor college student trying to get by. “What’s going on? Did he say ‘gun’?”
The snowboarder pushes even closer. “What? Was there an attack?”
I get in his way. “Yes, but you all need to stay calm.”
The facility girl grimaces at Cooper’s leg. A slight weight shift reveals the fractured bone. She loses all her color. “Where is the guy now?”
“What's he want?” the snowboarder blurts out.
Jeremy plants his feet beside mine. “What did Dylan just say about staying calm?”
“Someone's gonna kill us man.” The snowboarder is losing his cool.
The facility girl grabs his shoulders. “Hold on, we don't even know if these two jokers are telling the truth.”
“We are. We've got to call the cops and the EMTs.” I detect her hesitation. “At least call the EMTs.”
She nods slowly, her fear of gore loosening. “On it.”
The girl turns away but pauses just a moment later. A sound similar to a massive fan whirs steadily up to a blare. We all stand still. I look to the lodge’s huge window. The noise emanates from out there. It buzzes at a consistent ‘g’ note, vibrating the glass like an instrument. The decorative candles around the stone fireplace quiver. Flecks of snow begin to clump onto the window. “Is that a snowmaker?”
The girl folds her arms, as if cold. “Why’s there a snowmaker here?”
The snowboarder chews a toothpick. “It’s him.”
“We don’t know that yet.” She still won’t move. Cooper writhes on the table. The seconds feel like minutes.
“Well, go call the EMTs!” I bark at her.
She finally grasps the urgency. Her lederhosen skirt flips around a corner, presumably trailing its owner to a Wi-Fi hotspot.
The clock on the wall stops ticking. Ceiling lights turn off.
“Why is the power out?” someone asks timidly.
“No clue,” I reply.
The natural light outside gets dimmer by the second. Snow cakes on, layering itself thicker and thicker. I keep my cool despite the horrifying atmosphere. But then, I hear a thump at the window. Something left a red splotch behind. A second thump. This time I can see it. A shiny crimson clump clings to the glass. A third thump. Was that a human scalp?
A wave of red streaks coat the snow like a tomato squashed against a dress. The fans scream under the pressure of something thicker and harder than the cold water they are meant to spew. I am too scared to question what is happening, and so are most of us. Several women hope and pray that it’s not what they think it is. It becomes dark inside here. The candles and fire cast shadows everywhere. I can’t see the facility girl.
I swallow down my terror. “How's that call going?”
“The Wi-Fi is out.” The facility girl peeks around the corner. She sees the red window. I try to calm her down. Too late. She panics, her eyes getting droopy.
I run up to her and shake her shoulders violently. “Stay with me! How are we getting out of this?”
She rubs her back on the stone wall, her skin so pale that she becomes one with the brighter parts of the rough mosaic. “Th—is that? On the window?”
“Answer the question!”
“F—fine! We have an emergency landline.” She looks at the window again.
I force her to stare straight into my eyes for ten seconds. “You gonna make that call? Or are you gonna show me where the phone is?”
“I can handle it.” She walks as fast as her sickly body can, her boot-heels clocking up the stairs. My guess is she’s going to the executive office to dial the number.
The window is black now. Only decorative candles light the place with an ethereal orange hue. Every snow-sporter is quiet, mumbling prayers as the snowmakers’ unnatural squeals wrinkle the air. A rotten smell accompanies their song, like animals celebrating a successful hunt. We are inside a meat locker.
The snowboarder jumps at every sudden sound emerging from the machines’ din.
Jeremy scoffs. Sweat collects at his nose’s tip. “You snowboarders are something else.” He spits on the carpet.
I smack him in the back of the head. “Seriously Jeremy?”
“Sorry,” he whimpers.
One moment seeing his face — a face as pale as a partly-sunburned, hairless face can be — tells me his thoughts: Jeremy is more afraid than he has ever been in his life. He’s coping the only way he knows how.
“God, so many of them are dead. Fin, Gus, Will, Coach. They were my friends, man. Who could do that?” Jeremy tears up. He trembles with unspent rage and fear.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “We're getting out of this alive. Cooper is too.”
Cooper laughs, exhausted. “God, this is the worst.” His eyes are red and wet. His bad leg dangles over the table’s edge.
I rush over to him and, using my nonexistent experience, I tend to his wounds. I start by grabbing a first-aid kit on the wall. I disinfect the gash, placing a towel over the white bone. He writhes, so I pin him down. I tie together a ring of napkins and wrap it around his leg to hold the makeshift splint in place. It is literally only a band-aid, but it is the best I can do.
#
A thump. Yelps bounce along like dominos falling. Another thump. The people nearest to the door press against it. They desperately force all their weight into their hands. The black steel joints rattle with each impact. I grab a mop from the room’s corner closet, fumbling to get the tool out of the cramped space.
“Crap, brace the door!” Jeremy and I rush over. I prop it closed with the mop. The wet tip swishes against the decorative rocks. I don’t trust its grip enough to let go.
The snowboarder extends his hand. “What if it's police? EMTs?”
“You call them up, girl?” I shout over my shoulder.
The facility girl peeks down the stairwell. “No, I can't get through. Someone cut the landline. I've only got static.”
“Great.” I run through the options in my head. Things are pretty grim.
“Wait, the banging stopped.” Jeremy lets his hands fall to his sides.
I notice the sudden quiet as well. The snowmakers have hushed themselves. All that remains is the wind beating against the lodge. Apart from the darkness, it’s like things are back to normal. “Yeah…” I loosen my grip on the door handle. The broom clatters to the floor. Then, rustling and stretching scurry through the air like rubber snapping at the seams. The door breaks open. Jeremy and I stagger back into the snowboarder’s and facility girl’s arms.
Something the size of a child dangles in the frame.
The snowboarder lets me go. “It’s an animal.”
A dead coyote gapes at us, strung up by a steel wire that wraps around its whole body. The wire’s sharp tips claw the mutt’s face into a smile. The poor creature floats above the door upside down. Hunks of its fur are missing. What little remains is loosely held to red skin flayed from its gaunt body in patches. The sun hides behind it, casting a human-like shadow into the lodge. Its front legs are stretched to the side in an unnatural position. I slam the door closed.
Jeremy staggers backwards. “What the hell.”
Boots crunch outside, interspersed within the wind’s howl. The facility girl comes down the stairwell.
“He's playing with us.” I address the girl next, keeping an ear trained on the boots. “What other entrances are there into this building?”
“There's a few, but since it’s dark and the candles blow out so often, you'd know when the doors open.”
The unlit candles by the door with the coyote behind it affirm that theory. “So, we’re good as long as we keep our eyes on the main doors?”
She nods slowly. “There's one from this place's old days as a barn that I'm worried about though…”
Above us, boots smash onto the shingles. A metallic tapping resounds after each panel shatters. Wooden flecks fall from the ceiling onto my cheeks. My eyes trace their way to a rectangle frame. The hatch swings in. Ice rains down. The Masked Man drops on top of Cooper. Candles blow out. He quickly assesses the scene and grasps the maimed boy. People run. He shoots into the fray, mowing a handful of them down with his pistol. He holds the gun to Cooper’s temple.
“Shit, shit.” I knock over a table to use as cover.
Jeremy is out in the open, staring the attacker down.
“Don't shoot!” I stand up and put my hands over my head. “What do you want?”
The uncanny mask and I glare at each other. Suddenly, Cooper fights back with his good leg. He wrestles with the attacker, blowing him in the knee. The Man recovers. He kicks Cooper in the stomach. Cooper flies into a chair, causing it to fall. The Masked Man gently places a foot on Cooper's bloody paunch. I yelp and get back under cover. One gunshot after another, each one accompanied by my friend’s exhausted wailing. Jeremy dashes beside me.
Three shots sound off.
“He’s shooting every joint.”
I hush him. “We have to get out of here.”
Four shots. Cooper gasps like an animal.
I peek through a hole in the wood. The Masked Man presses the gun against Cooper’s neck. I turn my head.
On the fifth shot, Cooper is quiet.
A zipper comes loose. The Man kneels… Squishing, sloshing, and sighing… Why is it so wet? Jeremy and I fix our gazes on the darkness. A few candles still glimmer. I motion to them, pointing out the path they illuminate. Bodies twist back as we wait for a window. Bullets hit screaming people. I raise my fingers, silently counting down from three.
We leap out of cover, running by the sad, empty bodies of the snowboarder and the facility girl. I pick out her face. Its sightless eyes burn into me. Shots splinter wood.
#
We bolt out of the lodge. The white ground blinds my tired eyes. Our feet embed themselves into the snow, my muscles aching and my head weighing a hundred pounds. The skis rest a few feet away. I look over my shoulder. The lodge window has melted just enough to be transparent again. The Masked Man delivers a final shot into Cooper’s head. He returns to his feet, his attention rocketing over to us like a predator. He shoots through the window. The glass wobbles, small particles shrieking out. Jeremy swears. Bullets hit the snow again.
We move as fast as we can. The Man smashes Cooper's body into the window. After a few crunches against cold, brittle glass, it shatters and the Masked Man leaps out. Jeremy and I get to our skis and plunge down the second half of the triple black diamond.
We weave around rocks and trees. Gunshots sound off one after the other. At this point, I’ve grown numb to them. The Man’s aim is chaotic, sowing dents ahead of us and behind us. A stray shot nicks my ski. I tumble into the snow. My ski pole soars downhill. The Masked Man also takes a fall. He must’ve put all his focus into that shot, sacrificing his balance. Jeremy slows down. His skis slash a rock. He wipes out. I try to get up, managing to release one ski, but the Man punts his skis off and drop-kicks me. I protect my stomach. He lifts me by my vest, then my collar. I smack his arm with my remaining ski. I cascade away from him. He tilts his head. His foot’s full weight slams onto my leg. I groan in pain. The Masked Man strikes me in the face. I twist onto my back only to be met by his gun. He cocks the pistol, the hollow barrel gleaming in the sun. The chamber mocks me with its black emptiness. He pulls the trigger. No death follows. His gun clicks; it’s jammed. I use my ski leg to sweep the Man to the ground. The ski pops off, so I take it in my hands. I pummel the mask repeatedly, exposing small parts of his face. He rolls away and uses his loose, old-fashioned ski boots to vault to his feet. He paces around me. I do the same. He adjusts the mask… Then he speaks.
“Ah, the Scale is almost even.” The Masked Man’s gleeful, all-too familiar voice confirms my worst fears. “Enough of these games.”
“What?” I freeze.
He uses the opportunity to lunge at me. I dash to the side. He stands tall. “Isn't this funny — heads turning upside-down and sweet red passion flowing out uninhibited?” He starts laughing, walking his fingers through the air and flipping them into a peace sign. “It reminds me of how you used to be head-over-heels for me.”
“I—Isaiah?”
Isaiah removes the mask. He has an innocent smile. “Nothing but, Darlene.”
He wraps an arm around me, pushes my helmet off. His right hand clutches my hair. His left hand presses into my lower back.
“Something’s funny to you?” I bury my shaky voice as far beneath a layer of tact as I can. He pokes his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply.
He sighs. His pupils vanish behind his upper eyelids. “You smell the same.”
“You sick creep! You think any of this is funny?”
He shrugs. “Humor contains the most truth, and truth contains the most humor. How can you not see it?” He nibbles at his chapped lips. His once-healthy face is now a mess of sores and deformities, each one telling a tortured story. He forces me down against the cold ice and sharp pebbles. “I love the pink stripes on your coat. I never told you how appealing I find them.” He sits atop my lap, grabs my shoulders, and whispers in my ear. “Please, honey. Let me settle down with you here.”
“Why?” I am trembling, but there’s not much I can do to hide it.
Isaiah chuckles coldly. “It's only fair that you do something to calm me down. After all, you opened me up to this sickness.” He pulls the Spheres that he holds so dear out of his pocket. He lifts the Lion above the Dolphin. “I have an idea! A fun romp together, that'll balance the Scales.”
“Isaiah, remember what I told you after we broke up?” In his moment of weakness, I softly push him out of my lap. “This wasn’t a personal thing. We just didn’t belong together. I didn’t even belong in my body.”
Isaiah slinks onto the snow, crossing his legs. “That shouldn’t matter.” He tilts his head again, raising both Spheres to his eye sockets. “You’re a joy no matter what.”
“You should have gotten help… Professional help, not another girl.”
“They wouldn’t understand. I turned them down.” He sways back and forth to a silent rhythm. His arms extend like a teeter-totter. The Spheres rest gently between his long dirty-black nails. He wavers to his feet, unbalanced. Jeremy limps out from behind the rocks he wiped out on. Confused, he watches. “It seems the Scale's been leading me elsewhere, Darlene. I had a fun little escapade today without you, but the writing on the wall tells me you’ll come back and we can have some fun together.”
“No way in hell.”
He laughs in an exasperated way. “You must still be the one person who's there for me. No one else has fit the bill yet.” He reaches for my zipper, touching the pocket with my knick-knacks. “The one to bring me joy…” He snaps the zipper off, holding my things up. The fuzzy dice dangle in my face. My main coat zipper unzips. The cold air nips at my thin, long-sleeve undershirt. “How familiar are you, I wonder? Is the same Darlene I knew so well buried down here?”
I grab Isaiah's hands. His Spheres fall into the snow along with my knick-knacks. They roll down the slope. “Enough!” My voice cracks. I swipe my stuff from the snow and zip up my coat. Jeremy marches forward.
Isaiah is speechless, serene. He softly punches my shoulder, letting his hand fall like a delicate flower petal.
“If you touch him one more time…” Jeremy gets a foot away from Isaiah before Isaiah fires a round at him. He stumbles down onto the hill, a small red pool forming beside him. 
Isaiah grows a warm smile. “I love you, Darlene.” His coat blows to the side. He stares at me, his piercings worn down from picking at them. Beneath them, sores creep out onto his pale skin. His once jet-black hair is ragged from neglect, its natural blonde hue showing close to his scalp. His dead eyes don’t leave mine. They widen, so giddy that they are twitching. He trembles. “Here it comes, bitch!”
He grabs his groin area and violently heaves. His whole body shakes as he walks towards me. He runs up and clutches me, hugging me close. I scream.
“Oh, it feels good to hug you again, Darlene. I smell your perfume.”
“Get off!” I throw my weight into Isaiah, loosening his grip.
Isaiah lets out a ‘tisk-tisk-tisk’. “Honey, if you aren't happy now, you should have kept me together earlier. Love is far better under stable conditions. The rogue Scale in my head needs satisfaction one way or another though.”
I spit at him in hateful fear. “Piss. Off.”
He becomes even more elated at the words.
Jeremy runs at Isaiah and tackles him. They struggle, thrashing in the snow like a maimed animal — predator and prey. Jeremy wraps his thin scarf around Isaiah’s neck. Isaiah smacks Jeremy with his jammed gun’s brown handle over and over. Red covers the white sheet of snow that has turned into a bed of nightmares. Jeremy knees Isaiah in the gut, but the slamming keeps coming. His head sustains impacts that accumulate into swelling cysts topped off with black.
Jeremy moans. His eyes roll into the back of his head. Isaiah stands. He flips the gun over, shaking the barrel and fiddling with the firing mechanism. “You really are a stupid kid, aren’t you?”
The weapon snaps into position. He pulls the trigger, executing Jeremy like a worn-out dog. My friend’s body goes limp.
Anger surges through me. I lunge at Isaiah, shouting while grasping for his neck.
“How cute.” He takes my wrists and presses against me. I push back against him, my arms locking to their full length. The snow croaks under our feet. His clammy, wet fingers crack loudly. His full-toothed grin has holes out of which his tongue bulges. His eyes get redder and redder. Blood seeps out of his nose in a clean river to his mouth. He loses his footing and falls backwards.
I tumble onto him. The snow sprays us, alternating from him to me. We hurtle down the remainder of the hill, locked in a deadly embrace. Everything is spinning. One moment I have his head in my hands, the next I have ice. Then I have him again, then blank white specs, then the sun, then rocks. We grunt in a chorus of rage. I time out our near-random oscillation, waiting to hit him. His face changes position like it is under a strobe light. The sun leaves purple splotches on my eyes, punctuated by the warm spatter from Isaiah’s nose. I throw a punch, stabbing my hand against ice. More warm fluids bounce between us. We keep flipping. I keep watching his face change position. Finally it appears in the same place twice. I hit him hard. Ice bubbles up behind him. His piercings catch on my fingers. They rip his skin open. His hair tangles with mine. He holds his weapon out. The gun slowly reaches for me. Out of the corner of my eye, my ski pole makes itself known. It sits lodged between two rocks. I take up the loose pole just as the gun levels out. I wack him with it. The gun trails off. A bullet fires into my side. The flash precedes the pain. Everything is bright. The only thing between his pistol and me is the pole. My cry is like a warrior’s. My blood covers Isaiah; his blood covers me. The world is still spinning. We are clothes in a washing drum. I need to stay awake. I don’t want to go… I clutch the ski pole. On the next rotation, I jam it into Isaiah's ribs. An awful wet pop sounds out as we roll over one last time.
#
Our spiral finally halts at the hill’s base. We flop onto opposite sides of each other. Clouds dance in the blue sky. The black pole is lodged between his ribs, pointing up at a ten-degree angle. Searing pain ripples across my body. My eyes water. The realization of what happened washes over me. I crawl to the still shape beside me, hoping to God I didn’t kill another human being. Medics rush to us. The uniformed bodies hover above. My world flickers black. I run my fingers over his face. Not another death today. No one deserves to die.
Our mementos — the Spheres, the heart, and the fuzzy dice — rest near us.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
His Spheres float atop a soft bed of white crystals equidistant to his third ex’s knick-knacks. His third — she was a curious case… She was perfect for him. Too perfect. He found the girl who would satisfy him best, who would let him take the lead and ask no questions: a doll of warped love. But then she grew up. She accepted the truth about himself, started asking questions. He broke him, tore down the mad facade. All that was left was aimless, false joy — confusion, misunderstanding, and a need for dominance.
A final moment of pleasure flourishes inside Isaiah as Dylan claws at him. Isaiah melts into the crystal web, a smile relaxing his gnarled, tortured nerves.
<><><><><><><><><><> 
My attempts to save him fail. The deaths weigh down on me, everything becoming blurry as the medics say words I can’t understand.
I just want to live… I want everyone to just live. Is that so hard?
I pass out beside him, drained.
 

​The writer, who was suffering from disillusionment, sat on a polished wooden chair in a noisy café, surrounded by the mundane. He drifted between two obsessions: the creative attempt to pound out the perfect metaphor and the isolating hopelessness of having no readers. His ambition for proving his greatness to the world was slipping away, like waking up to remember and then immediately forget the previous night’s dream. He was getting to the point where he might even hear on social media about some artist’s book signing or award, and for a moment he would recall a snippet of that old feeling—the charge of anger, regret, jealousy. It used to last for days…the seething. But lately, it would disappear in 30 seconds. Poof! It was gone. Was he giving up? Did he just no longer care?  He would think about a colleague, a real go-getter, and think a) about the amount of arduous work it would take to be in his place, b) the inevitability of his own failure, (which had always proven to be the case), and c) the kind of postpartum dread he would feel almost immediately after any small successes he might have. Finally, and this was most important—there was another feeling … a kind of far off wistfulness about  a “greater purpose.” That was the one that really bothered him, that last one.
Though he was indoors, he felt like wispy clouds were moving over his head. It was the kind of feeling that would come and go quickly, like air—as if he were catching a waft of his ex-wife Irena’s scent, as she walked from one room to the next, wet and freshly showered. Elusive, confusing, flowery. It was like being close to an idea that was above his intellectual pay grade. He contemplated only certain elements of the concept, but not its whole. He couldn’t even comprehend his own belief system. The writer was intelligent, well-educated, and “really into self-reflection.” Why wasn’t he evolved enough to know what this feeling was? He knew he was being awfully dualistic in his thinking, black and white you know, but he couldn’t actually SEE the other way, so he couldn’t define it and knew this meant he would take no action at all. Was success possible without angst?
The writer drank the last of his cold, bitter coffee and wrestled with whether or not to exchange the current pen which was running out of ink for a new one…it was so early in the day. Pens can be expensive, but computers were for transcribing for publishers and editing, not for real writing. Writing was best done with a black inky pen on paper, bold and thick, leaving smudges on the fingers.
The writer noted the sciatic pain in his right rump on the hard seat. With one last glance at the crowd of twenty-something’s (who seemed to choose to be absolutely running after the most plastic life possible—what a waste!), he knew the day would be unfruitful. He was sluggish and grumpy, his usual countenance. He picked up his notebook and left the activity of the coffee bar, exchanging its smells of espresso and hipster cologne for the stale air of his decade-old Volvo.
The writer certainly did not plan on going home to an empty apartment, but he had no other destination in mind. The air was warming in the morning light. He rolled down the window exactly four inches and purposely allowed the compressed air to tug on his eardrums before opening up the sunroof. He turned off the radio to listen to the wind and empty his mind. At this point, Time decided to slow down. There were no other sounds…other than the rushing.
Driving past his own neighborhood in a kind of autopilot stupor, up a long stretch of road, the writer stopped recognizing the scenery. Houses turned to trees and small boulders alongside the gravel pavement. In front of him, the long road curved up a straight stretch and then, as the crow flies, into the horizon. Schedules were not important to the writer today. No one was waiting for him. He was not a part of the world anymore, not really, not in so many connections. Not since the divorce. Not since she had given up on him.
As he drove the car further away from what he knew and towards his line of sight, he reached the crest of a hill. He looked down upon a new world with new eyes. He saw a valley of unrecognizable charm. The air seemed to shift. The light was made golden, as though sunset had decided to come before noon. The unfamiliar valley below was speckled with many houses of different sizes, colors and shapes. Each house had a large yard and there was a center building, large and circular, in the middle of the village. Pausing at the crest of the hill only briefly, the writer drove down a winding narrow road towards the village with both a lack of curiosity and yet a healthy dose of fixation, as if his hands were only resting on the steering wheel, his foot gently laying upon the gas pedal. As if the car had decided to take him there and the writer had no further part in its decision-making.
This was not the golden hour which photographers speak of, but it felt like it. The writer found himself in the middle of unfamiliar territory. Maybe it was the foreignness of the setting, but he couldn’t help but imagine that the colors on this side of the hill were different somehow…unique. The yellows of light bouncing off everything were that much cheerier. The green of the grass was almost Technicolor. The red of a tricycle on a front lawn like a maraschino cherry. The soft peach hue of pleasantness and nostalgia could be felt all around. There was a shimmering quality to everything. The writer didn’t know how this could possibly be, but the magic of the colors seemed to influence the sound as well. Were those tiny tinkling bells in the distance? Or was that women singing? Both? And yet, underneath, there was perhaps a purer silence than he had remembered since childhood…like a farm at night, far away from the buzz of town. It was the sound of stillness. Here, everything vibrated with stillness.
The facades of the little houses felt like coming home to a place he had never known…magical, like a paradise, but not a dramatic tropical island or a fancy castle on a hill…just a simple community of yesteryear, or was this the distant future? The house styles strangely mirrored his own neighborhood. He decided that he hadn’t jumped in time. No, this was so different and yet entirely ordinary. He had stumbled upon another dimension, maybe. Yes, that’s what it is, he thought, same era, different dimension. That was what he would’ve liked to believe, whether it was true or not. It’s something writers do, he self-reflected.
The Volvo had slowed to a crawl. The writer parked and started walking. He turned a corner to face the opening of the large circular arena. A crowd was entering through the arena’s gates. There was no ticket-taker, (maybe it was free), so he followed. A ceremony was underway inside and there were thousands in the stands. This village was obviously more populated than he had figured. People of every size, shape, color, and age cheered in waves of song and praise as their brightly colored clothing fluttered from the stadium stands. There was an electric charge of excitement in the air with smiles everywhere. Was this a tournament or game? People kept turning and smiling at each other, as though a secret joy filled the arena. Down below, a man and two women stood on a platform at the center of the stadium field, apparently receiving a medal from a panel of distinguished looking older folks. As each award was given, a great cheer arose from the stands. There was music playing in elation at each announcement. The writer kept bumping into dancing spectators, who would turn and laughingly cry “Isn’t it wonderful?!  Ha ha! We’re so lucky!” In return, the writer smiled as wide and politely as he could muster, as if to say he was certainly happy they were happy but didn’t know how that affected him.
There were machines present on the field, technology he didn’t recognize. They were inventions of some sort, but the man didn’t understand. Obviously, the people on the podium were receiving awards for their innovations.  He asked an old man to his left, who explained that these were just a few of the many contributions which had been made recently in the fields of science, biotech, and manufacturing and that these inventors and their companies were all being honored. The old man pointed to groups of scientists on the sidelines of the award ceremony, all grinning with pride and joy at their creations, waving to the people above. It was hard to imagine that the whole town had showed up for an industry award ceremony. Why would they be so excited? What did it have to do with them? Did they all work at the same place? The writer asked the old man about it, but the old man looked at him as though it was incomprehensible that the writer did not understand.
            “It’s ALL of us who benefit from this, don’t you see? We did it together, in a way. Of course, I’m no scientist. I wasn’t in any lab or anything, nothing like that. But we’re all together, it’s for all of us. We’re all growing, expanding!  As a whole,” the man stammered, bewildered at the writer’s confusion. “The world is getting so much better, isn’t it?  It’s exciting!”
“I guess,” said the writer, “but what’s going on here? I don’t get it. Who’s giving the award? Is there money or a grant or something?”
The old man chuckled, “I know, it’s like we’re all a bunch of crazy kids today, aren’t we? So delighted to be making this kind of progress, this kind of success.” The old man winked at the writer. “It’s inspiring!” He turned to face the festivities on the field below them.
“…Uh, well sure, I guess … I mean, I hear ya. I’d like to get an award too, but—“
“—Oh no,” the old man corrected him, “that’s not necessary. Whether I get an award or not, I don’t care about all that. I haven’t done anything like this for years. What I mean is we’re really doing something here! … Oh for heaven’s sake! I’ve forgotten myself again. Getting old!  Okay, right! You’re new, so you don’t understand! ... Okay, okay. Well, so you see, it’s like this:  We’re sharing, not comparing. This is a kind of cooperating, contributing to the Whole. All of our lives are going to improve because of these companies’ altruism, their offerings to the Whole. It’s the best kind of action to be taken in the world.”
“So they’re like donating this stuff to the city?”
“—No…but everyone will benefit—“
Anxiously, the writer scratched his head, interrupting: “—Do you share in the profits or something?”
“No,” the old man answered. The writer was confused again, as to how this group of inventions benefitted the old man and asked if he had a son who worked for one of the companies or something. The old man shook his head no again, smiling. “I don’t get it. Why are you here?”
“Because we did it, silly! We did it!” the old man howled and whooped and hollered. Others nearby mimicked him good-naturedly. They all had a good laugh; the writer was perplexed and his frustration was mounting. He wanted to pin down the old man and torture him until he got some real answers. He suddenly HAD to know what was going on here! “But you didn’t do it, you said. They did it. … So, what? You were just in the neighborhood and thought you’d stop by for the show? See if there was an open bar?” The old man laughed again, then grew serious. He looked at the writer, paused, then shook his head and walked away.
The writer walked up the stadium aisles to another section of seating, looking into faces. There had to be an explanation somewhere. He had always been good at people-watching, it was the meat and potatoes of the writer’s craft, human observation. The story was one of something akin to national pride. These people were genuinely happy for the successes of these frontrunners, without any jealousy. It was not a zero-sum game. They weren’t even bored sitting here watching the show. In fact, they couldn’t stop smiling. It wasn’t fake or some kind of glassy-eyed cult brainwashing. It was real joy, pride, collectively inspired. He started to think there must’ve been a massive DNA upgrade somewhere on his travels. The people were calmer and yet more joyful than he could fathom. This couldn’t be genuine. It had to be an act.
As the writer walked the aisles of the massive stadium of blissful citizens, he found himself eavesdropping on conversations. They spoke slowly, communicating purposefully and compassionately.
My God! It seemed that here, they had such high energy for each endeavor, the smiling and the cheering, as though the whole town was filled with joy like Santa’s elves who couldn’t stop giggling while they worked. All industry, inventions, business models, most every endeavor one could think of really, becomes motivated by a new purpose, a better way.
The writer remembered driving into town. He had seen shops and restaurants like any other town. The time period looked roughly the same. Here seemed a bit more quaint, perhaps, but nothing particularly special. No, it was more like a feeling than something to see. It was pervasive. It was in the air. A sensation washed over the writer’s countenance, misting him like a cool breeze on a scorched summer day. It was like the pleasant shuddering of walking through a ghost. A vibration. Electricity? A tingling sensation rose up from the ground and through his knees, thighs and pelvis. He had experienced this feeling at times in his past, especially as a young boy, aware of its creepy sensuality, its alien pleasantness. The writer had learned to just go with it. He let the stirring ride up and down his spine until it subsided.
The writer found himself standing still. He wasn’t walking anymore; he was focused on thinking, expanding his perception to include a new paradigm. Exhausted, he had to sit down with it, but the stadium was full of sound. He walked out through the arena ramp onto the sidewalk. He rested in contemplation on a public bench by a narrow river running the edge of town. The scene was beautiful in front of him, but it was the looks on the faces of those people which ran over and over through his mind—so much wisdom and generosity, so much superior intelligence.  It was the eyes.  Did he know humans with comparable benevolence? His writer friends were cads. They drank and smoked and cussed each other out, disguising bile as witticism. They asked themselves: when do I get mine? Where was the enmity, the intrigue, the prejudice? How could there be competition without tribalism? What was this strange ubiquitous harmony composed of? Where the writer came from, there were winners and there were losers. There were far more losers than winners, of course, like the poor. And the winners were winners in their domination over the losers in the social hierarchy. Here, however, there was really no pyramid at all.
How long had he been driving anyway? The strange thought of not knowing where he was right now paralyzed the writer like an opioid, lulling him into a hush. Was he still thinking or was he meditating now?
Suddenly, the old man he had spoken to in the stadium was sitting by the writer’s side, smiling munificently. “Ambition looks and feels different here, son. So does success,” he said.
A wave of tingling rose again on the writer’s back.  Slumping down onto the bench with a thump, was the smiling octogenarian. “Ah, my old bones,” chuckled the old man. He picked up there conversation as though there had been no lull. “So! Here is what it is: Those bright stars among us, the winners of races, the success stories, the charmed, the elite, the wealthy, the talented, the famous, the Champions, the high rollers, all those who have made it to the top of their hills – they raise the rest of us up with them! We’re together, you see. It’s all…one thing. We enjoy their successes as our own. No resentment. With their help, we’ve already won.” The writer stared at the old man in silence. The old man seemed like he really wanted the writer to fully understand. It was important to him. He was thoughtful about his words. “They’re with us, a part of us. We don’t feel smaller because of them; we feel bigger and better. Their light shines brightest on those around them.”
“It’s not just a platitude,” the writer said incredulously. “This isn’t the Stepford dystopia.”
The old man guffawed, choking on his own snigger. “No, it’s real. And it’s easy!”   
“—Bullshit,” interrupted the writer.
“I know it seems so from your perspective, son, but it’s just a tiny shift in consciousness to get here to where I am… to where we are,” said the old man.
The writer began to feel uneasy, agitated.  It was all too confusing. He feared he would never understand. “Humans are notoriously lazy about changing their thinking.  And besides, scum always rises to the top of the pond.”
The old man looked off into the distance and the writer thought he was going to say something profound, but instead he rose, turned, and walked away down the street.
“Hey,” called out the writer to the old man, getting up, “wait a minute! I just—I mean, hey!” The writer faced the river, then turned to the road, but the old man was gone. The writer ran in his direction, towards the village houses. He could hear the faint sound of bells ringing in the distance. The air was cooling as the afternoon warned of rain. There were tiny streams of smoke rising from chimneys. No sign of the old codger.
At this point, Time stopped again. The writer felt as though he had been walking all day. He slowed his run to nearly a crawl, looking around him. Toys on the front lawn. Modest houses. Nothing uniform. It was not plastic or phony. He had seen the massive party in the stadium, the jubilant dancing and singing, cheering and horseplay. The whole town celebrated. This was no Eden, and they were not placid, naked slackers. Nobody was sitting beside a lagoon feeding grapes to a blond Adonis. These people were busy. They worked. They created. They partied. They competed for awards and celebrated successes. But there was another side—a tranquil solemnity, as though a balance was at play in which the inhabitants of this dimension understood the duality of their humanness—a Yin-Yang equilibrium.
He peeked into the window of a modest, salmon-colored house and saw a woman sitting with her hands in her lap, eyes closed, a peaceful countenance on her middle aged face. She was sitting on a pillow on the floor, her face lit by the orange glow of a fireplace. Was this a cult of some kind? Were they aliens? Witches? Buddhists?  Is it like communism or socialism? Is that it— the writer inwardly mused.
“—No, definitely not!” the writer heard a chuckle. “We just love each other this much,” said the old man. The writer jumped. He found himself in front of the old man’s home where he was gardening … moving, gliding through rows of vegetables, elegant as a Tai Chi master. “We’re as excited by loving Us as much as we are excited about learning to love ourselves, you see. It’s quite possible to have both. You needn’t drop out of society to do it.”
The writer found himself without words. Gently, the old man said in the writer’s head. Just picture it first…in your mind. The writer remained soundless, unable to move. The old man was speaking telepathically. Words were no longer necessary, but the writer didn’t care because he suddenly found himself so curious for answers. There were too many potential problems with this concept. He saw it, but he didn’t believe it. It was too hopeful. It was like all of these collectively evolved souls had finally come to the same conclusion: this works better.
             To anyone outside of them, the two men would have looked like statues, standing there staring at each other, not speaking. It was almost too much to bear. The writer’s frustration was mounting and he felt his brain would crack. He felt out of body, as if he was standing outside of his own comprehension. There was a sage in front of him and he was generously trying show the writer something important, but the writer wanted to run, to fly away home, to forget he ever came here. He didn’t belong, he wasn’t good enough. He was afraid to stay and terrified to leave, but he was suddenly aware of how vital this download was to receive. He took a massive breath deep into his lungs and tried to work it out in his head.
The other side of Doing is Being. Like a penny turned upside down to reveal its other side, he said to himself. Being must be equally essential to the paradigm.
Yes, the old man intuited subjectively. The writer felt very close to it now, like standing on a ledge with his toes curled over the edge. Doing is action. Being is stillness.
More silence fell between them; then the old man nodded and spoke aloud. “Stillness is a foreign concept these days of being busy for busyness’ sake. I bet you can’t really even picture what inner self-reflection looks like, but it’s the only way to figure stuff out.” The old man smiled mildly. “It doesn’t necessarily look like those meditating women you saw in the window, because everyone figures it out in their own fashion. It’s what some people call the Path. Each version is different. It could be meditating, it could be gardening! It is lived and understood in private. Simply to be on it, that’s the way.”
“It’s a choice,” the writer heard himself say, startled by the sound of his own voice. He nodded sheepishly at the beaming old man whose outline was bathed in sunlight. The tingling returned, the ringing of the bells in the distance, a long forgotten sound from his childhood. The writer was suddenly very happy to be standing here talking to this senior citizen.
Black wingspans of the crows crossed over his line of sight. The writer looked down at the old man’s blue overalls and the old man looked down at his mucking boots. They were quiet again. The old man picked a weed, returning it to the compost bucket beside him. In this moment, the writer did not know what to do or say, though he was intensely curious. He was like a cloud hovering far over his own being. A picture was forming in his head. As the old man returned to pruning his garden, the writer thought about a gardener’s relationship to his garden, as a man’s Path teaches him of the Self: This garden is his own. He tends it for himself, and he will consume its fruits. He moves with slow grace. With time and practice, he will see variety.  He will benefit from this thing which he has chosen to do. Just as a man in self-reflection is utterly alone, no one is coming to tend this garden for him. He may seek counsel from a master gardener, or do research by reading a book, but this is his responsibility, his way. All of these gardens look a little bit dissimilar. How a man fertilizes his garden, whether he talks to his plants or not—nobody and nothing can tell him how he does it or why.  
“The Being of the Path is also the Doing of it. That’s…the knowing?” the writer asked the gentleman gardener.
Now you’re beginning, the old man said without words, whispering inside of him. Crows and vibrations on the skin. Crows cawing above and tingling chicken skin below. The garden becomes the man. This is the wisdom of self-reflection. Not time spent in the pursuit of shameless narcissism, voracious greed. Takes time and humility. … Stillness.  He smiled and the writer saw such twinkling in the old man’s eyes that it made him want to do something he hadn’t done since he was a child…to cry. He found that he did not have the strength to let himself go, to let his tears flow. He looked down at the black pavement. When he looked up, the old man was gone. He had gone into his front door. The writer knew he would never see the man again and there was nothing to do but walk towards his car. He returned to the road and drove away from the setting sun…towards home. 

Micah wasn’t sure why some things annoyed him out of proportion to others. For example, his phone vibrating in his pocket as he waited for a delayed flight to a sales conference in Chicago that would occupy, checking his watch now to confirm, yes, less time than the travel there and back. Somehow, right now, the phone call was where his annoyance focused. The delay was just life.
It was Mom. A mass of maligned travelers knotted around the belt blocking access to the skybridge as he stood and scanned the terminal to assess progress towards departure. Out past the windows, red and green lights flashed against the tarmac, each wing-tipping pair slightly out of sync with every other. He sat down again before picking up.
“Micah, are you in the middle of something? I won’t keep you long.”
Mom’s first two lines were always the same, followed by a pause as she gathered her wind to sail the conversation forward. Today she had a very important message that she hoped didn’t upset Micah on his way to Chicago.
“Pat Sturbridge has died.”
“Who?”
“Pastor Bridge.”
Micah squinted his mind’s eye as a middle-aged man, his youth pastor, came into focus.
“Pastor Craig?”
“Yes. Craig Bridge. I hope that doesn’t upset you.”
Micah checked his emotions the way his therapist had taught him, and found that he wasn’t upset. An airline employee briefly stepped to one of the kiosk computers. Micah stood again to see what she would do.
“I’m so sorry to tell you like this,” said Mom. “It’s awful, but he had a heart attack while he was swimming.”
It did sound awful, he gave her that.
“I just found out,” she said. Micah listened while she traced the lines of communication through names still familiar from their time in the church.
For as long as he could remember, Micah had found it helpful to organize his perceptions of everyone he met on a specific point or story around which the rest of their person could be wound. For Pastor Craig, that was a sermon delivered to Micah and the rest of the youth group when Micah was in sixth or seventh grade.
“Remember the story about the traffic sign?” Micah asked.
He’d first realized what he was doing the summer before his sophomore year of high school, when he found himself annotating his yearbook with private notes about his classmates. You’re a good listener, friends’ moms would tell him while their sons were out of earshot. The yearbook became a notebook became an excel file he still regularly updated. His ex-boyfriend Joe had called it borderline committable behavior, but as Micah always drilled into his presentations to junior associates, the first step to a sale was understanding the buyer. Without that, all you ever had was luck.
The youth sermon, Micah telling Mom now, was a parable of God speaking to the faithful. One day Pastor Craig was driving through Big Dig Boston when he passed a sign that read, Craig Bridge still open. Craig Bridge: his own name lettered in LED. The bridge’s proper name was Craigie Bridge. Who abbreviated by two letters? Who signaled that a road was open rather than closed? When a pastor asked a question, the answer was usually God. The sign was a message, the chessboard-moving of traffic cones and construction workers for the benefit of a single solipsistic soul. It meant that his Account, some words were so maximal they had to be capitalized, with God was still Open. No Decision had as yet been made.
Mom said, “I don’t remember that at all.”
“Because it was a youth sermon.”
What did it mean to have an open account with God? Micah remembered a smiling description of a soul trembling issued from a dinner table seat that Pastor Craig filled for a few evenings while Dad was away working through the issues he blamed on Mom. Saving faith required good works and good works required moral clarity, which seemed even to a sixth or seventh grader like a snake eating its own tail situation.
“Didn’t he adopt some kid from El Salvador just before we stopped going?”
Mom wasn't sure.
The airline employee went back to the kiosk and finally there was good news as she called Micah’s boarding, her lips moving a half second before the announcement lisped over the loudspeaker. The woman’s winding spire of hair, Micah thought, would be the thing he’d remember, the way it punctuated the lines of passengers passing back and forth in front of the kiosk.
Micah told Mom he had to go, and only realized as he hung up that he hadn’t asked whether she was upset. Of course that’s why she’d called.
His bags were gathered and carried and dropped near the group of people blocking the skybridge. Start, stop. It was a chore to pay attention to something you had no control over. Like, how many times had Pastor Craig driven over the Craigie Bridge and been ever so slightly disappointed at not finding anything actionable? Maybe the whole Bridge family was named after Boston bridges. Tobin Bridge. Eliot Bridge. Micah couldn’t think of any others. He boarded with his fellow Mosaic passengers and sat on the aisle, then stood to let an older woman take the window seat. Start, stop.
There was an imaginary ear towards which Micah directed these asides that his therapist had helped him identify as belonging to Joe, the same ex-boyfriend who’d objected to his spreadsheets. But they weren’t asides, he corrected himself in his therapist’s voice, if they were important enough to share. He and Joe had met at UMass and lived together after college. It was one of those things, and this thought was also Joe- and therapist-directed, where if you could unspool and splice, Micah would have chosen to drop his scenes with Joe into a later part of the film, reshoot his early twenties, and achieve a satisfying resolution at thirty.
This was a breakthrough, said the therapist.
“How would Joe feel if he knew he was still in your life?”
But Micah wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and a few months later, the breakthrough had already passed into well trod territory. It felt reheated, sickened with digestive smells, and even this thought staled as he jawed it silently into Joe’s patient ear.
Another delay occurred on the runway while the captain’s fried voice intercommed about weather over the Great Lakes. Micah listened to a couple behind him bemoan the wedding rehearsal they’d already missed. The woman in the window seat read a book until they finally took off, and then went to sleep with her hands in her lap. Micah pulled out his laptop and began to go over his PowerPoint.
There’d been a time when it was easier to move in new circles, both within yourself and in the world. As you got older, you began to run up against the same people, and always the same self. Joe was still living in the condo he’d bought when Micah moved out. His spreadsheet entry said so.
The plane dipped and Micah looked past his sleeping seatmate, but the window was closed. This must have been the weather the fried voice had described.
If two or three consecutive flights are delayed, the traveler begins to factor delay into his travel. Did Pastor Craig ever look for other avenues of communication, driving by his namesake bridge day after day, waiting for the hook around which to wind his life’s story? Maybe his mail. Every bill a notice of God’s Accounting. Census Takers His Agents.
Micah went back to his PowerPoint, and as he did, the plane dropped, like just before you fall asleep and your thoughts begin to scatter. His seatmate came alive and slammed her armrest. Their seats stuttered. But the woman didn’t seem afraid, only confused, as if she’d forgotten something vital she’d been meaning to say.
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