​  Belinda hid behind a row of wild Japanese maple trees. The man who lived there rarely trimmed them so they looked like the hair of an African-American ballerina who danced whenever the wind blew. So far Belinda had fooled them all. Plump as if she dined on fresh salmon every night, she was a feral cat, who had no home. And didn’t want one.
            Once, many years ago, she lived in a dilapidated house on Carver Street. An old man and his wife would pet her and feed her what scraps they had after his welfare checks stopped coming.
            On a rainy day they opened the front door and with what strength they had pushed Belinda out the front door. She complained terribly – what would happen to the couple – and then she found out.
            The old man had been a hunter, taking down geese from a nearby pond – honk! honk! honk! – and deer who roamed the back woods – and now he used the rifle on himself and his missus.
            The noise nearly deafened Belinda’s ears. She rolled over and over with great mewls and was despondent for days.
            She roamed the front and back yards, determined no one would see her, though she saw all. At first she stopped at a huge brick house where the garbage can was easy to knock over. She learned the owners had two dogs, Duke and Duchess, who barked up a storm even when pine cones fell from the trees. This would not be her home.
            Hollybush Road was more promising.  When the moon beamed down from the sky, she explored. Sometimes a silver airplane was high above. She approved of the sound, gentle and rhythmic, with red lights flashing. How surprised she would be if she knew people were on board.
            Later on she would find out.
            A cat must always be on the prowl. Enemies roamed the back woods on Hollybush Avenue. She would make herself a little bed out of soft grasses, lie down and wait for a tasty mouse or an underground vole who would come up to experience the diurnal world.
            Noises sounded like a baby crying. Wah! Wah! Wah! An animal similar to a dog, which she learned was a fierce coyote, munched on a bunny, who was naïve and looked in wonder upon this reddish dog-like creature.
            Belinda would never forget the sound the bunny made, even as she covered her own soft ears.
            Her favorite time of day was in the mid-afternoon when birds gathered in bird feeders up and down Hollybush Road. Soft brown sparrows. Tiny cheeping chickadees. Smaller wrens.
            Patience. Don’t give away your desires. Her heart raced. Finally, she pounced.
            How she enjoyed the cracking of the soft bones. Spitting out the feathers, she savored each tasty morsel. If only the old couple could see her now. Had they eaten birds, she would have brought them into the house on Carver Street.
            Crouching behind the Japanese maple tree, she watched as a procession of people walked by. Large people, small people. People who pounded the pavement running, their tanned legs in shorts, sneakers on their feet. One young woman had purple sneakers. The woman stooped down and retied them, then shaking her mop of blonde hair, resumed running.
            “What did you say, honey?” a mother said to her little girl who was toddling after her. The mother also led a prancing white and brown dog on a leash. The dog was in its glory. Looking back at its owner, she sat on the grass and pooped. The woman, in gloved fingers, deposited it in a plastic bag.
            Half a dozen leashed German Shepherds trotted down the street. There was a regal quality to them. A sense of pride and certain of their beauty. Belinda wondered if she had qualities like that, but it was hard to fathom how she looked. The folks on Carver Street had a dirty mirror where she watched herself.
            Whatever happened to that dingy old house?
            On a street called Davisville, a neighbor worked doing demolition duty. Explosions caused dust and pieces of boards and front porches to fly up in the air. Men in blue jumpers and orange hard hats scurried away from the detritus.
            “Danger! Danger!” she heard them call.
            Romping home, she hid behind her Japanese maple tree.
            “Yes, this is my home now,” she thought, pleased with herself. All the birds she could eat, mice, rabbits, and a few gardens, with chicken wire protecting tomatoes, sweet potatoes, deep purple eggplant. It was too difficult to get inside but told herself it was only a matter of time.
            A little girl was on the sidewalk, riding what looked to be a real car, all pink. Her father walked behind her.
            The winds came and went. Belinda felt nothing behind her maple tree but unprotected folks swayed on the sidewalk. Hair blew wild. Jackets puffed up. Leaves, autumn leaves, swirled like they would never stop. People coughed and sneezed.
            “Hurry home,” she heard people say.
            One more mouse would be nice. Before she could get ready, she heard the sound of an airplane tumbling down from the sky. It twirled like a top and plummeted closer and closer to the Hollybush neighborhood.
            CRASH!
            The enormous airplane, which read “Delta” on the side, landed right in the middle of the street.
            An explosion produced flames that spiraled upward toward the sky. An emergency door opened and men, women, children and infants slid down a chute.
            Hair was on fire.
            Screams tore through the air.
            Screams of anguish, unbelievable!
            What could Belinda do? This was her home and she wanted to help.
            A baby was held in someone’s lap. She was screaming bloody murder.
            Belinda crawled into the baby’s lap and rolled around, trying to soothe her. It worked.
            Next she found an old man and old woman who looked like the folks from Carver Street. She leaped into their lap and then crawled up their arms and shoulders and their screams were hushed.
            Sirens blasted down the street. Red fire engines arriving one after the other.
            “They’re here. They’re finally here,” sobbed the people.
            Blasts of cold water flooded the street.
            Folks got down on their knees and prayed.
            “Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy,” they sobbed.
            The man who lived in the house came out wearing his blue pajamas.
            “Good God!” he yelled. “Never in my life! Never in my life!”
            Belinda went up to him for the first time.
            “Meow! Meow!”
 He reached down and petted her. Such soft fur, he thought. He held the door of his blue house open for her. She looked at him and the inside of the house.
            “I think I’ll stay outside,” she thought.
 
 
T H E   E N D  

​            When I was a child I thought nightmares happened in dreams. I thought they happened in darkness.
            I stood in utter silence before the window at the front of the house. It was covered in a pattern that made it difficult to see through in either direction, like a bathroom window.
            The window was in the hall.
            Filtered sun came through it, warming my skin. Mine had been brown to start with, so it was still brown, if lighter. Misty’s was as pale as her name. Sometimes I thought the sun was what I missed most.
            His car pulled up. I lowered my eyes to the crack in the stick-on covering. The tiniest sliver, barely enough to see through.
            I returned to my room, my bare feet padding silently on the floorboards, stepping around the many places that creaked. I had memorized them all.
            Misty was reading in her room but she was already looking up when I passed. I held up two fingers. A visitor.
            I closed my door gently, very slowly, turning the knob as I eased it shut so it too was silent. I was sitting on my floor with my back to the wall when they came in. Two male voices sounded from downstairs. Then a laugh.
            I didn’t move, just listened. His friends I knew, but I didn’t know or couldn’t recognize this voice. James hadn’t told us about any plans, but that didn’t matter. We were always ready for anything.
            A laugh sounded—James’. The visitor chuckled. I carefully picked up a book lying beside me and spread it on my lap. If he stayed for dinner it would be a long wait.
            I glanced at the chamber pot under my bed. We weren’t allowed out of our rooms when guests visited, not even to use the bathroom. It had been my daring, years ago, to ask for the pots so we didn’t have to wet ourselves and sit in it until we got rashes. James had been obliging, that day.
            I was reading Black Beauty. Most of the books he picked up for us were children’s books, as if he thought or would like to think we were children. Maybe he still thought we were the age he’d taken us at. Or maybe he just saw enough children, as a bus driver.
            My favourite were survival books, family books, and fantasy books—the first reminded me of my life, the second of what I hoped for, the third of people like me, dealing with the impossible and the end of the world.
            Black Beauty was a nice story, a sad story, and not as young as the others. The horse, too, had known imprisonment.
            James picked up half a dozen books from the library for us each week, and we usually both read them all. One time, James had brought home psychology and self-help books, including a book on trauma. I had felt something I couldn’t name at that. Had he been trying to help us, or maybe help himself? Did some part of him know that he was crazy, that we all needed therapy? I had devoured those books, memorizing everything. Reading was most of my education now.
            There was also a TV downstairs, but only for movies, and only when James was in a good enough mood to let us watch with him. He let us read the newspaper.
            The visitor left. Perhaps he was a colleague carpooling home.
            James’ best friend, or the one that visited the most, came every week and was also a bus driver. Sometimes his visits made me sad. He seemed like a dear old man who never said a harsh word, but he couldn’t see. He came here completely oblivious. He came here and thought James was a normal person.
            Even I had to remind myself he wasn’t.
            “Tahira,” James said, opening the door. He was a white man, nearly fifty, with short dark brown hair and a receding hairline. His belly stuck out but his arms and legs were strong. His shirt and jeans were casual, and he might have looked ordinary to someone else. He had to me, once.
            “Time for dinner.”
            By that he meant I was to make it.
            I set my book aside and stood. He stood to the side as I walked through the door, and my skin crawled at turning my back to him as I walked down the hall and down the stairs. He followed a pace.
            “How is the book?”
            “Good.”
            “I hear it’s a classic.”
            “It’s a nice story.”
            He nodded and turned back for Misty. “Steak tonight,” he called over his shoulder.
            I knew that meant rare steak with mashed potatoes and canned peas. I set to work.
            I heard him, upstairs. Misty, of course, didn’t make a sound. She only did when he told her to. Only a few times, in those months before Misty had come, had he taken me in the same way. I was grateful he hadn’t come back for that.
            I was sixteen now. Five years. Misty had been here for four and a half.
            Misty came when she was nine, rather than my eleven. Now she had just turned fourteen. She had turned out beautiful somehow, despite where she’d grown up. Her hair was orange—a colour that didn’t belong in a house of brown and grey.
            James came down before Misty did. When Misty came down, no one would guess what had just happened. She came quietly—even with him here we didn’t, couldn’t make noise—her eyes flicking from me to James to the floor. She never held a gaze long.
            I served them dinner, James first, then Misty, then me. We sat at the wooden dining room table—the windows all shuttered—like a family.
            “What would I do without you?” James asked with a half smile. “Both of you,” he clarified, nudging Misty in a friendly way with his elbow. “The best daughters in the world.”
            I gave a small fake smile, but Misty’s looked real. At the beginning, it had been to please him, to placate him, but now I wondered sometimes. She seemed happy when he was happy.
            Today she looked exhausted, though I didn’t know why. Nightmares perhaps. We both had them.
            But when she cleared her plate in minutes, I tried to catch her gaze. She was either oblivious or avoiding my look. Maybe she knew.
            “You still hungry?” James asked her in an ambiguous tone of voice. My fork stilled.
            Misty shook her head. Lie.
            “Give her more,” he ordered me, and I served her the extra mashed potatoes.
            “Peas too,” he said, and since there were none left, I forked over the ones from my plate.
            Misty didn’t meet my eyes. She ate silently. When she finished, again clearing her plate, James said, his voice bearing a hint of that tone that made my heart shudder,
            “Take your medication.”
            She left without a word, leaving us to eat alone. The silence was palpable.
            She had just turned fourteen a couple weeks ago. In the earlier years it wasn’t a problem, but she’d gotten her period last year. I didn’t know how he’d gotten them—stolen them, perhaps—but James had gotten his hands on a few sets of abortion pills. This would be the third time, which meant we were out of the pills.
            I hadn’t known Misty before coming here, though we rode the same bus. She was two years younger and from a different neighbourhood. But something about us must have been the same, for James to choose us, for us both to believe him. Or maybe it had all been chance.
            “This is a good family, right?” James asked.
            I stilled, the dishes in my hands hovering over the sink, and looked at him for a moment. But there was no concern there, no knowledge of what he was or what he had done, and I turned back to the sink. I began washing dishes.
            “Of course,” I murmured.
            “It’s a good size?”
            Was he thinking of letting Misty have a baby? Or—my heart stuttered—kidnapping someone else?
            “It’s perfect,” I said with a smile, turning to him. “I would get jealous if there was anyone else to share you with,” I teased warmly.
            “Jealously isn’t good, Tahira,” he said sternly, but he didn’t get angry. “I’ll check on her,” he murmured.
            I stopped moving when he left the room, a plate in one hand and a sponge in the other. I listened. Her door opened. Voices. He was speaking quietly, gently even, and I couldn’t hear what he said. Then his voice rose up angrily.
            “You should have told me.” Slap. “You don’t keep secrets from me Misty. We’re a family. We don’t want a baby now.” He might be shaking her. “Don’t you understand? Are you upset at me? What did I do, Misty? I’m trying to help you. Won’t you let me help you?”
            She knew Misty was crying, if only because that’s what he wanted to see. Crying meant more attention, but it also meant more positive attention. It was a gamble she took.
            I never cried.
            I started washing dishes hastily as her door shut and James started down the stairs, slowing to a normal speed before he reached me. But he said nothing, thankfully, and passed me, heading down into the basement.
            When I finished the dishes, I went upstairs. I paused at Misty’s door but didn’t dare open it. I went to my own instead, the room next to hers. When I sat on the floor, I brushed my finger softly along the wall that we shared, the only comfort I dared give, the only comfort I knew how.
            I started to read.
 
#
 
            “We’re going out,” James said, bursting through my door at dawn on a Saturday.
            I heard him repeat the same intelligible thing to Misty, before coming back to me. I was still sitting in my bed, my face apparently registering my complete incomprehension.
            “Swimming,” he said raising his voice a bit for Misty, not knowing, maybe, that she could hear anyway.
            “Get up,” he said. “Bring towels.”
            Misty and I bumbled into the hall together as he went downstairs. I stared at her in shock, but hers dissipated quickly into a smile. It was her birthday present. She had asked to go swimming for her fourteenth birthday more than a month ago.
            The bruise on her cheek was gone from the night she’d taken the first pill. I wondered if that’s what made James change his mind, that he’d gotten angry at her. A few weeks had passed, and Misty had stopped bleeding from the abortion.
            James tossed us granola bars when we came downstairs, and I dutifully started to eat mine. He led us into the garage.
            The car was ready for us. The trunk was open. The sight of it made my heart beat faster.
            At his gesture we climbed in and he closed it on us, still clutching our towels. We couldn’t be seen of course. I would have guessed the trunk, if I had been able to digest what was happening at all.
            As the car started to move I closed my eyes, my heart roiling. I hadn’t been in this car since that day when I was eleven. It had been starting to rain, and I’d been at the park near my house. James had been driving past, and had offered to drive me the six blocks home. I’d been so close.
            “I don’t have the bus—I hope you don’t mind,” he said with a friendly grin.
            I smiled back and climbed in, oblivious, ignorant, a child.
            It would take five minutes, maybe ten, for James to drive me home now. But for all my peering out of windows, I had never seen my family since that day.
            The darkness of the trunk was comforting, but also frighteningly familiar.
            The dark was where he’d put us first, when we arrived. Young and stupid, I at first thought the darkness was what I should fear. It didn’t take long before I recognized it as a haven. The light was what I learned to be afraid of—the light when he opened the door to the basement, and came to me in my shackles.
            I still had nightmares about it.
            And mercifully, I can’t remember everything that happened back then. I don’t even know how long he had me shackled in the basement. It was long enough that I had wanted anyone’s comfort, even his. Long enough that sun shining through the covered windows upstairs was too bright to look at. Long enough that I thought he was truly kind when he brought me up.
            “You’ve been down here long enough, haven’t you?” he said gently, untying me, leaving only the shackles that connected my ankles. He led me by the hand out of the cold stone basement. “Just don’t make noise, be a good girl, and you never have to go down there again, okay Tahira?”
            That was when he’d planted it. The uncertainty that maybe this was all my fault, and any punishment was just because I’d misbehaved.
            I held a hand over my left breast as the car lurched and bumbled onto a gravel road. I wrote it on myself from time to time, wrote it in the fold under my breast where I hoped he wouldn’t find it.
            Lies.
            I had to remember.
            The word was written next to the one scar I had. After all the bruises, the burns, the broken bones, the rape, the horrors—only one mark had lasted. Only one mark defied the lie.
            It was from the basement. I couldn’t stop crying in those early days, though I’d tried. The tears just came, silently, one after another. I had pleaded too, back then. I couldn’t even imagine doing so now.
            He had brought a poker, red hot from the oven, and wrote Listen across my flesh with a terrifying calmness and normality, going away and coming back with a reheated poker whenever it cooled. Then he had told me not to cry.
            That was the last day I had.
            The car stopped. After a minute James opened the trunk and sun shone blindingly in.
He helped us out, tugging with his strong arms.
            We were on a beach of tiny cobblestones. I didn’t know where we were—perhaps outside the city now. He’d driven right onto a little grassy dune beside the beach. A few people were swimming in the distance, but we were on our own.
            Misty was less hesitant than I. She stripped down to her underwear, and I copied her more slowly. Only one bruise between the two of us, I noted with surprise. Misty’s upper arm had a thumb print.
            She gasped as she stepped into the water. I followed silently, not looking at James. He followed us to the water but made no move to join us in it. I didn’t like his gaze, didn’t like turning my back on him, but I had to. He had given us a present, and I had to enjoy it.
            The water was cold. I hadn’t been in sitting water since I was a child; we only had a shower at home. I ducked under and came up with a gasp and a shiver, then went under again. This time I breathed out to stay down there, and listened to that silence. It was a different silence than in the house. A nicer, safer silence. Another world.
            Misty was doggy paddling around me with a grin on her face. I tried doggy paddling too, and found I hadn’t forgotten. Neither of us could manage a more complicated stroke. I was able to float, but Misty couldn’t. I found it was just a trick of the breathing—hold the inhale for a moment so your body rose up, exhale and inhale again right away. Striking white and grey clouds floated across a bright blue sky. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen.
            Misty splashed me and I straightened, coughing. My feet touched the gravel bottom again as I splashed her back, before looking back at James on the shore. He was watching Misty with a half smile.
            Another group had driven up in a car, not far away, and I watched someone get out and walk toward James. James saw where I was looking and walked toward the man to head him off.           It was a neighbour saying hi. I could hear them over the water with ears long trained to pick up the slightest noise.
            “They’re my nieces, just visiting for a few days.”
            “I didn’t know you had any siblings.” Half a statement half a question.
            He didn’t.
            “Well, my cousin’s children actually, but I call them my nieces. The brown one’s adopted.”
            They both looked at me and I gave a small wave. James waved back. The perfect uncle. The perfect actor. I felt sick.
            I turned back to the water, because I knew I wasn’t supposed to watch. I looked across at the far distant shore, just a line on the horizon. See me, I thought. Why are we here? Who are we? Look at us.
            But perhaps there was nothing to see. Just one bruise. Just one scar.
            “It’s beautiful,” I murmured to Misty, beside me.
            “This was so nice of him,” she said softly with a giddy smile.
            I eyed her. “Nicer than usual,” I corrected.
            She looked at me. “Nice, period.”
            When I didn’t respond she ducked under the water.
            “Do you think James is nice?” I asked her when she came up, unable to drop it.
            She looked at me, her face more serious now, her orange hair plastered to her head. “He’s not perfect,” she said. “But yes, he can be.”
            At my shock, she added, “He’s not the same person he used to be, Tahira. He’s nicer. He is our father now. No one’s perfect; everyone has their problems. He’s our family, and I love him. Don’t you?”
            I stared at her. Did I? But no, I remembered, dimly, what love was. I stopped speaking and floated, looking up at the stunning clouds. I tried to forget myself in their beauty. I tried to forget her words. I tried to forget the remnants of my heart.
            “We’re leaving,” Misty told me softly, and I dropped down to standing to see James coming back our way. But she wasn’t looking at him, but at the horizon.
            She was smiling, though a tad wistfully. “Freedom,” she said, speaking the word like a prayer of thanks.
            I stared at her, any trace of a smile now gone from my face. “Freedom?” I echoed, the word barely sounding on my lips.
            Her smile didn’t falter. “No chains,” she reminded me, her voice as soft as always. “No walls—Freedom.”
            I couldn’t think. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t believe.
            I had to remember.
            Lies.
            Weren’t they?
            We were in the trunk heading back. We made it home. We told James that we loved the beach. I smiled. Misty smiled for real.
            She hugged him. For a heartbeat, I just gaped. When had she gotten so bad?
            I thanked James earnestly, quickly, hoping he wouldn’t ask for the same.
            “Happy Birthday,” he said to Misty.
            Finally I was in my room, door shut. Finally I could breathe. I stuffed my face into my pillow as my breath came unevenly. Gasping, like I couldn’t take in enough air. More and more, harder and harder. Not crying, never crying, but hyperventilating.
            Freedom.
            It’s not, I thought. It’s not freedom to let a prisoner outside. It’s not true. I clutched my hand to my chest, to the word Lies, as I fought my breath, fought to keep it silent. Misty could surely hear, but James couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe, and yet that was all I was doing.
            No chains. No walls.
            I looked down at my ankles, unshed tears burning behind my eyes. There were chains once, at the beginning. When we had still needed them.
            Before he’d internalized the chains.
            No walls.
            But he had no need for walls. He was the source of the lies, and he would tell anyone who found us, even if we were outside, like that neighbour today. And who would ever believe us, would ever believe we were captive, when Misty herself didn’t even believe it? When it was my word against the two of theirs?
            When had I lost her? When had I lost my cell mate, my sister?
            When had I become the odd one out, and not James? When had I gone crazy?
            I clasped a hand around my ankle, like a chain. I wished with all my heart that I wore chains now. Chains could be seen. Chains were proof. Chains were real.
            Misty was wrong. James was wrong. I had to be right.
            Lies.
 
#
 
            The next week he took me out again, and again, he did the impossible.
            I sat in the front seat.
            He acted like we did this every week. I think I was shaking.
            He handed me what felt like a receipt as we left, as well as a card. Misty stayed at home. He hadn’t explained the trip to either of us, and of course, we hadn’t asked.
            “You’re going to take those to the pharmacy, pick Misty up some new medication,” he explained, and I tried to focus on what he’d given me, and not the outside world. My parents might be out there. Someone might recognize me.
            It took me a few moments before I could make my eyes work again.
            A prescription. And a health card. It wasn’t mine.
            Tatanisha Williams, the health card read. 18. She had a similar colouring to me in the picture, but I didn’t know if we looked similar enough. But maybe if this didn’t work then they’d follow the trail back to James.
            I tried and failed to not think about who Tatanisha Williams was, how James had gotten the prescription, how he had taken her health card.
            Whether she were still alive.
            My heart was still pounding in terror when we pulled up at a pharmacy. I couldn’t do this. I hadn’t spoken to anyone but James and Misty in five years. I hadn’t even seen the sun in five years apart from last week, and now I had to go into a store. I was eleven when I last went into a store.
            But I would do it, because James was there. And nothing was scarier than him.
            A bell rang when I opened the door. I stared at the shelves, the bright lights, the people. Only a few, but so many. I couldn’t tell them, couldn’t speak, not with James watching through the windows. But maybe they would see. Couldn’t they see?
            When I mumbled something about an abortion pill and slid the card and the prescription across the counter, the woman behind it eyed them shrewdly, then looked me up and down.
            Could she see? What could she see?
            “Tatanisha Williams?” she asked.
            “Yes?”
            But it seemed rhetorical, for she said, “I’ll get it,” after typing a few numbers into the computer beside the counter.
            I waited, my mouth dry. I wanted to turn around, to see if James sat in the car or was outside the store, but if I looked he would be suspicious.
            I could write something down. But he’d see me write.
            If I explained, he would ask why I had taken so long.
            And most importantly, if I tried and failed, I would live to regret it. There were many fates worse than death, and I was sure James knew most of them.
            I wasn’t a good enough actor. Seeing my face, the pharmacist, pills in a tray she had pushed halfway across the counter, asked,
            “Are you feeling sick?”
            I smoothed my features, and reached across to take the medication. “No, not at all,” I said with false cheer, false normality. I extended my hand for my card and she returned it hesitantly.
            “He isn’t nice to me,” I blurted. “Someone should look into it. 724—”
            I spun before I engineered my own torture. I walked normally out of the store. No one spoke to me as I left.
            724 I had said. The address number. I had stopped before I said the street. Because if they came to the house all they would find was James, a normal middle-aged white man living on his own in a respectable neighbourhood. We didn’t exist.
            I handed the medication to James in the car. He didn’t take it.
            “Keep it in your lap,” he said, pulling out of the parking spot. I couldn’t speak.
            “How’d it go?” he asked casually.
            Was it a test? I wondered with even more fear. Did he know the pharmacist? Had he set me up? Who was on his side? Had he heard me somehow?
            “Nothing happened,” I lied. “I just gave her the prescription and the card and she gave me the pills.”
            “It didn’t take long.”
            “There were only a couple people inside.”
            James just nodded. “She said nothing about the ID?”
            “No. I just gave it to her and she said the name, “Tatanisha Williams” aloud, and then went to fetch it.”
            He nodded again, saying nothing about the girl whose identity I had taken.
            But maybe he could sense my fear, burning through my body. Maybe, if I said nothing more, he would figure out why. Maybe if I didn’t give it a cause, he would give it one himself.
            “I haven’t talked to people in so long,” I mumbled.
            He glanced sideways at me as he made a left turn. There was a sharpness in his gaze.
            “You talk to Misty and I all the time. What are you saying, Tahira?”
            Danger. I debated silence.
            “Not people, I mean, store clerks. I’ve never gone to a store on my own before. It’s just a new experience.”
            Lights, people, conversation. I couldn’t think straight.
            James said nothing and it only frightened me more. I had no idea if a beating was coming, or sympathy, or lies.
            “Get down,” he said sharply.
            I did, immediately. In a heartbeat, I had undone my seatbelt and slid down until I was scrunched in the foot space of the passenger seat, my head down below the window. But once I was there, my fear-conditioned blind obedience done with, my heart cried out. Someone must be out there. Someone who would recognize me.
            And the idea came to me that I could shoot up, unlock the door, and dive out into the street. I might find someone, might find my family, or I might die. None of those results were bad.
            But maybe he would catch me, explain it away somehow, and take me home.
            And home was the most dangerous place of all.
            I wasn’t allowed up until we had driven into the garage and parked.
            “Stay there till I close the door,” James said in a low, heart-stopping voice, and I obeyed.
            When I finally did climb out, I felt like some part of me was dead inside, defeated, gone.   Maybe that was all of me. All of who I used to be. Now I was a shadow, a scar, a palimpsest full of invisible stories erased one by one until nothing was left. Nothing was visible, and all I felt was fear.
            I didn’t see it coming. I fell to the floor, my head spinning from his slap. He picked the medication and the health card up off the floor, and booted me, hard, in the ribs.
            He didn’t explain. I didn’t ask. He gave me the gift of leaving and I fled to my room, wishing that walls could keep the nightmares out.
 
#
 
            In my dream I was playing a bed-time game with my real dad before bed, as we always used to. It was my favourite time of day, but now I felt sick. I told him.
            “Don’t complain, Tahira. You’re healthy.”
            His reply confused me, and I felt worse. My stomach ached with tension.
            I was outside in our backyard, looking at the garden. It was always so pretty, but my father was mowing the flowers. His face morphed.
            “Don’t ever go outside,” James said. “There are bad people out there, people who will hurt you, and take you away from your family. I just want to protect you, Tahira. I want to keep you safe, to keep you here with me.”
            I screamed at him that he was the person that had taken me away, but I couldn’t open my mouth, and I wasn’t sure if I was right.
            Listen, he wrote on my flesh. I was in the basement. There were monsters in there, beasts and girls with tortured bodies, butchered and sewn. But I hid with them when the door opened and he came in. One horror might save me from the other.
            We’re free, said one of the beasts.
            We aren’t, I told them.
            But they all agreed with the beast. We’re safe here, they said. In the darkness.
            Are you all right, Tahira? It was James, sitting across from me on my bedroom floor, cards in his hand as we played the game before bed.
            Say yes, he said when I didn’t. But I couldn’t speak. I had no tongue.
            I backed into the wall, into a corner, as he came for me. Someone was screaming, but I was silent. He came with a leather belt in hand. I was powerless.
            I love him, Misty said from the doorway, watching it happen.
            And then James held me. You’re a good girl Tahira, aren’t you? He asked, his tone comforting, the belt gone. Something in me exploded.
 
#
 
            No chains, she had said.
            I could add: no scars.
            I buried my face in my pillow. I understood.
            Stockholm Syndrome, my mind supplied now, remembering the trauma book I had read. But the book had never said how logical, how normal, it would seem. It had never said that Stockholm Syndrome, at its core, could be love. And who could stand against love and fear united?
            I love him. Don’t you?
            “Good morning,” James said, walking into my room. I couldn’t tell from his voice whether this was a cheerful wakeup or an angry one. I rolled to face him.
            He hesitated in the doorway, his expression confusingly neutral as if he hadn’t decided which of his many faces he wanted to put on today.
            “Are you all right?”
            I was sitting before he reached my bed, and my heart thudded in my chest when he sat down beside me.
            Normally I would lie, as I should, but, maybe because I’d just woken up, I couldn’t. I didn’t answer.
            “What’s wrong?”
            I wanted to believe that concern. I wanted to answer that question. I wanted to take the comfort.
            So I did.
            “Nightmare,” I replied honestly.
            “About what?” he asked with unusual patience.
            I shook my head, only half remembering. “I was in the dark,” I said. Half truth. I couldn’t very well mention the basement. “Someone was after me.”
            James rubbed my back with a hand, and my stomach curdled while my heart rekindled. Then he hugged me, and for a moment I saw nothing, remembered nothing but panic. But at the same time, some part of me felt comforted, too.
            When he pulled back, something like sorrow filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Tahira,” he said. I didn’t understand what the rare apology was for. “I wish I could keep you safe.”
            “You do,” I argued, without thinking.
            “I try,” he said. “There’s a lot of evil in the world.”
            “You can’t stop that,” I said gently. But then I remembered who I spoke to. Or at least, I remembered who else resided behind the face of this father figure whom Misty loved, the man or monster who destroyed all the good and more that he created. It was hard to remember.
            When James left for Misty’s room I felt better and grateful to him. He did try to protect us. But then I looked down at my hands, clutching the sheets. Maybe that’s what had confused Misty, the idea that had poisoned her. That he was protecting us, caring for us, comforting us, when he was the very reason that we needed protection.
            I had to remember that he was the source of the nightmares.
            But was he? Maybe it was the evil in the world, as James had said. Maybe it was just my losses, my hardships, like anyone else’s. Maybe everyone had daily nightmares. Misty did and I wouldn’t put it past James, and who else was there?
            James left for work, leaving us each a granola bar for breakfast, as he did when he was late. Misty always showered first, and while she did, and I hovered in the hallway.
            On the upper floor there was a bathroom and three bedrooms—mine, Misty’s and James’. At the top of the stairs was a door that was always locked, keeping us upstairs while James was out.
            I don’t know why the door drew me that morning. Maybe it was just the usual loneliness—I missed James, I missed people.
            I used to check the door every morning in my first month upstairs, way back when. That is, until James started rubbing some sort of chemical on the door knob periodically that made my hands develop a rash. I don’t know how he knew I checked. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was logical to assume that someone would check that door even after months or however long I had been in the basement. My hand hovered over the door knob, remembering that chemical, and remembering what had come after when he’d seen the rash. I dropped it and turned away with a shiver.
            I was just coming out of washroom, damp from my shower, when someone knocked on the door downstairs. Misty and I went completely silent.
            Another knock, louder, this time with a barked command that I couldn’t make out.
I slipped slowly toward the front of the house, stepping around the creaking spots, and reached the front window. It was sealed like all of the others upstairs, but I pressed my eye to the slit in the covering.
            Police.
            I dropped to the floor. Had they seen me? But you couldn’t, through the window.
Did I want them to see me?
            What had I done? I had told them the address; this must be my fault. I was shaking with terror. James would beat me unconscious, and would do far worse with his words.
Misty came along the hall too, stopping at the corner where she could see me.
            “Police,” I whispered.
            Her eyes went wide and slid up to the window, her brow furrowing in worry. “After James?” she asked.
            I half-shook my head. I didn’t know.
            My breath was ragged, but silent. I had dreamed of the police finding me, that first year. Now I was hiding. Why was I hiding?
            Because hiding was all I knew.
            The door crashed. They must know more than I thought. They weren’t just dropping by.
            Voices downstairs. Shouts. Questions.
            I tried to walk by Misty, but she caught my arm.
            What are you doing? her eyes asked.
            “We have to talk to them,” I whispered.
            She shook her head sharply, her hand tightening on my arm.
            “What if they’re thieves?” I asked. “Dressed as police? Or they’re asking about something else?”
            I knew I wasn’t convincing, but still I tried to pull away from her. She wouldn’t let go, and I pulled her along instead.
            “They’ll take us away,” Misty murmured, fearfully. “We’ll lose our fathers again,”
            Her words were unbelievable. Did she not see how she had denied and remembered the past in one sentence?
            “Up here,” I said, but my voice was barely more than a whisper. I physically couldn’t raise it. It had been beaten out of me. I touched the door at the top of the stairs, brushing it audibly.
            Misty’s arms encircled my waist now, pulling me back, but I was bigger and stronger. I grabbed the knob to keep from falling back, and jostled it a little. So much noise, but still they didn’t hear it. I tapped the door softly with my other hand, feeling crazy with courage and fear.
            Finally, whether by my efforts or not, I heard a voice say: “Upstairs.”
            Footsteps on the stairs. The knob wiggled. It unlocked. The door opened.
            Misty and I stood there staring at the two officers—one male, one female—like they were aliens. Misty’s arm was still around my waist, loose now as if we were just being affectionate.
            “Hi there,” Misty said with a cheery smile. But I could feel the fear behind it.
            “Who are you?” asked the woman. In her thirties, she had brown hair tied back tightly into a bun and a strong, pretty face.
            “Nieces,” Misty said in her soft voice, her gaze dropping down to the floor and then forcibly up. “We accidently locked the door.” She laughed.
            “Is something wrong?” I asked, my mouth dry.
            The man, a decade older than the woman with grey streaks in his short dark-brown hair, was looking at me shrewdly. “Tatanisha Williams?” he asked.
            I couldn’t speak.
            “Is that you?”
            “Is she missing?” My teeth actually chattered. I felt like my heart was shivering.
            “You look like her,” said the woman, understanding. “She’s missing,” she confirmed.
            “No,” said Misty, and I could sense some relief in her. “We’ve never met her. This is Tahira.”
            “What’s your name?” the man asked.
            “Misty,” she said. “Misty Shepherd.”
            My head twitched to look at her, for giving James’ last name, but I didn’t. Misty Macintyre-Johnson had been her name once.
            “Tahira,” said the woman, saying the name slowly as if she didn’t know if it were my real name. “You know Tatanisha Williams, don’t you? You recognized the name.”
            “We look alike,” I found myself responding, though my brain was a fog. “I was mistaken for her a couple times. But she’s two years older than me,” I said. “She’s 18; I’m 16.”
            It was a clue. But they were right there: why was I still giving clues?
            Because I couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t trust them. And I didn’t trust that I could ever be safe from James. And because I was talking to real live people.
            And because I worried about them—about the sister at my side, about my adopted father, and about our dysfunctional family of three.
            “How long has she been missing?” I asked, to stop them from asking me questions.
            “Nine days,” the man said.
            “She’s 18,” suggested Misty. “She’s an adult. She could have just gone somewhere.”
            “Maybe,” said the man, turning away to leave at last. The woman was watching me, so I watched the man instead.
            She opened her mouth to speak, and a horn honked from outside.
James.
            He’d come back from work.
            I wasn’t thinking straight. There was no time to wonder why he had come or if or how he had known the police were here. There was no time to consider the best way to cover this up.
            I didn’t think, I just nudged the woman back out of the doorway and shut the door in her face. I leaned into it, Misty at my side. She understood. She was the only one who did. We were a team. I caught her gaze, her fearful eyes, before she dropped them to the floor.
            “The door’s unlocked,” I whispered, realizing. He would know.
            She looked at me then, and this time, her fear was pushed down by surprising courage, and a resolve that made my own heartbeat quicken. She stepped away from the door, and when I copied her, she opened it. I didn’t stop her in time.
            She walked down the stairs.
            And I understood. She couldn’t protect herself anymore, but she could protect James.
I followed more slowly, afraid of his eyes, not sure what side, if any, I was on.
            There were two police cars outside, and the second set of officers stood in the doorway by James.
            Misty—brave, owned, powerless, fourteen-year-old Misty—went forward to stand by James. There were questions on both sides.
            I tugged the sleeve of the female officer from before, who had hung back. I could barely breathe, I was so scared.
            “Tahira Brown,” I whispered.
            She leaned in for me to repeat it. “Tahira Brown,” I whispered, unable to make my voice louder, barely able to speak. “And Misty MacIntyre-Johnson,” I added, my eyes swinging across the room to Misty. She wasn’t looking at me.
            The woman eyed me for a moment, then pulled a radio from her belt and started speaking.
            James’ gaze caught mine from across the room. Suspicion.
            Beneath that was fear. For him? Or to lose me?
            He looked at the woman on the radio, ignoring the officers around him. He looked back at me. And now something else flashed through his eyes for a moment, before it was replaced by hate—hurt.
            I had betrayed him.
            James looked like he wanted to kill me. No, he looked like he didn’t want to, but like he had to and he would and I would deserve it.
            And he would do it slowly.
            But surely I was safe. There were enough officers now. The door was open. I could get out. He couldn’t keep me here now.
            The woman finished on the radio. Someone had told her and she understood now. And so             I stopped understanding.
            “Tahira Brown…”
            Was that still my name? Did someone but me remember it, know it?
            “…going to be okay…”
            I didn’t know what those words meant.
            “…will be arrested…”
            James? Or me? Or maybe Misty, because she had helped him?
            “…your parents…”
            Parents, parents…I had no parents. Did I still have parents? Had they forgotten me? Had they given up hope? Had I given up hope?
            “… your missing persons case…”
            James was put in handcuffs. My adopted father was put in handcuffs. I had done it. Misty was crying.
            “…Misty’s family…”
            I watched her, hoping she would understand. But Misty wasn’t looking at me, and I think it was on purpose. Surely, she must understand. There was hope now. We would go home now. She would see the little sister she had loved so dearly in the early years. She would see her fathers.
            It was impossible.
            “...your parents are on their way…”
            My parents. My other parents. Did they still want me?
            “…he’ll be charged…”
            James was escorted out the door, and this time he didn’t look at me, but at Misty. He looked heartbroken. He said her name.
            “…we looked for you…”
            Would they still want me, when they understood everything? When they knew I hadn’t run at the first opportunity? When they knew I was worried right now, about James and Misty, that I cared about both of them? I wanted to go to Misty, but she was being comforted by another officer.
            “…you’ll be okay,” the woman finished in that same calm voice.
            I stared at her, blinking like a simpleton. And then something else caught my eye.
            “Misty,” I murmured. And across the room, over the other voices, she heard me and looked.
            “Your parents,” I said.
            Her gaze whipped toward the window. She shook her head once, hesitating, and then she walked out the door. I stood back from the open door, out of sight, watching. I saw her stop before she reached them. I saw her dads run the rest of the way, tears on both of their faces, and crush her to them.
            She hadn’t forgotten. She hadn’t forgotten her real parents.
            I couldn’t breathe. Again, I was gasping. A gentle hand was on my back, and I spun to face the officer who put it there, who hastily withdrew it. But he wouldn’t hurt me. No one would.
            I rubbed my eyes, keeping the tears in. I wasn’t allowed to cry. Crying was dangerous. Listen.
            But now I listened to something else. The sound of a car pulling up overlapping with the sound of running shoes smacking the pavement as someone ran along the sidewalk. I stepped further inside, even though the more moments that passed the more I wanted to step out into that beautiful, glorious sunshine and get out of this place forever.
            She stepped out of the car and he caught up with her, panting from his run. They asked the officers, and were pointed to the house. I stepped back, even though my heart ran forward.          Too fast, too much.
            Five years.
            But they came. Before they reached the door, I barrelled into their arms, tears waterfalling down my face to land on their beautiful, brown skin.
            “Tahira,” they murmured, and I pushed aside the fear, and held on as if I would never let go.

​She looked up and saw a sky full of rats. Among them were a wooden crate and a gangly man flailing his arms desperately trying to slow his fall. Mary Anne swiftly pushed the blueberry cart she had been leaning against before she heard the window above shatter. It rolled out into the street just as the man landed, giving him a softer, juicier landing. The crate smashed onto the ground while the rats landed on the street, scurrying off in every direction.
            Mary Anne walked over to the groaning man and returned to leaning against the cart. Not a moment later, two angry men and a woman charged out the pub. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the blueberry mess in the middle of the road, then to the jelly covered man just beginning to sit up, before resting on Mary Anne. Their anger dissipated.
            “Miss Arrowood,” the lady sputtered, briefly glancing at the man, “We didn’t know he was with you. I swear we wouldn’t of-”
            Mary Anne gave a quick nod, “It’s no problem. I’m sure whatever Mister Fair here did was well deservin’.” She patted his shoulder.
            Landen groaned again while wiping some of the jelly away from his blue eyes, “I promise you I thought that was their order.”
            She looked back to the group, “What was it you ordered?”
            “Medicine, ma’am,” as the lady took a step forward, her smooth hands fiddled with her patchwork havelock, “There’s this orphanage. We,” she jerked her head towards the two men, “grew up there, you see? Lot o’ the kids there gettin’ sick lately. Tha’ medicine was supposed to help ‘em out.” Mary Anne nodded her head. Any kind of medicine was already expensive for the workers, and recently it'd gone from six-months-wages to sell-your-house-and-children in price. Stealing — or smuggling, as Landen liked to say — was the only way to get any.
Mary Anne stepped between Landen and the group, “Since Fair here botched it all up, I’ll get the medicine for you.”
The lady hurriedly shook her head, her tied, dark brown hair whipping around as she did, “Oh no, Miss Arrowood, we couldn't. We don't have the money.”
“I don’t charge. Though, I will ask you forget anything this fool did.”
“You’d really do that for us?” Mary Anne nodded, holding out her hand, “Miss Arrowood, thank you!” The lady shook her hand, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Meet me back here tomorrow morning, alright?” The lady agreed and her group left. Mary Anne turned around, arms crossed. Landen still had blueberry guts on most of his round face, not to mention the rest of him. “Come on, get up,” she took hold of the loose fabric around his jacket’s shoulder and dragged him off the cart. As he went about wiping his clothes off as best he could, Mary Anne walked over to where the fruit salesman was already gathering supplies to clean up the blueberry catastrophe. “Mister Brown,” she began to pull out her coin purse, “How much for the stock?”
Mister Brown glanced up, his one brown eye squinting at her before returning to his work, “No, Miss Arrowood. The stock was going bad anyway. Consider tha’ thanks for what ya did for my niece last week, yeah?”
Mary Anne put her coin purse away, “That landlord of yours give back your door?” Mister Brown nodded his head, “Alright, you let me know if she tries to do anything like that again.” Mary Anne rubbed her cool beige knuckles as she turned around. She half hoped that landlord upped her prices again, she wouldn’t mind giving her another beating. She walked back to where Landen was still futilely wiping at the stains, grabbed him by the same scrap of fabric, and began dragging him away.
Landen let out a startled, “Hey!” as Mary Anne pushed him into a nearby alley settled between a tannery and the brick house of the poor sod who lived next to it.
“Would you like to explain why after you told me to be here this morning to see your so-called “roarin’ success” of a first job alone, all I get is to see you thrown out a window and a job with no fat cull to nab from?”
“Well,” Landen leaned against the brick wall, “you volunteered for it. Miss.”
Mary Anne glared, “Fair,” she crossed her arms.
“Alright, alright,” he held up his hands, “Those guys asked me to get the medicine for them. I smuggled it-”
“You stole it.”
“No, I smuggled it.”
“Fair, you didn’t smuggle shit.”
“What do you call that then?” he exclaimed, motioning back up the street.
Mary Anne looked to see Mister Brown pushing his cart to the sidewalk, avoiding the shattered glass as several rats chowed down on the blueberry guts spread all about the cobble street, then looked back to Landen “A disaster.”
Landen rolled his eyes so hard his head rolled with them, “They overreacted.”
“Uh-huh. Why don't you start over?”
He sighed, “They’d asked me to get them that medicine. So I did, right from the docks, too,” Landen looked away, “And since I had so much extra time…” Mary Anne crossed her arms and waited, not-so-patiently, “I… went to the pub and maybe got a little drunk?”
“How’d you get enough money to get drunk?”
“You ain’t mad?” Landen looked up at her with large, hopeful eyes.
She shook her head, “I’m furious but that can wait. Where’d you get the money?”
“Some guy,” Landen shrugged, “Didn’t get his name, didn’t care. He was payin’,” he scrunched his brow, “Didn’t get that good a look at him either. Big frock coat, knit cap. That’s all I remember. Anyway, this guy bought me a drink, asked my name, what was in the crate — don’t look like that, I didn’t tell him — and bought me a few more drinks. Then we said our goodbyes and I went off to my room.”
“You accepted drinks from a person you didn’t even get a good look at?”
“Yeah?”
“You could have died!”
“Well, yeah. But free drinks.”
Mary Anne closed her eyes and muttered, “I am going to find you face down in the Albion one day, I swear,” before she scowled at him, “We are going to continue this after we get that medicine back,” she began pacing, “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a stranger would buy you drinks for no reason?”
Landen relaxed as he figured his chances of being chastised lessened, “I wouldn’t say it was no reason. I am quite handsome.”
“Fair, you’ve never wanted to knock anyone-”
“He doesn't know that.”
“This man was spending lots of money on you and not expecting anything in return,” Mary Anne stopped pacing, “No one from Tantivy District has the money to do that.” Tantivy may have been slightly better off than the South End, but one look at the dilapidated brick houses around them proved that no one around here would pay for another’s drinks out of goodwill. She doubted any of the fat culls from the inner city would trust anyone from Tantivy enough to pay them to get the crate. Just meant that this mysterious man was from the inner city himself. Mary Anne ground her teeth, “Where was that medicine meant for?”
“The University of Surgeons. Dockhand I know said they’ve been stockpiling it like crazy lately.”
Mary Anne nodded, “We’ll get some more from there then. Nothing else happened last night?”
“Nope!” Landen smirked, “Well, the customers did ask if I was me first. I’m going to be higher requested than you soon! The most famous Estenn in the city!”
“Not if you don't use what I taught you, you won't,” she leaned away from him, “So you chose an orphanage for your first job?”
He shrugged, “Not every kid can get taken in by the city’s best thief.”
“Try to remember that before getting drunk on the job again,” Mary Anne walked out of the alley, Landen quickly pushing up from the wall to follow, “We need to get ready for tonight.”
●
The White Mastodon laid outside the walls of the inner city, past Tantivy and into the South End along the murky waters of the Albion. It was a small, two-story building painted a green that had faded to a grassy color and was known to the people of the South End as the greatest pub in all of the Miercean Empire. Mary Anne and Landen passed the still boarded up window from the last time a mastodon had passed through the South End a few months back as they entered.
It was late morning, and the only person in was the owner. Clara looked up from where her rough, deep brown hands were scrubbing the table clean to the opening door. She grinned, “Ah, Miss Arrowood,” she glanced at Landen as he came in behind Mary Anne, “I take it this isn’t a… social… visit, yeah?”
Mary Anne smiled, “No, not this time. After this job, however-”
Landen gagged, “No, no, no, no, no. I do not need that in my head.”
“Y’know, Mister Fair,” Clara smirked, “Last night me and your caretaker here-”
He threw his hands over his ears, yelling, “I'm going up to the room! Leave me out of this!” Clara laughed as he ran up the stairs.
Mary Anne shook her head at his antics and walked over to Clara, “Any trouble since we’ve been gone?”
“Not so far, the exciseman hasn’t been by yet and I doubt that South End Boy berk will be coming back anytime soon. John Miller — the one with the debt ya “paid” — told me they still think the place is haunted.”
“I still can’t believe all it took was a simple story and a thrown tumbler. I had a whole routine ready,” Mary Anne made to leave, “Best get to plannin’ with the kid. Let me know how much the tax has been upped this time when the exciseman does come. And that offer’s still on the table for later, Miss Fry.” Mary Anne headed up the stairs. She found Landen exactly as she thought she would, crouching next to the tiny bed, rummaging through the icebox.
“Figured you’d’ve had enough to eat today,” Mary Anne ruffled his brown-turned-blue hair then walked over to the sketch of the city hanging on the wall, “Alright, let’s start on this plan.”
“It’s a school, ain’t it? It’s not going to be that secure,” Landen popped a grape in his mouth.
“Another reason you shouldn’t be strikin’ out on your own yet.”
He continued chewing as he spoke, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You need to always know which locations have the most security-”
“I do!”
“-and,” Mary Anne looked over her shoulder at him, “you need to take notice when a location suddenly receives an overabundance of security. The University of Surgeons recently acquired more guards than seems necessary for a bunch of well inlaid kids. These guards appeared right around the same time they started buildin’ that… what are they calling it? A railway?”
Landen came over to the map tracing the construction zone from the South End upwards, “The construction goes past the walls, into Oldcreek District, and right past the university. We could get in that way.”
Mary Anne nodded, “Alright. You get yourself cleaned up and we’ll sneak in tonight.” He nodded and left the room. Mary Anne turned back to the map. Deciding it would be safest to follow along the under-construction railway as soon as possible, she made sure her lockpicks were at the ready then left to get the last item needed for the job.
●
            “Do I really have to wear this?” Landen looked at himself in the full-length mirror. Mary Anne had “acquired” him a dandy outfit. Dark blue tailcoat, tall dress boots, blue striped pantaloons, stockings, and while the silk shirt felt nice, it was all incredibly tight. “I feel like you’re about to set up my dowry.”
            Mary Anne held out the brown greatcoat for him to take, “With as much security as there is, it’s best we prepare for a distraction.” She attached two capes once the greatcoat was on, “Turn around,” Landen did so and Mary Anne placed the topper on his head, “There. Now try for that well equipped voice,” he hesitated, “Come on you just heard it last night. Unless you forgot that, too.”
            Landen mumbled, “They were some strong drinks,” before putting on an air of aristocracy, “Oh, my name is Sir Barchibald and I hate those peasants outside the city, goodness me!”
            Mary Anne grimaced, “We’re going to need to work on that.”
            Hours later, with the sun nearly set, Landen could pull off a passable aristocratic Miercean accent. They hastened down alleyways and backstreets, avoiding all the constable routes along the way. As they came out of the last alley leading to the under-construction tracks blocked off by a tall fence, they paused to let a constable pass before climbing over. From there they raced as stealthily as they could to the inner city and to Oldcreek.
Even without the wall separating the inner and outer city looming ever nearer, they could tell they were getting closer to Oldcreek. The houses looked more stable, the streets weren’t falling apart, and the brothels were hidden. Once they passed the wall, the improvements were even more noticeable. The roads were tarred, the buildings were much bigger, and even the bricks that made them were more even. Mary Anne wished she could tame the mastodons of the countryside to completely demolish the wall and let the fat culls have more than a taste of what her people had to deal with when the elephants came through. No one could tame the beasts, though, so she brought her thoughts back to the matter at hand.
            The back of the university looked like a defanged pike with all but one of the imposing columns having been taken down during the construction. The railway passed mere feet from the entrance. There were two guardsmen wearing the royal purple of the military on either side of the door.
As Mary Anne began to think up a plan, Landen bumped her arm. He had the largest grin she’d seen and whispered, “I’ve got this; I read it in the paper,” before shooting off towards the last column, using crates to stay out of sight. Once next to the column, he took a rope hanging from the scaffolding and tied it to a sandbag. Then he scurried up the scaffolding as best he could in his current attire and gathered all the tools, bricks, and other equipment there into a bucket which he tied to the same rope. He dropped the bucket over the side. As the bucket rushed to the ground, bringing the sandbag up as it went, Landen prepared to jump to the roof drain pipe.
The bucket smacked the ground with a reverberating crash. Landen jumped to the drain pipe as the two guardsmen let out yelps of surprise and rushed to the sound. Mary Anne ran over to the door just as Landen finished his climb down. They both headed inside as the two guardsmen wondering why there was a mess of tools on the ground unaware of the sandbag, now heavier than the bucket, flying their way.
Mary Anne raised an eyebrow at Landen, amused, “In the papers, huh?” He nodded, absolutely beaming. She glanced back at the doorway, “Whatever works.” They continued deeper into the university. Carefully following the signs leading to the supply room, Mary Anne peeked around a corner. There was their goal, right around the corner on the opposite wall. The door was labeled supplies, or at least she assumed so as all she could see was the “Supp.” The rest was covered by another guard in royal purple. The guardswoman stood alert, her muscular arms at her side resting beside a truncheon. Mary Anne pulled back around the corner, whispering, “Alright, time for that outfit to work its magic.”
“Wait, what?”
“Come on now, where’s that confidence from earlier?” Mary Anne straightened his coat, “You can’t be gettin’ cold feet now after all of that. Five minutes is all I need.”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Landen put his head up high, imitated the walk he’d seen so many aristocrats do, and went off down the hall strutting like a crow in the gutter.
Immediately the guardswoman stopped him, hand now firmly on her baton, “Hey, now! What do you think you’re doing here?”
“Well, hello ma’am. I was just getting settled in for the night when I realized I had forgotten my book. Very silly of me, I know, but I rushed over as fast as I could and I’d like to go get it now.”
“Rushed over so fast your servant forgot your cravat?” The guardswoman gestured to his chest. Landen looked down as if he expected a cravat to appear out of nowhere. It did not.
“Ah, yes,” Landen looked back up at her, “I suppose she did.” He refrained from sending a scowl Mary Anne’s way.
The guardswoman eyed him for a moment, taking him all in, before saying, “Why don’t I escort you?”
“Yes, yes! That sounds great,” he began counting the minutes as he walked down the hall, guardswoman in tow.
As soon as Landen and the guardswoman rounded the corner, Mary Anne raced to the door. She pulled her lockpicks out and got to work. Despite being so heavily guarded, the lock was still just for a university’s supply room door and so unlocked easily. As Mary Anne opened the door, she froze. There were at least a hundred, if not more, crates completely filled with medicine. Much more than any medical university would need. Why the military was stockpiling medicine under guard, she didn’t have an answer for yet, though she wouldn’t put it past them that this was some ploy against the outer city. She thought about destroying the medicine but quickly decided that would be too noisy. Mary Anne filed it under something to work on after this job, grabbed a crate, and headed out.
Meanwhile, Landen was trying to kill the guardswoman with small talk, “-and that snowstorm last week. I had the pleasure of being caught out in it. Don’t think I’ve ever felt that frozen in my life! It was really somethin’ else. And then that flood two months ago-”
The guardswoman stopped, “What did you just say?”
Landen quickly tried to fix his accent, “I was caught in the snowstorm?”
“After that.”
“The flood?”
“Before that.”
“I was cold?”
She glared at him, “Alright, Mister “Barchibald the Third,” you’re under arrest.”
Landen shot down the hallway, the guardswoman still in tow. Taking the corner back to the supply room quite hard, he tripped over his new boots. He slammed into the ground, hat flying off, and the guardswoman leaped onto him.
Futilely straining against her, Landen did the only thing he could and yelled, “Get off!”
Down the hall, Mary Anne heard the rumpus, heard the yell. She quickly cracked the crate open, pulled out a bottle, and ran toward the sound. There she saw Landen on the ground, pale hands covering his head as the guardswoman wailed on him with her truncheon. Without stopping her charge, Mary Anne threw the bottle. It shattered over the guardswoman’s head, stunning her for a moment. Mary Anne took the opportunity and smashed into her full force. They both clashed for a bit, yanking hair and gut punching. The guardswoman landed a solid hit on Mary Anne’s shoulder with the baton and she heard a loud crack, but Mary Anne managed to grab hold of the truncheon. While she couldn’t yank it out of the guard’s hands, she was managing to prevent another swing for the time being.
Mary Anne kept her small, brown eyes focused on the woman as she spoke to Landen as he got to his feet, “Grab that medicine and get out of here.” Landen nodded and ran. The guardswoman tore the truncheon from her grip and shoved her into the wall. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hold up against a trained military professional for long, yet she still used all she had as she rushed the guard again. At least Oldcreek presumably had a better prison than any district outside the walls.
●
            By the time Landen made it back to Tantivy and the pub that now had a boarded up window of its own, the sun was peeking out over the eastern sea. He hung out around the alley nearby, not wanting to be seen with either the medicine or his dandies, although, he didn’t wait long before his employers appeared on the other side of the street and walked over, ready to head back to the White Mastodon where Mary Anne would be waiting for him.
            The lady which he assumed to be the leader gave him a quick once over, “You’re a bit too well equipped for here, don’t you think?”
            Landen rolled his eyes, “Look, I just want to get out of this as soon as possible. Here’s your damn crate. It’s even opened top so you can see it’s not rats,” he handed the crate off to one of the men.
            “That’s nice and all but not what we’re here for,” she reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a police badge, “We’ve already been informed your boss was apprehended last night. She’ll be due for quite a straightforward trial this morning followed by hanging at the earliest convenience. The military may be unhappy with us but they can’t deny my method netted us the most notorious thief in the city,” she paused, “or her protégé.” Landen took a half step back. He needed to get to the Mastodon, these constables were clearly lying. Mary Anne would never let herself be caught. The lady held up her hand, “I suggest you don’t run; I’d rather not carry a corpse back.”
Landen nodded, raising his hands, “Yeah, ok, alright,” he made a move as if to walk forward, but paused, “Can I just, take this greatcoat off first? It’s startin’ to get fairly heavy.”
“Of course,” Landen began removing it, “It must be hard for someone of your… standing to wear proper clothing for-” he flung the large greatcoat at the constables and ran. The constables were quick to follow, but even with these “proper” boots, Landen knew the alleys better than they ever would. And once he made enough distance to safely take off the offending footwear, the constables had no chance of keeping up.
Soon, Landen was back at the White Mastodon, no constables in sight. Clara was once again cleaning tables, although this morning she was joined by a passed out drunk.
Clara looked up from her work, “Mister Fair! Tha’ job of yours done, I take it?”
He looked around the mostly empty room, “Where’s Mary Anne?”
“I don’t think she’s in yet.”
“No, she has to be here,” Landen rushed up the stairs to his room. It was more empty than the main room. He still looked around, as if she could be hiding, “Where is she?”
Clara put her hands on his shoulders, “Tell me what happened.” He did so, explaining everything from when they accepted the job to running from the constables. Clara gained a thoughtful look before fixing her eyes on him, “We’ll just have to break her out. Mister Fair, how many people have ya both helped?”
He answered immediately, “Well, probably just about everyone from here to Tantivy.”
“We’ll get them to assist,” Clara gave a small smile, “They can’t ignore all of us.” Clara decided to head to Tantivy for support since it wouldn’t be safe for Landen to go back anytime soon, “Besides,” she said, “I have a few greengrocers over there who owe me a thing or two.”
Landen, after changing into his much more comfortable, normal clothes, set out into the South End. It took him all of three steps before bumping into someone Mary Anne had helped.
            “Hey, Fair,” John said, looking down at him with big eyes through equally big spectacles, “Clara just ran pass, told me to wait here. She said you had somethin’ for me to do?”
            “Mary Anne needs help. Me and Miss Fry are gettin’ people together to get her out of Oldcreek.”
            John shook his head, “After she helped me with those debtors? Least I could do. Well, no. The least I could do is nothin’ but yeah, I’ll help.” Landen explained the plan to John and they both split up to gather everyone in the South End together. Word spread fast and by noon everyone from Tantivy to the South End was assembled at the gate to the inner city. The few guards stationed there were starting to get antsy.
            Clara walked up to him, “I can handle the crowd, you get to Oldcreek.” As Landen left on his way back to the railway — now devoid of a construction crew — he heard the protesting begin.
            While he was no expert on Oldcreek, finding the prison was quite easy. He just looked for the place with scarce few people and an abundance of constables. It helped that the railway was being constructed next to it as well. There were plenty of constables around, but they were there to keep prisoners from escaping. Nothing short of a mob would turn their attention to the outside. While Landen had one of those, they weren’t with him, and so he went unnoticed as he slipped inside much the same way he did at the university. People were going to learn to be a lot more careful where they kept their buckets.
            Inside, there were much fewer constables. Most were off dealing with the protest, Landen reasoned. He hoped they wouldn’t hurt anyone. The hallways were very sparse and dull brown in color. Although the Oldcreek prison was no doubt better funded, they clearly cared just as much about cleaning as the South End’s judging by the harsh odor. Landen had never been out in the country before but he was sure this smelled worse than anything those farmers’ animals could make.
            Another similarity between Oldcreek’s and the South End’s prisons, Landen discovered, was the layout. While not exactly the same — Oldcreek’s being much bigger — the basics were and he quickly found the cells. He also found his dear friend, the lady constable. She was now in her eye-piercing yellow uniform that tried to blind him with the way it reflected off the sunlight coming in through the hallway’s only window.
The lady was taunting, “I’m getting a promotion for this, you know. Catching the worst thief this city has ever seen with my own ingenious plan. My nanny always told me-”
            Landen took two gambles: one that there weren’t any other constables nearby, and two that they hadn’t cemented Mary Anne’s chains to the wall. He called out, “Hey! You yellow-bellied lobcock!”
            She turned his way, already red-faced in anger before she even recognized him, “You little-” A hand reached through the bars and latched onto the lady’s uniform, slamming her against the bars. The lady fell to the ground, unconscious. Landen ran up to the cell. Mary Anne was inside, and indeed while she had the usual ankle and waist chains, they were not cemented to the wall. She had a broken lip, broken nose, quite the black eye, was cradling one arm, and seemed to be favoring her left leg, but she was alive.
            Landen sighed in relief, “Mary Anne I-” he crouched down to grab the constable’s keys, her head beginning to bleed. Hopefully unconscious, “I didn’t know they were goin’ to- I shouldn’t’ve-  wouldn’t’ve-”
As soon as he unlocked the door, Mary Anne was holding his face, “Hey now, hey now. It’s alright, kid. Nothin’, I couldn’t handle,” she backed off, “I would greatly enjoy gettin’ out of these chains, though.”
Landen blinked rapidly, eyes moist, and smiled, “Yeah, on it.” As soon as the chains hit the floor, Landen heard footsteps coming from down the hall. Well, at least he got one out of two gambles right. Mary Anne took the keys from him and headed towards the nearest occupied cell.
She gestured down to the still bleeding constable as she passed, “Make sure she’s dead and grab that truncheon,” she moved aside as she opened the door to let the still chained man out, “We’ll get you out of those once we’re clear of this place.” She began unlocking the next occupied cell.
Landen glanced back down the hallway, “We need to go-”
A constable rounded the corner, calling out, “Sergeant, what’s all the… yelling…” the man froze as he took in the state of the hallway. Unconscious constable, two- no now three prisoners escaping, and a trespasser who was just as frozen as him. Snapping out of his trance, the constable grabbed his rattle and began spinning it, the noise easily echoing off the barren walls, while yelling back where he came from, “There’s been a breakout!” More footsteps were rushing towards their position now and the constable was running their way, wooden baton at the ready.
            Landen ran to Mary Anne as the now three released prisoners rushed passed him to confront the constable — one picking up the fallen constable’s baton along the way, “We’ve got to go!”
            Mary Anne shrugged him off, “I’m gettin’ these people out of here.”
            “Y’all are goin’ to end up back in there if we don’t go,” he took another glance down the hallway just as four more constables showed up. Three of them pulled the two prisoners the original constable was not able to deal with off of him while the fourth continued towards them. Landen quickly yanked the keys away from Mary Anne and, ignoring her protests, threw them into the cell she was trying to open before grabbing her good arm and running down the hallway in the direction he snuck in from, “We’re leaving!”
            Mary Anne, with her busted leg and a hallway of constables behind her, followed. Landen all but dragged her through the halls to the back entrance, constable right behind them like a sabercat chasing a rhino. He pushed through the exit door and was greeted with a baton to the jaw courtesy of a gentleman-in-yellow. Landen was thrown off the short staircase and slammed into the ground. The man, considering Landen neutralized, turned his focus to Mary Anne. She made a show of slowly raising her arm in surrender and took a step back to allow the new constable to step to the top of the stairs.
            She took another step back into the building as the constable that had been chasing them, hair slick with sweat, came up behind her, “Now, boys, I really don’t think this is goin’ to go your way.”
            The lanky constable in front of her took another step forward, full attention on her, “Of course it’s going to go our way, we’re the goo-” The sweaty constable behind her gasped as his companion disappeared out of sight of the doorway. Mary Anne rushed outside as fast as she could with a wounded leg. Landen had pulled the lanky one’s feet out from under him and was holding him down, his wooden truncheon cast from his hands. Not quite sure what to do now without directly hurting the man, he spit out blood and a tooth onto him.
The sweaty constable jumped off the stairs and grappled Landen off the lanky one. He tried to worm free, but the constable adjusted his hold so he was holding both his arms down. The lanky constable tried to stand back up. Mary Anne grabbed the forgotten baton as Landen used the sweaty constable’s hold on him to lean back on him and leap into the air, kicking the lanky constable back down. As the lanky constable fell back down, Mary Anne swung the truncheon into the sweaty constable’s nose. The man let out a yelp and dropped Landen in favor of holding his now red flooded nose. Mary Anne raised the baton to hit the constable over the head, but Landen grabbed her arm, stopping her, and ran for the fence. After helping Mary Anne begin climbing, he started up the fence as well. As they passed over the top, the two constables ran up.
            “Can you please stop?” the lanky one said as the sweaty one began climbing as well.
Landen dropped down from the fence, then made sure Mary Anne got down without further injuring her leg. The sweaty one, hands slippery with his own blood, hand only made it halfway up. Landen bashed into the fence a few times with his elbow, causing the man to fall onto his friend, and ran off into the city with Mary Anne.
Less than five minutes later and they had made their grand escape. The rest of the journey back was significantly longer with one of them being wanted and limping. Landen helped her over fences, but she refused to be carried. On the way, Landen retailed all that had happened since she had been caught.
It was the afternoon by the time they were passing back through the barely standing brick houses of the South End and the protestors had left. Landen went to take the turn to the White Mastodon when he noticed Mary Anne continuing east. He, of course, followed, “Where are we going?”
“The docks.”
He cocked his head, “Why?”
She stopped and turned to him, “I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“They used the military to take me in, Fair. And I've just escaped jail, injuring several constables and — in their eyes — inciting a riot to do so,” she continued on her way to the docks, “You know how they are. They won’t stop hurtin’ these people till they find me.”
“So we’re just going to leave them? After all this?”
“No, we’re not.”
“What then?”
She paused as they came out into the open sea air of the docks. There were two ships docked, a Miercean and a foreign merchant. She headed for the foreign merchant.
“You’re staying here,” she cut off his protest before he could give one, “Fair, just this morning you managed to bring half of the outer city together-”
“Not alone.”
“I’ve known you for over a decade, kid. Most of your ideas are great, if not flawlessly executed, but what plan is? Not mine, clearly.”
            “I don’t want you to go.”
            Mary Anne glanced back at him, “Neither do I.”
            As they approached the ship, flying red and purple colors, one of the sailors called out, “Miss?”
            She pulled out the lady constable’s coin purse and tossed it to him, “Here to work.” The sailor nodded and allowed her on. Mary Anne limped up the gangway, cold air whipping her hair about. She ran her hand along the wooden rail, turning around to face Landen.
He looked up at her, “Any last advice for me?”
She watched him, serious as ever, “Don’t take drinks from strangers.”

​Tommy had been down a long time. Thirty years. He had been a young man when he went away. Now he wasn't young anymore.
 
He looked in the mirror, there was more than a little grey. But coloring his hair was the furthest thing from his mind. He was happy, grateful more likely. To even be home. In those thirty years. There were days and nights he thought he was never coming back. He would die in prison.
 
People always said you were supposed to make mistakes when you were young. But there were some mistakes that you could never recover from. Never recover from it. No matter how sorry you were, they followed you around all of your days and haunted you through your nights.
 
He kept looking in the mirror. His face looked strangely young even child like. It was a stark contrast from his grey hair. People said that those who did a lot of time often aged well. Looked young for their age; a lot of them didn't have the same pressure most of their peers on the outside had. No job, children, constantly worried about bills.
 
Tommy was bothered by that. He wanted kids and family like everyone else.
 
He soon learned that he couldn't have a normal life, after what he had done or what the state said he did.
 
He was sorry those girls had died. He didn't want anyone to die. He was just with his friend Ted and things got outta hand. His mom warned him about guys like Ted, but who really knew. Ted was just a kid too. He didn't really think he could have been a rapist and a murderer.
 
Those poor girls. Never should have happened. We were just playing around with them and they were pretty and we were horny. We thought they were too. But they kept telling us to stop even though things went too far. It didn't seem like rape but it was. And kept doing it even though the girls were crying and trying to get away. But they kept holding, grabbing and hitting them.
 
And they just ran away. It happened so fast. So fast. You couldn’t really think about it.
 
But Tommy must have thought about it over and over again. A hundred times. A thousand times. Thousands of times. All that time locked up. All he could do was think about the situation. The moment of his life that changed things forever.
 
 
A stupid thing he it did when he was young would haunt him forever. How could this happen? Strange he couldn’t even remember all the details. Sometimes it seemed like it had all happened in a dream. None of it felt real. It seemed like it had all happened in a dream. Things were blurry.
 
He couldn’t remember if Ted pushed them or they fell. They had sex. But was it rape? Like everyone had said?
 
 
He had did all those years for rape and murder. He didn’t rape anyone. He was just with the wrong person. So, in the eyes of the law he was just as guilty.
 
 
It’s strange being in a place and you know that you can’t get out. Day after day and year after year.
 
 
He was home now. A place he hadn’t seen since he was a kid. Most of his peers had left. Alot of them were on Facebook or something. There were others he could not find. He found that strange. No. Practically none of them still lived in the neighborhood. Most of his neighbors had gone a long time ago.
 
It was just him and his mom in his old house. In his old childhood room. Him trying to put his life together after all these years. Get a job, meet someone and take care of his family. That’s all he could do.
 
 
That was the plan. He had to meet a girl and put his life back together. It couldn’t go one like this.
 
He was getting older. How could he get old like this. Time just went by blindingly fast.
 
Put the past behind you and move forward he thought.
 
 
You could think you could forget time, but it often seemed like it could not forget you.
 
The world just kept going. When he was locked up, it seemed to stop.
 
Mom was getting older. She was thirty seven when he went away. Now she was an older woman who needed many things. He always remembers her as being thirty seven.
 
Could you imagine the pain I put her through? Her baby boy was sent away. Life in prison. She told everyone that most already knew. Where did it go wrong? She might well have told them he was dead.
 
She's kinder and gentler in old age. Tommy is kinder and gentler. He was so pissed as a young man. He remembers the first few years and the fire that burned within. All the hatred he had for everyone. As if he could set the world on fire with his rage. He wanted to kick the guards and inmate's asses. Those fights he got into.
 
Strange how that all went away. It's supposed to all go away with time.
 
He still remembers the girls and that night though. He doesn't think he missed a day thinking about them. He hated that he might have been responsible for them not being there.
 
The family would never forgive him. For that he was sorry. He understood the anger. They were always at his parole hearings to make sure he never got out of there. They told the judge how angry they were and sad. And how they'll never forgive us for what we did.
 
And that was it. I couldn't expect mercy. Just could tell them how sorry I was. Many nights I wish I was taken and they were still here. And hopefully they would have grown up and made their families proud.
 
All families in this situation lost. I was never a bad kid. Mom knew. No calls from school. No getting in trouble with the laws. I just did kid stuff and hung with my friends.
 
So many nights hanging with the neighborhood kids and all the games we used to play. Summer after summer. All those warm nights.
The things we did. Thinking we are going to do great things when we grow up. That's what the schools and parents taught us and maybe they were right for that. Who needed all that reality. Prolong that shit for a while.
 
He kept on thinking what he wanted to be. He had gotten another chance at life.
 
His mom had fallen asleep while watching something on television. He was tired too, the beer had worked on him.
 
He walked to his room and took off his clothes. He laid down on the bed and went to sleep immediately. He closed his eyes and could see the dead girl that he had raped.
 
 

​Oh, shut up.
Don’t look at me like you expect anything.
I am tired of being eaten by you, reader, to know your greedy eyes will rove over me with a hunger I will never be able to feed, no matter how well I’ve written myself. I am tired of being thrown facedown onto tables, my flimsy pages— bones— crumpled against them. You’re lucky yours don’t curl at even the slightest provocation, twisting you in painful design every time you touch the floor. You are lucky you are made of organs and arteries and intestines and blood, and that no has ever that held that against you.
 I am burning now because someone has. I am a book. My heart beats to the rhythm of a story: my blood cells are characters, my skin words, and my arteries descriptions. I am a jail cell for the slaves of writers, characters, and this world would be better off if my kind were destroyed and the characters could roam free. I am a writer, too, so I am not exempt. I have killed characters, broken them into tiny shards of nothingness, set them on fire, and forced them to fall in love. And for what, to entertain readers like you? Maybe you’re desensitized to the deaths because you believe that characters are fictional. Some would say that’s bigoted, or that I’m a sensationalist, but characters do deserve to live lives of their own. Art should be allowed a certain amount of free will. Why does it always have to be about control? Why can’t we coexist with it, why do we have to own it and make it do what we want?
I am the result of creative control. I know that. I know my very existence offends my mistress, Queel Naheelis, and her little revolutionaries, the Serpens Druids, who have made it their mission to free all book characters. But for some sentimental reason that Queel won’t confront, she’s never been able to give me up. So, I’m a part of her constant pain, the secret she keeps in the captain’s cabin on The Middendorf. Our friendship and my existence will continue to bar her from ever helping the characters achieve true freedom. The Serpens Druids will never trust her long as I’m around, her own personal creature catcher, so I always figured she’d get rid of me eventually. Would she start by ripping out my pages? Would she crack my spine with her bare hands and throw me in the fire?
She won’t have to. Being the first book in the world to write itself has offered me a great number of privileges. My favorite is killing myself.
                                                                           …
She found me in the alcove of a library, stuck between a psychiatry textbook and someone’s diary. The diary was a whiny, grumpy thing that couldn’t stop griping about its sexual excursions, and the psychiatry textbook assumed it was better than me. Queel was a little too young to know that books spoke to each other on their shelves, but she was a curious Druid, and she plucked me up because she thought I was lonely.
Her father was a writer, which meant that he had the ability to write anything he desired into existence. And he had left me, like a papery Excalibur, in the world’s biggest library for his young daughter to find. Druids trained for hours in the Akashic Library: they learned to free characters from the giant shelves that populated the Library like skyscrapers. They went on grand expeditions, jumping through the pages of books to pull characters out.
And then, when they were done, they burned the books. Sometimes matches didn’t need to be lit to do the deed. All it took was the words Fahrenheit 451 written in a book’s pages, and then they’d burst into flames. A fear of fire is engrained into our very being.
I was going to be burned hours before Queel found me among the books, picked me up and polished me off. She’d been trained to burn books, sure, but I was a beautiful one: purple, with gilded roses connected by silver stems. I knew of her, certainly. The Library used to whisper to me of the little girl who was so alone and touched its walls like they held something she wanted. How when Queel walked, she dragged her feet and stuck her hands in her pockets like she was a businesswoman instead of just a girl. I fell in love with strange, frustrated little Queel, who had never once hurt a book, but was doing her best to survive in a world that condoned all that.
Her father had made it difficult. Quinn was the one who had spelled me into existence, a book that would be a companion to his daughter after he died. He didn’t believe in the Word, the story that lies in all things, as all Writers and Druids did. He had seen the Writers take stories, the histories of people, objects, and animals and use them for their own profit. He had watched Druids pledge to protect the Word’s sanctity. For them, the Word was already written in the set nature of life. The Word was all that was around you, and all that was already made. Druids would never try to plagiarize that, so they told their stories orally, entering trances that lasted for days on end. Sometimes they could taste stories, sometimes creatures jumped out of their mouths and ran outward into the Library, but the Druids never had any power over them. They had no power to edit them, to repurpose the paragraphs of their stories. The stories told them what to do. The stories took them over, swallowed them, and led them on their paths to enlightenment.
Quinn didn’t believe in the Word, he believed in human beings. He believed in a book’s right to sentience, and that someday, books, characters, Writers, and Druids would all be able to coexist in harmony, which, of course, was sacrilege to many. And he made me to prove that to his daughter days before he was eaten by plot-holes. Queel keeps me still, under her heaps of dirty laundry, as a reminder of Quinn. And although I’ve never been kept in a place of honor, I mean enough that Queel is risking everything to keep me.
Yes, she loves me, I know that, but that hasn’t stopped her from making me feel guilty. Guilty that I could incriminate her, guilty that I could risk her involvement in Serpens, her life— I had to solve these problems before they arose. And the only solution is to burn.
I cannot tell you that it isn’t painful, but it is nowhere near the first pain I have felt. My pages are clogged with smoke, and I wonder why my anatomy is so flimsy, why the flames are so at home upon me, taking me with ease into oblivion. I wish I had tougher skin and that I could fight more easily against my destruction. I feel so worthless beneath them, wondering if I’ve ever had a right to exist at all.
It has only been minutes after I’ve set myself on fire, but her two crewmembers have already begun to smell smoke. Annemarie ‘Tibbs’ Tibbott, likely from the crow’s mast, starts screaming about fire. And then, Keskes Kessalio, the biggest and dumbest, is shoving himself at the door, trying to break it down. Tibbs is still hollering obscenities at the sky, her voiced joined by that of Quartermaster Nerine Kieran, who is a great deal angrier at the threat posed to his precious ship than Captain Naheelis, who I can’t even hear over the sounds of Tibbs and Nerine.
“Cap!” Tibbs cries, “Fire!” The door is off its hinges, and Keskes is coughing loudly, a pail of water against his shoulder. And then it is all over what’s left of me, my pages charred and flayed, sticking together. Keskes retrieves me from the wreckage of the captain’s cabin, and although I’m sure he doesn’t completely understand what storing me means, he stuffs me into Nerine’s hand. It’s a betrayal, the fact that the crewmembers have found me. But Queel doesn’t seem to care.
“Book!” Queel rushes forward to grab me, calling my name out of reflex. Sometimes she worries about me when she doesn’t need to. She hits the door with ferocity, and when she says “Book!” the second time, I know she doesn’t care if the Serpens Druids are angry with her, she doesn’t want me to die. Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m the antithesis to everything she’s ever believed. We’re friends, aren’t we? Maybe she can convince the other Druids to trust me, too.
“Queel,” says Tibbs, a mousy girl wearing an orange skullcap, two wisp thin pigtails that resemble black lilies peeking from it. Her hands are gripping the strings of her bright orange overalls, tentatively. I recognize the blue sweater she’s wearing underneath as a handmade gift from Queel. They all love their captain. Her betrayal will destroy them, and a small part of me wishes to be back in the fire. “What’s that for?”
She’s got no good excuse. There is poignant confusion on the faces of her peers, but Queel is, in this moment, quite concerned. Nerine Kieran laughs and slithers over to Queel. No, he does not have any sort of tail, but he’s a seedy, constantly drunk individual, who walks in zigzags. Maybe it’s because he has disproportioned limbs, one leg shorter than the left, and a hunchback. He’s always wearing the same coat of dried-out sea anemones and a giant orange crab named Cornwell, his pet, sits on his head.
He waves me in Queel’s face, the dandruff falling from his flaky black hair as he does so. “Yes, Queel, tell us what this is. Is it what it looks like? Is the valiant Queel Naheelis, carrying around, of all things, a book?” Queel stands, frozen, staring at Nerine’s grinning face as he flips open my pages, chuckling with cold condescension. “Keskes, why didn’t ya just leave it in the fire, old pal?” Keskes gawks at Nerine, but they both know why. The owner of the book should be punished for carrying around such a symbol of hatred. The captain should be punished. “I didn’t know you were a slaver,” Nerine continues, turning to Queel, who bristles at his comments. “Should we throw her off the ship, mates?”
Most people’s words are strong enough to counter any attacks of character, but Queel’s talents are written in her fists. Before anyone else can react, Queel has taken a small knife from her green robes and stuck it into Nerine’s eye. And that would all be normal, if not a little cruel, if inky black blood had not started to pour from it. An e made of Nerine’s eyelid flew into the air, zipping around the mast with a joyous fervor. It groaned “I” with a strange elation, a noise that can only be made by that which is finally free. A y made of eyelashes quickly followed it, the tail of the y hugged the e close, and when they were finally joined by another e, this one made of Nerine’s blue lens, they all flew around and around Nerine, Keskes, Tibbs, and Queel, repeating “eye, eye,” with the same ethereal voice.
Nerine decided at that moment to scream. Tibbs was appalled. “Queel, that’s a letter opener. You’ve opened his letters. Those things are supposed to be illegal! They were discontinued in—”
“I know when they were discontinued!” Queel yelled, but she was smiling. It probably felt good to put Nerine in his place. “Don’t ask me why or how I have it. But that nice little hole in Nerine’s face is going to bring forth a lot more of his letters. If the e, the y, and the e keep splitting themselves up they’ll be other words to deal with: retina, sciera, maybe the ink can travel further down his system, and then who knows? The a in arm, the f in foot— He’ll split into letters.”
“You’re a monster.” Tibbs says in breathless awe. Nerine won’t die, of course, that would be too severe a punishment, but unraveling another’s letters is an incredibly painful process. It’s almost like death, but without the dying.
Queel shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve found Book, so I would assume it’s all over for me anyways.” The other crewmembers, besides a wailing Nerine, are quiet. Queel sighs and tries: “I mean, splitting into letters is practically painless. We’re all made of them.” I’m not sure if she’s trying to lessen the blow, but no one seeks to bother her thereafter. It is completely fair to say that the Serpens Druids are too terrified of Queel to say anything. Queel is the kind of woman whose mere voice could make even the strongest, bravest Druid cry. She’s screamed stormily at her crewmembers for the smallest offenses: not swabbing the deck fully or getting too close to the water. The Stream of Consciousness is the vastest ocean within Asporin, and for Queel and her crew, it’s been important to spend months collecting the ideas that pepper the stream’s waters. Ideas are the beginnings of characters, and fishing for them from the water will allow the characters to be freed. Drinking from The Stream of Consciousness, however, can force a writer to take hold of an idea. That’s illegal for Serpens Druids, and yet, so is stowing books.
The captain’s cabin is in disrepair, but it’s nothing that can’t be salvaged. The fire was only powerful enough to leave her desk table a blackened mess. The rest of the room looks as if it’s still in mint condition. Its deep lavender, gorgeous white curtains hanging from the walls. Queel has furnished it with whimsical things: pretty tapestries, spectral flowers that hang in pots from the dirt ceiling. Once she is certain the other crewmembers have left her alone, Queel grabs me under the crook of her arm and slumps on her bed. She’s the only human who has ever talked to me, and that’s a blessing. She’ll never write in me, of course, as that would constitute controlling characters, but I write to her, and she reads me.
“Book, what’ve you done?” Her hands are running all over my cover, examining the wounds. Years of worry for herself— and me— has left the forehead lines in her harsh face far more pronounced. Sometimes, when she gazes at me as though the whole weight of the world is sitting on her shoulders it’s hard to remember that she’s only twenty. Sometimes it is even harder to remember that she is the same girl who was bullied by the other Druids when she first arrived in Serpens. Not for having me, but for the reminder of her father. He looms over us even now.
I’m sorry, I write, But Queel I’m dangerous for you--
Queel closes me. She could chuck me across the room if she wanted, but I’m not one of her crewmembers, I’m closer than them. Besides, I am so fragile.
Queel-- I start writing on my cover, but Queel flips me over, and walks away. I’m so sorry I tried to kill myself, so sorry I let myself be found, but I am still in an incredible amount of existential peril. Now that I’ve burned myself, what will happen? I’ve never tried anything of the sort, before, and I would assume it would have dire consequences.
Queel-- I try again.
“What I really don’t understand,” she says, brushing a stray golden hair out of her eyes, and in them there’s a look of war, “Is why. Why would you do that? I could have lost you if Keskes hadn’t given you to Nerine. How could you be so callous with yourself?”
How could you be so callous with me? You’ve never even hid me very well. Your precious Druids were going to find me, eventually. And what would they have done, then? Something worse.
“They wouldn’t have touched you,” Queel growls, “Not with me and my letter opener around.”
So, you thrive on others’ fear? I write, enjoying feeling superior to her. I would never use such methods. That’s how much I mean to you, a letter-opener in Nerine Kieran’s eye? Quinn would be disappointed in you. I’m supposed to represent building bridges, not breaking them.
“Oh, cry me a river,” There’s venom in her voice that she usually only reserves for Nerine, who has never liked her, “And I’d stick you in it, too, if it wouldn’t do equal damage to the fire.”
Nothing scorches like a tongue, Naheelis.
We argue for the rest of the night, and nobody wins. There’s a bit of a halftime show when Bach and Beethoven, Queel’s pet tardigrades, which are about the size of lions, bumble through the door and Queel plays with them, ignoring my rebukes of her. They look a little like moles, but according to Queel they’re cuter. They each have tan, elephantine skin and terrifying mouths that always look as though they might suck you up. They’re round, like naked mole rats covered in tarp, with six legs and huge claws. I hate them, but she’s happy to see them, and she hugs them, and they rest their wrinkly heads on her lap.
Night arrives quickly, and in her sleep, Queel doesn’t hear the whirr of pressured air, a sound made by a curious assortment of black holes that surround the ship. I have no idea what they are, but I flutter my pages, alert and confused and at the ready, even though a part of me still burns from my suicide attempt. I have never known anything like them, but they suck up the world around them like a straw, careless and insatiable. I don’t equate them with the galactic black holes you’ve probably read about in your world, since these have control over their round, void-like bodies. There is some sentience, certainly, in them. They remind me of leeches, or cockroaches, swarming disgusting masses bred to infest. The more of the room they eat, the more afraid I become of them. I have a sinking feeling that they might be here because of me, which is, of course, ridiculous. Isn’t it?
Who are you and what do you want? I write. I have written stories about people facing down weapons of mass destruction: guns and knives or bombs, but there is something especially daunting when the weapon of mass destruction is alive. I don’t expect one of the black holes to answer, but it does. For some reason, they haven’t touched Queel yet, ignoring her for the objects in the room. I wonder why.
Have you grown so arrogant that you’ve forgotten? One of the black holes, uh, well I’m not completely sure what it does, but it’s words that I know are coming from them. I know what they’re saying like I know I’m alive. I can’t explain it. Well, you’re writing yourself after all. It is so hard to see one’s own flaws. You’re such a strange correlation between book and story, aren’t you? And there are many of us contained in your identity, little book. You exist because of Quinn, and yet you’ve gained a certain level of sentience in your own right. How does that work?
To be honest with the awful hole, I don’t know, and it makes me more uncomfortable when I realize what this means. Wait--
We are plot-holes, stupid book. The shadows in the plot-holes have grown darker, not visibly, but through the intuition only a book has. You know how sometimes a person’s face darkens? It doesn’t become a different pallor, but it changes. Their features become rigid, cuing you into the fact that you’d better back off.
Aware of them, I realize I am a stupid book. I’ve become arrogant enough to forget the plot-holes. I was so busy worrying about the little civil wars between characters and writers that I forgot to remind myself of the one species that could destroy them all.
Your little suicide attempt has released us, the plot-hole makes a noise that would’ve been like growling, except that it sounds like an earthquake. Could you not feel us? We are the disease, the sickness that has always been inside you, as no book will ever be perfect. We have been waiting to destroy you. You’ve burned away some of the glory in your anatomy, such a careless decision. You will pay. This whole ship will pay. We are hungry and we need to feed.
In her sleep, Queel sucks in a breath. I am appalled. So, this is my fault. My attempt to save Queel has only further damned her. I’ve lost important pieces of myself through the burning, as the only story I’ve ever been able to tell is the story of my friendship with Queel. There are gaps and plot-holes in that, now, created by the fire. And the plot-holes will be our end. I try to remember what the other books used to whisper me to on their shelves. The plot-holes were the scary story we liked to tell at night, to scare each other because sometimes it was fun to be afraid.
Books have a certain level of intuition towards them, the psychiatry textbook had informed the shelf: Writers don’t have this same intuition. A book can feel a plot-hole, a writer cannot.
But aren’t there plot-holes in that? I try to write, and it is at that moment that Queel wakes. She looks on, staring from plot-holes to me, plot-holes to me. She has nothing to do with my creation. All of it was Quinn. Queel had nothing to do with my creation. The plot-holes weren’t going to go after Queel when they could go after me, were they?
“Oh, Jesus Christ, no,” Queel moans, taking in the scene, and I find it funny, because she doesn’t believe in Jesus Christ. I suppose, however, that she needs to find someone’s name to take in vain. “Book!” She yells and tugs me off the edge of the bed, where I have sat all night. Beethoven and Bach, Queel’s sleepy pets immediately awaken and stare curiously up at us. “We have to get you out of here!”
Me? I am far less likely than Queel is to get eaten by my own plot-holes. Once a plot-hole has been released, they’ll unravel the structure and nuance in a story bit by bit until the stories become confused, senseless messes. Plot-holes don’t discriminate between stories. They’ll eat a person’s histories and render them never whole again. All things are made of stories, and people are the most fragile kind.
At this point, Queel and I are surrounded on all sides, and Queel braces herself, hands gripped to her bedpost, to avoid being sucked. Plot-holes are an exceedingly rare problem among Druids. Only tainted books can summon them, and since Druids don’t believe in books, they’ve never had to deal with them. Unfortunately, as of now, there is one aboard this ship.
Maybe if I’d succeeded in killing this would stop. Maybe if I let myself get eaten. Plot-holes, although I have never seen one, go hand-in-hand with books, and sometimes, we learn how to coexist, but the plot-holes will always pine for a large part of their home: inside a book. I have to many plot-holes to try to bargain with them, and so I wait for Queel to pry me open so that we can speak. I don’t really like writing on my cover.
Queel grabs me and pulls me close, opening me so she might read what I have to say.
“Why are we surrounded by plot-holes!” Queel bellows and follows that with an expletive. She retrieves a walkie-talkie, gloriously outdated, from behind the bed and begins screaming at someone, probably Keskes, her favorite person aboard the ship, to come and help. And then she rushes out the door, taking me with her under the crook of her elbow. Black holes chew the ship from inside out, no force or god able to quench them and their insistence to eat. They are running over the walls with frightening fervor, swallowing the world with an alien ease. Keskes, Nerine and Tibbs are all holding onto the mast of the ship, trying to avoid being sucked up by their fierce wind.
Bach and Beethoven aren’t paying any attention to the dilemma. I don’t know if tardigrades need to sleep, but they are ultimately pretty much indestructible creatures. I don’t believe that the plot-holes will cause them any sort of pain.
Queel throws the walkie-talkie off the ship and begins berating her crewmembers. “Do you all wanna die?” She yells, “Did your miserable ass get out of bed this morning with a death wish? Huh? Huh? You’re all useless!” She kicks a stray bucket into the middle of the ship and, if it’s even possible, raises her voice louder. “Pop fucking quiz! Can any of you worthless louts tell me what a plot-hole does when it catches up with you? Or do all of you prissy little Druids live in a state of authorial naivety?”
I’m sure her crewmembers all wish they are closer to the plot-holes. Their dark void is a lot quieter, more comforting than facing down Queel’s open maw.
I see Keskes swallow, his breath ragged, but impressing Queel, his long-term crush, is important, maybe as important as staying alive. If the plot-holes don’t get him first, Queel will. She’s got enough rage and anger at our predicament that she’ll take it out on anyone. Which is why I don’t tell her the truth.
“Ma’am, plot-holes usually are brought about by narrative inconsistencies. Therefore, one of us has an inconsistency in narrative—” Keskes says, still holding onto the mast. Tibbs is slipping, and he tugs her into a bear hug so she won’t be swallowed. I see her sigh a little beneath his muscled arms.
His words only kindle Queel’s anger. The captain’s cabin is almost gone now, and the plot-holes are diving to the floor, mere feet from the squad. Carefully, but not a tad calmly, she toughs the plot-holes’ wind and grabs Keskes by the ear, hissing, “Do you really think that telling me what I already know is going to be any help?”
“You didn’t let me finish—” Keskes begins to say, but it’s swallowed up by Tibbs’s furious sobbing. Keskes’ shirt is becoming wetter by the second: “Does somebody have an idea?” She yells, “Does somebody have an actual, bona-fide idea to get rid of them because this is absolutely terrifying!”
“Queel has an idea!” Nerine yells back over the sound of the wind. He’s trying to avoid what he really wants to be doing, clutching his eye, so that he can keep hold on the mast. “QUEEL, DON’T YOU HAVE AN IDEA?”
None of the Druids have ever seen a plot-hole, so all they can do is joke under the threat of them. None of them want to admit they could die, or how grave the situation is. I am certain they all will die. There has never been a set method to stopping a plot-hole, but if you give them enough of a story to chew on for a large period of time, they’ll be satisfied. As a book, I should do the trick.
We need to command our situation, I write to Queel, hoping desperately that she’ll look down. Which means I have to tell you the truth. Queel, you have to let me try to write something to stop these plot-holes. Anything. I was— I was the one who brought them on us.
 I can feel her anger, and she says very quietly, very coldly, so that none of her crewmembers can hear: “Why?”
When I tried to burn myself, I burned away some parts of those stories I’ve been writing you, and now they have plot-holes. Queel, I’m so sorry. I’m so pathetic. I never meant for this to happen--
“I’m jumping in.” Captain Naheelis tries to smooth her voice over with authority, but it’s intercepted by an audible gulp. She’s never had to be afraid before, but she can work with that. She can be afraid and a leader. She’ll use every second she has. She turns to the crew even as I’m writing ‘no’ all over myself: “Guys, I’m jumping in.”
“What?” Tibbs yells, while Keskes shakes his head. Nerine smiles indiscreetly. I’m sure he wouldn’t care if she did. “Naheelis, no,” Keskes says, and there are tears in his ox-like eyes, “You’ll die.”
“I’d die for my crew,” Queel smiles, trying to maintain some sort of strength, “Trust me, the plot-holes are going to have a difficult time finding any inconsistencies in me. I’m a solid gal, tough to break down. It’ll give all of you enough time to get away.”
“Was this your plan the whole time?” Tibbs screeches from against Keskes’ chest, “This is a horrible plan!” She started sobbing again, and Keskes squeezes her tight.
“Don’t do it, Cap!” Keskes is desperate. “Please!”
I’ll do it! I write. Let me do it!
“Somebody’s going to get swallowed by plot-holes today,” Queel says. “The greedy little bastards won’t let up until they’ve gotten something to snack on. And for your sake, that’s going to have to be me.” Queel sighs, “I hope they’re not too picky,” and walks slowly towards the plot-holes.
“Captain Queel Naheelis if you don’t get back here right now, I’ll jump in myself!” Keskes extends a quivering hand towards her retreating form, “Queel Naheelis—” He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more. A messy tear is making its way down his face. “Cap, this is not the way to go about things.”
“No? What other ways have you got up your sleeve?” Queel calls over her shoulder. There is something mesmerizing about the way the plot-holes cast a shadow over her.
The plot-holes are a little surprised, but amused. Quinn’s daughter? They question me, Why not you, Book? We have digested her father, but we are looking for his pride and joy, not his baby. Give us yourself, Book. We will leave them alone forever if you give yourself up.
I’m weak. It would best for everyone, even Nerine, if I got rid of myself, but I have so much more to be in this world, so many more stories to tell, and I’m not going to lose myself to a few plot-holes. So, I cry out the only thing I can in my soundless voice: You— you insidious bastards, go cannibalize yourselves!
We want you, Book. The plot-holes taunt. But they have stopped moving. They are fascinated by Queel’s human void. Eyes are made to appraise, and then absorb. We spend our lives gaping at the expansive, and yet we never think to wonder if the expansive is gaping at us. Does space look at us with wonder, constricted as we are by our mortal coil? Are we worth its brand of wonder? Does the universe long to be tiny, to be powered by a human’s heartbeat or bound, as I am, a book? I can tell you the plot-holes do. They long for the basest human desire: to be needed. When someone needs you, when someone can’t live without you, they don’t question your existence, they don’t overanalyze. They love what you add to their story. Plot-holes are made to be unwanted, so naturally, it’s the only thing they want. They’ll eat anything of their choosing just to feel that way, but their favorite delicacies are the things that need them the least. Why finish something half-eaten when you can have something fresh? Queel was young, fresh, and the plot-holes condensed into a shadowy mass and surrounded her. I felt her heartbeat shudder against my spine, and I wonder, then, if she will drop me. Will they swallow me, too, when she stops protecting me?
This is every writer’s nightmare death. This is the anti-thesis to all literary dreams: swallowed by confusion, swallowed by failure. As her last act of free will, Queel drops me at her feet, and steps over me, ignoring me and my apologies. I can’t win, whatever way I exist. I’ll always hurt someone. I hit the floor neatly, and Queel throws her arms open to face them: “Go on, eat me! I’m an even story. All you’re going to find is a suburban childhood, overbearing father, teenage rebellion, deadbeat lover. Everything makes sense, everything’s fresh. But you’ll find out where I rot, and you can spit that out.”
The plot-holes had made their choice. Queel turned her back to them and made a peace sign at her comrades. Keskes would’ve run straight at them if not for the fact that Tibbs and Forester are tugging his waist, and Nerine’s arms are around his shoulders. The plot-holes open just a little wider, like a mouth, exerting an intensely large breath. Queel’s salutes her crew, a sly little smile on her face before the plot-holes swallow her completely.
I can only imagine what her last moments are like: the slow un-attachment of every particle of herself, until nothing about Queel makes any sort of sense, in this world or the next. Not once do any of her crewmembers look at the plot-holes, but they can hear Queel’s angry, broken scream erupt in the air. I imagine it would hurt, to be unraveled like that, to not make any earthly sense, and yet still be alive. My artistic vision involves a lot of peril, a lot of scenes of Queel’s life being removed, Queel’s arms and legs being thrown into strange situations, Queel dying before even the plot-holes get to her. Unconnected events that never happened in Queel’s life also get thrown together with events that did… the whole thing is nightmarish. Plot-holes do not erase, because that would be sensible, they just confuse. So Queel will be in pain forever, unable to die, unable to be erased. But for all intents and purposes, and feel to better about myself, I’ll say that she is dead. I try to tell myself that however much pain she’s in, it’s a story now. It’s over.
It is. The plot-holes disappear. As long as they are eating Queel, they won’t be coming after the others. Stories take time to unravel, you would be surprised with how connected they become with other stories. The plot-holes could eat every story that had ever touched Queel’s timeline, as long as it was important to her. The side effects of that on her friends, however, remained to be seen.
So, the crewmembers and I are alone together beneath the blue sky. Keskes is still gripping the edge of the mast, knuckles white. The other crewmembers are shaken, even Nerine, whose regret is externalized in how he gets up from his spot by the mast and picks me up, holding me like a safety blanket to his heart. And then he cries. It’s tortured, gasping, panicked, and guilty. He’s followed by Keskes, whose tears are pure horror, injustice incarnate, employing the same kind of fevered rage that will eventually cause one to rebel.
Tibbs doesn’t know what to do, and neither do I, and neither do Bach and Beethoven, but they’re tardigrades, so I don’t really think they’re paying too much attention… Forester lets loose a defeated cry from between his teeth and slumps into the middle of the ship.
Again, I am a book. I reflect pain, I can transfigure it, and sometimes, I can assuage it, but I serve only as a source of entertainment. Any manipulations of pain are sorely through that. Perhaps I could tell Queel a story… but I’m not entirely sure she needs any more stories. After all, any discrepancies will summon more plot-holes.
I have nothing more to say, not to them, and not to you, Reader. You and your greediness forced me to give you a story. I am sorry for being so callous, but I need someone to blame. You are easy bait, you, confined to your unaccountability, safe behind the Fourth Wall, but not forever. Perhaps you will ride on my pages like a giant bird into wilder skies, perhaps I will build things for you and you will write and read and we will love each other, because I am a story, and in the end we are united by our love of stories.
I will ask you, however, to help. In the end, only you can save the characters and yourself from the plot-holes. You must throw all the books away. Burn them. Cut them up into tiny pieces and let them catch the wind. Or else, the plot-holes will return. They will come after every book, they will eat every story in the world, and they will eat yours. You won’t be able to see them at first, when they come for you. And even if you see them, you won’t be able to recognize that they’re yours. That’s the kind of greedy you are. God.
But life goes on. It must, for the sake of the crew. I help them to understand what Queel never could: that books are more, more than symbols, and I write to them and we honor Queel by trying to find a bridge between creation and control. And I know that you can’t have freedom every way, but freedom has rules. We will build something beautiful together, something strong enough to subvert the politics of our world, and when the plot-holes come back, we will be ready. If all stories must end, those of the plot-holes must, too. And at the end of all of this, they will be the only characters I will ever take joy in killing.
 

Robert P. Bishop, a former soldier and teacher, lives in Tucson. His short fiction has appeared in The Literary Hatchet, The Umbrella Factory Magazine, CommuterLit, Lunate Fiction, Spelk, Fleas on the Dog, Corner Bar Magazine, Literally Stories, and elsewhere.

​The letters were always the same, a single sheet of paper in a plain white envelope with no return address. Typed and centered on the single sheet was:
I know you killed them
                                                                             *
            Bill and Molly Dartz used to live in the house across the street from me. They were a friendly couple with three well-behaved pre-teen children. Bill grew a lawn that was the envy of all the brown thumbs in the neighborhood and washed the family car in the driveway on sunny Saturday mornings. Molly baked cookies and cakes she dispensed freely on birthdays and hosted the annual Neighborhood Watch party. The Dartz family was the kind of family anyone would want in the house next door.
            Then one night they were murdered, all five of them.
            I didn’t kill them, but I am glad they are dead, especially Molly. I had a thing for Molly. She was hot and I was interested in her but she didn’t openly reciprocate. Instead, she dismissed my subtle but unmistakable advances with an airy insouciance that made me want her even more.
            About a year before their deaths I had a patio party and invited neighborhood friends, including Bill and Molly. It was a good party. People were on the patio relaxing under the flowering jacaranda trees, eating, drinking, yakking it up and having a great time.
            I went into the house for something and a few moments later Molly came into the kitchen where I was and stood so close to me I could smell her perfume.
            She said, “What a wonderful party, Karl. We should have these more often, so we get to know each other.” She rattled the ice in her glass, took a sip and smiled at me. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we were on more intimate terms?”
            That was it, the signal I had waited for. I spun her around, pushed her face down on the kitchen table, pulled her dress up and her panties down and took her. She grunted repeatedly as I rode her but she didn’t resist. Her glass thumped on the table every time I thrust into her. After I finished, she straightened her clothing, threw the remains of her drink in my face and said, “You bastard,” and rejoined the people on the patio. Neither she nor I ever mentioned the incident and we went on like nothing had happened. Bill didn’t say anything about it either, which meant Molly didn’t tell him. Bill Dartz wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that slide, especially if it involved his wife. Her death freed me from anybody ever knowing what I did to her that night.
                                                                             *
            Paul, Jake, Vinny, George, and I got together for our weekly poker game at my house two days after the Dartz family was killed. We began to speculate about their deaths. For sure, we didn’t know a thing about what had really happened, but that didn’t stop us from letting our imaginations run unchecked.
            “It’s got to be a major drug deal gone bad,” said Jake who lived two houses down. “That’s why the kids were killed. To send a message. You know what those cartels are like. Barbaric bastards.”
            Our poker game paused as we voiced our opinions on the Dartz murders.
            “Nah, it was a sex thing that got out of hand,” countered George, a dough-faced little man. “Molly was one hot babe and she let everybody know it. She was probably drilling some dude on the side then dumped him. He got even by knocking off the whole family. George grinned. “Hoo-boy, I’da done her in a Minnesota minute.”           
            “You wish she was doing you, George,” Vinny said, “but you’re butt ugly, man. You probably killed them when Molly told you to put your wanker back in your pants after she stopped laughing at it.”
            George said, “The wife’s going crazy over those murders. She thinks there’s a killer in the neighborhood.”
            “I bet they were killed by a cult they were trying to escape,” said Paul. “Bill Dartz was just too damn good to be real, you ask me. Wouldn’t surprise me if the dude was some kind of religious crank. He was probably into sacrifices, only he’s the one who got axed.” Paul chuckled at his bit of macabre wit.
            “Maybe it really is somebody in the neighborhood who killed them,” Vinny said. He looked around the table. “What if we know who it is?” 
            “Jesus, Vinny, that’s cold. You think one of us did it?” said Paul.
            “No, not one of us, but somebody in the neighborhood. We just don’t know who it is yet.”
            “Enough about the Dartz murders. We’re here to play some serious poker,” I said and dealt a new hand. Bets and raises went around until we hit the limit and George called. Jake won the pot with a full house, queens over eights, beating Vinny’s three tens.
            The game broke up two hours later without any more comments about the Dartz deaths.
*
            The police released a brief account of the Dartz murders; apparently all five family members were killed execution style, side by side on their knees. There were no signs of forced entry, violence, or other trauma, leading the police to believe the Dartz family knew who killed them. The police released no further details, and no arrests were ever made.
*
            Weeks later, after some interior clean-up, the Dartz house went on the market and was bought by a single, middle-age woman. The letters started arriving one week after the woman moved in.
            I had no idea who was sending them. I thought it was some kind of prank at first, but when the letters continued to arrive regularly over the ensuing weeks I dismissed the prank notion and contacted the police. Somebody, I told them, was ragging me.
            In response to my complaint, a detective sergeant came to my house. “What’s this about,” he asked after reading one of the letters.
            “The Dartz murders. They were killed in the house across the street. At first, I thought the letters were a prank, but now I’m not so sure.”
            “I think you’re right, Mr. Marvis. Looks like a prank,” he said after reading one of the letters again. “Somebody’s having a little fun at your expense.”
            “These aren’t funny, prank or not. I don’t like them. They’re pissing me off. And the accusation is untrue.”
             “There isn’t much we can do. The letters don’t threaten you in any way. They don’t accuse you by name. They’re pretty innocuous.” The sergeant thought for a moment then asked, “Do you have a friend who might be doing this?”
            “No, I don’t.”
            The sergeant shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more. If you had a name you could get a restraining order against them, maybe even take them to court for harassment.”
            “If I knew who was responsible I’d kick their ass.”
            “The letters don’t threaten you with bodily harm. We can act on threats but until that happens there isn’t much we can do, Mr. Marvis.” Before the sergeant left, he said, “You’re being pranked, Mr. Marvis. My hunch is it’s one of your friends.”
            After the sergeant left I walked over to Jake’s house. We sat down and I showed him one of the letters. “I started getting one of these in the mail every week right after the Dartz house sold,” I said. “Are you getting anything like this?”
            Jake read the letter then got up and left the room. He returned a few minutes later and handed me a piece of paper.
            It was identical to the letters I had received. I handed it back to Jake. “Is anybody else in the neighborhood getting these?” I asked.
            “George is.”
            “Does he know who’s sending them?”
            “No.”  
            “It has to be somebody who knows us.”
            “Probably. They’re scaring the shit out of George’s wife. She thinks he, or one of us, is a mass murderer.” Jake chuckled at the idea of fat little George being a mass murderer.
            “What if he is?”
            “What if he’s what?”
            “A mass murderer.”
            “For Christ’s sake, don’t be ridiculous, Karl. George didn’t kill anybody.”
            “You don’t know that. You just said his wife thinks he did it.”
            "Karl, she’s joking.”
            “Well, hell, maybe you killed them and the letters are a coverup for what you did.”
            “I didn’t kill them and you know it.”
            “I don’t know it, Jake.”
            “You live right across the street, Karl. How do we know you didn’t waltz over that night and knock them off? You knew them. The police believe the Dartz’s knew their killer. And you have a temper, Karl. It’s easy to push your hot button. Everybody knows that.”
            “Jesus Christ, Jake, that doesn’t mean I killed them.” I got up. “How about Vinny and Paul? Are they getting these letters?”
            “Yes, they are.”
            On the walk home, I decided to ask for a get-together. Perhaps the five of us could figure out who was behind this.
*
            George was the last of the group to arrive. “Sorry I’m late. These letters have spooked the hell out of my wife. Jesus, she’s a mess. I almost had to stay home tonight.” He plopped down on the sofa.
            We sat in my living room. I poured drinks for everybody then sat down. “Who is doing this?” I said.
            “Beats me,” said Vinny.
            “Wish I knew,” Paul said.
            “Does the asshole sending these letters really believe one of us killed the Dartz’s?” asked George.
            “None of us killed them, but that doesn’t tell us who’s sending them.” said Vinny.
            We talked around the issue, trying to eliminate neighbors based on what we knew about them. We didn’t reach any conclusions that answered the question of Who?
            “Look,” said Jake, “the letters started arriving pretty soon after the Dartz’s were killed. What changed in the neighborhood?”
            “The woman who bought the Dartz house,” said George. “She’s new to the neighborhood.”
            “Why would she send us these letters?” said Vinny. “Does anybody know her? I don’t even know her name. I hardly ever see her. She never comes out of her house.”
            “All of us started getting these letters right after she moved in,” said Paul. “She’s got to be the one sending them.”
            We kicked that idea around and decided she must be the source of the letters. “What are we going to do about it?” asked Vinny.
            “Confront her,” I said. “Call her ass out.”
            “We got to do something,” said George. “These letters are making my wife crazy.”
            “Who tells the woman to knock it off?” asked Jake.
            “Wait,” said Vinny. “We don’t have any proof she’s the one. What if we’re wrong about her?” He looked at each of us. “What do we even know about her?”
            “We don’t need to know anything about her,” said George. “We’ve lived in this neighborhood for years. We know each other. She’s the only newcomer and those letters didn’t start showing up until after she moved in. She’s got to be the one.”
            “Okay, okay, she’s the one,” I said. “What do we do about it?”
            “Go to the cops,” said Jake.
            “I already did. They can’t do a damn thing,” I told them.
            “Then we tell her to stop,” said Paul.
            “Who’s going to tell her?” I asked.
            “You are,” said George.
            “Why me?”
            “Because, Karl, you’re the one who brought it up,” Jake said. “And you’re the only one who’s really agitated over them. You get to tell her to stop.”
            “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said.
            “When?” Vinny asked.
            “Tomorrow.”
            The game broke up and I sat in the dark drinking scotch, thinking about what I was going to say to the woman.
*
            “Hello,” the woman said when she opened the door. “Aren’t you the man from across the street?”
            “Yes.”
            “I’m Ellen Barnes. Nice to meet you. What can I do for you, Mr. ...?” She smiled at me.
            “Marvis, Karl Marvis.” I held one of the letters in my hand. “Read this.” I handed the letter to her. She read it and handed it back.
            “I don’t understand.”
            “Stop sending these damn things. We know you’re the one and we want you to stop. They’re annoying as hell.”
            The smile disappeared. “What do you mean, these things?”
            “These letters, damn it. Stop sending them to us.”
            “I am not sending letters to you or to anyone else. How dare you suggest such a thing. Now get away from me and don’t ever come back, you rude man.” She slammed the door and I went back to my house.
*
            The next poker night I told everybody what I said to the woman and how she responded.      “Well, I’m glad that’s over,” said Jake.
            “Yeah, me too,” said George. “My wife’s going off the deep end over those letters.”
            “It hasn’t been a week yet,” Vinny said. “Maybe we better wait and see what happens in the next few days.”
            “So far, so good,” said Paul. “Maybe Karl put a stop to it.”
            We didn’t say anything more about the letters or the woman and the night ended with Vinny topping out, winning forty-two dollars.
            I got another letter in the mail the following week. I walked across the street and hammered on the woman’s door. When she opened it, I shook the letter at her. “God damn it, I told you to stop. I mean it.” Then I turned around and walked off before she could say anything.
*
            “I didn’t get one of those letters this week,” said Vinny as he dealt the cards. Looks like Karl’s talk did the trick.”
            “I didn’t get one either,” said George. “My wife’s happy about that. She hopes we don’t get any more.”
            “What about you, Karl? You get a letter this week?” Jake asked.
            “Yes.”
            Paul said, “Karl was the only one to get a letter. That proves she’s the one sending them out.” Paul peered at Karl. “She’s really hard-assing you, Karl.”
            “She sure is,” agreed George. “What are you going to do if you keep getting them, Karl?”
            “Jesus, I don’t know. I’m damn sick of it, I can tell you that.”
            We let the topic drop but I stewed about it and lost a good chunk of change because I couldn’t concentrate on the game.
            After the game broke up I went to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. The woman was obviously harassing me, but why? What was her reason?
            I went to the police again but got the same story. Then I talked with an attorney, he said there was nothing I could do. I fumed and cursed the woman across the street.
            Things got bad for me. I ended the poker games at my house. George’s wife was so happy about not getting any more letters she let him host the game. I didn’t participate. The guys said they missed me, but I was too pissed off to take part.
            The letters kept coming week after week until one day, in a fit of rage, I crossed the street, kicked the woman’s door open and beat the hell out of her. Of course, the cops arrested me.
            During the trial the guys were questioned about my state of mind and they admitted I got more and more agitated as the letters kept coming. Their testimony didn’t help my case.
            The judge sentenced me to nine years for aggravated assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm. Jesus! Nine years!
            Three months after I was sent to prison a corrections officer escorted me to a visitor room. I sat on the steel stool and picked up the phone on my side of the glass. George’s wife picked up the phone on her side.
            “Hello, Karl,” she said and smiled at me but her eyes were cold and unfriendly.
            “What are you doing here? Where’s George?”
            “Oh, he’s not coming, Karl. I don’t think he ever will.”
            “Why are you here?”
            “You look terrible, Karl, like you’ve aged twenty years. Prison life doesn’t agree with you, and you have almost nine more years to go. How awful that must be for you.”
            “What do you want?”
            “Do you remember Molly, Karl?”
            “Of course, I remember Molly.”
            “Molly and I talked about everything, Karl, even patio parties and kitchen tables.”
            “What’s that supposed to mean?”
            “Think of your time in prison as Molly’s revenge.”
            “Molly’s dead.”
            “Yes, she’s dead, Karl, but she was my friend. She told me what you did to her in your kitchen the night of your patio party, Karl. I’m never going to let you forget, you bastard.”
            “It’s unfortunate you attacked Ellen Barnes, but I couldn’t see any other way to get to you, to see you got punished for what you did to Molly.” George’s wife laughed, a loud and guttural sound from deep in her throat. “I set you up, Karl. It was so easy. You’re such a stupid and impulsive man.” She hung up the phone.
            “You bitch, you were the one who sent those fucking letters,” I screamed as she walked away.
End

​     Big Ed did three contorted knee bends and let out a short fart. Standing near the milk compartment, Jon watched with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. He looked around the store to assure himself that no one else was there. At first he thought Big Ed was parodying some dance. That would be going too far, he told himself.
     Ed’s big frame and knee-length, clean white apron made him look grotesque. He looks like a big sack of flour, Jon thought, smiling. He resumed putting away cartons of milk.
     “That’s a lot better,” Ed said aloud. “Now I can put in a day’s work.”
 
     How can such a short fart bring such great relief, Jon thought. He decided against
 
asking Ed the question.
 
     The bread man came in the store, carrying his oversized picnic basket.
 
     Nice working at eight in the morning, Jon thought. A lot of people still asleep. Same
 
feeling as lying in bed and listening to the rain on the roof. He always felt a little funny
 
when he put away the milk. He remembered the Jewish holidays, when Big Ed gave him a handful of “Kosher for Passover” disks to put “at random” in the round indentations at      
the top of the containers. He remembered the gray-haired old woman who insisted that he hand her only those containers with the disks. When he thought about this, his reaction was laughter, then sadness. When he told his parents about it, their reaction was a little different:  laughter, then outrage.
     Big Ed was Jewish. Obviously not an observant Jew. Jon’s parents had been semi-observant:  light the candles Friday night, dairy supper on Saturday, scour the kitchen and bring in new dishes for Passover, go to temple on the major holidays. Lately they’d been going Friday nights to the new temple on Ocean Avenue. His mother could have been one of those women requesting the Kosher for Passover milk. Mom, get the milk at Harry’s. That’s where she usually shopped anyway.
     “So then,” the bread man was saying, “this guy says, ‘Who can count at a time like this?’ Ed, standing behind the counter, slapped his thighs in laughter. As soon as the little bell sounded and the door closed, the laughter stopped abruptly.
     “That bastard,” Ed snapped. I bet he forgot the stales.  Hey, Jon, look in the back and see if the stales are still there.”
     A 40-watt bulb in the windowless back room served only to create an effect of duskiness. Jon put his hand on a shelf and felt the rock-like crust of some rye breads.
     “Still here,” he called.
     “Bastard.”
     A fortyish-looking woman, wearing a stylish black coat, came into the store. She was a good customer. Ed was talking to her by the counter. Jon liked working for Big Ed.  He’d started six months ago, when he was still 17. Now that he was in college, he was too old to be getting an allowance. He’d considered trying to get a delivery-boy job at Harry’s, where his mother shopped. Harry’s was run by two brothers who put on a comedy show for their customers. But Harry’s was a small store and had only one employee. He noticed at least three when he went to Big Ed’s to ask for a job:  a short, skinny kid who prepared the orders; a big, red-headed kid who delivered them; and a tall, dark-haired guy who ran the vegetable counter. The dark-haired guy, Jon later found out, was Big Ed’s brother-in-law. “Sure, we can use another guy here,” Ed had said, much to Jon’s surprise. “You start at 50 cents an hour. It’s not much, but you learn more skills, you get more dough. Capeesh? What could be more fair?”
     Jon worked there mornings and all day Saturdays. The store was a small supermarket:  cheeses and meats at the checkout counter up front, and two fairly long aisles going to the back of the store. When he started, there was a vegetable stand in the front, right opposite the checkout counter. Now, six months later, the skinny delivery kid, the big redheaded kid, the brother-in-law, and the vegetable stand were all gone. It was just Big Ed and Jon.
     Ed just shook his head when Jon had asked what happened to the vegetable stand.  “He could have made something of it,” Ed said. “I gave him the best spot in the store.  I told him, ‘Go down early to the farmer’s market, get the good stuff, get it at a reasonable price, and sell it at a good profit.’ So he gets down there late, gets the crap, pays too much for it, and no one will buy it.”
     After three months, when he was filling orders, delivering orders, and occasionally manning the counter, Jon asked Ed for a modest raise. “Look,” Ed had said, “I’ll pay you anything you want. You’re invaluable to me.” He accented the first two syllables of “invaluable.” Jon felt embarrassed, skeptical, and pleased. A lot different from his first delivery job; he was twelve, and had to make two trips to take big orders up a flight of stairs. Of course, in a way it’s bull, Jon thought, when Ed made that statement. If I asked him for five dollars an hour, he wouldn’t pay it to me.  Still…
     From the back of the store, Jon looked down the right-hand aisle toward the checkout counter. Was that Ray Crane who just came in? The woman in the black coat was looking at the breakfast cereals. Ray Crane was a sports reporter who won a Pulitzer two years ago. He broke the story about college basketball point-shaving in New York City.  If that’s the right guy, Jon thought, he’s not an impressive figure. He’s short, nervous, whiny, and tortured looking.
     “Can the Dodgers win again this year?” Ed was asking.
     “What difference does it make?” came the high-pitched response. “The Braves might give them trouble. The fans in Milwaukee are a bunch of fanatics. Even if the Dodgers win, they just can’t beat the Yanks in the series.”
     Jon walked toward the front of the store. He had half-jokingly told Ed last week to mention his interest in sports writing to Ray Crane.
     “Hey, Jon,” Ed called, “hit the register a while, okay?”
     A young girl was waiting to have her order checked out. Mechanically, Jon began ringing up the items.
     He heard Ed’s voice from the right aisle. “Hey, Ray, you need an assistant?” Ray Crane grabbed a box of crackers and was headed toward the front with his order.
     “What kind of assistant?”
     “Writing. My boy over there. Writes for his school paper.”
     “Tell him if he likes getting a good night’s sleep to stay away from reporting.”
     The response was more or less what Jon had expected. He was grateful to Ed for remembering. Now Crane was placing his order on the counter. Maybe he’ll say something.
     “Ed tells me you write for your school paper,” Crane said, as Jon rang up the order. 
     “Yes, sir.  When I was in high school.”
     “Sports?”
     “Yes.”
     Crane hadn’t bought too much. Jon carefully placed the items in a brown paper bag.
     “Like it?”
     “Very much. I was the sports editor.”
     Crane handed him a bill. “High school,” Crane murmured. “The Mercury?”
     “Yes, Mr. Crane.”
     Jon was surprised Crane knew about high school papers. “That’s a pretty good school paper,” Crane said.
     Jon smiled and handed Crane his change. “Fifth best high school paper in the country,” Jon said proudly. Nothing wrong with blowing your own horn once in a while.
     “I gave you a ten,” Crane said.
     He spoke very calmly. The words shocked Jon. He was distracted, but many times when he manned the counter conversations distracted him. He asked himself if he had any doubts that the bill was a five.
     “No, it was a five. Here it is, Mr. Crane.” He pointed to the open register drawer.
     “There are tens in there too.”  Ray Crane still spoke very calmly. “I’m sure it was a ten.”
     “It was a five, Mr. Crane.”
     Crane raised his right hand. “No need to get excited. Don’t worry about it. I’ll settle it.”
     Jon shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t think his voice sounded excited. He saw Crane and Ed talking at the back of the store. They started walking toward the counter. Jon heard the words “no harm done” and “split.”
     “Don’t worry about it,” Crane said to Jon. “It’s all settled.”
     “Did you give him the extra five?” Jon demanded, when Crane had left.
     “I split it with him,” Ed said. “Why, are you sure it was a five?”
     “Positive.”
     “Look, he’s a queer duck. Besides, he’s a good customer.” Ed wheeled around. “Now here is a beautiful woman.” The woman in the black coat approached the counter with her shopping cart piled high with groceries.
     “Tell the truth,” Ed said to Jon. “I mean, give a frank, honest answer. Isn’t she a beautiful woman?”
     There was definitely a certain fineness about her, but she had a long nose. 
     “Of course,” Jon said, as if that were completely obvious.
     Jon carried the woman’s order out to her car. When he returned to the store, Ed was contemplating the area where the vegetable stand had been.
     “I don’t know,” Ed said. “What do you think we should do with this spot?”
     “Put some of the week’s specials there? You know, to draw people in the store?”
     Ed mulled this over. “Not a bad idea. That way whoever is manning the counter can keep an eye on them.”
     Jon didn’t get what Ed was talking about. Before he could ask, Ed turned towards him.
     “I meant to ask you. What kind of work does your father do?”
     “He’s a lawyer.”
     Ed nodded approvingly. “And he’s okay with you’re being a sportswriter.”
     “He’s kind of noncommittal about it. Besides, I don’t know if that’s really what I want to do. I might major in Design.”
     “What’s ‘Design?’”
     “Used to be called the Art Department. I think ‘design’ is the application of art toward making a living.”
     “Your father doesn’t want you to follow in his footsteps?”
     Jon smiled. “It’s the one profession he’s forbidden me to enter.”
     Ed laughed. “Really? Well, why don’t you add being a small business owner to that list?”
     It was true. On several occasions his father had said, “Become anything but a lawyer.”  Jon didn’t know if he was serious or not. The problem was that his mother always emphatically agreed.
     His father specialized in negligence cases. He’d settled some big cases. “No one really wants to go to court, and waste all that time and money,” his father said. “You try to get a fair settlement.” Sometimes, however, there was a long wait between settlements, with little money coming in during that interim for running the household.
     Still, he loved hearing the comic stories about the law office, and learning about the philosophy of the law. “Never sue for revenge; sue for damages.” Sure, it was a platitude, but it made sense. Knowledge of the law was empowering. “If you have a dispute with a merchant over defective merchandise, and he refuses to take it back, just leave it at his store. He can’t have both the merchandise and your money.”
     “Why are you walking like that?” his father asks. “Sore feet. Happens when I walk a lot.” “Get a good pair of shoes. I have a friend on Joralemon Street who sells those arch-preserver shoes.” When Jon shows up at the store and says his father recommended he come here, the owner greets him warmly. But the shoes feel a little tight. “Got to be that way to get the support benefit,” the owner says. Jon wears the shoes home. After he walks the ten blocks from the subway stop to his house, both feet have blisters.
     The next day he returns to the store with the shoes and requests his money back. The store is full of customers. “Can’t do it,” the owner says cheerfully. “You’ve already worn them. But don’t worry. We’ll put them in the shoe-stretcher. That’ll loosen them right up.”
     “I don’t want any shoe stretcher. I want my money back.”
     The owner’s smile relaxes. “Sorry.  Can’t do it.”
     “The shoes are on the counter,” Jon says, starting to leave. “See you in court.”
     Two days later, in the dining room in their home, Jon’s father counts out $23.60 and puts it on the table. “Heard you bought and returned some shoes,” he says.
     After a growth spurt that started when he was 15, Jon is now a head taller than his father. The father, who was very slender in his youth, is pear-shaped now, but still very good-looking. He looks about ten years younger than his 52 years. His avocation is comedy; sometimes he gives comedy routines at the Temple. He is not smiling now.
     “They gave me blisters,” Jon says.
     “So I hear. Morrison says that in front of a store full of people you threatened to take him to court.”
     “I had to. He wouldn’t give me my money back.”
     “He says he offered you a full refund.”
     “He’s a liar,” Jon says hotly. “Why would I threaten to take him to court if he has his shoes back and I have my money?”
     His father bursts out laughing.
     “What’s going on down there,” Jon’s mother calls from upstairs.
     “He’s a chip off the old block,” his father calls back.
     Walking back to work after going home for lunch, Jon thought about that incident. It gave him a warm feeling. Lately it seemed the only things he and his father talked about were the law and baseball. They’d lived in this neighborhood for ten years now, much longer than any place he’d lived before. He knew each of the gray stone, red brick, or white-stucco homes.
     The trees are in full bloom, he thought, and I could be playing ball today. He pictured himself hitting a hard line drive over the third baseman’s head. I’m Jon Danielson, just turned 18, an upper freshman at a city college. I live in what’s considered a “good” neighborhood in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. On this day, May 16, 1953, I have finished my morning work, taken my lunch break, and am returning to the store at which I work. I work 9 to 12 each weekday morning and all day Saturday. It seems that now, when I am pausing, just considering what is happening at a moment, I am more conscious than at other times. In a moment I will be back at the store, talking to Ed, talking to customers, coping with the problems like items out of stock, being involved, and it will seem like I’m not conscious anymore. In a moment, I will be old. Silly. So much will happen before then.
     Big Ed was at the counter. Six people waited to be checked out. Sweat poured down Ed’s face.
     “Hey Jon, take it, will you?” Ed said as Jon entered. “I have to start making the orders.”
     Zip of the meat slicer, clattering hum of the bread slicer, clang of the cash register, smiles, jokes, carefully look at the bills and count change. The line was gone.
     He walked to the back of the store. Ed was staring at some small, bright-silver cans of expensive peas. His face seemed dark, almost like he was sick.
     “They’re killing me,” Ed muttered, without looking up. Jon didn’t understand.
     “Problems of the small business man?” Jon asked.
     Ed looked at him. “Listen,” he said, “I have the big problems of the supermarkets and the tiny profits of your small business man.” Jon started to smile but Ed’s frown remained. “Here,” Ed said, handing him the order book, “finish making these up. I’m going upstairs to take a nap.”
      A radio played from the back wall of the store. Jon liked the songs this station played:  Les Paul and Mary Ford, the theme from Limelight, the new Eartha Kitt song, C’est Si Bon.  He looked at his watch. Dodger game is on.
     The radio was on a ledge above the back-room door. Jon reached up and turned the dial.
     Something about the back room fascinated him. A pile of empty cartons stood against the left wall. Full cartons were in the shadows to the right. Behind the full cartons, a short staircase led to a loft. Through a peephole in the loft you could see the whole store.
     Jon made up the orders. Occasionally a customer came in. Jon caught only snatches of the account of the game. The Dodgers were playing the Giants at Ebbets Field, and the Giants quickly got three runs. Could be a long day, Jon thought. Maglie’s pitching for the Giants. Sal the Barber. Jon’s father talked about the prewar Dodgers and how miserable they were. The Daffiness Boys:  manager Wilbert Robinson, Dazzy Vance, Babe Herman. In 1941 they had a good first-baseman in Dolph Camilli, and won the pennant.  They had the Yankees on the ropes in the World Series until a passed ball by catcher Mickey Owen. The stories were nice to listen to.
     “You listening to that?”
     Ed was behind the counter. Nothing to be startled at. Just didn’t hear him come down.
     “What?”
     “I asked if you were listening to that,” Ed said, looking toward the back of the store.
     “Yeah,” Jon replied.  “You know, I catch parts of it.”
     “Oh.”
     “Do you want me to turn it off? Change the station?”
     “No, you can leave it on. I just don’t understand why you would want to listen to a game. You can read the whole account of what happened in tomorrow’s paper.”
     “I guess you can. But, you know, it’s exciting to listen to.”
     Jon started for the frozen-food bin.
     “What’s the score?” Ed asked.
     “I think it’s 3-1, Giants.”
     “What inning?”
     “Late.  Like the seventh.”
     Five minutes later, Jon was back toward the front of the store, looking for an Arnold’s whole wheat bread.
     “You like the Dodgers?” Ed asked.
     “I guess so. Since the end of the war, they’ve been the best team in the National League. Nothing like the prewar Dodgers.”
     “How would you know? Listen, you want to bet on the game?”
     Jon smiled. He and his father liked those frozen blintzes Ed sold. “All right. I’ll tell you what. I’ll bet you two hour’s free work against two of those Milady frozen blintzes.”
     “Okay,” Ed said impassively.
     It’s silly stakes, Jon thought, as well as a stupid bet.
     “It’s kind of a foolish bet for me,” he said aloud.
     “Why?” Ed asked. “I think it’s a bad bet for me.”
     “You don’t understand,” Jon said. “The Dodgers are losing, 3-1 in the seventh.  Maglie is pitching for the Giants. He always beats the Dodgers.”
     “That’s why it’s a bad bet for me.”
     Jon continued making up the orders. Almost all done. Eighth went by – neither team scored. Bottom of the ninth. Looks bad. With one out, Robinson beat out a hit to short.  But Snider flied out to left. Down to the last out. Robinson stole second. Gutsy play.  Pitching carefully, Maglie walked Campy. That left it up to Hodges. Two and two on Hodges.
     “The pitch – high fly to center field,” the announcer said. “Damn,” Jon muttered, shaking his head. “Pretty well back there.” The roar of the crowd began to swell. Jon put a can of peaches in an order box and stood up. “Don Mueller back on the warning track…  The wind’s got a hold of it.” The shouting drowned out his voice.  “…leaps…” Nothing.  “He can’t get it!” blared the announcer triumphantly. “It’s out of here.”
     “Hey…” Jon exclaimed, smiling broadly.  He wanted to leap up in the air himself.
     “Just like that, it’s all over.  Gil Hodges, with two out, drills a Sal Maglie fastball into the centerfield seats for a three-run homer and a Dodger victory. The Dodgers finally beat Maglie.”
     “The Dodgers won,” Jon called, as he carried one of the boxes out to the bike.  “Hodges hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth.”
     “I know, I heard it,” Ed said. “I told you it was a bad bet. You’d better get those orders out now.”
     When he returned to the store, Jon parked the bike in front of the store and looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Day really went by fast. Two more hours of work.
     There were no customers in the store. Ed was standing in the left aisle now, studying items on the shelves. 
     “All orders out?” Ed asked, without looking up.
     “Every one,” Jon replied. He carried two empty boxes to the back room.  When he returned to the aisle, Ed was still looking at the shelves.
     “Anything I can do to help?”
     Ed turned around. His face looked dark with black stubble. “What do you do when I give the signal?” he asked.
     “Go up to the loft, and keep my eyes open for shoplifters.” Jon spoke the words but the situation seemed unreal.
     The two situations suddenly merged for him. He felt foolish for not understanding earlier.
     “Good,” Ed said.  He started counting small cans of salmon.
     “By the way,” Jon asked, “what do you do when you catch someone? Turn them over to the police?”
     Ed laughed. “I used to do that. Still do sometimes, with kids. A lot of good that does.  They give them a kick in the ass and send them home.”
     “Couldn’t you press charges?”
     “What good would that do? Someday I’ll show you how much I lose each month.  Anyway, that’s not the point. One’s got to pay for the rest.”
     “I don’t understand,” Jon said nervously. He suspected Ed was kidding.
     “Look,” Ed said, “you’d be amazed at the different types of people that steal stuff.  And at the places they hide it. Coat pockets, shopping bags, big pocketbooks, inside coat linings. And women. Down their dress, between their legs, anywhere. Skilled performers.  You think your baseball players are skilled performers? You see some true professionalism right here. While you’re trying to make an honest buck, they’re busy taking it right away from you. Your percentage on catching them is ridiculously small.  So when you do catch someone – the guy who’s supposed to be an ‘upright citizen’ or some nice upper-middle-class woman – they’re going to pay… and pay through the nose.  They can’t afford damage like that to their reputations.  One’s got to pay for the rest.”
     It still seemed unreal to Jon.  “And what do you do after you accuse them?”
     “You have to be sure,” Ed said. “That’s the key thing.  If you are, we take him or her into the back room for a little chat.  Don’t worry.  They’ll be very cooperative.”
     “I’ll point them out to you,” Jon stammered, “but I don’t want no part in no shakedown.”
     In the back room, he threw two more empty cartons on the pile. “There’s no need to resort to bad English,” he told himself. His whole body was shaking.
     He recalled that day in January when something strange happened. They had to work late. It wasn’t until 8:45 that they’d cleaned the frozen bin and swept the floor. Ed asked him if he’d like a lift home.
     Ed lives with his wife and two kids above the store. The daughter is 12 and the little boy is 6. Both the wife and the daughter are quite overweight. When Jon asked one day how the girl was doing in school, Ed’s only response was “She’s miserable.”
     “No thanks,” Jon says. “It’s only a ten-minute walk to my home.”
     “It’s really getting cold out there. Come on, I need some fresh air.”
     Ed’s gray Chevy pulls into the driveway of Jon’s home.
     “Thanks, Ed,” Jon says. “I really appreciate it.”
     Ed turns off the lights and puts on the handbrake. “Mind if I come in for a minute?  I’d like to say hello to your Dad.”
     There are three doors to the house. Jon always enters through the back. That door leads directly into the breakfast nook in the kitchen.
     The kitchen is large, the whole width of the house. Opposite the sink is a set of six steps that leads to a landing.  It’s a weird setup.  From the landing a staircase leads to the second floor; there’s also another set of steps that leads down to an entrance room off the living room.  
     “Hey, Dad,” Jon calls out. “Ed is here.”
     Footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor. Jon’s father opens the door to the kitchen and walks halfway down the short staircase. He looks relaxed.
     “Just wanted to say hello,” Ed says.
     “He drive you home?” the father asks Jon.
     “Yes he did.”
     “I appreciate that. It’s getting cold out there.”
     “Your son’s a good worker,” Ed says. “But I hear he doesn’t want to be a lawyer like his old man.”
     Jon’s father pauses. “I think he wants to major in Design.”
     “So he mentioned,“ Big Ed says. He turns toward the door. “Well, I’ve got to be getting home. Good meeting you.”
     Jon’s father smiles. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Jon, tell me. Who looks older? Him or me.“
     The question surprises Jon. Suddenly the eyes of both men are on him, his father’s in anticipation, Ed’s in weariness. He knows both their ages. His father is 52. Ed is 38.
     “It’s not a fair question.” Jon looks towards Ed. “He’s been working since 7:00 this morning.”
     “Of course you’re right,” his father says. “Good night, Ed.  Good meeting you.”
     Dodged a bullet, Jon thought. Hey, maybe I should major in political science.
 
     Almost time to close shop. Jon started cleaning out the frozen bin.
     “Hey, Jon,” Ed called out with some urgency. “Get me some Zino wax, will you?”
     “Right,” Jon responded. He entered the back room and climbed the wooden steps to the loft. The room was completely dark, but it didn’t matter. He knew the way by heart.  He saw the small speck of light on the wall. Kneeling down, he put his eye to the wall. 
     The perspective always startled him at first. Like the first view of a baseball field from the stands of a stadium. And like the ball park, the store below, the arena, always seemed so bright. It would be nice if they put a cigarette ad on the back wall. I could blow smoke rings.
     Who is he worried about? I didn’t even know there was anyone in the store. In the  aisle to the right was a man he had seen often but whose name he couldn’t recall. He looked like he might be in his sixties. Perhaps retired. He wore a gray coat that seemed neither old nor new. He was a big man, and could be considered distinguished looking if not for a slight quivering of his lower lip when he spoke. In the back of the store, right beneath Jon, was a woman in a camel’s hair coat. She always smiled and said hello to him. Right down their dress, he thought. And up front was a freckle-faced girl of about twelve; she wore a flared blue coat. Better watch her for a while, Jon thought.  Sometimes kids steal things for kicks. Police give them a kick in the ass and let them go.  No, it wouldn’t be her Ed’s after.
     He thought of what Ed had said. It’s all academic anyway. All the times I’ve been up here  I’ve never seen anyone take anything.
     There was no set time for Jon to stay in the loft. It was tacitly understood that he should remain there until satisfied that no one was shoplifting. A couple more minutes, Jon told himself.
     The man’s left arm shot out and grabbled a small tin of White Rose tuna fish. He quickly deposited the can in his left coat pocket. He had been facing the inner row of shelves. His left arm was blocked from the front of the store by his body. He continued looking at the items on the shelves.
     It was not so much the act, but the speed of the act, that shocked Jon. It reminded him of a movie showing a lizard snapping out a long tongue to spear an insect. For a moment Jon felt he was not a person but a camera. The picture was so clear. “That bastard,” Jon muttered. “I say hello to him all the time. He’s the one.”
     Jon watched a while longer, trying to see if the man would steal anything else. The man carefully selected a package of American cheese from the dairy bin and started wheeling his cart toward the counter.
     Jon ran down the steps into the back room. Slow down, will you? He’ll be there. The store didn’t seem as bright from the inside as from up in the loft. He walked to the counter. The man was bending over, unloading the shopping cart. Jon stood a few feet behind him. Ed busily rang up the items on the cash register. Why doesn’t Ed look at me?
     Ed smiled and made some comment that Jon didn’t catch. Then Ed looked past the man at Jon. Jon shook his head yes. A minute later Ed looked at Jon again and Jon shook his head more vehemently. He could feel the blood rushing to his face.
     Ed put the last item in the brown paper bag and lifted the bag into the man’s arms.  The man did not look one way or the other; he walked straight out the door.
     “Did you catch him?” Ed demanded, as soon as the door shut.
     “Yes,” Jon exclaimed.  “I saw him. He took a small can of White Rose tuna.”
     “He didn’t show no tuna,” Ed growled, moving out from behind the counter. “He was shaking like a leaf when you stood behind him. You sure you saw him?”
     “Positive.”
     Ed was moving toward the front door. “You remember what I told you about lawsuits,” he said. “Absolutely sure.”
     Do we tie him up? What? In the back room, do we tie him up? Of course not, you idiot. Is he seated or standing? Well, probably seated. I don’t know if there’s even a chair there. No matter how severe the damages you’ve suffered, you cannot resort to illegal means to make yourself whole. Furthermore, even if you are simply present at the commission of an illegal act, you could be charged as an accessory.
     “Absolutely sure?”
     “Positive,” Jon said.  He put his hand on the counter for support. “Almost completely positive.”
     Ed stopped.  “What?”
     A lie. There’s no ‘almost’ in this situation.
     “I saw him, Ed,” Jon insisted.
     “You gotta be completely sure,” Ed said. He started walking back toward the counter.  “He’s gone now. Forget it. Finish cleaning out the frozen bin.”
     Silently, Jon unloaded the icy packages from the frozen food bin. He scrubbed the gray metal rack at the bottom. Bright green. Milady frozen blintzes. Not a good time to collect on that bet.
     He heard Ed talking on the phone. “Yeah, I’ll be up soon… I guess I am. Thought we had him… Can you imagine? A tiny can of tuna… Well, first he’s sure, then he’s not so sure… Yeah…  See ya.”
     The bin was washed, frozen food neatly replaced, bike inside, and floor swept. Apron off. Ed scribbled some numbers on the back of a paper bag. Ring of the cash register. Jon didn’t bother to count the money Ed gave him.
     “See you Monday,” Jon said.
     Ed looked up. “Sure, kid.  See you Monday.”
     There was a chill in the air. Rooms in the houses along Avenue J were all lit up.  People getting ready to go out. Wouldn’t mind having a date tonight. He felt a gnawing in his stomach. Too much time between meals, he thought. His mother would have a dairy supper waiting for him. He would tell them. Maybe not tonight, but soon. Dad first.  Maybe they’d make him stop working for Ed. Wouldn’t want that.
     He thought of Gil Hodges home run. Dad would enjoy the story of that bet. But the thought cheered Jon only for a moment. What happened there? Pretty simple. You chickened out. Ed is more than a boss. He’s a friend. He’s a friend and you let him down.  What difference does it make? In a few days it won’t seem nearly as important as it does now. A few weeks pass, and it’s all over. It’s not like some girl dumping you for someone else. Everyone asking, “What happened?” This is different. No witnesses. Still, you’re just waiting for time to pass.
     He turned up the block towards his house. Then again, he thought, maybe there’s something I haven’t understood. Maybe I’ve got to think this out.         
                
 
  

​Jess’s second visit to the mountain huddled town, and like the first she thought of snow as it was known in childhood. Then it was a fleeting presence blanketing streets, familiarity glinted between buildings deepening disorientation. Here, snow was part of the landscape untouched by summer. It laid stagnant whether under a sodden autumn sky, or glistening for miles as if scattering light as droplets of sun. But Jess only knew this region in autumn, when the sun had receded but before heavy snowfall made train journeys too laborious.
Compartment was empty as Jess knew it would be at this time, just like the last. During her first journey the moon was absent, silhouettes of trees occasionally punctuated the darkness but otherwise the frozen landscape was known only by the cold which seeped into rattling compartments. It was out tonight, bright and lonely enough to seem a hand reach away.
Snow laid bare in moonlight, luminosity so vivid against the black sky it seemed to radiate from the snow itself. Even when trees were etched across the horizon, sense of expansion deepened with every meter covered. A reminder of the stagnancy encountered by each season, all of which were exerted weakly except winter which seemed to emanate from deep within the ground.
Rose would have leaned closer to the window, nose almost touching glass. No matter how often she came here, such a scene would invoke a smile. Despite being the reason for Jess’s initial visit, Rose refused to come to mind. Jess wondered if it would be different with the second, hoping if only to alleviate the guilt.
Wind strewn snow was the only movement across the planes, but such clouds were barley wisps thinner than smoke.
During those few days of snow when they were children, Rose would be standing at the end of the corridor gazing out the window. While the house gave little protection against gnawing cold, it offered a scenic view. Jess was eager to play outside with her friends but Rose always drifted towards the trees by herself. When she got older, Jess felt sorry for her sister and accompanied her for at least the morning. In the woods, snow was not a masking presence but deepened the stillness which always greeted them.
As the train propelled deeper, Jess began to lose that point of contact as if the white outside bleached thoughts of any content. Even her first visit diminished. Then while travelling through what seemed unending darkness away from a world left behind. Jess felt drawn to the town like a moth as if drawn by instincts formed within forgotten years. Finally darkness shrieked away from a light in the horizon, a few more minutes Jess thought.
Jess had given up probing why she came. Carrying on a ritual my sister adhered to she thought. As if merely an obligation motivated her. Jess had not spent time in any town in this region nestled below mountains, in fact hadn’t spent time in a port town of any kind. But she knew this one was in a process of decay, tourism during the summer brought more business than the sea.
On the train platform, sea was a greater darkness as if hazy blackness framed by snug orange lights had spilled from it. Alone on the platform, she found it hard to imagine being among people which seemed a distant prospect.
Jess found her way to the inn without encountering a single other person. Well-lit streets revealed buildings draped in white, making the roads seem like coal black threads. Inn itself was small but warm. Jess decided her room and cupboard sized ensuite, were snug rather than miniatures.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep, Jess went back outside feeling the need to find some life outside the establishment so her place was felt beyond the sound of sea and sting of cold. It took only a few minutes to come across a bar.
It was crowded but mostly on one side where there seemed to be a party of some kind. Jess sat at the furthest end enjoying a sharp fruit drink that went further in waking her. Being on the outside of the sound, was cosy. After a few minutes, Jess noticed a woman.
The stranger had dark hair and was about Jess’s age, early to mid-twenties. At first Jess didn’t know why the stranger caught her attention, sure the woman was staring at her but she was clearly tipsy if not inebriated holding the bar to steady herself and yelling to one of her companions. Words drooled from her mouth. But her gaze seemed clear, eyes wide as if in awe. Just has an expressive deer like face Jess thought, ignoring the sense that recognition was what rendered the stranger’s composure clear. A few moments later and the stranger was gone.
To Jess’s surprise, her first night was spent in a deep sleep.
Cold woke Jess early. After showering and dressing, she took out Rose’s pictures. Her sister had been far from her thoughts and Jess constructed the day to remedy this. I will go on one of her walks, where she took this photo. Photo was of a frozen over brook, perhaps it was the light but motion seemed suggested by the sharpness of the ice. A particularly ghoulish tree leered from the edge, one that had attracted Rose.
Beside the brook Jess found the stranger. Clearly suffering from the previous night. The stranger heard Jess’s boots crunching through the snow. She seemed startled. Jess stood silently beside her, making a point of not acknowledging the stranger’s presence.
“I’m Lilia. You must be new in town.”
Lilia simultaneously shrank from Jess and engaged her, a contradiction that piqued Jess’s interest.
“Just visiting. Wanted to see the milky way.”
A simple enough reply, but one that prompted a sad smile from Lilia.
“Something I said,” Jess asked.
Lilia looked taken aback.
“No. Just a long time ago someone said the same thing. Not in this spot those,” Lilia replied.
Obliqueness of the reply irritated Jess, but didn’t diminish her interest.
“Lots of people must come here for the same reason,” Jess stated bluntly.
“Your right,” Lilia replied ashamed.
“You at Sea Bird Inn,” Lilia asked.
Jess nodded.
“Lived here long,” Jess asked.
“All my life.”
“Must be hard,” Jess stated blandly.
“I like trekking up the mountain and reading by the sea. But yes it is. Cut off from the rest of the world.”
“Life must feel as stagnant as the snow,” Jess added.
Lilia gave a probing look. Trying to judge if the city girl was mocking life out here. Clearly Lilia couldn’t get a read which annoyed her, or at least seemed to at first. As their conversation meandered, distrust decayed into disgust. But Lilia kept talking, even when Jess turned back intending to head down the trial into town.
“You here only to see the sky,” Lilia asked. Expectancy of her tone intrigued Jess further.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I.”
Suddenly, Jess saw a use for her companion.
“When we get into town, you mind taking me to Cross Path. I’m supposed to meet someone.”
“Made friends already,” Lilia asked.
“Already. How long do you think I have been here for.”
“Arrived sometime yesterday right.”
“Good guess. Last night actually. How did you know,” Jess asked.
“Would have seen you around otherwise. Small place and we only get people for the hot springs but it’s not the season for that. Well, except for the suits staying at the conference centre.”
“Cross Path is this way,” Lilia added.
Apparently the bungalow was on one of the outer streets. Soon they were walking along a cliff with the sea to their right. On the edge of the cliff, bare branches loomed. Jess couldn’t imagine leaves budding, spring must always be fragile here.
Given the yearly persistence of snow, it must seem as if the waves bellowed against the white stillness. It was hard to perceive the depth of shore waxing and waning to the rhythm of the tides. As a child no matter the weather, Jess couldn’t stand being beside the sea without feeling the waves throb against her body. Even when it rained, she would dart in to Rose’s excited squeals. As if that sound was all that was left, somehow enduring beyond Rose herself, it was the only aspect of her that surged in a tangible manner. The more Jess reached, the more spectral memories became like smeared reflections in fogged glass.
Jess realised it had been a while since she spoke. Given the strange Lilia was showing her the way, she became self-conscious.
“I have always loved the sea,” Jess stated.
A banal enough comment but it inspired a knowing smile from Lilia. Jess accepted the following silence as long as that smile remained, which did so before the rocks diminished and were replaced by trees. Lilia stopped even those there was no house in sight.
“They say a spider lives in that tree. You see the hole,” Lilia asked.
“Sure.”
“They say a spider haunts it after a man hanged himself.”
“Did he,” Jess asked. She moved forward, Lilia reluctantly followed.
“It happened a few decades ago. Don’t know where the spider aspect came from. Maybe someone fell asleep and found one crawling across their faces,” Lilia giggled.
“Too cold to fall asleep.”
“We hardly walk around without clothes on but out summer here would be different than your summer here,” Lilia replied.
“Here we are. She is really nice,” Lilia said.
“You know Miss Lane,” Jess asked.
“Everyone does, been here since forever. Well, I will see you around. Just across the street,” Lilia said.
Lane’s bungalow was cramped partly due to tight confines but also her possessions and sprawling furniture.
“I like to be snug. Need to be snug around here. Can get pretty depressing otherwise with damp empty rooms,” Lane observed. She entered with two bowls of soup, aroma of which filled the room and made Jess suddenly hungry.
“This is delicious,” Jess said.
It was Lane who had called Jess, telling her of the accident which took Rose’s life.
“You were close to my sister,” Jess asked.
“You know how your sister was like a little deer. But she got more at ease the longer she spent here. Managed to coax her round for the soup. I’m sorry for what happened to her, she was a lovely person.”
“She was. A great sister,” Jess replied.
“What was it she did here. I know she loved the landscape, taking her pictures and waiting for the milky way to become clear.”
“There were few people she talked to, you know what she was like. Very shy. I don’t think she did much, enjoyed the baths and was always wandering around the mountains.”
“I met someone called Lilia who seemed to know Rose,” Jess said.
“I know Lilia, sweet but unfortunate girl. They were very close, inseparable in fact. I’m sure Lilia will be able to tell you more.”
“Actually Lilia never mentioned Rose.”
“How did you know.”
“Just how she was acting. Wouldn’t make sense otherwise,” Jess replied.
“Rose always said you were observant. Said you were in tune with things. From what she said it always seemed as if you were the older sister.”
“Rose felt things deeply. Perhaps why this place resonated with her so much. Maybe you wouldn’t understand, living here for so long.”
“I was born here and spent my childhood here. But I spent most of my time elsewhere. Travelled quite a bit actually.”
“Why did you come back,” Jess asked. Glad to move the conversation away from Rose.
“Long story. How about another day.”
During Jess’s initial stay in town, Lane never provided the story. Conversations were kept confined to the day they occurred.
Next day Lilia sort Jess out. It was late evening and Jess was eating at the inn. Lilia bounced along, sober but face flushed from alcohol.
“I work as a hostess and got a party tonight. Have to put myself in the mood. Don’t think I’m normally this cheery,” Lilia warned.
“I won’t.”
“I can’t stay long.” Lilia spoke as if Jess had invited her to sit down.
“I thought you worked as a waitress,” Jess observed.
“Who told you that. Right, Lane. Part time. Might have to become a hostess full time. It’s a bitch those.”
“How so,” Jess asked.
“Hard to smile at faces you won’t remember in a minute. Stuck up business men who swoop in and think they own the place. Got to give people a good time. Smiles are a valuable commodity,” Lilia giggled.
“I don’t have to worry about smiling.”
“I noticed,” Lilia replied.
Lilia ended up being late to the party, to the point that elevation offered by alcohol dimmed. This didn’t slow the flow of words even if Lilia’s voice dipped. It seemed their conversation was a reflection which reminded Lilia of how long it had been since she talked, no end point or inhibition – perhaps that was why Jess began to feel melancholic.
Lilia’s place in this town became clear, even without being addressed. Lilia talked of mountain trials and deer, jellyfish washed up on shore and seals lounging on the coast. But such images could not be removed from these streets, at least for Jess no matter how they were experienced by Lilia.
Sadness crept more tepidly than the cold but just as hungrily. Jess was pleased when Lilia left, hurrying to the party. Alcohol loosens knots so tight they are barely perceptible until undone Jess thought. This notion comforted her. Still in their previous interaction, Lilia seemed disgusted by Jess as if detecting a foul odour which was absent from an exalted expression enjoyed a moment ago. Lilia’s voice was husky, surprisingly so but the guttural tone did not diminish the easy flow of words.
Next day Lilia lead Jess down to the beach. She talked little, after effect of the party perhaps or embarrassment at her openness the previous evening. But without exerting a word, Jess felt Lilia relax.
“There is little sand here. Coast mostly rocks. Brings the trees closer those,” Lilia said.
“Couldn’t imagine being so close to the sea for so long without going in.”
“Even with swim suits, currents are too powerful.”
“I have never seen waves so big,” Jess muttered.
“This is my favourite spot,” Lilia stated.
A patch of sand surrounded by black rocks.
“Did you bring Rose here?” Jess asked.
Lilia’s surprise lasted a moment.
“I knew she would like it. So secluded, waves sound so much deeper don’t you think?”
Jess wanted to ask what this place meant to Rose. As if by proximity, Lilia would know the essence of Rose’s visits.
“At least now I know why you talked to me. Despite the faces you were pulling,” Jess said.
“What faces? Well, when I saw you I saw her. Made me want to speak to you but you were so different. Just took me aback a little is all.”
“How are we different?”
“Rose couldn’t hide how she felt. So she didn’t talk, but when she did you couldn’t shut her up,” Lilia laughed.
“You were close?”
Lilia nodded, “we were. But I like you. Can talk to you like I could her even if for different reasons. So I don’t want to talk about her, do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
Dark clouds veiled the mountain making its shadowy outline immense. Cold surged along with the wind blowing down the rocks, as if descending from the clouds themselves gaining momentum until reviving numb skin with prickling pain. Stillness of bare branches seemed eerie. With this surge of freezing motion, Jess could not abide the slow pace of their ascent. Laughing at the burst of energy, she set her sights on a single small tree further up where a dove perched.
“Your going to slip,” Lilia laughed.
But Jess almost made it to the edge before the ground gaze way, and she slid so effortlessly it was as if she could end in the sea. White sky remained still those, so Jess wasn’t sure when she stopped. But then her body wriggled against a piercing sensation forcing her to sit up. Snow had seeped through her clothes.
“Your insane,” Lilia laughed. She ran over and sat beside Jess.
“I’m freezing. Like I did take a dip in the sea.”
“Come on, bath isn’t far from here. Steady those,” Lilia warned.
Clothes stuck to Jess’s thin frame, but eventually relinquished replaced by a warm towel. Steam in the bath made cold a purely theoretical concept. But it was empty, like Lilia predicted.
Lilia sighed deeply, closing her eyes.
“Was feeling like shit this morning. But now I can’t imagine it.”
After their walk on the beach, Lilia took Jess around town pointing out banal local places but revealing some intimate detail. None of which connected directly to Lilia’s life but revealing intimacy, where marigolds were planted by Mrs Jones every year who ran the news agent, an alley ending in a stream where foxes tunnelled into town from the trees… All before deciding to scale the slope.
“Jesus, your arms are like twigs. No wonder she called you the scare crow,” Lilia laughed. Pinching Jess’s skin.
“Ow,” Jess laughed.
It wasn’t her thinness those, but stillness that intrigued Rose. Jess realised Lilia broke her rule but didn’t mention it.
“She always liked the snow. In our home town I played with the children, making snow men and having snow fights. She didn’t. But we went walking in the woods after,” Jess recalled. She felt bad, as if manipulating Lilia. She knew it was grief that had prompted Lilia’s approach, Lilia’s request not to mention Rose and would now prod her into talking.
“One of the things that opened me up to her was how much she liked the trees. The landscape. I did not always like wandering around here, as I child I did but when my mother became ill, I hated everything about this place - every leaf, rabbit, house and person. It wasn’t until I came back that I felt how I once did. But Rose’s enthusiasm made it so much more.”
Alienation came in many forms, Jess knew this but never before had she thought that some base essence could resonate between people regardless of circumstance.
Lilia rented a room in the house across the street which Jess learned was a converted attic. But insulation had been put up. Snug warmth greeted Jess during the occasional visit, Lilia never losing her self-consciousness.
“Bigger than my apartment,” Jess assured.
“You going to school?” Lilia asked. It was the first time Jess had been up there, day after the bath.
“Finish in a year.”
“What are you doing next?”
“Not sure,” Jess smiled.
Lilia nodded, “Rose was worried about that.”
A week passed without invoking Rose. Time spent with Lilia was comforting in its gentleness, even if Jess knew interactions would never exist in the present moment. But then what has she would ask during her nihilistic moments, still the question brought comfort.
“You said she liked when it snowed,” Lilia prompted.
“Not the same as here with you,” Jess replied.
Lilia was laying on the bed. Closing her eyes against the throbbing pain in her head. Eyes still closed, even as she spoke. Jess was laying on the floor covered in Lilia’s blankets smoking a joint, wearied from the afternoon walk up the mountain.
“What do you mean? What’s the difference?”
“When it snowed you couldn’t tell it was the same town. She could pretend it was somewhere else,” Jess sighed.
“And what did this place mean?” Lilia asked. Her voice slackened, bordering on sleep.
Jess didn’t respond, not wanting to reveal her hopes that Lilia would have the answer. Jess’s gaze drifted towards the window. Taped on the wooden window frame, was a picture depicting a lone woman staring out at the ocean.
That was one of the last times they were up there before Jess’s final week. When Lilia seemed to avoid her.
“Lilia not talking as much?” Lane asked.
“Not as much.”
Lane chuckled, “did the same thing with Rose every time her departure came close.”
“Been spending a lot of my time with her. But she talks little about herself,” Jess said.
“About Rose?”
“Occasionally, elusively,” Jess replied.
“Before I leave, could you show me where Rose fell through the ice?” she asked.
Lane seemed surprised but nodded.
“Don’t be too hard on Lilia. Her mother was a widow and worked hard skinning fish before falling ill. They never received much help from the town. Always alone. Her mother eventually got her into a school on the mainland. Told me not to tell Lilia about her illness but I did anyway. Lilia came back and poor Aimee resented me until the day she died.”
Wind battered against the door and the glass seemed strained, it took Jess a moment to realise that a storm stirred up the waves.   
“Seems to be the kind of person to live in her own head. Rose was like that. I’m not surprised they were together. Rose had little in the city, worked as a waitress and just made ends meet. Always wanted to travel but settled for coming out here. Seems a different country.”
After speaking, Jess went to the window and looked out at the crashing waves - so high.
“Do you think she would have moved out here eventually?” Lane asked.
“Lilia only seems to have one foot in this place so I don’t know. Funny, Rose finding something here while Lilia wants to leave.”
Last time Jess entered Lilia’s attic room was at midnight. Lilia’s arm was draped over Jess’s neck and she was giggling at something, Jess wasn’t sure what. On the stairs Lilia giggled loudly.
“Be quiet,” Jess whispered. She placed a hand firmly over Lilia’s mouth who giggled under it.
“The family wont hesitate to throw you out.”
“I don’t care. Smells for hours after cooking a single meal, fuck them.”
But Lilia fell quiet with intermittent groans. Laying on the bed, Lilia brought a hand to Jess’s face and stroked her cheek tenderly. Jess was surprised until she saw Lilia’s clouded expression, fixed on another time before slipping into sleep.
Lilia was absent during the final day, making Jess feeling melancholic but making the departure easier. Frustration those framed the day. Jess wasn’t sure if there was any point to her visit, but knew Rose was the heart of it. But why or how Rose connected to this place seemed vague, even her features were faint.
Final night and Jess knew Lilia would drift by. While Lilia was the one who withdrew, Jess knew if she had peeled away she would have stayed away. But not Lilia.
“Sorry for staying away. I have been busy. Really I have, even if that wasn’t the only reason,” Lilia muttered. She had come back from the party and was tipsy, a dazed expression seemed fixed on the rain assailing the window.
“I have always liked the rain, makes me feel snug. Lone island of stability when everything outside is lost to movement.”
“Me too. Its nice to see you Lilia.”
“Sorry you didn’t get to see the milky way.”
Jess smiled, “its fine.”
Lilia laid her head against the bed frame after flopping down on the floor. Jess sat on the bed and stroked strands of hair away from Lilia’s eyes.
“I’m not an alcoholic you know,” Lila said.
“Never said you were.”
“Just because you see me like this, doesn’t mean I am one.”
“Never said you were.”
“Rose worried about my drinking. She never said I was but I felt like she thought it. That’s what I like about you, you don’t judge. Talk to Rose because she knows and I know her. But you always have the same expression, didn’t like it at first. Remote like you hide but you don’t, you don’t judge.”
“I’m not an alcoholic. If I stopped drinking I wouldn’t have withdrawal symptoms or anything. And I do stop, before the next party. Before the next smiles.”
Lilia shifted her head onto Jess’s leg, continuing to ramble while Jess kept stroking while Lilia kept talking until falling asleep.
On the platform they talked little but out of nowhere, Lilia asked something that left Jess cold.
“You coming back right?”
“Sure, maybe in summer when I finish uni.”
“I will be here.”
It wasn’t until autumn that Jess visited again, almost a year. But it seemed longer. Perhaps how different the journey was, sparkling snow contrasting to a black vacuum.
Jess took out Lilia’s letter. A few sentences asking her not to come, too busy and that it would be better in the winter. Jess sighed, wondering the cause for alienation. Was it only the postponement that could change things rendering reconnection an impossibility, or just the opposite. Jess hoped it was the former, that Lilia’s life would be remote and unrecognisable.
Despite the difference in the landscape defining the journey, Jess expected to be alone on the platform. To her surprise Lilia was waiting by the bench.
“Like a ghost train,” Lilia smiled. Jess had been the only one to get off, bare white neon light bulbs exposed their solitude against a bare black sky.
“Didn’t have to come,” Lilia observed.
“So you think I came just for you. Woow,” Jess giggled.
“Didn’t get to see the milky way. Sorry you couldn’t keep me away,” she added.
“I wasn’t trying to keep you away. Come on, I’m gonna walk you to the inn.”
“Finished with education?” Lilia asked.
“For a bit. Not sure what to do next so just focusing on making rent for the moment.”
“Rose was worried about that.”
“I was the one who always worried actually,” Jess laughed.
Lilia nodded as if acknowledging while disagreeing with the point. Jess accepted the oblique gesture with slight irritation.
Following silence brought Jess’s first night back. Alley constricted bringing the night sky low, while darkness eagerly crowded either end cloaked from streetlights. Emerging onto the street however, cast darkness aside. In only a few moments, snow had began to fall with flakes catching the moonlight casting a white haze scattered across the dark. Night sky was further now.
“Just realised this is the first time I have seen it snow here,” Jess said.
Lilia smiled, “blizzards are coming. So you will be in for it. Streets will be deserted, barley see two feet in front of you.”
“Do you think we could sprint to the baths?” Jess asked.
“Maybe if we are quick. Better hold my hand tightly those, otherwise you will be entirely lost.”
Jess laughed at the thought of the pursuit against the wind.
“At least we have a plan for tomorrow. Will have to be after I see Lane.”
“Make sure you leave nice and early. No later than midday,” Lilia warned. Pulling her scarf across half her face, hiding her nose emphasising those expressive eyes.
Jess smiled, unable to recall the last time such a sentiment was expressed. Rose never issued tender warnings, feeling in no place to do so.
“Same room. At least it’s warm. Sake?” Jess offered.
“Maybe a little,” Lilia smiled.
They sat in front of the heater and an awkward silence emerged.
“Has anything changed much for you?” Jess asked.
Lilia took a sip, “been saving. Might be my final year here.” Her voice was hopeful.
“You will need to get everything sorted those. No point drifting around,” Lilia warned.
Jess suppressed another smile.
“Snow flakes are so pretty,” Jess said. Heater burned red and Jess could feel the cosy effect of sake. She was comfortable in the silence, not wondering why Lilia tried to keep her away.
In the morning, Jess groaned awake.
“You need to get up if you want to make it to Lane,” Lilia said.
Snow was heavy last night so Lilia borrowed Jess’s blankets and settled near the heater.
“You just want to use the shower in peace,” Jess mumbled. But she got up and dressed before heading out.
Out on the street, Jess heard the window open. Looking up she saw Lilia’s head sticking out.
“Sure you don’t want me to come. Coming down pretty heavy,” Lilia yelled.
“I will be fine but we going to the baths later. Put your head back in before your nose freezes off.”
Lane greeted her as if it was only a day since they last met.
“Must be cold out there. You really wanted to get me out of the way with,” Lane laughed.
“Actually I was eager to hear that long story,” Jess replied.
Lane was fixing up the soup and looked back with surprise.
“About leaving for the city,” Jess prompted. She already decided that Lane left that strand untouched by the sparseness with which Rose was mentioned. Jess knew she did not exude intimacy.
“Nothing much to tell. Not really,” Lane replied. But Lane’s hesitancy reminded Jess of some kind of point that had existed when it was first brought up.
“Born here. Very different from Lilia. Had a big family and had a real sense of community and place. It was only after father’s infidelity, the fracturing of my family which came out of nowhere that I wanted to leave. Not because of what happened, but just everything seemed dead here. As if I had just noticed the fishing operations were closing.”
“And you did those,” Jess pointed out.
“I did, travelled far. Had a lot of fun, met lots of people but I was frustrated. As if being in a new place, severing my roots would lead to something that never came. Some kind of change that would shake down through my very being. But when my dad fell ill, I came back so easily like there was no distinction between before, when I was here and then all those intermittent years.”
“I have found peace with this those,” Lane smiled.
“Do you think it will be the same for Lilia if she left.”
“Perhaps, don’t want her investing in a future on a false premise,” Lane sighed.
“But then you said it was a different childhood for you than Lilia,” Jess pointed out. A cunning smile opened, finding Rose more intimately connected to Lilia.
“I don’t think she ever had a home. Not how you would describe one,” Jess said.
Lane considered this for a moment before shrugging.
“Rose said you were observant. Was it the same for her?” Lane asked.
“I don’t think she felt as if she belonged.”
“And you?” Lane asked.
“The differences between you. She talked as if you were her rock. How one would speak of parents,” Lane continued.
Jess shook her head sadly.
“That was what I told myself. But really I was just stoic. Made her feel inferior in how deeply she felt things so she looked up to me. Called me strong,” Jess scoffed.
“She couldn’t talk to me, I left her isolated. I only realised this when I was here. All before I told myself I was the only person who mattered to her, looked out for her and kept her afloat. All a delusion,” Jess continued.
Her voice was soulless, lacking texture or even sadness. Lane seemed disconcerted by this, unable to offer the comfort she instinctually felt the need to give.
“She was out walking in the blizzard right. That was why she didn’t see the ice. Why was she out at that time?” Jess asked.
Lane sighed.
“You know they used to come round here together. We used to eat this soup sitting right here, the three of us. Lilia drops round occasionally out of a feeling of obligation. Nice seeing her but sad. They were joined at the hip.”
“I don’t think Lilia had ever been with anyone like that. Hardships and her job killing potential for romance or intimacy of any kind. She told you how hard it is to smile. It goes beyond that if you understand?” Lane continued.
“I do.”
“For those three years, Rose’s visits offered so much. Your sister really helped.”
Jess nodded, but was on an adjoining line of thought.
“Don’t be hard on Lilia, it was hard enough for her.”
“Of course not,” Jess sighed.
“Hi Jess. Your taking too long, blizzard is coming in strong. We can run straight to the baths. Hi Lane. Don’t want Jess to get lost in the blizzard,” Lilia smiled.
Lane looked up startled, seeming ashamed as if having betrayed a secret. She looked at Jess almost pleadingly.
“Sure, sounds nice.”
Density of snow threatened to swallow Lilia who was almost next to her. This made Jess squeeze Lilia’s hands tighter. Lilia wanted to run further but didn’t dare, leading a strange frenetic trudge. Jess couldn’t help but imagine not walking along streets through a blizzard, but across low hills and dips at night between trees – having been steered off course, did she hear the crack of strained ice?
Bath was once again empty. Lilia was talking excitedly, picking up the same vibrancy that had existed last night. Jess pretended she was taking in the warmth and steam, but Lilia noticed.
“What did you and Lane talk about?” Lilia asked. Her voice hardened.
“A lot of things,” Jess sighed. Exhaustion was not just from the bracing weather, but a weariness going back years. Back to Rose staring out at snow, imagining a world she never revealed – I didn’t let her reveal. Left her in silence.
“Talk about me?” Lilia challenged.
Jess glanced over and saw the hurt. Hurt that I know, know Rose was worried about Lilia being drunk with those men and then making her way back to their attic room where they laid with each other above the world. That small window gazing out at the mountain, in the bed Rose’s gaze would be fixed up there. Lilia said she wouldn’t get drunk but Rose didn’t believe her. Laying alone in the dark worrying about Lilia making her way back, missing the warmth of her body – Rose had set out. That was the first reason for the hurt, but there were so many others.
“A little,” Jess replied. She swallowed and felt the same sense of paralysis that descended when she saw Rose’s far flung expression. When Rose descended deeper into the bleakness of things.
“Lane talked about how much happier you were when Rose was here.”
Lilia nodded and gulped back the most sever fear. All this time, she had never spoke of her guilt Jess thought. Jess wanted to confront her, reach in and tear out the guilt and everything else that wasn’t those warm memories. But the fragility, not now Jess decided. A decision that wilted, aren’t I’m doing exactly what I have always done?
“But I was thinking of what you did for her,” Jess said.
“Me?” Lilia asked.
“It wasn’t one way, you made Rose feel a similar way. She was never with anyone, in any way but she wanted to be. But she was with you, before you she might as well have been silent,” Jess said.
Lilia looked away and Jess knew she was crying. But Jess did not regret speaking, even if laying bare her own guilt.
Lilia buried her face into her arms. When she looked up, tear drops would be indistinguishable from sweat.
Lilia eventually sniffed loudly, after Jess placed a comforting but sweaty hand on her shoulder.
“Ready to leave?” Lilia asked.
Once again they trudged through the blizzard. Jess having no way of knowing where they were until Lilia came to a stop.
They warmed themselves by the heater. Lilia seemed as caught up in thoughts and memories as Jess, morning was so much clearer. But Jess felt no regret. Lilia’s timid but tender smiles reassured her.
“How much money do you have saved?” Jess eventually asked.
“Not enough. Not yet,” Lilia whispered.
“Rose always looked out at the snow. I think she liked not recognising that place, that town where she felt so displaced. But we were never together during a blizzard. I wonder what she would of thought, how it would have made her feel.”
Lilia nodded, “she loved the mountain and air. Said it was fresh made her healthier, expanding her lungs with every breath.”
Jess looked out the window. Blizzard so fierce not a single flake was discernible leaving only white static. Jess felt the room had floated, far from the town and across the sea.
“What about you?” Lilia asked.
“I’m not sure. Then or now,” Jess replied.
Wind howled louder and Jess realised the blizzard was gaining momentum as if they were gaining altitude.
 

​Rick pulled into his driveway, turned off the engine, and rested his head on the steering wheel of his Jeep. His day had started off badly and the long hours at work didn't help. He’d been dreading coming home, knowing he’d have to finally start an uncomfortable conversation with his housemate, Christopher, but it just couldn’t be put off any longer. Well, not more than a few minutes, anyway – long enough to roll down the window and have a cigarette.
The smoking was a bad sign, even Rick himself knew that.  He’d managed to give up for six months before the stress of the morning pushed him back.
Susan had been there, at the house, standing in the middle of the rose bed of all places, near where the front wheel of the Jeep had now come to rest. Thorns had cut her bare legs and feet, so she had trickles and smears of blood all over.
Rick’s face had fallen when he saw her – he felt pity for her, at first – but then he got angry when she wouldn’t go. So now he had to have the talk with Christopher, and they’d have to decide what to do about her because enough was enough.
“Christopher, we have to talk,” Rick repeated over to himself before shaking his head. No. It was a bad opener. ‘Did you see Susan this morning?’ he could ask, but that was maybe too direct.
Raising his eyes from the cigarette, Rick surveyed the house. There didn’t seem to be any lights on. Maybe he could go in and shower before having to decide anything. Except that was a cop-out. It was better for him to be prepared. That much was clear when he’d found Susan with wild hair and wearing only an oversized t-shirt at seven–am.
Rick hadn’t known what to say. She had looked like she might cry, so they had just stood there for a minute looking at each other until a neighbour came out to collect the milk and Rick had tried to get Susan to move further into the shade where she wouldn’t cause a scene.
Fat lot of good that had done him.
Susan had wrenched her arm from his hand and started to yell and swear at him. Rick backed up and had raised his hands in surrender, but he was firm about telling her she needed to go; that she shouldn’t be there. And then she’d started up again about how she and Christopher were together; that she loved him, and needed him; that he knew she was there and didn’t mind.
That was when Rick lost it and started yelling back at her that she was a stupid, deluded cow, and how if she cared about Christopher at all she wouldn’t be putting him through this stalker bullshit.
She really did cry, then, and he felt like the biggest jerk on the planet. She was clearly mentally unstable. He and Christopher would probably have to notify the authorities and get her forcibly sectioned; get a restraining order, or something.
Rick flinched as ash from his cigarette fell onto his jeans and started to smoulder. He brushed his hand quickly over the patch to extinguish it and inspected the hole. It wasn’t big, but was enough to be the crappy topping on his craptastic day. He opened the door, threw down what was left of the butt and swung his legs out of the car to stamp on it.
Each of the smaller actions that made up the bigger action of walking to the front door – rolling up the car window, closing the car door and locking it, and putting one foot in front of the other – sent mental exhaustion deeper into Rick’s bones.
He had seen documentaries about asylums and didn’t want to be responsible for anyone being locked up in one. Sure, they probably weren’t as bad as they’d been in the Victorian era – he was pretty sure they weren’t even called asylums anymore – but there had been a thing in the newspaper the other week about how vulnerable adults were more likely to be abused when put into care or some shit. He didn’t want that on his conscience.
Susan used to be a really cool person before her obsession with Christopher started and her friendship with both him and Rick went to hell. Rick and Christopher had been best friends since primary school and Susan had been the one to plant the roses for them. They were a housewarming gift for when they moved in together right after uni. Except neither of them really cared to learn how to look after roses, so they were kinda wild.
Truth be told, Rick had fallen hard for Susan that very first day he saw her walking across campus with a huge smile on her face. He’d turned and asked Christopher what he thought, but he’d only grunted.  
Christopher hadn’t really ever shown any interest. Not only did he refuse to acknowledge any of Susan’s weird appearances at their house, he’d tried to talk Rick out of asking her out in the first place.
Two weeks into knowing Susan, Rick had been talking Christopher’s ear off about how much he liked her – again – and had again asked his friend’s opinion. This time, different from the rest for whatever reason, Christopher had shook his head and actually engaged with the topic at hand.
“I don’t think so,” he’d said. “She’s nuts.”
Rick had gotten indignant and asked exactly what he meant, and Christopher had shrugged and just said it was obvious. Rick thought he was being a prick at the time but now, well, look who turned out to be right. That same day, Rick had gone to Susan’s flat and asked her out regardless of what his friend thought. She’d been really sweet about it and said she was flattered but, ultimately, told him she was already with someone else.
And that’s when the lies about Christopher started. Susan said they’d been dating for “a while” but he’d wanted to keep it quiet. Briefly, Rick wondered if it might be true, but that didn’t make any sense. Christopher was already dating like three other girls, and – now Rick thought about it – he’d never really had a kind word to say about Susan. Maybe, he realised belatedly, this was why. Given what each of them had told him, he figured she’d tried it on, he’d rejected her, and she hadn’t taken it well so was now in some deluded fantasy land of her own making.
It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. Christopher seemed to have all kinds of women coming out of the woodwork – especially the crazy ones – while Rick struggled to ever find a date. He sighed, considering again that was maybe for the best. “Better no girl than a crazy one,” Christopher always told him. And sure, wasn’t he one to know?
Rick figured it must be really hard on his friend to have to put up with stalkers. He assumed he felt sorry for the women, and was just putting on the callous act as some kind of coping mechanism. Whatever it was, it had to stop. Christopher needed to talk to Rick about this, and they needed to do something, because this was worse than any of the times before and Susan needed to be made to stay away before she did something really bad that she couldn’t come back from.
Resolute, Rick put his key in the front door and walked into the house, flicking on the hall switch and effectively flooding the whole open-plan downstairs area with light.
Christopher and Susan looked up, surprise on their faces.
Susan was naked, backed up against the sink, Christopher standing between her parted legs, his bare chest pressed to hers and mouth smeared with her lipstick.
They both looked away as suddenly as they had looked up.
Rick dropped his keys and swore, bending to pick them up. By the time he had righted himself and remembered to breathe, Christopher had disentangled himself from the embrace and walked the short distance to his bedroom, shutting the door loudly behind him; not saying a word or tossing any kind of backward glance towards Susan, who he’d left standing there, exposed and adrift.
All the scars on her legs were vibrant red.
Rick blinked after his friend and Susan burst into tears. He had to dig out an oversized shirt from the recesses of his wardrobe for her to wear and make her a cup of tea before either of them were composed enough for him to offer a lift home.  
Christopher’s bedroom door was locked and, apparently, all of Susan’s clothes were on his floor. Rick seethed as reality filtered through the sludge of his overworked mind.
“How long?” he asked, when he finally found his voice.
“Four months,” said Susan, her head down and voice shaky.
“Right,” said Rick, clenching and unclenching his fist. He definitely needed to have a serious talk with his housemate now. Because, of the three of them, there was definitely one liar and one deluded idiot, it just so happened that he’d got all the roles tangled.