Bennie didn’t dare open his eyes. They throbbed with every heartbeat, and he genuinely believed that if he opened them, they might just burst out of their sockets. He groaned, and the sound rattled around in his skull like a ricocheting bullet. His whole body hurt . His arms and legs were dead weight. His tongue felt like a dusty, shrivelled bit of meat that had spent a few months down the back of the sofa. A hangover , he thought. Which means I was drinking last night. Thinking was too painful and too difficult, so Bennie left it at that and tried to just be as quiet and still as possible for a while. But, he realised, there was a very urgent pressure on his bladder. He thought about just letting himself go right there, wherever he was. He really did. But some vestigial glimmer of responsibility must have broken through the fog, because he got up, with great effort, and shuffled to the bathroom. As he peed, Bennie’s mind played a nonlinear sequence of faded, fragmented memories: Singing. Dancing. Ordering several pizzas. Marjorie’s weird cousin turning up - the one who dressed like a trainspotter and talked like an Iron Maiden song. Doing shots with Twila. So there was a party , Bennie thought. That explains the drinking. But thinking still hurt, so Bennie flushed and zipped and splashed cool, cool water on his greasy face. He thought about rinsing some of the tongue-fluff away with mouthwash, but the alcoholic smell of it nearly outright killed him. He groaned, and heard an answering groan from the bathtub. Bennie shuffled over and gently, quietly, pulled aside the shower curtain. There was a woman in there, lying on her back with her arms and legs curled up like a dead spider. She had bits of pepperoni tangled in her hair, and a long, shiny trail of drool down one cheek. She was the most beautiful woman Bennie had ever seen. “Crazy night,” said Bennie. Every syllable was like a hot dagger in each ear. The woman - Twila, of the many shots - tentatively opened one eye and looked him up and down. She grunted at him, and closed the eye again. Bennie nodded. He understood completely. He sat down by the bathtub and rested his head against his roommate’s arm. Twila didn’t dare open her eyes. Not again. The light was like a scouring pad on her corneas. Bright, white, fluorescent light... I’m in the bathroom , she thought. And then: Again. Every time. Every single time. What was it about the bathtub that looked so inviting to her drunken self? Twila knew she had to get up. The longer she stayed in the tub, the worse it would be. She could already tell that her right foot would start to cramp as soon as she straightened it out, that her neck would probably be stuck at an odd angle for the rest of the day. She would be sore for a week. It’s your own fault, you silly girl. Next time try harder to make it to your bed. Then, through the pain, there was another sensation. Something brushing against her limp hand. Something clammy and bristly and sickly warm. And she remembered seeing Bennie’s hunched form looming over her as she peeked through one heavy eyelid. She smiled. A sliver of memory stabbed through the fuzz, then. Just a brief fragment, little more than a single image, but it turned Twila’s blood to ice. She saw herself, leaning drunkenly against Bennie, who was pressed against the kitchen door. And she was kissing him . Twila snatched her hand away and sat bolt upright. “This is a lost cause,” said Bennie, surveying the desolation in the living room. “We need fire. Lots of fire.” “It’s nothing a good vacuum and some Febreze can’t fix,” said Twila, picking up the shattered remains of a lamp. The smell was the worst thing. Like a brewery fallen on hard times and infested with old, wet dogs. The TV was smashed. Someone had ripped one of the lights out of the ceiling. There was a suspiciously wet patch on the carpet. And there were bodies everywhere, like broken dolls, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes. One of them - Bennie thought it was Gary from work - was completely naked, curled into a ball in the corner, pale and lumpy like a raw chicken. They all snored gently, still deep in drunken stupor, an atonal chorus that set Bennie’s teeth on edge. It seemed to Bennie that you could gorge on human contact, just as you could gorge on alcohol, and both left you feeling drained and hungover. He wished he could just open a window and waft them all out. Then it would be quiet. Then it would just be the two of them. He glanced sidelong at Twila. He remembered kissing her, right there against the living room door. The image of it was as bright and clear as a Renaissance painting in his muddy mind, and the thought of it made his heart beat dangerously fast. He was sure that if his blood hadn’t turned to sludge overnight, he would have been blushing furiously. You should say something , he thought. She’s your roommate. A great roommate, in fact, and those are in very short supply. And if you don’t say something it’s going to get weird and awkward and then she’ll leave and you’ll never see her again. But what if she doesn’t remember? If you tell her, and she doesn’t remember it, it’s going to be even more weird and awkward. Bennie felt himself spiralling, so he forced his brain to be quiet and went to find a binbag. There was something weird scrawled on the living room wall. Twila stared at it, trying to make sense of it. She even tipped her head to one side - ignoring the pain in her stiff neck - but that didn’t seem to help. It was a big, crude circle, with a sort of many-pointed star in the middle, and all sorts of funny hieroglyphics. Whatever paint had been used had dried into a ruddy brown crust that flaked away under Twila’s fingernail. “What is this?” she said. “Oh,” said Bennie. “That rings a bell.” He dropped the binbag he was filling with empty bottles, which clattered hideously, and shuffled over to her. He squinted at the drawing, visibly struggling with his memory. What else does he remember? thought Twila. This is going to get weird, isn’t it? Weird and awkward. Ugh, why do you always have to ruin everything, you silly girl? Bennie is a great roommate, and those are in very short supply, and now he’s going to get all awkward and leave and you’ll never see him again. “Yeah...” said Bennie. He nodded and pointed at the drawing, as if to say ‘gotcha’. “Yeah, I remember now. This was Marjorie’s cousin. You know, the weird one.” “The one who looks like a trainspotter and talks like an Iron Maiden song?” said Twila. “That’s the one.” “Well... shit,” said Twila. “Who does that? Who just draws on someone’s wall? I mean, it’s just rude isn’t it?” “I’ve seen worse things smeared on the wall after a party,” said Bennie. “I think we should consider ourselves lucky.” But Twila wasn’t so convinced. She rubbed the flaky brown stuff between two fingers, creating a dark red smear. Then, operating on a level of hungover curiosity that steamrolled all common sense, she dabbed a bit on the very tip of her tongue. “Bennie, I think this is blood,” she said. Then spat furiously to get it out of her mouth. Bennie grimaced. “I stand corrected.” Bennie unearthed Marjorie’s cousin from a pile of slumbering bodies in the kitchen and sat him up against the wall. He was younger than Bennie remembered, his bony face smattered with angry red spots. Bennie thought his long, lank hair was pretty ill-advised, but when you took into account the black clothes and excessive piercing, supposed he was going for a certain look. “Hey!” said Bennie, gently patting the kid’s clammy cheek. “Hey, wake up!” Marjorie’s cousin snored loudly, and a thin strip of drool rolled out from between his lips. Bennie turned to Twila: “Do you remember this guy’s name?” Twila thought about it, absently twirling a matted strand of hair, as she always did when deep in thought. A bit of pepperoni fell out and landed on her shoulder, and Bennie really, really wanted to brush it off. And then, he decided, he really, really wanted to kiss her again. And take her in his arms and carry her to his room, where they could shut away all this smelly chaos and spend the day in darkness. And maybe order a pizza. “I think it was Darren,” said Twila. “Or Damon. Or Dave. Something beginning with D” Bennie thought that was about right. He grabbed the guy by his narrow shoulders and shook, hard. “Wake up, Darren!” he said. “We need to have a word with you.” Darren only snored. Twila sighed, reeled back and cracked the pale waif across the cheek with a ringing slap. His eyes snapped open instantly, and he slobbered a few unintelligible words of confusion. “Whas gon?” he said. “There he is,” said Bennie. “Listen mate, the party last night seems to have gone a bit... off the rails, and now there’s some weird thing painted on the living room wall - ” “In blood!” said Twila. “Which may or may not be painted in blood,” said Bennie. “Thing is, we sort of remember you doing the painting.” “Pntn?” said Darren. Bennie sighed and stood up and stretched his aching back. “It’s no use,” he said. “He’s going to be completely useless until we get some coffee into him.” “Then put the kettle on, Bennie,” said Twila. “We need this kid functional enough to hold a mop.” Twila poured Darren his second cup of coffee with a deep scowl. Honestly, I’m never hosting a party again , she thought. The next time Marjorie or Bennie suggests one, I’m just going to hide out in my room until it’s over. Except some obnoxiously vocal part of her knew that wasn’t true. If Bennie was going to be there, she would be too. She couldn’t help it. It was like there was this magnet, dragging the two of them together, whether they liked it or not. But you do like it, don’t you? You like it a lot. And, she thought, she liked it even more when they were both drunk, and all inhibition was out the window. When they didn’t have to worry about being roommates or ruining friendships, and they could just have fun together. This is exactly the sort of thinking that leads to situations like last night , Twila scolded. And then she realised that Darren had been talking this whole time, and tried to focus. “...used by occultists and demonologists for centuries,” he was saying. “Some say it even dates back to King Solomon, but there’s a lot of debate on the necromancy subreddits about that.” “Darren,” said Bennie, through gritted teeth. “We’re all far too hungover for a lecture. Just tell us what it is.” “Oh, I thought that was obvious,” said Darren, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s a summoning circle.” Twila exchanged glances with Bennie. “This is a heavy metal thing isn’t it?” “You guys really don’t remember do you?” said Darren, with a little laugh. “Last night? Man, you really were wasted.” Twila exchanged that glance with Bennie again. And was there something more in it this time? Some recognition? He remembers the kiss , Twila thought. Shit . Darren was laughing - a strange, hacking laugh that was almost a cough. Twila winced at the noise. “What’s so funny, Darren?” said Bennie. “It was your idea,” he said, training his big, wet eyes on Twila. “Both of you, really. You know, you totally egg each other on when you’re drunk.” “What are you talking about?” said Twila, but there was something, some big, shapeless blob of memory starting to squeeze in around the edges. “You insisted I do a shot of tequila with you,” said Darren. “In fact, you insisted that everyone do a shot with you.” That explains the memory issues , thought Twila. “Afterwards, we got chatting,” Darren continued. Twila couldn’t believe she could ever do anything so friendly and casual as ‘chat’ with this wan creature, but... Drink makes fools of us all . “I told you all about my studies. My exploration of the dark arts. Necromancy, black magicks, demonology. We discussed at length my recent efforts to summon one of the legion dukes of Hell and bend him to my will.” “Of course we did,” said Twila. “Oh crap,” said Bennie. His face had turned wan. Even more wan that it already had been all morning. “Some of this is starting to ring a bell.” Right then a great, ripping snore, like a lion with a chainsaw and twice as loud, burst forth from Twila’s bedroom. Her eyes went wide, and a cool shiver ran down her aching spine. She exchanged a third glance with Bennie, whose mouth was hanging slack. “I’ve been trying for months, you know,” Darren said, as Twila and Bennie crept side-by-side towards Twila’s closed bedroom door. “On my own, in my room at home. I tried everything. Everything . And had no success until last night. Until you two joined in.” Twila reached a trembling hand for the doorknob. The metal was as cold as a winter’s night. “I don’t know what it is about you two,” said Darren. “But he latched onto it. Couldn’t get enough of it. It was like he was feeding on it, feeding it back to you in return. To all of us. Man, things got nuts after he turned up.” Twila turned the icy knob and opened the door, and there he was. The air was thick with sex and tequila. Twila’s bed had been smashed to splinters, and scattered on the torn mattress were even more slumbering bodies, all completely naked. Entangled in them was a huge, hulking figure with bright red skin. Two huge black horns curved out from his high forehead. His legs were black and hairy and bent backwards, like those of a goat. He was also naked - and, Twila couldn’t help but notice, shockingly well-endowed - save for a thin, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a pair of thick, black sunglasses. The demon snored again, rattling the windows. Bennie sat down, hard. “Behold!” Darren said grandly, sweeping into the room. “The seventy-seventh duke of Pandemonium! The prince of debauchery, master of the drunken arts! He is Rauderazoth the Uninhibited! Witness his majesty and despair!” It all came back to Twila in a flash. She nodded grimly. “Rowdy,” she said. “He insisted we call him Rowdy.” “Twila,” said Bennie, looking up forlornly from the floor. “I think we did something bad last night.” Bennie and Twila regrouped at the kitchen table over a mug of lukewarm coffee. They sat in relative silence for a long time, trying to ignore Darren’s excited babbling. We finally went too far this time , thought Bennie. This party got way out of hand. Just look around. The flat is completely trashed. We can say goodbye to our deposit. There’s blood all over the walls, and we summoned a demon. An actual demon . We literally partied so hard that we attracted the ‘prince of debauchery’. And yet... Bennie looked up from his coffee, across the table at his roommate. There was still pepperoni in her hair, still heavy, dark bags under her eyes. She was staring into space, either deep in thought or completely catatonic, but she must have felt his eyes on her because before long she looked up and met them. He smiled, and Twila smiled. “Crazy night,” said Bennie. “Insane,” said Twila. “I just wish I could remember all of it.” “Same,” said Bennie. “But... all things considered, I think I actually do remember all the important bits.” Twila said nothing for a moment. She was trying to read him, he could tell, but there was the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Me too,” she said. “Twila, there’s an actual demon in your bed,” said Bennie. Twila laughed. “Oh god, what are we going to do? Do you think he wants breakfast?” “Maybe we should pop to Tesco.” “Or just leave this place and never come back.” They fell into silence again, punctuated only by Darren’s insane rambling and Rowdy’s monstrous snores. But, strangely, it was a comfortable silence. “Hey Twila,” said Bennie. “No regrets?” “No regrets,” she agreed.


While I realize many people may disagree with me, especially those unlucky few who have had both their arms and legs eaten, I don’t think anyone would deny that I have a certain amount of authority--an expertise, if you will--on the topic at hand, and therefore feel absolutely confident in my conviction that the worst thing about getting attacked by a shark is that everyone starts to see you as That Guy Who Got Attacked By A Shark. May, 2011. I’m getting a beer at my old neighborhood bar with some friends from high school. Phil. Karen. Faye. Pee Pants. I think we’re going to reminisce about the good old times, like when Pee Pants nearly got hypothermia because he peed his pants on the chairlift and tried to ski down a double black diamond and knocked himself unconscious after a failed backflip off a mogul, but no, they want me to lift up my flannel shirt so they can all ogle at the waning moon shape of negative space where the shark bit off a chunk of my torso. I let them ooh and aah for a couple minutes, but when they start to run their fingers down the jagged bite mark in my skin, I pull down my shirt and try to change the subject by asking Phil about the Instagram post I saw of him riding an elephant in Thailand. No one seems to hear me. Karen, who thinks she’s some sort of animal behavior expert because she watched a lot of Discovery Channel after drinking her way out of a job as a ferris wheel operator, starts giving me advice about how, like, I should have punched the shark or something. And before I can tell her that I’ll keep that in mind for my next shark attack, I hear Faye ask me this really pointed question like, “Well, were you provoking the shark?” And while I am tempted to remind this self-proclaimed animal rights activist of the times she, not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions dumped a bag of cat food on the floor when she couldn’t find a sitter for Mango before she left for Burning Man, I hold my tongue. I take a deep breath. And I tell her no, I was just snorkeling, and she goes, “Hmmm,” like that. “Hmmm.” And then, as she lifts her beer to her lips, she mutters, “Well, imagine if someone tried to snorkel into your home.” So I point out that she didn’t have anything critical to say about Phil riding elephants in Thailand, but Faye just gives me this wide-eyed look of horror, not about the brutality of taming elephants, but rather because she thinks I’m suggesting Phil might have hurt one of the elephant’s backs by sitting on it. Granted, Phil did just lose a bunch of weight, and he’s a little sensitive about it. “Are you okay?” Faye asks me. “Of course he’s okay,” Pee Pants says. “You can’t keep Shark Attack down for long.” “Ha!” Phil says. “Ha! Yes!” And he points at me.“Shark Attack!” “Shark Attack!” Karen says. “Shark Attack!” Faye says. And I smile and drink my beer and act like I’m totally cool with being the new Pee Pants, but the whole time, I’m thinking, My name is not Shark Attack. My name is Jerry. ... A few days later, I’m opening a Tinder account, and I write a bio that goes something like: My name is Jerry. I’m a grammy-award-winning saxophonist. I like hiking, saxophone, and brunch. You can catch me at the top of a mountain, playing saxophone and eating a poached egg and a waffle. The first couple messages aren’t promising. “Hypothetically, if we were to get married, and I wanted to take a cruise, would you feel comfortable getting on and off the ship, like, if we made sure to blindfold you as you walked down the gangway?” Or, “Let’s say we get married and buy a home where the master bathroom is in the exact opposite corner of the house and three stories removed from the TV room. Would you be okay with me taking a bath while you watch TV--granted that we take all the necessary precautions you won’t get triggered by the sound of sloshing water--or do you think the mere thought of a human submerged in liquid would send you into a flashback?” Finally, I meet a girl who says, “I love saxophone!” And I say, “Great. Your bio says you don’t pay attention to the news.” “Nope.” “And you don’t have social media?” “Nope.” “Ever read a tweet?” “I don’t know what that is.” “And you love saxophone?” “Love it.” Her name is Wendy. So I invite Wendy to a Dodgers game and we get garlic fries and do the wave and drink margaritas and yell at Cardinals fans and don’t talk at all about how I got six of my ribs pulled out of my flesh by a twenty-five-foot-long great white shark in Hanalei Bay. It is easily the best date I have had since the shark attack. Then, in the seventh inning, it all goes south. We sit down after singing Take Me Out To The Ball Game, and I put my arm around her and she snuggles up next to me, and just as I’m leaning in to ask if she wants to go with me to this falafel festival in Venice Beach on Thursday, this guy comes on the loudspeaker and asks everyone to stand if they are a veteran. And some people stand, and we start clapping, and eventually they sit down, and the clapping ends, and I lean toward Wendy to ask her about the falafel festival when the guy comes back on the loudspeaker and says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have been attacked by a shark, please stand so we can honor you.” So I sit back and sip my beer and act like everyone else, looking around to see if anyone is standing. And no one is standing up, so the guy on the loudspeaker goes, “Hmm, are we sure no one here has been attacked by a shark?” And I’m shoveling garlic fries in my mouth at this point, shaking my head, not trying to make a big scene or anything, but internally feeling a little frustrated by this guy’s persistence, and silently hoping he’ll shut his mouth and get back on the organ. But he doesn’t. He goes, “Really? No one has suffered any injuries at the mouth of an aquatic animal? No one has had any bones crunched in the jaws of a macropredatory beast? No one at this baseball game has ever been mauled by a prehistoric killing machine?” “Nope,” I say out loud. I’m looking over the railing, waiting for the game to get going again, but all the players are looking up into the stands from the dugout, waiting for someone to stand up so we can all honor them. And Wendy crosses her arms and purses her lips and says, “I just don’t understand why anyone would swim in the ocean. We have so many bodies of water reserved just for humans: pools, public pools, man-made lakes.” She turns to me. “Did you know that Scandinavians don’t swim in the ocean in Scandinavia? Why can’t Americans be more like the Scandinavians? Hmmm?” And I stand up and start shuffling down the aisle while everyone in Dodger stadium cheers and applauds for me. Wendy chases after me, but I’m quite fast on account of being ten pounds lighter after having six of my ribs, a kidney, an eighth of my liver, and some indeterminable portion of my heart (as well as a small section of my ankle, which actually slows me down a little, but I digress) torn out of my chest and oblique area with eighteen thousand Newtons of bite force, and I manage to drive out of the parking lot before she can catch up with me. Over the next week, I do a lot of musician-grade heroin. I don’t pick up my phone. When I finally check my voicemail, I listen to messages like: “Shark Attack, it’s Faye. Pee Pants is dead. Call me back.” Or “Jerry, it’s your agent. I know you’ve never been a fan of getting attacked by sharks, but I think you owe it to all the shark attack victims out there to start making music about getting attacked by sharks. All right? Listen to me, Jer. Imagine a child: young, innocent, impressionable, recovering in the hospital after a savage hammerhead shark attack, watching music videos on YouTube, and he doesn’t see a single saxophonist that has been attacked by a shark. All his favorite artists like Lil Xan and--I don’t know who the youths are listening to these days--but the point is that all the musicians have intact limbs and heads and torsos and not a single bite mark. Don’t you think you owe it to that kid to get back up on stage? Yes? No? Call me.” Or, “Shark Attack, it’s Faye again. Where the hell are you? Pee Pants’ funeral is tomorrow. Call me back.” Or, “Hey, Jerry, it’s Wendy. Give me a call when you get a chance.” Or, “Are you kidding me, Shark Attack? We buried Pee Pants without you.” So I pack my bags--figuratively speaking. I don’t actually have to pack any bags, because I’m flying to Hawaii, and when you’re planning on committing suicide by shark attack, you don’t have to pack anything; you can just wear your swim trunks on the plane. But it’s kind of cold in LA on the day I’m supposed to leave, so I wear my swim trunks under my jeans, kind of like when I forget to do laundry, and run out of boxers, and have to wear swim trunks, but that’s all beside the point. The point is that I’m going back to Hawaii, and this time, I’m not coming back. On the way to the airport, I decide to stop by Pee Pants’ grave. It turns out he’s buried in this kind of dumpy cemetery with brown grass and dead leaves everywhere, but I tough it out, and hike over to his plot, and kneel down next to it and set down a bouquet of flowers, and read his headstone, which says something like, “Steve ‘Pee Pants’ something. Nineteen-eighty-something to last week.” And just as I get up to leave, I hear this voice behind me say, “Doesn’t really matter what they put on your headstone, does it?” And I turn around and realize it’s Pee Pants’ mom. “I’m so sorry about Pee Pants,” I say. And she grits her teeth and balls her hands into fists and says, “His name is Steve.” And then we hug and get coffee and catch up, and I tell her all about the hellhole I’ve been in ever since I got attacked by a shark, and she lowers her head and looks kind of sad and I think she’s going to tell me how sorry she feels for me, but instead she grabs my arm and gives it a little shake and says, “I’m just so glad you’re all right.” And I laugh and say, “Yeah, yep, uh huh.” And she goes, “No, really. Do you know how many times this week I’ve had to explain what heli-skiing is?” And she kind of studies my face and the way I’m slowly nodding at her and she says, “Really? You haven’t heard of it? It’s when you jump out of a helicopter and ski down the mountain. At least, you’re supposed to ski down the mountain.” And I say, “Right, right.” And she sighs and says, “Just be happy you aren’t remembered for something like that.” And I ask her if she was listening to anything I just told her. I’m That Guy Who Got Attacked By A Shark, remember? And she says, “You’re still kicking aren’t you? You’re still breathing air. Your heart is still beating. That shark hasn’t dragged you down to the bottom of the ocean yet, has it?” And I say, “No.” And she says, “That’s the spirit,” and takes out an urn and hands it to me. “What’s this?” I say as I take it. She shrugs. “Steve’s father wanted to bury Steve. I wanted to cremate him. So we split him.” So I drive to Wendy’s house and knock on her door, and when she opens it, I kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone in my life. I tell her I want to swim in the ocean again. And she looks a little sad and says this isn’t going to work out. So I catch my flight to Hawaii, and this little old lady sitting next to me on the plane asks me what I’m going to do in Oahu, and I hold up an urn and tell her I’m spreading the ashes of the upper half of my friend Steve’s body in the ocean. And she asks me who Steve was, and I tell her he was this really great skier who loved remote backcountry terrain, old Mustangs, making crop circles, golden retrievers, and Phil’s sister. I also tell her he was chopped in half by a helicopter propeller. And she says, “That’s nice,” but it’s okay because I’m pretty sure she tuned out before I said that last part. And then she tells me she has a granddaughter who is about my age. “Has she ever heard of a grammy-award-winning saxophonist named Jerry Wiles?” I ask her. The old lady kind of squints at me and says, “Jerry who?” And I say, “What about swimming in the ocean? How does she feel about that?” And the little old lady says she isn’t too sure of her granddaughter’s opinion of ocean swimming. So I ask her if she’s aware of her granddaughter holding any strong prejudices against people who get attacked by sharks, and the little old lady says she isn’t aware of any such prejudices in her granddaughter. So I sit back and kind of smile, and the little old lady writes down her granddaughter’s number on a paper napkin and gives it to me. And I fold up the napkin and put it in my pocket even though I have absolutely no intention of texting some random old lady’s granddaughter. And then I hold the urn full of Steve’s ashes a little tighter to my chest, and look out the window at an ocean full of eight-hundred pound beasts that want to eat me alive, and I think to myself, “Not today. Not today.” ... The guy sitting next to me at the bar lifts his chin off his hand, revealing a knuckled imprint on his jawline. He blinks a couple times. “That was a story,” he says as he turns his attention to his beer, which is still full. I’m killing the last of mine when he squints at me and says, “So you’re telling me that Steve’s mom buried only his legs?” And I tell him, “No, Steve’s dad buried his legs. Steve’s mom burned Steve’s top half.” The guy nods and hunches back over his beer. I’m starting to think I might have wasted my story on this guy when he says, “You know, I’d already heard of you. Before you told me all this.” And I go, “Yeah?” And he says, “Yeah. I wasn’t a big saxophone guy until I heard Sidestroke to Shore.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “You lit up the world on that one, Jerry.” The compliment is bittersweet. “I wrote that after I got attacked by--” “By a shark. I know that now,” he says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. His wrist is covered in tattoos. “But I didn’t know that when I listened to it. All I knew was that you were in pain.” He slaps some folded up bills on the bar and stands up. While he puts on his jacket he says, “That whole record got me through prison.” Then he pats me on the shoulder and walks out of the bar. I sit in silence for a half hour before I pay my tab and leave. It takes me another half hour to swing by my house to pick up my saxophone on the way to the cemetery. The full moon makes it easy to find Steve’s grave. And even though it’s a chilly night, I don’t hesitate to rip my shirt off and toss it into the wind. I put my sax in my mouth and start playing Sidestroke to Shore with a passion I haven’t felt since I penned it, and right when I get to the chorus, I arch my back and belt the notes at the stars, letting the moonlight shine through the jagged emptiness in my side and land on the grave of Steve’s legs.


I quickly realised that my ability to light a fire - as in a campfire, or a bonfire, or a heath fire - was just about as valuable as gold, but unlike gold, it wasn’t rare, or finite; my gift was one that could keep giving; a paucity only as severe as I dictated it to be, and thus, as the ebbing and flowing of the stock market used to command the rising and falling tide of symbolic wealth, my knowledge was something that was as abundant or scarce as I thought was necessary to preserve a lifestyle that suited my discerning tastes and desires - of rich game, and decadent lodgings (relatively speaking); of exotic women, the best entertainment, and the most efficient workers at my beck and call: quite the fine life indeed, once again, relatively speaking, though not without its ups and downs; consider for instance my constant need to move around: for as a community learned what I kept in my tinderbox, and thus the priceless secret of “The Man of Flame”, as they zealously called me, like some Earth-walking demi-god, they would surely need to perish lest my distinct leverage become common parlance, and my position of unmatchable power compromised, a technological advancement, useless, et cetera, et cetera, and all the pleonasms my legal-speak used to jumble in for “clarity” or “comprehensiveness of message” - and on top of the moving the very need to repeat such a banal and neanderthalic task to the slack-jawed amazement of the hillbilly populace we now call Earth, as I yawn, and roll my eyeballs and watch the flames encompass the body of some ceremoniously chargrilled chieftain, or the centuries-from-succulent fowl that was uneasily burnt to a crisp by some quite frankly pointless housewife, or denwife, or whatever the type of wife it was at that particular settlement; wattle and daub wife, shithutwife; on a related note, animals, I suppose are another grievance of mine - not the majestic roam-the-great-plains type, the base pre-human type; the ones that devolved into primates just two short years after what I like to call the Shiitake Bomb, because without their computer chips and convenience foods, they’re really just parasitic worms with arms and legs and never-sated, slobbering chomping mouths; oh, how they shrieked with terror when that mushroom with the slightly too-small head leaned slovenly to the west; when that thunderclap wall of sound tore the leaves from their trees and their shutters from their windows; it’s a scene I remember like it was yesterday, and look back on with fondness for the opportunities it has offered up to me on a plate; for, in this world of smog clouds and darkness, in this world of dense, immeasurable sandstorms, and primality and fear and unknowing, in this world, of categoric, never-ending night, the man who starts fires holds the key to the dawn of a new era.


The smell hit first, even before my mind’s eye could grasp that I was, in fact waking up from something...when had I fallen asleep? I don't remember feeling at all tired.... in fact, I had been enjoying bouncing around on the back seat. Urg..that smell, acrid, overpowering. It’s tickling the back of my throat. I want to cough but my throat is just too dry. What happened? I remember being on the back seat. Window down. Enjoying the sun. Mum playing that noise she calls music, loudly, it hurt my ears. I remember her singing too, also loudly, and badly! Mum could not sing, even I knew that, but I didn’t complain. There had been a different smell in the car then as well, but not as strong. Something unusual, sweet yet chemical... Mum sometimes had that smell when she came home from work, or shopping, or, actually, anytime she left the house and came back. But this smell, bugging me now, this is different. This is strong. This is the smell of the stuff mum puts in the car. What is it doing outside of the car? I'm pretty sure my eyes are open now, yet it is really dark, and something is pricking in my eyes. Blinking makes it worse. I can feel tears welling every time I blink. My back hurts and I can’t feel one of my feet. It's not responding as it should. I think its wedged or weighted down. I can’t seem to move. I think at some point; up was down and down was up? I feel sick. I cry out “Mum?” “Mum?” Nothing. “Help Me!” “Help!” “Mum!” . Nothing. Mum doesn’t respond. Usually, Mum would say something, anything, even yell at me for being too loud sometimes, but not now. Mum is silent. I can't hear her moving. I can’t even hear her breathing. Usually, when she’s asleep, she breathes very noisily. Not me, I’m a light sleeper. Anything wakes me. Any sound. It's like my superpower! Sometimes I jerk myself awake with my dreams. This doesn’t feel like a dream though. That smell is getting worse. What’s that noise? is that new or was that there before? It’s a drip drip drip sound. Its near my head, somewhere but where? Drip... drip... that’s really annoying. And it's making the smell stronger. “Mum!” “Muummmm!” I don’t like this game! “Mum answer me!” I can hear a stranger’s voice. Its far away but it’s coming closer. It’s a man’s voice and he’s yelling something, but he’s not yelling at me, that’s good. Should I call out? What if he’s a bad man? Mum’s always warning me to stay away from bad men, actually, all men generally. He’s coming closer, and there’s yes, there is another voice, a woman’s voice, not like Mum’s voice. Mum’s voice is quite deep and scratchy, and she mumbled a lot. She used to confuse me as I would think that she was talking to me, when in fact, she was talking to herself. This new voice, this is high pitched and screechy. Oh I don’t like this woman’s voice, she sounds frightened. She needs to stop being so loud. She’s starting to hurt my ears! Why can’t I move!! If I stretch my head back and look over my shoulder, yes, that’s it, yes, I can see one of Mum’s feet! She’s above me, or I’m under her? I'm under her chair! Yes, that’s it, I'm wedged under her chair! They’re banging on the car now! What are they doing? They’re going to break the windows if they’re not careful! “Mum” “Mum” “Wake up!” “There are strange people at our car!” “Mum!” “Mum, I can’t help you, I’m stuck!” Oh my god, the man is in the car now! “Leave my Mum alone!” Leave her alone!!” He’s, He’s dragging her! I can see her feet disappearing out the car! “Mum!” Where is he taking her? How dare he touch her! If I could, just get.. ‘Sshh’ “There's a good girl” it’s the screechy woman, I can’t see her, but I can smell her perfume. She’s on Mum’s chair, I can feel the seat hitting the side of my face . “It's ok, we are going to help your Mum, then we are going to help you” “Sshh, calm down now”. “Why don’t you calm down! And get off my face!” I'm trying to move. I'm using all my strength to try to move, but it is as if my body is not fully attached and working, and I now cannot feel my foot at all. I'm trying to manoeuvre my chin around so I can see out of Mum’s open door. I can just see her shoe with her foot in it, on the grass just outside the car. What is he doing to her! He’s hurting her! “Mum!” I can hear a new noise. Sirens and they’re getting close. That’s good, help is coming! I like watching the vehicles whizz by with their sirens blaring and their flashing lights. Whenever Mum and I went for a walk around our neighborhood, we would always stop and watch the police car or ambulance go flying by, blue lights flashing off all the shop windows. The fire trucks were my favorite though, big, loud and fast, racing off to save the day. I always felt very excited, but Mum was never keen to follow after them. She always seemed a bit sad, our walks always a bit rushed, that was probably why she was always very thirsty when we got back to the house. I hear the tyres on the ground next to the car. Two doors open and close at almost the same time. More voices now, another man and woman. They sound calm and commanding. “What do we have?” “Female, non-responsive, not breathing, CPR for about 7 minutes” “Okay, we’ll take it from here, is she the sole occupant?” The screechy woman joins in here, “no, we have this sweet girl back here, but she’s ended up jammed in tight under the front driver’s seat. She’s been crying a lot so she’s breathing but likely in a lot of pain”. “We’ll need the fire crews to cut her out, the roof and door are completely crushed around her, shall I make the call?” “Mum I’m Scared” “Don’t let them take me!” “Please Mum” “Nah, not worth their time. We’ll get her put out of her misery. Give the local vet a call”.


Cameron was a good guide, and we felt more certain on our route as we weaved our way over the hillsides of Stetguttot Heath. However, it was still tiring work. My lungs and legs were relieved at the top of every hill, catching a moment’s pause before we continued descending again. It wasn’t until we started our trek the next day that Cameron quickly turned off the main road, jolting away from the rising hills and instead snaking along the bottom of a valley. The track would never have been wide enough for a cart. Boulders jutted out into the path, and even in single-file we would occasionally have to step over rocks that had tumbled down the hillside, gravity pulling them as far as it could The gentle morning breeze felt stronger, concentrated and cajoled into a powerful gust. Around us, the air whistled as it spun its way through the corridors, and I struggled to hear Cameron’s instructions as he warned us of oddly placed rocks or thorn-covered plants. After a couple of hours in the valley, the path seemed to widen out. The steep banks of the hills slowly lost their pitch, becoming more rolled, until we turned one final corner and could see the town at Section F ahead of us. Immediately I could sense something was off. In the distance, there were people running between buildings. However, they weren’t focussed like the dedicated workers of Tima Voreef or Bluekira Ministrations. Instead, their eyes darted about, their gait was unsteady. They seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere, but unsure where. In the far distance, I could hear voices. Not loud enough to make out words, but they were shrill. Orders were being barked in plaintive, hurried notes. Cameron noticed too, his feet quickly transitioning to a jog. We followed him closely until he stopped outside a building as a woman ran out of a building with a bucket of water. “What’s wrong?” Cameron asked. “One of the shafts collapsed.” The woman didn’t stop to talk, she just ran past us. “Good sixty people missing, hopefully most the other side, just trapped in there.” “How can we help?” I asked. “Any way you can. Move rocks. Help the doctor. Whatever works.” Cameron once more kicked his feet and began sprinting through the town. We stuck to his heels, darting past the buildings until we re-emerged on the otherside. Looking out ahead, I could see the entrance to the mineshaft. Where the hills began again, a tunnel had been dug into the earth. The entrance was several metres across, and wooden beams held back the mountain on either side. At the entrance, a chain of people had formed passing large rocks dragged out from the collapse. Behind them, carts, each manned by two people, trekked back and forth filled with dirt and rubble. They heaved their way out of the entrance, tipped the contents to the floor and then ran back in to gather another load. Then, emerging from the darkness, I saw two people carrying a woman with her arms draped over their shoulders. She hobbled slowly on one leg, the other refusing to touch the ground. Thick trickles of blood ran down her scalp towards her cheek. “Looks like there’s another one coming out, doc,” we heard a heavyset woman with dirt-brown hair screech from the mine. We followed her eyeline to see a man in a white shirt and black trousers knelt down by a prone body on the floor. “Come on, we have to help them.” Cameron beckoned us forward as he charged towards the mouth of the mine. We kept pace behind him until I saw Alessia suddenly stop and freeze by the doctor and the body on the floor. It was a man, perhaps in his twentie, silently writhing in pain. He rocked back-and forth, his arm held up to his face, covering his eyes. Looking down his body, I could see the source of his pain. His ankle was bent and twisted at near right angles to his leg, morphed into a position that looked so unnatural I almost gagged. “I’m not sure there’s much we can do for the ankle,” the doctor muttered to a woman standing nearby. “I think the best we can hope for is to save the rest of the leg.” “Please Doctor, please, just make the pain stop,” the man winced. “I’m afraid this might get worse before it gets better. But you’ll be okay. However, I think we might have to amputate.” He turned back to the woman standing nearby. “Do you think you can find me a saw?” “What the fuck?” Alessia suddenly blurted out loud, the words escaping from her lips like vented steam. “Amputate?” The doctor turned to face us. “I’m afraid it’s probably for the best. This will prevent any impediment caused by the useless limb and prevent infection.” “It’s a dislocation,” Alessia said. “It needs realignment, and then some elevation.” The man stood up and puffed his chest. “And you would be a qualified doctor would you?” “No,” Alessia replied, looking at the man on the ground. “But neither are you if you think you need to amputate.” “I am the lead medical officer for this entire section. Unless you have credentials, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Alessia simply stood still and shook her head. “I said leave.” “Let me realign that man’s ankle,” she said calmly. “You have no authority here,” the doctor replied, his eyes darting around us, looking for help. “One minute. If I’m wrong you can needlessly amputate my leg too.” “I am a qualified doctor...” “Oh screw this,” Alessia said, pushing past the doctor and kneeling down by the man on the floor. “Hey, I’m gonna do something that will help save your foot. But I need to pop the ankle back in its joint, and while I’m doing that it’s going to hurt. Bad. Okay?” The man nodded. “Get away from my patient,” the doctor barked. He reached down an arm onto Alessia’s shoulder to grab it. As soon as his fingers touched her, an instinct kicked in. She flicked her body back, reached up, grabbed his arm and yanked him down to the ground behind her. The doctor tumbled into the dirt as Alessia whipped a knife out from her belt. “Stay still or next time I don’t stop at showing you the knife.” She turned to me. “Ferdinand, keep an eye on him.” “Gladly,” I smirked, walking over to the doctor and standing by him. “You’re going to let this woman maim a patient are you?” The doctor glared at me. “Be quiet. Allow her to concentrate.” I said softly, nodding to Alessia and the patient. “Okay. This will hurt. But try not to fight it or buck against me. Scream if you need to.” The man got half a word into a response before Alessia lifted up the leg and with one quick movement, twisted the ankle back. The man let out a gasping scream, a roar so loud that everyone around us turned to stare, drawn towards the howl. However, no sooner had it begun, than Alessia was finished. The leg back down on the floor again, and the foot looking normal. “It’ll hurt for a bit. Keep it elevated and rested. But you’ll be fine,” Alessia said. The man’s head bobbed in confusion and relief. Alessia stood back up and turned to the doctor on the floor. “Learn what a dislocation is, you moron.” She rolled her eyes and began walking off towards the mine. I smiled to the man on the floor, and then to the doctor, before following Alessia. “I know what you did was right. But was that worth it?” “Pick your battles. I picked one. It was an easy win,” Alessia shrugged. “What if that doctor tries to get you in trouble?” “For what? Helping his patient? Yeah, he’s gonna sit scared and embarrassed, nothing more.” I paused for a moment, glancing back over my shoulder at the man, now sitting, staring at his swollen ankle. “What was all that about anyway?” “What do you mean?” “Why was a doctor preparing to cut off a man’s leg for a dislocation?” “No idea. But wanna do some good?” she said, her head bowed to the mine. “Let’s go clear as much rubble as we can.” \ We helped out for much of the rest of the day, doing our best to clear the mine as the people of Section F desperately tried to burrow through to the other side. As the sun began to fade, exhausted, we pulled ourselves away from the struggle. A few committed workers would continue to fight through the night, but most needed to stop, sleep, and finish the job in the morning. My skin tingled as the heavy sweat from the day’s labour evaporated in the cool nighttime air. We sat around a large open campfire, maybe some five metres back. Close enough to give me light, but far enough away that only the occasional crackle of the fire blew warmth my way. My body provided enough heat on its own. We had been sitting in relative peace, when Cameron walked out of the gloom, accompanied by the large woman I had seen bellowing orders when we first arrived. “Cameron says you’ve been asking about Sannaz Lytta,” the woman said as she knelt down on her haunches by the fire, the tips of the flames occasionally obscuring her face. “Yes.” I leaned forwards. “Do you know them?” “Did,” the woman replied. “I’m the foreperson of the mine here. It’s my job to know all the workers.” “Has Cameron told you about what Sannaz did?” I asked. The woman looked to the ground. “I... I feel I ought to apologize for what he apparently did to your friends.” “Do you know why he may have done it?” The woman shook her head. “Afraid your guess is as good as mine. He was always pretty quiet. Just spent his time observing the world around him. I’m sorry I can’t offer much more.” I forced a smile, hiding the disappointment. The woman looked back to Cameron. “Cameron tells me you helped a man who was injured earlier." She pointed to her own ankle. “He had a bad leg, I think?" Alessia steadied herself, preparing for trouble. “Uh huh. The doctor intended to amputate, and I-” “Yeah. That sounds about right,” the woman interrupted. “That kid’s got his whole life ahead of him, one that will remain good because of you. Thank you.” Alessia relaxed her shoulders. “I’m glad we could help.” The woman paused once more. “I’m not sure if this will be helpful, but maybe you can still make use of it.” She leaned in closer, whispering her words with the flames. “About a week before he disappeared, Sannaz said he had found an old cave system while digging out a new route - asked if he could see where it went, thought it might lead to some more veins. I said it sounded good. I never spoke to him to find out how it when. But then there’s an explosion near where he had been working. The whole shaft collapsed. Sannaz was nowhere to be seen. Truth be told I was worried he had died there, or been trapped in the caves.” She rolled her head from side to side. “By the sounds of it, may have been better if he had.” “You didn't clear the route?” Alessia asked. “No. But the explosion caused a sinkhole. There’s a straight drop down to where he was working about three hundred metres that way.” The woman pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “The ground’s unstable. And you’d have to drop straight down a good hundred metres. But if you wanna try it, it might be your best chance of finding out what happened.” “Thank you,” I said. The woman stood back up. “I am truly sorry for what happened. Sorry that someone from our island did this. And I guess I’m sorry for Sannaz too. He was a bright man." "Bright?" The words spilled from my lips like a reflex. "I thought he did terribly on the test, the... TBU thing." The woman chuckled. "You ever taken that test?" I shook my head. "Have a look sometime. Tell me how you do." The woman turned and left, her figure slowly fading into the darkness. Cameron stayed behind and sat down next to the fire. "What about the test?" Alessia asked. My eyes narrowed as I focused on the flame in front of me. "Alessia, can I have a look at that book?" "Sure," she replied. Reaching to the bag we confiscated from Cameron and throwing it over to me. I saw Cameron's eyes follow it, like a baying dog. I grabbed the bag and took out the book, flicking it open to the front. The text was in simple black and white, the occasional smudge where the printing press shifted as the ink settled. I look at the contents, found a section labeled "practice questions" and turned forward. I reached the right section and read the question at the top of the page. Then I read it again. Then again. Slowly, pausing between each word, tracing the sounds with my lips. After the fourth attempt I find myself incoherently mumbling the words aloud. “You okay there?” Alessia asked, distracted by my noises. “Yes,” I replied. “Well, no. This question...” “What?” “‘Cato takes resources from batch CF231502 for part of the smelting process, and combines them with resources from batch MW222686. This creates the correct reducing agent for which ore?’” “Copper, right?” Cameron asked. “The answer will be in the margins at the bottom.” I flicked my eyes to the end of the page where the answers was written in the tiniest font. Sure enough, as I squinted, I could see he was correct. “Yeah,” I nodded, slowly. “But the batch numbers?” “Labels given to each of the materials down at the mines.” “How many are there?” Cameron shrugged. “Thousands, probably.” “So to pass the test you have to remember thousands of batch names and what’s in each.” “In theory,” Cameron said with a tilt of his head. “In theory?” “That’s what the book’s for. It’s a study guide. To show you how to prepare for the test?” “So that’s how you learned all the batches and what’s in them?” “You don’t have to,” Cameron said, shaking his head. He uncrossed his legs, stood up, and walked over. He crouched down beside me and picked up the book, before opening it in the middle. He flipped through a few pages until he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, placing the book in my lap. I glanced down at the open page. *In order to assist with test grading, the examination office at Section C often use a code that ties the question to the answer. Remembering these can help speed up answering the questions.* *Arlo = arsenic* *Cato = copper* *Tina = tin* The list continued but I stopped reading. “It’s a cheat.” “It’s not a cheat. You still got to study and learn. You can’t take the book into the test,” Cameron protested. “But...” I blinked, processing Cameron’s argument. “You don’t need to know how to make copper to answer that question?” "No." “So without the book -” “- you can never pass.” Cameron finished my sentence for me. “Even with it, only the brightest, hard working students get top grades. There’s too much to remember. I got lucky with that copper question you asked. But, if you live in a section where they don’t have the book... Ain’t anyone in the whole of Section F got more than a thirty in generations.” I looked around at our surroundings, recalling every person I had met since we arrived. Everything I knew about the island was wrong. It had all been offset, slightly askew. And now a lens had been shifted, the world put into alignment, and it all became so clear. Everything seemed to suddenly make sense, from the rundown harbour, to the sad but smart people of Section F. I turned my gaze back to the fire, watching the burning wood blacken from the heat, as the flames leapt high and gracious into the night air. I watched the ash flutter up into the dark sky, disappearing out of sight. And I wondered how my life might have been had I been born in Section F. \ Next chapter released 30th September.


The voice was in his head again. It plagued him; it haunted him. The glass bottle, chilled by the cool air conditioning, continued to get lighter as the voice carried on. He always loved her. He did, anyway. “I did love you,” he thought. The voice carried on. It cut through him, like the aged scotch that he, too, loved so much. The scotch, the cigarettes, the children, the dog, his mother. He loved them all. Of course, he had to give them all up at some point, some easier than others. Some came back, some he brought back; others stayed gone. First it was the dog, but he came back after a week. Then the cigarettes when he promised his mother in the hospital that one day. The sun was bright, shining through the blinds and reflecting off of the bleached white sheets that seemed to smother her with every heaving breath. The children, though. They never call anymore. Not for him, anyway. “I used to love you,” he thought aloud this time, pouring another drink. He felt the stiff palm against his recently shaved head. “Another spot on the carpet from a spilled drink,” he said to the voice. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. “What does any of it matter?” thinking internally again. Walking down the dark hallway, he could hear the voice echoing after him. He didn't bother to close the door behind him today, which gave the voice the perfect opportunity to follow him, like the childhood dreams he let go of after father didn't come back. The framed photograph on the armoire reflected his sadness. A young boy refused to look at the camera, choosing instead to focus on his father’s worn loafers. The smell of the sea came rushing back; memories of father, memories of sailing. The heavy glass door leading to the balcony could be pried open with some work. It was a nice balcony. It was a nice apartment. It was nice enough, anyway. It’s not why he rented the apartment. It’s not why she stayed, either. They had attended the same university, but that’s not how she met him. He had become quite successful after graduating from business school, but that’s not why she married him. He made sure to close the door behind him this time. The voice did not follow him here. The bottle was empty now. It was good scotch, but that didn't matter. He didn't drink it because it was good scotch. He missed the dog. He missed his mother. He missed sailing. He missed the days when she and he would lay under the stars after a party at his fraternity and tell her how much he loved her; how he wanted to have his mother meet her. But that didn't matter. The breeze blew along his scalp, through the short-cropped haircut. There was a steel fence along the perimeter of the balcony, but that didn't matter. He left the empty bottle sitting on the glass tabletop, next to the worn, matching lawn chair. He took off his shoes and set them next to the glass bottle. They were the same shoes he had worn to his daughter’s wedding last summer. But that didn't matter. The wind blew through his hair quickly, pushing its way through his button-up shirt, his tie flapping violently. He was sailing again.


It was the holiday season and I had been helping care for my elderly mother. I arrived at her home to set up the Christmas decorations and she out of the blue ask’s: Young lady would you like to accompany me to a seder feast at the Episcopalian church tonight.?” I turned and looked at her to make sure she was not overly medicated. She actually looked quit smart in a Sunday church outfit she had on, which I hadn’t even notices when I first enters. “Seder,” I replied. “You mean like when we were both younger and use to hear grandpa and grandma talking about going to a Seder meal at a friends?” “Exactly but it will be at the church in the same room they serve the loaves and fishes meals.” Looking at my outfit from work for the day I figured it would pass and nodded to her yes. Two hours later we are parked in the church parking lot and walking in the side back door to the kitchen, “We’re we suppose to bring anything I asked?” Of course, not the father and his wife have arranged everything”. In through the kitchen, we walk and into the main church hall. Arranged in the center of the room, in a rectangular shape is a cluster of long folding tables. They have been done up rather pleasantly with table clothes center pieces and place settings. I see about 4 people that I vaguely know and I notice there are a little over 20 place settings. My mother who stood about 4 ft 9 inches at this time takes her fathers walking stick, my grandpa don Hammett, and marches right over to the table facing north and the main sanctuary building. I zip over to the father and his wife to ask if it is okay and they graciously indicate it is not a problem. Finally, everyone is seated except for one place. There were whispers around the table it was for a guest of honor. Now I’m sitting next to this very strange elder woman and calmly thinking about the seders of my grandparents. My father’s mom and dad. Seder is the started of the remembrance of Passover, a high holy time for those who follow the faith of the Hebrews led to freedom by Moses’. This person, as an infant was found by one of the deity’s Pharoah’s daughter. He was raised and taught in that fashion. When he became older and had observed that he seemed to be a little different his. He was also at that time adopted as an heir and of the family of Pharoah. When he became a man, he found out that he was one of the very few survivors of an order that had gone out through the whole entire empire that decreed that all male Hebrew infants had to be taken an executed. At the exact moment he fully and completely understood the meaning of the slaves of Pharoah. A war of magic and power sprung up in the empire. For about 300 years the Hebrews had been deeply involved of every aspect of Pharoah’s rule. The priests, priestesses and temples of the Egyptian gods and goddess began to fear because those of that nation and way of life appeared to be out numbering true Egyptians. Thus, the order to kill the infants was given. At the age of about eighty he returned to demand the release of his people the Hebrews. These were my thoughts as I sat down with a room full of a few recognizable faces and the rest strangers The meal eaten as the remembrance of Passover begins. It took 10 plaques falling down upon Egypt for the deity Pharaoh to allow the Hebrews to leave. The last one being the death of every first-born male child living in a house that sis not bear the blood of the lamb’s mark on its door. Then even after they were allowed to leave, the same priest, priestess, and temple worshiper, whisper to Pharaoh to go and get them back. He died trying. All of these thoughts passed through my mind as I looked at this little old lady who had never once in her life celebrated any Hebrew High Holy day with her in-laws and wonder what she was thinking. The ritual readings began. Tiny portion of matzot, (cracker like bread) zeroa. (Lamb’s meat) Beitzah, (hardboiled egg) Maror and Chazeret (Bitter Herbs) Charoset , (Paste) and last but not least Karpas (Vegetable) These was the traditional Passover plate The guest place setting remained empty. There were a few children there and they were sent to hunt for a certain object by the father. Once the object was found we began to eat. One or to people shared stories of other Seders they had been to. Since there was wine my mother after her second cup asked to share. “According to Hebrew law, none of my children are Jews. Their father converted to Christianity long before I meet him. The years that I have lived in Ithaca have taught me the amazing reality of what it means for a leader to rise up and free his people. Freedom is a most sacred gift that we as a people often take for granted. I I listened to the readings of the spiritual battle between the court of Pharaoh and the man raised as his brother. I am truly thankful to have know people and be related to people that understand what it means to be free.” We stayed for about another hour. By the time we left I and took my mother back to her home I realized what she had wanted me to see and learn. There is a cost to freedom, strangers don’t have to remain strangers and a feast that is well prepared and has s spiritual meaning can open one’s eyes to things we don’t normally pay attention to. This was my meal amongst strangers that to this day lives on in my mind.


- Argh, - Mia groaned as her calf got caught by a prickly branch extending onto the dirt path. - How long, dad? These stupid thorns are killing me. And the heat... It’s unbearable... There’s no reception... Matthias turned around and looked at his daughter. He and Felix were ahead on their way up the hill. Mia’s mother was trailing last. - Oh, that’s a serious problem, - Matthias said with a half smile. - But I am sure your phone will safely store your pictures until you reach civilization and are able to post them. - He stood on top of a stone at the edge of the path, hands resting on his waist. - Look, your little brother is doing a great job up the path. Felix stood next to their father, like a little copy of the man. Only the little brat was not able to hide his emotions as well. In place of his father’s discrete smile, Felix had a full-blown mocking grin from ear to ear. - Can you all please stop? - Michaela said, catching up to Mia from behind. - You all make me wish we were home in München. Felix, stop teasing your sister. - she paused, taking a long gulp from her water bottle, then locking eyes on her daughter. - Can you just give your father this couple of hours at the Narugo? Then we can be on our way back to the hotel and we’ll go to the beach. - Nuraghe, - Matthias said. - What? - It’s called “Nuraghe”, not “Narugu”, - Matthias said to his wife, still perched on that stone. - They are megalithic structures built by the prehistoric people of Sardinia. Some 3500 years ago. No one knows exactly what they were used for. But they are scattered all over the island... - Oh, for Christ’s sake, - Michaela muttered quietly, only audible to Mia who stood next to her. - Let’s just go. - She hurried up the hill, skidding slightly in the dirt and accidentally kicking up a cloud of dust towards the blazing sun. - Mum! - Mia protested, flailing her hands in the air in a futile attempt to stop the dust from sticking to her sweaty skin. They reached the small plateau around lunchtime. The air was still and hot, distorting the view in the distance. Mia could see the Mediterranean coast shimmering in the distance. Heaps of mountains covered in dry trees and shrubs surrounded them. The Nuraghe looked like a sloppy pile of rocks. It was circular in shape, made of big stones stacked without mortar. Matthias and Felix had run towards the old structure and spoke animatedly in the distance, her father raising his hands in front of her brother, surely telling him one of his stupid history lessons. “I don’t know... Could have been fortresses, could have been shepherd huts...”, she could hear him ramble on. Michaela had dropped her rucksack in the dirt and stared at her phone, her free hand on her sweaty forehead, shading it from the blinding sun. No use checking, Mia knew. No reception in this wasteland. Mia walked to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Their rental SUV was visible in the distance below, parked on a dirt lay-by at the edge of the narrow, decrepit road they had driven on. A rough rocky path led up the steep hill towards the Nuraghe. She took out her phone. The thing was almost useless without internet, so Mia resorted to the camera. She snapped a few selfies with the mountains and the sea and the Nuraghe behind her. At least she would have something to post later... #ForcedFamilyFun #WhyAreWeHere #SendHelp #ThanksDad... - Michaela, something’s off here, - Matthias croaked from inside the Nuraghe. - There are some wooden crates here. Lots of them. I don’t think they belong here. Michaela sighed and rolled her eyes and went. Mia watched her mother approach the ancient heap of stones. The circle it made had a diameter of maybe four or five meters. There was no roof. In front of her was the entrance. A simple hole in the wall with a long stone supporting the masonry over the opening. Crude steps led down inside, where the floor of the Nuraghe was lower than the surrounding terrain. Mia watched her mother disappear into the circular structure, then turned back and looked down at their SUV parked below. She longed for the air con of the car. She raised her arms slightly, hoping for a cooling breeze under her armpits. None came. The air was still and hot and it smelled like dust. Still looking down, Mia heard a distant engine noise. A small car appeared next to their SUV and stopped. She strained her eyes. The vehicle was small and white, old and battered. Maybe one of these ancient Fiat Panda 4x4 she had seen in town? A guy slipped out of the passenger’s door. She couldn’t make out much about him from the distance. Only that he knelt by their rental car’s tire. Then he went to another tire. Then another. - What the fuck, - Mia muttered quietly, knowing her parents couldn’t hear her. - Are they deflating our tires? - She turned back towards the Nuraghe, then down again towards the lay-by. The guy had jumped back into the little car and the funny vehicle was moving fast uphill on the rocky path, engine revving high, cloud of dust rising behind it. - What the... - Mia felt her pulse accelerate. - Dad, - she called, quietly at first. - Dad! Someone is coming. - She turned and staggered towards the Nuraghe. She burst inside the circle. Her family stood in front of a hole dug under the old structure’s perimeter wall. It had a rough timber hatch that stood open. Wooden crates lay inside the hole, most of their bulk underneath the level of the Nuraghe’s floor. - Dad, someone is coming, - Mia said with a trembling voice. - They’re coming up the hill in one of those funny little cars, - her voice bordered on a shriek. - They fumbled around our car. I... - Really? - Matthias glanced at his daughter and frowned. - I wonder who would have any business here... He walked past Mia and climbed the couple of steps out onto the plateau. Just as he emerged into the sunshine, the small Fiat came over the ledge with a high pitched rev, plowing through the dust and rock with a loud crunch. Two men climbed out of the little thing and walked briskly towards Matthias. They were both tanned and skinny and with wide shoulders. One seemed to be in his thirties, black hair and short beard. The other was older and balding, white stubby beard covered his face. - Matthias, I don’t think you should... - Michaela began. - Uh... Ciao... Do you speak English? - Matthias called out, raising his hand in a greeting as he walked towards the two men. The older guy quickened his pace coming up to Matthias. He lowered his right hand to his left hip. His whole body twisted as the man made a wide swing with his arm, landing the back of his hand square on Matthias’s jaw. The slap echoed in the air as Matthias’s head lashed to the side. He fell to his knees, instinctively extending his hand to his mouth. Blood oozed out of his torn lip. - Dad, - Mia cried, rushing out into the open. - Mia, nein, - her mother shouted. The younger guy quickly stepped in the girl’s way. He grabbed Mia by the wrists, pivoted and threw her to the ground. She groaned and coughed up dust. Minutes later, the whole family were on the ground, zip-tied and shaded by the Nuraghe’s wall. The two men paced around the wood crates, talking in a language Mia couldn’t identify. Was this Sardinian? - Do you think it’s drugs?- Michaela whispered, her breathing fast and uneven. - What are they going to do with us? - Quiet, Michaela, - Matthias hissed. His lip was swollen and his jaw was bruised and blue. Eyes narrowed, he observed the men in the far end of the Nuraghe. - I don’t think they understand German anyway, - Michaela said, getting closer to Felix and letting the crying boy lean against her arm. She was not able to hug him with her zip-tied hands. The older man rummaged through a battered old rucksack. From it, he produced a big mobile with a long antenna, likely a satellite phone. He muttered something to the youngster and walked out onto the plateau. The younger man took a few steps towards the family and dropped a bottle of water in the dust in front of them. He crouched down, his eyes leveling with Mia’s. Mia was on her knees, her feet dug into the dirt. Her heart pounded in her chest. She saw the guy’s stare move down to her chest, then her shorts and bare legs. He licked his lips and looked back into her eyes. His hand began to rise. She didn’t wait. Channeling all her strength into her legs, Mia shot forward. Driving through her heels, she headbutted the man in the chest as hard as she could. The guy gasped, but no sound came out of his mouth. Mia had knocked the wind out of him. Still with zip ties on her wrists, she stormed out of the Nuraghe. She staggered past the older guy who was still on the phone and past the small car. The guy hissed something in his unintelligible language and darted after her. Mia’s fight-or-flight hormones had been kicked into action. Fight had already been used. Now, it was time for flight... The teenage girl ran over the edge of the plateau and, without stopping she tumbled down the hill. Through prickly shrubs and cacti and dirt and rugged rocks. Her world exploded in pain. The skin of her legs and arms was cut, bruised and hit. Blood trickled from the wounds. Mia shrieked, but kept going. She breathed in dust and coughed, but kept going. She found a small niche in the rock and curled up in its shade. She sat on the ground, her back pressed against the mountain. Her hands were wrapped around her knees, still held together by the zip tie. Mia was panting and wheezing. She didn’t know how long she had been sitting in that niche. The light had changed and the air got cooler. The sound of stones tumbling downhill startled her and her pulse shot up again. Mia gasped and pressed her back tight against the rock. It was a goat. The animal stepped into Mia’s hiding place, looked at her in the eyes and bleated. It disappeared as soon as it had come. Mia let out a nervous laugh. She got on her feet and with her head lowered, stepped towards the mouth of the niche. A woman suddenly appeared in front of her, her contours silhouetted by the fading light behind her. Mia shrieked and scrambled back, clumsily falling on her bottom. Her eyes widened as she tried to make out the woman’s features. The newcomer leaned over and placed her bony hands on Mia’s. The woman wrapped her bony fingers around the zip tie and twisted. There was a quiet popping sound and Mia’s hands were free. She stepped back as far as she could, rubbing her bruised wrists. The woman stood quietly at the mouth of the niche. She wore some kind of a shapeless garment. Her arms were not covered by the raggedy piece of clothing. They were tanned and wiry and muscled. Her blue eyes were set deep inside her wrinkly face, weathered by many years in the elements, yet retaining beauty and femininity. She had long hair, matted into thick rasta- like locks. Propped against the vertical cliff, stood a shepherd’s crook. Mia simply stared at the woman, who stood like a vision in front of her in the surreal light. Was she a shepherdess? Was there even such a thing? The woman locked her eyes on Mia and offered her hand. The teenage girl hesitated, but slowly placed her hand on her palm. The shepherdess helped her to her feet and they both stood at the mouth of the niche. It was still bright, but the sun had gone over the mountains, turning them into blurred silhouettes. The woman started climbing up the hill, skilfully navigating through cacti, shrubs and rocks. Her movements were fast and light and deliberate. Mia followed, finding it much easier than she had imagined. They reached the edge of the clearing where the Nuraghe stood, majestic in the fading light. Its massive stones caught the evening sunlight, appearing almost golden and glowing. Mia crouched behind a bush and watched the plateau. The older thug spoke into his satellite phone, his hands flailing in the air. The other guy paced around the perimeter of the clearing with a torch in hand. He leaned over the shrubs, searching for something. Probably Mia. The shepherdess placed her hand on Mia’s shoulder, prompting her to turn towards her and meet her gaze. Her lips remained sealed, but her surreal blue eyes stared deep into the girls’. Mia could see her own reflection in them. Without a word, the woman stood, leaving Mia behind the bush. She stepped over the edge and walked towards the men. Not fast, not slow. Just walked. The young guy spotted her first. He shouted in his unintelligible language and turned his torch around, ready to use it as a baton. He darted towards the shepherdess, the earth crunching under his feet. She moved faster than a demon. The young man swung, but the woman crouched and pivoted, suddenly appearing behind him. Her shapeless garment whipped in all directions following her movements, making her almost indiscernible. She kicked the young guy in the back. He tumbled over, thumping in the dirt, his torch flashing towards the darkening sky. The guy grunted and sprang back up. He lurched towards the shepherdess. The older thug had noticed the commotion and approached from the far end of the plateau. The young man swung his fist. The shepherdess ducked under the assailant’s arm, quicker than a shadow. The man’s fist flew pointlessly in the air. The shepherdess pivoted around her axis, propelling her crook. It whooshed through the air and struck the young man square in his face, smashing his nose instantly. The power of the blow lifted him off and sent him crashing to the ground. As the young guy landed in the dust, his older colleague rushed towards the shepherdess. He wielded a knife. He poked, he jabbed, he swung. Missed every time, as the almost fluid shape of the shepherdess danced around him. The guy ran out of breath, wheezing and panting. He took one last desperate swing with the knife. Mia gasped as the edge of the knife whizzed across the shepherdess’ face. It caught her cheek. Small drops of blood flew in the air. She simply raised her hand and grabbed the man’s wrist. The guy shrieked as she squeezed, his eyes filling with tears. She loomed over him, her grip tightening. The guy fell to his knees, whimpering like a puppy. The shepherdess raised her other hand in the air and dropped it down on his head like a hammer, knocking him out cold. Mia didn’t waste any time. She jumped over the shrubs and sprinted across the plateau. She ducked down to pick up the thug’s dropped knife and rushed towards the Nuraghe. - Mum... Dad, - she called as she flew inside, almost crashing into them. They were all there- her parents and little brother. Huddled together in a heap with Mathias in the front, all nestled in a small dent within the wall of the Nuraghe. - Mia, here, - her mother called. The teenage girl dropped on her knees, using the thug’s knife to cut their zip ties. Kisses and hugs were hastily exchanged. They all sprang up as soon as they were free, eyes dancing all around, numb limbs tingling. - The men, - Matthias croaked. - Where are the men? - He stepped towards the doorway. He did it carefully, having learned his lesson the hard way. - It’s okay, dad, - Mia said. - She took care of them. The shepherdess. - What are you talking about? - her dad said, pacing out onto the plateau surrounding the old structure. - There’s no shepherdess here. What happened, Mia? The older thug was strewn on the ground, out cold. The young guy was moaning, crawling in the dirt. He raised his hand towards Mathias. Instead of help, he got a kick in the face and lost consciousness. Mathias stood in the middle of the clearing, hands on his hips, looking around. Mia caught up with him. - Dad, - she called. - Oh, my God, are you okay? - her father exclaimed when he turned towards her. - I didn’t see that... What happened to your face?- he rushed over, placing his hands on either side of Mia’s head, his gaze flickering between her eyes and down to her cheek. - What... Nothing, dad... - Mia stammered. She raised her hand to her face, touching her cheek with her index and middle finger. It suddenly stung. She looked at her hand. There was fresh blood on her fingers. That’s when she realized she had a gash across her cheek.


Layla brushed her fingertips over the photo on her corkboard and smiled. Her corkboard, like most teenagers, was covered in photos, admissions tickets, anything that added to the collection of memories that made her happy. Images of beach days, silly faces, family, friends, and nature-filled the board. But only memories with one person mattered the most to her. When she looked at the board and saw memories with her best friend Jake, her heart did a flip-flop. Jake had crawled his way into her heart from being a shy nobody to her best friend in just a matter of three years. Jake had become the person she wanted to spend all her time with, the shoulder she could cry on, the heart she could confide in. He protected her and she kept him in check. In Layla’s head, none of that would change if they became.... more. Layla’s ideal relationship was dating your best friend, dating the person that made you laugh, the person that you could be yourself with, the person who challenged your beliefs and made you be a better version of herself. That person was Jake. There had been countless people who asked if they were dating, including their parents. Everyone was always shocked when they heard Layla and Jake weren’t in fact dating. Layla’s phone rang, making her jerk her hands from her corkboard. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was Shelby, Jake’s mom. “Hi Shelby,” Layla said cheerfully as she answered the phone. “Layla!” Shelby sounded panicked. Layla immediately became alert and tense. “Shelby, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you ok?” There was a brief pause. Layla’s heart raced. Somehow in her gut, she knew what Shelby was about to tell her was going to be very bad. Nothing could prepare her for the words that came out of Shelby’s mouth next. “It’s Jake. He’s been in an accident.” o.O.o The next hours were a blur. Layla and her mom had rushed to the hospital and met Jake’s family in the waiting room. No one had spoken much. They sat in tense silence for the better part of three hours. Layla hadn’t been able to sit still; either she had been pacing or her leg was bouncing. Jake’s brother, Luke, had been doing the same. He occasionally threw her a brief grim smile. She knew that her worry was nothing compared to what Jake’s family was feeling, but she couldn’t stop the pit in her stomach from growing. The waiting room was a dreadful place. People literally waited to hear life-altering news in these semi-comfortable chairs surrounded by people who were either worried, crying or pacing. Even if someone was there for good news, like childbirth, the anxiety of those waiting for bad news made one question and doubt their own news. When Layla and her mom had gotten to the hospital, Shelby had filled them in on the accident. According to the paramedics, Jake had been walking through an intersection when a car had come hurtling through a stop sign and had hit Jake. He had been mostly out of the way of the car, so he didn’t receive the brunt of the force from the car, but he had still been thrown several feet and hit his head badly. He had been rushed to get tests done and then to get stabilized. He hadn’t needed surgery at the moment but the doctors had put him in the ICU to recover and see his progress. The doctor had come out with an update, but nothing had really changed since the last time she had come out. Shelby urged Layla and her mom to go home. Layla had protested, insisting they stay. But after many reassurances that Shelby would call as soon as anything changed or Jake was allowed visitors, Layla and her mom drove home. Layla spent the next few days preparing a care package for Jake and calling Shelby for updates. Anything to keep her mind preoccupied from worrying. She used an old box and filled it with all of Jake’s favorite snacks, some books and magazines to read while in recovery, joggers, socks, and a few other things that she thought he would like. Layla also added some photos of her and Jake. There was one of them at the beach making faces, one of them biking, one of them at their friend Maya’s sweet sixteen. Layla hesitated to add the strip of them in a photo booth at a carnival since it was her favorite. She and Jake had each gotten one but Jake had almost immediately lost his copy. After stuffing a quick ‘get well idiot’ card into the box, she sealed it and set it aside to bring when she went to visit him. Layla couldn’t even begin to think of what might happen if Jake wasn’t okay. There were so many things she still wanted to do and had to say. Even though it was no one’s fault, if she never told Jake how she felt, she would regret that for the rest of her life. Shelby’s call came three days after the accident. “Hi Shelby, any updates?” Layla said as she picked up the phone. “Yes, actually. Jake is awake and doing well. He can take visitors now. But I need to --” “He can? That’s great! I’m heading over right now!” Layla interrupted. “Layla wait before you come, I need to warn you, Jake’s memory isn’t the same,” Layla paused, her hand on her purse and her foot halfway out the door. “What do you mean, his memory isn’t the same? What’s wrong with it?” she asked, worry lacing her voice. Shelby took a breath before answering. “The doctors say he has retrograde amnesia,” Layla remembered learning about retrograde amnesia briefly in her psych class junior year. “So how far back can he not remember?” “The doctors aren’t sure how much he can’t remember. He remembers us, obviously, but he can’t remember anything he’s done for the last couple of months. Whether his lack of memory goes back even further hasn’t been tested yet.” Shelby responded. Layla hesitated, thoughts racing through her head. She dreaded to know the answer to her question. “I’m sure he remembers you, Layla. You’re a big part of his life. I can’t imagine that he could easily forget you,” Shelby affirmed, almost as if she had read Layla’s thoughts. After a moment, Layla said, “Sure, you’re probably right,” Her stomach clenched when she said this. o.O.o The drive to the hospital was only 15 minutes, but it felt much longer than that. Layla shuffled through her music-- an attempt to drown out the relentless cloud of doubt swirling through her head. Layla parked the car a few rows from the entrance and sat back in the seat. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a few deep breaths. Jake is ok! He got through the worst part! And he does remember you! Stop worrying! She met Shelby on the third floor, the rest of the family was in the room with Jake. Upon seeing Shelby, Layla embraced her in a big hug. “How have you been, with everything?” Layla asked when they had released each other. Shelby sighed. Purple shadowed her eyes and her hair looked mildly disheveled. “We’ve been ok. Been better,” she gave a half-smile. “I brought you coffee,” Layla said, handing the cup in her hand to Shelby. “I’m sure the hospital coffee is good but Starbucks is always better,” Shelby took a sip and smiled. “Thank you, Layla,” Layla glanced around the hall. “Which room is Jake in?” “I’ll show you.” Shelby led Layla down the hall and pushed open a door that was half-closed. Layla’s eyes fell on Jake in the center of the room. He looked like he had just woken up with his hair floppy and messy. He had gauze wrapped around his head, but he looked fine otherwise. Layla’s stomach did a flip-flop and her heart started beating a little faster. Luke was standing by the window and Jake’s dad was sitting in the chair next to the bed. “Hi, Layla,” Jake’s dad greeted her. He got up from the chair and walked to her. “Hi Mr. Carter,” Layla said as she gave him a hug. “Hey, Luke,” she said over his shoulder. “Hey,” Luke nodded at her. After a moment of greetings and formalities, Shelby ushered Luke and his dad out to give Layla and Jake some time. At last, she and Jake were alone. “Hey Jake,” she said softly, slowly taking in Jake. “Hi,” he said after a moment, assessing her from head to toe. Relief flooded through her body. He did remember her. Jake would have said something if he didn’t. Feeling lighter, Layla gently lowered herself into the chair Mr. Carter had occupied. She wanted to brush the hair that had fallen into his face away but refrained from doing so. Layla had never been nervous around Jake before, so why was she anxious now? Why did things feel awkward between them? “You really scared me, you know? When your mom called me telling me you were in an accident, I was scared your idiocy had finally caught up to you,” Layla chuckled. Jake smiled at that. “How do you feel?” Layla asked, relaxing a little. Jake had a beautiful smile. Jake shrugged a little. “My head hurts a lot. I don’t really remember the accident all that much. I also have been eating hospital food, which sucks,” Layla reached down and pulled up the box she had made. “Well, my dear Jakey, I brought you some stuff that might help with that,” She handed him the box and watched as he looked through it. Jake examined the books and magazines, commenting on how he hadn’t read them yet. There was something different about Jake, but Layla wrote it off to the accident. He seemed.... Distant almost. More aloof. Layla was sure his mood change once he was out of the hospital. “Thank you, um, this is great!” Jake’s smile faltered a little. “I added in some photos of us. I even gave you my copy of the photobooth strip,” Layla pointed to the envelope. Jake looked confused before saying, “Oh, thanks,” Layla’s throat tightened a little. “You don’t remember?” she asked, trying to contain the hurt from showing. “You lost your strip almost as soon as we got home from the party?” Jake didn’t respond. “Jake?” she said quietly, heart-pumping loudly in her ears. Jake closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what...?” Layla asked. There was a growing pit in her stomach. She refused to acknowledge what she thought was about to happen. “I don’t remember,” Jake said quietly. He avoided her gaze. “Don’t remember what, the carnival? That’s ok,” Layla tried to smile. She wanted to catch his gaze, but he steadily avoided it. “I’ll help you remember some of the memories,” she said, desperate to make light of the situation. Jake had closed his eyes again. “I don’t remember you, ” his words were barely audible. The air whooshed out of Layla’s lungs. She felt the pressure building behind her eyes and her throat tightening. She could live without dating Jake, but he was her best friend. She had lost the one person in the world who had known her best. The one person that knew everything about her, that would laugh with and at her. All the memories, the secrets, the tears, the laughs they had, gone. Layla’s heart ached in her chest. “I thought that if I pretended long enough, I would be able to start remembering. I really didn’t want to hurt you, because you clearly meant a lot to me in the past,” Jake explained. Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. That’s what Layla felt like was happening. She couldn’t pull herself up. Each time she grabbed onto a memory, it pulled away from her further and further. Jake was saying something but Layla couldn’t focus on it. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” Layla sat up abruptly. She all but ran out of the room. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. Those three words clanged through her head over and over as she rushed out of the room. Layla couldn’t think of anything but beating the tears and heartache to her car. She knew eventually she would reconcile with Jake, tell him about the adventures and memories they had. She knew she would explain each photo and the story behind every one. But right now, all she could do was grieve. How was she supposed to move on from this? He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember me.


"Hon', did you hear that?" Elaine asked, her voice filled with concern. "Yeah, something about a disabled train ahead of us," replied Ian, with a tone reflecting his frustration. I found myself in the company of the McAllisters, a situation that usually meant Elaine's incessant chatter and Ian's desire for peace and quiet to read his newspaper. "Just when you need to get there early. How about you call the office?" "I hate this," he muttered. As I observed his grumpy demeanor, I couldn't help but sympathize. Being late was not part of the plan, and I had hoped to catch up on my messages before arriving at the office. Finally, the train started moving again, and as we pulled into the next station, I saw a crowd of at least a hundred people waiting on the platform. Their expressions were an open book: annoyance, relief, and anxiety all mixed together as they eagerly awaited the arrival of the train, hoping to secure a seat. Among them, a Lenny Kravitz lookalike: dreadlocks, leather jacket, jeans, dark glasses, carrying a messenger bag. He was even playing one of his songs, " Fly Away ." And when I say playing, I mean it was blasting from two small speakers hanging by his side pockets. “To anywhere I please, oh I want to get away I want to fly away Yeah, yeah, yeah” As he got in, a passenger who was visibly upset about what was happening took off, pushing him on his way out. He didn’t seem to care. He looked too cool and collected for that. Yet, there was something about him that was unmistakably different: fried eggs. That odor had a way of making me feel nauseous and lightheaded, like a dizzy spell induced by breakfast. I had to cover my nose. “Is he mad?” said Ian. Since more people were entering the train, he put a hand-wipe between his hand and the pole the three of us were holding. “Nah, I think he is just looking for some attention,” I said to both smiling. “C’mon, really?” said Elaine. “These days, people do whatever they want on the subway” I added, looking at her. The music was indeed maddening for sure, but I thought a bit of humor would alleviate everyone’s exasperation. It was just a little after 7:30 a.m. on a brisk autumnal day when all we wanted was to get to our destination. Our car looked full -at least from where I stood--but more passengers kept boarding, hoping we could squeeze further to make room for them. As I looked at the people surrounding me, I couldn’t help analyzing the cast of characters that had formed around me. There was “the germaphobe” or the "Ian McAllister of the day" who needed a napkin to protect himself; “the multitasker,” or the woman with red lipstick and long eye lashes who was somehow managing to hold her coffee, her tote bag and the pole, all in one hand; “the pincher" or the man in green who only touched the center pole but with only with two fingers--I was convinced he also traveled with Purell in his pocket-- and; last but not least, my favorite one because he made everyone uncomfortable, “the no-hands" who thought he was so string that he didn't need to hold the pole, but stayed close enough to us un case he crashed into a stranger. I lacked air. Large backpacks were certainly not welcome and being able to read or watch something from a mobile phone was a monumental attempt for anyone who tried to do so. As more people started voicing their frustration about the delays, another announcement came in. “Your attention passengers. This train will remain on the platform for the next five minutes. We will then begin single tracking,” said the train operator. “F__!” said the multitasker. “What about your 10 o’clock, hon’? You’ve been preparing for--” asked Elaine. “Elaine...I’ll reschedule.” Ian McAllister was quick-tempered. His wife, on the other hand, was a chatter box and “a drama queen”. She knew however when not to cause a scene by irritating him, so she did not utter a word for the next few minutes--which was funny to watch. Shortly after the announcement, we were moving once again, until we heard, “The next stop--” “Please don’t say we are stopping again !” said the person backing me. In fact, just as we thought we were making some progress, the train suddenly came to a halt, causing a chain reaction that made “Ms. Multitasker” spill her coffee on my hand and “Mr. Pincher” to flinch. "Shit!" She exclaimed, followed by, "I'm so sorry about that. Are you okay?" "I'll be fine," I replied, brushing it off. We were packed in like sardines and breathed on each other. All of this, combined with the loud music surrounding us was deafening. That said, things couldn’t have been any better for our “local rockstar.” All along, he kept talking to someone while his music was playing. He was the only one having a good time, unperturbed by the train delay. From his looks, I could tell he relished this moment of disrupting our mundane ride to work. For this, he turned the volume further up. Now we had: "I got to get away (get away, get away) Girl, I got to get away (get away, get away) Oh, oh, oh yeah" “Pfff.... how inappropriate!” I thought to myself. As we rode to the next station, he took more space near us. “How could -” started Elaine who immediately got the stare from her husband. I wanted to laugh at this outburst, but I couldn’t. There was no room to hide emotions, so I hid my giggled by holding my hand in front my mouth. What amused me most was Elaine’s squeaky voice and colorful outfits. While her husband was visibly annoyed with all this, other passengers around us took notice and were laughing. “Woohoo! You the man!” said someone from far back at the rockstar. After occupying a much-needed space, he was now pulling a notebook from his messenger bag. I don’t know what he was thinking but he began typing until he was forced to stop to listen to the train operator announcing our arrival at the next station. He then methodically proceeded with the next surprise from his bag: an Egg Mcmuffin for breakfast. Since we had nowhere else to go, his movement and music became our source of entertainment for the morning. We all wanted “to get away, oh yeah.” Those could see, watched the show. He chewed loudly in front of us although food was forbidden on the train. The McAllister used this excuse to leave. “Good luck,” they said, looking at me and at our rockstar. “Enjoy!” said a passenger who stumbled over him while leaving the train. “Move,” said another one boarding the train. Our rockstar was clearly unperturbed by people’s movement in and out of the car. I was, on the other hand. The smell of his food made me feel so nauseated that I thought I would faint. But I had nowhere to escape. To my rescue was the crisp air we could feel coming in. Since this station was not underground, I could get some much fresh air come in through the opened doors. This is also when I noticed that someone had been watching. It was a passenger I had not noticed before on the train. With his towering height of six feet, he had an intense look that felt unsettling, as if he could see through me, or all of us. I tried to ignore him and look away. But something told me that if I looked in his direction, he would still be there, staring. Sure enough, he was still staring and didn’t not blink. So, I looked down. After a few seconds, I decided to take another look, this time with a more assertive gaze. And that’s when it happened, something unexpected. "Ma'am, would you like to take this seat?" I blushed, feeling both surprised and grateful, as I made my way towards him, accepting the generous offer. "Oh my gosh, that's so kind of you! Thank you, sir," I replied with genuine appreciation. "It's my pleasure," he responded with a warm smile. My feet were tired and swollen from standing during the long commute. It seemed that this stranger had noticed my discomfort--I was five months along--and thought his gesture was the right thing to do. I was stunned by his kindness and truly grateful for it. From that point on, I lost track of how many more stops remained. All I knew was that by the time I reached my destination, I had inadvertently memorized the song playing on the train. “I want to get away I want to fly away Yeah, yeah, yeah”