TW: Language and Chaotic Sequences Terri set the cooler and tote bag on the grass beneath her feet. She pulled the big blue blanket out of the bag, gripped the edge, and let it unfold in the breeze before setting it on the ground. She set the cooler on one corner, the tote bag on the other diagonally opposite. “Well, come on, then,” said Terri. Her eldest child Lexi, carrying her youngest brother Ezra, stepped onto the blanket. She let Ezra go as she crossed her legs, scooping her red hair behind her ear and away from the wind. “This isn’t the best day to do this,” said Lexi. “I can’t see anything.” “It’ll let up,” said Terri. “Don’t worry about it.” She opened the cooler and pulled out a handful of sandwiches handing one to Lexi and tearing one in half for Ezra. He stayed standing, holding the sandwich in his clenched fist, examining his surroundings. Terri couldn’t tell if it was bewilderment or confusion on her son’s face but found it comical regardless. “Sit down, Ez.” He sat, feet forward and cheeks red. “Why peanut butter and jelly, Mom? We have this every time,” said Lexi. “It’s the standard,” said Terri. “I didn’t hear you once volunteer to pay for and make new sandwiches.” She smiled but Lexi didn’t reciprocate, just forced a bite and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’re not going to be on that phone when your father gets here. We’re going to spend quality time together.” “That phrase makes me want to puke. ‘Quality time’. Isn’t any time quality time?” “Don’t get analytical with me now. Just eat your lunch.” Terri watched Ezra bite his sandwich, a glob of jelly slipping free from the bread and landing on the blanket. She thought to complain but saw it paired nicely with the old vomit stain Lexi had put into the blanket six years prior. The bloodstain by her flip-flops was now a deep brown, a remnant from when Patrick had kicked their orange soccer ball a little too hard and drove it into Elliot’s nose. He had come running to her, a mix of tears and blood streaking down his face. One of his teeth, having already been loose, was knocked free. They’d left the beach that afternoon without finding it, even after another hour’s worth of search. Patrick had put a dollar under Elliot’s pillow anyway. Pop! The snap of Lexi’s gum brought Terri back to reality. She could smell the artificial grape flavoring despite the wind blowing against her daughter’s mouth. A yellowjacket came to visit, floating under Terri’s nose. It hovered, nudging at her cheeks. She swatted several times, shooing it away. It circled around, almost tickling at Lexi’s scalp. Ezra watched it float off into the trees behind them, licking the peanut butter off his lips. Despite the wind, Terri felt proud for picking today to have lunch at the park. The sun shone in a sky as blue as toothpaste, wisps of clouds drifting along like slow-moving animals searching for rest. The trees shuddered in the wind, leaves singing and dancing in the invisible current. A couple of families studded the grassy expanse of Ridgeville Park like pimples, some sitting at benches, others playing with a yellow frisbee. A play structure sat to their left, built with seven slides and a set of swings on the end. There was a sandpit with a crane arm and seat, giant climbable tires, and some sort of spinning seats attached to poles that made her nauseous to look at. “Da!” said Ezra, bouncing in his place. His left hand was covered in jelly. He pointed with his right down the slight incline, near the play structure. “Da-da!” Approaching them was Patrick and Elliot, both with hair like fire. Terri stroked her brown hair, throwing it over her shoulder as best she could with the wind. Elliot charged up to the blanket, almost tackled his mother with the hug. Despite being only ten, he had his father’s strength in him. Patrick came up, handsome as ever with his beard and button-up shirt and tie. He picked up Ezra, placed him on his hip. “Hey buddy,” he said, giving him a forehead kiss. “Having a good day? Are you giving Mom hell as always?” “Like you wouldn’t believe,” said Terri. Patrick kissed her as he knelt, rummaging through the cooler. “That’s my boy,” he said with a smile he’d hoped to hide from his wife. “Hi, Lexi.” Pop! “Hi Dad,” said Lexi, looking at him before returning to her phone. She was lying on her back now. Patrick shrugged and took a big bite of his sandwich. He’d tossed another to Elliot, who’d already taken several bites by the time he started his, eating around the crusts. They looked like toenail clippings. “How was the dentist, boys?” Terri asked. The wind had begun to settle, the gentle tickle giving their hair an ethereal floating effect. Ezra’s nose had regressed from red to pink. “Fine,” said Patrick, resting on his right elbow as he leaned back. “They found a couple of small cavities between his teeth but everything was fine on the surface. They gave him a small bag with the usual stuff but gave him two cartridges of floss and heavily emphasized that he start using it.” “I will,” Elliot said, chipmunking his sandwich as he nibbled on a carrot. “Trust me. I don’t want my teeth pulled.” “Slow down, hon,” said Terri. “Swallow the food already in your mouth before shoving something else in.” Elliot gave a hard swallow, almost choked, and took a sip from his juice box before eating again. Snap! went Elliot’s carrot. Pop! went Lexi’s gum. “Nothing too expensive, I hope?” Terri asked before biting into a Thin Mint. She’d bought a box two days prior when the Girl Scouts had migrated to their side of town. Her family didn’t need to know she’d gotten an extra box of Tagalongs for herself that was currently hiding under the driver’s seat in the station wagon. “Compared to what we have to pay for our dental work? Not expensive at all,” Patrick said. “One less thing to worry about,” said Terri. “For now.” She reached into the bag on the opposite side of the blanket and pulled out a short wave radio. Her father used to have one himself; they’d stay up past her bedtime listening to old radio broadcasts from the 50s; crime dramas that kept her up until morning, praying the batteries had enough juice for the next episode the following evening. When she left for college, her father had given her a spare radio he’d hid in the garage when she was home but worked on repairing for her when she fell asleep. She’d cried over it when he bid her goodbye and she cried over it again the night after he passed away. Now, she flicked through the radio stations, hoping for something more interesting than adverts and pop songs. “Brite-Shine, the new mold-clearing cleaner that’ll have your tubs looking as shiny as the-,” said one station. Click . “I just can’t hold this feeling in me anymooooo-” sang some twenty-something. Click . “-the bombing of Jackson Bank on the north side of Ridgeville. This assault is the third in what appears to be a string of serial attacks against-” This was enticing but she didn’t want to scare her boys. Click . “You say goodbye and I say hello,” sang the Beatles. Terri smiled and set the radio down, taking in the sun. Birds chittered somewhere in the trees surrounding the park. Behind them were cars, some honking, others revving. Despite being two in the afternoon, the avenues were packed. She thought of Dr. Seuss and Oh, the Places You’ll Go! That one line came strong amongst the others; Everyone is just waiting . When Ezra’s curiosity got the better of him, he took off toward the playground. Terri began to rise but Patrick ushered her back down. “I’ve got this,” he said, chasing after his three-year-old son. He stomped down the small incline, roaring and swaying his arms like a monster. Ezra shrieked with happiness, took off under the monkey bars and they were gone, lost among a jungle gym and the plastic construct of the slides. Terri ate a Thin Mint and looked at herself. Her sides were peeking through the lowest part of her shirt, pale skin exposed for the world to see. She put her hoodie on, zipped it up. She admitted that maybe she could cut back on the sweets and left it at that... until she ate two more cookies. At least Patrick still thinks I’m pretty... right? “Can I have the cookies, Mom?” Lexi asked, reaching out her hand. Terri blinked. “Did you eat your sandwich?” Terri wondered, her eyebrows raised in challenge. “Like... half of it,” said Lexi. “Please?” “Fine, but you need to eat some carrots sometime before we go, okay?” Terri said, tossing her the sleeve of Thin Mints. With the quietness of a panther, Elliot dove headfirst and snatched the cookies out of the air. Terri flinched and Lexi squeaked. “I’ll take those,” said Elliot. He popped a Thin Mint into his mouth, his smile full of crushed cookie. “Fucker!” said Lexi, getting up and giving chase as Elliot began to run. “Hey, watch your language!” Terri called after them. “Don’t hurt your brother, please!” She heard Ezra shriek at the playground. Patrick was chasing him, arms in the air, swaying back and forth with slow stomps carrying him forward. She thought there was dirt in Ezra’s hand but couldn’t tell from the blanket. Lexi had Elliot pinned. Face to face, she geared up her gum and blew the biggest bubble she could. Elliot squirmed as the purple sphere neared his face. BOOM! Terri couldn’t tell what had happened. It was like her vision went dark and she was just now able to see again. Her ears rang, the screams echoing through them muffled. Lexi was still on top of Elliot, frozen and staring straight ahead. Terri sprinted to them. Elliot bucked from under his sister, trying to wrench free but to no avail. “Get off, Lexi!” Terri said, wrenching her hands from Elliot’s wrists. “Are you both okay?!” “I think! What’s going on?!” Elliot shouted, rubbing his ears. “Lexi!” Terri and Elliot both said, shaking Lexi’s shoulders. They followed her gaze and saw it. A cloud of black smoke plumed into the sky and at its tail, a building wreathed in orange and yellow flame. Half of it was gone, scattered across the street and setting some of the nearby foliage ablaze. Another blow came from inside, windows left unbroken now shattered, shards of glass clattering onto the sidewalk below. Terri’s ears popped, heard the hundred car alarms screeching in disharmony. People were screaming, dashing to their cars, all away from the building. Terri grabbed Lexi and Elliot, turned them away as, one by one, survivors from the explosion came sprinting out of the building, arms flailing and engulfed in fins of tangerine. Some jumped through the windows up high, screaming as they collided with the concrete. The rest ran down the streets, crying for help, rolling on the ground. “Come on,” said Terri, turning away. The three of them ran back to the blanket. She gathered what she could of their stuff and then her children’s attention. “You stay right here! I have to find your father and brother! Lexi, you watch Elliot! Do you understand?” Lexi gave a shaky nod, her gaze returning to the flaming people running in the streets. Elliot was crying. “Don’t look, sweetie. Don’t look. I’ll be back.” By the time she got to the structure, the flames had started to spread. Sirens were wailing somewhere across the city. The trees separating the burning building and the park were starting to catch flame, bark popping as the fire licked up their trunks. The grass curled into charred spirals like black licorice whips. The fire crept along, inching closer to the playground. “Patrick!” Terri screamed, jumping onto the play structure. The wood chips surrounding it started to smolder. “Patrick!” “Here!” shouted Patrick. He came barreling toward her from under the structure, crying Ezra in his arms. “Oh, thank God,” Terri said. She hopped down and took his hand. “Let’s go!” They ran, watched the flames start to climb the play structure, singe the pine handrails and melt the plastic tunnels. Lexi and Elliot were still there. They all collapsed onto the ground, huddled like football players. “Are you okay, Dad?” Lexi asked, patting him down. “Is Ezra okay too?!” “He’s fine,” said Patrick. “We have to get out of here. The fire isn’t going to stop spreading. Let’s get to the car.” They picked each other up and slogged to the car with what energy they had left. Ezra’s face was red with tears again. Terri kissed his forehead and strapped him in. “Hospital?” Terri asked as she buckled into the passenger’s seat. “Good idea to get there now than later,” said Patrick. They sped off, taking a sideroad and breaching the parkway to avoid the congested avenues. Ridgeville Hospital North, and South for that matter, was always busy, but the fallout from the recent explosions had them pushing the limits of their capacity. The limit would certainly be toppled after this one. With Patrick leading, they stepped into the emergency wing. Patrick told the nurses the situation and they were seated to wait for the next available examination. The lobby was practically empty save for an old couple and another family with a crying newborn. They sat and whilst waiting, watched a stream of folk in dirty clothing come barging into reception, distressed and screaming at the nurses for help. Despite the catastrophe, this happened only a few times before the room fell quiet. Patrick had made the smart move to travel farther to the south hospital. He’s always been good like that . They settled in. Another family that happened to be at the park came into the lobby, met, and talked to help ease the tension, but otherwise kept to themselves. Patrick drank himself a cup of coffee, Terri holding Ezra in her arms. He was fast asleep, eyes swollen from the crying. Lexi and Elliot sat together on Terri’s right. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw them holding hands. “Your gum scared me,” said Elliot. Lexi looked over, eyes bloodshot. “What do you mean?” she asked. “The bubble popped when the building exploded. Thought that’s what made the noise.” “Well, sorry... not gonna chew gum for a while.” “Yeah, you’d better not if it makes buildings explode,” said Elliot. Patrick chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, Lex,” said Patrick. “How about you switch to something else for a while? You’re gonna get caught if you keep doing that.” “Oh, to hell with you both,” said Lex, smiling. “How do we know it wasn’t your monster stomps that brought it down, Dad? When chasing Ezra?” “She’s got a point,” said Terri, smiling with a bit lip. “Oh yeah?” Patrick asked with a stunned look painted across his cheeks. “Peanut butter makes me fart. It could have been your sandwiches that did the job.” “Sounds more genetic than anything. I shouldn’t be blamed for that at all.” Terri laughed as she spoke. They poked fun for a while before the hysteria brought them back down. It started to rain, drops pecking at the glass windows of the waiting room. Smoke danced on the horizon, painting the sky gray. Terri dug through the bag at her feet, picked the radio out, and caressed it, going over the lines and buttons with her fingertips before turning it on. Click .


The new subdivisions had been assigned different individual colours. There was the blue, green, red, yellow, orange, purple, pink and violet neighbourhoods. It was a very interesting idea. They were dubbed a certain colour because they featured the many shades of that individual tint. For example, the Blue Neighbourhood boasted houses that were cyan, steel, sky, electric, teal, pigeon and azure. The streets were painted blue and all of the buildings that weren’t house dwellings were painted a blue hue. This made organization very easy for all of the authorities. Every person that had been allowed in one of the newer subdivisions were associated with the colour of the area they lived in. For example, there was Blue Wilson, or Green Jones or Yellow Taylor. But, there was more than that. The people were herded in a manner that was consistent with race, religion, and sexual orientation. Each colour featured a different slant on society. It was thought that by doing this it would cut down on racism and discrimination. So someone that was black didn’t live in a white neighbourhood and vice versa. The Red Hardings lived in the red subdivision. The family consisted of Joan and Mary Hardings, and their respective children, Andrea, Larry, Robert, Theresa and Madeleine. Joan and Mary were legally married and raised the five children in a blended family atmosphere. Despite the interesting idea of giving each neighbourhood a different colour, there were the same basic social problems. Some people just didn’t have the tolerance for different. The Hardings because of their varied parental makeup became a target, a lightning rod for homophobic abuse. It started when a message was written in red paint on their garage door. Joan was off to work as she started very early in the morning. It stated: ‘Lesbians should not be allowed to have children.’ Joan had backed the vehicle out of the garage and was closing the door when the message appeared. She was at first shocked, but, it wasn’t the first time that a homophobic slur had been directed at her and/or Mary. There had been one the first time they moved in. But, that was the only one. She stopped the vehicle and went back inside to tell her wife. The garage door was quickly painted over later that day, but it shook them. “It must be someone from one of the other neighbourhoods,” said Joan. “You would think so,” said Mary. “After all, why would someone in the red neighbourhood target us? We are all in the same boat.” It was a week later when their lawn had been painted a blood red. It was a skull and crossbones and was incredibly disturbing. They quickly put a tarp over it and contacted the authorities in charge of the Red Neighbourhood. The authorities didn’t know what to do. A Mr. Todd Doak came to the house. He was tall and looked like a praying mantis. He carried a briefcase and appeared to be very sophisticated, very organized, very controlled. He knocked on the door. One of the kids opened it. “Hello, I am Mr. Todd Doak, is your mother home?” Little Madeline who was four and cuter than any child had the right to be, shook her head. “I have two mommies.” The little precious one turned around and bellowed: “Mommies! There is someone at the door.” Joan arrived and scooped up the child in her arms. “Hello, you must be from the office?” “Yes, I am. I am Mr. Doak, I run the department that is responsible for looking into hate crimes.” “Come on in.” Mr. Doak walked inside and the place was nicely and tastefully decorated. It was a family home with pictures that were the talented art work of the five children. There was a homy, comfortable feeling and he smiled. “I really like your decorations.” “This one is mine,” blurted Madeline. “I see and it is very amazing.” “I knew that.” She smiled and Joan rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you go and play?” “But, I want to talk to the man.” “I have to talk to the man.” “Why don’t we both talk to the man?” Mr. Doak laughed. “How about if everyone talks to the man?” So they made their way to the kitchen table and all of the kids took a seat. “My wife isn’t here right now. She should be home any moment now.” “There is someone that is trying to hurt us, mister and I don’t like it.” Andrea smiled. She was fourteen, a pretty girl, and as the oldest she fussed over the others. “That is why I am here.” “I don’t want any of my brothers or sisters to get hurt. We are a family and we love each other even though there are times when we drive each other crazy.” The others laughed. “Yeah, real crazy,” said Theresa with an angelic face and long dark hair. She was a beautiful child. Her smile lit up the room. “Someone doesn’t like us because we have two moms. Maybe they are jealous because they don’t have any?” Robert looked at Mr. Doak. “If anyone touches any of us then I am going to really punch them out.” Larry, who was all of eight years old and of average height and weight didn’t intimidate anyone. “Okay, tough guy,” said Joan. Mary walked through the door. “Mommy is home.” Madeline jumped off Mr. Doak’s lap and ran for the door. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon enough,” warned Joan. He smiled back at her. Theresa occupied his other lap. “I am sure that she will.” “See, mom, I told you that there was a man here from the autotories.” “That is authorities,” said Andrea. “That’s what I said,” replied Madeline giving her big sister a dirty look. “This is my wife, Mary. This is Mr. Doak.” They shook hands. “I am afraid for the children’s safety,” said Mary. “Yes, so am I, and they are darling children.” Madeline was back on his lap. She smiled at him and he returned the smile. “So what can you do about it?” “I am going to assign a special police officer that will be around your home for the duration of this until we catch the person or people responsible for the cowardly actions.” “Thank you, that’s wonderful.” “Would you like to stay for supper?” “Tonight, we are having wieners and beans.” Madeline looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I will have to clear it with my superior. Since, my wife is out of town, it is better than eating a TV diner.” He stayed and it was a fun time. Mr. Doak went to the office the next morning and closed the door. He pulled out the red phone and pressed a few buttons. “Yeah, the house at 535 Crimson Street is the one. Find out what is going on.” He put the red phone back in the locked drawer. A solid week went by and nothing happened. Then one night, it was almost two in the morning when all craziness broke loose. The perpetrator with the cans of spray paint wasn’t ready for what was waiting for him at 535 Crimson Street. The shadowy figure produced a taser and brought the criminal down on his knees. “I knew I would catch you sooner or later.” The scream of pain echoed throughout the neighbourhood and the neighbours were aware of what was going on. The specially assigned police officer came running. When she arrived, the cretin responsible for all of the graffiti and offensive messages was tied in a knot like a pretzel. There was a note attached to him. The police woman read it and laughed. The one with the massive and crippling grip that had stopped the vandal had slipped away in the night to someday return when someone else was doing someone wrong in the red neighbourhood. The figure stood in the dark and saw the angelic face of little Madeline starring out the second story window at all of the action going on. He waved at her and of course she didn’t see him, but that was okay. “Sweet dreams, my little Madeline,” he whispered in the dark before he slipped away. After all, tomorrow was a work day and he had a department to run.


Slowly, stiffly, a bird passing through a cloud, reality grabbed at his unfettering mind. The wind from the open window wafted over him sweetly, its tender touch a lover’s gentle caress. His eyes were closed tight like sealed tombs, and he felt the dream begin to leak out. He saw green eyes, red hair, flames shimmering on the waves. A smile spread itself across his diffused face as the spring air carried him away. She slipped away in shades until the scene was black and cold. Slowly, stiffly, his eyes began to open. He was alone. The flames were now dull phosphorescent lights; green eyes, a pale tiled floor; red hair, plastic prescriptions. He looked down at his limp hands laying useless in his lap. The armrests of his wheelchair, peeled and discolored, pressed against his sides. In the distance, a mountain behind fog, his feet scraped the ground placidly. Between the gentle gusts, the stale smell of the care facility clogged his throat. How many times had he awoken here? He slid his hand into the pond but found no fish. It felt an age and then some. It felt a second or third day; not quite new, not yet old. A hundred years or a handful of days, the smell was always new. He could taste it. It was a demon ‘round his throat. He wanted to spit, drink deep, wash it away, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Oh, you’re awake,” the voice pulled him from his disgust. “I opened the window. Hope that’s okay.” He tried to speak, but only a small grunt left his lips. The nurse was young, her hair gold in the sunlight... running beneath the setting sun, windblown cheeks, a laugh waiting to escape... Her eyes touched him softly, and he shrank beneath her gaze. Was it pity he saw? Disgust? Is there a difference? He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. But he did none of that. Couldn't or wouldn’t, he pretended not to know. Instead, his head dropped to the side towards the window in a half nod. “You want me to close it?” Her voice was soft, almost imperceptible. He moved his head a fraction of an inch in the other direction to tell her no. He looked down at his hands and screamed at them silently to move. They sat frozen like an old dog lying in the sun. Finally, a finger twitched in the direction of the window. “You want to look out the window?” She said with a small smile. “Blink twice if you do!” Her voice was playful now. He blinked twice in quick succession, surprising even himself. A quivering smile followed it, and the nurse beamed with delight. She pushed him softly towards the window. “It’s so good to see you like this. It’s been a while since I saw you smile.” He tried to grunt. “All right, here we are!” She positioned him in front of the window and locked the chair with a dull click. She bent over next to him, her hand on his shoulder. She looked into his eyes and he could smell the sea, felt the soft sand on his feet. “I’ll be back to check on you. It’s so beautiful out today. Enjoy it for me.” Her voice echoed out, ripples on water, and he felt sick. He watched her stand and walk away, his eyes begging her to stay as he watched her go. He pulled himself from her and brought his eyes to the window. The sun shone brightly in the sky, bathing the grass in splendid light; a field of emeralds shivering in the crisp spring air. Flowers, yellow, blue, violet, lined the sidewalk that passed his window. Their sweet scent surrounded him, and he wondered if he’d ever smelled something so wonderful. Small bees darted around the flowers like children on a playground. The trees stretched their limbs, which creaked and groaned in the breeze. The leaves shuffled like laughter in the wind. There, far off, a black dot marred the azure sky. Suddenly, the trees froze. The bees stopped mid-flight, the flowers stiff. The wind ceased, and he could no longer hear the groaning. Everything stopped for only a moment. Then, the bees flew backwards. The trees shifted unnaturally, their groans strained and creaks turned cracking. The flowers jumped backwards, and their scent began to fade. His stomach turned and he shut his eyes tight. After a few moments, the tomb unlocked and he could see again. The window, trees, bees, flowers, were all gone. Now, the sea pulsed in front of him. The sun was lower now, straddling the water’s edge. All the world was gold. He breathed in the briny air, tasted the salt. He looked down and realized he was standing, sand beneath his bare feet. Ahead, a pier jutted out of the coastline. The lights along the edge shimmered in the twilight, and he could see crowds of people walking the length. He turned his head and his heart seized. She was there, her hand entwined with his. Her long red hair flowed behind her, caught and fluttering in the wind. She had a slight smile on her face as she watched the waves. Her lilac dress turned about her, the long ends dancing around rhythmically. She turned her head towards him, her green eyes glistening mischievously at him, her smile fuller now. “I’ll race you there,” she shouted before breaking from him. She ran quickly, and he followed dutifully, the laugh easily passing from his lips. She always won their races. She stopped near the pier and turned around, her hair like fire as it blew around her. She was laughing, her sweet voice drifting towards him with the wind’s gentle push. Her cheeks were red, her eyes piercing. Had there ever been such a magnificent sight? Behind her, behind the pier, the black dot grew larger than the sun. The ground beneath cracked open, and he fell down, a scream caught in his throat. Deeper, deeper. The world shifted and he began to rise, the stars in the sky speeding towards him. Higher, higher. A shift, and he was falling, then rising, falling, rising. The world stopped and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. His knees drop downwards, and the sand beneath his hands collected into a soft white sheet. He was standing, leaning on a bed. The room was cold and sterile. The window was shut, and he couldn’t see the sun. All was gray. He turned his head in despair, and there she was. She lay with her eyes open, lost in some distant sea. He grabbed her hand and she broke from her stupor. She turned her face towards him, and her eyes burned anew. Her hand was cold and weak, but her fingers snaked their way between his. Not long , he heard from some corner. It’s time. We tried. The whispers chattered around him, drowning out everything else. “I always win our races,” she said softly, her voice warm. The whispers died at the sound of her voice, and everything was her. Despite himself, he smiled meekly. “It’s been a while since I saw you smile. But, my love, please, I wanted it this way. Me before you. I don’t think I could live with the grief.” She smiled sweetly. He tried to respond, but his mouth was dry as ash. “Promise me...” She looked tired and weak, as if the wind alone could snuff her out. “Everything is so beautiful in the setting sun... They say tomorrow will be a beautiful day...” Her voice trailed off, and he looked away so she didn’t see his tears. In the sky, the black dot grew and grew. He begged it to go, begged for another moment. He turned back towards her, and she was looking back at him. Her emerald eyes glimmered, and tears wet her cheeks. “Enjoy it for me,” she said, her voice a whisper. And he watched her go. The black dot grew around him, and drowned out the hospital room. He fell and rose. Light shifted around him, and he groped for a hand to hold. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be seen. He watched himself walking along the shore, alone. He watched himself walking along the pier. He watched him beneath the dying sun. The world blinked, and he watched himself walking backwards along the shore. He jumped forward, backward. It spun over him. The whole sky flickered; the wind gulped and struggled like a crying child. He looked down and the wheelchair was there. Red hair left on a pillow. He looked up and saw the half-set sun. A field of emerald. He looked down and saw starched sheets. Lilacs on the window sill. He looked up and saw the morning sun glowing red like her cheeks, a laugh caught in the wind. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. He dashed through the sky, swam with the stars. He passed by massive torii gates. He jumped through the aurora, the pale green light waving him on his way. He walked over the great bridge, dazzling towers dotting the path. He was alone. He laughed and laughed. Then he was back on that beach. He watched her run, heard her laugh. He laughed and laughed. Then the colors began to fade, green, red, purple... His dream had sprung a leak. He watched her smile at him. He could taste the stale air. Dimmer and dimmer she grew, fading in shades. He reached for her, tried to call for her. She remained smiling, tears wetting her cheeks, as the darkness overpowered her. ... and he watched her go.


It was dark, wet, and stormy. Christian sat down at his Grandma’s ancient computer. He hit it to turn it on and waited for it to load. After twenty minutes of frustration, he finally booted it up. Christian sighed, cracked his knuckles, and blew the dust off of the keys. Christian’s grandmother had passed away years ago, and her things had gone to Christian. Christian had been owning the abandoned house, but He was selling it now. He had to get rid of a ton of stuff. Unfortunately, his grandma was a hoarder, so he had a lot to do. Once Christian had seen an outdated, white computer, he thought it would be a cool break to sit down and try it out. As soon as he had turned it on, a “senior” website pulled up from a long time ago. The computer had belonged to his grandfather, and grandma, but Christian couldn’t imagine his grandma using it. It had to have belonged to his grandfather who had passed away thirty-five years before. His grandpa had been a strange man. He used to always have a strange grin before he passed away, the man always wore zebra-striped aviator glasses. Christian read what the site said. It read: *Free Object if You Put in Your Address.” What the heck is an “object”* Christian thought, as he clicked the *I want it* button. It took him to another old site that read, *Type in your information with the questions.* Christian Typed all of it in and waited. The computer shut off and didn’t turn on after that. Christian soon forgot all about the computer, he donated, threw away, and sold everything in the house. One week later a small box appeared in his mailbox. Christian picked it up and threw it onto the kitchen table. It was heavy. Christian ran upstairs to grab some scissors, he ran back down and started to cut open the tape that sealed the box. The box was very vintage. It looked as if it was from the 1970s or 80s. Christian finished cutting the tape, and he was about to open it when he thought. *What is in here? This was what grandpa was doing before he died. Could this be what caused him to die?* He shook the feeling and peeled open the box. When he opened the cardboard flaps and peeled away some crackling yellowed tissue paper, he saw what was in the box. A cold hand shot out and grabbed him. His face shot into an expression of pure horror. His jaw dropped, and he let out a scream that shook his neighborhood. Christian struggled as the cold pale hand tried to pull him into a cold, ice world. Throughout the interior of the box was a desert of snow. Christian cried as he helplessly flailed his arms and screamed. The arctic wind was blowing into his face. The cold, mummified hand dug its sharp fingernails into Christian’s flesh. He let out one last cry for help before he was sucked into a world of pain, despair, and absolutely no joy at all. The police arrived at the house after a smiling old man had called. He said he had heard screaming, from the old house. The police thanked the kind-hearted man and headed in. They found nothing. The old man, who had reported the incident, grinned a strange grin, as he peeked through the crack in the fence. He adjusted his zebra aviator glasses and took a sip from a mug of coffee. The old man had his cold, pale hand stuck inside an old open box, with tissue paper. Flaking away from the hands of time.


The axe head glinted in the afternoon sunlight as Theophilus swung it in a wide arc. In front of him, the cord of wood split down the center with a neat thunk. He placed another log on the stump and swung again, his arms moving with the well-practiced rhythm of one who has done the same task a thousand times. As his body worked, thoughts crawled petulantly through his head. *She’s always harping on about the importance of books and learning.* Swish. Thunk. *But Father Hedden might be the most boring man alive. How does he even stay upright? He’s so thin that the next breeze might carry him off.* Swish. Thunk. He paused to swipe the sweat from his forehead. *And all we ever read are the dusty boring old histories of the country. Weren’t my ancestors warriors? Why aren't any of the stories about them actually interesting?* He stepped to the woodpile, grabbed another log. Swish. Thunk. *But no. Instead I’m stuck trying to read about how King Abelard, in the second day of the third month of the Year of the Stallion, brokered a deal with the Duke of Wherever, blah blah blah, established a treaty with so-and-so...* Swish. Thunk. One callused hand shoved thick black curls out of his face. *At least I only have to see the old fart once a week. And if I stay late cleaning the kennels, he only has me until fifth bell, which is less than two hours, I think. Plus, the more extra chores I pick up, the more Alden will take me on hunts.* Swish. Thunk. *If only I could spend all my time training instead of wasting it on reading and cutting wood-* Theophilus froze mid-thought, mid-swing, at the distant sound of metal hammering on wood. He spun to face the house, and the shine of light on armor was visible even from across the field. From here, he could tell that a squadron of the king’s men were pounding on his mother’s door. He knew these men - saw them often at the castle. Every day when Theophilus entered the gates, he looked up to see them posted high on the ramparts, keeping a watchful eye out for danger. Off-duty, they could be found lounging casually against the guardhouse walls, betting on card and dice games, flirting with the washerwomen, feeding the hounds surreptitiously with table scraps. As Theophilus watched, his mother opened the door and nine of them filtered into the house, leaving the last man to hold the horses. The squadron captain nodded respectfully as he entered, but something felt off. *Why are they wearing full mail? And they never carry both swords and spears unless they’re practicing for battle, or on parade.* The thought hit him like an axe cleaving through a log. *Oh blessed Aurum please no oh Lord please I beg of you please by Your Glorious Sword I pray please please please* Theophilus started running. It felt like his body was moving in slow motion as he fumbled briefly with the latch on the gate and sprinted the length of the field, dodging the uneven ruts the sheep left in the grass. When he was halfway across, he heard the first scream from the house, and his speed doubled. *Dear Lord if I have ever been a worthy servant to Thee I pray that you keep her safe oh Aurum please I can’t do this without my mother I beg you please by all the life in my body please* Breaths came ragged through his throat as he vaulted the fence and stumbled in the mud around the trough. As Theophilus picked himself up, he glanced in through the window and stopped dead in his tracks. The shutters were half open. Inside, two soldiers were holding his mother’s arms, and others were opening cupboards and tearing the mattresses off the beds. Theophilus locked eyes with her, and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, cheeks streaked with tears. *Please Aurum I have not asked for much in my life and I will never again ask You for a single thing if You would just keep her safe and please oh please let us get away and let them not know and let us escape please please Lord* A soldier stepped in front of her, and Theophilus recognized him as the captain of the squadron - Mit. "Where. Is. He?" Mit spat, uncharacteristic anger in his voice. Theophilus' mother only shook her head, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line. Then Mit cut her throat. As his head filled with a wordless scream, some animal instinct forced Theophilus to move. He stumbled around the corner of the house, hitting his shoulder hard on the wall in his haste. At the sound, the soldier watching the horses turned to look at him. Theophilus knew him; Dunstan, a red-haired, friendly man, married to the baker’s daughter. If Dunstan stopped Theophilus long enough for the rest of the squadron to finish tearing up the floorboards in search of him and come out of the house- Theophilus’ mind’s eye could only replay the way his mother’s body fell, lifeless, like a dropped sack of grain. Dunstan raised a hand and opened his mouth - to explain or cry for help, Theophilus would never know. Before he could make a sound, Theophilus was upon him. The axe, still in his hand despite his desperate race across the field, was raised high into the air a final time. The sunlight sparkled brilliantly on the blade. With the practice of a thousand repetitions, the muscles in his arms and back tightened. Swish. Thunk. He had hunted alongside the King’s guards, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them in the face of a charging boar, each man secretly hoping the animal chose another’s place in line to die. He’d set the hounds loose to drive pheasants out of the brush into their waiting arrows. He’d led them down trails in the forest that few knew of, and even fewer could follow. He’d watched longingly as they stalked the King’s deer, had curried their horses in exchange for spear lessons, asked their advice, looked jealously at their swords. He’d watched Dunstan flirt, court, and marry Ellie, the baker’s daughter. He knew these men. Hell, he’d wanted to *be* them. Riding west on Dunstan’s horse, pushing the animal the fastest it would go, Theophilus could not-- would not -- think. He would not think. Not of what he had seen, not of what he had done. Clenched tightly on the reins, his bloody hands began to shake.


The tv in the common room was playing a seemingly unending marathon of HGTV and Myrtle Atkins was beginning to feel depressed. Myrtle had been at the Cleese home for the elderly for going on ten years and in her opinion it was ten years too long. The home had about eighty residents and they ranged from those that needed round the clock care to those like Myrtle who simply had been living alone and whose family deemed her a risk to herself after a minor fall. Most of the residents at the moment had some stage of dementia and that made it hard for Myrtle to make friends. Can you imagine the stress of always having to make a great first impression? Myrtle sat in the arm chair wearing her usual peach bathrobe and soft fluffy matching pink slippers and she was thinking about reading a magazine. The room itself was populated by several of the residents that had the later stages of dementia, the nurses would usually herd them into the room after dinner in an attempt to get them to socialize but the tv proved to be a better attention grabber than trying to remember how to hold a conversation and so every single night they would sit there grunting, moaning, or crying as Myrtle sat and thought about all the things she wished would happen. Myrtle did have a friend in the home though, Agnes Wooster, a spry if not chipper woman two years younger than Myrtle. Agnes was one of the lucky ones, her family came to visit her often and would always show up with some home cooked food for the holidays, Myrtle was always invited and glad to attend these dinners. A lot of her family had moved out of state or were simply not the close knit family types. Agnes did not hold it against them, though she wished they would come at least a few times a year and break up the monotony that had taken hold of her life in the not so golden years. A familiar sound broke Myrtle out of her trance and she recognized the sound of the squeaky wheeled pill trolley. Myrtle had long held the belief that they tried to keep most of the inmates...sorry, residents in the common room because it made it easier to hand out the evening cups of various pills, blood thinners, vasodilators, anti depressants, and of course the high fiber medication that kept everyone regular. The nurse pushed the cart into the room and smiled at Myrtle handing her two small paper cups, one with the pills and one with water. The nurse quickly took the one with the pills back and gave her a different one. Myrtle noticed that each pill cup was numbered. "What's with the numbers?" Myrtle really didn't care but it was nice to talk to someone who wasn't engrossed in house flipping. "Different cups have different drugs, helps us not mix them up, the side effects could be really weird if you took the wrong ones." As punctuation to that explanation the nurse pushed the cart past Myrtle and started handing them out to the rest of the people in the room. Myrtle thought about that for the next hour and a half. Myrtle didn't really have any vices and always had kept a clean body figuring she'd live a nice long life and die in her sleep in her own damn home. That plan did not work out. Myrtle watched as the cart was wheeled away and then left at the check in counter. The nurse walked out the front door with a cigarette in his mouth. Myrtle stood and walked at a fast shuffle towards the cart, after checking that no one was around she reached into the containers of pills at the bottom of the cart and shoved a few random handfuls into her bathrobe pockets and then shuffled off down the hallway with a smile on her face. Myrtle knocked on the door to room 314 several times before Agnes woke up and answered the door. "What do you want Myrtle, do you have any idea what time it is?" "Just after seven thirty." "That late?" There was no hint of irony in Agnes' response. "May I come in?" Agnes sighed and obliged, opening the door wide and stepping aside and beckoning her friend to enter, even though Agnes would have much rather have gone back to sleep. Agnes had one of the bigger rooms with her own furniture and it was on an antique had carved redwood table that Myrtle emptied the stolen contents of her pockets. "What the hell have you done Myrtle Atkins?!" Myrtle smiled. "Doesn't it seem like a bit of naughty fun? I never did drugs when I was younger, did you?" Agnes huffed at the very idea and sat down in her olive green velvet evening chair and drew her robe tighter around herself as if to make a point about being closed off to the idea. "What are they going to do? Arrest us? What's the worst that could happen?" With that Myrtle used the side of her palm to divide the pile of pills in half and went off to get two glasses of water and noticed a tea kettle on the stove. "How long has this been here?" "Since about six. It's Irish breakfast blend." Myrtle poured two cups of tea and put two sugar cubes and a splash of milk in each and walked back to the coffee table and handed Agnes her tea. Agnes begrudgingly took her tea and watched with stern derision as Myrtle sat down across from her on an orange floral print love seat. Myrtle blew on her tea and let her friend stew for a few minutes. The tea cooled off and Myrtle could take more than tiny sips of it. To her this seemed as good a time as any to take a few pills and see what happens. Agnes watched as Myrtle took her handful and took them in three portions with a hearty gulp of Irish breakfast tea to wash it down. Agnes wanted to be livid, she did not want to condone this sort of thing from her best friend, but in spite of all of that she was curious, besides if Agnes was going to be here all night in another dimension, why not join her. It did seem like a good bit of naughty fun. Agnes took about half of her pile and took each pill separately initially trying to read each one but giving up when the print proved to be too small. The pair sat and finished their tea and waited for the next ten minutes and nothing happened. Agnes sighed and stood with great effort and walked over to her record player. "I think we just have to wait a bit, drugs take some time to kick in, don't they?" Myrtle said this more to the room itself than to Agnes specifically. "Well I'm not going to sit in silence and stare at your face waiting. I'm going to put a record on." Myrtle sat and poured herself another cup of tea and began to wonder if anything was going to happen at all. Soon enough the sounds of Sonny Rollin's saxophone was filling the room with righteous vigor and Agnes took her seat again, pulling a cross stitch project from the pocket on the side of her recliner. After the record had been flipped Agnes was the first one to notice that things had gone a bit weird. She couldn't properly say it because she couldn't find the words but one look at Myrtle confirmed that Myrtle's drugs had kicked in too. The empty space that filled the room between physical entities, the air in layman's terms had turned a slightly pinkish purple and time was rapidly slowing down. Myrtle felt as if it had taken her about twelve minutes to turn her head but wondered if that could possibly be correct. "The damn saxophone is knocking the walls down. Crap! Did I say that out loud?" Agnes covered her mouth after the outburst and looked down at the cross stitching project, the threads started wobbling on their own accord and she decided it was best to just put it away and work on it tomorrow. The roof melted away before Myrtle's eyes and she got a good look at the stars above and the vast cosmic openness of it all. Myrtle sighed contentedly and leaned back in the recliner and shot through space on a vintage 70's olive green La-Z-Boy. Agnes restarted the record, cranked the volume and polished off the last of the tea, dropping two sugar cubes into it and stirring for the entirety of side one of Saxophone Colossus. Myrtle shot past planets, constellations and comets at rapid speed and saw for once in her life the meaninglessness of it all. Myrtle Atkins, age seventy six finally felt free. Agnes was having a whale of a time as well, though her thoughts were much more down to earth and tied to the simpler pleasures of life. "Tea is really fucking good" was all she thought. As the saxophone reached it's height of frantic tempo the door was opened and three very annoyed nurses stood in the doorway of Agnes' room and they were not pleased with what they found. Apparently some of the residents in neighboring rooms had lodged some complaints of incoherent babbling, loud music and general delinquency. The Nurses confiscated the drugs and took Agnes and Myrtle to the office and reached an agreement, that they wouldn't do what they'd done again, and that the care home would not have to admit how terrible they were at storing narcotics. All in all this was not a terrible Tuesday for Myrtle Atkins. A couple of days later the woman across the hallway, Yukio Omada passed away just after lunch while having her afternoon nap and Myrtle watched from her room as her family came later that night to empty out all of Yukio's possessions. Myrtle had had a handful of conversations with Yukio, she was an interesting woman who came to the States as a young girl and lived through some hard times but made the most of it. Most of her possessions were thrown away, a few books were added to the communal book pile but would go unread like all the others due to the print being too small. Among the items tossed in the trash can down the hallway was a small figurine of a boy fishing in a pond and Myrtle had always liked it. After the family of Yukio Omada had left Myrtle walked as fast as she could down to the trash can and fished out the figurine, returning to her room and placing it neatly on her bed side table. For a while she sat there looking at it and studying it as if it held some secret to life that she desperately wanted to pry out of it. It gave up no secrets but the boy's serene smile at the enjoyment of such a simple activity gave Myrtle an idea. Myrtle put on her old peach bathrobe and made her way down to Agnes' room and knocked four times before Agnes answered. Agnes was a bit upset at Myrtle still, though she would never say it. Agnes was the kind of woman who had lived her life without ever having the authorities give her much notice, so being chewed out by the nursing staff for having a drug party stuck in her craw a bit. Still, ever the gracious host Agnes invited Myrtle into her room with a slight wave of her hand, Myrtle walked in and Agnes shut the door behind her.


The car shudders in the cold December afternoon, and Tanner drums his fingers against the leather of the steering wheel. The sooner he gets this done with, he tries to reason with himself, the sooner he can leave. And then, the sooner he can get his life together and move on, the sooner he can forget about Holland and his begrudgingly-charmed smile and his warm embrace and- He’s getting off task. Again. This is exactly why he’s been sitting here for twenty minutes and hasn’t managed to unglue himself from the driver’s seat. Step one, he decides, is to shut off the car. That’s easy enough. He turns the key and the engine gives one last, long rattle before going quiet. This car’s been in its death throes since he inherited it when he was sixteen. He and Holland drove it out to Cape Cod that summer, just the two of them and some tents and a cooler full of beer Holland’s moms had bought them under the strict promise that there would be no drinking and driving. They’d watched the sun set every night and rise every morning, their shoulders pressed together, their voices quiet so as not to disturb the peace. Tanner still remembers wanting Holland so badly it ate him from the inside out, still remembers the way the yearning tasted like the backwash of that first gulp he’d taken of the beer and then spit back out in disgust. Step two is harder. Step two is getting cold enough that he actually gets up and climbs the steps to the third floor, where his box of stuff is waiting. He’ll turn the key over to the apartment, he and Holland will bid each other adieu, and then... Well. Tanner hasn’t figured out step three just yet. The problem is that Tanner is stubborn. The problem is that they’re both stubborn in their own ways, but Tanner is like both the rock and the hard place when he wants to be, unrelenting, unmoving. He’s put himself through worse than a little cold to avoid something he didn’t want to do. He’s put them both through worse. He’d stayed up four days straight studying for his SATs in his junior year. Holland had come over to his house on the fifth and thrown all his study materials out into his hallway, despite Tanner’s screams of protest, and pushed him down into bed and laid on him until he fell asleep. They both missed school the next day, Tanner still passed out from exhaustion and Holland refusing to leave his side. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. He feels himself shaking: first his feet, then his hands, then the rest of him, until he’s certain he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. “This is stupid,” he says to himself finally, throwing open the car door with a sense of finality. “Just get the shit and be gone.” He tries not to notice that it sounds like Holland’s voice when he says it. He stomps up to the apartment, proud of himself for hesitating only a moment when he gets to the staircase. Up, up, up he climbs, all the way to the top, and then keeps walking down the hall to the left, and there it is. 302. His box isn’t in front of the door, and he’s going to call that a win. Given the way he left, Holland would have been well within his rights to donate everything Tanner left behind, or better still, to toss it in the garbage. To set it on fire. Still. It means he can’t get out of this without at least a small confrontation. He takes three deep breaths and knocks at the door. Somewhere in the complex, a dog is barking. Two car doors open and shut, the sound echoing across the parking lot. Birds, the ones who haven’t left for winter, chirp in the trees nearby. Their song grows louder and louder in Tanner’s head, and he tries to close his eyes to shut it out. Still it crescendos, and he can’t breathe, and he needs it to stop- “Tanner.” The door is open. Holland stands in the doorway, dressed completely inappropriately for the weather in an A-shirt and sweat shorts that are fraying at the knees. Tanner wants to hug him so badly he aches. “Your key,” he says instead, producing his keys from his jacket pocket and looking down at them to avoid Holland’s eyes. “I brought it back. And came for my stuff. Like I said I would.” Holland’s only response is a grunt that could mean just about anything. It’s been four and a half months since they’ve seen each other. It’s the longest they’ve gone in the eighteen years they’ve been best friends. Tanner’s hands are still shaking. It takes him longer than it should, but he manages to slide it off the ring and hand it over. Holland takes it. “Come in,” he says, and then he’s turning and going into the apartment before Tanner can respond. Tanner scrambles to keep up. By the time he’s in and the door is shut behind him, Holland has tossed the spare key onto the counter and disappeared into his bedroom. There’s no box anywhere in the tiny space that serves as both living room and kitchen. It felt huge when Holland first moved in, when they’d brought up all his boxes and stacked them in a pile only to ignore them while they ate takeout pizza, their knees knocking together under the kitchen island. Tanner had reached over to push some excess cheese into Holland’s mouth, laughing and calling him a brute, and Holland had caught his wrist before he could pull away and kissed it with his eyes intently focused on Tanner. They hadn’t gotten any unpacking done that night. Tanner stands awkwardly by the front door, afraid to take off his boots and overstay his welcome and also afraid of getting the carpet dirty. Holland reappears a few moments later. There’s a cardboard box in his hands. Tanner’s breath catches in his throat. This is it, he realizes. This is the moment that everything they’ve had officially becomes history. This is the end of Them . It hurts more than he’d realized. He thought he’d put it all behind him while he was abroad, thought getting some space was what he needed. He realizes, very quickly, that he has no idea what he needs. Holland crosses the space between them and hands Tanner the box. Tanner looks down to find that it’s empty. His brows furrow. “What the hell?” “I’m not packing it for you,” Holland grunts. “You want your stuff, you find it.” Tanner’s jaw drops as Holland goes into the kitchen and busies himself with something in the refrigerator. He looks down into the box again just to make sure he isn’t having some sort of hallucination, but it’s just as empty as it was before. He grits his teeth. “Fine,” he mumbles. He stomps into Holland’s bedroom and sets the box down on the bed. It remains more or less unchanged from the last time Tanner was here. The sheets are still messy on the bed; Holland never saw the point in making it when he was going to get right back in it the next night. Dirty clothes are in and around the hamper; the desk is crowded with study materials. There’s a single strand of soft white lights above the window that Tanner is surprised to see plugged in, since he was usually the one who insisted on having them lit. The photo collage that Tanner put up last summer is still on the wall. He hasn’t been cut out of the photos or anything. “Are you going to stare or are you going to pack?” Holland asks. Tanner jumps. He hadn’t heard him enter the bedroom. “Pack,” Tanner murmurs. Holland goes to the bed and sits next to the box. Tanner goes to the closet. The majority of his wardrobe had migrated here over the year Holland lived here before Tanner left. He starts taking down items one at a time, folding them as carefully as he can manage with his shaking hands and going over to place them in the box. “So...how was it?” Tanner looks up at Holland, who is intently studying his nails. He bites his lip. “It was good,” he answers, taking down a sweatshirt he accumulated in high school. It doesn’t really fit him anymore, but he used to like to wear it around the apartment. It was fun to catch Holland staring at the way it rode up when he’d reach for something high, exposing his hips and stomach. “I learned a lot.” “S’good,” Holland answers. “And...you got space. Which is what you wanted.” Tanner is glad he’s facing into the closet. He can’t help the way he squeezes his eyes shut, the pain clamping tightly around his heart. “Yeah,” he manages. He hopes it doesn’t sound too strained. It’s quiet for a few more minutes as Tanner packs. He comes across several shirts whose owner he isn’t certain of. He elects to leave them in the end, deciding that if they do belong to him, Holland can toss them if he wants. There are a lot of other things spread out in the bedroom that technically are Tanner’s. The blanket folded haphazardly and shoved into a corner. The few DVDs next to the tiny television. A box of granola bars that he doesn’t understand why Holland hasn’t already thrown away. He collects it all and sets it gingerly in the box, unable to shake Holland’s gaze as he packs up the evidence that he was here. There are tears thick in the back of his throat that he wills himself to hold onto until he’s out of the apartment. Just a few more minutes, he reasons, and then he can cry all he wants- “Tanner,” Holland says, breaking the uneasy silence. Tanner looks up at him. He’s hunched over on the end of the mattress, his arms crossed over his chest. Maybe it’s Tanner’s imagination, but it seems like there are unshed tears in his eyes, too. “H-Holland,” he whispers. “I should-I should go. The rest of this can just...can just stay...” Holland stands abruptly and closes the distance between the two of them, cupping Tanner’s jaw and kissing him. Tanner can’t help the way he melts against Holland. He has years of practice fitting himself against this man, and he knows exactly how to tilt his head, exactly how to move his mouth. Holland lets out a sigh against his lips as Tanner wraps his arms around Holland’s neck. “Why did you go?” he asks, and Tanner must have been right about the tears, because his lips suddenly taste like salt. “I know you, Tanner. I can see that you’re not happy. This isn’t what you want. Is it?” “No,” Tanner admits. He was never able to deny Holland much of anything, much less the truth. “Then why?” Holland urges. “Why are you doing this? I’ve missed you so much, Tanner. Stay with me. Just stay with me.” Tanner can’t help but let out a choked-off sob. “I-I can’t.” “Bullshit.” Holland leans his forehead against Tanner’s. “Bullshit, Tanner. You can do whatever you want. Do you want me?” “Yes,” Tanner answers, “but-” “No buts.” “Holland,” Tanner cries. “I can’t-I don’t want to hold you back.” Holland takes a step back, untangling himself from Tanner. His eyes are wide, his jaw hanging open slightly. “Is that what this is about? You fucked off to Europe for four months because you thought you were holding me back?” “It was a good opportunity for my program,” Tanner answers automatically, the same thing he’d spat out every time someone had asked since he’d gotten home. He’d never wanted to go. He used to say he was going to travel the world with his team someday, so he’d see Europe then. But then he got hurt. Baseball was ripped out from underneath him, and suddenly all he had was school, and the future, and... Holland huffs in disbelief. He’s always been the best at seeing through Tanner’s carefully constructed half-truths. “If it were really about that, we would have video called every night. You would have sent me pictures. You would have brought home a whole suitcase full of souvenirs for our apartment, for-for our house, someday.” Tanner looks up at the ceiling, begging himself to keep it together. The third day he’d been there, he’d bought a print without thinking about it, teal and white and black like their high school colors had been. He’d been imagining a place for it on a wall in a house they lived in together and he’d handed over the money before he could stop himself. “I don’t care, you know,” Holland says. “I never cared that you were going to be Tanner O’Brian, famous baseball player. I didn’t fall in love with him.” Tanner takes a deep breath. “That’s all I was ever going to be,” he says, his voice raw and ragged. “I picked art history because I thought it would be fun, but it wasn’t supposed to matter. I was supposed to play. Without baseball, I’m just...” Tanner jumps as his hands are taken roughly in Holland’s own. It forces him to meet Holland’s gaze again. “You’re just the love of my life,” Holland says. He sounds angry, almost. Determined. “You’re just the man who’s spent his whole life by my side.” Tanner can’t help it. The tears fall from his eyes and stream down his face. “Everything is changing,” he says. “I’m not who I used to be.” “Neither am I,” Holland replies. “Look, Tanner, just-were you happy? When you were without me?” Tanner shakes his head. He’s been a lot of things the last few months, but happy is not one of them. “Do you want to be with me?” Tanner swallows, looking down and away. “I don’t deserve you. I ran away. You shouldn’t give me a second chance.” “I’ll give you as many chances as you need,” Holland says. “I love you, Tanner. I love you so much, and I never want to stop.” Tanner sobs, just once, and Holland pulls him into his arms. It’s the only place Tanner has ever felt whole. “I couldn’t pack your box because I didn’t want to,” Holland says. “I wanted you to stay. I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?” And for the first time in months, Tanner doesn’t hesitate as he whispers “yes.”


"Mom, how come we hardly ever visit Grandma Bates? We go and see Dad's parents all the time and they live much farther away. She's just across town and yet we barely know her." "Well the truth is, your Grandma has problems. She has a medical condition called 'agoraphobia'. She has a intense fear of going outside. She hasn't left the inside of her home in many, many years. She has a delivery boy bring in her groceries. Her mail is dropped through a slot in the front door. If she is sick, she calls a medical service to come and visit her at home. It's not that I'm ashamed of her. I know she can't help her irrational fears and phobia but deep down, I suppose I worry that her mental illness might be a little contagious. I don't want her odd quirks to rub off on any of you." Both Jan and Markus stood there with their mouths agape. The big family secret had finally been revealed. Grandma Bates was the dark subject that nobody talked about. In her innocence, Jan was too young to realize her Mom was uncomfortable talking about it. As little kids are apt to do, she just blurted out what thoughts occurred to her. Being a little older, Markus cringed like a member of the audience witnessing the wrong key pressed at a piano recital. "That's so sad, Mom. She never goes out in the sunshine or plays in the snow?"; Jan asked. "If she can't help her fears and we never visit her, then she's all alone in her house." Her daughter had a way of melting through even the most hardened hearts of ice. Mrs. Byers had subconsciously erected a wall of isolation between her and her mom. Intellectually she knew the phobia was powerful but emotionally she felt like her mother was just being 'stubborn'. Previous attempts to lure or drag her out of the house had failed miserably. After that, she just threw up her hands and gave up. Now it looked like Jan was about to open the same old wounds. Next she would attempt to 'help' her too. It's what well-meaning compassionate people do. Ultimately Mrs. Byers decided that it was unfair to let the issues between them affect her mother's relationship with Jan and Marcus. "Well, I'm sure your Grandma would like to see the two of you again. The last time we were there, Marcus was just a toddler and you were only a baby. I'll call her and see if she would like some company this afternoon. If we go, both of you must be on your best behavior. She gets highly agitated if anyone tries to talk her into going outside, or if you leave the door open too long. Those are the rules, ok?" Both nodded in understanding. Mrs. Byers called and had a short but cordial conversation with her estranged mother about the proposed visit. Once the details were agreed upon, the family loaded up the car and drove across town to Grace's quaint childhood home. Mr. Byers was silently impressed that his daughter had sweet-talked his wife into visiting. He had only been to his mother-in-law's house three times, himself. It was a sore spot with his wife to even talk about her. In only a handful of sentences, his daughter had managed to rebuilt some of those long-ago, burned bridges. Once at the Burns residence, Mrs. Byers reminded everyone again about the sacred, non-negotiable rules. She nervously rapped on the front door panel and waited for it to open. As if on queue, the door flew open wide and the whole family bound in like precision clockwork. The house was meticulously clean. Everything was just as Grace remembered it. There was no new furniture or furnishings. Her mother could never leave the house to buy any, nor could the delivery people rush through the door fast enough to avoid triggering her paralyzing phobia. It was a house locked in time. The kids looked around and drank in the atmosphere while Grace and Alan made uncomfortable small talk. Regardless of the initial friction, Mama Burns was thrilled to get to see her grandchildren again. Receiving school portraits once a year in the mail paled in comparison to having personal visits. After the initial ice was broken, both Grace and her mother began to relax and speak of old memories. Time had passed and both women were much more mature. The had grown to better accept the situation for what it was. The battle of wills was mostly over and things softened significantly between them. Life was too short to hold resentments or grudges. All in all, it was a very productive, healing visit. As if to make up for lost time, the family started visiting 'Mama Burns' on a regular basis. Over time, the old woman's eccentricities started to fade in importance. She would bake Markus and Jan cookies or watch old movies with them. She even participated in the pillow fortress games they played in the attic. When the kids asked if they could spend the night there on a summer vacation sleepover, Grace cautiously approved the request. It seemed harmless enough and it allowed them to bond during her mother's remaining years. Perhaps it would be therapeutic for all of them. The old house grew warm in the summer months and it's aged air conditioning unit was overworked. Jan made the mistake of asking if she could open the upstairs window. Mama Burns swift reaction caught the children off guard. Up until that point, they had treated the requisite rapid entrance and exit through the front door as a kind of fun game. It seemed harmless enough. Their other grandmother forbade them from wearing shoes in the house and using the 'fancy' guest towels. The 'door thing' just seemed like another household rule but her overreaction to the window request was different. For the first time, they saw 'the other side' of Grandma Burns. The one their mother warned them about. Almost as quickly as she had snapped at them, she calmed down and attempted to down-play her manic reaction. The kids mostly shrugged it off. In the end, it wasn't worth making her upset over. They just turned on the fan to cool off the room. All was smooth sailing again until Marcus spotted a large gray tomcat on the upstairs window ledge. It was looking directly at them through the curtained glass. "Hey Grandma, how did this large gray tomcat climb all the way up to the windowsill?"; He shouted down to her in the kitchen. "That must be at least fifteen feet straight up." A loud crash of dishes breaking downstairs erupted in the night air. Grandma Burns raced up the steps in a breathless panic. "Do NOT open that window under any circumstances!"; She screamed as she scaled the steps two-at-a-time. Then as she reached the threshold of the bedroom, she repeated herself again; with only a slight decline of fear in her voice. "How did it get up...." She cut Marcus off mid-sentence. "Never mind that! You can see it? You can see the big tomcat? Tell me what he looks like. Describe him to me." Both Jan and Marcus nodded nervously. They could see the large gray feline as it perched gracefully on the narrow ledge but were very confused by the odd question. Why would she ask such a strange thing and did it cause her to drop dishes on the floor? Of course they could see it. Marcus finally understood his mother's prior reservations about her. Even Jan could see she was acting unstable. "Yes Grandma. We can see it. He's very large, gray and has white feet. Oh, and he's missing part of his left ear. I guess he's been in a fight or something." Grandma Burns lip began to tremble in raw, vindicated emotion. The additional detail about the missing part of the cat's ear was the final confirmation she was seeking. They COULD really see it! "Children, I have a dark confession to make. That damn tomcat died 30 years ago. I killed it myself. I got angry that it kept fathering kittens around the neighborhood but it's owner wouldn't have him fixed. I'm ashamed to admit that I captured it in a pillowcase and tossed it into a nearby creek to drown. It's restless spirit has haunted me ever since. I know it is waiting to get its revenge on me as soon as I step outside or open the door. You mother could never see it and thought I was going crazy. She tried to get me to take anti-anxiety and hallucination pills. You don't know how relieved I am that you can actually see it too. All these years I thought my guilty conscience was just terrorizing me for my evil deed but both of you can see it! I don't know which is worse. To be haunted by a phantom feline or to just go crazy from the guilt. At least now I know he's really out there waiting to get inside." The cat remained on the window ledge while directly eyeing Mrs. Burns. It clawed the glass passively. Fearing it might fall and harm itself, Jan instinctively went to open the window. She was too young to put much weight into the confession or its terrible implications. Grandma Burns eyes were wide-open with pure, gut-wrenching terror. Not knowing what to believe, Marcus froze in confused indecision. Unfortunately Mrs. Burns was also too far away to stop her. As soon as the window was open enough for the cat to squeeze through, it bound in and pounced down on the floor with a graceful plop. Making a beeline straight for the object of his long quest, the cat sprang off the floor and leapt into the air with a singular purpose. After the kids calmed down enough to speak, they gave the detectives a nearly identical account of the fatal attack. The powerful animal sprang up and attacked Mrs. Bates before she could react or defend herself. A room by room search failed to find the feral beast but the medical examiner confirmed the method of death was consistent with a small feline attack to the jugular veins. Contagious disease experts were called in to take wound samples for possible rabies quarantine analysis. The kids were taken to a mental health trauma center to help them deal with what they had witnessed. For the first time in more than twenty years, Mrs. Bates left the relative security of her shuttered suburban home, by the coroner's wagon.


You give the man eighty dollars and he says he'll be right back. It doesn't seem cool, but you're jonesing. 10, 15 minutes go by. You're sure you've been burned, and you're quietly cursing the guy who has your eighty bucks fondling the lining of his pocket. Just as you're about to leave, brushing the alley debris off the seat of your pants as you stand up, he appears. He's been gone too long for everything to have gone smoothly. He's walking at an unnaturally brisk pace, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. As he approaches, you can see that his face is dripping with sweat, and he's bleeding from his left shoulder. He heaves up to you and shoves a plain brown paper bag into your abdomen. He says nothing, and never breaks his stride. Somehow he managed to run straight into you and yet keep walking as if you never existed. You exit the alley and adopt the same brisk pace as the mealer had, eager to return to your car. It's only a couple blocks away. You'll make it. You got this. Relief washes over you as you fall into the drivers seat, and the aroma of the burger fills the cabin with the most forbidden smell of all. Real meat. You drive the hell out of there, following every law you could possibly imagine exists - what would your wife think if you even got a ticket in this part of town? There's an old dirt road nearby, just outside of the city, that you used to ride your bike on when you were a kid. At least if someone finds you out here, you can make something up that might sound reasonable. Nostalgia. You park the car, shut off the lights, and wait. And listen. You can see some cars on other roads - most likley teens necking or partaking of less illegal contraband - methamphetamine, cannabis, every flavor of heroin. Just the usual. You're in the clear. You unwrap the burger. It's not exactly hot any more, but it'll do. You retrieve some bbq sauce from the glove box and give the burger a proper treatment. Shit, you think, this stuff is probable cause for a meat test. Why do you keep it in the car? But you know why. Can't have this sort of thing in the house. She might find it. You've come this far and there's nothing left to do but destroy the evidence. Your guy was good this time. It's the real deal. Even the tomatoes are fresh. Fucking better be for $80. You finish the burger and exit the vehicle with a small gardening spade. You dig a little hole and throw the bag and the wrapper in, and set them alight. It doesn't take long for them to be consumed. You kick sand into the hole, concealing the evidence of your crime. As you drive away you wonder how long you can keep this up. This lie of a life, this charade, this bullshit idea that you're fine with being a vegan like everyone else. Everyone cheats, yeah, you're sure of that. Most people do. You just don't talk about it. The real danger is if you get caught. Because you know. You don't like to think about it, but you know. You know where that meat comes from.


From the diary of Kermit Roosevelt, the second son of Theodore Roosevelt, found in the estate of his younger sister, Esther Roosevelt. Sunday, February 27, 1927, Rondônia, Brazil Thirteen years the nightmare has haunted me. I have blamed myself, pushed everyone away -- everyone except Esther and Archie and mother. I ended it with Belle, nearly ended myself many, many times. And here I am, back on this ink-black river. Back to search for him, what remains of him, if anything remains after thirteen years, but how can there not be something remaining of him, as vital as he was -- father? The forest on either side of the river is a green wall. I already feel the eyes on me, the natives hiding among the trees, watching, as they did thirteen years ago. The sun is rising. We are off at midday. --- Friday, March 4, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle When father was feverish, in delirium, he kept repeating these lines of Coleridge over and over: "In Xanadu did Kublah Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree." Over and over. Hours on end. The same words, repeated, repeated. They run on in my mind. I should not have come here. I am no longer a young man. What do I hope to achieve by this? The black water of this river rushes, rushes, turbulent and black like my mind. --- Friday, March 11, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle Insects everywhere, a black, buzzing, biting cloud. "This is my last chance to be a boy." That's what father said to me as we set out on the expedition, thirteen years ago. Maybe he died a boy. How odd, for a son to hear his father wishing to be forever a boy, a Peter Pan, but that was him, wasn't it, the forever boy? Get action! How many times we heard him say that: "Get action!" As if constant 'action' would chase away the black moods, the despair. Yes, that is what I need. I realize this is why I am here now. It's the only way to keep from eating the barrel of a gun. Get action! --- Thursday, March 17, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle We woke this morning to find the dog at the stern of the canoe, shot full of arrows. It was the same as thirteen years ago. A message from the natives following us, watching us from the jungle on either side of the river. They could do this to us at any time. Why do they refrain? Do they want us to turn back? Do they want to egg us onward? --- Friday, March 18, 1927, River of Doubt, Amazon Jungle We took him for a native. He came out of the jungle, jumped into the river, swam towards my canoe. When he pulled himself out of the water into the canoe, I recognized him. It was Julio de Lima, the camarada porter who had snapped and killed a man during the prior expedition, then disappeared into the jungle. Thirteen years later, here he was, back again. He did not look a day older. "Ajude-me!" he cried out. That is ' Help me! ' Then: "Chefe do pau grande -- " A single arrow flew from the jungle and pierced Julio through the throat, cutting off his words. The arrow must have been dipped in some terrible poison, because Julio withered before my eyes, his skin wrinkling so that he took on the appearance of an old man, his hair turned from black to gray then white, his lips drew back from long yellow teeth, and he fell dead on the spot. We buried Julio under a tree. This is the place. The spot where I last saw father. This was where father told me he had determined that he would end his life with the small of bottle of lethal morphine he always carried with him, so that he would no longer be a burden for the expedition. By then, the infection in his leg was so bad that he had to be carried. “Boys, I realize that some of us are not going to finish this journey," father said. "I want you to go on. You can get out. I will stop here.” But I refused. I would carry him out, I said, even if it was his dead body I carried on my back. So he might as well come along alive. And I would have. I swear I would have brought him out alive. But it wasn't to be. That night, the malaria fever took me. By the time I recovered, it was days later, we were down river, and father was gone, left, as he wished, in this forsaken spot to die. --- Sunday, March 20, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle Now I understand Julio's last words: Chefe do pau grande. But first, let me describe this place. Here, in the middle of the hot, humid, insect-infested, rotting jungle -- Paradise! As in the literal meaning of the word 'Paradise' - from the 'walled gardens' in the Persian Empire. I have found Eden, here in the Amazon, west of the headwaters of the River of Doubt. The air is perfectly temperate, the trees bear fruit that taste of all the best foods my palate can imagine, animals of all kinds roam free, the lion next to the lamb, and a tribe of innocent and peaceful people live in this walled garden, eating the fruit, enjoying a perfect, simple life. And here I found him, ' Chefe do pau grande ': The 'Chief of the Big Stick', elected by the tribe to be their leader: Father. He is alive. Alive and a young man again. To see my father again, to clasp his hand, to speak to him, is beyond what I could have imagined. More incredible still, to see him as a man now several years my junior, in the prime of his life. In the middle of the walled garden is a fountain, a wellspring. Those who drink from it will have their youth and vigor restored and live forever. But there is a price to pay, and I am not yet certain I can pay it. Father has lost all memory of his former life. That is the first price to pay for those who drink from the fountain of youth: your past life forgotten. The second price: never to leave the pleasure-dome of this walled garden. Julio left -- and paid the price. --- Friday, March 25, 1927, Xanadu, Amazon Jungle If I drink from the wellspring, will I know father as father, or will even that memory be lost to me, as it appears to be for him? Will he simply be a friend? So be it. I swore I would not leave him. I will keep my promise. Four of our number have decided they must return, must leave Xanadu. I will give them this diary to take to you, Esther. I will drink from the fountain. I will give up my memories. I will remain in the pleasure-dome. I will stay with father. Smile when you think of me and of father. Here there are no black moods. Here there are no dark memories. Smile, and remember me.


It started snowing at 11am. Though I have a birds-eye view of the parking lot from my second-floor window, frost coats the edges of the glass, leaving only a small porthole to peer through. I can see the snow piling up near the electric fence and slowly creeping its way across the battered pavement towards the warehouse where I'm stationed. There are no cars in the lot. Everyone was sent home months ago because of the pandemic, except for the five of us--the skeleton crew--who needed to be onsite in case anything breaks and needs fixing. Aedna and Hal do the hardware stuff, fitting the robots with new wheels and cameras. Kash and Mo do the software stuff, something about algorithms and coding. Anyway they tell the robots where to go, what to pick up. Then there’s me, Alex. My job is to keep the floors clean so the robots can see the painted lines and find their way through the tidy maze of boxes full of books and dumbbells and blow-up dolls. Though I suppose there's a lot less demand for that stuff now. 1pm. The snow looks about a foot deep, falling in big, fat, heavy flakes. When the wind kicks up, the flakes swirl like those sufi whirling dancers I saw on youtube once. They wore long white tunics and skirts, and twirled like crazy, their hair flying out beneath their tubular hats. Huh, how did they keep the hats on? Maybe they stapled them to their heads. Anyway, you stare at those swirling flakes long enough and you get mesmerized. Hypnotized. You are feeling sleepy, very sleeeeepy, Alex. Very relaxed. Long deep breaths. Nothing can hurt you now, Alex. You’re in a safe place. I’ve eaten all the food in the communal kitchen, except for a jar of anchovies, because that’s gross. Aedna loves anchovies. She puts them on salads and toast and pizza for Christ's sake. What kind of a degenerate puts anchovies on pizza? Pizza. I could really go for a slice of Louie’s famous pepperoni pizza, but I doubt old Louie is still making pizza pie, even if I could call him. The phones haven’t worked for weeks. The landlines went first, and then the mobile phones. Mo left as soon as the phones were cut off. His wife was seven months’ pregnant. They might have had the baby by now. 3pm. A foot and a half of snow, and some small drifts forming. I’d turn on the news to hear the weather report but we’ve not had TV or radio broadcasts for about ten days. It doesn’t matter much anyway. It’s not like I have a car or somewhere to go. The first news report after the phones went down said there was some kind of glitch in the system, but we found out it later it was purposefully destroyed. Sab-o-tage. The generator is still working, powering the lights and dormant computers, but there's no warmth running through the radiators. It's gotten so cold the past few days that I've finally resorted to wearing Kash's goose down parka. It was hanging in the cloakroom on the ground floor. I kept thinking he'd come back to get it, but I guess he can't be bothered. And as much I'd love to order an electric heater with same-day delivery, that's a no-go since the internet went dark last week. That’s also when Kash and Aedna decided to leave. Hal was disappointed, he didn’t think they should abandon their posts. I could hear them arguing all the way from from Hal's office as I stirred my cup-o-soup. My favourite flavor of cup-o-soup is tomato, though chicken noodle isn't bad either. I glance toward the trash bin near the elevator. The styrofoam cup with remnants of red pulp is still perched on top. I was throwing it in the bin when Aenda and Kash asked if I wanted to leave too. They were getting a ride from Hal. But Hal was already in the elevator, impatiently swinging a keyring round his left index finger while holding the door open with his right. I could tell he was in a hurry and didn't want to wait for me. I shook my head in a silent 'no thanks' and waved as the elevator doors closed. That was seven days ago. I've been on my own since. 4pm. At least two feet of snow with drifts twice as high, climbing up the fence. My fingers absently twirl the key fob in my coat pocket. It unlocks the stock room in the basement that I’ve cleaned every day for months. Correction, every day except the past seven days. Can you call yourself a skeleton crew if there's only one of you? I'm just a thigh bone on my own. And this thigh bone ain't getting any warmer or fatter watching the world turn white. Time to see if I can find a heater and some food in the labyrinth of bar-coded boxes. I take the stairs to the basement because I don’t trust the elevator. If I get stuck, who am I gonna call? I press the key fob against the panel near the stock room door and hear the familiar sound of bolts moving, clicking, and unlocking. I pull the door open and step in. It looks pretty much like I remember. A big room, the size of a football field with a 30-foot ceiling and rows of metal shelves stacked to the brim with boxes, creating narrow corridors where the robots roam. The motion-activated lights nearest me wake up. I notice my breath rising in little puffs of steam and rub my hands together to warm them. It's always cold in here, but it cuts to the bone today. On my left, I spot the dim shapes of the robots, sleeping in their bays. The size of squat washing machines, they're two feet tall, but powerful enough to move rolling shelves loaded with laptops, and Barbie dolls, and barbecue grills. All the bays are full except one. I make a mental note to look out for the rogue robot. It's probably roving the corridors, trying to find its way back to the recharging roost before its battery dies. If I run across it, I'd like nothing more than to ask, 'hey bud, take me to the cups-o-soup', because I have no idea how things are organised. The cardboard boxes have bar codes or RFID tags, whatever those are. All I know is that I don’t read robot. I pick a row at random and grab one of the boxes on the shelf that’s waist-high. I cut it open with my pen knife and fish around inside to find out what I’ve won. Tampons. The next box along has tubes of toothpaste. I pocket a few, and try another row, venturing deeper into the room. More lights flicker on. The smell hits me first. It reminds me of the time I came back to my apartment after two weeks away to find my pet rat, Mable, dead and decomposing in her cage. I thought I’d pretty much lost my sense of smell over the years, but whatever this is, it’s pungent. Maybe some meat has spoiled? I hear a noise, a faint whirring sound. I hold my breath and walk quietly toward it. It’s the wayward robot, poking around the corner of a row, fifteen-feet dead ahead. I breathe out in relief, releasing a large cloud of steam. Approaching the robot, I see that the back wheels are trying to turn, but something is preventing escape. Rounding the corner, I see the source of the stalemate. A bloody tablecloth is twisted around the robot's front wheels. Kash is kneeling on the floor, half-slumped against a shelf. A perfect bullet hole mars his forehead, but there are no other signs of struggle. Aedna is lying face down, her torso bent over a crushed box of tablecloths, blood soaking through the contents. Her right hand rests limply on the trapped robot. I hear breathing behind me. I turn slowly. Hal is standing in front of me, holding a gun casually in one hand, and an opened can of kidney beans in the other. He smiles, offers me the beans and says, “Guess we’ll be a proper skeleton crew tonight.”