The butcher was a burly man. He wore overalls, work boots and a blue work shirt. He didn’t know what to think when he saw three men approaching his land. They didn’t appear to be anyone he recognized-- and he knew pretty much everyone in Redfield. Another troubling factor was the way these men were dressed. The butcher didn’t dwell on other people’s clothing, mainly because he didn’t dress like a dandy himself. But the way these men were dressed was somewhere between caring too little and not enough. One man had boots that appeared worn, but his coat looked new. Another man wore a dirty brown derby with a hole in it-- a bullet hole, perhaps-- but his white shirt, with its collar undone was devoid of wrinkles and stains. Then there was the one man who looked like he had just stepped out of a clothing store. His hat was a black gambler with a brown band. His pants were black denim and tucked into a pair of leather boots the color of chestnut. He wore a black vest over a white shirt. They all wore red bandanas around their necks. “Evening,” said the man in the gambler hat. “Hello,” said the butcher. The two locked eyes, but the man in the gambler’s hat wore a demented grin. It was the kind of grin that could only belong to the devil himself. But the man in the gambler’s hat somehow scared the butcher more so than Satan-- a feat accomplished by no man. “You know who we are, old-timer?” he asked, grinning that awful grin. “Not really,” the butcher replied. “Am I supposed to?” The one in the derby chuckled as if he found some unknown humor in the butcher’s question only he was privy to while the other man just shook his head, his face expressionless as he cut off a piece of jerky with a skinny knife. “The butchers of Chester Valley,” said gambler hat. “That mean something to you?” “I think I hear a gang go by that name.” “You’re looking at them.” “What do you want with me?” “What you got to give?” “Not much.” “Mr. Henry and Mr. James are going to help themselves to whatever you got. And you ain’t lifting no finger in hinderance, you hear?” “I hear,” said the butcher with reluctance. “You get not protest on my part.” “Swell,” said gambler hat with that same sinister grin. “Mr. James, Mr. Henry, proceed.” The butcher helplessly watched as the men named James and Henry looted his home. “Aren’t you going to join them?” he asked gambler hat. “I think it would be best to keep an eye on you, old-timer,” he said. “For all I know, you just may be packing a pistol in them overalls.” “What’s your name?” the butcher asked. “Schumacher,” he said. “German.” “Hated it.” “That you’re German?” “My name. Don’t know what possessed God to born me a Schumacher. ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t see myself making shoes for a living.” “But you saw yourself being an outlaw?” “Just one more thing I had no control of.” “At a certain point, son you got to start taking accountability for your actions.” “Let’s get one thing straight, old-timer,” said Schumacher, drawing his Colt and pulling the hammer back. “You ain’t my pops. And I ain’t your son, you hear?” “I hear,” the butcher nodded. “Didn’t mean to offend you.” “What’s your name?” said Schumacher, holstering his weapon. “Butcher.” “A butcher named Butcher?” “Like my father and his before him.” Then he said with a grin, “Well, ain’t you grow up to do like your daddy done.” Mr. Henry and Mr. James came out with various belongings, but for the most part clothes. “We’re going to be taking your wagon,” said Schumacher. “If you don’t mind.” “Not that my minding makes much difference.” “It don’t.” “I figured.” The butcher watched the men carry out his belongings. Apart from not having a choice on having these men raid his home, the butcher felt personal belongings can always be replaced, but at least he had his life. But then he saw the man called Mr. Henry carrying a familiar case under his arm. “Schumacher,” said Butcher. “Take whatever you need. But you see that black box under Mr. Henry’s arm? My only request is that you don’t take that.” “I ain’t taking no requests, old-timer.” “Please,” Butcher pleaded. “Most everything else I can replace. But I can’t replace what’s in that box.” “You saying it’s valuable, old-timer?” “You have no idea.” “All the more reason for us to take it off your hands.” Butcher shoved Schumacher and ran after Mr. Henry. He felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. Butcher was on the ground when he realized he had been shot. As he tried to get back up, the impact of another shot brought him down again. Mr. Henry stood and watched as Butcher crawled towards him. He watched as Mr. James fired his third and final shot in the man’s head. Butcher stopped moving as blood pooled into the dirt. Mr. James pulled the lever on his sawed-off Winchester 1892, ejecting the spent shell. “Open the box Mr. Henry,” said Schumacher. “Wonder what was worth dying over.” “Okay,” Henry said, giggling as he undid the latch and opened the box. It was a Single Action Army in a blue finish with pearl grips. A snake was carved into the grips. “Fuck,” said Schumacher. “Bastard died for some goddamned pistol.” “Maybe it had a sentimental value or something,” said Henry. “Or something.” “What about the rest?” said James. “We still taking the loot?” “Course we still taking the loot. Pack it up before we end up leaving more corpses.” 5 Years Later Henry hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the corner when he came in. It wasn’t like the saloon was lit up with excitement or something. It was dimly lit, never crowded, and without music-- mostly because he shot the piano player over an argument he couldn’t remember. He stood at the bar and drank his whisky straight from the bottle and ranted about killing a man. He wasn’t worried the patrons-- what few there were-- would try to turn him in. It wasn’t that they feared him. But rather, they too had their faces posted on flyers throughout the territories. “Then he says, don’t kill me son ,” said Henry. “ I won’t tell ‘em what you look like . Then I says, I wasn’t even thinkin’ that. I was just thinkin’ to have a reason to shoot something. So, then the dumb fuck thought he was fast. Thing is the bullet was faster.” Henry punctuated this with boisterous laughter. Maybe it was because he was drunk. But Henry hadn’t noticed the man get up from the table in the corner or felt him as he leaned against the bar to his right. It was when the man spoke did Henry become aware of his presence. “Beer,” said the man in a voice like a whisper. Henry looked at the man as if he had materialized out of thin air. He was ready to write him off and get back to his story but as the man went for his pocket, Henry noticed the butt his gun which he wore on his left hip with the butt facing outwards-- an indication this man was a right handed shooter. Henry wasn’t a knowledgeable man, but he knew enough about guns and gunmen. But it wasn’t the way the man wore his pistol that had gotten his attention. It was the carving of a snake into the pearl handle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the design, though he had only seen it on one other gun. “What you packing, mister,” Henry asked. “You talking to me?” The man asked. “Yeah.” “Single Action Army. Blue finish. Pearl handle.” “You gots snakes on that handle?” “I believe I do.” “If ‘n you don’t mind my asking, may I ask where you gone and get that gun?” “You may,” the man nodded once and proceeded to drink his beer. Henry waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “And?” “Bought it off a gunsmith in Milton some years back. Had to pay extra to get that carving.” “You sure about that, mister?” “Why care about my gun so much? You want it?” “No, mister. I know a man who just so happens to have the same exact pistol.” “Down to the pearl handle?” “Down to the snakes on the handle.” “Maybe your friend just so happen to get his gun from the same gunsmith from the same town as me.” “I doubt that.” “I told you where I got mine. Where your friend get his?” Henry didn’t know what to say. Maybe the stranger had a point. Maybe the gun wasn’t the same gun. Maybe a carving of a snake on a pearl handle is just a carving of a snake on a pearl handle. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” Henry said before draining the last of the whiskey. “Maybe you is.” His pants were blue denim and untucked into his boots, his shirt black, and his boots were brown and worn. He also had a tan coat, and a black stalker hat. Henry watched as the man left the saloon. He moved away from the bar to watch the man as he walked down the main street, past the store, the bank, and the only other saloon in town, to the hotel. Mr. Henry wasn’t much of a thinking man, but he thought he better tell Mr. Schumacher. 15 minutes later “Maybe we ought to quit,” said James. “While we’re still ahead.” “Getting too old for the life, Mr. James?” Schumacher asked. “Maybe the life is getting too old for us.” “Say you retire. What then? What else kinda life you know to live?” “I’ll figure it out.” “And if you don’t what then?” “There’s got to be more than this. All this robbing and killing. There ain’t always going to be people who’ll back down. Like that man a few years back.” “As I recall, you didn’t hesitate to kill him.” “Don’t mean I can’t feel bad about it.” “I just always thought we were going to be outlaws to ‘till the end.” “Thing about the end,” said James, chopping off a piece of jerking with his skinny knife. “It can come now, or it can come later. Ain’t nothing stopping it from coming. I suppose I prefer it come later.” “Sounds nice and all,” said Schumacher, holding his hands out over the campfire. “But that involves me having to be something I can’t be. I rather die now doing this than down the road being something I ain’t got the patience nor the heart for.” Schumacher heard the galloping of a horse followed by a neigh. But his guard went down when he heard Henry call out to them. “You’re back early,” said Schumacher. “What happen, you burn down the saloon?” “What is it?” said James. “Saw a man at the saloon,” said Henry, recounting his encounter. “He had a gun that look a lot like your gun.” “For Pete’s sake,” said Schumacher, frustrated. “Who don’t carry a gun.” “It was a Colt with a pearl handle. And a snake on the handle. Just like yours.” Schumacher thought back to all those years ago. Back when they came across the butcher. It was just a gun like any other. Sure, it had a pearl handle. So what? Plenty of people carried pistols with pearl handles. It was about as original an idea as carrying two pistols. It was the one killing that bothered him. “So, what,” Schumacher said after pondering. “It don’t mean nothing. All it means is that snake ain’t one of a kind.” “I guess,” said Henry. “Maybe two of a kind.” Whatever dread Schumacher had was replaced by another idea. He carried around the butcher’s gun but hadn’t had occasion to use it. Mainly because he was more accustomed to his Colt 1878-- a double action revolver. But the idea of walking around with a pair of twin snakes on his hips was exciting, though as vain as it was. “Let’s find the find the sonofabitch,” said Schumacher. “What?” said James. “Let’s find him and take his snake.” “We don’t even know where to look for him.” “He’s at the hotel,” Henry provided. “There you go,” said Schumacher, grinning that grin even a madman would fear. “Probably sleeping by now. Let’s go procure that pistol.” “Something don’t feel right, boss,” said James. “What’s the matter? You turning yellow?” “Not a chance. I ain’t never been afraid to pull the trigger. Not then, not now.” “That settles it,” said Schumacher. “Let’s go.” 20 minutes later The three men entered the hotel. Schumacher approached the man at the desk. “Evening,” he said, tilting his hat. “Was wondering if you mind telling me which one of these rooms I might find a man in a black stalker hat and light brown jacket. You might’ve also noticed he was walking around with a pearl handle on his pistol.” “I’m sorry mister, but I can’t just go around giving out that kind of information.” Schumacher slowly unholstered his pistol, placed it on the counter and pulled the hammer back for effect. “3B second floor end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.” Schumacher held out his hand. At first the clerk was confused. But after a second he understood what Schumacher was asking for as he took out a spare room key and placed it in his open palm. “Appreciated,” said Schumacher, grinning. The three men ascended the stairs to the second floor towards the room number the clerk provided. “This is it,” said Schumacher. “Mr. Henry you stay out here. “Mr. James, with me.” James worked the lever on his sawed-off Winchester rifle in acknowledgment. Schumacher quietly unlocked the door. Then the two men rushed into the room and opened fire. eight shots had been fired between the two gunmen before they realized the bed was empty. “The hell?” said Schumacher. “What is it?” said Henry in the hallway. “You get him? You got that sumbitch?” “No, it’s--” James didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence when the shot came from the door. Instinctively, Schumacher took out his second gun, a Schofield with a shorter barrel, and fanned the hammer to fire rapidly. He had emptied the revolver by the time he realized he was shooting at Henry. Why was he shooting Henry? Did Henry shoot James? Before he realized Henry was being used as a human shield, Henry’s body was shoved onto him, pinning Schumacher to the ground. He had gotten the corpse of his friend-- if he could call him that-- off him when hands grasped the collar of his coat and sent Schumacher crashing through another set of doors. The night air told him he was back outside-- balcony most likely. The kick took him by surprise, before he could get his bearings. The banister gave way, sending Schumacher over the ledge. His right leg and back took most of the impact from the fall-- he might’ve heard something crack. Schumacher was on his stomach as he crawled. Where? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he got away from the sonofabitch trying to kill him. It was no use. He was suddenly devoid of moonlight. He turned his head to look back at the stranger. Schumacher turned his body over to draw the Colt. Before he could even pull the hammer back, the stranger kicked the gun out of Schumacher’s hand. “How many guns you got?” he asked out of jest. “Damn you!” Schumacher spat. “I believe this belongs to me,” said the stranger, kneeling down to pick up the Colt with the pearl handle. “Yup, that be my pa’s handiwork.” “Your pa?” “Being a butcher was his trade. Carving was his hobby though. See, I got us a pair of pistols-- one for me and one for him. It was supposed to be a tool. At least that’s how I handle mine. But he had to go and replace the wood handles with pearl ones and carve snakes into them.” “What that mean?” Asked Schumacher, who was still very much in pain. “The snakes.” The stranger examined the Colt as he held it by the barrel. “I don’t really know,” said the stranger. “Maybe my pa just fancied snakes. Or maybe he thought the carvings would look neat and scare folks into surrendering. You kind of robbed me of the opportunity to ask him.” “So, now you going to rob me of my life?” “The way you live, I wouldn’t call it robbing.” The butcher’s son stood up and tucked the second pearl handled pistol in his belt. “I ain’t going to kill you. I just came to get what’s mine. But I did promise to hand you over to the Santos Brothers.” The Santos Brothers were a gang made up of Americans, Mexicans, and at least one Indian. After doing a bank job in Smithfield, Schumacher had left the gang to fend for themselves as he managed to slip away unscathed. Schumacher knew they blamed him for the job going south, and that they wanted his head. “I know there’s a price on your head. But I think Mr. Henry and Mr. James will more than suffice.” “You a bounty hunter?” Schumacher asked distastefully. “You ought to have been a shoemaker. There’d have been a living in it.” “You’re one to talk, bounty hunter.” “My pa slaughtered animals. I slaughter men. Ain’t much difference.” Butcher walked away as thunderous gallops grew louder. Pretty soon Schumacher would meet his end. He would’ve preferred the bullet or the gallows, instead of a rusty machete. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid.


“I’m confused...” said the man with jet black hair and frown lines around his mouth. “What’s there to be confused about?” asked the cat with fire for eyes and stars for teeth. “Am I dead? Is this...heaven? Or am I somewhere...else?” “Where do you think you are?” mused the cat, licking its paw. With each stroke of its tongue, the fur underneath changed colors, shimmering between shades of black and blue and purple and pink and all other colors the man had seen. “What happened to me?” He was getting frustrated - the frown lines around his mouth deepened and his brow furrowed to match. “You tell me. I was here. Then, you came.” “I was driving. I had to get to work. I was running late. I was trying to change the radio station from that awful, rock music that my son always played when he took the car. The car ahead of me kept swerving in and out of the lines, so I was trying to be quick but the dial was jammed.” “Such a silly thing, isn’t it? To worry about music?” The cat’s voice changed. It sounded like the man’s son. “Did I hit someone? Is that why I’m here? Am I in a coma? Is this one of those dreams people have when they’re on the operating table during surgery?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was here. Then, you came.” “Where am I? Why do you sound like Theo?” The man’s voice was getting desperate, almost pleading. “Who’s Theo?” asked the cat, grinning, exposing a mouth full of night sky. “My son! My son’s name is Theodore. My wife’s name is Scarlett. My name is... My name is...” He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think of his name, pulling the strands as his hands moved slowly. “Your name is?” The cat was laughing. With each chuckle, the flames in its eyes bounced. “I can’t remember... Why can’t I remember my name? What’s going on?” The desperation was turning into fear. He started pacing. “I remember your name. I remember everything about you.” The cat sounded like Scarlett, and it stepped towards the man, weaving between his legs. “Stop that! Stop doing that!” He jumped away from the cat, swatting it with his foot. “Stop doing what?” The cat smirked at the man, leaning back on its hind legs, exposing a belly made of flowers. “What are you? Where am I? What’s happening to me?” The man sank, burying his face in his hands to catch the tears that were beginning to fall. “Oh now,” chastised the cat as it cocked its head at the sobbing man, “You shouldn’t cry. This isn’t really the place.” “What place is this then?” the words from the man echoed, stirring the flowers on the cat’s belly. “I suppose you could say... this place is here. You were there. And now you’re here.” The cat’s tail swished, pointing off into the distance then back to the man. “You’re not making any sense! Stop talking in riddles!” “You’re the one asking questions. If you don’t like the answers, perhaps you should stop.” The cat stretched upward, and, as it did, it grew. “Just tell me what happened!” shouted the man as he stood, pointing his finger menacingly at the cat. “You were driving to work. You were trying to change the radio station, but the dial was jammed. The car in front of you was swerving,” yawned the cat, who now stood eye-level with the man. “Then what? Did I die? Am I dead?” The man was frantic now. His tear-soaked cheeks shined as he spoke. “What else do you remember?” The cat’s fur was changing again, a rainbow of colors gently shifting. “I remember the car was swerving. I was trying to pay attention. Then...” “Then?” “Then the dial unjammed... The station changed. Turned to static...” “And then?” goaded the cat. “Then I looked down - just long enough to read the numbers. Not even a second. And when I looked back up, the car was standing still. The light was red. I slammed my brakes... I don’t think I stopped in time. I remember a sound... something crunching.” “Go on.” “Then, I was here.” The cat’s face broke into another skylit smile. The flames rolled back, replaced by Scarlett’s hazel-brown irises. “Yes,” Theo’s voice said, “Then you were here.” “I’m dead...” The man’s face dropped as the realization sank into his jaw. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” comforted Scarlett’s voice, “It’s over now.” The cat’s eyes rolled again, this time turning jet black. “If I’m dead... does that make you... I thought you would be different....” “Were you expecting a bearded-man? Or perhaps something hairless with wings?” The cat sounded like the man’s father. “I don’t know... I don’t know what I was expecting.” “Yes, you didn’t spend much time thinking about this moment, did you?” “Are you God?” All the anger and desperation and fear had left the man’s voice. “I don’t know what I am.” The cat put its paws to its face and pulled. As the fur and skin stretched, the features became more human - not quite male or female, but not quite animal, either. “What happens now? Are you taking me... somewhere?” The words were slow, reverent. “We can go anywhere you’d like.” The cat was still changing, morphing and twisting. Paws turning into hands. Ears shrinking into its head. “I was a good man. I should go to the good place,” asserted the still-nameless man, straightening his back and staring down the creature transforming in front of him. “How do you know you aren’t already here?” This voice was new, unfamiliar to the man but comforting in a way he couldn’t understand. “Because this isn’t right... This isn’t what it’s supposed to look like.” The man gestured to the expanse around them - black, void, motionless. “What is it supposed to look like?” “It’s supposed to be... It’s supposed to be beautiful. I’m supposed to know people here...” “You don’t know me?” The creature standing before the man turned its head, which now resembled his own, though the rest of its body was still phasing. “I don’t know what you are, but I’ve never seen anything like you.” “You don’t even know who you are. How do you know I’m not just someone you’ve forgotten?” “My name is... Joseph,” the words were uncertain, so he repeated himself, “My name is Joseph. My son is Theodore. My wife is Scarlett.” “And I am?” Standing before Joseph, a slightly distorted mirror-image of himself stood - sprouting hair in all the same places and speaking in an echo of his own voice. “You are... You’re something else. You’re not a someone.” “Why, that’s an awfully rude thing to say!” asserted the man who looked and sounded sort-of like Joseph. “Where am I? Is this Hell?” Joseph started stepping backwards, the fear returning. “I’ve already told you,” the man said, starting to sound bored. “You said I’m here. But where is here?” “It’s where you are,” laughed the man. “What happens now?” “What do you want to happen? What’s supposed to happen?” The tone of the words was mocking. “I’m supposed to go to the good place.” Joseph had stopped retreating, placing as much distance as possible between him and the shadow of himself. “And, again, how do you know you aren’t already here?” The man turned his back to Joseph, spreading his arms. The black started to melt away. Joseph looked around and found he was standing in his house. The walls held the same photographs. He could hear Scarlett and Theo in the living room, discussing something playing on the television. He touched the table beside him, the one standing in the entryway containing a dish of keys and a notepad with a “to-do” list scribbled on it. It was solid under his fingers. “Is this what you were expecting?” asked the man as he turned to face Joseph again. “I don’t understand...” Joseph walked in the direction of the voices in the living room and found his wife and son sitting side-by-side on the couch, smiling at each other. He tried to call out to them, but they couldn’t hear him. “This isn’t right!” he shouted, waving his arms and trying to get their attention. “Oh, it’s not?” purred the man. He was starting to change again. “I was a good man!” yelled Joseph as the walls started to shift around him. “So you’ve said.” The man’s arms shortened. His fingers curled into paws. His face began to draw inwards. Joseph reached out to his wife and son, but his fingers slipped through. They weren’t real. Along the edges of the floor, fire started to erupt. It engulfed the room, swallowing everything. He tried to run, but he was surrounded. The heat from the flames burned against his face. Smoke choked him and clouded his eyes. As the fire drew nearer and nearer to his feet, he could see the silhouette of the cat standing across from him, unphased. “Is this right?” taunted the cat. The flames clung to its fur like beads of water. “Get me out of here!” wailed Joseph, coughing and sputtering. The ceiling started to fall, and the burning pieces crashed. “As you wish....” Suddenly, the fire was gone. Joseph was standing in the black expanse again, and the cat was licking its paws. “Now,” started the cat with a serious tone, “Where would you like to go?” “I just want to go back ,” Joseph moaned, sitting down in exhaustion. “Back? The house burnt down. I don’t see why you would want to go back there.” “I want to go back. Back to the car. Back to my wife. Back to my son.” He was starting to cry again, and the cat jumped into his lap, nuzzling against his chest. “You can’t go back. You’re here now,” it said, rolling over and motioning for Joseph to pet the flowers on its belly. “I did the right things. I was a good person. A good man. A good husband. A good father.” He knotted his fingers in the stems of the flowers, stroking upwards and massaging the petals of the blooms, staring off into the distance. “Who are you trying to convince?” purred the cat, who sounded like Scarlett again. “I don’t know.” Joseph continued to explore the flowers on the cat’s belly. As he rubbed, more started to grow between his fingers. “Do you believe you are owed something in death?” The cat touched its paws to Joseph’s arm, flexing its claws against his skin. “I thought it mattered. I thought being a good person mattered. ” “What makes you think it didn’t?” “Because it was supposed to be more than this!” exclaimed Joseph, tightening his grip around the flower stems, uprooting them. The cat yowled in pain, digging its claws into Joseph’s arm. He flung it away and stood, marching towards the animal. “It was supposed to be more than this! More than a cat, or whatever you are, talking to me in riddles and showing me things! More than a black room! I wasn’t supposed to be alone!” With each threatening thud of his feet, the cat cowered and hissed. As it opened its mouth, a growl roared from its throat. “It is a foolish thing to believe one’s good deeds are nothing more than currency exchanged for comforts and luxuries in death,” hissed a voice from the void as the cat continued to growl and bare its fangs. Joseph stopped and looked around, trying to find the source of the sound, and the cat lunged for his chest. As its claws met skin, they grew, digging deeper and deeper. Joseph wrapped his hands around its neck, trying to pry the cat off of him, but the harder he pulled, the stronger it held on. “You are here, and you can’t even appreciate it. What makes you believe you would appreciate something else? If you were given a mansion made of gold and fine silks and riches, would you feel satisfied? Or would you still want more? Perhaps someone to share it with? Had you died and landed naked in a field of friends and relatives, would you cry out for a blanket? If you found yourself in a den of demons, branding you with hot iron and pouring fire in your mouth, would you dream of an afterlife made of black? Void of screams and pain?” asked the voice as Joseph struggled with the cat on his chest. “I... just... thought... it... mattered...” he stammered over the howling cat, yelling into the black. “And you believe were granted the authority to say it didn’t because your expectations, your childish imaginings of the afterlife, were wrong?” The sound bellowed, surrounding Joseph and reverberating in his ears. He fell under the weight of the cat, which had grown three sizes, oozing over him like tar. “You, like all the others, lived your life under the assumption that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ were simply units of measurement, and as long as you accumulated more of one than the other, you would be praised in death, like a war hero or a saint. You never once stopped to consider the quality of your ‘good’ deeds - they were all the same to you.” The cat chewed into Joseph’s neck, spitting out bits of skin and muscle as its teeth moved. He squirmed and writhed underneath the monster, his face twisting and contorting in agony. Blood filled his mouth as he tried to scream. “You may have been a ‘good’ man, Joseph, but you did nothing to deserve the eternity you imagined. You were selfish. Blind to the suffering of others. Indifferent to the struggles of those beneath you. You were given all the tools to lead a successful life, but you wasted them. You settled. You chose to live an average life. You were a good man, but you never tried to be a great man. And now, you stand here, dissatisfied with what you see because you think you deserved more , but you don’t even know what ‘more’ looks like. No one gets slighted in death - they simply overestimated the value of their life.” The words echoed, clapping like thunder. The cat slackened against Joseph. The claws buried in his chest retracted. The fangs in his neck loosened. He pushed the dead weight of the cat off of him and sat up to examine the damage, but there was none. He was whole. The cat sprung back to life, smiling as it faced Joseph. “Tell me,” his father’s voice insisted, “What do you consider to be the best thing you’ve ever done?” Stunned, Joseph stared into the cat’s eyes, into the flames, and said, “I don’t know.” “Then, I suppose you should do away with your notions of what you believe you deserve.” The cat was gentle again, rolling on its back playfully as its fur shimmered. “Do they miss me?” he asked, dropping his head between his knees. “That’s the first question you’ve asked that doesn’t revolve around you,” Theodore’s voice answered. “Are they hurting?” He was defeated. “They will miss you, until they don’t. And they will hurt, until they don’t.” “Will I see them?” “Do you think it’s wise for the mourning to see the object of their grief?” “Is this... it? Is this....all there is? Is this what forever will look like?” “This is where you are.” “Will I ever go anywhere else?” “You are here. The cat walked to face Joseph as it spoke, “And if you were supposed to be somewhere else, you would be there.” “I’m dead... And I’m here. With you.” “There are worse things.” “I want to go back.” “You can’t.” “I want to change everything. I want to do better. ” “Dead men usually do.” “I want to sleep .” He was tired, and he had nothing else to ask. “Then, I think you should go to sleep,” said the cat softly, surveying the drained man with pity. So, the cat with flames for eyes and stars for teeth and a night sky in its mouth and flowers on its belly, who changed colors and spoke in familiar and unfamiliar voices and showed Joseph beautiful and terrifying things, laid down and closed its eyes, merging into the black as it sighed in relief. Joseph, the good man with jet black hair and frown lines around his mouth, who missed his wife and son and thought he deserved more in death than he ever aspired to have, having finally made peace with what he had been given, also laid down and closed his eyes, sighing in exasperation and acceptance, and reaching out to graze the cat’s warm fur just before being swallowed as well.


Tabatha Furlong always went the extra mile for her regular customers. She telephoned everyone when their books arrived and emailed the latest news about forthcoming publications. Despite her best efforts to revitalise the Catworth Library, it remained under threat of closure and the fire didn’t help matters. # When Tabatha arrived from London three years ago, she’d encountered an institution that was struggling to justify its own existence. The local council was keen to save money and claimed the library’s running costs were too high. Miss Chatham, the retiring librarian, was an ex-head-teacher who was stuck in her ways. “Libraries aren’t meeting places for idle gossipers,” she’d say. “They exist to provide the public access to reading matter.” In her view, clients should choose their books, present their membership card and vacate the premises as soon as possible. She didn’t encourage loitering. The booked-lined reading room offered little in the way of comfort. There was one comfy seat in the entire library. It was out of sight of the reception and often occupied by a gentleman called Jimmy. He was an elderly customer who snoozed away his daylight hours. He’d seen better days and so had the chair. There was also a child-sized rickety table and two matching plastic stools. They didn’t offer much of a perch for contemplation either. The library was more like a storage facility than a sanctuary for enquiring minds. If it was supposed to be the pulsating heart of a lively community, then it was screaming out for emergency resuscitation and a helping of defibrillation. Miss Chatham was the ruler of her kingdom. A world of potential stunted by archaic rules and warped by a closed mind. Miss Chatham didn’t ignore all her customers’ requests. She made occasional compromises to prove she wasn’t a misanthrope. In the lobby area she had allowed a cork notice board. It bore scrappy cards selling second hand bicycles and washing machines, and she charged a weekly rate for its use. Most local societies had given up displaying the notices here because of the poor footfall. They preferred to alert everyone to their forthcoming events in the nearby supermarket. Miss Chatham saw the lack of interest as a positive. She didn’t want the public hanging around and asking daft questions. She wasn’t a tourist information service. “If you want to know what’s going on,” she’d say, “consult a newsagent. This is a library, for goodness’ sake.” There were two identical plywood signs hanging above both the entrance and the reception desk. She painted the word ‘Silence’ in bold red letters. When the opportunity presented itself, Miss Chatham enforced the rule with relish. She’d peer over her glasses, raise a finger to her lips and emit a threatening hiss like a venomous serpent. Miss Chatham didn’t look kindly on further transgressions and often revoked customers’ membership cards for a six-month period. # Tabatha arrived from London three years ago to care for her father, who’d become more or less bed-ridden. She needed to be close to her dad and seized the opportunity to work in the local library. The library was a short bicycle ride from her father’s house; what could be more convenient? It didn’t take long for her to spot areas in the library that needed updating, and she was determined to make an impact. She outlined her plans for improving everything and presented her ideas to Miss Chatham. If Tabatha had been expecting approval, it wasn’t forthcoming. In no uncertain terms, Miss Chatham said ‘no’ to the entire list. # After the frosty response from the retiring librarian, Tabatha held her council. Miss Chatham intended to leave an orderly establishment and made it clear, “the library is quite happy and works well just the way it is.” Tabatha’s interference wasn’t welcome under Miss Chatham’s regime, and no further discussion took place. The rule about silence in the library became a convenient way to avoid any talk on the matter. During her three-month probation, Tabatha made notes and extended her original ‘to do’ list. # After Miss Chatham left her post, Tabatha saw a chance to utilise all the library’s amenities. There were three decent-sized rooms that were never used, a staff changing room and a kitchen on site. She imagined the building playing a central role in the community. It had potential to be a nurturing environment for learning, meetings, and music events. The library had a Victorian ethos and ran on ancient principles. There were no computers, and the antiquated records system still relied on a postcard filed in wooden boxes labelled according to subject. Tabatha prepared a convincing proposal and approached the council to help fund the renovations. # Everything took shape with the unofficial help of an elderly gentleman called James McGuigan. Jimmy, as he was known, had been a regular visitor under the previous management and was often discovered dozing in the easy chair at the rear of the antiquarian section. In his time, he’d been a travelling sales agent for a specialised book company who sought and collected ancient tomes. His claim to fame was locating an original copy of the 1616 Illuminated King James Bible. It was a unique example of Jacobean Art and sold for £218,000 to an undisclosed bidder in the United States. # Tabatha and Jimmy discussed the plans for renovating the library. She had schemes to extend the library’s remit and encourage a wider range of customers. He loved her ideas and saw the exciting potential in her vision. Their relationship transformed his weary demeanour, and he gained a new lease on life. Jimmy was keen to transform the unused rooms in order to provide a welcoming atmosphere. He suggested installing a shower in the locker room for Tabatha’s use. “You never know when you might get a soaking on your bike,” he’d said. They both researched comfortable furniture for the reading room and even a coffee machine. She joked that he’d never leave if they bought all those out-sized sofas, and they laughed at the idea. Jimmy was a handy fellow and between the two of them they transformed the décor. He was also confident in the kitchen and often made Tabatha a hot snack and drinks during her busy day. # The unfortunate incident with the emergency services was probably just a misunderstanding. Roger Furlong had called the library late one afternoon and announced he’d had a ‘bit of a funny turn’. He wasn’t a man to feign illness, and Tabatha had to leave early. She had no choice; it was urgent. Jimmy was on hand, so that was fine. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to her rescue. It was simple; lock up and post the keys through the letterbox. She could check in the pile of returned books tomorrow. # Mr Furlong had fallen on the hall staircase, but when Tabatha found him he’d crawled into the front room. She invoked her first aid training and secured a splinter to his shattered forearm. The paramedics arrived within an hour which allowed her time to prepare an overnight bag. Tabatha thought it was odd that the lights were on as she passed the library in the ambulance. However, she had more immediate issues to distract her mind. The A & E at the Catworth Community Hospital was always busy on a Friday evening, and tonight was no exception. The triage nurse examined Roger and complimented Tabatha on her first aid work. “Yes, it’s a fracture,” she said. “Is he allergic to anything? I can offer pain killers.” The nurse was patient and caring however she couldn’t do much about the queue. The end of the week had arrived and the first of the evening’s casualties had arrived from the local bars. By the time Roger saw a doctor, the waiting room was full of bloody noses, bruised fists and boxed ears. They’d have to join wait for an X-ray. It was ten o’clock when Tabatha got the call from Leopard Security Service. “Is that Tabatha Furlong?” “Speaking,” she said. “How can I---?” “We’ve had an intruder alert at the Catworth Library---” “A break in?” She looked at Roger, who shrugged. “I can’t believe, are you sure---?” “You are the key holder?” “Yes,” she swallowed, “Tonight was different, but yes.” “Can you check the premises?” “I’m at the hospital and---” Roger motioned for her to leave. “I’ll be fine, love.” She grimaced at him. “The police will meet you there.” “I’m on my way.” # The windows were dark when Tabatha arrived at her place of work. However, flashing blue lights illuminated the exterior facade of the sandstone building. Two officers were on a walkie-talkies and the air was full of squawking static and garbled transmissions. “Good evening.” He checks his note pad. “Miss Furlong?” “What seems to be the problem, officer?” He points up to a box above the doorway. The translucent white plastic is flashing orange and bleeping for attention. “I assume you have a key?” Tabatha delves into her handbag. “I have a spare, here, somewhere...” The officer confirmed Tabatha’s arrival with his colleague on the two-way and followed her as she gained entry and approached the security system. She turned a key to take command and silences the unit. A red diode shows an open point of access in zone one. It’s in the large hall that now hosts the learning resource centre. The library is quiet except for the gentle hum of desktop computers in the room beyond the vestibule. Tabatha ventures into the communal space. There is a gentle pulse from twelve animated screen savers. Tropical fish, hot air balloons, and ballerinas drift across the monitors. In the far corner, a chink of light betrays a fire door left ajar. “That’ll be your problem.” The officer points to the exit. Tabatha shuts the offending door and the security box makes a series of three high-frequency pips. Squawks on the two-way tell of another incident happening in the centre of town. “Gotcha, control.” Splat-squawk-splat. “All sorted here.” He nods at Tabatha. She mouths a thank you and side-squints a nervous grin. “We’re on our way.” The patrol car disappears as she searches for her phone. Tabatha couldn’t help noticing a smell of burned toast. She walked into the kitchen. Was that the source? There’s a mug of tea on the work surface. It’s still warm to her touch; but it couldn’t be. As Tabatha left the library, she mulled over the evidence and wondered. She calls the hospital. Roger is ready to be discharged. She has to collect her father. It wasn’t until later that night she got a call from the fire service. The End


I'd never thought I'd actually be awake after I died. I remember my last breath. I remember watching TV from the corner of my eye as I lay on the doctor's table. Soccer was on but my team wasn't playing. I felt chemical warmth squiggle up my left arm when Messi scored a goal. My self-preservation instinct kicked in. I wanted to shout, to stop my euthanasia, but when I tried to speak my lungs didn't obey. The paralyzing agent was swift and merciful. My lungs had already failed. Death comes with a unique set of feelings. One reminded me of when I was a kid-- I'd puff my cheeks and hold my breath so my face could get red. Once, my face went purple. I got dizzy and I scared mother. It felt just like then. I felt blood in my face and heard drums in my temples. And under my skin, I felt something like lead pinning me down. I felt rigid. It wasn't pleasant. I tried to move an arm. I couldn't. And I tried to move a wrist, unsuccessfully. I was so desperate to hold on to my body that I even strained to move a pinky-finger. I had no more will to channel. The thumping around my temples ceased. For a while, I could still move my eyeballs. I panicked and I darted them around. Everything got blurry. I could do nothing, so I acquiesced. The heavy feeling left; I remember my last breath trickle from my lips. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I rose with my breath. I didn't see anything flash before my eyes. I wasn't even afraid-- I felt helpless, only. It didn't hurt, but I can see why some people might find it painful. In that last moment of my death, every second felt like a decade. The feeling is distinct. I felt like I'd been preparing to die my whole life-- as if life's meaning were to perish. I could still see the blurry outline of my gowned body on the tan leather table as I rose. I was a helium balloon leaving a child's hand. I'd been released: I was being levitated by my last breath. The further I rose, the colder and darker it got. The ceiling was to my back now, and I could see my corpse on *its* back below. I rose far enough that I should've been able to see the whole hospital, but I didn't. I saw only my hospice room, bounded by four walls. Outside those walls there was nothing. All of reality was contained in those four walls; all of reality had always been just four walls. The room got smaller. After a while, I was so far up that I could only see a white spec where my hospice room once was. Eventually, even that spec disappeared in the overwhelming sea of cold, dark, primordial nothing. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I thought it would be easy to reconcile with not having a body. I thought reconciliation would be quick, relatively speaking. I've now been without a body for longer than I ever had one. Yet reconciliation has been neither easy, nor quick. I cannot get over the fact that I could once breathe, eat, and have wrists. It's ironic: to be frank, I don't even remember what a wrist is. Perhaps They remember. I know that there are others here with me. We're like balloons in a bunch, blindly bumping into each other as we float. Unable to have wrists. Unable to crawl. We only float. Sometimes, it gets crowded. Like grapes on a fecund vine, our bunch grows heavy and begins to sag towards the spec of light. But we never sag too far. For They are always quick to notice. And as we sag, the Harvesters above always reap those among us who are highest. They reap so we may continue to rise. For such is our purpose. We sag. And we rise. And in time, we are reaped.


“SEEKING: Card Players, Bootleggers, and Shady Characters. $30/day, $240/week.” The wanted section of the Weekly never fails to make you smile. It’s the kind of thing that you enjoy about Rosebud County, it’s why you came here in the first place. You’re none of the three, but the idea that Shady Characters are out there, clipping the classified ads just like everyone else, makes the mundane a little more exciting. The fact that the phone number below has too many digits just sweetens the deal. You put the ripped-out ad in your back pocket, to be reexamined after you finish the crossword, once you’ve found your five letter word for a tree that can’t be trusted. (Not the kind of clue you’d get back home.) After finishing your oats you head downstairs to open the store, only fifteen minutes late. Start being too on time and we might lose our charm, you joke to the mostly empty shelves. You open the lock boxes and start unloading all the food and hardware too valuable to leave unsecured after sundown. By ten the store looks like a store again and you settle down behind the counter. A scarecrow comes in and buys a set of new buttons. For an extra 70 cents you sew them on to his ripped sleeve. The barman from the piano hall picks up his daily order of peanuts. A timberman comes in for some nails, and suggests that your tree is probably a Larch. Never met one he could trust, he says. You pencil it in but it doesn’t work with the rest of the clues. You’ll come back to it later. After the morning rush, you take out the wanted ad and plug in the store’s old telephone. You try dialing the number as written, but it doesn’t go through. (It would have been a bit of a let-down if it had.) You try truncating the number in various ways, some of the calls connect but all are deadends. Not many people in the County use phones anymore, it’s possible that the number means something else entirely. You boil water for tea and sell a ten pound bag of rice to a man with round glasses and a long coat. You consider asking him about the ad, but you don’t want to come across any particular kind of way. You make your tea out of pinyon pine and juniper berries, native to this high arid steppe. Pinyon is what the crows like, it makes you sharp. You’re not sure what juniper does, but they always come as a pair. (Locals say that juniper is for the lizards, but no one remembers why.) You write out the digits from the ad on a long sheet of receipt paper. You circle the 9-7-9 of the Rosebud area code, a good place to start. Back in the day they handed out numbers in order of importance, you always like that the County was last. It’s another reason you came here, really. Of all the dusty dream towns of the steppe, you might as well pick the last. You stare at the numbers and drink your tea. The sun passes overhead and the dust kicks up outside. Thursdays are always slow in the afternoons, it’s a long time since last week’s paycheck. You rearrange the digits to see if they take any other familiar form, longitude and latitude, a time and place, a lock combination, nothing jumps out. There are too many numbers, anything works. Idly, you rearrange them into your old phone number, then your old zip code and street number. You get frustrated and sweep the pieces into a drawer. (Puzzles are only fun while they can keep you distracted.) You close the store and go out for a walk. \*\*\* Your mother sighs as she stands outside your room. The movers have packed up the rest of the house but this room was for her hands only. Everything is still and silent as she turns the knob. She holds her breath as she crosses the threshold, breaking the invisible seal that had formed over the last seven years. (She cries for hours.) Packing takes so much longer than she had expected. As painful as it was to think about the process, the practice just bled details she had missed. Disassembling your bed, your dresser, your blue chair. All the books on your bookshelves. (What an avid little reader you were once.) The clothes and shoes you outgrew but insisted on keeping. You grew so attached to everything. Someday, your mother thinks, you’ll come back and yell at her for getting rid of it all. (She regrets the thought immediately). The sun set and rose to find your mother’s puffy red face surrounded by stacked boxes and neatly labeled pieces of furniture. She holds in her sore hands a picture, stares at it for a long time. You’re in it, glowing beside your parents, in front of a soft yellow forest full of identical silver trunks. You were so excited to learn about those trees, joined together at the roots, one single organism stretching miles across. (Your mother can’t remember what they’re called now either.) She cries one last time then begins packing the car. She carefully piles everything you left behind into her station wagon. The thought of coming across a stranger wearing your clothes is too much, so she drives to a thrift store two hours away. It takes another hour to unload everything, for the clerk to mark which set of screws and bolts and wooden slats go together, to decide one final time what stays and what goes. The sun is setting by the time she ends up at her new apartment. The movers have already come and gone, unpacked everything in the time it took her just to take apart your old bed. She sits outside, not moving. (Hours just tick by these days.) Next to her in the passenger seat are two boxes, the remnants of your existence she couldn’t bear to give away. One box is labeled with the words “THINGS TO KEEP” in neat block letters. The other box just says “HOPE.” Your mother sighs angrily, and scribbles out the words. \*\*\* On Thursday afternoons, when the whole town is saving nickels and the piano hall is empty, you like to stop in and play. They never made it past ragtime out on the steppe, and folks think it’s some kind of magic when you play the jazz you grew up with; it makes the jack rabbits skittish and the donkeys bray. Eventually you decided it’s best to just keep your spells between you and the empty bar. Today the hall is clear except for the man with round glasses and a long coat. Again something makes you think he’d know about your strange ad, but you leave him be. (You never lost your good manners.) Instead you sit down at the piano and slowly warm your fingers. Your mind drifts as they wander over the deeply worn keys, playing pieces you forgot the names of years ago. It amazes you what your mind holds on to and what falls away, that you can remember ten thousand notes but not the three words that hang above them. (More puzzles.) In a moment of whimsy, you put the ad on top of the piano and start to play the phone number, as if it were a chord progression written down by an erratic piano instructor. It sounds awkward at first but with the right mix of major sevenths and accidentals you can start to hear some halfway decent jazz hidden inside. You just keep repeating the twelve bars, changing the key, the tempo, the melody, continuously circling around something. It’s soothing and nostalgic in a way that is unexpected but pleasant. You circle deeper and deeper, and don’t notice the round glasses in the corner of the bar fix themselves on you. You float back down to find the man standing next to you, waiting patiently for you to finish. “Aspen,” he says, as you stare up at him confused. “The tree that can’t be trusted.” He smiles and pats the piano fondly, then walks out of the bar. You sit frozen for a long time, then rush back to the store. You pull out the crossword but you already know that it will fit. As you write it in dark black ink you’re hit with a wave of memory. A high forested plateau. The sun shining through countless yellow leaves. Identical white trunks, tied together below the ground, stretching for a hundred miles. You have no idea where and when any of it is but you know you were there. \*\*\* Your mother enters her new two-bedroom walkup and sets down your boxes. She looks around at the job the movers have done, impressed how closely everything matched her instructions. There are still some odd boxes that need to be put away but it feels remarkably like walking into someone else’s home. (Into someone else’s life, already in progress.) She tours around the place and feels unexpectedly light, like a ghost, or a spirit floating out of one body into another. She feels like dancing. She sets up an old record player and attaches it to the speakers already mounted in the living room. She opens a box looking for her records and recoils when she realizes it's one of yours. Then, with sudden confidence, she goes back into the box. She had found one of her old swing records hiding on your bookshelf, and now she takes it out and wipes off the dusty sleeve. A pile of memories that threatens to bury her, but she feels unstoppable now. (She’s a ghost!) She twirls around the room as the horns dip and dive. The old vinyl cracks and pops, but the ride cymbal keeps its rhythmic shuffle. Your mother’s dark hair flies behind her, her bare feet glide nimbly below. She hasn’t slept in two days but somehow it only lends to her grace. The music builds and then falls, and she closes her eyes and sways as it fades between songs. She opens her eyes and rushes to unpack the rest of your boxes. Nothing more can be hidden away. Now is not the time for closed doors, for holding back, for waiting. Now is a celebration. (Hark! A new moon rises.) It was an eclectic mix of your possessions that she managed to keep, childish and out of place here, but that doesn’t phase her. She places the rest of your records by the turntable, cleaning their jackets and wiping the grooves. On top of the piano she places two of your stuffed animals, a donkey and a hare, and almost imagines they’re listening to the music. Her eyes twinkle as she takes each one for a whirl around the room. (Swing dancing is best with a partner.) At the bottom of one box is a rolled up poster that sat behind your door, another memory from a trip out west. It’s a huge scene of an expansive prairie, nothing other than a few juniper bushes to break up the flat, arid plain. Crows circle above and a magpie hops along the dusty ground. She never really understood the appeal, but now hangs it directly across from her own bed. She lies down and looks deeply into the vast western expanse. Her eyes droop as she looks, trying to see what you saw in all the emptiness. (She finally drifts off to sleep, still searching.) \*\*\* A distant sun is casting long shadows when you shake yourself out of your head. You pace around the store, packing away lock boxes, misplacing everything. You talk to yourself, about aspen trees mostly. You shutter the store and go upstairs. You push aside your rusty cot and pull out a scratched up wooden crate. You wipe the dust off and open it. You’re not sure what you’re looking for but with shaky breaths you leaf through your old life. Everything has a distant familiarity, but nothing clicks. You spread it all out on the floor. There are notebooks and journals and reams of sheet music, all fading slowly away. You can no longer remember why any of this is here, or what might have been left behind. You strike the crate in frustration and down flutters a photograph, knocked loose by your anger. You pick it up and the world spins. You are fixated first on the forest, yellow aspen trees glow in the soft autumn light. The trunks and branches are exactly how you remembered them, bright silver, all neat clones of each other. You knew you were there once. Then, nervously, you let your eyes drift to the three smiling faces in the center. You recognise yourself instantly, but your mother and father come as a much slower realization, a tide rushing in. (Waves crash, everything is spinning.) You sit down and feel like vomiting. You look away and look back. For a second you try to pretend it might not be them, you might be mistaken, but the illusion falls away. Memories flood over the high walls you so carefully built. They crumble under the weight. You stare at your mother, her hand on your shoulder. She looks back, smiling, comforting. The sun catches her long dark hair. She looks so young, so happy. You remember how much you once wanted to hurt her. And how much you once missed her. Your father doesn’t remember these things, at least not here, smiling on your other shoulder. He is tall but gentle. He looks cold, with a hat and gloves on, and a coat that goes down to his knees. Still, he looks happy too. He is beaming back at the camera, his eyes glowing behind his round glasses. \*\*\* You sit on the floor for a long while, thinking about where you are, this strange county of card players, bootleggers, and shady characters. You think about crows and donkeys and jack rabbits, about jazz music and pinyon pine, and the right and wrong kinds of puzzles. You hold the ad in your jittery fingers. You know you’re never going to figure it out. You knew that from the beginning, but you did what you could to put it off. Now, it’s time. You flip it over the cut out piece of paper, and look again at the other side. At your name printed neatly in capital letters. At the message copied below, “please come home.


Dear Julia, High school fucking blows. That might be a bit of an understatement. It doesn't really blow, per say, only tear apart everything you've ever thought to be true about life. There's no more skipping homework assignments, slacking off on upcoming tests, or missing class for being sick. There's no such thing as free time or relaxation anymore. There's no place in this eight-month period of time for video games, friends, or parties. If you're like me and have to support yourself because your family can't afford to, you also have to work a job, which means every waking moment of your life is dedicated to hard work, homework, and the elusive 4.0 GPA. There's no time for flirting, romance, or a girlfriend. All of those things merely amount to wasted time, and every fleeting minute is time you could spend brushing up on a recent topic, or even looking ahead to what you could be learning in the future! You could set me up on a date, pay for everything, even taxi me around so I could save my precious money for gas, and I'd still wonder how this helps me find the derivative of the function f(x). Mallory Fishmann was the answer I was looking for. She fucked up all of the above. Ever hate a girl so much you wanted to rape her? No? Good. No sane person ever goes out and rapes someone. Rape is bad. Everyone knows that. It's one of those things that frequents the nightly news, commonly enough to where we dismiss it because it's just "one of those bad things that happens". That sure didn't stop Mallory from getting my brother thrown in jail, though. Ryan was a great guy. Starting running-back on the football team, a solid 3.8 GPA off the field, and (as the ladies put it) 'devilishly handsome'. He made the ladies swoon and sigh, gawk and giggle, but he never really paid much attention to it. He had more important things to do in life, like volunteer at the local crisis ministries to help deliver groceries to the less fortunate. He was the perfect example of the perfect human being God graced this Earth with. To Portland, Oregon, he was a hero. To 1309 Knoxville Court, he was my twin brother. In the typical cliche fashion, I'm obviously the exact opposite of Ryan. I sit at my computer playing video games and making YouTube videos. I'm pasty, scrawny, and my choice of clothing was about as far "off-fleek" as humanly possible. Both of my past relationships have been total busts. One was suicidal, and the other was bipolar, bisexual... and suicidal. I'd practically given up on girls. I mean, who needs them? Who needs the warm, tender embrace of a woman, with her soft hands slowly gliding across the surface of my skin, her eyes drawing me closer and closer to her face, her lips so enticing and... I haven't given much thought to girls recently. Ryan and I were only similar in the fact that we really didn't pay attention to love for a while. It was only during my Junior year that I started to branch out and try hanging out with some of the girls from the anime club. For Ryan, he basically had his pick of the crop when it came to a girlfriend. He could point to any girl, say her name, and wet floor signs would appear out of nowhere. I've literally seen fights between girls arguing over who he winked at, but that's at the far end of the psycho-cheerleader spectrum. He could have chosen any girl in the school, but he chose the one girl that wouldn't even give him a second glance: Mallory. You should've seen the way he acted around her. Ryan went from a man of confidence to, well, ME in an instant. He didn't know how to talk, how to act, and this only made Mallory laugh at him. But, in his oh so persistent mind, this never stopped him. He spent weeks talking to her and working up the courage to ask her out, and she said no. Ryan was shattered, but not completely broken. They stayed friends long enough for the second attempt at dating, to which Ryan got a positive response. Was it the hardest thing he's ever done? Not at all. But for him, dating Mallory was like getting a full ride to Stanford: the ultimate jackpot. They were honestly really good together. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other's company, and I was happy for him. I was dating some girl in band during that point in our lives (her name was Sarah. Ended up being a total whore and dating my best friend later. I'm not salty at all), and generally life was good. Until Mallory fucked it up. Or, rather, claimed that Ryan fucked HER up. One day the police showed up at our door. Our dad answered, and immediately Ryan was ushered out the door into the luminescent cop car parked outside. Dad demanded to know what happened, and learned the hard 'truth': Ryan had raped Mallory, and there was enough evidence to take her claim to court. As the cop and my brother rolled out of the driveway, my dad pulled out his phone to call my mom and find out what to do. She didn't answer. She never answered anymore. I blame it on the twenty-something year old bellhop from that one hotel in the Bahamas they stayed at on their anniversary. Jerk. Ryan lost the case. He was tried as an adult and sentenced for five years, three on good behavior. Ryan went to prison, Mallory went home, and I became the twin brother of "the guy who raped that chick". There's a reason I told you about how they met. I don't think he did it. I think Mallory is a liar, and that I unfortunately got the stupid backlash from Ryan's arraignment. So you know how I said that my first statement was an understatement? Let me amend that: High school "unwillingly and forcefully" fucking blows.


My breath comes fast and heavy, sobs rack my chest, and tears stream down my face to a point where I can’t even see my phone screen. I try to breathe but can’t. I try to calm down but can’t. I am on the verge of succumbing to the darkness clouding the edges of my vision when I realize what I need to do. I dial her number from memory, and she picks up on the first ring. “Hey boo, what’s up?” Her soothing voices washes over me, and I calm down enough to choke out a few words. “Help, please... my pills, medicine, out” I manage to sputter out before I must stop talking to gasp for air. I can feel the screech building in my throat and can do nothing as it claws its way out of my mouth. The sobs wash over me, and I am drowning in my tears. My chest feels like it is about to explode, and I manage one last word, “Hurry”. “Hey, Lexi listen to me, okay? Bae, remember your exercises? Remember your breathing patterns? What did we say? Deep breaths, in and out. Concentrate on my voice, nothing else matters,” she says to me, but it’s no use. I can hear an undertone of panic in her voice and that sends me over the edge. “Hurry,” I say once more before I hang up. Sitting there alone in the dark, on the floor in my bedroom, the crippling wave of sadness and fear washes over me. Not fear of anything in particular, or sadness for any specific reason, they just are. My heart is a bucket and my emotions are the size of a lake, I can’t help but overflow. And so, my tears pour from the faucet that is my eyes and I can do nothing but watch as they hit the ground beneath me. An animal like scream rips from my throat and I claw at my tan face, trying to scratch at the itch worming its way beneath my skin. I taste salt and blood in my mouth and scramble on my hands and knees until I have successfully backed myself into a corner. As I wrap my arms around my knees, I duck my head and my hair falls like a auburn curtain blocking out the world as I sob into my arms. The worst part of all of this is that I know this is ridiculous, I know that I am acting like a mad woman; but I can’t help it. Try as I might, I can’t control this. I am drowning in my feelings, despair and sadness suffocate me, anger beats to the rhythm of my heart, and loneliness chokes me. ‘Crybaby,’ I say to myself. ‘Get it together, Millie will be here soon. I hate it when she sees me like this.’ I whimper and empty my lungs. Then I pull as much oxygen as I can back into them, filling myself with fresh new air and pushing out the panic ingrained in my mind. In and out, I concentrate solely on my breathing, pushing all other thoughts from my mind. For a second it works and the birds that are fear and sadness nesting in my heart take off, flying around my head. For a minute I am able to hold them at bay, but then they dive back down and continue building their permanent home in my heart. I await Millie’s arrival anxiously, my heart beating like a drum, my head searing with pain and a pressure I can’t even begin to explain mounting in my chest. Time passes; I don’t know how much. Time doesn’t really mean anything when you’re in the state of mind that I’m in. I try to calm down, yet nothing works. I concentrate on Millie, my beautiful Millie. She has been by my best friend since high school. Throughout high school and college, she always had my back, she was by my side always. And I have been by hers. I have watched toxic relationships crumble and have comforted her in the aftermath, I have helped her study and gone to her grandmother’s funeral. There is a connection, something between us; we just get each other. In this life we have faced a lot of the same problems and we understand the walls, the pain, and the burdens that the other carries. I hear her key turn and the lock click open. The front door to my apartment swings open and she’s here. She is a whirlwind of color and noise drowning out the screams in my head. A weight eases off my chest and I manage to smile through my sobs at her. Her ebony skin gleams beneath the warm light of my kitchen chandelier and her midnight tresses are pulled up in a sloppy bun. “Honey, I’m sorry. There was traffic,” she explains as she rushes to my side. Her black eyes flash as they take in the sight of me, hysterical on the floor as she pushes my hair out of my face and whips a tissue out of her pocket. She wipes my soaking cheeks and swollen blue eyes, but as soon as she dries my face, more tears flood out to replace the wetness on my cheeks. She rummages in her purse and pulls out a yellow prescription bottle. After rushing to the kitchen for a cup of water, she shakes out two of the little white pills and places them in my semi-open mouth for me. My hands tremble as I attempt to guide the glass of water to my mouth and it isn’t until she places her warm and steady palms over mine that I am able to sip the water and swallow my pills. Finally, my breathing evens out and I stop shaking, the flow of my tears slow, and I slip into oblivion. --------------------------------------------------------------- “Lexi?” I awake in my bedroom to the sound of Millie calling my name. At some point last night, she must have moved me to my bed and wiped off what was left of my smeared makeup. “Baby girl, it’s been over twelve hours. I need you to get up so I can make sure that you are okay.” I groan as I struggle to sit up, ultimately failing and falling back onto my pillows. “What happened?” My throat is sore, and my voice is hoarse. “My head is killing me,” I say. “I’m sorry, you had another attack. I don’t know how long it was this time, you called me part way through cause you were out of medicine,” she explains slowly. “I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “My meds have been really off lately. I’ll see a doctor tomorrow and ask about changing them. I just don’t really know what else I can do, I have tried countless antidepressants, and sedatives, and mood stabilizers, and anxiolytics, even psychotherapy and nothing works. There is nothing left I can try; I don’t know what to do.” And once more I am crying, not hysterically, just two silent tear tracks tracing my cheeks. “Baby girl, you’ve come this far. Trust me, you are going to make it through this.” --------------------------------------------------------------- “Alexandra Davis, is there an Alexandra Davis here?” A petite nurse with almond eyes and caramel skin says that Doctor James Miller is ready to see us. “Right here,” I say as I stand up. Millie rises and walks by my side as we make our way into the doctor’s office. I take a seat on the examination table and Millie perches on the edge slightly in front of me, like she is trying to shield me from whatever might come next. Dr. Miller enters looking down at his clipboard. “Davis, again?” He looks up and seems surprised to see us there. “What happened Alexa? I thought you were doing better,” the concern in his voice is real and I know that because this is the doctor who has been treating for over four years since I was first diagnosed with severe type one bipolar disorder, that then morphed into borderline personality disorder (BPD). My case has only gotten more dire and over the years my symptoms only seem to worsen. I even developed major depressive disorder. Manic episodes are only getting more intense and making me feel higher, only to be replaced by the inevitable crash and the severe depression that follows; I hardly sleep anymore and when I do it is restless; relationship after relationship is a complete disaster; my emotions are running rampant and possibly the worst part are the outbursts of intense, uncontrollable anger, followed by feelings of shame. “She had another episode and was out of meds, I picked some up for her but she needed twice the prescribed amount to put her sleep she was so hysterical,” Millie answers for me. “A manic episode? A high?” “No,” Millie replies. “A panic attack, extreme anxiety, mood swings, her emotions were out of control.” “I see,” he says, and I can see the worry in his eyes. “None of the medication is working, all the pills are useless, psychotherapy didn’t work either. What am I supposed to do? Is there even anything I can do?” I feel the pressure building in my veins, my head aches and I fight the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. “I have an idea, but it is up to you whether you want to try it or not,” he says pensively. “Anything,” I say. “I want this to end, I am so tired.” “ECT.” “What’s that,” Millie asks. “ECT, or electroconvulsive therapy, is an alternative therapy for certain psychiatric illnesses that are not responding to traditional treatments,” he explains. “ECT therapy has a 70 to 90 percent success rate when it comes to patients getting better. This is compared to a 50 to 60 percent success rate for those taking medications.” “Why didn’t you try this sooner?!” Millie is absolutely outraged at the fact that there has been another way this entire time and he is just now telling us about it. “Because it had awful side effects, we needed for it to be tested more and tweaked so that there would be the highest possible chance of success with the lowest risk of worsening the conditions or harming the patient,” Dr Miller explains calmly. “What do I have to do,” I ask, interjecting myself between them. “It involves a brief electrical stimulation of the brain while the patient is under anaesthesia. It will be managed by a team of trained medical professionals including a psychiatrist, an anesthesiologist and a nurse.” “Electrical stimulation? You are going to shock her?” “During the procedure, done under general anaesthesia, small electric currents are passed through the brain, triggering a brief seizure. It causes changes in brain chemistry that can reverse symptoms of certain mental health conditions.” “So, you are going to harm her to heal her?” Millie says dubiously. “It won’t harm her per say, she might experience nausea, headache, jaw pain, muscle ache, confusion, or possible short term memory loss as a side effect of the procedure; but that’s it,” he recites. “Hmm,” Millie murmurs concomitantly. “I’ll do it.” I have already made up my mind, I am ready to be over with this stage of my life and move on. I want to live and be able to maintain a stable relationship. “How long will the treatment take?” “It depends on how well you react. Normally it is 8 to 12 sessions, twice a week, over 4 to 6 weeks.” Dr Miller looks at ease and confident in this, it’s reassuring. “How is the procedure done? What exactly will you be doing to Lexi?” “On the day of the procedure, I will give her general anaesthesia and muscle relaxants. These medications will help prevent convulsions that come with the seizure activity. She will fall asleep before the procedure and not remember it afterwards,” explains. “Two electrodes will be placed on your scalp. A controlled electrical current will be passed between the electrodes. The current causes a temporary change in the brain’s electrical activity, a brain seizure. It will last between 30 and 60 seconds. Your heart rhythm and blood pressure will be monitored the entire time,” he is now talking directly to me and once again I feel reassured. “Okay,” I say, and that is that. 2 Months Later... “Millie,” I say pausing as I am about to enter my bedroom. “Thank you, for everything.” “There is no need to thank me, you know I have your back no matter what.” She laughs. “There is a need to thank you, you have been with me to hell and back, you are an incredible person and an amazing friend. So, thank you.” “Oh, come here you sentimental bitch,” she says, rolling her eyes and opening her arms. I lean in and hug her tight. “I meant it,” I say. “I know.” “Now move your butt Lexi,” Millie yells at me and she pushes me towards my vanity. “Going, geez. Relax,” I yell back. “Forgive me for not wanting to keep the guys waiting.” I can hear the sarcasm in her voice and can picture the eye roll that accompanies it perfectly. “You may be fine with arriving late to meet your boyfriend, but I like to be punctual.” I just laugh and stick the last bobby pin into my updo. I am happy, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. It is not a manic happy or a high which will lead to a low, it is natural and sweet. I am finally back in control of my emotions and my life. I haven’t felt this strong in a long, long time. I smile at myself in the mirror and pick up my purse. “I’m ready,” I say as Millie takes me by the arm and starts pulling me towards the front door. We step out into the sunlight of the hallway and the door latches closed behind us with a loud click.


Late on a Friday afternoon in the silent chilly staff development lab of the hospital basement, Wesley lounged with his feet propped up on a chair. Wesley passed the time by munching on taco chips, dropping crumbs over the snaps of his shirt, reading a Clive Cussler paperback. A rumpled blanket covered the linoleum floor where a naked body lay. Wiping orange powdered fingers on his pant leg, he sipped fresh coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Next to him on the long table was a stack of booklets labeled, CARDIOPULMONARY RESUSCITATION. Wesley absentmindedly scratched his wiry beard then glanced up at the clock. A full day wasted without even one signature on his attendance sheet. Sixty minutes to go. The Knicks were playing that night and he had arrangements to meet up with some friends at the Juicy Nickel sports bar. His left arm cramped and he stretched both arms over his head letting out a groan. Footsteps came from the hallway and through the door lumbered a graying sallow-faced man. Breathing heavily, he said, “Hey. CPR Recert?” Wesley untangled his legs, turned down the page of his paperback and dropped the book in his gym bag. “This is the place. Come right on in. I’ve been waiting for you.” He stood, wiping remnants of Doritos from his front. The man inhaled the coffee aroma mixed with a spicy smell he couldn’t place. He said, “I work in the outpatient department? I’m in a hurry, they want me back upstairs pronto.” He spoke with a slight speech impediment that embarrassed him. “Sure, you’ll be out of here in a few minutes. What’s your name big guy?” Wesley said and grabbed the clipboard. “Max,” the man said, glancing at the half empty bag of chips. “Put your John Henry on the sheet, Max. Take a booklet. This year’s update from the American Heart Association. No more mouth to mouth.” Max scribbled his information, threw down the pen and began rolling up his sleeves and with it went the label, bigdudeclothing.com. The bi-annual testing requirement came around way too soon for Max. Since his last recertification, a lot had happened in his life. Dear Cherrie, his wife of twenty-five years had died from Covid. Stunned and grief stricken he sought comfort in ice cream and junk food and when not eating, he slept. Work was the one thing that kept him going, forced him to dress and leave the house, to show up, and help ferry patients to labs and xray. Wesley watched the man thumbing through the booklet. This guy’ll collapse someday; looks like a heart attack waiting to happen. Wesley said, “Last minute on a Friday, eh? Why’d you wait so long?” Before Max could answer, a muffled roar came from the ceiling vent sending warm air over the area. He waved a hand at Wesley. “Let’s get it over with. This isn’t one of my favorite things to do on a Friday afternoon.” “You and everyone else, pal. That’s why my attendance sheet's blank. But it has to be done. Gotta keep the main office happy. ‘Sides, you never know, it might come in handy someday.” “Fat chance I’ll ever need to use it. Tell you what. You sign me off and I’ll buy you a beer. Deal?” Wesley didn’t answer. Max tried again. “There’s always nurses around here. I’m never going to have to save anyone," arms thrown out at his sides like a little boy begging for mercy. "The most I’ll have to do is call the code.” He sniffed, “Plus, I got the arthritis in my hands.” Wesley was already setting up the mannequin for the demo. “Sorry, my friend. Just doing my job. So. Look through the booklet. Tell me when you’re ready for the test. First the written part. Then you do the demo. Or whichever way you want. It doesn’t matter.” Max held onto the table’s edge lowering himself to his knees, with the hot air blowing directly onto his back, he moved next to the dummy called Annie. The elevator door groaned, then quick footsteps followed. A small woman wearing green scrubs rushed in and grabbed the sign in sheet, scribbled her name and said, “Hey guys, I’m really squeezed for time. My cranie’s due back to my unit. Any chance I can do my test real quick? I won’t take more than two minutes. Promise.” Max smiled, "Sure! Be my guest." Wesley said, “No, this guy is ahead of you. Max, go on, start your demo.” Max stood on his knees looking at the nurse whose ID said Olivia, RN. “Did you say cranie? What’s that mean?” “Craniotomy. Brain surgery,” Olivia said growing more annoyed. She darted from table to hallway and back with quick jerky movements like a hummingbird. Wesley said, “Olivia, why don’t you look through the updates and take the written test. By then Max’ll be done.” She threw up her hands. Flit, flit. Wesley said, “Go ahead, Max. You found this woman down on the floor. What’s your first step?” Max had struggled to bend over the mannequin without holding himself up. “I don’t have time for this,” Olivia snapped. “I did the written part online. All I need to do is the demo.” Wesley informed Olivia the online test doesn’t count for recertification. It’s meant as a practice. Olivia felt a migraine beginning and pressed two fingers to her forehead. Wesley stood across from Max waiting for him to begin and turned to Olivia, “We’ll be here on Monday too. Why don’t you come back then? If you’re out of time, just ask the super to give you an extension.” Two more nurses drifted in and signed the sheet, sat next to the table and knowing their turn would take time, began chatting, laughing at something no one else could hear. Olivia said, “I’ve already had two extensions and that’s the limit. Either I do this today or I’m suspended.” Wesley considered letting Olivia jump the “line” but doubted Max would be able to stand up and kneel down again. “Come on Max, get started. The first thing you do is what?” “Uh, do the pushes?” “Think Max, think. Why would you start compressions on the victim’s chest before you’re even sure this lady is in cardiac arrest?” Olivia said, “Shout at her! Ask her if she can hear you. Then check for a pulse.” Max put both hands on the floor in a tabletop position. “Okay Wes. I did that. What’s next?” Wesley took a deep breath. “Max, the idea is, you do this, I mean actually do it, not just say ‘I did it’. This is a demo. You have to go through the steps as if this were a victim without a pulse or breath.” “Can you turn the heat down? I’m about ta' die in here,” Max said wiping perspiration from his face with his sleeve. “Sorry, we don’t have a thermostat in here. The sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll be out of here.” He glanced at the clock, seething inside, picturing the Juicy Nickel scene. “To be honest, I forget the steps,” Max said. The truth was, Max had managed to escape recertification for over ten years. Other staff ed people were more apt to give him a pass. But Max kept that to himself. He hoped if he stalled long enough, Wesley would finally sign off his card and be done with it. Wesley suggested, “Olivia, how’s about you do your demo and Max you watch, then after she’s done, you can do yours?” Olivia’s pager went off. “Whelp, that’s it for me. Thanks a heap guys. Because of you, I won’t be at work tomorrow.” Hooboy, Wesley thought. “Listen, I’ll stay over so you can get it done. Come back when you’re free.” Olivia was already through the door as she called out, “See you in an hour. Thanks.” Wesley said, “I wasn't planning to work over tonight. But, you guys work hard, and who am I to make it worse?” He took a deep breath, becoming aggravated by Max’s stalling. Actually, he felt guilty each time staffers came rushing in, out of breath having to fit this in to their pressure-filled duties. His was a cake job, waiting for someone to show up, playing on his phone until it died. “I’ll go through the steps for you, Max. Pay attention. Then you do it. You have to do it start to finish without me coaching you before you can pass.” A gray-haired woman with bags under her eyes strolled through the door, her shoes broken along the back seam, careful not to stare at the large man kneeling beside Annie. She’d gone through decades of recerts and knew the drill. She signed in, took a booklet and waited her turn. A half hour passed and Max hadn’t successfully performed the sequence, nor pushed the mannequin’s chest hard enough to trigger the red indicator light. Wesley decided to give Max a break and process the half dozen employees that waited. Max said, "Thanks. I'm going over to the café for a Coke." He expected Wesley would pass him by the time he got back. With both hands on the floor, he lifted his bottom and held onto a nearby chair seat straining to push himself upright. Olivia rushed in and declared, “I’m next! Sorry everyone, but I was here before and had to wait. I’ll be only a minute, promise.” She went through the sequence expertly, first shouting to the victim, checking for a pulse, shouting, Call 911, using landmarks of the rib to breastbone, one hand over the other, fingers up, she pushed hard, the light came on, she shouted, get the AED, pretended to apply pads and press the red button labeled Shock required. She jumped up easily and said, “All good? Anything else?” Wesley gave a tight smile and said, “You’re all set. See you in two years.” He processed the few people who waited, pleased at how easily they met the standard and wished them a good weekend. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes till tip off. The Juicy Nickel isn't too far. If he beat feet, he could make it. The coffee’s acid worked in his stomach - he wished he hadn’t eaten so many chips. He lifted the mannequin to the table puzzled by how much heavier it seemed than usual. He gathered the paperwork and booklets, tossed his cold coffee and the now empty bag of chips. Nausea burned and he felt lightheaded. His hands went to his chest as crushing pain took his breath and made his legs buckle. Max hoped the staff ed lights would be out and he could leave for the day. The elevator door opened into the dim hallway. But the room was still lit. He hesitated wondering if he should back up but then a crash, a thud and chair banged. Max tromped through the hallway toward the sound. Wesley lay with arms and legs akimbo, the chair tipped over him like a tent. A hitch grabbed Max in the chest. He spun around looking--hoping someone would appear. But the hallway was dark and silent. Max pulled the chair away and put his hands under Wesley’s arms, dragging him to the open area. Two fingers to the bearded man’s thick neck, he could hardly believe what he faced. Max shouted, “Buddy, buddy, what’s wrong? Get up, wake up, buddy! Wake up.” Max wailed, shaking, he struggled to stand, regretting the time spent sitting in front of the TV, for the hours wasted wallowing in self-pity. The grief he’d tried to eat away now poured out in moans and tears, angry at who he’d become, unable to save a person who deserved to live. He vowed to do better, if only Wesley would live. “No,” he shouted, “No. You live dammit. Don’t you die on me!” He managed to crawl to the phone that sat on the shelf, its cord hanging so that he could free it, catch it rather than bust it, and when he had it in his hands, he pressed the code button and wheezed into the phone, “Code. Basement, room B12, hurry, hurry.” He crawled on all fours back to Wesley, horrified at the grayish face. Max put fingers to Wesley’s neck and couldn’t believe there was no thumping so he reached for the wrist silently begging for a pulse. His nose ran and he used his shirt tail to wipe it and his face. Max tore open the shirt snaps, and using his fingertips, he found the breastbone, put one hand over the other and pushed to the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees, boom, boom, hard and fast, just like Wesley told him. Thundering came from the hallway and the team raced in, like choreographed dancers, each person performed their tasks. They were focused on the rescue, nothing else existed at that moment. Max had never witnessed resuscitation and hadn't seen a dead body. He was outright crying now, angry at himself for failing. An ICU doctor opened the defibrillator box and looking up he saw Max’s face. “Hey, you did great. You saved this man’s life. If not for you, he’d have laid here a good hour before anyone found him. He would be dead. Mister, you are a hero.”