Natasha groaned as she awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing against her headboard. Her forehead throbbed with pain while nausea engulfed her stomach. She smacked her dry lips and felt overpowered by thirst. With her eyes shut, she fumbled her hand around until she found her phone and grabbed it. She tapped the spot where she thought the “answer” button might be on the touch screen. Then, with a hacking cough, she held the receiver up to her mouth and said, “Hello?” A woman’s voice said, “Hello, I’m calling for the owner of Natasha’s Crossing Over Encounters.” “Whaddya want?” “Uh… I understand you’re a psychic who can communicate with people who’ve passed on, is that correct?” Natasha opened her bloodshot eyes and sat up. “Ahem, yes that’s right. Sorry, I thought you were a salesperson. How can I help you?” “My name is Serena Henderson. My husband passed away not long ago, but I still feel his presence in our condo. I’d like you to come see if you can communicate with him.” “Absolutely, Mrs. Henderson.” “Please, call me Serena.” “Alright, Serena. Can you give me your address?” “It’s 1011 Paulson Street, suite 1007.” Natasha got out of bed and walked over to her flimsy desk in her small, ramshackle bedroom. The beer cans that covered the floor clanked against each other as she shuffled through them. She opened the lid of her outdated laptop that sat on the desk and typed Serena’s name and address into a search engine. The first search result was a directory page for “Serena and Michael Henderson.” Beneath it was a link to a week-old article on the city newspaper’s website. The headline said, “Banker’s Suicide Stuns Community.” Natasha knocked on the woodgrain-patterned door inside the condo complex. It was so solid and heavy that it hurt her knuckles. The door opened a few moments later to reveal a petite woman with auburn hair standing in the doorway. She wore grey suit pants, a white short-sleeved button up shirt, and black pumps. Natasha felt underdressed in her plain black t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. The woman looked her up and down with an expression of mild surprise. “You’re the psychic?” she said. Natasha smiled as she stuck her hand out and said, “Yes, I’m Natasha. Good to meet you.” After a slight hesitation, the woman shook her hand and said, “Nice to meet you as well. I’m Serena. Please come in.” Natasha noticed several finger-shaped bruises on the underside of Serena’s right arm. She glanced at her other arm as she walked past her into the condo’s living room and saw similar bruises there as well. The condo had posh hardwood floors, chrome-plated fixtures and luxurious art deco furniture. Framed artwork of various sizes and styles covered the white-painted walls. There was a large portrait of Serena in a wedding dress embracing a man in a tuxedo as a centerpiece. The far wall consisted of plate glass windows revealing a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. As Natasha looked around, she noticed a stack of papers including what appeared to be several bills on an end table. Each one had phrases such as “PAST DUE” and “FINAL NOTICE” stamped upon them in big red block letters. “That’s not a good sign,” she thought. “How can people afford a place like this and not be able to pay their bills? That means she probably won’t be able to pay me anytime soon, either. Oh well, I’m already here. I guess I’ll see this through.” “You have a beautiful home,” she said. “Thank you.” “Please accept my condolences for Michael’s passing.” Serena’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “How did you know my husband’s name?” Natasha shrugged and said, “I’m a psychic. I also understand that his death was a suicide, is this correct?” Serena looked at Natasha with her mouth agape, then her face fell, and she nodded. With sadness in her voice, she said, “Yes, that’s true.” “Yet, you still feel his presence you say?” “Yes, even though Michael died more than a week ago, I still feel as if he’s here. Every morning when I wake up, I see an indent on his pillow and his covers tossed aside as if he’d slept there the night before. I even found his cufflinks and one of his ties set out on top of his dresser as if he was getting ready for work. And a couple days ago, I was making dinner in the kitchen and went into the bedroom for a moment. When I returned, I found a bowl of his cereal sitting on the countertop.” She let out a stilted laugh and said, “He never did like my cooking.” Tears began to stream down Serena’s face. Natasha said, “May I ask how he died?” Serena sniffled, then gave her a puzzled look and said, “I thought you were psychic.” Natasha cringed and said, “Well… I… you see… it’s not always clear what–” “He electrocuted himself. While I was out having dinner with some clients, he drew a bath in our bathroom, sat in the water, and dropped a radio into it. The shock blew out the circuit breaker, and the condo was pitch black when I got home. I searched the entire place with a flashlight before I found him in there. The sight was horrific.” Serena started to cry, then she turned around and buried her face into her hands. Natasha shuffled her feet and swung her arms in awkward discomfort. Sobbing, Serena said, “I thought we were happy together. I thought he was happy. Please, help me understand why he killed himself, and why’s he still here.” A buzzing sound came from Serena’s pocket. She reached into it and took out her phone, then typed in her code to unlock it. Natasha saw the code over her shoulder and memorized it. Serena wiped the tears from her eyes as she looked at the screen. “Excuse me, Natasha. I just got an urgent email from one of my clients. I need to send them a file from my computer in my home office. I’ll be back in a moment.” “You haven’t taken time off from work to grieve?” “I can’t. I’m a corporate finance lawyer and I’m in the middle of a major acquisition for one of my firm’s largest clients. Most of my colleagues don’t even know about Michael’s death yet. I’ll tell them when the time is right.” Natasha looked shocked for a moment and then said, “Do you mind if I look around a bit?” “Not at all. Please feel free to go anywhere in the condo.” Serena plugged her phone into its charger and set it down on a nearby table. Then she walked down the hallway adjoining the living room and into her office. The sound of typing came down the hallway, and Natasha scurried over to the phone and used the code to unlock it. She scrolled through Serena’s emails and saw they were all work-related. She kept scrolling until she found one with a subject line that said, “RE: I think I have a problem.” The email was a month old and came from a person named Miranda Johnson. She opened it. “Hey Sis, I understand your concern, but I think you’re overreacting. Just because Michael has been working late a lot these days doesn’t mean he’s seeing other women. You work late all the time too, don’t you? I’ll call you tonight and we can talk about it some more, ok? Love you, Miranda” The sound of typing stopped. Natasha closed the email app and turned off the screen, then put the phone back down on the table. She hurried over to the other side of the condo and found the door to the bedroom. Inside was a king-sized bed with white pillows and a fluffy white duvet. Another door to a darkened room stood open next to it. She walked into the bedroom and through the doorway. Feeling around on the wall, she found a light switch and flipped it on. The light revealed that she was in the bathroom. White tiles covered the floor, and the smell of bleach stung her nostrils. An oversized, pearl-white bathtub sat in the corner. She went over to it and looked inside. When she did, the lights turned off and the door slammed shut. “Hey!” Natasha said. She ran over to the door and tried to open it, but couldn’t. She pounded on it and said, “Serena? Is that you? Let me out of here!” A strange blue light filled the room. Natasha looked behind her and saw that it came from the bathroom mirror. In the glass, she saw a man and a woman standing next to each other. She realized that the woman was Serena and the man was the one she’d seen in the portrait in the living room. Serena looked at her and said, “That thing out there isn’t me.” The man said, “I didn’t kill myself. That thing killed us both. It will kill you too if you don’t leave right now. Go!” There was a knock at the door and the lights turned back on. Natasha looked at the door, then back at the mirror. When she did, she saw nothing but her own reflection staring back at her. “Is everything alright in there?” said Serena’s voice through the door. “I thought I heard shouting.” Natasha thought, “I must still be hallucinating from all that acid I took last night.” Then she said, “Everything’s fine! I just had a… psychic vision.” “You did? Come out here and tell me what you saw.” Natasha opened the door and found Serena standing there with a concerned look on her face. “What happened? What did you see?” “I communed with Michael’s spirit. He told me you don’t need to worry about the money and that you’ll be able to pay your bills again soon.” Serena’s nodded with a grave expression and said, “Go on.” “He also said he’s sorry for his infidelities, and that he never meant to hurt you, emotionally or physically.” Serena frowned. Tears pooled in her eyes as she hugged herself, running her hands over the bruises on her arms. “So, it’s true. He was cheating on me,” she said. “Yes,” Natasha said in a hoarse whisper. “Why did he kill himself?” “I’m not sure yet.” “Would it help if you saw the radio he dropped into the tub? “You still have it?” “Yes, it’s right there behind you.” Serena pointed at a clock radio sitting on top of a dresser next to the bed. Its digital display showed the correct time. Natasha thought, “It’s weird that she’d keep the radio her husband used to electrocute himself. It’s even weirder that it still works.” She walked over to the dresser and picked up the radio to examine it. When she turned it over, she saw that it didn’t have a power cord. It ran on batteries. “Serena, there must be a mistake. There’s no way that anyone could electrocute themselves with a battery-powered radio.” Natasha turned around and saw that Serena was gone. In her place stood a bizarre, humanoid creature with long, greasy black hair. Yellow-brown, finger-shaped splotches like bruises covered its skin. Its misshapen limbs ended in sharp talons, and its eyes were white without pupils or irises. It opened its mouth to reveal rows of sharp, needle-like teeth. Natasha gasped and dropped the radio.


“Let’s go Becca! You’ve got this honey!” Jacob Malson pumped his fist in excitement as his seventeen-year-old daughter sprinted down the soccer field. Her lanky frame moved gracefully toward the goalkeeper, each stride with a singular purpose of advancing toward her mark. Watching, Jacob couldn’t help but marvel at how she had changed through the years. He could still see his little pig-tailed girl running along with the other children like a flock of starlings after the ball and laughing heartily with every adorable trip and stumble. PING . He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of Becca’s shot reverberating off the goal post. His daughter fell to her knees in disappointment as the whistle blew signalling the end of the game.

        “What a game hun, you were great!” Jacob said as he put his arm around Becca, walking her to their car. “That last one was close, eh?”         “Yeah. I guess.” Becca said, her shoulders slumped.         “You guess? Come on, what d’ya mean? You scorched down the field like Beckham and were only off by an inch.” He gave her an encouraging smile and squeezed her shoulder.         “I dunno, dad. I just think if Kim had gotten the shot we may have won. I always miss when it matters.” She shrugged her father’s hand off as they approached the car and climbed into the passenger’s seat. Jacob’s heart sunk as he watched. He had always thought that if he filled his child’s heart with enough love and self-compassion that she would never have to suffer the human affliction of self-doubt. Unfortunately, the last seventeen years had shown this to be untrue.         “Ice cream," he said as he carefully backed out of the parking lot.

        Sitting on the patio of Slicker’s Café, Jacob and Becca both closed their eyes and focused on the warmth of the sun, imbibing its heat in preparation for their desserts. Jacob had told Becca as a child that their family had a superpower; that they could take in the sun’s rays and with its energy prevent ice cream headaches.         “You ready?” He asked.         “Born ready, dad” She replied, smiling with her eyes still closed. They both held their eyes gently shut until they heard the gentle clink of glass on the table. Two large sundaes had been placed in front of them and they smiled at one another, tapped spoons and dug in.         “Dad, can I ask you something?” Becca asked after a delicious spoonful of strawberry ice cream.         	“Anything, always.” He said, setting his spoon down.         “Do you ever think of going to jail?” She poked her sundae absentmindedly with her spoon. Jacob involuntarily laughed, having expected a question about boys or college.         “Umm… not really… is there something you need to tell me?” He laughed again and took a bite of his sundae.         “No, it’s not like that. I dunno. I just, wonder sometimes you know. What if people make mistakes that they never thought they’d make. Or what if you get caught up with the wrong people and are in the wrong place at the wrong time? Like, I was listening to this podcast, and there are so many innocent people in prison just because of bad luck or crooked cops. Or even just because they had a bad childhood, ya know?” She tried to take a bite of the ice cream but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Jacob took a slow breath, taking a moment to appreciate the complexity of youth and its insecurity with the unknown. “There is more in this world that we can’t control, than there is that we can, Becca. Unfortunately, some people start with even less than others, it’s true. But for what we can control; our reactions, our efforts… our choices. For those, we just try to do our best.” He reached out and grabbed his daughter’s hand, giving it a squeeze before she playfully ripped it away.         “Eww, dad. You’re so embarrassing.” She moaned and then began to eat her ice cream in large bites before slapping her forehead with a brain freeze.         The evening sun was setting as they drove west and Becca’s playlist was blaring loudly while she sang along in an even louder, and deaf tone, voice.         “Ya know, hun. If you just turn down the volume, you wouldn’t have to sing quite so loudly” Jacob yelled overtop of her and was met with a waving finger as the lyrics no no no came through the speakers. He smiled and squinted into the sun as they crested a hill and came to rest at a four-way stop. Becca continued to sing and wave her hands wildly through the air as Jacob accelerated forward into an explosion of glass. The music stopped. All noise and light and breath ceased to exist in a moment.         Light returned accompanied by pain. Jacob gasped, and for an uncertain amount of time he was looking without seeing. Slowly, the objects surrounding him gained focus and relevance. A hospital. His leg in a splint and a tube coming out of his chest, attached to a small plastic container with water swaying up and down with every restricted breath. And people. There were people.         “Mr. Malson? Can you hear me?” A tall man in green scrubs with a stethoscope leaned over him, looking at his eyes rather than into them.         “Yeah… yeah I can hear you.” He mumbled. The raspiness of his voice surprised him.         “Good, good. Your throat’s going to be a bit sore. You were intubated for two days Mr. Malson. You were in a car accident. I’m sorry to say that a drunk driver struck your car. Don’t worry, you weren’t at fault Mr. Malson. And luckily the other driver survived and will be held responsible.”         Jacob looked around the room again for a moment. There were monitors tethered to him which were flashing numbers in red, green and yellow. A large ventilator sat to the right of his bed with its tubing slung sadly over it. His bed was the only furniture in the room and even in his semi-oriented state he knew not to expect his wife at his bedside. It had just been him and Becca for so long… Becca. “Becca… Becca?” He forced through his raw vocal cords.         “Why don’t you just rest for now Mr. Malson, you’ve been through—”         “Where’s Becca? Where’s my Rebecca?!” He managed to yell with considerable pain, now starting to panic. The doctor stood up and shifted uncomfortably. “I want to see her. Just bring her in, or wheel my bed—" Jacob began.         “Mr. Malson… your car was struck on the passenger side… unfortunately your daughter’s side sustained the brunt of the impact… she was brought to hospital with you but we couldn’t…” He trailed off, his voice breaking slightly. A weight fell into Jacob Malson’s chest. There was no room for breath, no room for fear, no room for anything but pain. She was gone. His daughter was gone. He had protected her from her first breath but had sat beside her unconscious and unaware as she took her last. The room began to move...or was it him? He needed out, he needed it to stop, this pain. This indescribable, irrevocable pain had to stop.         “Let me out…” he said         “Excuse me?” the Doctor said, raising his eyebrows.         “LET ME OUT!” Malson screamed.         The men turned around at the sound of the prisoner struggling in his chair. He was still appropriately restrained in his pod with leather straps securely positioned on his arms and legs. An IV was firmly secured in his left arm which he intermittently jerked against his restraints but the serum was still infusing well. Like all other prisoners in the facility he had monitors in place to assess his brain waves, heart rate and oxygenation to ensure that he was optimally sedated for appropriate Thought Infiltration.         “Is that Malson again?” A short man in a lab coat muttered to his partner as he absentmindedly entered code into a large computer. He had a balding head with overgrown sideburns covering his jawline and a pair of pants pulled high up over his considerable girth.         “Yeah. Sounds like he’s reaching the end of his cycle. Bless him, he always lets us know.” His partner said from another prisoner’s station a few rows away where he was taking a blood sample.         “What was he in for again?” The shorter of the two asked. His partner stood up with his collection of vials and walked over to his  computer, opening the prisoner’s file and reading aloud.         “Drunk driving… the bastard killed someone’s kid. Apparently, a dad was driving his daughter home from a soccer game and Malson slammed into them after running a stop sign at a four-way. Drunk as a skunk. He’s been sentenced to 500 grief cycles. I’ll be surprised if he ever smiles again after experiencing that 500 times.”         “Well, here goes cycle 127.” Said the short man as he stepped up to Malson and hung a new bag of clear liquid on the IV pole. Malson’s arm stopped jerking after a moment and he began to smile gently as he watched her run down the field once more.


The city was alive amid the harsh down pour of the storm. A few cars drove past by the complex, their glares flashed on his window which usually outlooked the buildings and structures of the eastern side of the metropolis, bright neon and dazzling lights complimented every skyscraper, but in his eyes they were only a blurred glow, like tiny circular objects which were colored in different shades. Sound of rain pelted 1lagainst the glass of his window resonated through his ears. He turned away from the unclear scene, eyes blending in with the mist, a blaring warning of a migraine setting off behind his head. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote lying on the sill and turned the movie volume higher to drown the noise of the rain. It was a rather lonely and cold evening for a twenty something boy who lived in apartment 309. He was now seated on the worn-out couch that looked like it had seen better days in front of a huge flat screen television, currently playing

Titanic

in 75, because he doesn't like setting the volume with numbers that didn't in the number five. All the lights had been switched off after he washed the dishes (he actually washed them) and swept the floor with a

broomstick  (yeah, his step-mom stopped by to rant about her husband, his own father, who wasn't always home. She demanded to clean his house for her.

His  house). And after a twenty minute long of staring at the world through his stupid window which didn't let him see a thing, he opted for wasting the night with a classic in the middle of his lifeless living room. An invisible gust hit him right in his left chest, a pang of loneliness resurfaced from the inky tar that he thought was supposed to be his heart. It happened two weeks ago and since then, it became an everyday routine. Agonizing pain of emotional neglect clung in to every tip of his fiber, like a fist made its way through his ribs and squeezed his heart so tight he was confused why it hadn't shattered. He had always been told he carried such fragile organ. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He was healthy as a caged bird that sat alone behind bars. Being fed daily, taken care of delicately, and yet couldn't attain a freedom to set its wings wide and fly. It had been like this for the past three years. Alone, isolated from the rest of the world, trapped inside his apartment he couldn't call his home. He should be used to it by now, yet he wasn't. Had something became wrong? Surely, there shouldn't be. He familiarized himself into being lone wolf. And a lone wolf never suffer from the miserable damnation it set itself into. But why? Why indeed, he doesn't know. The abject fear of being imprisoned by his own mind had always been unsettling. But it was happening now, and he refused to accept that. He wasn't like...that. He liked to think he was a lot stronger than his friends, his batchmates, anyone that he knew that might carry such

disease . Disease. Ah. Funny word. He wanted to cry, he wanted to shout a big ' fuck you ' to the rest of the world and curl atop his bed with his silly blanket covering him whole as if it could protect him from anything cruel and harsh coming his way. He wanted to end everything despite the good people and things happening around him. He had never feared death, for death is an escape, a relief.

As Jack and Rose ran around the lower level of the ship, with those stupid smiley faces and eyes adorned with whipped-ness while men (slaves) worked their asses off to burn coals, and as he succumbed to the darkness his mind had offered, to the black path that leads to the damness of his soul, a loud

bang!  echoed inside the whole house. Normally, he'd jump out of his wits. But this wasn't

normally.  He doesn't get depressed normally. Not him. Pausing the movie, he stood up and made his way towards the kitchen.ad towards the direction of the unexpected noise, though he was still trying to escape the haze his mind draped over him. It came from the kitchen. His eyes were greeted by an endless pit of darkness (no it was just because he turned all the lights off). The floor was hard and cold under his bare soles. The temperature inside the room dropped, must be because the heater was a nasty motherfucker who enjoyed seeing him suffer in the cold and was possibly waiting for him to die from hypothermia. Stupid ass garage sale. He swore he would never go shopping with his step-mother again. A brush of cold air swirled around the living room, sent a shiver down his spine, making him momentarily forget his depressing thoughts. Goosebumps broke down on his skin as the small hairs at the back of his neck stood. It was cold, very cold. Like It's-my-first-time-in-Antarctica type of cold. His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness ahead of him and he could make out the light switch inside the kitchen. One step, he exhaled, and a puff of smoke came out of his mouth. Two steps and his body felt being dunk in a bath of ice cubes. Three more steps and - Someone just rang his doorbell. He whipped his head towards the direction of the new sound. He doesn't get someone often to ring his doorbell. And definitely not at midnight. He looked at the kitchen once more before heaving a sigh. "Coming!" He yelled, afraid whoever it was on the other side would think he was a lazy dumbass. But seriously, who would knock at his door in late evening while raining? His bare feet strolled the cold wooden floor towards the door as his hand switched the lights on in the hallway, pupils adjusting to the brightness. Those are really bright. I need to replace them as soon as possible. His hand reached the doorknob and was about to twist it open when another surprising

bang!

bounced off the walls of the apartment. It was from the kitchen but it sounded near, as if it was walking up to him and waiting for a right moment to kick him in the shin and slit his throat. Wouldn't that be surprising.

He thought as he contemplated whether to check whatever the heck was falling inside his messed up kitchen and if it was a murderer,

meh . He could careless about a murderer or a psychopath. They could kill him all they want and he would never give a fuck. It's better to be killed than to kill. And, in fact, he would rather be dead than deal with the thoughts swarming inside his mind, unlocking unwanted memories and traumas, and possibly a nameless emotion which could potentially kill him slowly by eating what morals and self-values he had left. Another ring of the bell pulled him out of his trance. He let out a groan and decided to open the door first. He could deal with the burglar/murderer/ghost later. "Give me a sec!" He shouted again while facing the mirror and fixing his bird-nest kinda hair. Fuck, is that pizza in between his teeth? He had pizza for lunch. Another ring. Fuck it. "Dude! What the hell is your problem?! I told you to give me a -" He stopped mid-sentence when he chanced a look at the person in front of him after he opened the door. It was a man dressed in jeans and black tank top paired with stompers and a bucket hat. His features were sharp, eyes a piercing green and lips thin and pink as if molded by angels, the poor lights of the hallway of the complex reflected on his tan skin. There was a dog tag hanging around his neck and a scythe slung over his shoulder lazily. A smirk appeared on the stranger's - "George Williams, I suppose?" The man grinned, flashing white and shining pearls.

"Y-yeah." George stuttered out a reply, heart slowly beating inside his chest. "Who are you?" "I think you know who I am." "Uhm, I actually don't. I don't watch a lot of anime or play a lot of RPG to know which character you're trying to portray- " The smirk on the man's face vanished. George tensed. "Cool weapon, though." He squeaked. He was met with silence. The man lick his lower lip, obviously annoyed, but George felt trapped in a trance as his eyes followed the movement. Shit. Okay. Not the time to swoon, George. Get a grip. "Uhm," He couldn't look the stranger in his eyes. The hallway wall was

really

interesting. "Do you wanna come in? I made roasted chicken..?" Silence. And then a huff. "Sure." The man grunted. George beamed, a child-like smile on his face. "Cool! That's coo - " The stranger pushed him aside and went inside the apartment himself. " - Yeah. Waltzed right in. Great. Feel at home, mister." "I go by Grim Reaper." George nodded as if it was a casual conversation. "That's an awesome name. I go by George but most people call me by my last name. Williams, ew. Like I have a name, Brenda. Use - " "Where's the food?" "Right! The food! You're here for the food. Which I cooked. Hold on." Like a foolish high school student who just glanced at their silly crush, George entered the kitchen with no caution, forgetting the fact that there could be a burglar inside. Or a murderer. Or a psychopath. Or a ghost. "If you can wait for five minutes and I'll just heat this baby up - Fuck!" A sudden force knocked him down on the kitchen floor. He could hear a growl over him. He felt a body weighing him down to stay on the ground, a cold slimy substance fell on his clothed chest. He heard snapping of sharp teeth and another loud growl. George's eyes widen when he saw his perpetrator. It was a large dog with canines as sharp as the knives in his kitchen, eyes flamed with burning red, scars and cuts spread across the entirety of its big face. It was drooling, and looking at George like a predator would to its prey. And they said dogs were man's bestfriend. Bullshit. The creature was on fours above him, snarling when he tried to scram away.

The impact of his fall made his lower back ache but it didn't matter as of the moment. It gritted its teeth right in front of his face, hot (bad) breath hit his nostrils. Too close. His eyes crossed at the creature presented before him. He didn't dare breathe. Because it might be his last one and he didn't want to die in the hands of a...

dog . He wanted to prolong this stupid situation and wait for help. Whose help? It would be embarrassing if the landlord were to ever visit his room, if he were to die tonight, and see chunks of his flesh and organs splattered all over the kitchen and a dog gnawing at his bones. Another growl, he closed his eyes and remained still, accepting his fate, waiting for the monster to begin its feast. An evident

swish

of a blade greeted his ears, and he felt the weight above him disappeared and the nasty breath was gone. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. The dog was gone. Like

gone

gone. There wasn't even a piece of whatever was cut off from its body on the floor. He gulped, feeling a lump was stuck at his throat. Too close. He thought he was going to be eaten alive.

George looked up and saw the man he invited (barged) earlier. He was sitting on the kitchen counter, wiping the blood off his scythe with George's kitchen towel.

Wait. Blood? "W-wha-" He tried to speak but it felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs and he was panting.

The man glanced at him, a brow raised up in question. "You alright?" Was he? Being trampled on with a large monster and flashing its razor-sharp canines before him was a routine he always did at night. Really. Seriously. But one stare at the stranger's eyes and he felt at ease. Safe. He shyly nodded his head.

"Good. We need to go." The stranger stated in a dismissive tone, jumping off the counter and sliding his weapon on his back. George stayed inside the kitchen as the other was already on its way to the front door. He immediately scurried off the floor and followed the man with curious eyes when he realized the man was talking to him. "W-where are we going?" He asked in a scratchy, barely heard voice. But he was heard. The man, or should he say, his

savior , stopped on his tracks and turned around, scythe swinging behind him, blade glinting at the bulb's glare. There was an unknown expression on his face that George found hard to decipher. It was cocky but angry. Seething mad, hot, but in a very smug way. It was complicated to describe when it was mixed with his wild thoughts. Subjective (very biased) thoughts. "I asked you," George started when the man was offering him nothing but silence. "Where are we -" The stranger interrupted him mid-sentence, eyes twinkling in poorly concealed fury. George wasn't sure if it was meant for him or for someone else. "We're going to hell," The man replied with a snarl on his face. "Pay old Luci a visit and have a little chit-chat about that bitch of his, who just attacked you, over a cup of nice and warm tea." Oh. "That's... cool. But I'm more of a milk and coffee type of guy, though - " "George." "Yeah, I'm sorry. Let's go."


Warning: Anti-Asian racism. Some strong language. Diary entry: December 23, 2019: At Kirk’s cabin in North Carolina. I think Alex takes after my brother. They’re both wiry but my mother disagrees. She thinks he looks like my grandmother. Anyway, Alex made me coffee. It’s bitter but I drink it anyway. Kirk’s in-laws are here with their grandkids and everyone’s talking. Outside the trees are bare, branches like veins against a gray sky. I’m just thinking of a poem when Carol says something about a new virus in China. I was about to say hopefully it doesn’t come here but Maddie jumped into my lap. Her long hair brushes against my face. “Watch my coffee!” I say. Maddie ignores me. “Aunt Michele, there are deer outside! Come look.” ……….. February 20, 2020. Diary entry: Some scout moms aren't going to the St. Lucie County Fair. They're worried about the Covid. We went, and Alex bought a weird anime mask. It's made of cloth and plastic. The bottom part looks like a skull's jaw and it lights up when he speaks. Well, it's his money. We went on the Ferris wheel and ate arepas. Nice night. ........... March 1, 2020 News report: Florida becomes the tenth state to confirm its first COVID-19 cases: one in Manatee County, and one in Hillsborough County with a woman who had recently returned from Italy. …… Text to Andrew, March 9, 2020: Grandma is crazy. Everyone's freaking out and she says buy my couch now. Says there'll be good sales! I hope college is going well for you. Love Mom ………. Email: March 13, 2020 Hi Mom the kids seem to be handling everything well, thanks for asking. Yes, they’ve canceled all the scout activities. They extended Alex's spring break and Drew’s college went online. People still need prosthetics and braces, so we're essential. Beaches are closed but we've been able to rent kayaks. We went to one of the spoil islands in the inlet. Saw a manatee and a stingray. Are the city docks open in Palatka? Funny that you mention the shortages. You know what I can't find at Publix? Garlic! I mentioned this to my boss. He reached into a pocket and handed me a clove. He said. “I’ll get you more.” You might ask why he's carrying it. Apparently, it wards off the evil eye. I’ll admit I have some in my pocket now. We need all the help we can get. I bought a light-up mask like Alex's and I wear it to work. The children like it. Anything to make them more comfortable. I put a coffee filter into it for more protection. Alex said people at his high school were scared. "Even if they have junior prom," he said, "a lot of people aren't going." “I don’t see panicking,” I answered. “This isn’t polio. We’re not going to be paralyzed and end up in an iron lung.” "An iron lung?" he answered. "I don't think one can put that in a person, Mom." I hope you got a laugh out of this. Love Michele ………. Email March 25, 2020: Dear Mom. I’m sorry we weren't able to see you but we had to get Drew out of the dorms. He asked his roommate for a ride at least to Melbourne, but Todd didn't have room in his car. Plus his mom didn't want him driving with another kid. Like they haven't been sharing a room the size of my big toenail but whatever. Yes I know Dad could've gone but the last thing he needs is to get sick. I do appreciate you offering a room but I don't know how long the dorms will be closed. Tell you what the place was a tomb. Our voices echoed like it was an old cathedral, not a modern building. All that remained was the undead guardian at the front desk. Okay, it was a bored student in a cloth mask but he didn't look too lively to tell the truth. I'm tired too. Anyway, We loaded up Drew’s stuff in the car. He left the refrigerator and hopefully, no one steals it. On the way out we stopped at a Taco Hell. Of course, only the drive-through was open. As I pulled in, a homeless guy walked up and asked for money. He was pale and smelled like stale beer. His eyes were red and he had tangled black dreads. I told him if he was hungry I’d buy him a taco. He cursed at me and stomped off. Some things never change in good old Jacksonville. I watched him cross the parking lot to Freddie's Diner. He began searching the trash bin for cans I assume. I didn't think he'd bother us so we sat in the car and ate our food. At least the kids did. I decided to sit in the grass. Bad idea. I stepped right into a fire ant hill. And of course, they swarmed me. I danced around cursing. Someone laughed from the empty lot next door. I ripped my shoes off, flung them at the car, then poured my soda on my feet. I wanted to cry-well never mind, we won’t go there. Anyway, I grabbed the wrappers, threw them into a garbage can, and stomped back to the car. Alex saw me and got out, glaring at the homeless guy. The man continued laughing. "Deserved," he called to me. "Hey, you-" Alex began but I pulled him away. "Forget it," I said. "It's not worth it. Let's go. I’ll get something to drink from the gas station down the street.” “Let me drive home, Mom,” Drew said, taking the keys from me. Anyway, we made it home alive and tomorrow is a new day. Love Michele …….. Email to Dad: April 2, 2020: Hi Dad, See what you think of this poem. If I win I’ll get 100 dollars, although I’ll just be happy to see it printed. How are your students doing? Zoom sucks I'm sure. Love Michele. I should have known, I should have when I had to take that thyroid medicine. Get it fixed. It will be all right nothing to it or was there? I should have known, the day my children’s father died (Not even fifty yet!) It was just an inkling Nothing I couldn’t handle See a doctor, change my diet (take these stupid pills) fix my blood pressure. We’re fine, we’re fine. Even as another uncle died young. (It only happens to other people.) Climate change, the Amazon is Burning. I donate every month. A light at the end of the tunnel I see it bright and glowing. I should have known what that was. Someone ate a bat in China or maybe they just sold it and Now I sit at home and play Monopoly with My sons. My oldest is home from college. And my hands itch. The alcohol on them, I guess. I drink it, I wash in it. (Liquor stores are considered essential, are they not?) We can’t stay away from alcohol. Three million unemployed. One of our workers laid off I may be next if We have to shelter. I'm carrying garlic. It wards off the evil eye. Superstition fighting an illusion. My youngest sneezes and sneezes. “It must be the cat, she’s shedding.” But I know now the light in that tunnel might be an oncoming train. On social media (it’s all I have left.) I do not know what is true or not. But I can’t stand to look. I should have known, I should have Known my security My sons' very health and Mine might be illusions. Or they’re real. And illusions shatter. Then there's another. I no longer know reality. I no longer can tell what is illusion anymore. Yeah it’s sad, what else is new? Love Michele ……. Email April 7, 2020: Dear Mom and Dad: It’s all the Democrats' fault. They’re inflating the number of Covid cases because they don’t want to see Trump re-elected. At least that’s what my patient says. I asked her if she really thinks anyone wants to shut the economy down and go broke just because they think our president is a tad useless. “They'll do anything,” she said. One thing that's useless is arguing with people. I shrugged and got on with measuring her for her back brace. At least she wasn’t as bad as the man who came in. He was a Korean War vet with a fractured wrist and a bone to pick. Many of the veterans do and who can blame them? They're dealing with a society that just doesn't understand. Anyway, I asked him how he was managing in these trying times. He said something about his wife having Covid but was doing better now. To be honest, I was distracted. I wanted to make certain my measurements were correct, so I was only half listening to him. His next words changed all that. “It’s the Chinese,” he said. “They caused this virus. They wanted to hurt us.” I stopped charting and stared at this man sitting in my chair. He was as thin as Alex, with gray thinning shoulder-length hair, worn jeans, and black sneakers. He could be anyone’s grandfather, except for what he just said. I asked him to repeat himself. “You heard me,” he said, leaning back. “And it’s true.” I’ve said it’s useless arguing but sometimes one has to try. Especially these days. There’s a plague out that's many times worse than Covid; something that no PPE can protect against. I call it Stupifear. It's fear mixed with fake news. This disorder makes people stupid and nothing can stop it. But I was going to try. I put down my measuring tape, rubbed my eyes, and sighed. “Think about this,” I said. “Why would they hurt their own people? Their own economy? In fact,” I shook my head. “If I was going to release a virus I’d drop it anywhere else than my own country.” I’ve learned you can’t use logic with people. The man leaned forward as if I had to understand. “I’ve seen things in that war.” “What things?” “They used their own people,” he said in his raspy voice. "As targets . In order to trap us." The man shook his head as if to dislodge a long-ago memory. His breath was heavy with tobacco. "They didn't care who died. And they don't care now.” “That sounds horrible,” I said, because what the hell else could I do? I’d like to say I told him to get out, that I was angry and outraged. But I didn’t and I wasn’t. I just felt very sad. Sad that a war from sixty-plus years ago had stuck its claws into a man’s heart and had scarred it so very deeply that he saw evil from simple natural causes. And such a wound would never heal. Or worse, he couldn’t let that hatred go. None of this was an excuse. I knew that. But I felt helpless to change his mind. I didn't even know how. I’m stopping at the bar next to my office tonight for happy hour. I need a drink. Love Michele ……… Email: June 10, 2020: Hi Mom, well you said we all have a straw that will break us. Apparently, mine are goddamned summer activities. Or lack thereof. Yep, the BSA council canceled Alex's scout camp. Because there’s an outbreak in Miami Dade County. They couldn’t take the risk. He was upset of course, but in the end, shrugged it off. I didn't take it well. My boss told me that there were worse things. And he's right. Take Sara’s mother who died from Covid. I think I mentioned it, didn’t I? And what did our meetup group do, you ask? I’ll tell you. We drove past her house in our stupid cars and waved at her. Watch her cry as fifteen of us went by on a day that had no business being this sunny. It should have rained. Hell, the heavens should’ve opened with tears. It didn’t. If any angels wept I know nothing about it. End of April my friend David’s wife broke her hip. I told you about that also. I just didn’t mention that he cried because he couldn’t see her in the hospital. The kayaking group comforted him via Zoom and hoped it would be enough. Because he’s got cancer and quarantined himself. And I held up. I took the boys to Walmart along with half of the city just to do something. We hiked in the woods until we knew them by heart; until the beaches reopened. Who the hell closes the beaches and leaves Walmart open anyway? We're packed in there like sardines because there's no place else to go. How much worse can it be? Sometimes I wonder if DeSantis knows his ass from his-well never mind. When I heard about the camp, I started crying. Drew saw me and ran into his bedroom. I shouted coward at his closed door. He didn't respond. Honestly, I can't blame him. Alex said it wasn't a big deal, but I couldn't stop crying. I locked my bedroom door and texted my friend Sharon. I told her all I had wanted was something normal for Alex. Then apologized. I wrote I’m such an idiot. People are crippled by this. Crippled . We haven't gotten sick at all. I should be counting my lucky stars, not whining . It’s okay to cry, Sharon wrote back. We’re all under a lot of stress. That’s definitely the word for this. Well, no need to worry. We’re all fine, really. I’m working. Drew is doing well in his classes and teaching on Zoom. Alex passed his junior year at least. We might even get another stimulus soon. And I have tequila at home. We’ll all be okay. Love Michele. ……. Email to Mom September 9, 2020: Hi Mom and Dad: Which odds would you gamble? Long Covid or Long mental illness? Which one if both can cripple you? Alex has to go back to school. Virtual isn't cutting it. I'll take my chances. He isn't showering. He wears the same clothes for days on end. He sleeps half the day and is up all night. Brain fog via Covid? Try brain fog via depression. Well, Alex agreed to go back so hopefully it will help. And he has scouts again. He's got an extension for his Eagle rank. He's working on it. Drew settled fine in the dorms. But funny you say he doesn't email you; he texts me almost every day. Mostly it's to ask silly questions. "What's my social security number?" Like I didn't give him his card before he left. Drew also said the dorms had special rooms if he got sick. "Isolation rooms," I answered. "That's good." "Yeah," he replied. "Except they probably drag you off and you're never seen again." Use humor when all else fails, I suppose. Anyway, I'm glad you're getting to see your friends again. Maybe we’ll get to see you for Thanksgiving this year. Love Michele. …… Diary entry, November 30, 2020 Funny how seeing family for Thanksgiving feels reckless. Fauci wouldn't approve. What does he know? Anyway, we all took Covid tests so it's all right. We stayed at a resort in Orlando. Even more reckless but in for a penny and all that. Kirk came with Carol and Maddie. They were kind enough to pick up Drew on their way from North Carolina. We took Maddie to Disney Springs. It’s all outdoors so we figured it would be all right. There were lines to get into many of the stores; Disney was limiting the number of people inside. Of course, we had to wear masks and get our temperatures taken. But at least we were together. ……. Email to Mom, December 20, 2020: We’re looking forward to seeing you for Christmas. We’re going to pick up Drew and then stop in St Augustine to see the lights before we come into Palatka. See you soon. By the way, wanted to let you know Alex is planning his Eagle project. He's going to do a couple of new signs for the county parks. So he's doing better. Love Michele. …… Diary entry: December 26, 2020 St. Augustine was crowded like everyone was sick of quarantine. Like if hell came for them so be it. But the lights on the trees were beautiful. Like strings of tiny stars stretched across the park. The bridges are bright pathways across the bay to the ocean. It was cold for Florida. I hoped it would be like the book The Plague by Camus where the cold signals the end to their disease. Unfortunately, Fauci says winter is the worse for Covid because everyone’s inside. Not tonight though. Tonight we’re all tired of four walls. …. Diary entry: January 5th, 2021: One of the women from our meetup group died today. She'd been in the hospital and they think she caught Covid from there. They had just gotten her off the ventilator. I didn't know her well, but she'll be missed. Her husband held a memorial service for her and I went. Where are the vaccines, Dr Fauci? ........ Email to Mom: February 20, 2021: Hi Mom I’m writing this while I wait in line at the fairgrounds. Today they’re vaccinating the health care workers, so here I am waiting in my car at 7:00 am. I wanted to get here early and I’m not the only one. There must be sixty cars here at least if not more. After this, I'll take Alex to his friend's house. They haven't seen each other in a while. I wonder if I'll be getting the Covid vaccine every year now like we do with the flu. We'll see I guess. Love Michele


Hard rain rattled the window. The occasional cloudburst couldn't drown out my mother screaming at my father. Stiff like a mummy, my hands are hard-pressed against my ears. I'm paralyzed with fear and confusion. In the lower bunk, my little brother sobbed in a fetal position. Leaning over the bunk, I whispered, "Carl... Carl, it's okay." I repeated this lie several times in attempting to comfort him - and myself. His crying was as disturbing to me as the screaming. The front door slammed, and the screaming stopped. I peeked through a crack in the bedroom door and saw a butcher's knife lying on the floor. Mother chased Dad out of the house again - this time with knives. She drank a lot. Sometimes when she drank, she was a werewolf on a full moon. Mom's bedroom door slammed. I heard only my brother gasping for breath. Silence outside our room is tense. I climbed back up the bunk ladder and wrapped the pillow over my ears to drown out the last of my brother's whimpers. It is quiet. Shaken awake in the small dark hours of the morning, I heard, "Paulyray, get dressed. I need you at the store today." It is my father. He whispered he needed my help because Sundays are busy. I liked when Dad said he needed me. Groggy from little sleep, excitement pulled me off the rack in a haze. Winter days are short and cold, but I insisted on wearing denim shorts. And my red, white, and blue cowboy shirt with the fringed sleeves. "Son, it's cold outside," said Dad. I look at him, shrug and shove my scout knife into my pocket and searched for shoes. Dad was a man of few words. He understood kids learn best from the rewards and consequences of their choices. He didn't argue with me but grabbed a coat for me without a word. We slink out of the house. The sky is misting as we sloshed through wet grass to the car. Dad's right: it was cold. Moments later, I sank into the large bench seat of the pinkish-orange Cadillac with the big tail fins. The same car I filled the gas tank with the garden hose two months before. I was playing gas station attendant. I don't remember him being angry with me. Safely nestled on my father's side in the ugly Sherman tank, we navigated the empty streets of downtown Los Angeles. Before sunrise, the glare of streetlights flashed on the wet asphalt. It was silent except for a low rumble of the muffler and tires treading through the drizzle. A lone car passes with a whoosh and splash on the windows. Dad did not speak of last night. He had a lot of kind qualities. Knowing when to talk to a traumatized young boy was not one of them. The sun lies behind the hills as we crawled through city streets. Last night's rain raised the oily odor of the city streets to the surface. The store is a block away. The corner building is plastered with signage. One electric sign remained lit. "Booth's Fountain and Sundries" flashed in the faint light of early dawn. The more prominent signs on each side of the store are dim. The entire building is a bulletin board for every type of service a local would need. Cosmetics, all kinds of insurance, 'notary public' and 'pay utility bills here.' Liquor, ice cream, milk; you name it, there is a sign for it. It is the neighborhood trading post. Shivering next to my Dad, he unlocks the heavy wooded framed glass doors. He nudged it open with his shoulder, and the alarm bell ripped through the neighborhood like a shot from a starter's pistol. It marked the rush to prepare the store for opening. Leaving the door ajar, I remained protected in the doorway. Tied bundles of newspapers had been tossed on the sidewalk. I popped the twine with my pocketknife and ripped off the protective wax paper covers. Sunday editions of the Times and Examiner came in sections and had to be assembled. My bare legs quiver, and frozen fingers work feverishly for Dad's approval. I shuffle the sections together with an assembly routine that gets a smile on Dad's face when he checks on me thru the window. An old pickup pulls to the curb and slows but does not come to a stop. A man in the back plops two more bundles on the corner. It's a small stack of La Opinion, the Spanish paper, and a smaller stack of the Daily Racing Form. Pulling away, the man rubs gloved hands together vigorously and calls out, "Cold, cowboy?" I shrugged to give the impression I'm tough. I cram thick Sunday papers into vertical racks that line both sides of the entrance. I slip into the warmer building, closing the door behind me. Inside the store, lights remain low. I filled sugar containers. My sponge squeaked across the counter and the backless, round red swivel bar stools. The fountain area emitted an odor of disinfectant from last night's sanitizing of rubber floor mats. Sweet smells of ice cream, donuts, and syrups mixed with faint lingering cigarette smoke are stirring. Two large electric heaters pushed a welcome warm sensation around the room. Dad rolled down rubber mats behind the counter. He made quick work of preparing large coffee urns. The aroma of fresh brew saturates the store. He went to the back and returned looking like a pharmacist in his blue smock. Holding the cash drawer and swinging a milk crate, he puts the box behind the register for me to stand on. He reminded me how to open and close the register and a quick review on the skill of making change. The keys to the old mechanical cash register are hard to press with small fingers. I would scoot the crate around the deep chest-high horizontal ice cream freezers. The thick insulated steel folding topside doors were heavy. I struggled to reach the ice cream buckets deep in that freezer. Once, leaning over too far to get to the bottom, I fell in. I had to be rescued as my legs kicked back and forth in the air. Above the freezers are the syrup pumps. Even on the crate, I stretched and balanced on one leg to reach them while holding oversized Dixie cups in my small hand. I memorized how many pumps for a chocolate shake or a cherry cola. I made malts and shakes and responded to the ding of the El Rey infrared oven. It heated po'boy and ham and cheese sandwiches. On frequent breaks, I arranged and reviewed comic books. My favorite sodas were RC Cola, Tab, and Bubble Up. And the candy rack! Big Hunk, Abba-Zabas, and Moon Pies were my favorites. This store is a kid's dream. Dad pointed and nodded towards the door. It's time. I opened one of the heavy entry double doors as Dad flicked on the remaining lights. There was a domino action from the back to the front of the store. Some fixtures pop on, and others fluttered. The store came to life as if a black and white movie turned technicolor. Neon signs, frig lights, phone booth, and jukebox flashed and blinked. The store awoke with the buzz of electricity and color. The back-counter shelves were stacked with assorted ice cream dishes and bone-colored coffee cups and saucers. Alongside is a jadeite Hamilton Beach Triple head malt-mixer and stainless-steel mixing tumblers. The bright-lit mirror behind them could use another wiping, but I couldn't reach it. The aroma of brewing coffee is comforting. I made Boston coffee with lots of cream and sugar. There is an increasing whoosh of cars and trucks from the wet streets through the doorway. Yellow honey-like warmth of sunlight filled the store through one large window. I felt I belonged there. Marvin shuffled in and claimed his regular stool at the end of the counter next to me. He would put his hand on my back and lean over to inspect the comics I'm reviewing. He's an older weathered-faced man about 5' 9", the same height as Dad. Marv's thin from drinking or illness. His usual wrinkled brown suit hung on him. The trousers were too long, and the baggy cuffs gathered on his shoes were soaked from the rain. A cigarette hangs off the corner of his mouth. The worn black fedora gave him the look of a dime-store novel gumshoe except that he wore it on the back of his head like a cub reporter. It covered his stringy hair but for a strand over one eye. He needed a shave. Marvin was always friendly, with a twinkle in his eye when he smiled. He rubbed my crimson-headed noggin and, with a gravelly voice, "How ya doin, kid? Given Pops a hand today?" "On Sundays 'cuz it's really busy," I said. "Good. He needs extra help on Sundays," says Marvin. Dad slides a cup of coffee in front of him and acknowledges him with a nod and "Marv." Dad often fed Marvin coffee and food and gave him small chores to do around the store. I don't know if Marvin had a job as he hung around the store a lot and traveled around town with Dad on errands. Gordon struts in next. He planted himself on the stool on my other side. Gordon and Marvin were usually the first ones in and claimed regular spots. He came in only for coffee and small chats with Dad. A tall man, Gordon, gave me the impression that he might have managed a lumber yard. He's dressed in meticulously ironed khaki slacks and plaid shirts. His hair shaved close to the sides like most men in 1960. He lived a block behind the store, and I'd been to his house a few times. He once gave me an expensive metal toy race car. A British racing green Indianapolis style wind-up he brought from Germany. The store, now bright with sunshine and chatter, when Pauline strolls in. She worked the early shift. Pop says, "Good morning, Pauline," with a slight smile. Pointing at me, Pauline says, "I see he's here again today. You sure you need me?" "Maybe not. It's time he had a regular job," Dad said with a wink. She says, "I'll stay around for a while in case he doesn't work out." Pauline's in her 50s, short and sparky. Under her full-length knitted sweater, she wore a light green waitress uniform and apron. A tight hairnet controlled her wavy red hair. She is full of energy with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor. Immediately opening cartons of cigarettes, she filled gaps in columns of smokes shelved behind the cash register. It is a neighborhood store. The adults called my Dad "Pops." The kids say, "Mr. B." Pops knows the neighborhood, and they know him. He greets all with a smile when they climb onto a counter seat. Kids hand him notes from parents for cigarettes. Sometimes he got a call from parents saying they were sending the kid over. Other times he might call their house to check. He would then staple packs or cartons in a brown paper bag to take home. In a short time, the counter is full up, and the noise and chatter increased. The whir of the big ceiling fans kicked in and sucked out cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked. The public phone rang in the background. If no one stepped up quickly, Marvin might take a message, or he might shut the accordion doors to quiet the ring. Ka-ching of the register, slamming of the cash drawer, the clink of the coffee cups, ticking of the El Rey oven, and the grind and whir of the shake mixers. The store was alive with friendly business. Behind the counter, I mix sodas, malts, donuts, and empty ashtrays. My arms weren't long enough to be trusted with the hot coffee, so Pauline served that. I felt important. In the early afternoon, Hobo Jim bobbed in. He is a large round man with a potbelly. He wore an almost white T-shirt stretched out at the neck. It had food spots and a cigarette burn hole. He slept in his clothing. He made attempts to clean up by slicking back his hair. He was a real hobo and bragged about his escapades. Dad liked Jim. I liked Jim. On occasion, he spent nights at our house for a shower and a meal. He retold stories of life on the rails. He hopped trains, sometimes not knowing the destination. More than once, he was chased and beaten by the "bulls." Jim, a storyteller with a vision of freedom and a lot of embellishment, has us gripped in his vagabond tales late into the night. Tommy showed up to relieve Pauline around two p.m. Short and stocky, he's a youthful mid-30 and energetic. He is fast and smooth in movement but patient with me. Tommy taught me quicker ways to do things. He would lift me to clear off the dishes and show me how to wash cups in the sink at the counter. Tommy made a hard liquor sale a circus act. Everyone's attention is focused on Tommy as he tells jokes and flips the bottle in the air like a juggler. He breaks one now and then to everyone's amusement except Dad. Teens fill the store in the afternoon, ordering sodas, shakes, and some stealing candy. On guard for theft, Tommy watched the candy rack and beer frig. The soda fountain is now a frenzy of kids squeezing between the stools to get to the counter. Most of the customers are very patient with them and assisting the watch for candy theft. It's as if it is their store, too. Like a king in my castle, I scurried behind the counter and rang up sales. I felt years older working the cash register. I tried not to flaunt my freedom to enjoy all the treats available. It seemed I had a lot of friends at the store. I don't remember questioning their motives. A kid dropped coins in the jukebox. The older crowd paid their checks, said goodbyes, and made their way out. The atmosphere of the store changed. Song after song of doo-wop filled the corner. The high schoolers attend Belmont High. Their favorite tunes are the Reflections, the Coasters, and Dion and the Belmonts. The group had no connection to the school other than the name. Tommy played tunes when the kids ran out of coins. He knew the words from hearing the songs over and over. Girls might dance on the corner outside. Others slurp large cherry colas, and root beer floats from giant Dixie Cups and parfait glasses. They sway their heads side to side. Some tapped their glass with spoons. I bopped my head with the rhythm and sang the words I knew. What a day! What fun! The day turns dark, and clouds form again. The energy in the store winds down, and kids go home for the night. The sales turn to alcohol and cigarettes, leading up to closing time. The local street gangs, Clanton and Playboys, cruise the street in noisy old, lowrider cars and send in young couriers for beer and cigarettes. Some of them have been banned from the store. Night falls, and thoughts of going home are creeping back. I don't want the day to end, but I'm tired. Tommy taps the back of my head on his way out. "Thanks for the help, kid." A light rain begins as Dad locks the door behind Tommy, and he turns off the outside lights. A minute later, a young man knocks on the window, pleading for a pack of cigarettes or beer or a short dog of wine. Dad explains to me that this is how a store gets robbed by opening that door after closing. Dad shakes his head back and forth and shuts down the lights, one switch after the other. Dread rises over me while the last bit of life drains out of the store. Dad and I move to the back room, away from the storefront windows to not be seen or someone will keep knocking. He settled into a little cubby behind storage shelves. I grabbed comic books, cherry coke, and a po'boy sandwich. He worked his lever-operated adding machine by the light of a single gooseneck desk lamp. The device clacked and ratcheted. Staring down at the shadow from the lamp we cast across the floor, I stand at Dad's side. I ask him, "Are you moving out?" Surprised, Dad turned, "For a while." Short, no discussion. I wait for more, but nothing comes. I dragged my feet to the storage room, and he returned to the adding machine. In the storeroom, I pushed dusty, heavy boxes of empty quart beer bottles. They're stacked on top of the wood plank that hides the concrete-encased floor safe. Positioning the dusty boxes alongside, I laid on my belly across the dusty boxes. With my head hanging over the side, I reached down and spun the tumbler. I initially wished to open the safe and then slower and slower. Listening to the tick, tick, tick was a  distraction from the mounting dread and held back my tears. The store is silent except for the spinning tumbler and the ratcheting of the adding machine. I watch my Dad's shadow against the wall.


Week 1: As Neal entered the room, she said, "Please sit wherever you are most comfortable. The chair or the sofa." He chose the chair.  "Why are you here?" Neal responded with an attitude. "You tell me."

"That's not my role. Answer the question, please." "The City put me on leave." "For…" "They say I need," he made air quotes, 'anger management.' I had a bad moment." She got up and walked to the desk. She grabbed an envelope with the return address 'City of Springfield, Department of Human Resources.' According to this, you threw coffee at a young woman." "It wasn't hot coffee." "Thankfully, but still. I'd like you to describe the incident." Neal rolled his eyes and let out a big sigh. "Our admin assistant, Zoey, asked me if I was bringing my usual brownies to the potluck." "What about that question triggered you?" He paused as if he was struggling to say the word. "Usual." "What about that word evoked your anger?" Silence.

"You know, it's dusty in here." He touched the surface of the nearby desk and then examined his hand." "Not important." "I don't make the brownies. My wife does." She let that sentence hang in the air, then said, "And…" "Look, she wasn't able to, okay?" "Why?" She said the word softly as if she knew it was dangerous.

"Because she's dead." He shouted the words. He tilted his head for emphasis.

"I'm sorry. I know it's hard, but I needed you to say it. That's all for today. I'll have homework for you each time." "Homework?" "Yes, it will help this process move along." "Well, what is it?" "Exercise. I think you have some bottled-up anger. It's understandable. Exercise will help." "I'm not much of a going to the gym kinda guy. Look at me." She saw a man of medium height and build who was neither muscular nor scrawny. "Thirty minutes of bodily movement. Anything you want. Walk, run, bike, dance, do jumping jacks. Whatever. Just get outside and move. Got it?" "We'll see." He got up and walked toward the door as if it took a herculean effort.

Week 2: Neal walked in and took the sofa this time. "Why are you here?" she asked. "Hello to you, too. Anger management." "Yes, good. Did you go outside and exercise?" "I did. One day, I washed the car. Another day, I mowed the lawn. I even took a walk around the block." "How did you feel after?" Neal shrugged. "Let's go back to the incident with Zoey. From the beginning." He sighed. She just stared and waited. "I was sitting in my cubicle doing a bank rec. I was getting close to zero, you know, completing the reconciliation. Zoey interrupted me." "Uh-huh." "She came bouncing in all happy, not a care in the world. She had this sign-up sheet for the monthly Accounting potluck to celebrate birthdays. Everyone knows I bring brownies." "People look forward to them then? Expect them?" "Yes, they're the best." Neal shifted from sitting to lying on the couch and folded his arms." "Continue." "She asked me if she could mark me down for the brownies. It triggered me somehow. I reached for my mug and threw the contents at her shirt." "You said it triggered you. What about it did?" "Zoey asked me for something I couldn't give her. My wife's brownies. It was impossible." The woman leaned in, her glasses in her hand, as if Neal was about to say something noteworthy.

"Can you describe how you felt?" "I'm not good with feelings." The woman handed him a paper from her lap. "Here's a list of feelings. Which ones were you feeling at that moment?" He took the paper and scanned the list. "How come angry isn't on this list?" "It's a secondary emotion, meaning another feeling evokes anger, like sadness, for example." "Look, angry is how I felt." "Okay, we'll circle back to the list later. Did Zoey know that your wife makes the brownies?" "I don't know." "Did she know that your wife had passed?" "No, no one knows." "No one knows? Why haven't you told people?" "Lotsa reasons." "Okay, that's a good place to pause. Your homework for next time is to tell three people." "Tell three people what?" "That your wife died." Week 3: "Why are you here?" He went straight to the couch and laid down. "Anger management and the loss of my wife." Neal was matter-of-fact. "Good. Did you do your homework? Tell three people?" "I called my sister and told her. She has a husband and son, so that's three." "How'd she take it?"

"Not well. She cried. She wants to come visit. I discouraged her." "Why?" "What good would it do? We'd just sit around being sad. Nothing good can come from that." "Well, there'd be companionship. People need people. You could talk about your wife and remember happier times, perhaps." "Yeah, well. I'd have to clean the house. It's not in great shape. Too much trouble." "Let's shift gears. Let's talk about your wife's death." The woman crossed her legs. "What about it?" "How'd your wife die?" "She got hit by a bus, an accident." "Can you describe the scene?" He sat up, incredulous, "What, you want me to describe the gory details?" "No, sorry. What happened before ?" "We were on the curb waiting to cross the street. And then the bus hit her, and she died." "Did the street sign say 'walk'?" "I wasn't looking at the street sign." He laid back down with his right arm across his eyes as if it would blind him to the memory. Tears rolled down the side of his face into his ears. "I have the police report here. Shall I read it, or will you tell me?" He was unresponsive, so she read the words. "Cause of death: suicide. Witnesses reported that the woman deliberately stepped in front of the oncoming bus." Neal curled into a ball, faced the back of the couch, and sobbed. Several minutes passed, and then they heard a scratching sound. They turned toward the closed door. They saw a cat's paw extend into the room under the door. "Okay to let the cat in?" she asked. After a moment, Neal said, "Okay." "Your homework for this week is to tell your workplace that your wife has died." A month later: A green Subaru pulled up to Neal and Abby's driveway. A man, a woman, and their son exited. The woman, Neal's sister Helen, took the lead and proceeded toward the front door. Before she could knock, something grabbed her attention. Helen heard her brother speaking as if he was on the phone because it was a one-sided conversation. Then she heard angry words followed by sobbing. Helen turned around, looked at her husband, and pointed to the car. The man nodded. They returned to the car and drove away.

Months later: "Why are you here?" she asked. He sat in the chair and leaned forward. "To ask you why you left me, Abby?" "I was depressed. You know that I've struggled with depression for years." "I know. But couldn't you stay for us, me and Shadow?" "You don't even like cats—you're allergic." "You're evading my question." Neal stared, waiting for an answer. "You may find this hard to believe, but my suicide had nothing to do with you. I was in mental hell. It was easier to step off the curb than continue. Honestly, I thought you'd be better off, eventually, without me." "It's like you shifted all that mental pain onto me." "I'm so sorry." She paused to let that sink in. "How are you doing?" "I'm angry at you. I can't forgive you for leaving us." "I know." "How are you doing?" she asked again. "It's not as bad as it was months ago. I'm actually exercising. I get out of the house a bit." "Good. I have a new homework assignment for you." "Yeah? What?" "Apologize to Zoey." Next week: "Why are you here?" she said. Neal sat on the couch. "To tell you that I apologized to Zoey." Abby smiled. "I'm glad. How did it go?" "Well, I think she's still afraid of me." "Understandable." "We were in the HR office. I was so nervous. Zoey stared in her lap. We sat across from each other. I looked her in the eye, well, where her eye would be if she were looking at me. And I said, 'I'm sorry, and that it won't happen again. It's not an excuse, but I was grieving the loss of my wife. I apologize. Please forgive me.'" "All the elements of a good apology. Well done. What did she say?" "Zoey said she understood and was sorry about my wife." "That it?" "I'm cleared to start work again." "Good. Have you forgiven me?" "Not completely." "Are you still angry with me?" "Not all of the time." "Have you thrown any more coffee?" "Definitely not." The conversation lulled. "You know," Abby said, "you really need to clean this room, vacuum, dust, etc." "You're right. I'm having a service come in to prepare for the sale." "You're moving?" "Yep, me and Shadow need a smaller place. Gardening was your thing. We want a condo where someone else does the yard work. I found a place overlooking a pool. Built-in entertainment for Shadow." "You guys seem tight." "We are. He's my cat now. Do you have homework for me?" "Yes, go live your life."


As a police officer for the New Jersey Police Department in Newark. You become accustomed to certain calls over the radio. You become desensitized to some of the horrors this city can throw at you. The world seems to be going to hell and as a police officer and I feel like I have front row seats. My son Josh was the reason I got into the police force. I wanted to make it a safer place for him. We live in a time a lot different then it was twenty years ago. Sometimes I wonder, is it us as parents that are the ones to blame for the madness that's out there. The one thing that terrifies me more than anything though, is getting the call over the radio that some kid, or whoever is shooting up a school. What kind of world are we living in today? When that is something you have to worry about. I remember last year my son was joking around with me about a kid in his class potentially being the person to shoot up his school. I remember feeling sad about it because I had to justify sending my son to a place where the thoughts and fear of being shot were all too real. As I turn up to 11th Avenue a call comes over the radio. “WE GOT A 417 OVER AT BARD HIGH SCHOOL ALL UNITS.” My heart began to beat out through my chest. That was my son's school. I get on-to the radio and asked them what they meant by 417. She tells me there is an active shooter at the school. I gasp for breath as the thoughts of my son being gunned down raced through my mind. As I turn on to Bergen St. I'm greeted by the chaos up outside the school. I ring my son's mobile but I get no answer. I ring it again pleading with the phone to pick up. As I jump out of my car. I see bodies on the lawn outside the school. Police are crouched down behind their cars. A Swat team was gearing up to burst through the front doors, as shots rang out through the air. I ring my son's phone, but still no answer. I leave the phone ring through in the hope he answers. I watch the swat team burst through the doors of the school, as I pray for the phone to answer. A voice is heard over the radio saying they had the shooter cornered in a classroom. As I'm holding the phone to my ear. My son answers. I beg him to tell me he's alright. He cries to me over the phone that he was sorry. “What do you need to be sorry over” I cry out. As he begs me for forgiveness. I hear someone in the background shouting at my son to get on the ground. Then gunshots ring out through the phone and then silence. Then another voice calls out over the radio. “THE SHOOTER IS DOWN. I REPEAT THE SHOOTER IS DOWN.” I drop the phone. I fall to my knees, as the carnage continues to unfold around me. I can't help but think about the last thing my son said to me before I left for work this morning. "I think today is the day people will finally start to listen to me, dad." I just smiled at him and left.


Chapter 1: Alex's Growing Unease Alex walked to the backdoor of the community hall, his eyes scanning over the wedding preparations. It had been a long day in the fields, and he wiped the caked dirt off his clothes. The pristine white tablecloths, neatly arranged floral centerpieces, and gleaming silverware should have filled him with anticipation. Instead, a knot formed in his stomach. Leah glided over, her steps deliberate. "There ya are, Alex. What d'ya think of the decorations? Our families worked so hard on 'em." He conjured a grin. "They're... nice." "Jus' nice?" Leah's brow furrowed. "The elders spent hours makin' sure everythin' was perfect." Alex nodded, searching for the right words. "Of course. It's all very proper." "As it should be," Leah's tone measured. "Our union will set an example for the younger ones." Their eyes met, but Alex felt no spark, no warmth. They were both under a lot of pressure, he assumed. The conversation flowed like a well-rehearsed play. "Have ya finished your vows?" Leah asked, smoothing her dress. "Almost," Alex lied, guilt gnawin' at him. Leah patted his arm. "You'll do fine. Remember, it's all 'bout honorin' our families and community." Alex swallowed hard. He looked at Leah, searchin' for any sign of worry in her eyes, but found only calm. "I have to go see about the napkins. Make sure we have enough." As Leah walked away, Alex's stomach churned. The pristine decorations felt suffocatin', a physical manifestation of expectations closin' in. He tugged at his collar, desperate for air. He heard raised voices from the community office window. "The arrangement was made a long time ago. There isn't a problem, is there?" That had to be David Miller's voice. Leah's father. "There's no problem with Alex. He just had a long day in the sun is all." That voice sounded a lot like his dad, George. Alex had to get away. That conversation wasn't for his ears. He wondered what they could be talking about. Were they talking about me and Leah? Alex slipped away further from the community hall and into the cool evenin'. The voices from the heated conversation still echoed in his mind, mixin' with the soft hum of cicadas. He needed to clear his head before returning home. He took a deep breath, but the air did little to calm his racing thoughts. As he walked down the path, Leah appeared out of the gloom, her steps light and steady. "Alex, wait up!" she called out, falling into step beside him. Alex forced a smile, trying to mask his turmoil. "Leah. Didn’t see you comin'." "We're ok for the napkins." Leah studied him with concern. "Is somethin' wrong? You seem a bit off." He shook his head, trying to sound casual. "Just needed some fresh air. Been a long day." Leah nodded, though her eyes remained skeptical. "Well, if there's anythin' you need to talk about, I'm here. We should be enjoyin' this, not worryin' ourselves sick." Alex offered another forced grin. "I appreciate that. Just got a lot on my mind, I s'pose." They walked in silence for a while, the tension between them palpable. Leah’s presence, though comforting, did little to ease Alex’s growing anxiety. "Well, here we are," Leah said as they reached his doorstep. "Try to relax, okay? We’ll sort through everything together." "Yeah, sure," Alex replied, managing a more genuine smile. "Thanks, Leah." As Leah walked away, Alex entered his home and slumped into the worn chair at his desk. His fingers trembled as he opened his journal. The leather-bound book creaked softly, a familiar sound that usually brought him comfort. He put pen to paper, his usually neat handwriting now marred by the slight shake in his hand. Journal Entry: "What am I doin'? This ain't right. Leah deserves better than a husband who can't even look her in the eye on her weddin' day. And me? I deserve... what? Freedom? That ain't somethin' folks 'round here talk about." Alex paused, chewing on the end of his pen. His gaze drifted to the window, where the moon hung low over the hills. "Maybe I could just pack a bag and disappear into the night. But where would I go? I don't even know the name of the next town over. And what about Leah? She seems content with all this, but is she really? Or is she just better at hidin' it?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If I stay, I’m lockin' us both into a loveless marriage. If I go, I’m leavin' her to deal with the mess alone. There ain’t no easy way out of this, and no matter which path I take, I’ll be breaking something that can’t be mended." Chapter 2: Discovery of the Arrangement Alex's heart raced as he crept towards his parents' study. He had to find out more about what he’d overheard. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, each sound amplified in the quiet house. He paused, listenin' for any sign of movement, but the farmhouse remained still. The study door loomed before him, a barrier between Alex and the truth he sought. He reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The door swung open with a soft groan. Moonlight filtered through the window, castin' long shadows across the cluttered room. Alex's eyes darted from the bookshelves to the desk, unsure where to begin. He moved cautiously, careful not to disturb anything. At the desk, he pulled open the top drawer. Papers rustled as he rifled through them, searchin' for anything related to the "arrangement" he’d overheard. His fingers brushed against a thick folder tucked beneath a stack of bills. Alex's breath caught in his throat as he pulled it out. The label read "Simmons-Miller Union." His and Leah's last names. With shakin' hands, he opened the folder, revealin' a stack of documents inside. As he read, his eyes widened. The truth was there, hidden in black and white. Alex's hands trembled as he leafed through the documents. His eyes darted across the pages. The papers were yellowed with age, some datin' back to when he was just a boy. One letter caught his attention. It was from his father to Leah's, written nearly two decades ago. "The union of our families through Alex and Leah will strengthen our community and preserve our ways." Alex's stomach churned. He read on, discoverin' more letters and agreements. Each one laid out plans for his and Leah's future, decidin' their fate long before they had any say in it. A document titled "Marriage Arrangement" bore both sets of parents' signatures. The date showed Alex had been only eight years old when it was signed. He found detailed plans for their education, courtship, and even the number of children they were expected to have. Every aspect of their lives had been arranged. Alex's mind reeled, makin' it hard to breathe. His entire life, his relationship with Leah, it had all been orchestrated from the start. The next mornin', Alex's hands shook as he clutched the folder of documents. He found his parents in the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee fillin' the air. "Ma, Pa, we need to talk," Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper. His father looked up from his newspaper, brow furrowed. "What's troublin' ya, son?" Alex set the folder down on the table. "I found these in your study. About me and Leah." His mother's face paled as she recognized the documents. "Alex..." Alex interrupted, his voice crackin'. "Why'd you plan our whole lives without tellin' us?" His father sighed, puttin' down his coffee cup. "Son, you have to understand. This marriage, it's more than just about you and Leah." "It's a strategic move," his mother added quietly. "To combine our resources with the Millers, to strengthen our position in the community." Alex's chest tightened. "So we're just followin' orders our whole lives?" His father leaned forward, eyes stern. "This isn't a game, Alex. It's about preservin' our ways, our values. The community needs strong families like ours to lead by example." Alex's head spun as his parents continued to justify their actions. They talked about him and Leah as if they were farm animals they owned. Just then, a knock at the door interrupted their heated discussion. Elder Jonathan Blake and Elder Samuel Greene stepped into the kitchen, their presence fillin' the room with an air of authority. "We just wanted to come by and see how y'all were doin'. The big day is comin' up," Elder Jon said, his friendliness barely maskin' his stern aura. He smiled despite the obvious tension. Alex's father nodded, gesturin' to the documents on the table. "Alex found out about the arrangement." Elder Sam's eyes softened as he looked at Alex. "Son, this union is blessed by the church. It's for the good of all." As Alex listened to the elders speak, his gaze drifted to the living room where Ethan sat, readin' a book. His breathin' mask was strapped to his face. A thought struck him like a bolt of lightnin'. "What about Ethan?" Alex asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was he ever part of any plan?" The room fell silent. His parents exchanged uncomfortable glances. Elder Jon cleared his throat. "Your brother's... condition made him unsuitable for such arrangements." The realization hit Alex hard. While he'd been groomed for a predetermined life, Ethan had been left out entirely. The unfairness of it all made his stomach churn. Chapter 3: Alex’s Choice Alex's heart pounded as he entered the Community Church. The familiar scent of wood polish and old hymnals did little to calm his nerves. His parents, Leah, her folks, and the elders were already seated in a semi-circle near the altar. "Alex, come join us," Elder Jonathan called, his voice echoin' off the high ceilings. Alex took a deep breath and stepped forward. The weight of his newfound knowledge pressed down on him like a physical burden. "Before we start," Alex said, his voice shakin' slightly, "I need to say somethin'." All eyes turned to him. Leah's brow furrowed in confusion. "I know about the arrangement," Alex continued, his words gainin' strength. "I found the documents. This marriage, our whole lives, it's all been planned out since we were kids." A heavy silence fell over the group. His father's face hardened, while his mother looked away. Leah's eyes widened in shock. "You've all been decidin' our futures without even askin' us," Alex said, his voice risin'. "Did anyone ever think about what we might want?" Elder Samuel leaned forward, his expression stern. "Alex, you need to understand-" "No," Alex interrupted, surprisin' himself with his boldness. "I understand plenty. What I don't get is how y'all thought this was right." Alex's gaze swept across the faces before him, a mix of shock, disappointment, and anger starin' back. His hands trembled, but he clenched them into fists, steadyin' himself. "Why?" he demanded, his voice echoin' through the church. "Why'd you decide our lives before we could even speak for ourselves?" Elder Jonathan cleared his throat. "Alex, this is about more than just you and Leah. It's about the community, our way of life-" "Our way of life?" Alex scoffed. "You mean controllin' every aspect of our lives?" "Alex, stop." Leah's voice quaked slightly. Her eyes looked down at her hands. The elders exchanged glances, their faces growin' stern. Elder Samuel leaned forward, his voice low and menacin'. "Think carefully about what you're doin', boy," he warned. "Defyin' the community has consequences. You'd be turnin' your back on everything and everyone you've ever known." Alex felt a chill run down his spine, but he stood his ground. "And if I do? What then?" "Then you'll be cast out," Elder Jonathan said, his voice heavy with finality. "No family, no friends, no support. Is that what you want?" Alex's heart raced as he looked around the church, takin' in the faces of those who'd shaped his entire life.

He thought about the safety of the path laid out before him - the familiar routines, the community support, the life he'd always known. But with that safety came an invisible cage, one that had been slowly closin' in on him since birth. The uncertainty of the unknown loomed large in his mind. What would life be like outside the Appalachia? How would he survive without the only support system he'd ever known? Alex's gaze fell on Leah, her eyes wide with confusion and hurt. He felt a pang of guilt, knowin' his decision would affect her too. But as he looked at her, he realized they were both victims of others' choices. In that moment, somethin' inside Alex snapped. The fear and doubt melted away. "No," he said, his voice steady and clear. "I won't do it. I won't marry Leah, and I won't let you control my life no more." Alex stood tall, his resolve strengthenin' with each passin' moment. The weight of expectation that had burdened him for so long began to lift, replaced by a newfound sense of freedom. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice steady. "But I can't live my life based on your plans. I need to find my own way." Elder Jonathan's face reddened. "You're throwin' away everything we've built for you!" Alex shook his head. "No, I'm choosin' to build somethin' for myself." He turned to Leah, her eyes red. "I'm sorry, Leah. You deserve better than this, too." With a deep breath, Alex turned and walked down the aisle. The heavy wooden doors of the church creaked as he pushed them open, steppin' out into the warm sunlight. He paused on the church steps, the world suddenly seemin' both vast and unknown. Fear and uncertainty swirled in his gut, but underneath it all, a spark of excitement flickered to life. Alex took his first step away from the church, away from the life that had been planned for him. He didn't know where he was goin' or what lay ahead, but for the first time in his life, the choice was his to make.


The sound of the circular saw filled the room. The 32-year-old man stopped to enjoy the smell of the fresh sawdust and lumber. The father exuded good health with an athletic form and not an ounce overweight. On the floor beside the father, Sandy—a red-headed six-years-old—searched for something to go with his wooden blocks. What he found was a board mounted on legs. He placed it beside his blocks. With a mallet, he pounded the circular block in the round hole and the square block in the square hole. Daddy, pleased at what he considered a child’s job, noted Sandy’s satisfaction. Then the father groaned at the sound of yelling boys. The source came from the lumber storage room. Once inside the room, the father took time to witness what was going on. Kim, the twelve-year-old son, said, “You weren’t playing with it.” He hung onto the front end of the large, toy dump truck. Terri, the ten-year-old son, hung onto the back end of toy truck. “So what! It’s mine!” Both children yanked their end of truck.            The father said, “Come here, you two.”            “Put my truck down, Kim!”            “I’m going to play with it! Dad told you to share.”            The stern, but calm, Dad said, “Carry the truck together and come here!” Both boys obeyed. “Now. What’s this all about? Kim, you’re older. You go first.”            “Terri wasn’t playing with the truck, so I started to,” Kim whined.            “What is your story, Terri?” asked Dad.            “It’s mine. I got it for Christmas.” Terri continued with his firm pull on the truck.            Kim responded with another hard yank.            The father, being stronger than both, grabbed the toy truck away from both boys.            “Kim, did you ask Terri first?”            Kim ignored the question and glared at Terri. “Just because it’s yours, doesn’t mean you will not have to share.”            The father pursed his lips momentarily before speaking. “Since you two are going to fight over it, I’ll just give the truck to Sandy to play with for now.”            In perfect unison, Kim and Terri said, “Dad!”            “I warned you during your last fight. I told you if you didn't change your attitudes, I would give it to someone who would appreciate it, like Sandy.”            “But he doesn’t play with trucks,” said Terri.            “It’s a dump truck,” said Dad. “He can put his wooden blocks in it and dump them.”            Ten years later, Kim and Terri—now young adults—sat at the dining room table. Sandy, now sixteen, joined them.            “Have you decided,” asked Sandy of the other two, “how to invest the money Dad gave each of you?”            “Not for sure,” said Kim. “I will ask my accounting teacher for advice.”            “I’m still a minor,” said Sandy, “but I figure I can still use the time to research my idea. I found some forty-year-old furniture plans. With the measurements I’ve taken from Grandpa’s old chairs, I can design a new line to sell. What about you Terri?”            Terri crossed his arms and formed a ”V” with his eyebrows. “You would like his old junk. He is so old fashioned.”            “Yep,” said Kim. “Old fashioned enough to tell me to re-order for oak lumber. Dad threw a fit because I ordered an advertised special . . . At least he is giving us a chance to prove ourselves with this money.”            “What good will it do?” snarled Terri. “It’s all for the company. I won’t get any good out of it.            “Why’d he give me any money? He didn’t like my ideas for advertising and modern styles. Obviously, he trusts you more than me.            “I mean what can you do with a $1000? Nothing!” Terri pouted. “I don’t even care what happens to it.”            Sandy replied, “Why don’t you ask Dad why he gave you only that much? If you spent more time with him, you would know what is possible.”            “Dad didn’t appreciate other things I’ve done for him. Why should I believe he will appreciate what I do with this money? If I didn’t have to obey him, I would be freer, happier, and better off.”            Five years later, the time came to examine the returns on the money the sons had been given to invest.            “Sandy,” the father and business owner said, “I’m receiving compliments on the new, that is, your line of furniture. And you brought it in under budget. Very good.”            “Those new orders mean we can expand. Kim, can I depend on you to help us?”            “Of course, Father. I invested my money in learning accounting. Here,” Kim handed him a paper with graphs and an annual report on the business. “I believe I can do a good job of forecasting with the new computer. It’s calculated in the last page of the budget.”            “Excellent!” said Father. “Now, how did you invest your money Terri?”            Terri remained silent, arms crossed, and motionless.            “Terri?”            Terri handed him a check.            Father considered the check, then looked at Terri. “This is the same check I gave you to invest. Not even a little interest? Didn’t you do anything?”            It’s not my money. I couldn’t even buy enough advertising for us for that amount. You need money—not skill or quality—to make a business today.”            “That’s not how I built this business!” stated the owner while controlling his temper. “I built it by caring about the quality of my furniture. And being devoted to my employees and customers.            “Just like years ago and that toy dump truck.” The owner snatched the check, “I’ll give it to someone else. Kim, void this check.” He handed it to Kim and continued, “Terri, I’m putting you at the bottom of the assembly line so you can learn hard work and the business.”            Kim voided the check by tearing it up into little pieces.            Terri exploded. “I’m tired of your ideas about what works and what doesn’t. I demand my share of the business. Today.” Terri lowered his voice a little. “I’ll show you how to run a business.”            Father said, “Kim, make the arrangements to get his share of the company.” Kim grinned at being rid of his brother. “Gladly.” “But, Terri, you have to make it completely on your own. You won’t live in my house.”            Terri observed out his office window, Mr. Bauman , his business building’s landlord. He came through the door under the sign “Terri’s Furniture for Less.” The building inside showed plenty of machinery, but no people to run them.            “Well, Mr. Terri Drayer, it’s the first of the month and I need my rent money.” He held out his hand. When Terri didn’t immediately offer anything, he said, “The rent is due. Do you have it?”            “No sir,” he said meekly. Then came the excuses. “It took more money than I thought for the equipment. Then I had to replace workers who wouldn’t show up or goofed off with ones who did the work right.” Whining, he continued, “They cost more. Then the advertising--.”            “I don’t care,” said Mr. Bauman “I run my business renting buildings, not a charity. The first two years you were on time with the rent. Then it started to be two weeks late. Finally, I allowed you six months without payment.”            “When Terri opened his mouth to speak, Mr. Bauman immediately cut him off. “No more time.” “You won’t give me any more time?!” Terri said.            “That’s right. But I tell you what. I’ll take all the equipment in trade for the back rent.”            “But—”            “Take it or leave it. Out within thirty days, or I sue.”            “I have no place to go with it all. Even if I found a place for the machines, I would have no place to go with the furniture.”            The landlord saw the lumber in the corner. “Tell you what. Give me the lumber for hauling all the wood and furniture and everything off. The high school pep rally is having a bonfire, and they could use the wood.”            Terri glumly looked at the walls, as if they could help. He took a deep breath.            “I agree. Now where will I get money to live on?”            The landlord examined all corners of the equipment. Without even looking up, he said, “They are hiring green bean pickers at the edge of town.”            Terri groaned.            Fresh air did not make the job of picking beans any more pleasant. Terri had to stoop over to pick them. He moved his half-filled basket by slamming it to the ground.            “You better not do that,” said his co-worker in the next row. “They dock for bruised beans.”            An irritable Terri said, “I’m not used to it. Fifty cents per basket is ridiculous.”            The co-worker stretched his neck to see into Terri’s basket. “You sure aren’t picking many beans. To make money you need to pick faster and not take breaks.” He moved ahead of Terri with almost a full basket. “Did you use to have another job?” Terri nodded. “Why’d you ever quit?!” “I thought I could do better than my father.” The co-worker finished his basket and moved out of range for talking. Terri spoke to himself. “I thought my father wasted money on benefits on behalf of the employees. Then he gave shares of the company to workers. I didn’t understand that. Yeah. Dad was generous like that. Even the janitor received benefits.” Terri straightened up, stretched, and considered his two-thirds filled basket. “What do I have to lose? I’ll go back to my father. I’ll go back to him and say, ‘I made a fool of myself. I used all the inheritance. I am not worthy of being called your son. Just let me be a janitor or some small job.’ That’s what I’ll do.” Now alone in the expanded office, Kim and Father discussed expanding the manufacturing building. Sandy rushed in, so out of breath, he could only speak one word at a time. “I . . . saw . . . him.” “Are you sure?” asked Father. Confused, Kim asked, “Who is it?” Sandy said, “I’ve been watching every day like you told me.” Pointing at the exit, he said, “He’s at the end of the driveway.” “Get the steaks out, Sandy! We’re going to celebrate tonight.” To Kim, Father said, We’ll give Terri the keys to the new car. Let’s go out to meet him.” “NO! I won’t go with you. All these years, I’ve stayed here and done what you asked. “But you never so much as offered me use of the company truck. And here, as soon as that son comes, you say ‘Get the keys! Get the steaks!’ Never mind he poured hard-earned money down rat holes.” The older man looked on his son, Kim, with sympathy. “Son you are always with me. I can’t tell you how much that has been worth to me. I’ve always considered what is mine is yours. “It is right to rejoice now. My son was dead and lost, but now is found and alive.”