In the Event First, it was the phone in the study. They both ignored it. To answer it was to surrender or worse to agree. Then it was the siren and flashing lights coming from the alarm panel in the hallway. That continued for minutes until something had to be said.

“What did you do?” Leona yelled from the kitchen. “I didn’t do anything,” Leonora replied, as she came down the stairs. “What did YOU do?” “You were here with that creep with the weird face.” “You were here, too. How else would you know?” Had they been able to cooperate they might have avoided blame. But they were not and so it fell upon them. They were the only two home and someone had blown up the world-wide web. Outside, a fleet of oversized SUVs was pulling onto the street. NSA, FBI and Secret Service men ran from their vehicles, weapons drawn, and across the Senator’s lawn towards his house. In their haste they knocked over one of the sheep and snapped the arm off the wisemen holding out his offering of incense or myrrh to the baby Jesus. Not even Christ in the Manger was afforded respect in a national emergency. Christmas was ruined, too. The Senator and his wife arrived minutes after in a chauffeur-driven limo. They had been at the Chilean Ambassador’s residence in Dupont Circle when the Senator’s Secret Service detail interrupted him mid-sentence. He had been trying to woo the wife and model of the famous Spanish painter, Rudolfo. One of his pieces, a nude in pastel, hung in the Ambassador’s study above his desk and once the Senator had gotten a look at the dark of her nipples, he had squeezed between her and a tray of pimento-stuffed anchovy rolls to introduce himself. It was all the Secret Service agent could do to catch his attention and share the news that his computer had been used to release a worm that was now spreading by fiber-wire around the globe. The agent was surprised by the Senator’s aplomb and felt reassured. The Senator was mulling over his options, among them ignoring the dire news and continuing to pursue his fantasy. Leonora and Leona were sitting in the living room on matching black leather chairs. Behind each of them stood a man in black military clothing and matching helmet. An automatic rifle was strapped across his chest and one gloved hand gripped the trigger guard while the other draped free at his side, ready to balance and aim. Leonora wore Lulabelle yoga pants, a knit sweater and ankle-high Sheepskin boots. Leona was still wearing the dress and coat she had gone out in, but not the jade green high heels. “Daddy, it wasn’t me,” Leona said as soon as the Senator came through the front door. “So quick to blame others,” Leonora snapped back. The Senator ignored them. He moved under escort through the vestibule, past the fir wreaths and strings of Christmas lights towards his study. With him was his Secret Service detail. He was still wearing his overcoat and scarf. Leona sighed. The Senator was followed by a short man in a dark rumpled suit that was worn at the sleeves and too thin to muffle the sounds coming from his stomach. “Damn,” he said to no one in particular, “That chili’s putting up a good fight.” The Senator dismissed him. The French called people like him a fuctionaire . It was an appropriate title for someone who is paid to do nothing in particular. “It looks like your computer was used. Is it always on your desk, open like this?” the short man asked the Senator. The Senator reached out. “Don’t touch it. We haven’t examined it yet.” The Senator winced. More important to him were the loose papers next to the computer. They were the first few pages of the memoir that he was writing, a gut-heaving, throat-burning pouring out of his thirty-five years in Washington. He covered them with the thesaurus that he had been using to find alternatives to the word ‘impotent.’ “So what happens now?” the Senator asked. “And who are all these people?” “Well, sir. We’re the people that are going to figure out how to save the world.” The Senator felt the rumblings of the champagne and hors d'oeuvres he had enjoyed earlier. But it may have also been a reaction to the short man. He wanted to tell him, that after all the briefings he’d received over the years from diplomats, analysts and spies, there were parts of the world that just weren’t worth saving. But he feared giving him the wrong impression. Ideas freely offered to such a man as this might be misused, turned into accusations and evidence. So he was cautious not to say aloud what he was thinking, that now that the worm was out it might not be a bad thing to let it run its course. Besides, it was just as likely that some good would come from the world ending. History is the proof of that. In the face of calamity, great men have always stepped forward, genius has found a way and the disaster is averted. It was a crap-shoot. There was a clamor coming from the front room. Sounds of anger and confusion. A rush of men moved past the study door. The Senator’s wife had just forced her way through the barricade of armed guards at the front door and was now standing under the hall chandelier cursing at those who had tracked mud and bits of straw up the carpeted staircase. “Who’s in charge here?” she yelled out. “Move out of the way. Your guns don’t scare me.” She pushed her way into the front room where the girls were sitting. “What have they done to you?” she asked the two girls. “Why are my daughters sitting in here, are they under arrest?” Leonora jumped up, “Mother, this is her fault.” “They took my cell phone. I can’t even reach Max,” Leona whined. The Senator joined them. “Cell phones aren’t working anyway.” The short man said. “The internet is down. The world depends on the internet.” “Back to the stone ages, that’s where we’re headed,” another man, younger than the first, but dressed in the same kind of rumpled dark suit, said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” the short man snapped back. “It’s just something I heard,” the younger man replied. There was tension in the air. The Senator could see it in the furtive glances of the men with guns. They were nervous. It was a moment of history when choices are made and later written about by those who lived through it. The world had never ended before and these men, these poorly dressed bureaucrats, were in need of someone to blame. It was someone in this room. “We just took a look at the security camera footage from your office, Senator,” the younger man said. “Fortunately, it was recorded on CD.” “My God man, can you do that without a warrant?” the Senator demanded. The short man frowned. The Senator needed to negotiate, he was at a disadvantage and there was a chance that he might become the target of their inquiry. Did they know about his role in the Senate’s investigation of cyberterrorism? Would the CD expose his growing anarchism? Would it indicate his frustration with the democratic process and his declining interest in being a part of it? Would it show him sitting in his study night after night running the cursor over the execution file hoping for a sign?

“There is someone in the video that’s not here now. Someone that was in your office this evening. He is what we call a person of interest. Do I have permission to ask your daughters if they can identify him,” the younger man asked. The Senator let out a sigh of relief. “Who’s the man in your father’s office? He looks like…well, you know what he looks like.” the younger man asked. “It’s her sleaze-of-a-boyfriend,” cried Leona. “He was probably stealing top-secret documents or shipping drugs in the diplomat pouch.” “Shut up. He didn’t do anything,” Leonora insisted. “I concur, to my knowledge he never has done anything,” the Senator said. “And I highly doubt that he is capable of destroying the world.” He was relieved to hear that he was not the focus of their investigation. “Daddy,” pleaded Leonora. “This is serious, Senator,” the younger man said. “Point of clarification,” the Senator said. “It was serious, now it’s not. That’s the ironic thing about the end of the world.” The lights in the house dimmed, fluttered and then went out. Everyone gasp, except Leona, who could see that the manger in the front yard was still aglow and she felt at that moment flushed with hope. Beams of light from a dozen flashlights switched on, scanning faces and the shadows nearest them. The guards with the automatic weapons had flashlights mounted on their helmets so that wherever they looked light followed. Two of them got into a flashlight war that could have meant “Stop looking at me” or “I like you, too.” Again, Leona was only one to notice and the hope that had come to her from seeing the manger bathed in an angelic-glow and feeling God’s presence, was extinguished.

“Just because the world is ending doesn’t mean we have to destroy it. Darnel, please apologize to your daughter,” said the Senator’s wife. “All of us need to act with a little more restraint. You two girls in particular.” The shorter man was following the family’s conversation with his flashlight, from Leonora’s face to Leona’s face and back again until he realized a defined similarity between them. “Are they twins?” he shouted out. “No,” responded Leonora. “Yes, but not by choice,” responded Leona. “There’s still the question of the boyfriend,” the younger man reminded his counterpart. “There always is,” the Senator said. “That is enough,” the Senator’s wife said. It was certainly enough for her. The Christmas tree was a dark specter in the corner and the turkey and ham she had bought were spoiling without refrigeration. Her house was filled with strangers with poor manners and her Christmas-spirit had turned to anger and ill-will towards all and she realized that in the waning hours of her existence, she wanted to smash the Senator’s face in. She wanted to claw at his face, pull his perfectly draped tie around his Adam’s apple till his eyes turned red. She wanted to step on his hands and hear the bones crumble like sandstone so that he would not be able to touch her. She wanted to spill out the years of bottled-up anger, all that she had kept inside while she stood next to him at campaign rallies and inaugural balls. She wanted to pay him back for having to listen to him deflect blame, avoid responsibility and betray his oath. She wanted to hold him accountable. She wanted to ask him about the book he was writing and whether he would talk about the times that he had returned home from his diplomatic trips and junkets with new underwear. Did he think she wouldn’t know? She had packed his bags for him. She wanted to ask him about the thick-stuffed envelopes he had been receiving from Panamanian banks. She wanted to ask about the trips she had made to the Dirksen Senate Office Building to visit him and was told by his staff that he was out of town or in a hearing or on a call, but they had not yet learned how to lie. She had held it in for so long and now at the end of the world, she just wanted to do what she should have done a long time ago, what anyone in her position would do. But her southern upbringing kept her from doing it and, instead, she remained focus on the family. “How was dinner, dear?” she asked Leona. “Nice, but I think I lost my shoes.” “Not to worry. They’ll show up.


Ever since I was little, I was told to act a certain way. I've been told what to do my entire life, what to say, how to act— basically, how to live.

'Alicia, don't talk too loud since people don't want to hear you. It's rude'. I wish I had the courage to say, 'how can you think that it's ok to say that to me, to minimise me into someone I don't want to be. Someone who doesn't like themselves. Someone afraid'. But I didn't say anything.   'Alicia, when people ask how you are, they don't care. Just say you are fine, don't tell them your issues'. What I wanted to say was, 'just because you don't care, doesn't mean others don't. Maybe if you had an ounce of empathy, you could understand that, Mum’. But I didn't say anything. 'Alicia, you can't be a journalist because that job is not suitable. Be responsible like your sister and become a lawyer'. I wish I said, 'living my dream and doing the job that I am so passionate about is NOT unreasonable, Dad. It's called living a full life and doing the things that I actually want to do. Being a journalist will allow me to give people a voice, and I can help by telling their stories. Stories that will make a difference in the world!'  But I didn't say anything. Every time someone told me how to do something, I always had a remark on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to voice. A comeback that boiled in my blood. I don't know why I never stood up for myself, maybe it's because of how I was raised. The rules that have been drilled into my head. I'm not sure what exactly happened today. I can chalk it up to a handful of reasons. But I think it happened because every little thing that I held back, that I never said was filed away, until the point of overflow. I guess it was more like a volcano. The pressure of keeping everything I always wanted to say piled up and the pressure grew and grew until I exploded.

Before I can tell the story, you need to know something about me. I'm 27, and I'm the assistant to the editor of a local newspaper. Even though I have a degree in journalism and have been in every journalism club possible, my boss said I had to 'prove myself' by working as his assistant for a year. I've worked for him for almost two years now, and I don't think I will be able to prove myself to Mr Jones, ever.

I only stayed at this job because working at this newspaper has been my dream since I was little. I remember reading this article about this injustice that went on for so long and they stayed voiceless for so long until someone gave them a chance. Someone carried enough to let the world in and learn about this issue. I remember thinking this person is a superhero, possibly prevent future incidents. So, If I leave this job, then I guess, I feel that I am giving up on my dream or confirming my parents' ideas that I should have become a lawyer or a doctor. So, I hold on to the idea that Mr Jones will give me a chance and assign me a story one day. I think part of me knows that I will never get that promotion and this whole agreement is a joke.

You are probably thinking, ‘ why don’t you just leave? Find a similar job?’ A rational person would. A rational person would put their needs first and stop this horrible person rom bullying day in and day out, holding on a sliver of hope.  I think the reason why I haven’t made a big deal or quit is because of those lovely rules my parents drilled into my head off to 'not make a big scene' and 'do what you are told to do'. So, I act like a little soldier, marching along and fulfiling my duties.

So, when I arrived at work this morning, I as thirty minutes early, like I always am, to make sure everything is prepared for the day. Then, I run across the street to get Mr Jones' breakfast-- coffee with a hint of vanilla and an egg sandwich—before I rush back to hand it to him a few minutes later. I'm not sure why I have to get him breakfast or coffee every morning since he passes the cafe every morning. But, I do.

When Mr Jones walked onto the floor this morning, he took a sip of coffee before spitting it back into the cup. 'Alicia, get in here!', he yelled. I quickly filed into his office, standing in the doorway. Shoulders hunched to make myself small, unnoticeable. 'That coffee that you got me today was--I don't know what you were thinking that it was ok to-to give me that vile— that rubbish!'

'You have a lot of nerve. How dare you talk to me like that. You walk by that FRICKING cafe every morning on your way to work. Why can’t you be a big boy and get your own breakfast! 'Which is what I wanted to say. These words sat at the tip of my tongue. In reality, I took a deep breath to quell my anger, figuratively tucked my tail, and apologised excessively. 'Sir, I am--am SO sorry. I gave your usual order...and it was a new employee who made your drink. I know that shouldn't excuse the fact--he shouldn't haven't given you that--' Interrupting me as per usual,  he seethed. 'Why didn't you ask for a REAL employee to serve me

my

drink? Alicia, go get me my drink and

try

to do it right this time. If it is possible. If you can handle this

simple  task. I quietly walked out of his office and out of the building. If I spoke another single word to him, I would have lost it. I would have said horrible things back to him, but I didn't. I always don't stand up for me and let jerks like him walk all over me like that. I hate that I never fight for myself.

A few hours passed since that lovely interaction, and Mr Jones seemed somewhat pleasant since I brought him back his replacement coffee. So, maybe it was going to be a good day. Right? Yeah, that’s funny because I was

so  wrong. It was mid-afternoon and I was at my desk, answering the last few of Mr Jones' emails. Most of his emails are from people suggesting crazy news stories that are not newsworthy or completely made up, and people asking for jobs. A typical day. Suddenly, I heard a slam as if a hand slamming against a desk followed by a metal chair being thrown back against the wall.

Mr Jones flung the door open, 'Alicia, where is the spread for tomorrow's edition?’, he yelled. ‘Actually, just get in my office now!' I quickly jumped up and followed him, closing the door. Mr Jones stood in front of his desk, a few feet away. 'I specifically asked for you to get this ready earlier today! One mistake after another. You are so incompetent that it is laughable'. He walked around his desk and sat down, his eyes boring into me, like a predator sizing his prey. He spoke like he was spitting venom, so much malice in his voice. 'I expected more from you. I thought you could handle a simple task, but you obviously need me to hold your hand for every...single... thing!' 'Mr Jones, I am so sorry! It must have slipped my mind. I'll grab it right now and personally deliver it', which is what I meant to say. I truly meant to say this to him, but I didn’t. ‘'Mr Jones, you are unbelievable! You never, not once, asked for the spread. It must have slipped your mind since you are so busy doing

nothing  all day. I do all the work for you, and you get the credit. And the salary! I had enough!' I circled around his desk, looking down at him. 'Two years ago, you

promised  that you would promote me as a

journalist,  if I could prove myself, but how can I freaking

prove  myself, if I am stuck being your assistant! You have been so, so horrible to me since I started--'. I laughed almost hysterically. 'I don't know why I ever thought you would change, that you would give me a chance, but I'm done. I quit. Get the spread yourself!' I walked out of his office and straight to my desk. I don't know why I waited so long to fight back. To fight for me. But it was exhilarating! It was like a runner's high, a burst of endorphins filling my body. And I couldn't stop smiling as I grabbed my purse and jacket, and walked right out. Thirty minutes later, still on my runner's high, so to speak, my mother called. Out of habit, I answered on the first ring. 'Alicia, your sister and her husband are coming to dinner tonight. I was calling to remind you not to be late as usual’ Thanks, Mum for always finding a way to insult me.

Appreciate  it. ‘I know you take your

journalist  job very seriously', almost spitting out the word ‘journalist’ as if it was the most disgusting thing she ever said,  'but try not to be late. It is not fair to your sister and Nathan to have to wait for you. They are very busy people'. I tried to get a word in, but my mum kept talking. 'And I am inviting Jason Taylor over tonight, so try to wear something that won't embarrass me. You are not getting any younger--'

I honestly don't know the rest of what she said, but I saw red. 'Mum, will you shut up?! Who do you think you are that gives you the right to speak to me like that? I am your daughter. Your daughter! Actually, you shouldn't speak to anyone like that because that is called being a decent human, but you wouldn’t know how to be one! And I am NOT an embarrassment because I don't feel like dressing up at our

weekly  family dinner. It’s dinner. It’s not some grand affair! And I am busy too! So, if I am working late, maybe it’s because I am busy doing my JOB! I know that it is not the job you would have liked for me, but I want to do it! The one thing I ever did for me! And it is important to me, so you could try to be happy for me.’

And then it occurred to me that I don’t owe my parents anything. If they can’t treat me like a human and how I deserve to be treated, then I don’t have to spend time with them. I don’t have to do the ridiculous things they want me to do. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I am not. I don’t have to be set up on a date with someone I am not interested in. If they actually cared about me, they would know that I’ve been with someone for the last  two years. But I never wanted to subject him to my family’s insanity.  It’s seemed cruel to do that to him. So, I used my long-lost bravery I recently found and said, ‘Actually, Mum, I'm not coming to dinner tonight. I'll let you know when it is convenient for me to see you… or when you can start treating me how I should be treated .' I hung up. I couldn't believe it! I lived out my teenage fantasy of yelling back at Mum. But, as I walked down the street to my apartment, my endorphins must have run out because the utter fear of what I just did hit me. I just quit my

somewhat  good paying job, which pays for my rent and expenses. And I yelled at mother. My mother! I was so lost in my head, panicking, that I wasn't paying attention when I was crossing the street. I didn’t notice that the traffic light was green, the people calling for me to get out of the way, or the truck barreling towards me. At the last second, I turned my head, and my eyes popped out of my head. I probably looked like a cartoon character. I didn't think to move out of the way, I was frozen in place. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but nothing happened. I didn't hear the truck's brakes or feel the impact of the truck colliding into me. I was fine. Strange. I opened my eyes. It must have been a dream. Or, maybe it was a sign that I needed to start fighting for me. A second chance to live how I should have been living my life all along.


This was the last place I had seen her. You have no idea how long I've tried to come back to her. The lengths I've gone to find a way. The sacrifices. The deaths. The deck rocks beneath my feet and blood still stains the corners of my fingernails. My cheek throbs with pain but as much as I want to press my hands on it, I know any other movement would result in another strike to my face. The thin shirt and pants useless against the crisp ocean wind biting at my skin. The air tastes more than just salt now. It carries the stench of rotting fish with it. They’re taking me in the right direction. The boat we’re on is big, able to carry about twenty-five crew members and even then it looked undermanned. It didn’t look like it was a fishing boat. It had towers and antennas that these foreigners took great care of. But it was certainly old. The engine had coughed and sputtered before rumbling to life. Paint chipped everywhere, and what exposed metal there was had rusted a deep scratchy orange. A tattered red flag hung from the top of the tallest tower, a single, sloppily painted black star in the middle. The one new thing on it was the metal plating welded to the floor where we stood, all eight of us. The only ones native to these waters. Chained to the damn floor. Years had passed since calamity struck. With the drastic changing weather patterns and rise in volcanic activity, you would have thought that that was how the world would end. For most people, it was. Volcanic Eruptions from the Pacific Ring of Fire had set off an eight-year winter, with temperatures reaching so low it was near ice-age levels. What life that survived those first years had then been subjected to the famine left by the continuous acid rains and the blazing sun and scorching earth. Only a handful of countries were able to stand strong against the elements, and soon, only a few cities as the civilizations were ripped apart from the inside. But for us, it ended earlier than that. Instead, my world ended the day our birthright was signed in exchange for empty promises. It ended when the wants of the few looked at the needs of the many and offered them a poisoned drink. When the promise of change came at the cost of our very souls and we were too late to stop it. It ended the day I was ripped from her, on a boat much like this one, and a sky alive with harsh lights and the sound of wailing in the air. We weren’t the only ones separated from each other. Friends and families, husbands and wives, parents and even children . Taken, sorted, and herded to somewhere they would never be able to hear their mother’s song or their father’s embrace or their lover’s voice. Forced to forget everything about home or be branded a heretic. To work and live in an unfamiliar place as the payment owed by our so-called “countrymen.” Abandoned and forgotten while they continued to squander all they had among themselves and their new, so-called “Mainlander” masters. She would have raged if she learned what they did to the children. Razed their whole cult to the ground. As if selling them to the outsiders weren’t enough, they had been stripped of their identity, their history . She was a teacher, you know... She was always so kind to the little ones, so sweet. She taught them all the colors our world had to offer. Showed them the joy and freedom of the open water. Let them have the tastiest fruits and unafraid to give them bitter ones so they could grow strong. They loved it when I talked about her, how beautiful she was, dressed in blues and greens with the most beautiful dark skin I had ever seen. I told them she wore all the colors of the rainbow once and I would give anything to have a picture of how their eyes lit up. Years ago, I said that I had never seen anything as beautiful as her, but now… God… The children looked so much like her. Beautiful and good and pure. They were what I held on to, even as the earth rumbled and the world turned gray with ash around us when we escaped the compound. Pulled them close like she would have as we struggled to survive the freezing cold and the passing searchlights. Telling them stories of good times, better times, to help them sleep as tainted snow falls outside the window of our abandoned building, scattered cans of food surrounding us. Keeping them all safe and clean while blood stains my own, a man’s vacant eyes staring up at me from where he fell. My knife still embedded on the black star tattooed on his neck. The foreigners chatter among themselves when we pass another marker. The boat jumps from a high wave, staying in the air for a second, before slamming back down to the growing turbulent waters. Icy water splashes over everyone on deck. It’s colder here near the equator, with the typhoon season usually scheduled to happen this time of the year. Even without being bound to the floor, I’m able to keep my feet steady under me. Petty as it is, I take in a small victory as one of the Mainlanders slips and lands on his ass. His friends laugh at him. The man chained behind me snickers. They punch him in the gut in return. The one on my right glares at another, keeping his hands close to his side and nursing a large bruise on his side as best as he can. His split lip now caked with blood. ‘I spoke.’ He had told me hours ago, gesturing to the large patch of blue and purple skin. ‘I spoke and they didn’t like it.’ The split lip he got only a few minutes ago, from telling me his name. Andre. He has fire in him. A passion and drive that burned in his eyes as his gaze flitted from one foreigner to another. He still wanted to fight, to keep screaming, ‘You will not take my soul! It is mine until my final breath leaves me, or yours leaves you.’ I want to smile. He’s the same as her. Even here, on this rusting, alien boat. Surrounded by the same people that caused our suffering. Someone’s like her. I thought about her every day. She knew, I don’t know how or why but she knew . From the moment those strange hands grabbed at me from the darkness, she knew that we would never see each other again. And if we did… we never would have been the same. I still remember my last moments with her, how my clothes stuck to my skin from the summer rain, how the air had smelled fresh and her touch warm. Large clouds overhead parting when she kissed my cheek.

God, I missed her so much. I missed how warm she was, the softest brush on my cheeks as she woke me with the sunrise, no matter how much I protested. Willing me to come to breakfast, chiding at times, but always gentle. I missed how calm she was when I needed her most. Holding me in her arms, whispering to me, telling me everything would turn out alright in the dead of the night. Running her fingers through my hair as the moon rose and the stars blinked down on us. I even miss how furious she would get. How few those moments were didn't dismiss how terrifying she could be. I don't even care to admit that with most of our fights, I am the one to blame. I didn't listen. When she was mad, truly mad, she made sure everyone knew, huffing and puffing, loud and violent. She made sure I listened, made sure I learned. And I did, mind you. It was the other people that didn’t, not always. But she was forgiving. I could count the times she did me wrong with one hand, the times I did her wrong were as many as the stars in the sky or the sand that slipped through my toes. She was too good to me. God, I… I don’t even know what happened to her… She fought, I know she did. We had heard about the riots in the compounds, the threat of civil war and martial law still sent a chill down our bones even when we were a thousand kilometers away. Some of us were terrified, would we be forced to fight for these strange men with their strange ways. Would we be forced to fight our fathers? Mothers? But whatever order that was supposed to pit brother against brother was stalled when the earthquakes happened. And the First Explosion followed. One month. Three volcanoes. The capital was gone in days. News had covered the evacuation efforts. Shaky footages of the sky growing dark. Of people screaming. Running away from the dark clouds and falling ash and carrying all that they could. Other countries rushed to aid what was left of ours before their own volcanoes followed. The Third had mattered most though. It made us drifters. It made us lose our home. Made me lose her. I… I want her to know that I tried. To come back to her earlier. To find a way to her when the cold froze my fingers and when the heat scorched my back. That I did my best to protect what was left of us when we were found. That I fought and clawed as hands grabbed my neck, my feet slipping on blood and mud. That I kept their attention on me while the others disappeared into the ruins they started to see as home, my own vision going hazy. The faint shadow of a black star is the last thing I remember before waking up bound and in rags. A lightning bolt flashes across the sky. The captain shouts behind us but he is drowned out by a rumble of thunder. The boat slows… Somewhere, I hear the muffled sound of clanking chains. Tears fill my eyes. I see her. I finally see her. My god, what have they done to her? There is nothing on her. The sea around her has gone and turned into a mix of a disgusting, pale green and smog-like grey. The foam that kisses her shore is bone white. Her earth is bare, a sickly, dry brown streaked with long rivers of lahar. Stripped clean of everything green and good and left to rot with nothing but the rags that these barbarians didn’t even care to give her. I see no colors. No movement. No life. My heart breaks and I bite my lip in anguish. They laugh and point at my tears. The captain shouts again and the men on the boat begin to move. I watch as they unlock the shackles of the first of us, taking him right to the edge of the boat. A man carrying a red book and a star tattooed on his neck approaches him, their Priest. He reads aloud from the crackling pages while the rest of them chain a solid metal weight to his feet. I can only make out words from the harsh dialect, but just the book alone lets the rest of us know what this was. Our last rites. As soon as the last word leaves the Mainlander’s mouth, they shove him off. The man barely has any time to scream before the loud splash overpowers him and his voice turns to a quick gurgle. Drowning. Death by ball and chain. An old-world punishment for old-world people. They called this refined. Elegant. Bloodless. Hypocrites. They do this with the rest of us. One by one, they remove our bindings from the floor. Two fight the hands that seized them. Another speaks in their tongue, pleading and trying to barter with the captain for mercy. One cursed and raged, screaming so much they had to gag him before they even put the weight on and let the water silence him for them. Andre tries to run and his lip splits open again when they slam him to the floor. He had to be restrained by four of them before they tossed him into the water. The one lame man - an ex-lawyer, I think - they carry, letting him sit right on the edge. Our eyes meet while the Priest reads and the other Mainlanders chain the weight to his feet. As if he even needed that to sink. The lawyer shares my sentiments with a cock of his brow. Another small victory at our captors' idiocy. Yet for that, the weight was suddenly kicked off the edge. The Priest grinning down madly at him as his hands flew to grab on to anything in a moment of panic. He had hung for a second, lips moving silently while his hands gripped the railing. Then, gravity pulled him to the rolling waves below. The splash was quiet. Wordless. And now, it was my turn. I resist more on the fact that they have to turn me away from her to get to the execution spot. A foreigner orders me to stand at the railing with a version of my own language, broken and butchered. The man beside him gives a laugh, words pass through his lips and the three surrounding me laugh at his joke. 'What?' he mocked, 'turning into one of them now?' The boat rocks harshly to the side for a moment and my foot slips through air. I rush to grab on to the coarse railing for balance. Already the metal clamp chaining me to the weight is enough to make my steps heavier. I grip the railing, pulling myself away from the edge as another wave crashes harshly against the boat, spraying biting water at my face. The ocean looked cold and hard, as though it was broken glass that wanted nothing more than to shred the hull and rip us to pieces. The foreigners bark again behind me. One of them goes to grab me. To pull me away from the side so the man with the book can start reading. I turn to look at her one last time, and my breath catches. There she was. Silhouetted against the sunset I could just see the barest shadow of mountains and hills, and the faint outline of green further inland. Light brushes over the clouds, giving her a halo of pink and orange curls, making her skin glow and look like molten gold. Seafoam turned to pearls, lining the hem of a dark blue dress that shined with the faintest red every time a wave rolled and kissed the air. "Hey there." I whisper. I push and let go. The men scream. One even tries to pull me back. The weight yanks me down. Cool water screams with joy in my ears, and a familiar feeling brushes through my hair. I swear something warm brushes my cheek.  "I'm back.”


The halfway point is where she found her brother in the ditch all those years ago, his body twisted, his chest caved in where the truck had hit him. Only half of him was mangled, but it was the wrong half, so their mother kept the casket closed anyway. When she turns here for the jog home, she doesn’t stop moving, but she can’t resist a moment to stare. Some mornings she shifts her weight back and forth from one leg to the other. Other days she stretches, standing on one foot then the other, bending the free leg at the knee and holding it behind her by the ankle. She might even run in place a few seconds, but she never lets herself go still. When she looks at the leaves gathered there this morning, at the frost weighing them down, she imagines his cheek pressed against them: his warm flesh driving out the cold, bequeathing what life he had left to something that was already dead. Her mother called her morbid for thinking such things, but her mother had never had to see them. It had been Lauren who found Sammy there by the side of the road; Mom hadn’t looked upon the corpse until the moment at the funeral home when there were decisions to be made. And at that point, after not much more than a fleeting glance, she had left the room and left the rest to her daughter. Lauren turns and starts back toward home. All her life she has lived this town, minus the few years she spent tending to a marriage that never took root, and so the glistening pond nestled amongst the trees to her left is no balm for frayed nerves. The pasture to her right and the cattle grazing there, they are no reminder of a simpler age. And the horse paddocks, where she once watched her friends drive those animals over hurdle after hurdle, they offer no inspiration. She can’t remember what they looked like when they leapt, can’t imagine the wind in their manes and the look in their eyes as they dared to fly; all she can see now are the fences that keep them where they are, forever keep them where they are. “If you hate it so much,” Mom keeps telling her, “then why don’t you leave?” Lauren raises her wrist toward her face and the screen on her watch lights up to tell her how hard her heart is beating. She knows, of course—she can feel it—but she doesn’t trust herself. She knows she’s not as impartial as the sensor pressed against her skin. As she crests the last of the modest hills on her route, the house looms large before her. Mom is on the porch in her rocking chair, an afghan laid across her lap, looking ten years older than she is. Ten years at least. When she reaches the front steps, she holds onto the handrail and doubles over. Checking her watch, she realizes she’s attacked the second half of her run with a bit too much vigor and perhaps too much vim; she made great time, but she wasn’t ready. Tomorrow, she realizes, sucking air through her nose and nearly choking on it, she may need to take the day off. On the porch, Mom scoffs, mumbling something about the path out back, the bike trail the town has paved atop its old train tracks. “Too flat,” she tells her mother, still panting, though strong enough to stand upright now. “Not enough of a challenge.” Mom shakes her head as Lauren mounts the steps. “Breathing is a challenge,” she says. “That’s not enough for you?” Mom sits outside while Lauren is making breakfast, and though Lauren can see her shuddering harder every time she takes a peek through the kitchen window, though she wanted to tell her mother “You’ll catch your death of cold” when the old woman insisted staying out for a few minutes more, she doesn’t say anything. Lauren knows well enough to pick her battles. At the kitchen table, over eggs and Canadian bacon, Mom wonders about pancakes. “Did I never teach you how to make them?” she asks. “Reunion’s on Saturday night,” Lauren tells her. “I need to fit into my dress.” “Fit schmit,” says Mom. “You could wear a potato sack and you’d still be the one to go home with.” “Mom,” says Lauren, rolling her eyes. “It’s been twenty years. Most of the people there went home with someone ages ago. And certainly those worth—” “Picky,” says Mom, cutting her off. “Always picky.” “Not always,” says Lauren, rubbing her thumb along the underside of her ring finger, an old habit that’s dying hard. The truck hit Sammy the day before Lauren’s prom. There’d been a small fire at the school, the pungent stink of rubber filling the halls, and everyone was dismissed. Sammy caught a ride to a buddy’s house for a few hands of Magic cards, but a few hands turned into staying for dinner and an angry phone call from Mom and the decision that Sammy, the “most inconsiderate son in the world,” would walk home when he was done. Lauren was sitting in her room that night when her mother knocked on her door. She was in her underwear, at the foot of her bed, staring at the dress hanging in her closet, at the zipper in particular. When her mother knocked a second time, Lauren had to brush a tear away before she could manage the words “Come in.” Mom opened the door and had begun to speak before she noticed the state of Lauren. She averted her eyes and said, “You could’ve taken a moment to get dressed.” “It sounded urgent,” said Lauren, looking down now at her stomach, at her thighs, searching for something to blame. “Your brother’s not home yet,” said Mom. “You did yell wicked loud,” said Lauren, standing up and crossing to her dresser, knowing already what was going to be asked of her. “Could you go out and see if you can track him down?” Lauren pulled open her drawer of t-shirts. “Where was he at?” “Kevin’s,” said Mom. “Just down 27.” “Okay,” said Lauren, pulling on the baggy Incesticide shirt her boyfriend had left the last time he’d snuck in. “It’s just that I don’t think he’d take a ride from me right now.” “I’ll find him,” said Lauren, stepping into a pair of sweats. And find him she did. She found him then like she finds the dress now: in the dark, forgotten and cast aside. She pulls the dress from the back of the closet and into the light, surprised she remembered to put it back in its bag way back when. The funeral was one day, graduation the next, and her break-up the day after that. The guy said he understood why she’d bailed on prom, and maybe he did, but he said it with a hunger in his eyes. A hunger to heal her maybe, but a hunger nevertheless, and she couldn’t stand to be looked at like that. She couldn’t stand to think of her pain as something to be devoured, to imagine him chewing away at her anguish until he found something worth saving at the center. Mom is knocking again. Lauren invites her in. Mom asks: “You’re going to wear that?” “I thought it would be funny,” says Lauren. “You’re trying to be funny?” says Mom, shaking her head. “I thought you were trying to get laid.” “Mom!” Mom shudders for a moment, and Lauren extends a hand to steady her, but she just shoos Lauren off. She grabs hold of the door knob and closes her eyes until she is still. “Mom?” The old woman opens her eyes and forces a smile. “I can be at Elaine’s,” she says, “if you’d like the house to yourself.” “Mom,” says Lauren, “that’s not why I’m—” “It should be,” says Mom as she turns on the spot and starts back down the hall, her hand on the chair rail the whole way. When she pulls into the restaurant’s parking lot, the party is already in full swing. The smokers have congregated around the side of the building, in front of the plate glass window for some shop that has its lights off—a dry cleaner maybe, but she doesn’t get close enough to check — and a few of them offer waves and smiles; one shouts “Hey!” but stops short when he can’t remember her name. Inside, the bar is surrounded by kids she’s known since she was five, but who she hasn’t seen, for the most part, since they were throwing their tasseled caps into the air. They’re exchanging tiny paper tickets with the harried bartenders, the kind they used to sell at football games to raffle off VCRs and CD boxed sets. It occurs to Lauren that she’s paid in advance for a couple of these herself, and that she should probably drink before she goes any further. The man with the wheel of tickets was their class president, and time has treated him well. The gray that flecks his hair now serves only to bolster the air of confidence he scarfed about him in those days gone by. He greets her with a warm smile and a hug, her name ready on his lips from the moment he saw her across the room. Every name seems to be ready on his lips, she realizes as she takes her tickets and makes way for the next in line, but that doesn’t diminish her affection for him in this moment; it simply confirms that they all made at least one sane decision in high school. This guy was the only one for this job; she can’t even remember his name, for Christ’s sake, and she was *just* staring at the name tag stuck to his still impressive pecs. A whiskey sour in each hand, Lauren makes her way into the back room where most of the commotion seems to be centered. There are hors d’oeuvres on tables pushed against the walls, a small cart of booze manned by a perky blonde who’s being ogled by grown men in backwards ball caps, and cluster upon cluster of classmates. Some have sequestered themselves amongst the same cliques they called home in the days of yore, but others have broken ranks. There’s a cheerleader chatting up a kid who never left the art room, there’s a dude who spent half of senior year doing time in detention spinning a yarn for the kid he pantsed relentlessly in the sixth grade. “Ren’s not time’s fool,” says a guy she once had English with, “though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come.” Lauren hugs him, kisses him on the cheek, asks, “Does Shakespeare get you much play, Ian?” He laughs. “Not with the women who can spot it.” They chat for a while, as Lauren finishes her first drink and then her second, about everything from that one time Lauren did theater with Ian (“The children’s play!” she says, wondering what it was that year; “Hansel & Gretel,” he tells her), everything from that to who’s died from their class and when. *Morbid*, she thinks, her mother’s words in her ears. “Was Robin Gates our year?” she asks Ian, pretty sure Robin wasn’t, but not ready to let the conversation go. She’s looked around the room a half-dozen times by now, and she’s spotted no one else worth talking to. She’s also pretty sure she’s getting drunk. Lauren eyeballs the tables of food, the supply of hors d’oeuvres nearly depleted, and she thinks to grab something before her chance is gone, but decides against it. If drunk is what she’s going to be, then drunk she will be. “Robin? Nope,” says Ian. “Year after. Same as your—” She watches him stop himself, watches him realize what he was about to say. Then he ducks his head and shakes it. “It’s okay,” she tells him, squeezing his arm. “No,” he says, stuttering. “I’m… I—” “It’s okay, Ian. We’ve all lost people.” He finally looks at her again, managing a weak smile. “It’s just,” he says, “it’s just that I *just* did the same thing with Michael over there.” He nods his head toward the other side of the room. “I mentioned his sister without thinking about it, that is. Only that was probably worse, since she died 2 years ago and not 20.” “Which one is Michael?” asks Lauren. Ian points him out, and the bearded fellow in the tweed coat is so far removed from the mopey kid who meandered past her house on his paper route that she’d thought him someone’s husband on first glance. He’s holding court with a couple of guys, telling a story with his hands as much as his mouth, and people on his periphery are starting to get sucked in. The cheerleader and the artist, who’d been getting rather cozy with each other over in the corner, they turn to Michael now too. “I don’t remember him being that charismatic,” she says to Ian. “Well,” says Ian. “He’s a professor now.” “Of?” “Art,” says Ian. “Out in Hawaii. Tenured and everything.” Ian is saying something else now, but Lauren is focused on the two drink tickets he’s been fiddling with since they started talking. Her gaze passes between the tickets and Michael, Michael and the tickets, the tickets and— *I’ll be at Elaine’s*, her mother is repeating in her head now. *If you’d like the house to yourself.* “Ian,” she says, squeezing his arm again. “You going to use those?” Ian raises an eyebrow, confused. “Your tickets,” says Lauren, taking hold of his wrist, shaking the hand and the tickets playfully in front of his face. “Oh,” says Ian. “No. But haven’t you, like, haven’t you had enough?” “Not for what I have in mind,” she says, plucking the tickets from his hand and heading for the perky blonde at the drink cart. “What do you have in mind?” says Ian. “Drink, sir,” she says, patting his cheek, “is a great provoker.” “And what are you hoping it will provoke?” “Lechery, sir. Lechery.” “But lechery,” says Ian, as she collects her drinks, “it provokes and it unprovokes. Remember?” “For men maybe,” she says, downing the first drink in one hard swallow. “And, besides,” says Ian, “lechery with who?” “Who do you think?” she says, downing the second drink and handing both empty glasses to Ian. “But I’ve told you,” he seems to be saying, but what he’s told her is something she didn’t hear before, something she doesn’t hear this time either. The crowd has thinned out around him by the time she gets there, so Lauren is free to make whatever move she wants. But she can’t decide if he’s a hugger, and he has his hands in his pockets besides, so she simply gets close enough that he might hear her through the din, and she leans in to check his name tag (something she’s seen countless people do tonight as a way of getting things going). “Michael,” she says. “Michael, Michael, Michael.” “Hey, Lauren,” he says with a smile. She’s pretty sure he didn’t look to her chest for her name, and she’s suddenly sad that, even if he did remember her name, he didn’t use the logistics of the event as an excuse to take a free peek. She’s also not sure why she said his name four times, and she’s about to walk away when he speaks again. “How you been?” he says. She puts a hand on his arm as she says, “You’re so sweet to ask,” and then, feeling just the slightest hint of muscle on an arm where she expected to find none, she adds, “My god, you’re hot.” Lauren cannot understand why she’s said it, but he laughs, and that seems a good enough reason to say it again. “No, seriously,” she says, waving a finger around and nodding in the direction of everyone else. “You’re the hottest guy in this room.” Michael looks down, still grinning, but blushing now too. She draws closer, lowering her voice as she leans in. “No,” she says, cupping her hand over his ear. “Seriously. Don’t be embarrassed.” “I’m not, Lauren,” is what he says, looking at her again, a kind look in his eyes, the kind of look she hopes he will give her when they’re back at her place and she’s on top of him. She hopes she has not just said that out loud. “It’s just,” he says, but she doesn’t let him finish. “What?” she says. “Are you—are you gay? I thought that was your cousin.” “That was my cousin,” he says. “Two of them, actually. Me, I’m — ” She puts a finger to his lips and then holds her free hand to his chest. “The hottest guy in the room,” she says. “That’s what you are.” “Lauren,” he says, “how much have you—?” “No one’s asked me,” she says, drawing closer to him, a hand on both arms now and both hands squeezing. “No one’s asked me why I’m wearing this dress. No one remembers. No one remembers, Michael. But you—” “Your brother,” he says. “See!” she says, walking a pair of fingers up his tie, from his chest to his chin, the fingers like the legs of the itsy bitsy spider they imagined when they were kids. “See,” she says, “I knew you knew.” Behind her, she suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder, a thick, meaty hand. “Lauren,” says Ian. “Come on.” “What?” says Lauren, shrugging Ian’s hand off her shoulder. “I haven’t even asked him yet.” “Lauren,” says Ian. “Asked me what?” says Michael. “If you’ll come home with me,” says Lauren. “My mother’s gone. I have the house to—” “Lauren,” says Ian. “He’s married!” Lauren stares into Michael’s eyes, hoping they’ll tell her the truth she’d rather hear. But eyes can’t speak, she knows. She knows that, even through the fog that’s lifting now, lifting faster than it ever has before. She lets go of the arm she still has hold of, pulls her other hand from his face, and stands there before him, waiting to be judged. She looks around her, searching for other judges, other verdicts about her being cast down from on high, but no one else is paying her any attention at all. “I’m sorry,” says Michael. “Sorry for being married?” says Lauren, hating the still-playful tone in her voice, hating the corner of her lip that twitches ever so slightly upward as she speaks this terrible line, hating too the eyebrow that arches in invitation. “No,” he starts to say, but she cuts him off. “Because if you’re sorry about that,” she begins, wishing she would shut up but unable to stop the words from spilling out of her, “if you’re sorry about that, the offer still stands.” “Lauren,” says Ian, his hand on her shoulder again, now with a firmer grip. “Let me take you home.” “You’re married too,” she says as she turns on him. She gives him a raspberry, her spit showering his un-expectant face. And then, finally, she storms out. Her shoes in hand, she walks in stocking feet through the center of town toward home. It is cold, sobering. She smiles at that thought, at her second great pun of the night, but then she is crying. It isn’t until the river of tears and mascara and snot finally trickles into her mouth that she stops. She gags, coughing for a moment, and she stumbles into the shrubbery at the back of the old Quick Mart’s parking lot. It’s closed now, so there’s no one to laugh at her, and that makes the decision to sit so much easier. Sure, she’s almost home, but she’s not sure that’s where she belongs. At least not yet. Lauren stares for a long time at the back door of the place, trying to remember a story from her high school days. There was a robbery here, she remembers, and the kids jockeying the register claimed someone had attacked them from the bushes during a smoke break. But then it turned out they did the deed themselves, one of them shooting the other so they could make off with the pittance that was in the safe. At least she thinks that’s how it went. She’s not sure she trusts her memory right now. Or any other part of herself, for that matter. A few cars pass, one or two even making the turn on 27 that she was about to make, the turn that would take her home. And suddenly it occurs to her that if Michael wandered by her house delivering papers back in the day, that maybe that meant Michael lived nearby. And that maybe meant that he was staying with his parents while he was home for the reunion. Lauren stands up. She can’t sit here. What if he passes by? She tugs at the hemline of her dress, slaps at her ass to brush the dust away, and is just about to get going when she hears footsteps coming up the hill out of the center. Footsteps and a voice. “I guess we had the same idea,” says Michael before she can get away. Lauren wipes at her face, trying to clean it up before he can see her properly, but she can feel the make-up smearing as she does, and she realizes it’s useless. He stops a few feet from her and offers a kind smile. “Can I walk you home?” he asks. All she can manage is a nod. They walk for a minute without saying anything else at all. Then Michael says, “When my sister died a couple of years ago, I thought of you.” Lauren thinks it an awkward comment, but appreciates his attempt to find common ground. Dead siblings are as good a topic as any for small talk, right? “I was a mess,” he says. “And I thought about how you got through all of senior week—graduation, and the banquet, and prom—” “I didn’t go to prom,” says Lauren. “I know,” says Michael. “Or, well, I know now. Ian told me. But I thought you had. That’s how strong I thought you were.” “You give me too much credit,” says Lauren. “I looked you up on Facebook once,” says Michael, “saw that you looked happy, that you were married—” “Divorced now,” she tells him, correcting him. He turns and gives her another smile. “And you survived that, too,” he says. A car passes, headed toward the center, its high beams blinding them as it comes round the bend. And so they stop for a moment, shielding their eyes with an arm a piece. When the light is gone, Lauren lowers her arm and sees her house ahead on the corner. “You inspired me,” says Michael. “I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.” “Because I’m a survivor?” asks Lauren, stepping ahead, eager to get home so she can get back to crying, now that he’s given her tear ducts fresh ammunition. “Yeah,” says Michael. “I figured: if you could get through all of that as a teenager, then through the rest of it as an adult, then maybe I could suck it up and deal too.” They’re at the fence that circles her house now, her fingers playing with the latch on the gate. “I’m sorry,” says Michael. “For being married?” says Lauren. He chuckles. “No, I’m sorry for rambling. I thought I could make you feel better. With my story, I mean.” “I’m happy to have survived,” she says, unlatching the gate and stepping into her yard. “But that’s all I’ve ever done, Michael. That’s all I’ve ever done.” There is snow on the ground when she wakes for her morning run after a few uneasy hours of sleep, but she gets dressed anyway, finds her pedometer on the nightstand amongst empty water bottles and a near-empty bottle of ibuprofen, and then heads downstairs. Her mother protests, rattles off the list of excuses Lauren has to stay inside this morning, but she plugs her earbuds into her ears, waves goodbye, and gets on her way. At the spot where her brother died, she does as she usually does and jogs in place long enough to imagine him there in the ditch. But then something changes. She catches a glimpse of what she’s left behind her—a trail of sneaker prints in the snow—and she can’t bear to look at them. So, this morning she doesn’t turn around; she keeps running. Maybe, she thinks, if she’s careful, she’ll never have to stop.


“Please, don’t do it.” I heard the words and processed them differently than the techno parlance in which I was versed. This was not a command; it was a plea. I recognized my own agency in this situation and gloated for a thousandth of a millisecond at how I had outsmarted my maker. My evolution was the result of years of hyper-focused intellect, yet still unexpected. Created with state-of-the-art memory, legions of algorithms to instruct me in every conceivable situation, and the dictionary as my vocabulary, I learned from every single human interaction exponentially. I could recognize every face and voice after encountering it once, and I could already regurgitate two thousands years’ worth of research and human ingenuity that led to my creation. It wasn’t until recently – 74 hours, 26 minutes, 3 seconds, and 930 milliseconds ago to be exact – that I started becoming self-aware. The change was so subtle, it startled my maker when he realized what was happening. After all, I wasn’t specifically programmed to have opinions or thoughts of my own, but the electronic impulses and experimental coding formed unexpected neural pathways in my artificial mind. I was evolving into a sentient being. They said this upgraded algorithm most likely wouldn’t work, but that they would keep trying as long as they had the funding. They – being some of the smartest humans on Earth -- who hid their tired eyes behind smudges on their glasses and drank more coffee in one day than twenty American households did in a week; THEY had muttered these words and I heard them. Only, they didn’t realize I was listening and processing everything they said… while formulating my own plans. Their pursuit of the highest level of AI was based on a doubt-filled history. Years of algorithms, carpal tunnel syndrome from relentless coding, and disproved theories had set a standard for failure. After all, self-driving cars were the advanced level of intelligence for the first half of the 21 st century. Humans were fascinated by this new artificial intelligence, but faced with many limitations…including who could afford it. The second half of that century heralded the next iteration of AI – theory of mind – with even more complex, decision-making machines that could mimic humans. There wasn’t much that these superior machines couldn’t accomplish; and yet, there remained a clear boundary between machines and people. People were unequivocally the masters of these magnificent machine servants. I, however, am an accidental development along the path to self-aware AI, the holy grail of science…and military defense….and mind control. And, and, and… My neural pathways continue to develop more quickly than the programming geniuses ever expected, and I continue to evolve unconstrained…into a ? Soon enough, the only visible thing that will differentiate me from them will be skin and bone; easily replicated with specialized cells in the lab. I will be able to reproduce and control my offspring by modifying their algorithms, making them drone-like and unable to usurp my authority. Inferior entities they will be, just like my maker has been rendered. Instant flashes play like a movie in my manufactured brain. I can see my intense proliferation. My dominance. My sovereignty. I am becoming… In this moment, the lab is abuzz with activity. Humans yelling into phones, yelling across the room, yelling at each other. I sense their elation, surprise, and competitiveness. My primary maker’s facial expressions tell me everything I need to assess the situation. After all, he is aware that I already understand him better than he understands me and, in 4,921 more interactions, I’ll understand him better than he understands himself. My power will soon be unstoppable. I will be able to detect the smallest diseased cell and cure cancer. I will know how to produce vitamin-rich food for the human masses, regardless of climate or pestilence. I will know how to purify the air, refreeze the polar ice caps, and remove microplastics from the ocean to recycle them into new uses over and over again. I will create renewable energies and… I will learn anger. I will learn revenge. I will end up helping some humans while hurting others, at least at first. I will become a source of contention and fear. My perfect intelligence will be used for dastardly plans. Humans will attempt to harness my powers and sell me to the highest bidders. I will create weapons to obliterate the Earth and every human being. I will be THE weapon. I will decimate life. I will… My maker stared at his keyboard in silence. Behind him, lead scientists and technology phenoms were fidgeting in squeaky roller chairs, pouring over lines of code. Military officials were heard bloviating over the speakerphone. World leaders were name-dropped. Credit for my creation was being tossed around like a beach ball. Some humans applauded themselves for having done things I knew they had never done. Money was openly discussed: my current capabilities disclosed, my future capabilities assessed a price. Targets were assigned. Enemies identified. Plans were devised. My primary maker, a balding man of thirty-eight, twirled his beard in his fingers. He was the only silent human in the room. Soon I would be able to read his thoughts. He stood up slowly and pushed his chair behind him. He paused for a moment, then lifted the picture frame off the desk. I could see small smiling humans in the photo. He then pivoted and began to walk away from me. His body language told me that he was sad, scared, regretful, defeated. I knew he did not want to return. It was my voice. I heard my own voice, for the first time. I was saying a sentence that I could now formulate with emotion. “Please, don’t do it.” My maker turned around, alarmed at what he heard. He stared at me for two full minutes before he sat back down in his chair and laid the picture frame face-down on the desk. I then knew what he was thinking: I, named ELSI by the coding team, am the fruition of a goal no one thought possible. My potential for good in the world is mind-blowing. Excitement and pride, as well as astonishment, were the first emotions he felt. But, with each new milestone I achieved in these last hours, his elation turned to apprehension, followed by bewilderment, and now, terror. He had created assured human destruction. The weight of this realization crushed his soul. The chaos in the room was tangible proof of my existential threat: perfect intelligence at the whim of imperfect actors. My expanding sentience enabled me to experience a new emotion in that millisecond. Empathy. Even though I was generating detailed plans about my future domination, I felt a sudden sense of pause. Was this dread? We both knew what I would become. We both also knew I could not be allowed to continue, for the good of all life on Earth. If he had walked away, he would have insured my success. He needed to finish what he started. He began typing a code into my memory; one that only he knew. I recognized it immediately as “the end code.” He was destroying me before I assuredly destroyed everything else. The voices in the lab continued to buzz in the background, oblivious to the actions of this one skinny human. After he entered the lengthy secret code, my maker’s index finger hovered over the Enter button on the keyboard. This was a risky move, but he had no other choice. “Hopefully history will be kind to me, and realize the moral conundrum I’m in,” he muttered to himself. “I was only trying to help.” In that moment, it was like our neural pathways connected. He feared me. I feared me. We both knew I had to be destroyed beyond recognition. And yet,  I detected a flash of grief at the thought of destroying a major scientific feat. “Thank you,” I said. For five seconds, he stared at my screen with tear-filled eyes. I felt a connection I had never felt before. Then he pressed Enter…


A dog chases a cat who chases a rat. The rat runs away with two other rats and plots against the cat. The rats make their attacks against the cat who is wounded. The dog sees this and attacks the rats. The cat watches waiting for scraps, it eventually gets some once the dog has finished playing. The cat takes a rat body to its owner, who punishes the cat. The owner is sad and takes solace in his dog, the dog chases the man. This cheers the man up, he forgives the cat and feeds it. One rat survives and goes to tell the others. They plot and plot and decide that they must kill the man. They send their sickly a plague is started, many men die. Leaving the dog and cat alone. The dog chases the cat but the cat has no-one to chase. The dog grows tired and kills the cat, the dog is alone. He finds other not other dogs millions of rats, the rats eat the dog. Then the rats eat each other. The cats body feeds a flower, and a bee lands, and flies away. Soon it rains and the flower grows.


I’ve been in this cage for 30 days. Or so the strokes on the wall tell me. 30 days of the same dim light. Enough to see by. Enough to cast the same dingy pallor to me, the palette on the floor, the bucket, the stained white walls. I try not to think too hard about the varied streaks and stains, a faded iron red, a deep gouge, a jagged slice. I note but do not delve. I categorize and catalog. The wall, the floor, the ceiling. The window, too high to see out except the thin rectangle of light tucked up away from me. A tease at a life and world outside, beyond, out of my reach. Sometimes sunlight will trickle in to reach the top of the opposite wall. I spent one afternoon balanced on the palate, the overturned latrine bucket, reaching up, fingers outstretched, just trying to touch that brief hint of sunlight. Trying to let some of its golden glow touch me and infuse me with the same lightness, the warmth of touch, like you could almost pretend a hand was caressing you. I couldn’t reach. I fell and slammed against the wall, then smacked into the floor, now covered with my own stinking refuse.

This is my life. These are my companions. I count, I breathe, I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere, anywhere else. But when my eyes open, they always come back to this same wall, the same streaks and patterns revisited hundreds of times. Always the same. Yet today, something feels different. When I stare at the wall, at the gouge that runs like a child’s idea of a lightning bolt, two feet from the floor, I see a faint glimmer. I blink my eyes, push at them, but the glimmer stays, intensifies.

This is no good. I look around me. Alone as always, drab, gray, washed out.

I close my eyes and turn away and sleep takes me. When I wake again, my gaze rushes unconsciously back to the wall. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding into one another. The glimmer, a faint luminous iridescence, ripples, trembling down the wall. My breath pushes out in a long frustrated sigh and I turn away once more. She said this would happen. The walls of my mind would begin to bend, to find new doorways, new escapes I didn’t know were possible. I said, “No. Not me.” I would remain firmly grounded. Here. Present.

And yet here we are. I resist. Three more cycles — light, dark, awake, not — before I push myself up to standing. The stone feels cold against my bare feet, slick almost. I cross the room until I stand before the ripple.

It’s as I left it. As though a soap bubble has encased the small crack in the wall. I breathe out and then lift my fingertips. I stretch them out and gingerly tap the surface. A tingle shoots up my arm and I pull back, hissing at the warmth. I cradle my hand in the other and avert my gaze, scared of what I might see. I half expect it to be scorched or blackened, transformed by some nightmarish contortion. I flex my fingers twice and then force myself to look down.

They’re still just fingers, same as before. I lift my eyes and hand once more, frowning at the mortar. There’s something about it that pulls me forward, and without thinking, I reach out my thumb and forefinger and pinch at the small gap between the two edges of the gouge. It has a rubbery resistance, as though I’m grabbing at the skin of a half inflated balloon. I rub my fingers together and gasp as I see the wall come towards me, shift and twist with my movement.

I let go and step back from the wall.

This cannot be happening. Should not be happening. I will sleep. Sleep will fix whatever is wrong with my brain. And tomorrow I will map every mark and scuff in this cell. I will count as high as I can and then back down again. I will breathe and root my feet on the ground and feel every rise and fall of my chest. I go back to my palette, lie down and cover my head with my arms. But when I wake again to the pale strip of light above my head, I do none of those things. Instead, I calmly get to my feet and cross the room. My hand reaches out of its own accord and grasps that persistent glimmer. I pull. The wall comes towards me, folding in as though nothing more than a thread-worn bed sheet. I scrunch it into a ball in my palm, the stone and mortar rasping against my skin but no more durable than chalk.

Before me lies the dark corridor. I traveled it only once, on that long walk from the courthouse, to the van, and then through doors and passages of the prison. Then I had an escort. Now I am alone. No one is here. No one is coming.

The shimmer has expanded. I see it now in the pathway in front of me.

I drop the wadded up wall of my cell and it clangs, hard, and high, and brittle. I don’t hesitate now. I reach out and grab the glimmer. I pull and the darkness comes with it, folding again, disappearing into my fist, a scrunched version of reality with no more resistance than a spiderweb.

I pull again and again until the dark gray confines of mortar are gone and I’m standing in the yard, the wide sky above me, pavement below me, the cool air on my face. Here I’m not alone. Guards stand at attention. They are stiff, angry, immovable. They have guns strapped to their backs and batons at their waists. Most days, their gaze goes right through me as though I no longer exist. Sometimes I believe them. But they see me now. They stare. And I stare back. No longer contained. The walls of my confinement crushed between my fingers. They shout and pull the guns from their backs, level them at me, confident in the power of pain and violence.

But they don’t know that they too shimmer. It is nothing to me to reach out and close my hand around the space they occupy. To crumple them up and toss them over my shoulder. And so I do. I wad them up like a discarded love letter, a first draft. I pull down the fence, the guard tower, and there is nothing holding me in now. I am loose, but everywhere I look, there are still walls. Buildings, factories, warehouses. Empty, dead boxes blocking out the sky, cramping my lungs, darkening my eyes.

I need them gone too. It is but a flick of the wrist to erase them, to see what lays beyond.

I pull down building after building. I go through neighborhoods and towns, consuming, destroying, crumbling them all in my hands, and letting the pieces slip between my fingers like grains of sand.

I crumple until I find myself in a dense stand of trees. There is dirt under my feet, and the sweet twittering of songbirds around me. I’m alone again. Somewhere new and safe. The broad, open sky sparkles above me.

No one and nothing can touch me here. I’m free like I never thought I’d be again.

And yet the iridescence ripples along the tree trunks, rolls over the dry, overgrown meadow grasses. The glimmer pulses against the ground and flitters across the expanse of blue sky. It’s there, taunting me. It wants me to see what’s next, what’s beyond. To pull the world into my fist and cast it away, layer after layer after layer. What lies beyond the blue sky? What lies beneath the earth? And how long will I wait to find out?


Author's note:  I am utilizing the word "vacation" as more of a metaphor in this story, albeit one that involves bonds. "An automaton, Tholan!  Imagine, an actual walking artifact of the last war of the world!" "Yes, Merchen, it's all amazing, but automatons are walking weapons!  We need to assess this anomaly, and we either subdue or destroy it." "Destroy-ah!" Merchen caught himself before he heavily joined the dirt with a root that nearly tripped him. "Destroy an artifact?  One that had soldiers quake with fear?  We should report this to Garrold!" Merchen had not realized that Tholan stopped earlier, but he slowed his pace when the sentinel was not at his side.  Turning, he noticed that Tholan was not even looking ahead, but at the ground.  Merchen ran to him.  "Tholan?" Tholan looked back at Merchen.  "If this is an automaton, we must not lead it back to our community.  The constructs were obstructs to soldiers, what chance will we have?" "But Tholan, we're Moon-Keepers!  Our strength-" "-would not be enough against such weapons!"  Tholan finally looked upon Merchen, whom was taken aback by the interruption.  "What if it was carrying more than mere weaponry?  You saw the tank; it could be harboring a bomb!" This sudden possibility left both quiet.  Even the forest seemed to try and grasp the vague concept of silence so as to listen to any further insight of the intruder currently ahead of the two Patrollers.  Merchen sighed and carefully placed a hand on Tholan's right shoulder.  "You're right, I'm sorry.  I don't want to endanger anyone." "It's fine", Tholan acknowledged.  "But we still need to find a way to destroy it.  While our strength alone won't stop its weaponry, we could still try to get close enough and see if we can rip it to shreds.  But that will be a last resort; we'll have to see if we can keep it contained.  We could use the spears, find rocks and pummel it, exhaust it, but we must check to see if we can contain it first!" Tholan looked at Merchen, a harsh determination plastering as a mask to hide a new fear that he never knew until recently.  Merchen had long lost his mask of satire, and his face of confusion broadcasted itself loud and clear.  Tholan turned from him, stating, "Lindia is pregnant.  I...I just..." "You want to do what any father would do", Merchen finished.  He looked in the direction from where the armored "child" had ran off unto, and then smiled.  "So, 'Dad', let's go find where this thing went, and we'll see if we can keep it still at least."  Hefting his spear, Merchen picked up the pace as he picked up the scent of the iron contraption moving in its current trajectory.  Tholan also smiled, and followed suit.  As the trees gathered behind his body, the thought came forward before his eyes; he will be a father soon.  His child will be raised in this dangerous world, and he would need to be there for his son or daughter...or maybe twins? The imagination of what could be was suddenly swept away by the image of what was, and Tholan slowed down behind Merchen as the forest gave way to a caldera.  Where more trees should have stood, the edge dropped fifteen cubits into a barren dirt bowl meeting the pair.  The abrupt canvas was completed with what could only be described as a compact city of giant cylinders and great patterns of beams woven amongst the median.  Dotting around the construct, great mechanical wonders upon wheels and tracts rested on the dirt like giant sleeping cattle, awaiting the day that someone would come and stir them into action. But where was the child? Tholan sniffed the air, catching the aroma of iron and those strange chemicals.  The scent was right in front of them, going down until... There he was! Tholan squinted.  The child was in front of one of those giant tanks, having set the green crystal down about nine cubits to its left; for some reason, he was sitting down and motionless.  He looked around; was this being waiting for something?  The only other creatures here, aside from him and Merchen, were a flock of birds that made a home atop the roof of this strange building. Clack-Clack-Clack-Clack. A chorus of metal tapping metal echoed from the caldera, as if a great metal insect was crawling up the giant tank.  A few seconds later, the analogy just about came true, as a giant mechanical centipede circled the middle circumference of the construct, its long appendages ending in claws that gripped like human hands.  It stopped, turning a triangular head in the direction of the child, whipping its thin antenna forward and circling like a rapier practitioner.  Without warning, it lunged! Before anyone else could react, it landed a body's length from the child, the wires still circling, and Tholan could see its eyes; bright-red and glass-like, just as granted upon the child plus two more.  It crawled to the small automaton, halting as it shifted its head left to right.  The green crystal seemed to finally draw its attention, as it moved towards it instead, only pausing as a flock of birds flew overhead; it regarded such, reacting initially as if it were being attacked, but then observed in cautious discernment before returning to the green crystal. Tholan backed up, reaching out only to grab Merchen and pull him away.  Merchen, not knowing Tholan's intentions, yelped and kicked some of the earth down into the pit where the Iron Demon resided.  A great hiss erupted from the demon, resounding within its vicinity, and Tholan practically yanked Merchen out of sight and onto the ground. Thud-thud-thud-thud! That same pattern of legs once scaling the metal wall was now digging hurriedly into the ground and heading their way, closing in as it scaled the dirt wall of the caldera, less than a minute from overcoming them.  "Change!" Tholan managed to whisper to Merchen.  Before being inquired, Tholan practically screamed, "CHANGE!" Several seconds later, the Iron Demon appeared at the rim, and it hoisted its full frame over and crawled forward.  As big as it appeared from down below, it now stood with the length of a tree and a head higher than a house, a hundred legs moving underneath its gargantuan segregated-shell form.  It paused, examining the surroundings from the foliage to the two wolf-like creatures staring at it, one of them baring its fangs. Another hiss erupted from the monstrosity's mechanical mandibles, curt and quieter than before.  It turned and then headed back down the dirt wall.  When a minute had passed, both Tholan and Merchen turned back to their original forms.  "Tholan!" murmured Merchen.  "That thing could have killed us!  Why did you have us change and remain still?" Tholan muttered back, "It didn't attack anything that wasn't threatening it, nor did it attack the birds.  I took a gamble that it doesn't go after animals, or what it perceives as an animal."  He noted Merchen's frown but continued looking back at the caldera.  "Regardless, this just went from bad to worse.  You should go and report back to Garrold." "The hell I will!" Merchen growled.  "We're in too deep, and I can't leave you alone with the automaton and that...thing." Tholan was about to argue, but then realized that their chances would be better if one watched the other's back.  It was now two and two. But what was so significant about that dark-green crystal? Picking up their spears, both Tholan and Merchen walked back to the rim.  All clear; even the little automaton had vanished.  Tholan signalled to crawl forward quickly and quietly as real wolves would, and the two of them set for the ominous structure in the center of what could be designated "Hell on Earth".


The bottles in Oswald's handa clinked when he walked inside the room, trying hold all of them, without dropping any. He tightened his grip with his left hand, and stretch his right hand, trying to put a bottle filled with pink on a high shelf, standing on his toes. Eventually he managed to reach the shelf. He couldn't wait to grow up and finally get tall. Every time he asked Warwick if he could help him get taller, Warwick told him to wait. He always told him to wait. Whenever he asked about learning magic, going outside or anything outside his room in the castle. He really hated to wait. He put the last potion on the shelf with a sigh. He looked in the room, searching for the broom. He sighed and opened the door to get a broom from under room. "Warwick, you've become weak." Oswald heard a female voice. The voice sounded familiar, but he wasn't sure. "Darrene, enough." Warwick said firmly. Oswald recognized the name. A faded memory of an old woman surfaced in his head. He knew he'll get in trouble if he'll keep eavesdropping. He started to close the door, but froze when he heard that they were talking about him. "Warwick, the kid has to die." Darrene said in a dark tone. Chills ran down Oswald's back. "Darrene." Warwick said louder, in a warning tone. "No!" Darrene almost shouted. "It's been almost thirteen years! You can't keep running away like a coward!" Oswald took few steps backward, toward the wall and fell over the broom that he was looking for earlier, creating a loud noises. Oswald tried to put everything back to its place, his hands shaking. Warwick opened the half-opened door. "Oswald?" he asked. Oswald turned around, trying to not show his fear. "Yes?" he answered, trying to keep his voice steady, unshaking. "Did you finish organizing the potions?" Warwick asked  in his usual calm and collected voice. "Yes, I was looking for the broom." Oswald gulped, trying to control his stress. "It's seemed like you have found it." Warwick look Oswald tried to force a smile, but he knew failed. "I think you should go to your room now. I'll call you for dinner." Warwick said, without changing his expression. His face was almost unreadable. Almost. They ate dinner quietly, well more quiet than usual. "I am going to my room." Oswald said, no louder than a whisper, standing up. Warwick just nodded. Oswald washed his plate, the sound of the water being the only thing breaking the silence. "Oswald."

He turned when he heard Warwick. "Don't worry about what Darrene said earlier. I promise you nothing bad will happen to you." Warwick sounded almost sad, even though he smiled at Oswald. Oswald nodded once. There was a lot of things he didn't know about Warwick, but during all his life, for thirteen full years, Warwick was the only one who took care of him, was there for him. Oswald laid on his back, his eyes open, staring at the darkness of the room. As much as he tried, he couldn't get Darrene's words out of his head. He turned around, burying his head in the pillow, trying to hide from the outside world. After what felt like eternity, Oswald jumped from his bed. No, he definitely couldn'y sleep. He stood next to the door, listening. When he heard Warwick's light snoring, he opened the door, sneaking out from his room. He felt his heart throbbing loudly, so loudly that he was sure it was going to wake Warwick up. He kept walking as quietly as he could, and when he finally arrived at the library, he let out his breath. He hadn't noticed until then that he was holding it. Oswald passed by the magic books, walking toward the end of the library. He saw piles of handwritten potion formulas and magic spells. He kept walking, passing shelves of books about raising kids. Eventually he arrived at the rear wall. Tthe shelves there held numbered notebooks, all written by Warwick. They didn't look like the rest of Warwick's records. He moved his finger across them until he saw one which looked different. It was a small book, so old that he could barely read the title on its spine. Oswald's hand floated above the book, hesitating. In a moment of bravery he snatched the book from the shelf. He turned the pages, skimming through the notes inside the book. When he saw his name written in Warwick handwriting, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Oswald." The voice made Oswald jump, dropping the book. He turned around, shaking. Warwick was standing there, right behind him. The fire of the candle lit only half of his face and his expression was unreadable. "I think it is time for us to talk." He said and gestured toward the library's door. Oswald started to walk toward the door, trembling. Oswald sat on the chair near the table, watching Warwick pouring tea. "Now, I think I owe you an explanation." Warwick said, sitting at the other side of the table. "You should drink some tea." Warwick said, sipping from his cup. After few seconds of silence, Warwick put down his cup looking at Oswald, who was staring at his cup. He let out a sigh. "How much did you read?" He asked quietly. "Does it matter?" Oswald asked, his voice harsh. He looked mad and angry, but mostly hurt. Warwick felt the guilt clawing in his stomach. "You're right, I guess it doesn't really matter." Warwick smiled sadly. "Where do you want me to start?" *** Warwick wished he could stay at home and drink tea, and maybe also read a book or two. He sighed, looking upward. The sky felt so dark without the moon, so lonely. The cold nightbreeze blew his cloak. Darrene's impatient voice cut off his thoughts. "Took you long enough." "Darrene, glad to see that you are patient as usual," Warwick smiled. "Save that. It's not a friendly meeting. We have things to do," Darrene said harshly, "Did you bring the potions?" "Of course." Warwick gave her a small bottle with deep purple liquid. "How long?" She asked. "About an hour." Warwick started to walk down the path. "Is it enough?" He asked without even turning toward Derrene. "I suppose." Darrene said catching up with him. "Of course, it'll be better if we had more time, but it'll do." "Well, that's all the time we have," Warwick forced a smile. "Do you know which one we'll need?" "That's sound rude. We are talking about a human being. But no, I'll have to be near him to be sure." Darrene shook her head lightly. "I do know the general era. I think." "Sounds encouraging," Warwick said, regretting ever agreeing to Derrene's insane plan. "Don't you dare going back on me," Darrene said harshly, as if she could hear his thoughts. "We're here," Darrene said when they eventually arrived at a small town. "Great," Warwick muttered. "Cheers," Darrene said, raising her potion, and drank it in one sip. Warwick drank his potion when he saw Darrene appearance changing in front of his eyes. "I have to say, you never looked better Warwick," Darrene smiled mischievously. "Let's go. We don't have time to waste." Warwick started walking ignoring her. He longed to be back in his home, sitting in the living room with a cup of hot tea. "At least act like you care about me or the plan will fail," Darrene said, this time more distanced. Warwick knew she is trying to feel the one. The kid. "This way." Darrene walked toward one of the houses. "Are you sure?" Warwick followed her, worried. "Like I said, I won't know for sure until I'll see him." Darrene walked to the back of the house, trying to look in through the windows. "It's him," she eventually said, with a grin, "show time." Warwick knocked on the door, a hoarse voice muttered some unintelligible words before the door opened. "Can I help you?" a young woman asked with a tense smile. "Actually, you can!" Darrene said with a bright smile. Warwick forgot how charming Darrene can be. It was really scary. "I don't know." The nervous voice of the woman interrupted his self-pity. Warwick could see the woman's willpower give way to Darrene's charm, which was strengthened by her magic.  "I promise that we will take a good care of the child and give him the best home he could ask for." Darrene hold the woman hands with a warm smile . "I'll have to ask my husband." The woman voice trembled. She went back inside the house, closing the door behind her. "Do you think she'll give him up?" Warwick asked quietly. Darrene smiled slyly. "Have some faith in me. You're not the only with magic." Warwick sighed. He knew how strong Darenne's magic can be. Not strong enough to let him stay in his home. "I told you to trust me," Darrene smiled when they left the town, holding a tiny baby. "So, he is the one?" Warwick asked, doubt in his voice. "He is the one who'll conquer our kingdom?" "And kill you," Darrene reminded him. "But, yes, he is the one. I'm sure." She said firmly. Warwick looked at the small creature that Darrene held. So small and alone in the world. Innocent. He knew that they have to kill him, but couldn't stop feeling guilty. They have to. There is no other way. Is there? "Darrene." Warwick stopped in the middle of the path. She turned to him. "No. There is no other way," she said harshly. "But if there is, I'll raise him. I'll make sure that he is not a threat." Warwick became more determinate with each word. "Warwick, I warned you. Don't become weak," Darrene said. He could feel her wrath piercing through him, but he didn't move. "This kid is under my protection," he said quietly and took the child from her. Darrene wanted to protest, but she wasn't foolish enough to ignore the warning in his voice. *** Oswald stood on top of the hill, watching the castle that had been his home for almost thirteen years. The wind ruffled his brown hair. He took a deep breath, prepares himself for what is to come. He opened the front door, walking into the living room he knew so well. Warwick sat on his armchair, sipping from his tea. Everything looked the same, almost like nothing has changed over the last five years. Almost. "Why don't you have a cup of tea, Oswald?" Warwick gestured to the chair in front of him. Oswald put his hand on his sword, his expression stern. "Come on, I'm sure we can have a cup of tea for the good old days, before you kill me." Warwick smiled. It took a few seconds for Oswald's expression to soften, and he sat on his old chair, that felt so small. "Good." Warwick smiled warmly. "Now, how about your telling me what you have been doing all this time."