“Can you keep a secret?” I rolled my eyes, not bothering to look at my sister as I searched the TV for something interesting to watch. “Better than you since since you’re going to tell me one." Sarah plopped down next to me on the couch. “Well if you’re going to be like that then maybe I won’t tell you. “You can’t not tell me a secret after saying you’re going to tell me a secret!" I said, looking at her. "That’s mean.” “Fine I'll tell you but you can’t tell anyone. Janet will kill me if she knew I blabbed after promising I wouldn’t. “I’m your big sister," I said, returning to my channel surfing. "Your secrets are mine, just like that shirt you’re wearing is mine. I thought it got lost at the cleaners.” “It doesn't even fit you anymore. Do you want it back?” I waved the offer away. “Keep it. I want to know the secret.” “Kathy’s pregnant.” I turned, mouth open as my mind tried to process the bomb Sarah dropped. “Are you serious?” Sarah nodded, smiling at my shocked expression. “I was there when she took a pregnancy test. Came back positive.” “Who’s the father? Is it Tyler?” “She doesn't know. There’s been a few guys pulling into her station since he left.” “Really,” I clicked the TV off. “They broke up last month. How many guys could there be?” “3.” I shook my head at that. “I shouldn’t be surprised. She was always boy-crazy in high school, why would she change at 23.” “If I recall you also had your share of boyfriends at the time,” Sarah pointed out.

“Yeah, but I never went all the way. They were more for show, something to make school fun. When they got too pushy then I dumped them.” Sarah pulled out her phone. “I’m just saying, we all enjoyed being with guys so don’t judge. You want me to order a pizza since it’s almost lunchtime?” I nodded. “Cheese and mushrooms. I’m not judging, just stating the facts. So what is she going to do? Does she know who the dad is?” “Not really. She hopes it’s Tyler since they’ve been together the longest and the others were just one night stands but the timing is too close,” she entered our order on the DoorDash app then grabbed the remote from me. “She plans on telling him but wants to wait until the end of her first trimester which is 12 weeks.” “Why tell him? Why not wait until the baby is born and get tested? If she tells him now and it turns out not to be his, that's going to be bad for everyone.” “Yeah, but if it is his then at least he had time to get mentally prepared for it,” Sarah turned on the TV. ‘Besides, just because it isn’t his doesn't mean he can’t raise it as his if he wants to.” I made a face at that. “I don’t know. From all the time I’ve been around him Tyler doesn't seem the kind of guy to settle down.” “You've only been around him four times in the three months they were dating and that was when we went to clubs or the movies.” “And?” “And, you can’t judge someone for liking to party when they are in a party situation. Come on, Jessica, let's be fair.” “I’m fair, I’m just saying she shouldn’t settle for him just because of a freak accident.” Sarah pulled up the DVR and clicked one of our favorite shows. “I don’t think it was an accident, not 100% anyway. She wanted to get pregnant with Tyler’s baby.” “Why? He’s got a shit job and they didn’t seem all that close when they were together.” “I’m just telling you what she told me,” Sarah checked her phone. “Pizza is almost here.” I stood up and stretched. “Well, if she got pregnant just to keep a guy like Tyler than she’s stupid. She’s 23, working part time at a steakhouse and he’s 25 working at his dad’s garage. It’s a good thing her parents are cool and let her live with them.” “Don’t be so harsh. She’s our friend, even if she made a stupid decision.” “Technically she’s your friend,” I said, going to the kitchen. “She’s only mine because you're my sister and we share everything.” “Is that how it works?

“Yes. It doesn't work for you because I don’t have any friends to share.” “Gee, I wonder why.” The doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of our food. I grabbed two cans of root beer from the fridge and poured them in glasses with crushed ice. Getting a serving tray from the closet I placed the glasses, paper plates and napkins on it

“So how big a secret is this?” I said, carrying the tray into the living room. “Can I talk to her about this or am I supposed to play dumb and act totally surprised when she starts showing?” “Just let her be the one to say something,” Sarah grabbed a plate and plopped a large slice of pizza on it. “I think I’m the only one she told and I don’t want her to be hurt. Plus there’s always the chance something could happen and she could lose it so it’s best to pretend you know nothing.” “Fine, I won’t say anything. I’ll just lurk on her Facebook and Instagram for updates,” I took a slice for myself and settled back on the couch. “Do me a favor though. Don’t get pregnant.” Sarah squealed, her mouth full of pizza. I smiled at her wide eyed expression. “I’m just saying. You and Tony seem serious and I don’t want you getting any ideas. I’m too young to be an aunt.” “You’re 26 which is nearly 30. You’re not too young for anything.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “You calling me old?” “Only because you are.” I took a bite of pizza and let the moment pass. Swallowing, I raised my glass and held it out to her. “Whatever. Do we have a deal?” “This is stupid. You know I don’t believe in premarital sex.” I raised an eyebrow at her, glass still raised. With an exaggerated sigh, Sara grabbed her glass and clinked it against mine. “There. I promise not to get knocked up before marriage. Happy?” I nodded and took a long drink from my glass. I knew it was a hollow promise, I’d seen birth control in her room while collecting her dirty laundry one day. For now though I was happy to pretend all was normal. Unlike her, I knew how to keep a secret.


Of course, I love my mother. I have to admit that she’s always tried to be there for me, in spite of our less-than-perfect family. Mom supported me through all my ups and downs. She got me through braces, gymnastics, broken friendships, an absent father, going away to camps or college, career struggles, and my many moves. She was even surprisingly empathetic over bad boyfriends (if I told her about them). But my mother is so annoying when it comes to her religious stuff. She has her views, and never misses a chance to share. It makes me feel like I am 15 again, arguing with her over why I really don’t need to go to a service every week to hear another boring talk.

Take my birthday box that my mother sent me yesterday. It was chockfull of darling stuff. There were some Lululemon clothes she knows I can’t afford, and a little heart-shaped designer purse that I instantly see myself casually flaunting at work. But Mom had to ruin all the great presents, and add in one of those devotional plaques she loves. It had some scripture quote from the book of Proverbs that says “Trust in the Lord with all your heart blahblahblahsomething …and He will make straight your paths.” Now I’m stuck with this religious tchotchke from her. I’ll have to make a note-to-self and remember to put this thing up whenever my mother comes to visit.

Mom’s birthday box represents our relationship- pretty good, but always having some strings attached. Or maybe not strings exactly- her input just always brings up old issues. I got some great birthday presents, but now I also have this “Lord making straight your path” stuff swimming in my head. God and my mother, they’ve got this thing going. But it’s just not for me. I don’t have that religious trust like her. She’s told me her faith has helped her through cancer and other stuff, but I don’t care.

This morning, I swear there’s almost a literal spotlight shining down on that flower-decorated plaque poking out of her box on my table. (Does the morning light through my window always look like that?) “Trust, trust, trust… ” preaches mom’s plaque, and wait for those “straight paths.” That plaque can preach to me all it wants, but I’m finding no straight paths this morning. At all. The complications start even before breakfast. It’s my fault, I guess, but I had big trouble finding anything to wear for work- anything clean anyway. The laundry basket in my closet had been needing attention for some days. Yesterday was the absolute tipping point for having any clean work clothes for today. I knew I should spend some time on a trek to the apartment laundry room last night. I even had my bowl of quarters out on the kitchen counter, to remind me that I was doing laundry after work. However, it only took one phone call from my friend last night. Instead of practical domesticity, I opted to go out to Bobo’s for my birthday. I had lots of fun, but my dirty clothes did not. So my heavy perfume trick is going to have to suffice on clothes dredged out of the laundry basket for today’s work outfit. Maybe the cute new purse will distract from my wrinkled blouse or any possible aromas.

My mom’s “Straight Path syndrome” continues to zigzag me everywhere but straight. In the kitchen, I’m finally almost out of the door. But while getting my travel mug ready for the car, I spill hot coffee everywhere. (At least I did not spill coffee on myself, though it likely would have blended with my already messy look). I throw some kitchen towels on the drippy mess on the floor for later clean-up- and hurry for my car.

Why are the smallest most trivial things sometimes the most vital? How many battles have been lost because a bugler did not show up, or the mailroom guy didn’t deliver an updated map to the general in time? A huge ship is aimless without a little rudder, and a car - in particular my car this morning- is going nowhere. Yes, I am going to be late for work, because of one small problem.

“My keys- where are my keys?” I still have my old purse with me since I did not have time to change everything to the cute new one. The keys of course are not in there, even after I frantically dump everything out on the car hood. Frustrated, I abandon the contents of my old purse on the hood, along with that troublesome travel mug full of steadily cooling coffee. Exiting the parking garage, I bolt back up the stairs, back to my apartment. I finally spot the car keys innocently sitting on the kitchen counter, as big as life, next to the bowl of quarters. I swear that the keys were not there before- I know I would have seen them. “Trust in the Lord,” whispers mom’s plaque from the sunbeam as I storm out.

When I finally make it to the freeway, the radio news is blaring on about some traffic pileup. “Wonderful! More delay!” I mutter at the car clock showing how late for work I am now. I am grousing out loud about my mother and her God NOT making straight my path, when I suddenly realize the traffic news is going on way past its normal reporting time. It seeps into my frazzled brain that there is some big deal going on.

Laurie’s worried phone call from work confirms it. “Ellen, are you okay?” It seems that my freeway delay isn’t just a mundane traffic jam. It turns out that it is the largest multi-car accident in U.S. history. Something like 250 vehicles are involved, and there are lots of injured people, although thankfully no casualties. Some tractor-trailer truck struck a concrete divider, which started a massive chain reaction. Multiple cars kept crashing, and they end up having to close two miles of my freeway for most of the day. I’m able to reroute around the mess, and arrive very very late for work, but with a bonafide excuse. It turns out I’m not the only late one. My boss is a total no-show- his was one of the many cars rear-ended in the chain reaction.

Of course I quickly realize that if I had been on time for work as I planned, I would have been right in the middle of the accidents. It all took place exactly on my daily route, going northbound, right when I would have been there. There was a high probability that I’d have gotten major damage to my car, or to me, or both. That “making straight your path” stuff from my mom was looking a bit different now. Maybe I was feeling thankful, with a little respect for what I did not quite understand mixed in with it. So when I got home after work, even before I cleaned up that coffee spill, I did something totally out of character. I found a clear spot on my living room wall, next to my theater posters- and that’s where I hung up that little plaque. It’s not really my decorating style, but Mom will get a kick out of seeing it there on her next visit.

And maybe it’s a good reminder for me to start working on my trust issues- with my mother, and maybe her God.


You walk through the doors, knowing it's going to be a bad night. The music's too loud and there are too many people. Everybody mindlessly dryhumping each other and with enough chemicals in them to think it's fun. You're not even sure why you came, your friends said you had to get out of the house for a while. They were "worried about you". Apparently it's possible in todays society to spend too much time alone. Even before everything happened you were a solitary man. Not awkward as such, you just happen to prefer your own company most of the time. There was talk of autism in school, borderline personality disorder, major depression. The list goes on, even to this day. Your friends herd you over to the bar offering a night of cost free ablution or if not ablution, then at least forgetting. Do you want to forget? Could you live without the memories? Would you be the same? You cheers the group, forcing a smile onto your face. Pulling out another mask to hide behind. The one used most often. "Happy" They take turns buying you drinks, trying to get you involved in a few little jokes. You can always make them laugh without trying. They seem to think this means you're brightening up. You do nothing to dispel this illusion. It's loud here. You're uncomfortable but the mask makes it easy to hide. Plus the affects of the alcohol are becoming stronger, perhaps it's time for a cigarette? Outside now. The air is crisp and you can see your breath after the smoke has left your lungs. This amuses you for some reason and for a split second a real smile shows through. Footsteps in the alley behind you. You turn. You don't know this man who is standing so close to you. He looks upset. You feel a warmth in your stomach. Perhaps this man is known to you after all. He turns his back on you. You feel cold. Your hand goes to your stomach. Your head tilts downwards. You stumble back, leaning against the wall. Slide.


My most memorable action? I think that award goes to Intervention at Quara 4. This planet is almost entirely covered in this deep ,blue ocean with a couple of small, tropical archipelagos. Many islands are less than a mile long and only about half a mile wide. This planet was our territory and it was very important. Not because of what was on it, but because of what was under ocean. Titanium and Aluminium. Almost unimaginable quantities of this metals. And they were essential for our fleet and military, but aslo space stations and other spacecrafts. After our war with Empire began, the Zen, race native to planet, joined the conflict on our side. But after our crushing defeat at Saalaris Prime they decided to rebel, they threw out our garrison and annouced their defection to the Empire. Lost of this planet would be a heavy blow to our economy, so the High Command decided to send our Legion to take back the planet. The operation was codenamed "Operation Tide". So we were send to special trenning for underwater combat and right after that to Quara. This wasn't an easy fight. Our enemy was well equiped and well organized. The battles in ocean weren't easy. Most of the time we were fighting among the coral reefs and in deep underwater caves. We had better technology, Zen knew the terrain. And then there were aslo wildlife. Many carnivorus fish and other creatures. But, even with all of this, we managed to push the Zen Rebels all the way to their Capital, and thats where our advance stopped. We refused to enter the city before heavy equipment arrived. So we waited, but finally our sub-tanks, as we called them, arrived and the siege began. After two weeks of fighting we were able to enter the city but the battle was far from over. I swear to you that we were sure that Rebels were in every building. No matter where we came, someone was shooting at us. They were throwing grenades, bombs, one of our guys even got hit by a block of dead coral. There were destroyed buildings and rubble blocking the streets, this wasn't an easy battle, that I can tell you. Slowly but surely we pushed forward, until we arrived at the center. There was that huge, tall building that was the city hall and this was the last bastion of the rebels in the city. We couldn't storm it right away so we resolved to siege. After a two day shelling we managed to enter the building and we captured it a day later. And our flag was planted on top of it. The capital was taken, but the battle to recapture the planet was longer. Many of the Zen Rebels were hiding in caves and smaller towns and cities. So we were hunting the remaining rebels one by one. The civilians were friendly. Most of them remained loyal to us and helped us as guides, or just by chatting with us. In exchange for that kindness, our command made sure that the help will be provided to wounded. Some of our guys were helping families rebuild their homes. One of my friends, Dero, even befriended a Zen guy called Qur, at least I think that is the eqivilant in our language. Another 3 months we spend at capturing rebels, hunting the Insurgency leaders, destroying supply lines etc. But finally, after a 7 months of fighting, the last Rebel stronghold was captured and the planet was in our hands again. I couldn't wait to finally get out of this water and spend some time in my quaters on Polaris Space Station. We were joking that we are going to sleep like a dead men. Dero said that he invites us to a pool party, and everyone just stared at him with a look that clearly said: Dude, we spend 7 months underwater. Don't even dare to invite us to pool party. Yeah, I guess we had enough swimming for now.


He was a captain of the guard. He held his pike in his hand. They had defended the walls of the city for a thousand days. With his men he guarded his ruler and the people within. Dawn was breaking. The invaders had amassed three armies and the city was at last surrounded. The sun was rising as it always did. 'Savages.' said the young soldier standing at the Captain’s side. 'A comforting thought, I am sure.' said the Captain. 'You have any sympathy for them?' 'You have none?' 'None at all.' The walls of the city stood taller than any others the Captain had seen. The ancestors of his people had built them from sandstone. The banners of the invaders fluttered miles below. 'How can they repulse you from so far away?' the Captain said. ‘May I speak freely?' said the soldier. 'You may.' 'They storm their way across the land taking city after city.' 'And?' 'They are barbarians, Captain. The thought of what they would do to our home is what I find repulsive.' 'How are the military academies these days?' 'Excuse me, Captain?' 'You must have come from one of them.' 'I did indeed.’ ‘And did they teach you about our enemy?' 'They taught us of their brutality and greed.' 'Which they called the truth.' 'Which is the truth.' The invaders were setting up their cannons. The Captain knew the signs of an oncoming bombardment. 'You look upon them with admiration.' said the soldier. 'Do not guess my feelings.' said the Captain. 'Though on that count, you are correct. I admire them.' 'Such talk around your superiors could get you executed.' 'That is why I talk to my subordinates.' He heard his fellow captains barking orders at soldiers elsewhere on the walls. He gave no such orders. Every soldier under him was already in their place. He had lined them up facing the sun as it crested the distant sand dunes. It cast a warm and yellow light over them. Some bowed their heads and spoke a prayer to the gods. 'At your academy, did they ever tell you the two questions a soldier must ask?' said the Captain. 'No.' said the soldier. 'The first question is 'Who is my enemy?' That one you know the answer to.' 'Of course. What is the second?' 'The second is, 'For whom do I fight?' Have you asked yourself that?' 'I fight for our people.' 'For the ruler of our people.' 'He is the will of us all made flesh. To defend him is to defend all.' 'A lovely doctrine. Where did you learn it?' The soldier paused. 'The academy, I suppose.' 'And whom do you think ordered them to teach it?' 'It is their belief. They teach it to us of their own will.' 'Don't play at being stupid.' 'I'm not.' 'You know the answer.' ‘I have told you the answer.' 'You lie to yourself.' 'And why would I do that?' ‘For protection. It is what soldiers do.' 'So what is the answer then?' 'Our ruler has told them to teach you such nonsense.' 'Nonsense, you say? You doubt your ruler and your faith now? 'I have never doubted the ruler’s connection to the divine. I am doubting his connection to the people.' The Captain could hear the chiming of alarm bells. The people of the city were being forced awake. His ears picked up the cries of children. They did not know the extent of the threat beyond the walls. It made no sense to them why they had to leave their homes. 'I fail to understand your point, Captain.' the soldier said. ‘What is confusing you?' 'How your points relate to each other. You say I fight only for our ruler. You also say I should admire the enemy.' 'The two are entirely connected. 'You still aren't making sense.' 'I am. You just need to think about it.' 'We might die today. Do you want to waste our last hours on riddles?' 'You might learn something. You cannot waste time if you are learning something.' ‘Can you be a more direct teacher?' ‘Very well. Do you know why I have been so successful as a soldier? Why I was promoted to Captain?' 'I would say it is your skill in battle. Now you have me doubting myself.' 'Rightfully so. That is what many believe. It is not the case.' 'Then how did you succeed?' 'I overcame the belief which burdens you.' 'That being?' 'The belief that the cause I happen to be fighting for is somehow special. That I have fought for the right reasons. I realised I was not fighting for justice. I was fighting for whoever ruled over me.' 'Our ruler wages war in the name of justice.' 'And profits handsomely as a result.' 'We are all enriched by the ruler’s gains.' 'Are you still not tired with your doctrines?' 'With reality? No. Now, on with your lesson.' 'Once I could see my own cause in that way, I realised I was viewing it through the eyes of the enemy. Then, I could appreciate how they saw their cause as being righteous.' 'Again, you show sympathy for brutes.' 'That is what you call them. Were you from among their ranks, how might you describe your mission?' The ground shook beneath them. The invaders had fired the first cannon volley of the day. It had hit the base of the walls. From what the Captain could see the structure was still holding fast. The soldier spat in the direction of the cannons. 'Were I among them, I would bay for blood. I would scream and holler and dance under the desert sun wearing only warpaints,’ said the soldier, ‘because I would be a savage.' 'Can you see them doing such things?' ‘They act civilised now. Wait until they overrun us. Watch how they treat the innocent people caught in their bloody path.’ 'I have seen it done before.' 'So you admit that I am right?' 'I have seen it done by my fellow soldiers. It was their butchery that revealed to me the courage of the enemy.’ ‘Now you speak like a traitor.' ‘I am telling you what I have seen with my own eyes. Besides, I cannot be a traitor. I am not scared. Traitors are ever fearful.’ 'How can you not be scared when you believe the enemy is courageous.' 'If I know they share my courage, I know they share my worries. As I know you share mine as well. The difference between us is that I do not think of them as monsters. That is why they do not scare me. They are only human. Humans are easily killed.' 'You think I fear them?' 'You spoke of us being overrun. You expect us to be defeated.' 'I feel only pride, even in defeat.' 'That which every worried soldier tells themselves. I have seen people die. I have killed people. The last feeling you see in their eyes is always fear.' 'So you say.' 'So I know.' The soldier did not reply. They both looked out. The Captain thought the sun to be particularly beautiful that day. 'So you admire people you see as ordinary?' the soldier said. 'Yes, I do. I admire them much as I admire you.' 'You might as well compare me to a starving alleyway dog.’ 'It is a great compliment. Place yourself amongst them once more. Imagine facing these walls of ours. They cannot see us. The walls obscure our faces. Their every detail is exposed to us.' 'Your point?' 'Would you not need incredible bravery to dare lay siege to this city?' 'I suppose.' 'And there you have it. My conclusions are all part of a whole. Our ruler is a profiteer. We wage war in his name. They know this. I also know this. Thus, I realise that our respective rulers are no better than each other. They are told the same lies as us and the same truth stands. As a product of this, I know that they are humans. They have bravery, which I respect. They also have fear, which I can abuse.' 'I believe I understand it now. Though I still do not care for it.' 'Neither did I, at first. You will come around.' 'We will see.' The Captain stumbled when the next round of cannon fire hit the walls. He regained his balance and leaned over the edge to watch the invaders. They had broken through. In the midst of the conversation he had ignored the sounds of orders. Around him, soldiers raced with pikes in hand. They were going to reinforce those defending the point of the breach. In each face he spotted the same confidence that the young soldier beside him had been sporting. 'Let us see if this really is an army of savages.' the Captain said. 'Or an army of men.' said the soldier.


Letter I August 2010 To Briggs and Mac, If these letters have found you, it means that I have been gone for five years. It also means that the time has come to clarify my life and career, which, as you are aware, I guarded passionately. I apologize for this secrecy. For reasons explained herein, however, I hope you can understand my reasoning. I hope you find some amount of interest in the life your grandmother and I pursued. Please keep these stories safe and within our family. Your grandfather, M.H. In 1975, I began working as a private investigator. Growing up, see, I was enamored with the daring adventures of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and the relaxed, yet pinpoint astuteness of Stout’s Nero Wolfe. I recognized early on in my career that my work would be incomparable to the heroic and oftentimes otherworldly feats found in a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, but I was able to provide real assistance to people at times, and that was all I ever aimed to do. In the small city of Henton, where I lived, my early investigative work typically involved exposing small-scale insurance and tax fraud, discovering the whereabouts of missing persons on behalf of their families, and, on occasion, the menial task of uncovering the lies of unfaithful spouses. By the mid-1980s, I had established myself as a competent and reliable private investigator in the underground scene. Unlike many investigators I knew or heard of, however, I had little hubris in my work. I often turned my findings over to local and state police, with which they would locate a perpetrator or a missing person and proudly take the credit. This system worked well for me. The individuals and families who contracted me were aware of the facts I uncovered and would pay me accordingly, allowing me to stay relatively free from any limelight. Anonymity was not only a personal preference of mine, but my name and face remaining out of the newspapers gave me a considerable advantage in my reconnaissance. Media attention seemed, to me, antithetical to private investigating, and I never understood why so many of my colleagues were overtly focused on it, oftentimes more so than solving cases. The anonymity I desperately worked to maintain, however, was tested for the first time in April 1987. I was sitting in a diner early one morning, drinking coffee and reviewing notes from a case I was working on when a man I had never met quietly slipped into the booth seat across from me. “Mr. Leslie,” the man said gently. I looked up and removed my reading glasses. “Can I help you?” I asked. “I hope so,” he said. “If anyone can, then it is you.” I gathered my papers in a stack and sat my pencil down on top of them. “Well,” I said pointedly, “I am quite busy at the moment. Perhaps you can leave a message with me or your phone number?” “I know you are a busy man, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “but there is a situation, and I know of no one else who can help resolve it.” I remained quiet, studying the man. “I work hard to ensure that my activities remain out of street gossip,” I said. “I’m not sure who recommended me for your situation, but I am just a journalist, not a first responder.” When outside eyes and ears began to pry into my work, I often simplified my job to the role of journalist; this helped keep unwanted inquiries away. “Lee Ivers told me to find you,” he said. The hair on my arms raised at hearing the name, but I remained calm. “Lee Ivers,” I said flatly, concealing the fact that my interest had been piqued. “And how do you know Mr. Ivers?” “My father used to work with him, and they were good friends,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you know, Lee passed a while ago, but before he died, I discussed with him my situation, and he referred me to you. I was hesitant to find you, but I don’t know what else to do.” “I see,” I said. I leaned back in my booth, crossed my legs, and sipped my coffee. I studied the man a moment longer, then moved my stack of papers to one side of the table and rested my arms on the open space before me. “Empty your pockets,” I said to the man. He hesitantly took out his wallet, keys, and pocket knife and sat them on the table. “And your gun?” I asked. “No gun,” he said. I looked at the man blankly. “Very well,” I said. “I’m sorry I could not help you.” “It’s in my pants,” he quickly said. “No more lies,” I said intently. He nodded. “Now, tell me about your situation.” He looked down at the table. “It’s my sister,” he said. “Go on.” “She married a man–a bad man.” I waited, allowing my impatience to become visible. “Mario,” he said. “He beats her up every day.” “Go to the police,” I told him. He looked at me in disbelief, as if I was the one personally abusing his sister. “Look, I’m not law enforcement,” I said, “and I’m not a hitman. I’m an investigator. I use evidence and clues to answer questions. I’m not some servant of justice. You claim to know of me, and of Lee Ivers, so I presume you know this.” He looked at me desperately. “He is the police,” he said. I paused. “I don’t follow,” I said unamused. “He is a police officer over in Rock Falls,” he said. “A powerful one.” “Not always the most pacifistic bunch,” I said. I paused momentarily. “I haven’t caught your name, by the way, sir,” I said. “Jordan–Jordan Caruso,” he said. “Well, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “as I mentioned upon your arrival, I am working on a few important things at the moment, and I—”

“I wouldn’t have come to you unless I was desperate,” he interjected. “It’s not the violence. He’s making her do all kinds of stuff–stuff she doesn’t want to do.” I raised my eyebrows to him and waited, silently insisting that he get to his point. “He’s running an entire drug and weapons operation from their home. He makes her package drugs–dangerous drugs–and store weapons in her closet. And when she doesn’t do what he says, he beats her.” As the man spoke, I jotted notes on my yellow legal pad, but soon his emotions consumed him and forced him to stop. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “She’s scared. And I’m scared for her.” “Very good,” I said plainly, and I slid my notepad over to him. “Please write your phone number here,” and he did. “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “So you will help?” he asked hopefully. “Perhaps,” I said as I began to re-organize my papers around the table. “I am quite busy, as you can imagine. There is no shortage of crime and no shortage of worried family members requesting my assistance.” I continued to organize my papers and write notes while the man remained seated. Finally, I looked up at him and nodded politely, indicating that our meeting had concluded. He collected his things, stood up slowly, and left the cafe. As the door closed behind him, I hurriedly gathered my papers, stuffed them inside my briefcase, and finished the remainder of my coffee. I slowly approached the door and watched as the man walked briskly down the sidewalk. Lee Ivers dead? I thought to myself as I watched the man. I had spent the better part of the last decade hunting people, and I suddenly felt–for the first time but not the last–that forces were conspiring to hunt me . I carefully followed the man as he paced down the sidewalk. When he reached a car parked on the street, he looked around cautiously and entered its passenger side before the car quickly sped away. A week passed before I called the number that the man had left on my legal pad. A woman answered. “Good morning,” I said. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Caruso.” “I’m not sure if anyone is home at the moment,” she said. “Do you mean Jordan or Mario Caruso?” “Busy men, I assume,” I said. “I’m looking for Jordan. We spoke a few days ago and I was hoping to speak with him again about something important. Would you mind leaving a message for him?” “Of course,” she said. “Friday, April 17,” I said. “9 a.m. I will be at the cafe.” She began to speak, but I hung up before she could get a question out. I immediately phoned my wife, Logan. She ran a florist shop in town by day, but she spent considerable time and effort assisting me with my cases, and without her, very few of them would have ever been finished. Whatever Watson was to Holmes, or Goodwin to Wolfe, she was that and more. While I possessed a keen ability to read people and situations, Logan Leslie–who used her maiden name, Logan Moore, for the sake of precious anonymity–was as stealthy as a fox and as witty as a coyote. “Moore Flowers,” she answered. “Friday morning,” I said. “9 o’clock.” “Where?” she asked. “Cafe. Black car,” I said. She remained quiet. We kept things intentionally short at all times, but she could sense there was something more. “Our guy might be back,” I said finally. “ The guy?” she asked cautiously. “The same,” I said. “Tread lightly,” and then I hung up. On the morning of April 17, I sat in the booth at the cafe, drinking coffee and scribbling notes, as I waited for the man to arrive for our meeting. At 10 o'clock, he entered the cafe and slipped into my booth once again. “Good morning, Mr. Leslie,” he said politely. “I considered our conversation from last week,” I said. He was shocked by the abruptness but looked delighted when he registered what I had said. “Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with such a case,” I said. “I do not know of you, for starters, and I don’t do business with folks I do not know. Secondly, police department scandals are particularly delicate circumstances.” He nodded. “The juice is often not worth the squeeze, as you might imagine,” I said. “Moreover, I prefer to maintain good relations with the enforcers of the law, even when they do not thoroughly enforce it upon themselves.” He nodded again. “However, you tell me that Mr. Lee Ivers referred you to me,” I said. “He did.” “I guess you are aware, then, that Mr. Ivers and I worked together several years ago.” “I do. He had many great things to say about you and your work.” “You claim that Mr. Ivers has died, yet I do not recall hearing of his passing.” Disappointment overcame the man’s face. “You didn’t know that he passed?” he said softly. “I did not,” I said, “which surprises me, as it is my job to stay abreast of such news.” “I’m so sorry you did not know, Mr. Leslie,” he said. “Unfortunate,” I said. “He was an excellent businessman.” “He was,” the man said. “He taught me a lot.” As we silently reflected on Lee’s passing, the waitress stopped at our table. She was holding a coffee pot and carefully refilled my cup. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked the man. “No, thank you,” he said. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I admired her outfit. “One sugar, correct?” she asked me as she laid down a single sugar packet on the table. “Right,” I said. She smiled and nodded her head before continuing down the aisle. “So, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “would you mind filling me in on what you have in mind concerning your brother-in-law’s enterprise? It seems that you have all the information you need to uncover his unlawful activity. Why do you need me?” “Well,” he said, “Lee told me about your connections to law enforcement. I was hoping that you could compile some information on what he is doing and report it properly–somewhere higher than the local police–that way it can be handled legally. “I see.” “My sister told me about a warehouse where everything is stored–drugs, money, guns–everything.” “There doesn’t seem to be much need for an investigation then,” I said dismissively, “which is, of course, my job. You know where everything is–go burn it down. Or, better yet, take your sister and leave town.” He looked down at the table again. “I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared my sister will get hurt if anything happens. I know he can find us.” Again, I slid my yellow legal pad over to him. “Write down the address,” I said. He did, and he slid the notepad back over to me. “Mario is going out of town on Tuesday morning,” he said. “I can drive you there Tuesday night and you can see the operation.” “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “10 p.m.” “Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “thank you so much.” I was already reading over my papers and making notes as he said this, and this time he understood that our meeting had concluded. He stood up and left the cafe. As he exited, I looked over at the waitress, who was removing her apron and letting her hair down. When I arrived at the address the man gave me, I found an old warehouse, with a black car parked on the side of it. I entered cautiously and was greeted by Mr. Caruso, who was sitting in a chair next to a woman holding a large package. “Mr. Leslie,” he said pleasantly, “thank you for coming.” “Considering the circumstance you claim to find yourself in, you do not appear to be a man who is nervous,” I said. “Why should I be nervous?” he asked. “Occupying a dangerous man’s domain,” I said, “does not strike me as a calming task, especially when it risks your sister’s health.” “This?” he asked as he put his hand on the woman’s thigh. “This is not my sister, Mr. Leslie. This is my partner, Marta.” “Shocking turn of events,” I said lamely. “And I assume,” he said dramatically, “that you know who this is?” Lee Ivers stepped out from behind a metal beam. “Surprise,” he said. “Not really,” I said. “A relatively lame attempt at one, rather.” He laughed grossly. “And what now,” I asked directly. “Straight to business, huh?” Lee said, smiling. “You know, I’m surprised we got you here so easily.” “I got myself here, Lee. Don’t flatter yourself.” “Well,” he said, “in any case, a rather simple ultimatum is what we propose to you.” “I never particularly fancied ultimatums,” I said. “Well, Mick,” he said, “we can certainly make your decision for you if you prefer it that way.” “Whatever options you think you have for me,” I said, “I can assure you that I have more.” “Perhaps,” Lee said, “we just kill you then, and leave you none?” I chuckled. “If it were that easy,” I said, “I suspect it would have been done a long time ago. We both know that people have tried before. I believe you were even one of those people at one time. Peculiar, isn’t it?” Lee Ivers took a couple of slow steps toward me, and Jordan Caruso slowly stood up from his chair. “I believe I was,” he said as he approached me. “And I have waited to see you again for a long, long time.” “I’m sorry for your mistake,” I said. Lee laughed quietly to himself and reached a hand behind his back. Before it retrieved its intended item, a loud shot rang out, and Lee collapsed to the ground. Jordan Caruso reached for his weapon, but I had my pistol trained on him before he could retrieve it. “Relax,” I said calmly. “Throw the gun on the ground and put your hands in the air. Slowly.” He dropped his gun and raised his hands as he looked down at Lee Ivers’ body in shock. “How’d you do that?” he said. “Why should I not kill you,” I asked him. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said shakily. “Ah,” I said, “just following orders.” He remained silent. “I will leave you to clean this up, should you wish to,” I said. “And I assure you that I will find you again the instant I hear of any arms or drugs being distributed from your facility here. I suggest that you dissolve this operation or move it far away from here.” I released the hammer of my pistol, tucked it back into my pants, and took a few steps backward. As I turned for the door, I saw from the corner of my eye that he was reaching for his weapon on the ground but before he could retrieve it, another shot rang out and the woman screamed. As I got into my truck, Logan was already waiting inside for me. “Thank you,” I said to her as we pulled away. She looked over at me. “If anyone gets to kill you, it will be me,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully it doesn’t come that,” I said, “but I’d be honored.” In a world where anonymity is paramount, see, there is little room for enemies–particularly for ones who desperately seek the unnecessary evil of revenge. My philosophy, however–and that of your grandmother, too–is not to locate enemies and eliminate them. There is certainly no shortage of men who would consider me an enemy, and most of them live peaceful lives remaining far away from me. It is those who rear their nasty heads at us, rather than remain in the shadows, that meet fates such as these. As for the story of Lee Ivers and how I came to know him, that is for another time. M.H. Leslie


Your wedding day is supposed to be magical, romantic and the most memorable day of your life. You are excited and can’t sleep the night before. You and your bridesmaids sit up all night talking. Every bride wants it to be perfect, right? Nothing can go wrong. For my friend, things were working out perfect. The wedding date was set. We had gone together to pick out her wedding dress. Oh, it was beautiful and she couldn’t have looked more beautiful wearing it. I helped her with invitations and picking out the wedding cake. She and the groom met with the pastor at her church. No, nothing could go wrong. Then it happened. She woke up in the morning of her wedding day in pain. Not a small pain but an I want to scream pain. Her jaw was swollen and throbbing. It radiated up the side of your face to your head. The gum which had been a little sore the past few days was now throbbing. It felt as if every tooth in her head was in protest. “How can this be happening?” she cried. “I’m getting married today.” This was happening to my friend. Yes, she had an impacted wisdom tooth. “We aren’t going to panic,” her mother calmly said. “I’ll find a dentist. Everything will be fine.” She gazed at her daughter’s swollen jaw. “Everything will be fine.” Her mother found a dentist who would see her. They rushed off leaving us bridesmaids waiting in limbo. Would the wedding go on? It had too. How do you tell over a hundred guest the wedding is postponed? I called the groom to let him know. I felt he should. I then found myself calming him down. “It will be fine. I’m sure the dentist will know what to do.” A few hours passed. The bride was home wisdom tooth in place and two prescriptions; a bottle of antibiotics and another filled with pain pills. The wedding was in two hours. We began the process of getting her to the church to prepare for the big moment. We all prayed nothing would go wrong. Now to say the bride was happy would be an understatement. The pain medication made her giddy, well drunk would be a better word.  She couldn’t even put on her underwear and hose. Her mother and I, the maid of honor had to do it all. I fixed her hair and applied her makeup. When we were done, she was beautiful even if her smile was a little crooked. She stood at the mirror admiring her image. “I look pretty good,” she said and staggered a bit. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I hope she can walk,” I whispered to her mother. The wedding was a few minutes away. The wedding began. The groom his best man and groomsmen waited at the altar. The groom was nervous. Everyone could see it, but few knew there was an underlining tension he held buried inside. Although he hadn’t seen his bride, he knew the her condition. He prayed silently nothing would go wrong. He and his groomsmen watched with smiles as the bridesmaids walked up the aisle in rhythm to the music. The bridesmaids and I stepped up to the altar. The groom glanced over at me. “Is she okay?” he whispered. I gave him a nod. The wedding march began. I jumped nervously and turned to wait for the bride to enter.  Family and guests turned in their seats waiting to view the bride. The air was filled with magical anticipation. On her father’s arm the lovely bride appeared. Her white veil covered her face. Her father wore a pride, but nervous smile on his. She appeared composed as they walked up the aisle together. No one would ever know she was high. No one would ever know just hours before she was in excruciating pain. The groom stepped down to meet her. I held my breath for a moment and let it out slowly when everything moved as planned. Her father gave her hand to the groom and he escorted her to stand before the pastor. “Dearly beloved we are gathered here…” All was going well. The vows began. The bride pronounced each word, each vow with preciseness and didn’t stumble once. The groom was smiling happily down at her. She looked so beautiful. Soon they would be married. Nothing could go wrong. “May I have the rings?” The pastor asked. He held up the two rings. “In ancient Rome it was believed that the vein in the fourth finger of the left hand ran directly to the heart. It became a tradition that wedding rings should be worn on this finger as a pledge of love and a life together. As all rings they are a circle. What might be the significance in this? Your lives together seem to go out into the future in a straight line. In the end that line meets at home and in the heart. These rings represent your journey in life together.” He handed the rings to the groom and bride. The tension grew for everyone who knew her condition. Would she drop the ring or say something wrong? She placed the groom’s ring on his finger and repeated, “I give you this ring as a token and pledge of our constant faith and abiding love.” She placed it on his finger. I think you could hear the sighs of relief. The groom held out her ring and waited for her to hold out her hand. Then it happened. Her drugged state of mind took everyone by surprise. Instead of holding out her left hand for the ring, she presented the groom with her right. He gazed at it for a moment and whispered. “Give me your left hand.” She gave him a confused look and jabbed her right hand at him. “Left hand.” She shook her right hand at him giving him an angry stare and blurted out for all to hear, “Put the ring on Jay.” Not even the pastor could hold back his laughter.


I’ve been exploring the cosmos in this Shuttle for a while, if I had any track of time I’d say I’ve been out here years. I have seen the stars and the planets, hell I’m pretty sure I’ve seen extraterrestrial life. I’m not alone out here. It’s time for me to go back home, to see my family and my friends. I’ll publish my diary so that people can read my story and let their imagination go wild. I can see the sun, I’m getting closer and closer to home. I pass by the planets, taking pictures that I can look back on in the future. My journey has been one of great interest. As I grow closer to the Earth, my heart beats faster and faster due to the excitement of knowing the things I will recieve once I’m home. I’ll surely be known worldwide as the Man who went to the edge of the Universe and back. This trip was my best decision ever, and coming home will be even better. If I really wanted to I could’ve stayed in space until I died from lack of food, lack of water or lack of oxygen. I can only imagine the kind of letters I will recieve. I can only imagine the wealth I will have. I can only imagine how many people would treat me as if I were royalty. I will spend the rest of my life basking in glory. I will spend the rest of my life signing autographs. My life will be a life worth living. Home is so close now. I can almost feel the gravity pulling me in. Who knows, maybe the shuttle will crash land and I will die. Maybe my dreams of becoming famous are just dreams and not fact. Maybe I’ll have 5 seconds of excitement. Maybe I’ll go back to being just a regular guy. Maybe I won’t even be known. Maybe I’ve been out here so long that... nobody remembers me, or that those who do, are long gone. The possibilities either terrify me or fill me with joy. I am a man who is stuck dreaming. I am a man literally living in the past. What if instead of being given glory I’ll be outcasted; someone who has been in space as long as I have may not even be considered human. There’s only one thing I know for sure, and that is that I’m coming home. I hope I’ll be given some sort of award. If I do return to no prize then my entire journey will be in vain. Perhaps my life has no good ending. Perhaps the happy ending I’ve always wanted never existed. Perhaps my very birth was a mistake. What if me existing has ruined the flow of existence, and that my mere presence disrupts the fabric of life. If I were to die, would anyone even know I ever existed? What if I’ve been building a legacy that will never be remembered? God, this journey has really made me realise how insignificant we all are. There’s no point doing anything when you can do nothing. Perhaps we are in a simulation, and nothing that we do will ever matter. Of course there is some worth to living, maybe it’s the constant pursuit of knowing the meaning of life? Maybe at the end of the day we are all something. Something that can change the world, but chooses not to. Well I suppose you’ve had enough of my rambling. I’m coming home, and I’m coming home now. I’m closer to the moon now, and soon I’ll be back home. I pass by the moon only to notice a slight problem... The Earth is not here.


She dragged a finger through the sand again, watching the valleys she was creating intersect then crumble. “Did you hear me, Sarah? I said, ‘Will you marry me?’” Jake swallowed and looked around, all of their friends were starting to wander off sensing the awkward tension and wanting to distance themselves. Sam was shaking his head, a silent attempt to deter Jake from further embarrassing himself. Sarah still didn’t respond and began poking holes in the sandy highways she had traced around her legs. Jake snatched her hand and she finally looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to get married.” Jake could feel his mouth gaping open like a fish and snapped it closed. The last of their friends peeled away, letting the couple have a moment of privacy. “Why, Sarah? I thought you loved me?” She just shrugged, rolling the comment off her shoulders as if he wasn’t falling apart in front of her. Jake dropped her hand and stood up. She turned back to the sand, not in embarrassment or sadness, but in genuine disinterest. He had the sudden urge to kick sand in her face, to make her hurt the way he was hurting, but he didn’t. Instead Jake stomped away, feeling his face burn and to his shame tears stinging his eyes. He really thought she would say yes. He had asked all of their friends to come watch him propose. Sure, he didn’t have a real ring yet, but he didn’t think she cared about that kind of thing. He thought she would find the twisted ring of grass and flowers romantic. He crumpled the makeshift ring in his hand before throwing it on the ground. He had put himself out there, heart full of love, certain she felt the same. It was fast, but they had been together every day for months and had known each other since first grade. They worked side by side and sometimes Sarah would hold his hand at lunch so everyone knew they were together. Just last week Sam had announced to everyone that Jake and Sarah should get married. Jake could tell it embarrassed Sarah, but she hadn’t disagreed. How could he have misread everything so poorly? No, he couldn’t be this wrong. He knew they were in love. He had never been in love before, but it wasn’t something you just made up for fun. It wasn’t make-believe. Jake wiped his eyes and turned back to beg Sarah to reconsider, to remember all the good times. He wanted to remind her of that moment she was moved to a desk near his, when they first began spending their free time together, when they first said ‘I love you’. But Sarah was gone. The sand was pockmarked from her fidgeting and he thought he could see her hair ribbon half-buried where she had been sitting, apathetic to his declaration while he took a leap of faith, laying his heart bare. Jake whirled around, looking for Sarah in the sea of faces. He recognized everyone there, but couldn’t find his Sarah until… There she was, her pink cotton candy dress still dusted with sand, her hand firmly planted in Sam’s. He was smiling down at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Jake fell to his knees, tears streaming freely now. When Jake had invited him to witness his shame had Sam known? Had they already been secretly together behind Jake’s back, or was Sam taking advantage of the moment? Jake’s hands curled in the sand and he began throwing fistfuls in his anger, his sadness. His other friends glanced over from where they were now walking in groups, gossiping about him and Sarah. He hated them all, he hated Sam, hated Sarah. He marveled out how quickly his love shifted into something ugly full of rage. He didn’t know what to do with all of these emotions bubbling up, overwhelming his rational thoughts. Jake kept crying and flinging sand at the world until he finally began to tire. He didn’t notice when Kelly sat next to him, delicately arranging her rainbow skirt around her legs, waiting for him to calm down enough to see her. Jake took a few more sobbing gasps before realizing he wasn’t alone. “That wasn’t very kind of Sarah.” Jake laughed at the obvious statement but nodded his agreement. “I really thought she would say yes. I thought she loved me.” Kelly smiled sweetly at him and gently took one of his hands in hers. She uncurled his fingers and carefully wiped away the sand before linking her fingers with his. “I’ll marry you, Jake.” Jake looked at her in shock and saw she had slid the crumpled ring of grass onto her finger. Kelly had been waiting for Jake to notice her for over a year. She had watched him and Sarah get together, had watched them laugh and hug while she sat in silent agony. Kelly had been Jake’s friend since kindergarten and had loved him ever since he shared his goldfish crackers with her. He had been the only one to help her when she fell in the hallway, dropping her crayons and crying in embarrassment. He had knelt next to her and offered comfort, just as she now sat comforting him. She pulled him up to his feet and hugged him tightly, not caring what people might say. Sarah had hurt him and already moved on to Sam, Jake deserved to be happy too. She knew he might not feel the same way. Kelly knew she might feel the same rejection Jake had just experienced, but it was worth the risk. She held her breath and stepped back, watching Jake’s face transition from confusion and into something close to joy. He nodded with a smile and reached out to link their fingers again. The bell rang and just like that, Jake’s heart began to heal. He felt lighter as he and Kelly walked hand in hand out of the sandbox and back toward the classroom. After all, the heart of a second-grader is a resilient thing.


“How long has it been since you’ve seen Chloe?” Irene’s mother asked as she bent over to smell her newly cooked eggs.

Irene jumped, startled. She’d never been very good at preparing anything, so she’d walked into the kitchen planning on hauling the cereal and milk out of the cupboard and calling it a day. But her mother had gotten there first. Her mother, a natural early bird for most of her life until… Well, until they lost dad. Irene smiled, this might be a sign that her mother’s depression was finally clearing. At the very least, it might turn out to be a good day for her.

“Five years,” Irene said.

She vividly remembered the last time she’d seen her best friend at the end of the summer after their high school graduation. Chloe would soon be leaving their small town in New Jersey for New York City to follow her dream of starring in musicals and Irene was headed to Italy a few weeks later to study graphic design. They met at a coffee shop, the very same coffee shop they were due to meet this afternoon, five years later. “It is so great that you two have stayed in touch all these years. Tere says she doesn’t talk to any of her old friends anymore. Too bad, such nice girls.”

Irene frowned. She wouldn’t call her older sister’s previous friends nice, exactly. Smarmy up front and bitchy behind your back, yes. Nice? Definitely not. In fact, Irene knew Tere wouldn’t call them friends either. They were just a group of girls she’d hung out with in school because no one else would take her. Actually, it was high time her shy and introverted sister left them all behind her. Most had married or gotten engaged in the ten years since they’d graduated high school, and were on a fast-track to becoming their equally bitchy mothers. But what Irene and Chloe had was real. Irene knew that. Somehow, in the endless turmoil of teenagerhood, she’d been lucky to find someone she genuinely liked and who genuinely liked her back. They’d met as shy, quirky first graders who got grounded for colouring outside the lines and had since shared more than a decade’s worth of companionship. Irene’s phone buzzed. looking forward to this afternoon!!!! :) Chloe texted. Four exclamation points? Irene thought, amused. Oh dear.

Her phone turned itself off and she found herself immediately turning it back on. The clock read 8:30 am. Five hours to go still. Me too , she wrote, we haven’t talked in so long, you have to tell me everything. They’d texted each other incessantly during the first few months of college, Chloe had suggested they Skype, but their respective busy lives kept getting in the way. Irene was in Florence visiting distant relatives who were dead set on showing her every inch of the city, Chloe had an audition for a short film, Irene had work, Chloe had pilates class. Eventually, what had been a tumultuous river of texts and gifs became the odd “How are you doing?” and an annual birthday call. Chloe and Irene had promised to visit each other the following summer, but this plan didn’t pan out either. Chloe was always saying she was too busy and Irene soon gave up asking. And then there was the fact that Europe beckoned, so she spent her summer backpacking with some new friends. Time passed. Irene graduated and got a job at a magazine. What exactly was going on in Chloe’s life was a total mystery to her, as she eventually stopped posting about life as a newbie actress on her Facebook and her transfer to Instagram was cut short after a single post.

Then Irene’s dad died and her mother froze inside her grief. By then, Tere was married with two kids and living in Los Angeles, so caring for their mother fell to Irene. Coming home wasn’t the plan for Irene. It was the furthest from the plan Irene had ever been. And she didn’t know what to do next.

It had been her and Chloe’s dream to leave their small, boring New Jersey town for bigger things. Irene found that despite the situation she now found herself in, she had had the many adventures she’d so longed for. It had been cut short, but she’d found success in freelancing and planned on moving elsewhere once her mother’s condition improved. Question was, what had life dealt Chloe? *** Life had clearly not dealt Chloe punctuality. It was 2:30 pm. She was already an hour late. “Would you like to order something else while you wait? A coffee?” a waiter inquired of Irene. Irene pushed her plate (which had previously held a panini), casually leafed through the menu and didn’t see much that appealed to her. Espressos put her on edge, she remembered this particular place’s americanos as too watery, and several years in Italy had ingrained in her that cappuccinos are more of a morning drink and never consumed after a meal. “I’ll have a latte,” she told the waiter. “Irene!” someone yelled, and Irene turned to see Chloe ram through the door in plaid pants and a stylish adobe blazer worn over a white button down shirt. Her curly blonde hair was tied up into a hurried ponytail. It appeared that her bright, bold colours and vintage-only phase was over, and she looked tired. “Sorry I’m late, dad had a meeting with a client that went longer than expected and he needed my help taking notes,” she whispered in Irene’s ear, breathless, as she hugged her. “Wait, you work at the law firm now?” Irene asked, shocked. She couldn’t for the life of her, imagine her lively friend in such a dull profession, yet here she was. “I do this and that. Mostly just secretary work,” Chloe shrugged as she sat down, “Surprising, isn’t it?” No shit . Irene sat back in astonishment as the waiter took Chloe’s order. Acting had always been Chloe’s dream and five years ago, she’d announced to Irene that she’d gladly waitress while her career panned out if that’s what it took. She swore that she would rather die than work at her father’s lame office. “Even more surprising is that I’m actually enjoying it. Maybe more than acting,” Chloe continued, “Anyways, what about you? What have you been up to?” “Graphic design, freelance mostly. I moved back two years ago.” “That sounds fun. You were always a creative sort of person. And it’s going well?” “Yeah. I mean, it’s not the best-paying or stablest job but I love doing it. Was your acting not working out?” The waiter brought Chloe’s order and she shoveled some salad into her mouth. Gulping it down, she shook her head. “It was, actually. Finally.” Irene took a sip from her latte, and instantly regretted it. The coffee was much sweeter than she remembered.

“Everything I’d ever dreamt about until then was coming true,” Chloe said, “But then I realized I didn’t like it very much at all. The toxicity of the industry, the staring, the way my success seemed inevitably tied to my looks. And New York City’s kind of awful. I needed to get out.” “So you came back here?” “Home’s home.” “But you hated it here,” Irene blurted out, dismayed. She couldn’t believe Chloe had come back willingly to the town that was tied to so many terrible memories, to so much bullying she’d experienced for her large bug eyes and tall, muscular frame before they found each other. Chloe’s eyes narrowed, “More like strongly disliked. I just needed to see the world beyond, you know? I don’t regret New York City, but I’m simply not a big city person. Besides, Harry wants us to settle down here after the wedding. He never knew his grandparents and when we have kids we want them to have a supportive network, so- ” Irene stopped listening. Her head hurt, and she felt her friend slipping farther and farther with every sentence that passed between them. Chloe was not only planning on living the same life as her parents, but she was also marrying a local? And not just any local, if Irene’s instincts were correct. “Harry. The Harry Dodie?” That filthy rich manchild who smoked pot and was an asshole to every girl in their class, yet always managed to have some busty blonde head over heels in love with him? Irene had to admit that he was conventionally good-looking, but come on! Chloe sighed, “I know right? But yet, that Harry Dodie grew up. We all did. ” After a thoughtful pause, she continued, “Anyways, enough about me. Anyone special in your life?” Irene cleared her throat, “How would teen Chloe feel about grown-up Chloe now, do you think?” “Mortified.” They laughed. For the first time since she’d walked into the café, Irene thought she caught a momentary glimpse of the Chloe she knew, or thought she knew. “I don’t believe it myself and I still ask myself if I’m not making a huge mistake, but I actually feel good about it. What about you? You were always the rebellious one, always plotting her next adventure , so how would teen Irene feel?” “Mortified too. She’d tell me to pack up and leave. But I can’t. Not yet.” “Your mother?” Irene nodded. Chloe’s phone chimed but she ignored it and planted her elbows on the table and looked straight at Irene, “Adulthood is strange, isn’t it?” she mused. Irene sat back. “When you’re a teen, you think you’ve got it all figured out. Or at least, the general direction of where you are headed.” Chloe’s phone now rang, “It’s my dad. I’ve got to head back to the office.” “Let’s meet some other time, okay?” “Of course.” Irene thought about what Chloe had said as she drank the remnants of her very cold latte. She’d always been the weird kid and had once regarded staying in her tiny town as a death sentence, the very worst fate that could befall her and her restless creativity. But she’d grown up, and for better and for worse, she’d changed. In their own way, neither of them had known for sure where their lives would take them. What was for sure, though, was that it had taken them somewhere. They’d changed. They weren’t teen Chloe and Irene anymore, best friends forever. They were strangers again in a sense. And that was okay.

They were both home again for the foreseeable future, there would be plenty of time to get reacquainted.


* This story mostly occurs a month before this story and shares the main characters.* * This story occurs several decades before this story and shares none of the characters.* * This story mostly occurs a few days before this story and shares the main characters* *None of the stories to be read to understand this story, but they provide context.* The line starts to tighten; Tim has his first catch of the day. He starts to reel in the fish with a smile on his face. The fish fights back. It tries to swim away from the boat pulling the line with it. Tim moves the line with the fish to avoid snapping the line. The fish must be a big one like a catfish. His family would be so proud if he brought home a catfish. After a long battle, he finally has his catch, and it is a smallmouth bass. Tim sighs as he sets the meager fish down. How can he ever hope to join a fishing crew if he can only catch small fish. Patience is widely stated to be the best way to catch a fish, but Tim is sure there must be other aspects to the craft. Tim sits and daydreams of catching the largest fish in the ocean and providing food for his family. The sun is descending through the sky, and Tim rows back to shore. He places the boat in its spot on the docks, and Isaac, the dockmaster, takes care of ensuring that it is protected. Tim takes his fish into his village. He passes by several fishing and hunting parties with larger catches of meat. Tim conceals his smallmouth bass with shame as he walks up to the meat storage center. "Hey, Tim, how's it going?" Velma says. The smell of food is enough to bring a smile to anyone's face which is why Velma has a reputation for being the most cheerful woman in town. Her joy is powerful enough to cause the corners of Tim's mouth to rise. "I brought you this?" Tim looks down as he places his sorry excuse for a catch on the table. Velma smiled as she picked it up. "Awesome," she set it behind the counter and gave him five dollars, "I am sure your family will appreciate it." "Okay," Tim ran out of the meat storage center. He couldn't help but feel looked down upon by her. He runs back to his house and finds his mom crying at the table. "Mom?" Tim asks as he walks towards her. She looks at him with fear in her eyes. "I hoped you would come back later," she says, "Tim, please sit down." She brings him over to the couch and sits next to him. She rubs his face before embracing him in tears. Tim hugs his mom awkwardly. "Tim, at the start of the Mieran War, some of the more paranoid villagers hid landmines surrounding the village. It was a huge controversy that happened long before you were born. After weeks of fighting, we finally got them to remove the mines," her lips shake as she continues, "We thought they removed all of them." The wind shakes the car as Tim drives through the storm with his mom and neighbors in the backseat. Without access to the proper monitoring equipment, they have no idea that they are in the middle of a hurricane that has just made landfall. They are well-aware of the branches that the wind is using to strike the windows. They are also aware that their village has been destroyed, and without access to any emergency organizations, they have no chance of rebuilding it. A large branch hits the front window causing the car to briefly swerve. Tim concentrates on the road. He feels his fathers medallion on his chest. He has to save his family. They will survive. He hears a window crack behind him. "What the hell, man?" Stephen walks to the edge of the shore. Tim is floating in the middle of a lake, "We have been looking everywhere for you." "Shh, I have become one with the water," Tim says. "That lake could be contaminated or something," Stephen says. "Then, I will truly become one with the water," Tim says. He hears a splash from the shoreline. "Marla!" Stephen says. "Come on. The water is fine. We deserve it," Marla says. "No thanks. I will stand watch," Stephen says. Tim and Marla splash in the lake. Stephen sits on the edge watching. "Hey Stephen, if you aren't going to join, be the judge of our contest to see who can hold our breath longer," Marla says. "Whatever," Stephen shakes his head. Tim and Marla go underwater. Tim was raised in the water. He knows that he can beat her. He closes his eyes and imagines himself in the air. He feels the water shift when Marla emerges. Tim comes out to mock her, but he feels something missing. "Guys, I lost it," Tim starts to panic. He dives back into the water to look for it. "Uhhh, what is going on?" Marla guards her face from the splash as Tim emerges. "I need to find my medallion," Tim goes back into the water. He tries to open his eyes to look for the medallion, but the murky water impedes his vision. He panics when he comes up. He needs his medallion. He feels a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it is okay. I got it," Stephen holds Tim's medallion in his other hand. Tim grabs the medallion and hugs Stephen. "Thank you," Tim says. "No problem, now let's get out of the water so you don't lose that," Stephen pats Tim on the back. The three of them move out of the lake. Tim holds the medallion and stares at it. It is all he has left of his community. He has to protect it.


“Cut the crap George, and stop making excuses for yourself. You leave first thing in the morning for work. You make it back for dinner maybe once every week, and even then, your eyes are glued to your computer the entire meal. On the weekends I’m the one that takes our daughter to her after school classes. Dance, art, piano. Have you been to ANY of her recitals?”

I take a moment to catch my breath after finishing my rant.

George shakes his head, “I’m not making excuses Alice. Someone has to put a roof under our heads and food on our plates. My job requires me to be 100 percent committed and that’s simply what I do. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend that much time with Cassie, but it simply isn’t possible. I just don’t have that spare time.”

I run my hands through my hair in frustration, “God damn it, George. Then MAKE time. Cancel a few meetings, take a day off. I don’t know! Do something so that you can actually spend some time with your family!” my voice raises an octave as I speak.

George throws his hands in the air. I’ve pissed him off too. “I’d love to, Alice, but like I said, someone needs to make the money, and you don’t have a job.” he points out coldly.

“Yeah, I don’t have a job!” I laugh sardonically, “And you want to know why. It’s because I’ve decided to dedicate my time and energy to raising our daughter!”

George stares at me blankly.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t even consider her your daughter considering how much time you’ve spent with her.” I grab my wallet from the kitchen counter, open it forcefully, and throw the debit card in it on the dining table. “You think I can’t find a job? You think I can’t make money. Well, let me tell you something. I earned all the money in that debit card through the job that I quit five years ago so that I could focus my attention on raising our daughter! I made that sacrifice! And now you're using my unemployment as an excuse for your lack of time!”

The room seems to shake as my voice bounces off the walls. The air feels tense, and it feels as if the world would collapse at any moment, burying us deep under the ground.

My eyes get watery, and I turn away from him, wrapping my arms around my body in a futile attempt to comfort myself. No, I’m not going to cry. Not in front of him.

“You promised me.” I whisper, “You promised me this wouldn’t happen. It’s not fair, especially for her.”

My eyes glance over to the corner of the living room across from us, and I see Cassie, our five year old daughter, crouched in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, head down, curled in a small ball. George’s gaze follows mine, and his expression softens, the anger draining from his face.

“It’s not fair to her. I know it.” I pause and turn to look at him, “And I thought you would know too.”

***

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” my mother screams at my father who sits on the couch lazily. His feet are propped up on the living room table, and he hasn’t taken off his shoes. My mother hates that.

He’s still wearing his clothes from work too. A black slim fit suit with a white dress shirt underneath. He hasn’t bothered to take off his tie, and his clothes still reek of the ghastly smell from the cigarette he probably smoked with a “business partner” before coming home. My father had left his briefcase on the ground, and the papers in it sprawled all over the ground.

“I’ve told you so many times to take your shoes off when you come into the house.” my mother picks at his clothes, “And these clothes! God, the smell! Go take a shower and get yourself cleaned for once! Alice is ten years old. I don’t want her breathing in all those chemicals!”

My father doesn’t budge. “I’ve had a long day at work, Melissa. Can you give me a break and just let me relax for a second, god damn it!” he yells back at her.

I cover my ears, bracing myself for the screaming that I know will only escalate from here.

My mother’s face turns bright red like the tomatoes she’s cutting up for supper. She unties her cooking apron and throws it on the ground aggressively.

“You’ve had a long day? Are you kidding me?” she laughs in disbelief, “You see this house? What’s different about it from last night?”

My father doesn’t answer. His eyes are glued to his phone, ears closed, shutting out the furious voice of my mother.

“I’ll tell you what’s different. It’s clean, unlike after you and your business friends decided to have a meeting at our house.” she points to the dining table, “Last night you and your “friends” stayed up till 2 in the morning discussing your “business”. You were so loud, I had to put earmuffs over her ears to get her to fall asleep with all the noise. I got maybe three hours of sleep, and then, I had to send our daughter to school. When I came home, I found the dining table a complete mess, and I had to clean after full grown men!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” my father says simply, eyes still stuck on his phone.

“Your papers, documents, notes, were scattered everywhere, and I, out of the kindness of my heart, decided to help you organize every single one of them. Do I get so much as a thank you? No. ” my mother inhales deeply, “And I haven’t even mentioned the beer bottles you and your “friends” were drinking while you were ''working”.”

Then, my father jumps up from his seat and begins yelling too, “Don’t use that derisive voice with me, Melissa. I get the work done and earn the money. I keep a roof above our heads and food on our plates!”

I shudder. When my father raises his voice, it means things will only get worse from there. Shaking in fear, I creep out the living room and slip out the back door, tears streaming down my cheeks as my parents continue to vociferate in the house.

Running down the street, I make my way to George’s house two or three blocks away from mine.

Once I climbed the steps and reached the front porch of his house. I pause to catch my breath and wipe my eyes of the tears that the wind had dried for me.

Then, I brush my hair to the sides of my face, tucking it all behind my ears. Calming myself the best I can, I ring the doorbell and wait.

I don’t have to wait long because the next second I hear the trampling of steps racing down the stairs and a click of a lock from the other side of the door.

It swings open wide, and I come face to face with George. He seems even more out of breath than me, probably from all that running he did to get to the front door. His curly ivory black hair is in tangles and wet from a shower. His large hazel brown eyes stare at me in disbelief. He’s wearing black and white stormtrooper pajamas, and a bright green toothbrush is clenched between his teeth.

Geroge stares at me for a moment more, then grabs my arm and pulls me into his house, shutting the door tight behind him.

“Alice! What’s wrong? Why are you here?” He props the toothbrush out of his mouth and glances up at the large antique grandfather clock that sits by the stairwell. “It’s bedtime. I didn’t think we’d scheduled a sleepover. Did we?”

I shake my head, “No. It’s my parents. They’re fighting...again.” my voice is a soft whisper, an echo compared to George. My entire body trembles as I recall my parents' yells ringing in my ears.

George drops his toothbrush on the ground and pulls me into a hug. His fuzzy pajamas are soft on my skin, and he smells like cotton candy flavor shampoo.

“I’m sorry, Alice. It must be really scary.” he says. I hug him back tight as I hear the footsteps of his parents approaching us.

George must notice too because he releases me, turning towards his mother who has her hands on her hips in an interrogative manner.

“Now, George” she says, “I don’t remember you and Alice scheduling a sleepover for tonight. Did you make plans without telling me, dear?”

Then, she notices my puffy eyes which are beat red from crying, and her questioning attitude quickly shifts. She kneels down to look at me and runs her hands through my hair. Her eyebrows crinkle together in worry, “Alice? Are you alright sweetheart?” she asks.

“It’s my parents, Mrs.Williams” I whisper to her, “They’re fighting, yelling, screaming.” I cover my ears as if to block out the sounds.

Mrs.Williams nods and places my hands in her, “Let me give your mother a call and let her know you’re safe. I’m sure she’ll be alright with you staying here tonight. How does that sound?”

“Thank you.” is all I have the strength to say.

Mrs.Williams checks the time on the grandfather clock, “Well, you two have school tomorrow, so you’d better be going to sleep now. George, why don’t you have Alice sleep on the bottom bunk of your bed. I believe the sheets there are clean.”

With that said, George and I head up the stairs to his bedroom where he finishes brushing his teeth. After calling my mom, Mrs.Williams comes to us and hands me a clean set of pajamas which have pink unicorns on them and smell like strawberries. “You left these at our house last time you slept over.” she says, “I figured you could use them tonight. I washed them the other day.”

I nod obediently, thank her, and take the clothes into the bathroom to change. Once I’ve slipped them on, I unwrap the plastic from the hotel style toothbrush and brush my teeth. George knocks on the door, “Alice, are you done? I think we should go to sleep. It’s kinda late.”

“Okay.” I respond, and we both find our beds, him, climbing up the ladder to his, and me, crawling beneath

to the bottom bunk.

As I pull the soft comfy blanket over me, I hear George murmur something quietly.

“What did you say?” I ask

“I said that I promise you that we will never fight like your parents do. We’ll be friends forever. No fighting. No yelling. None of that.” he says confidently, his voice no longer a vague whisper.

I smile, “Are you sure, George? I don’t even think not fighting is possible.”

“Nope. It is. I promise that when we grow up I will never fight with you, ever.”

“I promise too.” I respond as my eyelids grow heavy, and I drift into sleep.

***

“We promised, George. We promised each other.” I repeat quietly.

George walks towards me and pulls me into a hug just like he had so many years before.

“I’m sorry, Alice.” he whispers, “I didn’t mean to break our promise.”

I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his waist. Tears flood down my cheeks as I feel the warmth of his skin on mine.

Over his shoulder, I see our daughter, Cassie, crawling out of the corner which she had been hiding in.

“Is it over, Mommy. Are you and Daddy not mad at eachother anymore?” She tugs the hem of my shirt and looks from me, to George, then back to me.

“It’s over, Cassie. Mommy and Daddy are sorry. It won’t happen again.” George answers for me. He scoops her up into his arms and plants a gentle kiss on her cheeks. “And Daddy’s sorry. I promise I’ll spend more time with you sweetheart. It’s my fault.”

I look at him, and he gazes at me. An ineffable message passed between us.

“A promise is a promise. Let’s work together to keep it.” George says as he pulls us all into a tight hug.


(Brief mentions of drugs and sex) It is dark and it has been for some time.

I don’t know how long I have been in this location.

I have to say though; it is quite comfortable, being between two soft pieces of fabric.

I’m okay being here.

I am not being man handled like I was before.

Although, I do miss my friends.

I had plenty of friends before someone placed me here.

I had all kinds of friends.

There were usually a few of me, but Abraham Lincoln and George Washington were always there and occasionally I would see Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin.

I feel a human hand around my body.

What is this?

Am I being removed from my comfortable spot?

Is this daylight I am seeing?

I can’t remember the last time I saw daylight. “Look at what I just found in my pocket.

It’s 20 bucks.”

A woman’s voice says. Followed by a man’s voice saying, “drinks are on you tonight.”

And I know I will no longer be in my comfortable spot.

Someone will place me in a wallet and be rejoined by friends.

“Hello, friends,” I say. “Hello,” they all say back. Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.

It’s mostly George Washington but there is a Lincoln here too.

I am the sole Andrew Jackson. As we travel together, we discuss our travels.

Most George Washingtons have similar stories, traveling with other George Washingtons and being exchanged for petty things like a bag of chips, a can of soda, and packs of gum and then given as change.

Many have spent their time in bodegas, supermarkets, and the occasional sweaty strip club but one of the George Washingtons in this wallet has been to a Macy's which the other George Washingtons are all keen to hear about.

I have been to Macy's as well Nordstroms and Bloomingdales, so I am not that impressed by George Washinton’s story.

I have also been to a ski resort and a casino in Las Vegas.

Those were my most exciting trips, but I too have seen plenty of bodegas and supermarkets.

I try to sound interested in these stories but they are all the same.

“Two Budweisers please,” the woman’s voice says as I am yanked away from my friends.

I am happy I will now find new friends.

Hopefully, these new friends will have more exciting tales to tell.

I usually travel with other Andrew Jackson’s and hope to be reunited with a few of those.

Their tales are more interesting than George Washington or Abraham Lincoln’s tales.

The tales of Benjamin Franklin are almost always interesting.

They seem to see a lot of white powder, naked women, and people with questionable morals. I am placed on a hard surface for a minute or two before being handled by a rough hand and placed in a neat stack, facing the same way as other Andrew Jacksons.

I am happy to see them. Once again, even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.

We greet each other and follow with telling stories of where we have been.

But as with most cash registers, we see friends come and we see them go at dramatic speed until it slows and then stops.

We are all familiar with what happens when it stops.

Some of us go into a large envelope, a few may go into a pocket or a wallet, some of us remain in the register.

 As someone takes us out and counted, we wonder who will go and who will stay.

Benjamin Franklin and Ulysses S. Grant always goes away.

They almost always keep George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in the cash drawer.

For Andrew Jackson, it is usually a toss up. I feel myself lifted out the register and placed on the same hard surface I was before.

I pray to stay.

Staying means seeing more friends come and go the next day.

Going means being put away, perhaps in another drawer and perhaps in an ATM.

Although there is a rumor that some disappear for good. When they place George Washington and Lincoln back in the drawer, I pray it is time for me to go into the drawer.

I hold my breath before being placed in the envelope with other Andrew Jacksons and a Benjamin Franklin.

From here, we remain together.

We travel but where we are going, no one is sure.

We are likely to end up in a bank, but sometimes it is back into a wallet and sometimes a drawer.

As we move from place to place, we all speculate together where we will go.

Until someone pulls us out of the envelope. I take in the new surroundings, trying to speculate where I may be.

A home?

A store?

An alleyway?

But it appears we are in a bank.

This is the least desirable place to be for a dollar bill.

I look at the numbers on my fellow Andrew Jacksons.

None of them are lower than 2018.

I look at my number: 2014.

I was hidden away between those two pieces of fabric for so long, who knows how old I had become.

From what I know, you don’t see a bigger gap than eight numbers between the other Andrew Jacksons and I worry.

What happens now? I am moved from place to place, being separated from the Andrew Jackson's I arrived with and joined with new Andrew Jacksons.

Someone mixes us up and counts us and they move us again and again.

Someone moves us between drawers, envelopes, hands, and trucks. And then I hear a noise I have never heard before.

I hear the screams of my friends.

Even though I have never met these particular friends, I already know them.

And their screams are terrifying.

It is not until I get closer that I understand their screams.

They are being torn into small pieces.

As I get closer, I scream too.

Until I am torn into small pieces too.

They have shredded us all.

Now instead of Andrew Jacksons, there are strips of what used to be Andrew Jackson, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Benjamin Franklin.

But now, no one can tell who we used to be, we are now all worthless and are now ready to sleep after a lifetime of exchanging from one place to the next.