“Argh” Jeff shouted while slowly regaining consciousness, as he lay flat on a hospital bed. The fluorescent lighting beaming into his eyes. Throbbing pain pierced his skull. His legs felt tingly and his butthole was itchy. The type of itch you get when you don’t wipe well enough. Sure, you can adjust yourself in your chair to scratch the itch, but that’s only a temporary fix. Eventually you’ll have to do a walk of shame back to the bathroom to re-wipe. Jeff shook his head in disgust with himself. ‘32 years old, I should have this figured out by now’ The door swung open and in walked a doctor. “Oh, good. You’re awake. You gave us quite the scare back there. How are you feeling?” “Like my brain is going to explode.” Jeff answered. “Well, that will happen when you faint and slam your head on a tile floor. We’ve run some tests already, but we’d also like to give you an MRI. You may have had a concussion. Other that your headache, are there any other ailments? Dizziness? Sensitivity to light?” Jeff hesitated just in case the doctor brought up itchy buttholes, but apparently that’s only a symptom of laziness. “No,” he replied. “Pretty much just the head– HEY WAIT A SECOND! WHERE IS SHE?” Suddenly Jeff remembered the reason he was in the hospital in the first place. Seven hours prior he walked through the sliding glass doors downstairs with his pregnant wife who was going into labor. It was to be their first child and they were beyond excited. Neither one of them knew the gender. They both thought it would be best for it to come as a surprise. That was the only thing they agreed on. “If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Kobe” Jeff declared not caring about his wife’s opinion on the matter. He was flexible with girl names. “Helen, Patricia, Blanche, whatever.” He’d always say. “I don’t care. But if it’s a boy. We’re naming him Kobe.” “Those are all old lady names.” His wife angrily replied. “When was the last time you met a baby named Blanche?” “What does that matter?” “It’s a stupid name, that’s what it matters.” “It’s a great name. It’s vintage. It’s ageless.” “It’s a terrible name. It’s dull. It’s antiquated.” Jeff groaned. His wife picked up the big book of baby names and began rifling through the pages. Oh how Jeff hated that book. In his mind, it was the main reason they couldn’t come to an agreement. The book provided too many options which made the decision far more complicated than it needed to be. Jeff’s wife stopped in the P section and fawned at one name in particular. “What about Penelope?” She said excitedly. “We could call her Penny for short.” “If you want to call her Penny, then just name her Penny. Why name her something and address her as something else? It makes no sense!” “Oh you’re impossible!” She shouted before storming out of the room. Jeff picked up the big book of baby names and shot it into the trash, “Kobe!” “Jeff!” The doctor shouted. “Are you paying attention?” Jeff’s ears perked up. “Where’s my wife!” He shouted again. The doctor sat down next to Jeff, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, took off his glasses and held them in his lap. He called it, the empathetic stance. It was his go-to seated position for delivering bad news to a patient. “There were some complications during your wife’s delivery. I don’t know how much you recall before you blacked out, but it wasn’t pretty.” Jeff gave the doctor a blank stare. The doctor continued. “Sir, I’m very sorry to inform you that your wife is now longer with us. She has perished.” “She went to church!” “What? No, she didn’t go to church.” “Ok, good.” Jeff, a devout atheist, said with a sigh of relief. “No, to perish means to die.” Jeff gave the doctor another blank stare. “Sir, your wife is dead.” “Oh.” Jeff said “Oh man!” He continued. “Oh my fucking god! Are you serious!” Oh man!” He added finally grasping the severity of the situation. The doctor leaned forward and handed Jeff a Kleenex, then leaned back and uncrossed his legs because the way he was sitting was crushing his balls. “Wait.” Jeff called out. “What about my baby?” “The baby survived” the doctor answered. “Oh, thank Judas! Can I see him or her? Is it a him or a her? Is it a boy? Please tell me it’s a boy!” The doctor was silent. “Tell me, man! Please.” Jeff whined. The doctor leaned forward, put on his glasses, then leaned back, crossed his legs, removed his glasses and placed them on his lap. “Sir, your baby is a panda.” “A what?” “A panda.” “As in, a panda bear?” “Yes.” “A panda bear?” “Correct.” “So, you’re telling me that my baby is a panda.” “Precisely.” “Argh,” Jeff screamed in pain. “What’s the matter?” The doctor inquired. “I’ve got a charleyhorse.” “Calm down, try to relax.” The doctor said. “I’ll get you some water. Jeff laid his head back on the pillow and tried to relax. But he couldn’t. There was simply too much on his mind. Then he began laughing. “Ok, ok, good one!” He said amusedly. “You’re joking, right?” “No, I’m not.” The doctor replied. “Come on, you’re pranking me, right?” “Nope” “You’re yanking my chain.” “I assure you I’m not.” “You’re pulling my leg.” “Oh, sorry,” The doctor apologized while trying to massage out the charleyhorse in Jeff’s thigh. He loosened his grip. “That better?” “Yes, thank you.” Jeff answered. Jeff was at a loss for words. There was a lot about the world he didn’t understand. For example: why does an inquiry into your credit affect your credit score? Why does Facebook show you ads for things you’ve already purchased? And why isn’t the government telling us the truth about birds being drones sent down to spy on us? You see, Jeff was also a conspiracy theorist. He questioned the moon landing and had his suspicions about the earth being round, but nothing left him more perplexed than the notion of two human beings conceiving a panda. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Jeff said. “It’s impossible.” The doctor leaned forward and pushed his glasses up on his head. “Let me tell you something I’ve learned over the years.” He said “Nothing is impossible.” “Nothing?” “Nothing. I’ve been practicing medicine for 37 years and in that time I’ve seen things I would never believe possible had I not witnessed them with my own eyes. Just last week I watched two red-headed freckle-faced parents give birth to a baby with brown hair and brown eyes. I witnessed a colleague pull a 12 inch spike out of a little girls eye socket once and not only did she not lose her vision, but she didn’t even cry. It was astonishing. Three years ago, a homeless man was admitted complaining of abdominal pain. And, I shit you not, an X-ray revealed a live beaver living inside his chest cavity.” “Oh, my Judas.” Jeff exclaimed. “Oh, my Judas is right,” The doctor concurred. “The human body is an incredibly complex mechanism. I may not be able to explain some of the things I’ve seen. Because, simply put, some things are unexplainable. But I firmly believe that nothing is impossible.” “Ok,” Jeff said apprehensively. “But there’s gotta be an explanation. There just has to be.” The doctor leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses back down on his face. Then he took them off and placed them on the table beside him. He didn’t even need them. He had LASIK surgery two years ago but his wife insists that he continues to wear them. They make you look smarter, she tells him. “Well, I have a PHD from Johns Hopkins.” He argues back. Of course I’m smart. Why do I need to prove to people I’m intelligent. I’m a fucking doctor for Christ’s sake. “Why don’t you give me your theory on how this happened,” The doctor asked Jeff after noticing his trademark blank stare. “Ok here it goes,” Jeff started out. “Eight years ago I went to Manila for my friends bachelor party.” “Well, that’s quite the trek.” “Indeed it was. But his fiancé was native to the area and my friend wanted to acclimate himself to her culture.” “Well, that’s very thoughtful. How did they meet?” “She was a mail order bride.” “Ok,” the doctor paused for a moment. “Well, continue.” “Anyways, we bought some pot off a cab driver but I’m pretty sure it was PCP or something, because minutes later I jumped out of the moving car and tumbled down a hill.” “Why’d you do that?” “I thought I was getting attacked by a snake.” “And?” “Turns out it was my seatbelt.” “Continue.” “I wound up in this shady back-alley hospital getting a blood transfusion. It was super scary. The place doubled as a meat processing plant. They were slaughtering pigs in the very same room.” “Is it possible that they weren’t slaughtering pigs and that you were hallucinating?” “Doubtful. But I wasn’t going to bring it up to the doctor.” “Why not?” “Because he was a demon.” The doctor sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “Continue.” “I’m about 97% sure they put animal blood in me that day.” Jeff said. “Up until this point I assumed it was pig blood or raccoon blood. There’s a small chance it could’ve been rhinoceros blood. My stupid idiot friend tried to convince me it was giraffe blood. The moron—giraffes aren’t even real. But now I’m thinking it was definitely panda blood instead. I mean it has to be panda blood, right?” The doctor checked his pager to see if he was getting paged. He wasn’t. “Continue,” he said. “Well, about a month after the incident in Manila, I was doing electrical work for a friend of a friend and I received a pretty significant shock.” “Ouch.”the doctor said. “You’re telling me.” Jeff replied “It hurt like hell. singed all my ball hairs off. It’s just—I don’t know man, there’s something about that day that’s always seemed off to me, ya know? Like, I felt something inside me that day. Something I’ve never felt before.” “Electricity?” “No, something more.” “Like what?” “I’ve never been able to comprehend it but perhaps that feeling I felt was the fusing of my DNA with Panda DNA, and that moment was the moment I became a panda. Even though, on the outside, I’m Jeff, a living walking human being, on the inside, I’m a panda.” The doctor cleared his throat, and took a strong sip of coffee. “And what evidence would you have to support that theory?” Jeff paused for a moment to thought about his life and what character traits he had that simulated that of a panda. “Facial hair!” He shouted. “Facial hair?” “Yes, facial hair. Before the incident, I had a baby face. I hardly ever had to shave but soon after I began growing hair like crazy.” “I was the same way,” The doctor replied. “All my friends could grow beards in high school but I couldn’t grow anything until my mid-twenties. It’s not uncommon.” “This was different.” Jeff said. “It wasn’t a gradual change. I went from not having to shave at all to being able to grow a Fu Manchu overnight.” The doctor chuckled. “Fu Manchus are silly,” He said while giggling. “Haha, yes they are.” Jeff agreed. Jeff wiggled in his bed as subtlety as he could to avoid the doctors suspicions of his itchy butthole. The doctor checked his pager once more. It was a slow day. “Continue” he said. “Well, I guess now I should tell you about my bamboo phase.” “Your bamboo phase?” Jeff nodded. “It was right after I bought my house. I’ve never been much of a decorator but after I installed bamboo flooring in my living room, I became infatuated with everything bamboo. I had bamboo wall paneling, bamboo furniture, bamboo place mats and bamboo window shades. I even owned a bamboo turtle neck.” “Well, I’d imagine that would be quite uncomfortable.” “It was itchy, that’s for sure. But it was a conversation starter. I was wearing it the night I met my wife. She was also a bamboo enthusiast.” The doctor’s pager beeped. He took it off his hip, glanced at it, and placed it back. “It’s time for your MRI.” He said. “Ok.” Jeff replied still a little shaken over the whole ordeal. “Wait!” He blurted out. “I forgot about Glenn. Yes, Glenn. It had to be him!” “Who the hell is Glenn?” The doctor inquired. “Glenn was my college roommate.” Jeff answered. “The two of us did not see eye to eye. He worked at a research laboratory and I know for a fact they did animal testing. What if... bear with me now, but what if, they developed some kind of panda transformation serum and Glenn injected me with it while I slept?” “And why the hell would he do that?” The doctor asked. “Because he didn’t like me, man. Haven’t you been listening? To his credit, I wasn’t the best roommate. I’m actually ashamed of the person I was back then. I’ve changed. But I was doing a lot of drugs at the time and didn’t exactly help pick up around the apartment. And there was the time I ate all his pizza rolls while he was at work.” “My god!” The doctor yelled. “You’re a monster!” “Yeah, I know man. Geez! I was just saying how ashamed I was. Jeff said in an emotional tone. “You know I’m going through a lot right now. I just found out that I’m a widow and a panda. And I haven’t even seen my son yet. You could be a little more understanding ya know.” He softly muttered while a single tear rolled down his cheek. The doctor fought the urge to roll his eyes. Deep down inside he knew Jeff was right about him. He could be more understanding. Every evaluation he had over the last decade stated that same thing. He was a terrific doctor but he wasn’t exactly known for his bedside manner. You need to be nicer to your patients, his supervisors would always tell him. He was working on correcting that issue. That’s why he created the empathetic stance. “They’ll see”, he told himself, sensing an improvement in his demeanor. The empathetic stance will revolutionize medicine. “Doc,” Jeff called out. “So, what do you think? Do you think Glenn gave me the serum? Nothing is impossible, right? You said so, yourself.” “No, I think the answer is simpler than that.” The doctor replied. “What do you mean?” Jeff asked. The doctor leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, removed his glasses and placed them on his lap. “Your wife fucked a panda.


It was a typically troublesome day at work. Grumpy clients, uncooperative employees, late vendors, and typical tech problems, all just making me wonder, “Is it worth it?” I finally got it all sorted out, tidied up my desk and my desktop, the physical and the digital, and headed for the door. I never looked forward to my commute home, knowing that it was always at least 45 minutes of anxiety, stopping, starting, asking Siri if there was a faster route. Finally pulled into my driveway, parked, headed toward the front door, noticed that the light was on in the typically dark dining room just to the left of the entry. As I opened the door, I was struck by this vaguely familiar clickety-clack sound coming from the dining room. I pushed the door open and saw my sweet, beautiful wife, Anita, typing on my old, antique type-writer. “What the heck are you doing,” I asked. I was stunned to see her typing. “Just working on my to-do list. I’m almost done, wait a minute.” She punched in a few more letters, hit the return handle, pulled the paper out, folded it in half, jumped out of her chair, “OK, I’m ready, let’s go.” It was our typical Friday routine. We headed out to our favorite pizza place to pick up our traditional pepperoni dinner. As we backed out of the driveway, I had to ask, “So, what in the world got you typing . . . instead of using your laptop or your tablet?” “Remember when my Mom moved in with us, when we lived in Chicago?  She was writing a to-do list on scrap paper, on the backs of receipts, on used envelopes.  At that time, the typewriter was set up in the spare bedroom, and I knew she knew how to type, so I suggested she use it. She jumped at the idea and started using it every day, remember?” “I do remember, now that you mention it. So that’s why you drug it out and set it up, just because your Mom liked it?” “No, don’t you remember? She used to rave about it, saying it was like magic. She would type something on her list and then the next day it was done. She swore that half or more of her to-do stuff just got done all by itself—and she credited the magic typewriter,” she laughed. “And, you believed her? You do remember that she had some short-term memory issues---could that have explained the “magic”?” “Of course!  But, there were a couple of things that didn’t make sense. Like one day she put on her list that she wanted to call her former neighbor---Mrs. Brian, she hadn’t talked to in 20 years—but then early the next morning Mrs. Brian called her. I know, it could’ve just been coincidence, but what are the odds? Anyway, I was going through that stack of boxes in the garage, stumbled on the typewriter, so brought it in—and here’s what happened,” she handed him a piece of paper. “It’s my “to-do” list from the other day.” He lifted it to eye level and read the first line, “Win the lottery!” He stared at her for a second, “So, you’re thinking that $200 scratch-off winner you had the other day came from typing this in on the “magic typewriter”?” We enjoyed our pizza and dessert with sporadic conversation about the magic typewriter. I had a hard time believing the “magic” thing, but was willing to listen. “Does it hurt that I might, kinda, sorta believe it might be true?” Still with a big smile on her face, “Why don’t we try again, just to see? Not something too outrageous, but something imaginative? What do you think?” A great idea jumped into my head, “Not to say I believe this, but you know we were just talking to our daughter about coming home for Spring Break and she didn’t seem too interested. How about we type that on your list, not mine, I think we need to keep it yours. Let’s type it on there, maybe put something about an email? And, then wait and see what happens.” I wasn’t that enthusiastic about the whole thing but would really like to see our daughter next month. My wife turned, put another piece of paper in the typewriter, typed in, “Get an email that Melissa’s coming home for Spring Break!” She pulled the page out and quickly walked into the kitchen and tacked the page to the corkboard on the wall, “That’s what I did with the “Lottery” page.” We agreed to avoid email until mid-morning the next day. Melissa never returned emails late in the day nor very early in the mornings, so we figured the earliest we would hear anything would be mid-morning the next day.

My clock went off, as usual, at 6:00 am, I headed downstairs, turned on the coffee pot, took the mugs down out of the cabinet, got the flavored creamer out of the refrigerator, headed back upstairs to wake my wife. She was already awake, slowly got out of bed, slipped into her slippers, and followed me back down. We sat in the den, had a couple of sips of coffee, a quick breakfast.  An hour later, I turned on my laptop, waited for it to boot up, “Are you ready to check emails?” “I guess, it’s probably too early but what the heck.” I logged into my email, and there it was, a message from our daughter, titled, “Good News!” The text was, “Great news, I’m coming home for Spring Break, and even BETTER news, I got a free ticket from my friend Mike who works for the Airline. I’ll call later to go over the details, LOVE YOU guys!!” I was paralyzed, then shivering, then breathless, much because my beloved daughter was coming home soon, but more because, suddenly, I realized we have this magic typewriter. What would we do next? My wife and I took a minute to catch our breaths, then she asked just what I was thinking, “So, what are we gonna do next?  You want to make a list, by hand or on the computer before we type it up?” “Yes, we’ll make a list . . . but we got to give this some thought. I don’t want us to be too greedy, we need to be careful of limits there may be. Maybe we can help others, maybe someone we care about with a terrible illness or something like that.” “Good thinking, I already have some ideas,” and she was now smiling again. We made a list, ten things. Then we decided to type them up two at a time, then wait to see the results. It turned out by the end of that week, we got nearly all of our wishes. We both knew there were many other wishes we could type up, but agreed to wait a few more days. Melissa was coming home the next day, so we spent our evening planning for the visit, where we would go out to eat, where else we might go to shop or just hang out, and then we agreed, we will give her the typewriter. It wasn’t even something we had to discuss. I could sense it from the moment I discovered Anita typing—her short list, under “Win the Lottery” was just the one word, “Melissa.” Nothing specific. I didn’t need details but apparently the typewriter did, so we’d give that to Melissa and let her handle that. She had many more wishes than I did and they were more . . . important, I guess would be the right word. She was just about two years into her brave transition to her correct gender and I couldn’t be there to protect her from the ignorance, hatred, and ill will she might face. Maybe the magic typewriter could do it for me, I prayed.


I gently caressed the calluses in my right hand, lost in thought. The sun at its zenith, like a golden stain in a stark blue sky, scorched my tanned skin, while rivers of sweat ran down my body from head to toe, leaving me sticky and salty and stinky, and then I looked at the hoe standing before me, and then at the field beyond—to be weeded—until I laid eyes on my father, with his weathered but strong hands tightly gripping the wooden handle of his hoe and deliberately swinging and striking the soil below, sweat beads on his wrinkled face, clothes clinging to skin. Our eyes met under the blazing sun. "Tired already?" he asked with a wan smile, a missing tooth sticking out. I smiled back and shook my head. "Not really. Just thinking..." Grinning, he said, "Think less, work more." He started swinging his hoe again, full of purpose and determination. I followed. Working on the field. Taking care of crops and livestock. That had been my life for as long as I could remember. As the eldest son, I was always helping my old man after school or during holidays and vacations. Always working my arse under the sun. Always. That's the life my father knew, and my grandpa before him. That's the life that provided us food and shelter. That's how my parents raised my brothers and me. We lived within humble means, yet lacked for nothing. I was grateful, as I should be. But this year, things felt different. I was seventeen and that was my senior year of high school. After graduating, I'd be able to fully help my father on our small farm. And in a few years, when he retired, I would be him. I should be grateful, and I was. It was a simple but honest life in the countryside. A life of green fields, of mooing cows, barking dogs, and singing birds, of pure air and starry nights. I knew that if I worked hard and perhaps changed things a bit, or maybe took a little more risk, I could improve things and help my siblings have a different path... Not that this path was bad. But they were very smart kids. They could do better. They could live easier lives, whatever that means. Soon, they would still have to wake up at five in the morning, like I did, then take the bus to the nearest town, attending classes for a few years. But one day after all of that, they could go to college. They could have good jobs. They could get away from the beautiful, bright, burning sun and the green fields of joy and hardship. That day, lost in thought while working on the fields, even though I knew that I should be grateful, I envied them for the briefest of moments. I envied them like I envied my friends from school every time they talked about the future—about moving to another city and going to college, about leaving and exploring uncharted waters like explorers from the past. I envied them when my teachers asked me about my future. And I hated that feeling growing inside me—that inner turmoil weighing on my shoulders and obscuring my thoughts. At night, awake, I dreamed. Lying in my bed in the small room I shared with my young sister and brother, I used to think about how nice it would be to move out... on going to college, meeting new people and making new friends, or just lifting a pen instead of a hoe, or working on a field of chairs, full of people and fresh air around despite the scorching sun outside, or even being kissed by the sun and embraced by its warmth, but on a beach with friends and beers and bliss, or perhaps falling in love and having softer hands to gently touch and appreciate the skin of the one I would love. But I should be grateful; I would think before falling asleep. After all, I am not that smart, and college was but a dream for someone like me. Then, the next day, I'd wake up with the chickens, get ready, and go to school once again. A couple months later, orientation day arrived, and I found myself sitting across from the counsellor. "Have you given it some thought after our last talk?" asked Mary from behind her desk. "As I said before, after graduation, I'll help my parents on the farm," I said, looking at her perfectly organized desk. She sighed, and when I looked at her, I think I saw pity in her eyes. "Noah, you may not have the greatest of scores, but you are smart and certainly hardworking. I truly believe you have good chances of getting into college if you apply to the entrance exams," she said, repeating what she had told me before. I looked down at my calloused hands, and as on other occasions, I thought about my aging dad working alone on the fields, or worse, on my brother—only ten springs so far—working alongside him in my place under the sun. I shook my head. "I told you. I can't abandon my dad like that. He expects me to keep running the farm after him..." "Have you talked with your parents about this?" I hadn't. But I knew there was no need to talk. I saw it in their eyes, especially his. The expectations. "Look, I like it there, ok? And even if I didn't, it is not like we have the money to pay for college. If I work hard enough, perhaps I can help send my siblings to college one day. I can live with that." She sighed, looked at the ceiling, then back at me. "If you study hard enough, you can then send them to college," she said firmly. "And you know quite well that there are many options out there where you don't have to pay for college. You can even earn subsidies when you're enrolled in one. We've been through this before." Why? Why is she so stubborn? I thought. Why does she keep trying to imbue hope in me? Why does she not let go? Because of her, I keep daydreaming, losing focus on what matters. "I'll give it some thought," I lied, preparing to get up. "Wait," she said, raising a hand, her eyes pleading. "Talk with them... with him. If deep down you have even the slightest of desires of going to college, of moving and experiencing new things besides this," she said, opening her arms wide as if embracing the whole small town we lived in, "that is all that I ask. Talk with him." I looked deep into her eyes, trying to understand. "Why?" I finally asked. "Why do you even care?" "Because I see potential in you, Noah," she replied casually. "And it is a shame when potential is wasted. I know you can have a good life here, but I also know you can have a much better life out there." I gave her a mocking smile, but she did not seem to care. "I don't know what potential you see... you said it yourself; my grades are not bad, but they are certainly far from great." She smiled back. "College life is much more than grades alone—but I won't get into details because you should see it for yourself. Now, regarding potential... potential is not always related to talent or intelligence. It is also about purpose, determination, and hard work. It is about giving your all," she said, almost passionately, while adjusting herself in the chair. Weirdly, I was reminded of my parents after what she said. "It's been a couple of years now since you started your routine of waking up early in the morning, getting here for classes, then getting back home and helping your parents," she continued, "doing jobs that most students here will never have to. I doubt you have much time—or energy—to study at home, although knowing you, I don't doubt you try. Again, I see potential in you." She laced her fingers together, while holding a thoughtful expression. "If you truly love that farm, you can easily choose—or try—an area that would allow you to combine both passions. And if money becomes a hindrance, you can always find a part-time job—it will certainly be easy for you... you are hardworking after all, right?" She looked me—and my silence—with those wise eyes of hers for a little longer. "Don't let this potential go to waste. Talk with them before drawing conclusions... and even so, you should follow your dreams. You shouldn't have to live a life you don't really want." I left soon after that, her words still lingering in my mind all day long, making me dream and hope but also fear. A few weeks later, my father and I were preparing another plot of land for new crops. The sun had been concealed all day behind massive clouds in several hues of grey. It was quite pleasant—except, of course, for the extremely hard work of getting the soil ready. And as usual, I was distracted again. "What is it?" he asked, frowning. "Just... thinking," I said, lifting the hoe and then hitting hard the soil. "What is it with all this thinking you doing lately?" he asked curiously. "No big deal dad..." I shrugged. "Son," he called to me. I looked at him. "You know I'm not good at this," he said, gesturing awkwardly. "I'm not very... sensitive, as your mom usually says. But, you know, we've noticed that you've been kind of off lately. And by that I mean for most of the year." He looked pensively at the sky, wiped some sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, then looked at me again. "If there is anything bothering you, let me know. We'll try to help as best as we can." He smirked next, then added, "Maybe it's a girlfriend thing and you want to keep it quite..." I laughed. "I wish." I wanted to talk to him about what was bothering me, but we never really talked about this kind of thing. We mostly talked about work and sports. But then I looked into his face, then at the soil under my feet, at the hoe and the calluses in my hands, and felt the breeze on my face. "What would you say if I said I want to go to college?" I saw his eyes get brighter as I asked, followed by a wan smile. "It would be great son... I mean, my son going to the university ... It would be like a dream." But then he lowered his head slightly, his expression changing, becoming serious and thoughtful. I thought I knew what he was thinking, but I was wrong. "How much would that cost?" he asked in a low voice, as if afraid of hearing the answer. I smiled. "Well, if things went well, it wouldn't cost anything at all. I mean, there would be living expenses, but I don't think it would be that much... nothing that a part-time job couldn't solve." My dad lifted his chin, and that gleam in his eyes came back to life. "You know we are not rich," he said plainly, "but we'd be happy to make whatever sacrifices necessary to allow you to pursue that dream, my son. Be sure of that. And wait until your mother hears of it," he laughed, then started babbling about his son going to college. I asked about the farm, but he scolded me for it, asking if I thought he was dead or incapacitated. I was grateful, deeply. I must say that as we worked and talked that day, I felt both relieved and terrified. Relieved that I could follow my dreams without feeling guilty about it. Terrified because I did not want to fail with that smile. A few months later, Miss Mary called my house on a sunny Saturday during lunch. The result of the entrance exam had been announced. I left the dining table, walking slowly and tensely towards the phone. My mom looked as tense as I did. At the table, my father remained silent, as if listening to the wind. My siblings, probably playing somewhere in the house, completely carefree. I distractedly caressed the calluses on my hand as I walked. Outside, the sun shone brightly, like a majestic spot in the stark blue sky. Warm rays of sunlight illuminated the house and bathed my tanned skin, now sweaty with anxiety. When I finally took the phone from my mom, I took a deep breath, then exhaled before greeting my teacher. I looked out the window at the green field beyond, full of crops and hardships and joy as she told me the result. My watery eyes met my mother's, then my father's. I smiled.


As we walked out to the lake, away from the streets that run like rapids, I knew I was in bad shape. I had a feeling, almost physically tangible, that today was going to hurt. I could tell by the way her hand sat lifelessly in mine, as if she wanted to remove it but was just biding her time. I've never been one to prolong the painfully evident, or placate the evidently painful, so I asked the obvious and dangerous question. "What's wrong?" I said, flippantly. As if today was just another day and I wanted to know how she wanted her eggs that morning. We watched the lazy ducks in the overcast gloom and I felt a relief, as if we were finally approaching the verdict, and my life hung in the balance. I almost laughed to myself as these thoughts imparted themselves in my mind--"so melodramatic..." was my hilarity. It wasn't as if I was facing the death penalty. But I WAS losing my girl. I could see that in the way she answered my question before a clumsy word left her flawless lips. By the way her smile turned strained then faded. She steadied herself with the kind of breath a doctor draws before he tells you simply,"there's nothing more we can do". I closed my eyes and braced myself, as if the impact was a surprise and not something I had accepted before we came anywhere near this stupid lake. She stammered through her speech like an unprepared valedictorian, all graceless and mindful of my feeble pride. I love her for this, as even in the end, she always paid heed to other people's feelings. I nodded along, not an interjection in the world can bring someone back who has already gone from you. She turned away at last, the formality had come to fruition, and strode with purpose toward her newly single life. She looked radiant and beautiful, as if the last two years lost had as much impact on her as changing body wash. What can you do when you lose your muse, your heart, the one you thought was going to see you into the ground? I sat and watched the ducks nip at each other and wished I was anywhere and anytime else.


I remember when Aerosmith’s

Crazy

was at the top of the charts. My brother and I were eleven and nine, respectively, and stuck in the room for unaccompanied children at Charles De Gaulle airport watching MTV videos on loop. It was the first time we were going back to Italy without our parents. During the two-hour layover between Paris and Turin, Steven Tyler stepped in like a surrogate father as I tried desperately to pick out the watermelon bubble gum my brother had smooshed into my hair on the flight over from L.A.

I’m losing my mind, ‘cause I’m going CRAAAAAAAAAZY. Aerosmith totally got me. Pleading to the backdrop of whining electric guitars, my brother made all kinds of promises I knew he’d never keep. If I didn’t tell Nonna what really happened when we landed, I could have his desserts for the whole month. “Oh, come on. I’ll do your chores for the rest of the year. I swear!” I kept my mouth shut as he upped the ante, until in his desperation he offered the most valuable promise of all. “Please, Tash,” he leveled with me. “I’ll owe you one.” My brother has always been an incontestably excellent negotiator, but I was no sucker. This wasn’t the first time in my small life he’d showered me with promises. I knew the chances of him keeping any of them were about as high as me walking away from the entire debacle with all of my hair intact. In the end my acquiescence to his will had less to do with his developing mastery in the art of the deal, and more to do with the fact that I could never stand to see him in pain. I'd I watched him get screamed at, slapped, hosed-off in the backyard, and thrown in the shower to “cool down” one too many times already. So, despite having tortured me for nine hours on the first flight, an allegiance against the wrath of our grownups made us comrades on the second. When we landed in Turin, I walked right up to Nonna with my new Alfalfa haircut, and launched into an elaborate narrative about the inexplicable acts of God that resulted in said haircut involving wild turbulence, innocent mouth-gaping laughter, and other unnecessary details in a story that ultimately starred my brother as the hero. It was always like that with him and I, as I imagine it must be for most siblings who grew up together so close in age. We were mortal enemies when left to each other, contemplating murder in the first degree, until the moment the adults became involved, and punishment was eminent. Then it was ride or die ‘til the end of days. No one was going to mess with my brother but me, goddamnit!  He was my first best friend, my first opponent, and my first partner in crime. And, boy did we excel in that last role. I mean, lying was easy, you know. Amateur hour. Real Showtime At The Apollo shit. Within the first decade of our lives, we had already graduated with an Associate’s degree in deceitfulness, and moved on to major in the art of appropriation. That first summer in Italy without parents is when we really honed our craft. Our family used to have an apartment on the Italian Riviera outside of San Remo that Nonna purchased with the money she’d won from the national lottery. We spent the summer of our parent’s divorce with her in the hills of Ospedaletti, memorizing the lyrics to Warren G’s

Regulate, and fighting off the brigades of mosquitoes with our invisible gats . I n town there was a pedestrian tunnel under the main road that led to

Sirena : the pebble beach with a bar that sold everything from grappa to granita. Outside the bar was an outdoor arcade filled with pinball machines and foosball, where kids from L.A. who had met the

Red Hot Chili Peppers always got to cut the lines. Down at the shore, outstretched under rows and rows of bright yellow umbrellas, lounged the aging men and women of the Greatest Generation, their skin glistening and overflowing under the Mediterranean sun.

Wealthier families vacationingin Ospedaletti rented out private cabanas for the summer, but mainly everyone just used the communal changing room. Coming from the neighboring villages and small cities, most folks trusted enough in their fellow man to leave their belongings behind for a day at the beach. But, I guess L.A. and Def Jam had already hardened us because the minute my brother and I stepped foot in that wooden shack, and saw everyone’s stuff just laying there unattended, we went full-tilt West Coast gangsta, giving each other daps, and shit, gassing about all these old fools who were gonna pay for our gelatos all summer long. One of us would act as lookout while the other plundered, and then we’d switch off. It was the only time in our lives we took turns fairly, already understanding the role resentment played when it comes to snitching. It was good practice, just small-scale stuff at first. Never finding more than a few mille lire here or there, enough for a few pieces of candy, a few turns around the arcade, or one gelato each. We’d consumed our spoils away from the other kids, our nonna, and the various zios and zias that would come up for holiday. Maintaining the rules of appropriation was of the utmost importance: never gloat; never show-off; preserve secrecy at all costs; and above all, avoid questioning.

Everything was going swimmingly until the day we found venti mille lire in the inside pocket of a navy blue men's jacket. Venti mille lire in 1994 was like ten bucks, and ten bucks was like twenty gelatos! We couldn’t believe our luck. Couldn’t believe the idiot who left it behind as if he wanted us to have it. Couldn’t believe the fireworks of feeling exploding in our small bodies. I’ll never forget that moment. The smell of the ocean drifting through the dampened wooden slats that split the noontime sun in beams across our olive skin. The texture of sea glass I nervously fingered in my palms as I kept watch. My heart racing in my throat. Our eyes locking as he gasped. The folded paper in his right hand. The look of disbelief in his toothsome smile. The sound of sand that crunched beneath our feet as we stamped, and danced in triumph. WE WERE RICH!

We spent the rest of the afternoon giggling cautiously around the grownups, secretly dreaming up all the things we could buy when they weren’t around, and taking turns holding the treasure. It was my turn to hold it when we got back to the apartment. Nonna ushered me into the downstairs bathroom to wash up before dinner. I carefully folded the bill into a tiny square, and hid it under a bottle of soap on the bathroom counter before turning to the hypnotic task of showering with my sugared daydreams. So enraptured with kinder egg thunderstorms, and Technicolor marshmallow clouds was I that I left our prize under that bottle of soap as I toweled off. I got dressed humming the Kit-Kat jingle, asking the ether to

Give Me A Break , and didn’t give the bathroom counter another thought until I heard Nonna screaming Santa Benedetta plus my name, to get my ass downstairs.

Maleducata! Vergogna! Sei un ladro! Ti dó due sberle!

I was in for the worst whopping of my life. A disgrace to my family. I should be ashamed of myself because I was going straight to hell. I fully locked up under the Roman Catholic onslaught, sobbing uncontrollably as I imagined miniature priests with red horns stoking the pyres of the damned underneath my feet. Cowered by a combination of Latin, Italian, and Piemontese, Los Angeles and Nate Dogg had forsaken me in my time of need. I was nothing but a helpless kid far from home, subject to the biblical wrath of my elders. That would have been it for the eternal life of my soul had my brother not run downstairs in his towel, still dripping. When he saw Nonna waving our venti mille lire above my head, and foaming at the mouth in my general direction he stepped right in the middle of us with a quickness that was ages beyond his years. This little dude loc-d up like a true OG, and launched a counterattack of unflinching ferocity. He had an answer, in flawless Italian, for every question she rapidly launched. The money was his! He found it randomly on the beach while she was having lunch. I didn’t even know he had it at all. He went pee in the downstairs bathroom right before I’d gone in for a shower. He was the one who hid it under the soap bottle

because he knew she’d never believe that he’d just found it. She

never believed him, and

always overreacted, just like she didn’t believe him, and was overreacting

right now . How dare she scream at an innocent child, and threaten her with physical violence! This was the 90s,

for god’s sake ! I was just a small helpless girl, and she was making her only granddaughter cry for no reason! She was such a mean Nonna. She didn’t love us at all. We had travelled all the way from America to spend what little time she had left on this earth with her, and this was how she treated the only grandchildren she would ever have? She was the one who should be ashamed!

He obliterated her with the last bit, guilt tripping her back to original sin. In the end, not only did she hand back the money, she also apologized to the both of us, weeping and crossing herself as if she were at confession. When we were finally alone in our room, my brother looked at me with the kind of joy one can only acquire through borderline sociopathic self-satisfaction. He asked in annoyed disbelief why I was still crying. “What the fuck? Relax, Tash. We got the money back.” “I know, Joyo,” I sniffled, utterly confused. “But I broke the rules and got us caught. God, I’m so stupid!” “Yeah,” he scoffed. “You are.” Then he just shrugged his shoulders, and told me to forget about it. “Besides,” he laughed as he rubbed the alfalfa sprout on the back of my head. “I owed you one.”


The showrunner nearly tripped on some cables as he ran to meet the contestants. “Good of you to come in so early. I hope that the car got there in time and that you had…” Michael could tell that they were not listening, no matter how excited they were to be here. “It’s Never Too Late!” had been the top reality-television show on the network for the last five years, but it seemed as if the contestants were just getting worse and worse as the ratings got better and better. The woman – a “Rachel” in this particular season – was trying very hard not to use her cell phone as her hand dangled over the padded swivel chair. The man – “Donald,” conveniently, his real name (legal issues notwithstanding) – was looking at his watch and grinning at him. “We had the talk in the limo. You second came over and had a chat with us.” Already, this Monday morning was turning out to be a real pain in the brain for him. Micheal enjoyed watching the contestants going through the motions – they knew who the final couple would be, but were legally blocked from revealing this or any other details of the show (NDAs are wonderful things, he thought). He even liked some of the contestants over the years – their “Mitchum” and “Suzanne” were a good match – and he could imagine many good things happening with this show. It made people happy and they had their People’s Choice Awards to prove it (record number for reality TV). But there was always something to trip him up; something that would make his day that much annoying. “My second? No one told me…” “It was a woman who was in the nice car when it picked us up.” She finally spoke up and shared this info while texting (did she know that this would be the last time she could do that for several weeks; very smart). “Okay, look, I don’t know who that was supposed to be, but we just have to get you on set for…” “Said her name was Laura and that she knew you.” He kept the grin going, now with some sort of gum or cud stuck between his teeth. It was going to be an ugly day. Laura… Laura, Laura, Laura… She was back. It had been a very difficult time in both of their lives – her divorce; his uncommitted girlfriend – but she was now back. The idea of this being a prank was becoming much more believable. “Okay…I…” “I think that we have everything we need right. She said that you would take us to the main set when we were ready.” The woman dropped her phone into a clutch purse Michael had not noticed before and she finally looked at him with a soft smile. “I think we’re ready.” The two of them stood up at once and he barely recalled what he wanted to say next as he walked them both to the set. He thought about what Laura must have said to them. And then he tripped over the cable. * Laura… She was here, actually in the building again. All those plans that he allowed to rise up and stay unformed in his thoughts were coming back to him. She had also been a showrunner when he started here. Her job was to make sure that he knew that he had a job (basic assistant and gopher for various people who went on to bigger roles or vanished once the season ended). She had lit up the place like no one else could… “You heard who’s back?” Guy wasn’t supposed to be here for another hour, thought Michael. What the hell was this waste of skin doing on set? Everything the man said sounded like it was a challenge to him and his responsibility on the show. Michael felt some comfort that he was not the only one who hated the most popular member of the cast (damn Neilsen ratings and surveys never lied). “Hi, Guy.” “Hi, yourself. Did you hear what I said? Laura is back on staff now. She was brought in to save all of our skins, I guess.” “Yeah, I heard. But why are you here so early?” “Are you kidding? I got called in. That’s how I found out about the return of my beloved, my dear. Our beloved Laura.” Guy, with that perfect smile, suit that cost what Michael had paid for his first car when he moved to Hollywood, and hair already set and perfected, was the one person who could get away with calling him “Dear” or “Dude”. He had been with the show from very beginning when they were both looking for PA work and a casting director decided to give them both screen tests. Several awards later and many late-night meetings that Michael was not privy to, Guy had a certain amount of power that other showrunners might have respected. They just might have… “Anyway, is there anything you need before…” “Nah, dude. She gave me all her notes. All she recommended was that you stay in the main office and see if she can have a chat with you.” Now Michael felt like breaking his jaw. “She wants to see me?” “Yeah.” Guy sucked his teeth, looked out at the set, and smiled until the glare hurt Michael’s eyes. “Better get up there, my dear.” He walked off, leaving Michael wondering about fate and the problem of hard work versus results. * No one in the office. No one in the main hallways. No one anywhere he would have chosen to be. Michael was aware that Guy played pranks on people, but he never did so when they were about to go to air. He would have to think about what to say to whomever was in charge when this was all over.

And he felt that it was over. All those years in the business; all those years on this show… There was not much to show for it except one relationship that ended badly for him, and his feelings for Laura. Nothing else. He decided to not stay on the set during the first take. His office was not too far from the exit. Michael stepped inside for a moment and looked for paper. A handwritten letter was probably the best way to resign. Would they even accept…? There was a letter on his desk. It was handwritten. Michael felt a pain behind his eyes that quickly turned into a twinge through his back. If they were going to fire him, that would be the way to do it. So, let’s get to it. Michael dropped to his desk and blinked. It was from Laura. * Dear Michael, Well, by now you have heard I am back. I decided to give this place one more chance and I found that they were willing to promote me this time. No longer showrunning this one. I am now one of the producers! Your boss, yes, but I don’t think that will change our feelings for each other. Yes, feelings do matter. I went through a terrible time with that divorce while you were being cheated on by my ex. Is that some sort of sign that we should have noted? Is that something that we can ever get over? Is it something that means we can have a second chance? Can we give this a try? I love you. I do love you. I know that with a change in our relationship, this is completely inappropriate, and you have probably moved on with your life. Please talk to me when this day is done. Laura * He did not hear much else beyond one of the other staff informing the audience that the show would be on in about ten minutes. He did not care about Guy, the fake “Rachel” and “Donald”, or his own feelings about the job (the resignation could wait). He sat with the letter and let the show go on. “…And, ladies and gentlemen, we are back!”


I could see what she was trying to do from a mile away—simple mirroring techniques to build a rapport. I didn’t have to study psychology to understand her techniques, she wasn’t even trying. “Do you have any siblings?” She asked. She looks quizzical, interested in my reply. It was all an act. “Yeah, I’ve got 3 older brothers” I answered without even thinking. She started moving her pen in erratic strokes across her pad. I bet she wasn’t even making any notes. Probably just drawing pictures and doodling. When her pen stopped moving, she asked another inane question. “I’m the youngest of 4 girls. How was it growing up surrounded by boys?” This was a complete waste of time. I was sent to see this woman to deal with my outbursts. She was just making it worse. I could feel my fingers gripping the armrests of the chair. My nails were digging into the soft padding. I could throw this chair at her, that would shut her up. She didn’t matter, she was useless. She couldn’t help him, no one could. “We used to fight, like most brothers” I answered while imagining what her face might look like after the chair had hit her. Blood pouring down her face. Again, with the notes. What was she even writing about, what was so interesting about my upbringing? So what if I got into fights with my brothers, everyone fought with their siblings. Okay, sure, theirs were probably more violent than the average. Blood was often spilled, but they always made up afterward. Or at least enough to trick our parents. “My sisters and I used to get into fights too, they sometimes got out of hand. Did your fights ever go too far?” She stared at me, unblinking, waiting on a reply. It was as if she was transfixed. Simply following a script. Psychology 101. Time to have some fun then. If she is going to reflect everything I say, let's see how far she'll go. "Oh yeah, all the time. One time they locked me in a shed and left me overnight." She looked shocked, and hastily scribbled more notes. This was probably going to get him in trouble with the principal, but it was worth it. "That reminds me of a time my sisters tied me to a tree. How did it make you feel, being so powerless?" Why was she reflecting such an obvious lie? Maybe it wasn’t obvious enough. He would have to go further. “It wasn’t fun, but I had to accept my place in the food chain. I’m the youngest, the runt of the litter.” I didn’t take my eyes off her, speaking without thinking, studying her motions. I’d work out her game soon. More scribbles. This time I won’t give her a chance to continue with her line of questioning, it was my time to have some fun. “This one time when I was younger, I was annoying my oldest brother. He wanted to stay in his room, but I was insisting he come play with me. I was banging on his door, ignoring his protests to leave him alone. I think I even dented the door at one point. Eventually, his shouts got so loud I could hear him straining his voice. I’d pushed him too far. He barrelled out of his room, grabbed me by the collar, and threw me down the stairs. I don’t remember the fall, just the impact. My head hit first, there was a deep ringing inside my head, then silence. I came to a few minutes later, in a small pool of blood. I cleaned the wound from my head and just ignored it like it never happened.” There was no way she could reflect that much detail. I’m not sure if that event even happened. Was I modifying a memory, or was it completely made up? I was just speaking. The colour drained from her face; her hands had started to slightly shake. Had I gone too far? She was definitely going to report me now. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to see her again. I wouldn’t be subject to this farce anymore. She didn’t reply, just continued with her notes. Was she on to him, had she worked out what he was doing? “Excuse me for one moment.” She got up from her chair and made for the door. She was trying to hide her hurry. It wouldn’t be long until I’d be escorted out of here, given to the next amateur psychologist to try their luck. Looking at her empty chair I spotted her notebook. She’d left it behind by accident. This was my chance to review her notes – more likely just doodles. I looked and listened to the door, making sure no one was coming. Then quickly jumped at her chair, retrieved the notebook, and got back to mine. If someone came in, I could throw the notebook back at her chair. No one would know. It was a simple book, with no distinct logo or patterns on the front. Lined paper on the inside. Flipping through the book I could see records of all her sessions, with other people. She marked each session with the person’s name, age, and a brief profile at the top. I scanned through the pages until I saw my name. *Name: Jonathan Hilcrest* *Age: 15* *Jonathon suffers from outbursts of anger. He grew up as an only child with distant parents. Been bounced around many psychologists, none of them able to help him. He shows above-average levels of intelligence for a child his age…* The profile continued for a few more sentences. I’m more interested in her notes about the session we just had. Why did she leave, what did she think about his latest fabrication? *… I’m not sure how he knows some of the things he is saying. He obviously knows some psychology tricks. Unsurprising, he has seen enough to pick up a few things. He seems to be trying to reflect my experiences back at me…* What was she on about? Me, reflecting her experiences? That’s what she was doing to me. *… But he is doing it before I even tell him about them. He must have researched me before our meeting. Manipulated a few of the other children to give him details about me…* I haven’t even got to her notes about my made-up story yet. These were all the notes, from the beginning of the session, about the real events that had actually happened. How was I mirroring her experiences, when it was all real? Maybe she knew I would read her notes, so she kept the game going even in her notes. This might have been all part of the plan. *… He grew up as an only child…* Why had she written that? I have 4 older brothers. No, 3. I have 3 older brothers. Their names are… Why can’t I remember their names? I haven’t seen them for a while, that’s probably why. I can’t remember exactly the last time I’ve seen them. This isn’t concerning though; I often struggle with recalling events. My memories turn into fog-covered dreams. It was like trying to see through a frosted window. Maybe I don’t have any siblings. Had I started making stuff up, testing her, before I’d even realised? No, don’t be silly. Of course, I’ve got siblings. I’ve got 4 older sisters: Anabelle, Daisy, Polly, and Margaret. We used to fight, just like any sisters. I was the runt of the litter, always the one to receive the beatings. Once they tied me to a tree. Another time I was banging on my oldest sister’s door, trying to convince her to play with me… No! They aren’t his memories, they’re someone else’s. A shadow appeared across the frosted pane of the door. It was her, the woman. I know it. As quickly as the shadow moved away from the door, the memories were gone, drifting back into the fog.


Amelia leaned up against the taxi and stared as the sheriff and repossession team emptied her home and memories onto the front lawn. Her father was fighting back tears, as he pleaded and begged the officer for another chance or more time; the alcohol on his breath disgusted the sheriff, but even he didn’t lack the empathy to arrest a man who had already been so thoroughly embarrassed in front of his family. Amelia’s mother stood with her back to the whole ordeal, chain-smoking cigarettes and massaging her temples with the free hand. The next thing her father slurred was what set Amelia off. “[…]if you’re gonna’ jusht throw us on the st-street like a bunch of bums, at least… at least look at my fuckin’ daughter in-in the eyes.” He pointed at her from across the lawn, but the sheriff only glanced at her and back to the belligerent man who was sending spit in every direction. Meanwhile, Amelia’s jaw was dropping at the nerve it took to use her as a prop, regardless of her father’s shaky history. She felt like storming towards the useless man and screaming every infuriated thought that entered her head, but it was no use; he’d already spent on alcohol what he hadn’t on gambling, and she had already spent every emotion she ever felt. So, she stood there, as hollow her house was. As a repo man carried out the stuffed dog that had sat in the corner of her room since she could walk, she looked back at her mother and felt the urge to ask for a cigarette.


I awoke screaming, waist-deep in beans. My hands were chained above me in the dark, my hands having long since gone bloodless. A few moments passed, I was hyperventilating, my stomach rising and falling with my full body breaths, pushing the beans out in tides. The small slit in the metal door of my cell scraped open. An oily voice oozed in, “I should kill you for that.” It was the bear. Always the bear. “No! I’m sorry!” I yelled back, my tears adding to the bean’s juice around me. The slit shut. “No!” I called out, “please, give me something to eat or drink, I don’t even know how long I have been in here!” The slit opened back up, the yellow bear again. “Eat the beans, I gave them to you, do you not like them?” it responded. I hung my head and kept crying as the bear left again. I was fed beans, a spoon floated out of the slit, shoving the mush into my mouth. I shit beans, and it joined the pool around my body. The bear told me I would become the beans. Always the yellow bear. I woke up screaming again, I was having memories, dreams, of my past life. I had a past life right? The bear told me these were dreams, that it would have to hurt me if I screamed again. It said it hurt the beans, I didn’t want to hurt the beans did I? The bear let me out today. The top half of the door was opened, my chains were unlocked and I was dragged out onto the floor. I curled up and lay shivering, hugging my oily, bean covered legs to my chest. The bear stooped down and picked me up. I was like a child curled up in its arms. It carried me down a sterilized corridor under the glare of fluorescent lights to a large open room. Inside sat rows of tables, lined like a military graveyard. At least a hundred people sat in the chairs. They had clean clothes and smiled, some would laugh at an unspoken joke, and all of them turned to us when we entered. Sitting in front of each of them, laying on the stark white tables, was a bowl of beans. Almost mechanically, they each picked up a spoon and simultaneously slid beans into one another’s mouth. The room was filled with the sound of a hundred jaws pumping like pistons, and a hundred simultaneous gulps. As I lay watching in the bear’s arms they all, in unison, said, “become the beans, join us.” The bear carried me back down the hall to the cell, my heart pounding in my chest as we approached the door. I heard screaming coming from one of the other cells as we walked down the hall. The bear whispered to me in its oily voice, “You don’t want to be like her do you?” I shivered as a chill set over me, “no… no, I don’t, don’t put me back in there, please.” I responded shakily. “If you don’t want to go back, you must become the beans,” it said. I lay in the beans. It wasn’t so bad after all I guess. There were worse things weren’t there? I was fed here, and the bear watched me. It said it only did what it had to for my own good. I swung my feet up, feeling the little globs slide through my toes. Things could be much worse. When the bear came back next I told it. I told it I wanted to become the beans. It pulled me out again, it was like being born again, sliding out of the womb of beans. The bear carried me, lovingly, back to the large room. It called out “This one wishes to join us!” “Become the beans! Become the beans!” chorused out from the crowd. A pool was brought forth and set on the ground. Pictures of those that had come before me lined the wall behind me and my fellow beans sat in front of me, watching. Every eye was on me as the bear approached. I sensed its form’s presence looming above me like a yellow god. Soon I would join them at the table, I would be welcome, I would be family, I would be a bean. “Today you join us!” I heard from behind me, as a bucket of warm beans splashed over me, oozing down my body like a comforting second skin. Today I became the beans.


It was an unfamiliar world she was in. A world imbued with many hues and flora of the most outlandish design. Yet there was a sense of familiarity about it. The tree under which she sat and pondered this world’s intricacies was short and stout. It had the slenderest of branches, branches that could almost be passed off like leaves. Set upon these branches were scores of thick pointed leaves the weight of which caused the branches to bend towards the ground and even touch the ground at places. Like the braided hair of a woman she thought they were. The entire sky was suffused with a dull yellow colour that gave the illusion of warmth but in this world, the colour of the sky did not affect things the way they did in her world. A perpetual fog permeated the world around her. None of the objects in this world cast any shadows. Besides the sound of her measured breathing, not a single sound could she hear from anywhere in this world. There was no wind. Nothing moved unless she touched it. The framed door through which she had entered this world stood before her. She only had to proceed through it to escape this dream world and grasp reality. But it was also the door through which she had chosen to escape reality and enter a world that challenged every notion of reality she had built up over the years. Once she stopped looking around, she began to feel the world. It was cold. She was alone yet she felt calm and unafraid. It was a fantastical realm, yet everything had parallels with reality. She walked on through the haze the sound of her footsteps and the sound of the grass crushing under her feet magnified by the silence of everything else. The braided branch trees she saw everywhere. No birds nested among its branches; no fruits hung off them. Where had all the birds flown away to, she wondered? The sun gave life to every living thing she had been told. Yet no light gave life here only the light that kept away the darkness. She walked on for a while. The grass beneath her feet grew sparser and the trees she could see became fewer. It began to brighten, and the ground began to grow translucent. She walked a few more steps until there was nothing more on the ground. It was like standing on a glass floor. She was enveloped by a brilliant yellow light. That was when she realized that the light had always been coming from below the ground. That was why nothing cast shadows as she expected. After her eyes had adjusted to the brightness, she began to perceive shapes and movement beneath the surface. She lay face down on the ground pressing her face as close as possible to the ground. She saw what appeared to be the same trees she had seen before moving gently this way and that their slender branches waving like tentacles of a jellyfish. One of the creatures was moving upwards heading to where she was lying down. Its movements were so graceful she wished she could reach through the ground and touch it. The creature was now so close that only the ground separated her from it. The tree-like structure formed only the upper part of its body. Below that it had a heart-shaped head with hundreds of blinking eyes set upon it. They all blinked at the same time when it looked at her. The creature began to come even closer. It began to pass through the ground and came so close that the top of it brushed against her face. She tried to push her hand through the ground to touch it, but the ground remained solid. The creature shrank away at this gesture and floated downwards gracefully until she could see it no more. Where had it disappeared? She needed know more. She walked a few steps further and then broke into a run. The creature was nowhere to be seen. She stumbled on a tree root and fell. She pounded her fists into the ground in frustration. Every time she pounded her fist, the light beneath her faded just a little bit more. Tears began to stream down her face as she began to pound harder and harder. Just as she was about to give up the light vanished, and she fell through the surface. She could see nothing, but she felt herself floating downwards. Where was the world she had seen from above? She felt herself land on something soft. The light began to come back into the world. She blinked once and it was as bright as when she first got here. The same tree appeared above her. She got up and began retracing the path that she had taken before. Everything appeared as it had. The world was suffused with the yellow light. Things didn’t seem quite wondrous now. The yellow began to feel ominous and foreboding. Her mind couldn’t grasp the unreal.  This time when the light began to fade, she stopped and turned around. She couldn’t face the darkness again. As wondrous as this world had first appeared, she craved the familiar. The more answers she tried to seek the further they crept away. There was nothing more she could discover here. The door to reality called to her. She headed back through the door. She looked back one last time at this world and thought of the world that lied beneath it. A world she could only see but not touch. She woke up with a start. Her eyes hurt from the sun rays filtering through her window. The room glowed with a yellow light. Her heart began to race. Was she still dreaming? She got up, rushed to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The searing light caused her to close her eyes. She felt something brush against her. When she opened her eyes a hundred eyes were looking back at her. The creature from her dreams was back. She jumped back from the window in fear. She tripped backwards onto her bed and sank into it. The lines between reality and dreams had now vanished.


August 16th - it’s our one year anniversary. Nate and I are sitting in a small Italian restaurant, an empty bottle of red wine between us. We’ve ordered another. It’s easier to let myself forget, to simply exist in this moment I’ve created, with the soft veil of alcohol clouding my thoughts. I feel myself slipping into the skin of the person that I’ve been waiting for all evening, like I’ve shifted into a parallel reality. This Lucy is flirtatious, care-free, basking in the candle-lit glow of a perfect romance.

Nate is everything I wanted after all. Handsome, stable, fun, sweet. We spend our time together roaming the city, bar-hopping with adoring friends, then slipping away to a dark corner to indulge wandering hands, our bodies familiar but mysterious still. It’s the type of love where arguments and resentment don’t exist, like trying to ignite a flame in a vacuum. There’s simply no air between us. “Lucy?” Nate puts a gentle hand over mine, which have been folding and unfolding a straw wrapper for an unknown amount of time.

“Did you want dessert?”

“Oh, uh, no thank you.” I respond, my words slightly slurred. “I’ll stick with the wine.” “Just the check then, thank you.” Nate addresses the waiter who’s been anxiously hovering over my right shoulder. I can feel him towering over me, and though I can’t see his face without turning awkwardly, I somehow feel a piercing gaze boring a hole in my back. Sometimes I wonder if people can tell just by looking at me that I’m keeping an enormous secret. That tonight Nate and I will make love, and then I’ll go home to my boyfriend. — Max and I met my senior year of college. I don’t remember going on any dates or being wooed with flowers and fancy meals. There was simply a day that he didn’t exist, and the next day he did. And once he was in my life he consumed every thought that crept into my tired brain.

It’s true that I’d been somewhat desperate for a boyfriend at this point. The long nights of drinking and searching with wandering eyes for someone equally lonely were getting stale. It wasn’t particularly difficult to find company though. I’d learned to embrace my subtle beauty and gentle curves, tamed my wild, strawberry blonde hair, and played up my long pale legs with heels that toned my muscles, but didn’t make me taller than most men.

After living a plump, pimply existence through childhood and adolescence, I harnessed this newfound power of seduction with the voraciousness of a vampire. I spent more time chiseling away at my body with hours of exercise and carefully planned meals. I wore my hair up because men complimented me more when it was pulled into a tight, high ponytail. It became easier and easier to fill the holes created by teenage bullies and endless nights alone.

And yet, after just a couple years, my body felt empty, like I’d already given everything away. Every new touch felt the same, boring. I craved something passionate that would send adrenaline coursing through my veins, like the very first time I locked eyes with a stranger and just knew in that instant that he was mine for the night. So when I met Max in line at a coffee shop near campus, something lit up inside me that I’d forgotten was there. Less than a second after “Hi, my name is Max” and “I’m Lucy,” he bent so close to my ear that I could feel the loose hair from my ponytail brushing his cheeks.

“You’re driving me crazy in that skirt,” he hummed.

He was handsome in a non-traditional way, his skin an unknown shade of pale brown, his hair messy, but purposefully so. His eyes were dark, with a gravitational pull unlike anything I’d known.

We spent an hour talking over cappuccinos, absent mindedly sipping the deflated foam until the cups were dry. I skipped class, and frankly, didn’t think once about going after our conversation began.

Max asked me question after question - Where did I grow up? Why did I choose to study literature? What was I scared of? - it was like he was a magician pulling an endless string of scarves out of my mouth only to be left with a mess of rainbow-colored silk. I was spread open, naked in front of him and I knew nothing about him. When he asked me to come back to his apartment, a modern loft with sweeping views of the Seattle skyline, I quickly answered “yes.”

__ “Let’s take a walk, yeah?” Nate holds out his hand and lets it linger as I remove my sweater outside the restaurant. The wine has created a rush of heat through my body that was masked by the crisp air conditioning inside. In a single motion Nate tosses the freed sweater over his shoulder and takes my sweaty hand, guiding us confidently.

“You’re on a mission, huh?” I giggle through a hiccup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m just enjoying a brisk walk with the most beautiful girl in the city.” Our banter is one of my favorite things about my relationship with Nate. We tease and poke each other in a way that’s never felt safe before, but that now feels as easy as laughing at a stupid joke with your best friend. I laugh so often in fact, that I have a near constant pain in my ribs. So very different from the one in my stomach, a malicious knot born from nightly sobs on the bathroom floor.

Nate loves my laugh too, and every time I let out a true howl, he pulls me close and kisses the little creases around my mouth that never seem to disappear when I’m with him. This time he hovers over my lips for a moment, crouching down slightly so our faces are aligned. His is strong and tan, lined with stubble that softens the sharpness of his jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

We keep walking toward the pier, the city alive and swelling with laughter and music. People here know to enjoy the clear skies and warm breeze while it still exists. The water laps playfully against regal sailboats and luxury yachts, but inside I feel perfectly still. I’ve learned to savor these tiny moments where nothing exists outside the air I’m breathing, and choices have no meaning. “Lucy?” “Hmmm?” My eyes are closed and the back of my head rests against Nate’s chest, his arms around my waist. “Can I ask you something?” I tiny swell of energy surges through my chest, though I keep my eyes closed in some manner of self defense. I don’t like questions like this. Not in my predicament. “Sure.”

“Will you move in with me?” The lump in my throat drops to the pit of my stomach, awakening that familiar throb of pain. I hold my breath and try to slow the thoughts flying through my head, like sheets of paper in the wind. It gets easier with practice - lying. But each deception is a piece of straw forming this flimsy house I’ve built for myself, and in this moment I realize that I’ll have to decide how to destroy it: with fire or wind.

__ I didn’t leave Max’s apartment for three days. Hell, I didn’t leave his bedroom for three days. The sex was rough and raw and real, and in the hours between I slept, letting my body recover. The bruises settled into my skin as though they’d always meant to be there. It was easy, at first, to ignore the way they multiplied.

We’d made a mess of his place, dirty sheets and clothes strewn about. Empty take-out containers lining bookcases and the kitchen counter. His cat, Dixie, stayed curled in the window sill all day long, occasionally glancing over at us with judgmental eyes. “I’m going to need the apartment to myself for a bit,” Max declared one afternoon, climbing off of me. “Oh, yeah sure.” It’s not like I’d expected to stay there forever. The fake illness I was battling got me excused from five classes that week, but I’d need to spend hours catching up.

I wasn’t prepared for the sting though. Max was a bandaid covering every inch of my bare skin, and he’d been ripped away with no warning. I was left red and tender.

“I’m sure you have to get back to work,” I added, making up a logical explanation for his sudden desire to be apart. But that likely wasn’t true. Max had a cushy job in tech that allowed him to work whenever he wanted, often through the night while I slept curled up next to him.

When I walked out of his building an overwhelming sense of fear and isolation washed over me. I was completely invisible to everyone I passed on the walk home, and in some ways, I was convinced Max was the only person who would ever be able to see me again.

We spent the next month in the same cycle - fuck, eat, sleep - and in between I’d try to pry tiny pieces of information from him. About his family, his life. But after muttering a couple vague answers, the conversation always ended in sex. His mouth covering mine, keeping me from digging too deep. His hands around my throat, getting a little tighter each time. I knew there was something dark in him, I wasn’t oblivious. I’d try and meet his gaze while he thrusted, hard, in me, but it was like looking down an endless well. Afterwards, we’d lay silent, comfortable in this ambiguous routine.

"Let’s go to dinner tonight?” I asked, my head on his chest. “I don’t really feel like going anywhere.” “Oh okay. It’s just…we never really go out.” Max pulled himself away from me, my head falling to the bare mattress. The sheets and mattress cover tangled at the end of the bed. “Is this not enough for you or something?” He stood abruptly and put his boxers on. “I…I..didn’t say that at all,” I stumbled, replaying the last few seconds and searching for where I went wrong.

“It just seems like you’re guilting me or something. I mean, you practically live here now what more do you want?” “Max, I…I thought you wanted me here, Jesus.”

I sat up, reaching for the covers to wrap around my vulnerable, naked body. “Now you’re just twisting my words! I didn’t say I don’t want you here” Max spoke slowly and with force. It was like the words were coming from deep within him, sparks flying off a raging fire. “Max, calm down, I’m not trying to argue with you!” “Damn it, Lucy!”

I didn’t see the water glass Max had picked up until it hit the wall. Shards scattered across the floor, with a few glittering fragments making it all the way to the bed sheets. I felt frozen, like moving might physically cause me pain - the glass leaping through the air to pierce my skin. The tears came in one big swell, uninvited, but unavoidable.

Max sighed. “I’m sorry.” With his head hung he inched his way back to me. “I’m so sorry.” Ignoring the glass he crawled into my arms, and I wrapped them around his sagging shoulders. We sat like that for 30 minutes - or maybe an hour, I don’t know - our bodies melting into one. _ “Lucy? You with me?” Nate cups my face in his hands, his eyes sparkling expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” “I want to live with you, Lucy. I want to do this,” he expands his arms, gesturing to the world around us, “together.” “I’m just… surprised I guess,” I force a small laugh to lighten the moment. “Do you remember the day we met?”

Of course I do. “Yes.” “You had come into the pet store crying…”

I think back to that day, the tiny store where Nate worked on the weekends while he finished law school.

“Your…dog had just died,” Nate adds carefully, always worried that any mention of this fictional creature would upset me. “And you just wanted to be around some animals.”

Also wrong. The feeling returns immediately. The hole in my chest, the walk to the pet store to buy Max’s cat some more food because he was out and I needed to breathe. My arm still red and sore from where he grabbed me, his words reverberating in my head. Why do you push me like this?!” “ I knew from the first moment I saw you,” Nate whispers close to my face. “That I wanted to be with you, that you were special.” I never expected it to come to this. I deserved it after all, didn’t I? I deserved some warmth and kindness in the midst of all the distress. It wasn’t even a decision, not really. Nate just…happened. “Nate…I…” choices, lies, the truth, pain. “I have to tell you something.” _ Max and I never had a discussion about being “official.” During one of the rare instances we had dinner with his college best friend, he introduced me as his girlfriend and in that moment, it felt like the very first time we met. I couldn’t hide the grin that grew on my face, the heat in my cheeks. It was the reward I needed, the one I’d hoped might be coming. “So, you called me your girlfriend today,” I said when we were in bed later, my voice idiotically giddy. “Oh, yeah, I guess so.”

There it was, the pin in my balloon that was constantly being inflated then popped. I was nothing but holes at this point.

“So, I’m your girlfriend then? And you’re my boyfriend?”

“Why do you have to make everything such a big deal, Lucy.” “I’m not, I just want to know how you feel about…this.” I put my hands out indicating the proverbial us to which I’m referring. “You know I love you.”

I did. He’d said it many times, the first being two months after we met.

“Yeah, but…” “But what!”

His body grew tense, sitting up arrow-straight in the bed. Tears started stinging the backs of my eyelids. I did my best to hold them back, my forehead straining with effort. Crying only made things worse.

“Sometimes it feels like you’re using me. Like I’m not really your…partner or whatever.” “Oh my god,” Max sighed, exhaling a frustrated growl at the end. “We spend practically all our time together, I mean, why are you trying to control me like this?” “I’m not trying to control you, Max,” my voice was shaking. “I just want some reassurance I guess. Like, are you sleeping with other people? Because I’m not!” I’d said the wrong thing. I knew it before the words were even out of my mouth. We didn’t talk about others . Max’s hand flew to my throat, the tips of his fingers hitting the sensitive muscles that shot pain through my temples. “Lucy…do you not want this anymore? Are you going to leave?” Despite him physically overpowering me, Max looked frightened in that moment, and in his eyes I could see the reflection of my own loneliness. He needed this, needed me. And in a matter of seconds I would apologize, we would forget this ever happened, and we’d sleep soundly in each other’s embrace.

“No. I’ll never leave you, Max.”


STORY CONTAINS SOME DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE, MENTAL HEALTH, PROFANITY, DARK HUMOR ASHLEY SHAFER The Cost of Healing Others Here we go again. It’s freaking 2:30 a.m. in the morning. I begrudgingly get out of my bed, taking off my comfy work shorts (honestly, they’re like basketball shorts), slide on my pants with its many pockets, and quickly shove my feet into my black boots. My boots have laces like normal work boots, but these also have a zipper on the side. It’s really nice when you’re barely awake and rushing to get out the door. I go to the bay. The bay is where our firetrucks and ambulances reside.            My best friend got me into this job. I never thought I would ever find my calling, but then he invited me to come hang with him at the firehouse. I got to talkin’ with an older guy, a veteran in the service, really. He’d been in the fire/EMS service for 40 years. Talking to him that night, I just knew that this was going to be the job that I would be in for the rest of my life.            I jump into the passenger seat of the ambulance and pick up the tablet from its dock that sits in the center of the dashboard. I look to see what the call is for. The dispatch notes say: F 73YO CHEST PAIN FEELING SICK AND IS ALONE Under that is the address, dispatch identifying number, and time of dispatch sent out. I look at my partner, Garner, at the same time he looks at me. We don’t even have to say anything, our expressions, mood, and eyes all say the same thing. We’re really fucking tired, and this is another bullshit call.            “Seventy-three-year-old and the 970 address, that’s Rose ain’t it?” I ask Jack. In the firefighter world, it can be like the military in how we talk to each other. Everyone calls each other by their last name, it’s just a thing. Don’t ask me why though, ‘cause who the hell knows.            “Yep. What a great fucking time, amiright?” Garner sarcastically replies. We drive to the house in silence. Most people are zombies in the morning without some type of caffeine flowing through their bloodstream. Let’s just say, us firefighters and EMS run on caffeine. It’s pretty much how we survive.            Arriving to the house, I get out of the ambulance and take the tablet with me because I know she’s going to refuse going to the hospital and Garner grabs some things from the back of the ambulance. We walk in and it smells like it always does, cat piss and baby powder. Everything in the house seems to have a layer of grime.            We greet her, take some vitals, ask some questions. Same thing every time. And every single time it is the same outcome, the same diagnosis: she just wants someone to talk to. After talking to her for 45 minutes, we leave and get back to the firehouse around 3:30 a.m. I take my boots off and strip off my work pants, putting my comfy shorts back on. I blissfully fall back asleep. We don’t have another run for the rest of my shift. .          .          .          .          . Four years earlier:            “So, how’s your first two weeks been?” Tyler asks me. “I think I finally found my job, my calling, man” I answer, grinning. We’re sitting outside on his back patio, drinking cold beers, country music playing in the background. “I told you you’d love it” Tyler says to me, with a smug look on his face.            “After talking with that guy, umm..” I blank, forgetting his name. “Deets” Tyler tells me.            “Yeah. Deets. He had so many stories. Him just explaining his time in the fire service was pretty interesting."            “So, how is Ellie doing? Hunter is the cutest baby around. You’re gonna have your hands full for a while” Tyler says. Ellie, my sweet, kind, and selfless wife just gave birth to our son, Hunter. He’s 3 months old and the cutest little guy. He had a full head of light blonde hair when he was born. He’s got his momma’s hazel eyes and little cute nose. He has my full lips, and a little freckle here and there sprinkled along his cheeks and nose. His cheeks are a little chubby, the same as his mama when she was born. He has a long torso and legs. Ellie’s only 5’1 in height. I’m 6’5 in height, fit but not ripped, black hair, brown eyes, black glasses. Tanned arms, or t-shirt tanned arms, and the rest of me is as white as can be. Ellie’s white but she has a nice, light tan every summer.            “She’s doing okay. She’s still sore but her c-section is healing nicely. It still blows my mind that Hunter was nine pounds and six ounces when he was born. He’s got those long legs” I say, drinking a big swig of beer from the bottle. “What sucks the most is I know I’m going to be away from home a lot and it will be just her. I know we can ask friends and family for help, but y’see, when your kid is first born, everyone is all ‘call us if you need help’ and ‘I can take care of him so you can have a break’, but ninety percent of the time it’s all BS. I know they mean well and it’s a gesture of kindness but that’s all it is. They don’t actually expect to help. ‘Cause I know if we asked for the help that we’ll actually need, it’s gonna be ‘I can’t today’ and stuff like that.” Tyler looks down at his bottle of beer, nodding his head and agreeing. It’s quiet for a moment. I look up at the sky, staring at the red and pink hues of color from the sun setting.            Tyler clears his throat and looks at me. “You know I would help you every time you asked, right? You know I would drop everything for you?’ he asks, but it sounds more like a statement.            I grin, “of course. You’re my best friend.”            “Shiiiitttt- “he says, dragging the word out. “Look at us getting all mushy and cute. I’d touch that booty anytime” he says, starting to laugh. I hear the sliding door to the patio open and we both turn to see Ellie and Cassie, who is Tyler’s wife, coming out to the patio.            “What are you two laughing about?” Ellie asks playfully. Before I can get a word out, Tyler says “butt stuff with my boyfriend.” Ellie and Cassie both shake their head at the same time, smiling at how ridiculous Tyler and I are. “Well, lovebirds, dinner is ready” Ellie tells us. She comes over to my patio chair and kisses me deeply on the lips. I love her kisses, just can’t get enough of em’. Cassie takes Tyler’s hand, and he stands up. We all walk into the house for dinner. Six months later            “Honey, I can’t do anything about it. You know that! I am sorry that I got forced overtime but being the new probie, I’m at the bottom. I don’t get priority, and I don’t get to choose.” Being a probie in the fire service basically means you’re the new guy. You get all the crap no one else wants to do or deal with. At the Forte Fire Department, there’s a list of names. If you’re at the bottom of that list, you’re the first person forced to work overtime. Once you do work that overtime shift, your name moves to the top of the list. But being the new guy, that list doesn’t really matter. At least for the first year of being at the fire department, anyway.            I don’t like arguing or fighting with Ellie. We hardly ever fight. I think we’ve only fought or argued like this 3 or maybe 4 times since being together for five years. We’re a pretty healthy couple. We communicate with each other very well and we trust each other. It amazes me how a lot of couples don’t communicate in their relationships. Right now, I’m being forced overtime for Thanksgiving. I don’t have a choice. Ellie is very upset with me about it, which is fair. I can’t do anything about it, though. They call it forced for a reason.            “I told all of our family that you would be there, that we all would be there! We had this planned out! We were going to go to your parents’ house tomorrow and spend Thanksgiving with your family. Then the day after, we go to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner” she says, her voice becoming angrier and more hysterical. “I know what we had planned. You don’t have to remind me. I can not do anything about it” I say slowly, hoping that she will calm down and understand what I’m telling her.            “I don’t want to go by myself. I already have major anxiety around big groups of people, whether they’re family or not. I don’t want to deal with the anxiety of having both of our family’s’ judging faces with how I take care of Hunter. I get overstimulated so easy. Honestly, if you work, I might just stay home instead of putting myself through that stress.” I can see tears forming in her eyes as she tells me this. Whenever she’s angry she cries. She hates that about herself.            We’re standing in the kitchen, me leaned up against the counter and Ellie in the middle of the kitchen floor. I stand up, pulling her into my arms and she wraps her arms around me. She puts her head against my chest. I can smell her floral shampoo and her Coach perfume that I got her. “I know, baby. I know. I love you so much. If I could do something about it, you know I would have already. Being the new guy sucks. But we’re getting closer to the year mark and soon I won’t be the new guy anymore” I say. She makes a big sigh sound. I pull her back a little so I can see her face, still holding her. She looks up at me. “You are the most beautiful woman and the best mother in the world. I love you, Ellie” I compliment her, admiring my messy haired wife.            She smiles softly, pulling me down to her by the back of my neck so she can kiss me. We passionately kiss for what feels like forever. I know this won’t be the last time that something like this situation happens again, and that sucks. It really, fucking sucks. ⁕         ⁕         ⁕            It’s been almost two years since the Thanksgiving disaster. I’ve missed birthdays, events, holidays all throughout the passing time. Off and on, mild arguments have taken place. At least Ellie understands now nothing can be done about forced OT (overtime) and me picking up shifts for extra money. When I started my fire/ems journey, I was young and filled with fire and I was so excited to experience everything this job had to offer. I still love my job, even on the shittiest days. What I wasn’t ready for is the sacrifices and the things that this job takes away from you. I wasn’t ready for how this job can affect your life in all types of different ways.            From home life to mental health, it takes a big bite out of you. Five weeks ago, there was a shooting. Four people dead and 6 more injured. It was a freaking birthday party for a teen girl. She was turning 17 years old. She won’t be seeing 18… ever. I can’t really talk about all of the details because HIPAA. Which, that’s basically a medical law/policy. You can’t talk about patients or about any of their personal information. But basically, birthday girl, what we’ll call her, had broken up with her boyfriend. But she had a new boyfriend. I guess ex-boyfriend, who was the shooter, didn’t like that. Obviously, because he went into the house while the birthday party was going on and just started shooting.            I wasn’t the one dispatched to that tragic call but a colleague at a different station had been. Being dispatched to call like that can mess with your head. Or a better-known term: PTSD. When us firefighters and EMS go to bad calls like this one, it can stay with us. We can be traumatized by the horrors we see. At least mental health is recognized among our line of work now. After that night the call happened, our city fire departments had debriefed with all shifts at all stations. After a bad call, we all come together to talk about it. We go over the resources available to us again.            I knew when starting this line of work, there was the possibility of bad calls and bad days, but it never put me off. I love helping people and I still love this job. TODAY            I wake up, my alarm going off. I grab my phone, hitting the X on the screen to stop the alarm. I get out of bed, stretching as I stand up. I yawn, still a little bit tired. ‘I need coffee’ I think to myself. I take off my work shorts, put them in my thin locker that is against the wall at the end of my bed. There are 3 more lockers that are like mine, beige, thin, names taped above the doors. They’re all attached together like you would see at a school. The lockers go from top to bottom, long. I put my shorts on the little shelf at the top inside the locker. I slip on my work pants, dark navy blue, and pull on my tennis shoes. I put my boots inside my locker at the bottom. I like to leave my boots at work because even though I clean them after a gross run, whether it be blood, vomit, or someone’s feces (yeah, that happens), I don’t like to take them home with me. I don’t want to bring that gross shit home to my wife and son.            I pack up my bedding and other stuff like toiletries and things I take to work. There’s a lot of us and not a whole lot of beds, so you bring your own bedding and make your bed when you get to work in the morning. I work every third day, and shifts are 24 hours. I walk out of the bunk room and into the kitchen. I fill my stainless-steel cup, that I take with me to work, with coffee that’s already been made by one of the other guys or Mason, the one girl on my shift. “Morning” Mason says, filling her own personal cup with coffee.            “Morning” I mumble, still not fully awake. The living room, dining table, and kitchen are basically in one big open room. Garner sets his stuff down against one of the walls. Guys from the oncoming shift are just arriving, thirty minutes before the shift start time. Everyone always shows up 30 minutes before their shift so a debrief about calls and information can be passed from the last shift to the new shift. We always talk about different things like the runs we had the day before or that morning, what supplies need refilled on the ambulance or firetruck, fire department information that the new shift needs to know, etc.            I look at Garner, taking a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue but not caring. “Don’t you look beautiful” I joke, Garner’s hair a mess. “Oh, thanks babe, it’s my new style” Garner replies, smirking. We both chuckle.            “Man, two weeks of no work. I bet you’re excited to have some vacation time. Don’t forget to cuddle your pillow and think of me” Garner says. I laugh and tell him “don’t worry I will.”            “But for real, enjoy that time with the wife and kid. Everyone needs a good break after a while. It’s hard enough being away from family as is” he says, looking more serious.            “I know. Trust me, I know.” We all debrief the oncoming shift, sit around for a minute and talk, then we all leave to go home. I arrive home, parking the car in the driveway. I leave my bedding and other work stuff in the trunk of our blue 2021 Honda Civic for now. I walk to the front door and step inside the house and as soon as I’m inside, Ellie comes to me, grabs me, and pulls me into a hug. I hold her as she holds me. “Good morning, baby” I greet her. She looks up at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “Good morning. I missed you” she confesses.            “I always miss you. C’mon, let’s cuddle on the couch for a little bit before getting up and doing stuff today” I tell her, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. She tucks her head under my chin, laying on my chest. We pick a movie from one of our streaming services that we pay for and settle in. Neither of us say a word, blissfully happy, Hunter still asleep. I smell her shampoo, like her own personal scent. I love it. It’s moments like this one, right here, that matter the most. Because not every day is promised, and the time that we get together is made more special because of my line of work. I love these moments. I smile to myself, happy with how my life has turned out. I have my dream job, the love of my life, and my amazing son. It’s funny how you assume or think that one thing is going to look and be a certain way, but it ends up being like nothing you imagined and surprising you even more.