I woke up agitated. My heart was pounding fast. The image from the dream stayed intact, refusing to fade away. A barefoot girl stood in the middle of a completely dark path, raising her hand and telling me, _  STOP, DON'T GO FURTHER!  I approached her slowly and saw her little face bathed in tears. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was me! It was my little girl… I ran to hug her and held her tightly against my chest... When I tried to lift her, the image faded, and I woke up with a scream. I sat in bed, my mind circling around the image of my little girl and the questions that troubled me. _ Why did she say STOP, DON’T GO FURTHER ? What are you trying to tell me, my inner child? What danger are you warning me about?' I looked at the clock; it was half-past five in the morning, and I had to get up because I was traveling that day to the Wichí Mataco community of Chustaj lokwé – the Owl’s Lair. It was the year 2000, and I was working as an anthropologist in a social aid program for indigenous communities located along Route 86, which crossed the rugged Chaco forest. It started in Tartagal and stretched to Misión la Paz, on the border with Paraguay, covering just over a hundred kilometers. It appeared as a 'Route' on national road maps, but in reality, it was just a dirt road, only passable during the dry season, and in the rainy season, it turned into a swamp that only the most experienced locals dared to traverse. Fausto, my assistant, was sick with the flu and couldn’t accompany me. He was a member of the Wichi Mataco community 'Lapacho,' a great knower of these forests where he was born and raised. Traveling with him made me feel confident and secure, not only because he knew the area well but also because speaking his native language made it easier for me to communicate with the people. I could have chosen not to go, but I decided to travel anyway because I didn't want to delay my work since there were many communities I had to attend to. _Don't go alone, wait a few days and we'll go together! _ Fausto had told me, but I decided to travel alone. I admit that I am impatient and sometimes a little impulsive, which in the past got me into more than one problem. _What could happen? I worked in so many communities and never had any problems, why would this time be different? Of course, I would miss the company of Fausto who was not only my assistant but also a lifelong friend. Traveling with him made the trips short and pleasant. In the harsh and gloomy reality that the aborigines lived, being able to laugh at his stories and anecdotes was a relief. A few kilometers away, one entered a landscape of magical realism in the Chaco of Salta. A world where goblins played hide and seek during tropical siestas, healers and witches cured fright, made love spells and for good luck, hunters asked permission with coca and cigarettes from Madremonte. It was the territory of the adventures of the fox and the jaguar, of the escapades of the armadillos, quimileros and the bored iguanas. There were indigenous communities of Wichis, Matacos, Chorotes, Tobas, Chulupies, Chiriguanos, Tapietes and others in the most absolute helplessness and abandonment, just as at the beginning of the 20th century when the colonization of the Chaco began. My work consisted of formulating projects in the vain hope of achieving some solution for their historical and multiple needs. It was November, referred to as “ Yachup” in the Wichí calendar, our springtime, a dry season of intense heat in this region. I set out at dawn, having prepared everything the night before: my battered Peugeot 504, worn down by the dusty and bogged paths of the impenetrable chaco, and my backpack with water the canteen, lighter, flashlight, pocketknife, and a small bag of coca leaves, mate equipment, cookies, some oranges and work elements: notebook, recorder, camera. The clear, fresh morning smelled of tusca breezes, and the uproar of doves and parrots crossing the sky in flocks signaled a day that would get very hot. There I was, kicking up dust in my car and Wichis-matacos hitchhiked along the road. They were pleasant company, telling me news, anecdotes, stories of animals and apparitions, the history behind the names of the places, and even giving me advice on what to do if I encountered Tahyi Wuk, the Owner of the Jungle. In mid-morning, I arrived at Holotaj –Tonono–. I went directly to the house of my friends, the Palomos, a family of criollos from the Chaco region. They pointed me in the right direction, saying, “It’s just right there.” It was my first time heading to the community of Chustaj lokwé –Guarida de la Lechuza–, which was in a highly critical situation. At from that place, I couldn’t continue in my vehicle as I had to cross the sandy banks of the Tonono River. I accepted the horse they offered me, a beautiful bay, large but gentle. They helped me mount it by stepping onto a log, and I headed north, carrying my backpack. I was happy, as riding the horse allowed me to experience the forest more closely, a place that always drew my soul like a goat to the forrest. Without a doubt, some ancestral memory of the wild woman that I once was remained in my genes. I let the horse carry me at its steady, unhurried pace as I filled my lungs with the thick scents of the forest and let the noise of the birds fill my ears. My eyes followed the flight of flocks of parrots and doves in the sky. Nearby was the lagoon Inaj pitaj –Water Long–, where the ruckus of chuñas, charatas, ducks, and other animals echoed, all coming to quench their thirst in this harsh, forgotten land, scorched by torrid summers and once home to tigers and jaguars, and mythological serpents. I arrived at Tonono River and crossed the large sandy area. On the other side I looked for the path that they had told me was “right there” and that would take me “straight to the community”. But, surprise! Before my eyes there was not “one path”, but several _  What now? _ I asked myself, observing the three paths that opened up before me. _  Which one would Fausto take? The one on the left, the right, or perhaps the middle?' I remembered a friend who in similar circumstances, consulted coca leaves to help him decide, but I lacked that ancient wisdom. So, to avoid making a mistake, I steered the horse down the middle path. I must have traveled for an hour, entering a forest that became denser with carob trees, thorny bushes, and ancoches, but there was no sign of Chustaj Lokwé. I had no idea where I was, and in my anxiety, I made the biggest mistake one could make in such circumstances. I left the path and went into the woods, thinking that perhaps I could find the community that way. I continued on with the poor horse, which struggled to dodge the thick branches of the trees and the prickly chaguar plants. I had no notion of the time that had passed and I continued walking without finding the path that would take me to the community. The sweat was running down my feverish forehead, and I realized from the trees that I kept passing the same spot over and over again. Was I going in circles? Everything seemed to indicate that I was. I tried to stay calm, but I was breathing heavily, exhausted, dead tired, hungry, and with a burning thirst consuming me from within. The forest, which had always been a welcoming home, my green refuge, now felt suffocating, threatening, like a wild animal with branches clawing at me with every step. _ 'This can't be happening to me! Where did I go wrong? They told me that once I crossed the river, there would be a path leading straight to the community just a few meters ahead. Why can't I find it? They must have given me the wrong directions, no doubt!' _ I repeated to myself angrily and kept riding the poor horse, who seemed even more lost than I was. _ 'Calm down! Calm down! Breathe... breathe... everything is fine!' _ I kept telling myself, but calm was like a delicate butterfly that landed on my fingers and flew away just as quickly. Then I would hear Fausto’s words again: 'Don’t go alone...' Now, trembling with fear, surrounded by forest spirits and goblins, I recognized my mistake. I should have listened to Fausto’s warning and the message from my dream, my Niña, telling me: _  STOP, DON’T GO ON! _ Overwhelmed and desperate, I finally accepted that I was lost, trapped in that green labyrinth. Terror took hold of me, I trembled with fear, but the worst was the mental suffering. I saw myself arriving at the village, chatting and laughing with the people, drinking cool water from the jar that was under the shade of a carob tree and suddenly I was overwhelmed by negative thoughts. I remembered what Fausto told me about people lost in the woods, how the heat makes them sweat, attracting hundreds of bees and wasps that pounce on their bodies, stabbing them with their stingers, causing painful swellings, and how little by little their minds become lost and their sense of direction becomes unbalanced, and they start running madly, torn by thorns. I dismounted under a leafy guayacán tree. I was completely soaked in sweat and thirsty. I sat down on a log, took out my canteen and, thirsty, took several sips of water. I took an orange out of my backpack and ate it. Becoming aware that I was lost and alone in that wild forest terrified me. I felt totally vulnerable, completely orphaned, and I let out all that fear in a scream that echoed in the forest like a mournful lament. For a long time I screamed for help until my throat hurt. I stopped, I felt dizzy, I was floating in the air as if I were levitating. I thought that the screams had taken all my energy, then my mind began to play tricks on me. Suddenly all the spirits and goblins of the forest that I knew through the stories of the Matacos appeared before me. There were the Wooden Goblins, their bodies were like dry branches, they liked to chase the lost and they watched them camouflaged with the trees and the foliage. Chamin, the “Skeleton of the Mountain” goblin, was the one who impressed me the most. They said he was a terrible entity that the Matacos themselves feared. Sometimes he allowed himself to be seen, but he preferred to be heard by making a noise similar to two branches colliding or the sound of footsteps dragging on dry leaves. I recognized him because he had a white head, large, round, protruding eyes, and terrible fangs protruding from his mouth like those of a jaguar, elongated and pointed. He had no muscles, he was pure bone and his neck was as thin as a finger. He was always wandering through the forest. Suddenly a hoarse song like that of a bird arose from the group. I looked carefully to see who the singer was and to my surprise I discovered Suweletaj, the gardener goblin of the carnations of the air. He lived in them, hanging from them like a nest. In that delirium I saw Etek, the goblin with the head of a sajasta, appear from among the bushes. He had once appeared to me during my siesta when I was playing under a blackberry plant in the yard of my house. He was a short, chubby goblin, with dark skin and boar's nails. He wore a chiripa and was bare-chested and bare-footed. He appeared suddenly and made signs with his hands for me to come closer. But the fear had paralyzed me, and I couldn't move and I was speechless. When my mother found me, I was as pale as a corpse and couldn't speak. They took me to the doctor, but he couldn't tell me what was wrong. I was like that without a voice for a long time, until one day my mother took me to a cuña ipayé, a shaman who had been recommended to her and who lived in the Guaraní community of Yacui. When I grew up, they told me that she cured me of my fright for seven days. At seven in the evening, they say that he called my name loudly three times. That was how he called my soul to return to the body, since it had escaped in fear. Apparently the healing worked because he gave me back my voice and little by little the confidence to play in the yard again. Now an adult woman, I looked at Etek with curiosity. I looked at him straight on, not defiantly but with respect. He looked at me too and smiled. I understood, that time when he appeared to me during my nap, he just wanted to play with me. The others continued to look at me strangely, as if to say: _ And this Sulú, who is she? Sulú in the Wichi Mataco language means, white woman. Luckily, fear paralyzed me so much that I did not run away, which would have been fatal. My heart was beating rapidly, the palpitations were a drum resonating in those lonely places in the woods, I felt that fear was a hairy worm crawling all over my body, so I closed my eyes tightly and repeated out loud: _ This is not true!... It is not true!... It is not true!... When I opened my eyes, the group had disappeared. I began to breathe deeply and calmed down and thought: _ How stupid I was for not listening to my inner child warning in the dream! Why didn't I listen to Faust? How many more times would I have to hit myself in life to learn to see the signs? _ With effort I regained control of the runaway horse in my mind. The heat was pressing hard and thirst dried my mouth, bitter from the taste of fear in my skin. I lit the fire hoping that someone would see the smoke from afar and locate me because I thought that surely at that time they were already looking for me. The Doves, seeing that I didn't return, would realize that I was lost. I waited by the fire for a long time, but I was heartbroken when I realized that no one would come. Every moment I looked at the sky in search of the sun to locate me along its path, but it was completely covered in clouds. I thought it best to get back on my horse and find the way. I tried to get on the horse but it was too tall. I tried swinging one leg, but with such bad luck I fell backwards and hit my head against the ground. I stayed there for I don't know how long. I woke up, slowly opened my eyes and then I saw that the clouds were parting and the sun was visible. I was able to locate myself there, and I realized that instead of going back I was moving away. Then, like in a dream, wrapped in the dust of a whirlwind, a human figure appeared. It was an old Mataco man walking towards me. He was very old, like an ancient carob tree. He was wearing a large, wide-brimmed palm hat, a machete hanging from his waist and a coil of rope across his chest. His large feet caught my attention, with toes sticking out of worn leather flip-flops. The old man came to me and without saying a word he brought the horse to me and helped me mount it, he took the reins and we started walking, I on horseback, he on foot. We made the whole journey in silence without saying a word. We reached the main road from where I saw the Palomos' house. I gave a shout of joy, and I was laughing and crying at the same time and when I turned around to thank the old man I saw him disappear into the woods. That night, already in the safety of my house, I felt a deep joy that invaded me completely. I understood that I had passed another test in my life, a transforming experience that demanded the deepest part of my being. I had faced fear in its purest form, alone in the middle of a threatening I never knew which road we took, I do remember that we never crossed the sandbank of the river, nor did I ever know who the old man was. I investigated, I asked Creoles and Aborigines but no one knew him. mountain, surrounded by spirits and memories, but I had managed to overcome it. I had emerged from the green labyrinth, not only physically, but also emotionally intact. I felt infinite gratitude. I was alive, safe and at peace with my soul, enriched by that powerful experience, because not only had I managed to get out of the mountain, but with me I had taken my Little Girl out of the dark path of loneliness and fear in which she was lost and in which she lived for so many years.


Here in the desert, far from the city lights, the Heavens show off their brilliance. The stars above look like silver glitter strewn across a dark canvas, no space is left untouched. This is the canopy that covers the stranded family. Earlier that day:  They had come to visit the waterfall and creek that ran by the ancient homestead. The father had stumbled across it during one of his hunting trips. It was beautiful, quiet and secluded. The remains of a stone house, sat between two fingers of the mountain. It had rained a lot this summer, so the waterfall splashed down into a pool that ran off into a small creek that flowed next to the home. The home is only rock walls and a floor, the roof, doors and windows are gone, buffeted and torn away by the winds of time. In its heyday the homestead was a gorgeous haven. The mountain snuggled the area on three sides and there was a huge boulder across the stream, it was covered in Indian pictograms. Enormous Mesquite trees filled the area; shading the house, the boulder and the stream. The family came here often; it was their own hidden paradise. Today they had come, to escape the heat, allowing the children to play in the stream and lower waterfall. High up in the bow of the mountain sat a pool fed by an underground spring. It was the source of the stream the kids played in, the water traveled down three separate falls before flowing past the old homestead. Mesquite trees shaded the top and several more large boulders sat across the area. Two of the boulders were covered in more pictograms, but one was flat with a shallow depression in the center.  The stone was a smooth bowl, most likely used for grinding corn when Indians still roamed the land. “Daddy! Look we found some arrowheads.” Madison excitedly exclaimed. The boys showed their parents their treasures too.

“Those are wonderful.” Bethany exclaimed as she admired her children’s treasures. “Time to go kids.” Their father called, they all climbed out of the stream and their mom had them climb out of their sandy clothes. She rinsed them off and wrapped them in towels. At the truck she put on their clean clothes. Then she helped them climb into the truck.

Their father turned the key and nothing happened, he tried again and still nothing, he popped the hood and tried to get the truck to start but it was dead. The children bounced around excitedly waiting to return home, they didn’t notice their parents concern. “What are we going to do Adam? It’s at least 25 miles to anything!” Bethany softly cried. “I know, and we can’t wait for someone to find us, our water and food won’t last long, and nobody knows where we are at. Hell nobody even knows of this place!” He wraps his arms around his wife as they come to terms with the dangerous situation they were in. “We are going to have to walk out.” “Adam! The kids will never be able to walk that far! I don’t think I can walk that far, especially in this heat!” “I’ll make a travois out of the sleeping bags and a couple sturdy poles; I have an ax in my tool chest. We’ll also wait until the sun goes down. Don’t worry we’ll be fine” They stood together, embracing as they prayed to God to be with their family. “But still 25 miles, that could take days!” “We should be able to make it to Valencia rd. by morning, that’s about 10 miles from here, then we’ll set up shade and wait for nightfall to continue. Another 6 or 7 miles should be getting us to Happy Trails rd it’s more traveled. Hopefully then we’ll be able to catch a ride into town from there.” Adam assured her. “We’ll have to ration the water and snacks, the kids won’t be happy.”  Bethany sighed looking over at her children playing in the truck. “Kids get out of the truck.” “Aren’t we going home?” Madison who was six asked. “We’re going to have an adventure; the truck doesn’t want to start, so we’re going to walk through the desert tonight, how does that sound?” Adam asked his children. Benjamin, four and Robbie three, squealed in excitement. Madison frowned however, remembering how far it was. Their mother got blankets out of the truck and laid them out under the big mesquite tree. “We’re going to take a little nap now so we’ll be rested for our walk.” Their mother told them. “I’m hungry!” Robbie whined. Bethany pulled a small bag of crackers out of her knapsack and handed it to the kids, “Mine!” Robbie cried out. “No Robbie, you need to share those.” The kids ate them and drank from the bottled water their Mom gave them. “Time for our nap.” “I’m still hungry Mommy!” Benjamin said. “I’m sorry honey that’s all. Now lie down and take a nap,” “But it’s still daytime.” Benjamin complained. “We have a big adventure ahead of us tonight and if you don’t take a nap you won’t be able to stay awake.” Adam told his son. “Now do as your mother said and take a nap. Bethany honey, you should try to sleep too.” “What about you? I could help get things ready.”

“I’ll lie down after I make the travois, it’s a one man job, so try to get some sleep, it’s going to be a long night.” Adam kissed her forehead and walked away. Bethany softly sang to the kids, they fall asleep almost instantly; it didn’t take long for sleep to come because they had worn themselves out playing. Bethany soon followed the kids into slumber. Adam finished the travois, rigging the ice chest to the bottom, so the kids wouldn’t slide off the end. Then he set his watch for 8:00 pm and laid a flashlight and his pistol beside his head and tried to catch some sleep. He laid there looking at the sky praying, “God please be with us and give me the strength to get my family home safely.” ************************************************ Adam and Bethany woke at 8:00 pm; they got all the snacks together and made a meal out of what they had left from the picnic. Waking the children they fed them then got them situated on the travois. “I’ll walk Mommy, so Daddy doesn’t have to pull me too.” Madison said to her parents, even though they said nothing, she could tell they were worried. “You have to hold your mothers hand the whole time, it’s really dark and we don’t want to loose you.” Her father told her. “And, if you get tired at all, you can get up with the boys, I’m strong enough to pull you too, okay.” Madison promised and they all set out from the truck. “Who’s going to be with our Truck? What if it gets scared?” Benjamin asked worriedly. “The truck is fine, Honey. We locked her all up and she’ll sleep until we come back for her.” His mom assured him as they walked down the dry riverbed. The first hour the boys noisily chattered away, finally falling back to sleep. Her parents were mostly quiet as they walked through the dark desert.

It was kind of scary, when they neared a huge water trough she heard lots of squeaks and what sound like paper being crumbled. “What’s that noise Daddy”

“Those are bats honey, don’t worry they aren’t after you, they are after the bugs near the water.” Just as he finished telling her that something large swooped over head, the breeze from it fluttered her hair. Before she could cry out, “Just an owl, Sweetheart a really big owl.” He replied shakily. “How much farther is it to the dirt road?” Her mother asked about a half hour later. “It shouldn’t be much farther, but I’m not sure. I always look for the tracks that enter the riverbed, but I can’t see anything in this light. Why don’t you switch on the flashlight and scan the banks. The flashlight was dim, barely lighting the area. “Wonderful.” Her mom muttered, casting a nervous glance to her father. Madison didn’t want to think about the looks that were passing between her parents, so she looked into the sky, her mom kept a hold of her hand, guiding her in the dark. The sky was glittered with stars.

“He counts the number of the stars; he gives names to them all. Great is our God.” Madison softly whispered a scripture she’d learned at Sunday school. “What did you say Honey?”

Madison didn’t answer her Mother. She was trying to count the biggest brightest stars, but she kept loosing track. Then one bright star caught her eye, it seemed to be coming closer. “Mama, look that star is coming down.” “I don’t see it, did it already pass by?” “No Mom its right over our heads!” her mom looked into the sky. “I’m sorry honey I still don’t see it.” Madison looked at her mother in astonishment, how could she not see the bright light floating above them. It wasn’t a star, but it was very bright. *“Tell your father to stop the road he is looking for is right here.” The light shown on the tracks to the road they had just passed. “Daddy the road is there, under the bright light.” “Madison, stop playing pretend, we need to really find the road.” “But Daddy it’s right over here!” Madison jerked her hand away from her mother and ran to the road. “Madison! Get back here, you were told to not let go of my ha…….., Adam! It’s the road! We almost passed it. How in the world did you see it, Madison?” “Just lucky, I guess.” Madison said watching the bright light. The walk became a little easier, since they were no longer trudging through the sand. The bright light stayed with them but only Madison saw it.

“Adam, look in the distance, do you see that light?” “I do, I didn’t think there were any homes out here. We’ll go in that direction.” They took a road that branched off from where they had been going, that light held more promise than the road they were walking towards. *“He gives light to those in darkness, to guide their feet to the way of peace and safety.” The voice spoke out of the darkness. It comforted Madison.  They’d been walking for close to 3 hours and Madison was stumbling with each step, the light was still with them, watching over them. “Adam stop, Madison needs to get on the travois.” “I’m amazed she has lasted this long.” Madison groggily smiled at her dad and crawled next to her sleeping brothers. Her mom walked up to her dad and grabbed one of the poles and they continue walking toward the light in the distance. It was farther than it had seemed but still closer than the other option. Madison had just started to close her eyes when the coyotes started howling close by. Her eyes jerked wide open as another howled then another and another. They were all around them. And it sounded like there were a lot of them. Adam handed his gun to Bethany and told her to follow behind the travois to keep the children safe and be watchful. “Coyotes are usually more afraid of people than we are of them.” Adam said reassuredly.  Madison watched as three more bright lights joined the first, *“Even though you walk through the dark desert, fear not because your God watches over you.” A voice spoke from the bright light again. Obviously her parents didn’t hear it, because they said nothing and her mom looked terrified trembling with every howl.” Madison knew they wouldn’t believe her if she told them what the light said, they couldn’t even see the lights so she decided to sing instead. “I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me  I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee Her mom and dad joined in; “I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery  I raise a Hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me.”  I raise a hallelujah, my weapon is a melody  I raise a hallelujah, Heaven comes to fight for me. Madison heard the beings of light join their voices with hers, and she felt her heart swell, the coyotes were still howling but at a distance now. Her Mom picks another song and they continue singing. The scary feeling is gone; she can even tell her mom isn’t afraid anymore. As they walk they continue singing, it seems time stands still as they walk singing praises to the Lord. Suddenly the beings of light leave, disappearing into the night sky. “No, Don’t Leave! Please stay!” Madison cries out as she watches them depart. “Who’s there? Show yourself, I’m a Police officer!” Shouts a voice in the distance. “Help us! My name is Adam, I’m with my family, we’ve been stranded in the desert.” “Come out where I can see you!” the officer yells as he flicks on the lights of his cruiser. Bethany puts the gun in her pack and they pull the travois onto the paved road. When the officer sees the children, he releases a sign of relief; he hadn’t expected to run into anyone on this desolate road, especially at this time of night.  Adam lets him know they have a gun, which he takes for now, then he helps them all into his cruiser. The boys wake up excited to see the officer. “It’s a miracle that you were here; we’ve been walking for hours. Our truck died so we had to walk out.” Adam told the officer. “How far back is it?” “About 10 miles, we were by the old homestead.” The officer whistles, “That is quite a dangerous walk with coyotes and cougars out here. I came out here because we had a call about an abandon vehicle, but I couldn’t find one. I was ready to leave when your daughter yelled at me to stop.” “I didn’t yell at you, I yelled at the Angels in the balls of light, they were with us in the desert, they kept the coyotes away and they lit the way for us. I didn't wasnt then to leave.” Madison told them. “They lit the way?” The officer asked. “We followed the light from the house in the distance.” Her father clarified. “There are No houses or buildings for miles around here.” Her Father steps out of the cruiser and scans the horizon. He can't see the light, actually he doesn't see any lights at all. A mountain lion screams close by and Adam hurriedly returns to the cruiser. The officer smiles and starts the vehicle,” I’d say you just experienced a bonafide miracle. You know the Bible tells us we should see through the eyes of a child. Sometimes they see and experience more of God’s supernatural wonders than adults do, because they see through eyes of wonder and innocence. For you to have walked all that way through the night safely, shows that God was watching out for you.” As they drove away Madison turned around in the back seat, kneeling so she could stare up into the stars, “Thank you Lord for being with us.”  She watched as a bright star seemed to twinkle at her, acknowledging her prayer.


Sandy had made himself a den that the sunlight couldn't reach. He filled it with an old projector, a DVD player, and the old DVDs from his parents' youth, which still worked and gave him a feeling of connectedness with the world. The whole enterprise was quaint—old films, old technology, staring at moving pictures on a wall. Not just Disney, but also old classics like Fawlty Towers , Allo 'Allo , and other politically incorrect shows. He wasn't bothered about political correctness. He wouldn't have known what quaint was, in his 10 years of life experience. Sandy had lived all his life in the little seaside town known as "Baia del Mirto." "No better place anywhere on Earth," his mother was wont to say. "Sandy, go out and play!" shouted Dewy. "Get out there and enjoy the sun while you can! Once school starts again and the weather turns bad, you'll regret not making the most of these long summer days!" Dewy was the only family Sandy had left, as far as he knew. He called her "Dewy" instead of "Mum," which he recognized as a bit unusual, especially since it wasn't even her real name. Before having him, she had lived in various cities and villages. She had held office jobs and had a close-knit circle of friends and a loving family. Sandy didn't really know why, but by the time he came along, all this had changed. Dewy wanted to keep away from most people. In an effort to escape the fast-paced lifestyle of the city and reconnect with nature, she made the bold decision to leave her busy life behind. "Ok, Mum," replied Sandy, yawning. "But this year, can I go to a real school? In Portomarino?" Sandy had spent all of his life in Baia del Mirto, a tiny seaside village that came alive in summer when beach-loving tourists increased its population fivefold. Sandy had never left Baia del Mirto, not even for a shopping trip, not even on holiday. The village was tiny but dependable. The outside world was unknown and scary… or so he had been led to believe. Despite being sheltered, he was far from ignorant. He had old DVDs, school textbooks, and his beloved iPad. It's not that there were no people around, but mostly that the people he saw in the village might as well have been aliens. To start with, they spoke a different language. His mother explained that local dialects could change radically every few kilometres. Not that they didn't speak the official language, Italian. It's just that they didn't see the need around him. He was simply not one of them. In summer, he had both company and entertainment. Facilities for tourists included boat and surf rentals, restaurants, bars, and even a concert every once in a while. He loved meeting people from other countries who spoke different languages. He was only fluent in Italian and English, but this didn't stop him from playing with the tourist children, making the most of it while he had company. The warm weather would last well into October, maybe even November. But as Dewy kept reminding him, school would be starting soon. A grim prospect. Not that he went to school. That's why he had been allowed the iPad. Sandy himself had been very happy with this arrangement until now. Just recently, however, the usual landscapes had started to make him feel constricted, like a pair of shoes two sizes too small. He understood people would believe him crazy. Constricted, when surrounded by the infinity of the beach, the sea, the sky, clouds… the Milky Way at night. He understood he couldn't talk to anybody about it. They'd think there was something wrong with him. His sense of unease had started early that morning. He was out on his fishing boat at six in the morning. He didn't think anyone else would be out at this ungodly hour, but there she was, a girl on a stand-up paddleboard, and she could handle it like a pro. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft pink and orange glow over the horizon. The gentle lapping of the waves against the boat and the rhythmic splashing as the girl expertly manoeuvred her paddleboard were the only sounds that broke the peaceful silence of the early morning. She had chestnut hair tied up in a messy bun, and her tanned skin glowed in the early morning light. With her dark complexion and muscular build, she could have been his twin… but she wasn't from here. She was so happy to have found someone to play with that she invited him for lunch on her parents' yacht. "I'm glad our Allegra has found a nice friend to play with," said Lara, her mum. Soon she was asking him, "Which school do you go to?" "I don't go to school," he replied. Allegra looked puzzled at this answer. "Surely everybody goes to school? How come you speak English? And you can steer the fishing boat and catch fish!" Her dad interjected, "Tell me, Sandy, do your parents have you home-tutored? It is certainly unusual, but not unheard of." "Well, we can't afford a private tutor, and my mother doesn't like schools, even though I think they must be very different now from what she remembers. I take online classes, I watch tutorials, and my mother checks if I'm doing enough and maybe explains things if I find them a bit too hard. It's lonely, though. I'd prefer to go to school." As he recounted his usual routine, Sandy realized that he was not happy with his current situation. The freedom to get up and go out and swim and run whenever he wanted, but the lack of real-life experience due to his mother not letting him leave Baia del Mirto, suddenly felt stifling. He'd never had to explain it all in such detail to anybody, and as he explained it, he was overcome by a sense of unfairness. Only then did he realize that something had to change. He was effectively trapped in a prison masked as a perpetual holiday. Allegra described her beautiful Lake District boarding school with such relish and detail that she reminded Sandy of an artist trying to capture the essence and the feel of a place, brush stroke after brush stroke. It seemed to Sandy that she must be very happy, always having other children for company. School wasn't all about dusty books and libraries. She had plenty of opportunities to play sports or use her free time as she wished. His imagination was stirred. Faraway places. Foreign lands. Places where there were other children, some as friendly, beautiful, and diverse as his wonderful new friend, Allegra. At home, he looked for a landscape picture of the Lake District, so different from home. Different quality of light, different vegetation, and a distinct sensation of mist that contrasted starkly with the dry weather and droughts to which he was accustomed. The next day, Sandy spent the morning at home. He decided to look for pictures of the Lake District, and with the help of some painting tutorials, he was attempting a watercolour rendering of a landscape. He made sure it included a building that could be a boarding school. It was his way of wishing and fantasizing. insert picture _ When Allegra dropped by in the afternoon, she saw the picture Sandy had painted and was both amazed and flattered. It was just as impressive as the artwork created by art students at her school. She found it impossible to believe her friend was self-taught! It depicted a countryside landscape with an overcast sky blurring the confines of hills in the distance. A farmhouse was enclosed within a stone fence, and in the distance was a white building with a steep roof, reminiscent of the lodging houses at her school. "You know," she said, "I think you should show my dad this picture. He is on the school board, and I think he may persuade the school to display it, maybe in the headmaster's office." "Sure! I was painting it for you anyway! We can go out fishing and take it to the yacht so your dad can see it!" Allegra's dad was in his mid-forties, with welcoming, dark eyes and a warm smile. The previous day he'd been distracted during lunch, but now he was giving the children his full attention. He looked at his daughter with pride and at Sandy with keen interest. Not having a father himself, Sandy was flattered whenever any of his friends' dads showed any interest in him. It helped that Arthur was passionate about art, and both children hoped he would be able to secure Sandy a place on the trip to Rome that Allegra was taking as an elective activity during the holidays. Unbeknownst to them, Arthur pleaded for the chance to submit Sandy's painting to the yearly art competition that Allegra's school held. The first prize was a full-tuition scholarship to study art in the next academic year. If the painting won, the experience would be life-changing for Sandy. That evening, after dinner, Sandy and Dewy were cleaning up together. They'd had their meal on the veranda, which was small but offered a panoramic view. It was furnished with a white plastic round table and matching chairs, with a large parasol in the middle. It felt like sitting al fresco at a beachside café, with the warm breeze providing comfort. Cleaning up after dinner was a chore, but not an unpleasant one, as it gave them a chance to talk. "Dewy, the children I play with at the beach travel all over the place, and nothing bad has happened to them. Why can't I travel too? I would like to leave this shoebox of a village and see other places!" "Sandy, you know I can't take you! I have work to do, and you have your studies…" "That's it, Mother! I met this super cool family from England! They're going with their daughter and her schoolmates to an art exhibition in Rome, and they're happy to take me with them! It's only a week, and it's already paid for!" A look of panic flashed across Dewy's face. "How do we know we can trust them? You know there are lots of dangerous people abroad. They offer a favour now without mentioning what they want in return… and then you owe them…" "That's the point! You think everyone has bad intentions! I don't know why you think that, but it is not my experience! I think they're genuinely nice people!" "Well, it's my fault, Sandy. I've kept you in the safety of this village to protect you, and now you don't believe there's anything to fear in the world. Trust my experience, please, because you don't have much!" "So I'm not going?" "No." That very evening, Dewy's relaxing bedtime routine was interrupted by unexpected news. She opened the window, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore brought her tranquillity, encouraging her to breathe deeply. The salty aroma of the sea filled her nostrils, mingling with the scent of seaweed and brine. A gentle breeze came in, dissipating the stifling heat of the day. She couldn't help herself; she knew she wasn't supposed to look at her phone before bed, as any work-related messages would keep her awake. That night's message was sure to dispel any hope of sleep she may have had… but it was great news. She was buzzing with excitement. "Congratulations! You've been selected as an extra for the forthcoming filming dates from the 16th of August to the 16th of September. Please confirm your availability." It had been about a year since Dewy had sent photos and a resume to a company that looked for extras and non-professional actors to take part in films around the island. It wasn't an unusual location for filming, and such a long time had passed since her application that her hopes of being cast in a TV or cinema production were waning. She'd only sent in her application for fun, thinking the producers might like her because her looks were a bit unusual: tall, with dirty blonde hair at shoulder length, and green eyes. Her physique was certainly not athletic, but she was in good shape for her age. And the pay wasn't bad either. She made up her mind—she would give it a shot. For a month, she would have to relocate to the bustling city of Portomarino, where they were filming the scenes that required her presence. All of a sudden, Sandy's idea of keeping busy with art didn't seem so bad. They could both be away from home, doing different things. She needed to speak to this English family. Sandy had spoken about one week; she needed a month. Dewy arranged to meet Arthur and Lara and thanked them for taking an interest in her son. They were sitting on her veranda, looking out at the sea. Arthur explained that he was organizing a school trip to Rome to take the children to an exhibition of Mirò's works. It still needed some planning, as Allegra's school and her classmates needed to be contacted and brought together. However, Arthur was keen on the idea of letting Sandy spend a month or so with him on his yacht while Dewy was busy with her acting. Arthur went on to explain that Sandy had shown him some of his art and that he was impressed. "Whenever possible, talent and passion should be encouraged," he said. The very next week, to Sandy's amazement, his mother left for Portomarino. It was only about 50 kilometres away, but for him, it was the first time he'd been away from his mother. Being able to live with Allegra's family for one month was an unprecedented adventure! He was so excited that he had to continually remind himself to behave normally, as all he wanted to do was giggle and jump around. Sandy was flattered by the extra attention his art was affording him, so he decided to spend a couple of hours painting every morning, still following any online tutorials he could find. To Sandy's chagrin, another boy came to stay with Allegra's family. Rupert was the same age as Sandy, 10, and he already attended boarding school with his cousin, Allegra. They were both two years ahead of him, and their parents thought it would be good for the children to spend some carefree days together before the official start of the school year. Rupert was a budding artist himself and was attending the school on an art scholarship. The two boys didn't hit it off—Rupert resented having to share Allegra and her family with a stranger, and Sandy felt dwarfed in his artistic efforts by having to live with someone who was already ahead of him in his art education. Sandy couldn't believe it. The 2nd of September at last. They got up at 4 a.m. to catch the 6:30 plane from Portomarino to Rome. His excitement was slightly dampened by having to share a room with Rupert, but as they were not officially students in the art class, they had to make do. One hour by plane, one hour by train, and a short ride on a coach ensured that they were all safe and sound at their countryside lodging. The countryside lodging was at the centre of a working farm. The countryside was neither idyllic nor bucolic, but absolutely real and true to life. There were no manicured fields of grass and shapely bushes, just fences for the animals, mud, fruit trees, and vegetable patches. The scent of the place was quite distinctive and not altogether pleasant: smells of manure and butter croissants mingling by the horse stables. It was a popular place for many creative schools. An acting school had just left, and some of the buildings were still occupied by a music school. The exhibition hall was a large gazebo where art students set up their displays, carefully arranging their paintings and sculptures. In the countryside, children played outdoors and helped feed chickens and collect eggs. They were allowed to ride the ponies and were taught how to milk cows by patient farmers. With so much to do and see, boredom was never a concern. And if they did need a change of pace, Rome was just a short drive away with endless opportunities for adventure. "I never knew art could make me feel so liberated, like I'm finally breaking free from the predictability of village life," Sandy mused. "I don't think I will ever forget where I've come from, but I'm certainly glad my horizons have expanded."


I close my eyes and imagine his dark eyes, chestnut hair. I know every inch of him-- his looks, his interests, his flaws, even the middle name he’d hidden from everyone but I’d found so wonderfully gorgeous. (It was Nathaniel, by the way. Nothing about the name itself was interesting, but the way it locked together with his first name-- Ashton Nathaniel-- was so incredible.) I remember so well being a lovestruck teenager, staring at the back of the smart boy’s head in English, singing angsty pop songs and pretending he was listening, biking past his house on lonely Saturdays. I’d found out his middle name that way when his mother shouted it for all to hear. “Ashton Nathaniel! Come back here!” I’d treasured that moment and so many others. But after he started dating Aryana, I’d given up. My feelings had faded away.

I remind myself that my feelings have faded away. “So?” Carolyn’s voice, filtered into a crackly imitation by the internet,

prompts me out of my reverie. “Huh?” “So? Are you gonna ask Ashton out, or do I need to pick another dude?” I fiddle with my blanket. “I guess.” “You are the worst at Truth or Dare, Leah! At least pretend to sound excited about it,” Wifaq says. “I mean, he’s kinda hot. You can’t deny it.” “Wow, Wifaq. And I just want to point out that you were the ones who roped me into this thing anyway. And you were the ones who brought up my middle school crush. That’s ancient history!” “Sure, girl.” I’m about to say something else when Carolyn interrupts me. “Go get him! And for real though, bring your phone so we know you’re not sitting on your dang couch watching rom-coms.” How does she know my every move? I say, “Okay then.”

“I need to go,” Wifaq says. “My brother just woke up, and well--”

She hangs up quickly as someone faintly screeches her name. “You know,” I say before Carolyn can make fun of me again, “Where am I supposed to find Ashton? It’s not like he’s hanging around my house.” “Actually--” “What did you do?!” “Thank me later. Just go out to your front yard and leave the phone on the porch. I won’t say anything, promise.” I reluctantly get out of bed and step outside to the porch. It’s freezing out here-- too cold for Valentine’s Day.

“There’s no one here!” I say, gesturing around to the familiar front yard I grew up in. “I’m going back in. My parents are going to be up soon.”

“Just wait a few minutes.” I set the phone down on the porch ledge right as a black car pulls up. I go on high alert, pulling my sleeves tight.

Ashton steps out of the car, and I swear it’s like a movie. I’m in love again, and the world’s in slow motion as his strong, muscled arms slam the door shut-- “Hello?” “Hi!” I say feebly and rush down to the sidewalk. I nearly trip but manage to catch myself. “Hi, um, someone told me that I was supposed to meet a person here? I’m assuming that’s you?” Ashton has a cute concerned look on his face. I make a mental note to ask Carolyn how the heck she got him to come here.

“Oh. Yes, that’s me.” Go for it , I tell myself. “I was just wondering, I guess, since Valentine’s Day is coming up…”

My cheeks flush. He stares at me blankly. “Would you maybe like to, er, go out?” “Oh, um,” Ashton runs his fingers through his perfect hair. God, that hair. “I’m sorry, but who are you?” “Oh,” I say, surprised and a little hurt that he doesn’t remember me. I guess it makes sense though. We were never really friends, and he changed schools almost three years ago. “I’m Leah. Leah Wilson. We used to go to school together…” “Oh, Leah! Yeah, I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t remember me. “Yeah,” I say, deciding to play along. Maybe he will remember me. I know deep down he’s forgotten me, but I still want to hope. “So, how’s St. Mary’s?” “It’s good.” “Cool.” This is the most awkward conversation ever. My face is on fire. I just want to disappear into my cozy house and watch rom-coms. Dang it, Carolyn knows me too well. “So, um, Leigh--” “Leah.” “Right.” He smiles awkwardly. “Leah. Well, today, I have an um-- I should go.” “Of course.” I hesitate, then ask, “About, um going out?” “I’m so sorry, but I have a girlfriend.” “Of course,” I say again. “I am so sorry. I should have known. Aryana.” “Oh, we broke up a while ago.” Ashton forces his face into a casual expression. “Oh?” “Yes, I’m dating a girl named Jillian, and she’s waiting for me. Sorry. Bye, Laine.” “Bye.” I don’t bother to correct him. I hold my breath as he gets into his car and drives away. He doesn’t even look at me as he speeds off. My eyes are watery. Why am I crying? It’s just Ashton, the boy I loved for a full year. Just Ashton, with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect name. I brush the tears out of my eyes. I hate myself for crying like this. There’s no way Carolyn can see me crying. It’s too personal. I feel like my emotions have been stripped away and left for everyone to see. But I have to go hang up the call. I slowly walk up the porch stairs and pick up my phone. “O-M-G, I COULDN’T HEAR A THING!” Carolyn shrieks. “What HAPPENED?” “I’ll tell you later. It didn’t go well.” “Wait, Leah--” But I’ve already hit the button to hang up. I’m about to go inside, meet Dad and his Sunday morning pancakes while he reads the Bible, then curl up with a blanket and computer and watch To All The Boys for the third time. But I hear the thud of footsteps behind me and brace myself to turn around. Luckily, it’s just a boy walking his dog. Or maybe not so luckily, because I’ve just been crying and I really don’t want random boys to see me like this. “Hi,” the boy says, giving me a little wave. He’s kind of cute. Definitely not Ashton-level, but still, cute. Unfortunately, I notice that his dog is squatting down and pooping in our yard.

“Hi,” I say, waving feebly. “Um, your dog--” “Oh no,” he says with a sigh, looking down at the dog. He glances back up at me. “I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay. You know, dogs…” I’ve never had a dog. “Yeah,” he says, obviously relieved as he expertly scoops it up into a doggie bag. “Sorry again. I really didn’t mean to--” “It’s not your fault,” I say truthfully, easily. It’s nice to have a conversation with another human being that doesn’t involve truth or dare, awkwardness, or rejection. But honestly, I just need to be alone. I point my thumb at the house. “I need to go. Thanks for picking up.” “No problem.” And I finally head inside. ---- I sip my latte as Carolyn hammers me with questions. She convinced me to go to Scooters with her before school, and I would be regretting it if this latte wasn’t so dang good.

“I already told you everything that happened.” “Yes, but what do you think will happen now?” Carolyn demands, tilting her head down to give me The Carolyn Look. (Wifaq and I coined this term after we realized Carolyn gives us the same look whenever she wants us to spill the tea.) “Nothing,” I shrug, feeling a little pang. But I know it’s true. “Ashton obviously doesn’t like me. I’m over him. So what happens now is we move on.” “Good move, sis.” Carolyn gives me an approving nod. “Want me to put on my ‘breakup song’ playlist?” “No! We weren’t even together.” “Do I need an excuse to play Adele and Mabel?” “Not Adele, but why you’re in love with that British singer no one’s ever heard of, I’ll never understand.” “She’s good!” Carolyn protests, but my eyes have locked onto something else across the coffee shop. I gasp. “I’m telling you, she’s so underrated-- what are you gasping about?” “We need to go.”

“What? Why?” But it’s too late. He’s at our table. The boy whose dog pooped in my yard yesterday is at our table . “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I feel like I know you,” he says. “I’m Kyle? Did we meet?” “Nope. No. I don’t think I know you. And we need to go, right Carolyn?” I say, dragging her out of her seat. “I know!” Kyle says. He lowers his voice. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.” “Oh, I remember!” I act like I just realized who he was. “No problem. But we better head out. So sorry.” “Yeah, we have school soon,” Carolyn says casually, completely ignoring my frantic tone. “Where do you go to school?” “I’m homeschooled, with a few other neighborhood kids and parents,” Kyle says. “I actually have school soon too, but my mom sent me out to get a snack for my brother.” I smile and quickly tell him goodbye. Carolyn drags me outside and gives me The Carolyn Look. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?!” “I was going to,” I say lamely. “After Ashton left, he was walking his dog, and the dog pooped in my yard.” “So romantic.” Carolyn rolls her eyes. “But seriously, he is cute. You should ask him out. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day! Love is in the air.” “No way!” I say, even though I was thinking he was cute too. But I’m definitely not asking him out. “I don’t want to get into all that again. And we really should head off to school.” “Well, you’d be a good couple. Think about it.” “No.” ----- In Biology, Wifaq passes me a note. It reads Carolyn wanted me to tell u that she got Kyle’s ph #. Who’s Kyle??? I write back, How? That girl is insane. FYI, Kyle is a guy she’s trying to set me up with. What’s his #? Idk, she just wanted me to tell u. Do u like him? Kinda, but I don’t want to date rn. I’ll ask Carolyn about it later. Wifaq nods at me and shoves the note in her backpack. I’m a little angry at Carolyn, but secretly… I’m glad too.

----

I fluff up my pillow and start scrolling through Instagram. I see Ashton, smiling, his arm draped across a pretty redhead. I guess that's Jillian. I'm a little jealous, despite what I told Carolyn earlier. A notification for a "new contact" pops up. I glance longingly at Ashton's feed, then I open the notification. I spot Kyle’s name and am tempted, just for a moment, to text him. Instead, I go back to Instagram and unfollow Ashton. It’s a purposeful moment. I’m really letting him go. Then, I open the "break-up" playlist Carolyn sent me. The music echoes through my room, fighting back the loneliness that hangs in the air. I’m lonely. It’s a hard truth, one that can’t be filled by any music. I hit stop on the music and open up the contacts page again.

Right now, I ache to contact someone, anyone. I start to text Kyle, but at the last second, I hit the call button. The phone rings sharply against my ear, again and again, and I wonder if he’s going to pick up. He does. “Hello?” “Hi,” I say. “I don’t think I actually introduced myself. I’m Leah. The girl who you saw the other morning?”

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. But it’s the kind of nice surprised that you get when you weren’t expecting to talk to someone, but you’re glad you ended up where you are. “Hi, Leah.” We talk and talk, and there’s no awkwardness here. It’s nothing like it was with Ashton, and I forget about him in minutes. It’s easy, and once I’ve hung up, I decide that maybe, just maybe, I’ll ask Kyle out. Before I can dwell on it too much, the sirens ring, and my heart rate quickens. But I know what to do, just like any other Nebraskan. I grab my phone and a robe and head to the stairs. “Watch or warning?” I ask Mom as we rush to the basement. “Don’t know. Dan?” “Coming!” Dad calls. We enter the basement and sit on the couch. Fortunately, the lights are still on. Mom turns on the weather. A few minutes into the forecast-- it’s only a watch, they inform us-- my phone buzzes. I check-- it’s Kyle. You ok? I text back, Yeah, you? He sends me a thumbs-up, and I pause before typing. Do you want to go out sometime? I see the little bubbles. He’s answering. They stop. Sorry, I know this isn’t very romantic, I say. No! Of course, I’ll go out with you. I smile, holding my phone to my chest. We’re stuck in the basement at night, in the middle of a tornado watch, but I couldn’t be happier. My phone rings and I pick up, knowing without really knowing that it’s Kyle. “I thought you’d never ask.”


The water crashes in this dark; a washing roar, wet and briny, eclipsed only by the alarming sense of pressure that arrives with each new wave, searing our ears for a moment and leaving the blackness dripping ice in a muffled crescendo of absolute panic. Seaweed swaddles my legs like wet roiling toilet paper as I scream, “keep looking!”

“I can’t see anything,” Steph screams back at me, over the muting of a new wave, the terror in her voice thunking in time with the heavy driftwood logs the ocean is smashing into the entrance of the cave. Just keep it together, I tell myself, fighting the urge to yell, to rage, to fight the sea that’s already at my waist. You panic, you die, don’t die! My hands race against the wet course rock, the salt stings where the stone has cut and scrapped and peeled my skin, and in spite of that I slap the dark wall and push my fingers into its gritty crevices. I can imagine what my hands would look like, in the light, surely worse than reality, but nowhere near as compelling as what will happen when the tide fully comes in, and we’re still stuck here. Don’t be stuck here.

There’s nothing I can say to reassure her, there’s no way to know how far the cave goes, if it goes up or down, if we drown here or deeper in, our bodies lost and pickled in the dark, in this grave, was it always a grave, did we just walk into our own grave? Stop! My feet slip, the force of the swirling water threatens to drag me over, I can feel impossibly real boulders against my shin, and I know if I fall my bones will snap around them, so I grab desperately, at the dark, at the wall I don’t want to be there but suddenly hope is. The impact is like light, clear, stinging, painful light. But it’s enough to steady me, even though the sensation in my hand tells me at least one finger is broken, that’s still better than a leg.

“There’s something here,” Steph screams from the fwumping swishing darkness. I try to shout back but a surge of water splashes into the cave wall beside me, erupting and drenching the rest of me. My mouth fills with grit and salt and I spit as fast as I can, picturing the ragged dead things that must bloat and disintegrate in here.

I cough, and the saltwater burns my sinuses, “what is it?”

“There’s an opening, I think,” she screams as a new swell sloshes in and throws me back against the jagged wall. More blood for the sea.

“Where are you,” I shout.

“How the fuck should I know,” the darkness shouts back. It’s enough to get a general direct, and as the undertow rips at my legs and I try to feel out a safe route towards her I wonder at the lack of urgency I feel; am I trying not to get my hopes up, or do I believe I’m already damned? What a worthless question, maybe it’s just shock.

“Where,” I yell again, half the word muffled as a heavy surge sings our ears into a burning temporary deafness. In that dark and heavy silence, I almost laugh at the coldness of the water, at the ache of its promise, always there, always ready; and us, we come to this thing as a novelty, to splash and to play, as though it is not a wild and fickle god.

“Here,” she yells, closer now, on my left.

I reach out and there she is, her shirt wet and rough, the skin beneath is cool in that way only water brings out. “What is it,” I shout again.

“I think it goes through,” she yells.

I stop myself from asking where, “can you fit?”

“I think so, but there’s a log, help me get it out!”

I reach past her, fingers jamming into slick rock then dancing along the surface towards her breathing. The water’s nearly at my chest, which means it’s almost at her throat, and still, she keeps focused. Then the wall is gone, and I nearly fall into the space it should have occupied, and there is the log. Nearly a tree. Heavy with water and swaying with horrible weight. It’s lodged in an opening. My hands feel in darting jabs, praying the water doesn’t crush my last good hand between rock and twisted tree trunk, and then I feel a bend. It’s hooked, not stuck.

“Push it towards me,” I yell into the dark, as the sloshing beside me gets frantic, becomes something more like swimming.

“We need to pull it out!”

“It’s caught on a bend, that’s all, you push, I’ll pull!”

 I grab the log under the water and pull. It moves in my arms in ways that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the water. Its weight is terrifying. Then I hear a splash and the log starts to lever my way, and I can feel from where it is that Steph is underwater, wedged between the log and the boulders down there, shoving hard. I pull harder, it slips a little then a rolling current sweeps it up and she pushes and I pull and I wonder if she’s going to drown there, if the last living thing she ever does is help me push a log in the dark, trusting that I’m right, that I know, that I can save us; not knowing that I’m guessing at best. Then, as the water sloshes back, leaving rivulets draining from my hair, the liquid tickling the contours of my face, the log lists differently. Dangerous, heavy, swinging unstoppably in the slosh, and free.

“Go,” I yell, hearing her break the water with a gasp. And she’s splashing away and I’m right after her, swimming now, washed into the rocky sides of the little passage, aware, as I pause, that my feet don’t touch the floor, pretending not to know that. The tunnel goes farther than I could have hoped, but the roof of rock stays where it is, the water slowly bringing it closer until, with each new heavy pressure wave, my head cracks and snarls against the ceiling, and still I swim, following Steph’s splashes.

I crash into her, a slightly warmer mass tangled in the sickly-sweet rot of seaweed. I’m forced to breathe with my nose grating against the stone, the water sloshing into my nostrils, its chunky contents lapping the side of my face, caressing my throat and jaw and ears like a hungry lover. I hear a spitting spray, and she’s shouting, and I can feel the sound of her sweeping the ceiling and filling the little air that’s left with the one word I’m most afraid of, “Down,” she screams. And I want to vomit, I want to bite the ceiling, I want the numb pain in my hand to take over and fill me up and take this moment away.

The water is reaching for my nose and the world is laughing at me and I feel Eternity swimming in the cave and what choice do I have, what option but to dive and hope and pray that there will be air somewhere down and beyond. The water sweeps across my forehead and the air is gone and I’m feeling though pain and dark and debris and down, down, down, and it’s too far down, it’s only down, there’s no air here! But I push and drag and scrabble to reach Steph because I don’t want my corpse to be alone in here.

There’s a bend in the wall, and I drag myself along it, the water moves and mashes my ribs into the stone and air escapes in bubbles and I don’t have much more and then my lungs are burning and my head is pulsing with negative glitter and a voice in my head is shouting at me to breath and I scream ‘no’ at it in outrage and my air bubbles away, crawling along my face like living things, and the voice is right. I have to breathe. Somewhere, in the weightless dark, as I start to inhale the ocean and fire mixes with an electric buzz throughout my body, a hand grabs my arm and pulls. Hard.

My skin tells me there is air, the tension moving from oily to open like I’m being peeled back into the world. The water mixes with stony air inside my lungs and I’m gasping and coughing and twisting and bending and wondering if I’m going to drown in the dark here, in a miracle, in the air beyond the sea. I heave and gasp at the burn until my lungs crush out a rattling tearing cough that bites and howls deep inside me.

“It’s filling up,” Steph says, her touch is a shock, nubs of life in a lifeless place, ghosts in the dark. I flinch, and I’m ashamed. I draw in ragged breaths and turn to the touch.

“Farther,” I rasp.

“Let’s find out,” she says, grabbing my hand, my fingers explode with color in the dark, and I howl at it, that sweet, horrible pain. I scream, my voice tastes like the smell of beached crabs and the sound of seabirds, and I wonder if maybe I already died, and this is just a fever dream burning bright in some fatty corner of my brain. But she lets go quickly and the pain remains, and the scream dies out and I am alive as she touches my chest and I grab her hand with my one good one and she pulls me deeper into the earth while the water churns and rises at our feet, shallow and pushing, shoving us deeper in.

“Careful, the stones roll here,” Steph says from ahead, no longer shouting, the rush of water softened to a bubbling fwoosh behind us. We walk into nothingness, every step an act of desperate faith that ground will be there. Gradually, we slosh through it, feeling the walls for context, following a soft draft of earthy smelling air.

“The waters lower here,” Steph says from ahead, and I can hear hope in her voice. She’s right, of course, what had run as foaming sandpaper along our calves was now comfortably lapping at our ankles. It took a while to pick out the sounds tangled down here for what they were, the rawling bubbling swirl of draining water, siphoning off through lesser tunnels and sloshing vaguely underneath us and to either side, teasing in muffled slurps and tinkling dribbles in the spaces beyond our confines. But she hasn’t noticed yet that the floor slants down.

“Maybe we should wait here,” hide the fear from your voice, I tell myself, “Until the tide goes out.” The slosh-slosh of our steps rolls around the darkness, the sound itself sloshing along the rock.

“What if it fills up,” she asks, slowing.

“It won’t,” I say. It could, I think.

“We had to swim down a lot, can you climb with that hand,” she asks, and I can see her in my mind, a face that says it knows I can’t.

“You could get out, go get help,” I will hide the thoughts of being alone down here from my tongue.

“Even if I did, probably wouldn’t get back before the next tide,” she says, and my mind fills with jagged rock and salt and cold limitless dark awash in things that crawl and scuttle and wiggle and chirp.

Chirp? No, more of a click. “Do you hear that?”

“What,” she asks, alarm making her voice a cannon in this hollow place.

I shush her, pointlessly holding up my bad hand as a sign. There it is again, something familiar, or, familiar enough. Something not of the sea but the sky, and the above world in general. She inhales sharply and I know she’s heard it too.

“What is that,” she asks.

In the stillness I feel the breeze, a slight flutter of colder air, chilling one side of me more than the other in my sodden dripping state. Am I shivering? It feels like I’m shivering. I hope I’m just shivering. I look at the dark where my body should be, and it stretches and folds and warps into more dark in a way that makes me wonder if I was ever really real or had just imagined myself. Focus, I shout at the dark in my eyes. “I think it’s bats.”

“Bats don’t swim,” I hear her say, her hand cold and jittering in mine, “they had to get in some other way.”

“Doesn’t mean we can get out,” temper her hope, keep her thinking, keep her cautious, she’s better at this than me and I need that.

“Maybe not, but maybe it does. Or maybe we can shout, or see, or something,” she says, seeing options, yearning for sunlight. “We should check it out, just in case. We can always come back here if we need to.”

As though we know where ‘here’ is, as though the world is not riddled with holes all tangled like yarn and filled with darkness so complete it all but swirls about us. And yet, she’s not wrong. “Lead the way,” I say, and squeeze her hand.

The rocky slosh of sand and kelp and other things beneath our feet recedes until it’s only a slopping squish we stick and slide on and then it is something else, firmer, less gritty. The smell of ocean follows in our wake, the salt in the air stinging at our useless eyes, and more and more we come to pockets of cleaner air, stale but absent of fish and sand.

Still, my feet tell me we’re going down, but the bats are louder now, not one but many, their clicks and squeaks sounding too loud in the growing silence. By comparison, perhaps. The silence itself is oppressive, somehow worse than the roaring slosh of the sea that drowns, its weighed by the earth above us into a petty brooding thing, it resents us and the noise we bring. It resents nothing, it’s only darkness.

“It’s getting louder,” Steph says, and she’s right. The calls and clicks bounce along here, originals followed by echoes, and my brain realizes it’s not many but a few. And they are so loud, and we are so deep, and we’re going deeper, away from the sky, away from the sun.

In the dryer quiet of our march my hand throbs with fiery anger, the skin shredded, at least two broken fingers booming with nerve-bound agony. I can feel the sand, and my clothes, catch and sweep flaps of skin all over my body, the knowledge of those wounds a promise of the pain that will come when I stop moving.

There’s a new smell, now. Something animal, distinctly mammal in the way farmers or pet owners can recognize with a whiff. The clicking and tweeting is louder, so loud. How can a bat make so much sound? Its tiny body, fluff wrapped around a ping pong ball, seeing in sound, and fluttering with ease through this jagged crypt. So small. So loud. Suddenly, the sound and the pressure of the place changes and I know the walls are gone and space drifts beyond us, our crunching echoes telling my mind of vastness. The bats go silent, and that silence is crushing.

“They must get in somehow,” Steph whispers, and the tension in her arm and the little pulls and twists there let me know she’s turning her head, open eyes straining to make something of nothing. Something tumbles with a clacking rustle, and I tell myself it’s just the bats and feel the cave air with all my body because somewhere, in some tangled backwater part of my mind, I know I’m being watched. My gut is screaming ‘run’, and my brain is shouting ‘how’ and I sit between them and think of the hike I took once as a kid where I came across a bear, and how completely I understood at that moment that I was nothing, little more than gibbering meat, powerless and stupid and exposed before a truth I prayed wasn’t hungry. Which is a strange way to feel, deep in the earth. Gas, maybe, carbon dioxide poisoning.

“There’s a breeze here,” Steph says, and I think she means the cave but she’s pulling to one side, stretching at something, and I can feel it too. A current, gusting from a hole the size of a basketball in the wall, and nothing more.

“Circle the perimeter,” she says, and drags me along as she traces the circumference of our space with bleeding fingertips, the sound of them, slipping and scraping, mutters away, confusing the flapping scratching skittering bats above. More holes with more forest-fresh air, flowing in, absent of light or sound, only the brutal smell of pine from somewhere far above. The space is big, and the bats stir as we stumble through it, kicking stalactites and boulders, cracking our heads into outcroppings with our eyes wide open. Theres a gap, in the wall, my broken fingers hang at my side, curled against my waist to protect them from the cold hard stone, but I can feel the space in the sound of the silence there, somehow deeper, pulling my mind into its mute siren call, all promises of sunlight and open space.

“We’ll go back,” she says, “we’ll try your plan.”

I nod at the dark and she seems to feel it, pulling me back into the narrow tunnel and towards a floating death. And I think I’m more hurt than I thought, as we slip and crunch and stumble our way through the endless night, because I swear it still feels like the floor slants down.


“I lerve you! I do!” “Say what?” Where can you be and still know that someone cares? Time stretches out, and everything is a joke. You think you know what everyone knows until you don’t. And it isn’t so hard. To know what I know… “Do you want that cigarette or not?” It’s all lerve, don’t you know? Sure, I’ll take that cigarette. And everything else I can. Because it doesn’t matter whether I smoke or not, I’ll smoke if you want me to. “Do you need a light?” I’m always in the light. It shines all over me. I hardly know anything different. People say different. But they don’t talk to me. They’re talking to themselves. “Pretty cold tonight, isn’t it?” It was cold when I was born. It's been cold all my life. But I’m not complaining. Used to it. A useful idiot, that’s what someone called me after he took everything that I had. Everything that mattered. My mom’s picture, my dad’s picture. My money, too. “We'll see ya!” And you wouldn’t want to be ya! If you only knew. # “911 Emergency! What is your emergency?” “There’s this guy. Slumped over on the sidewalk. It’s too cold for people to be sleeping outside. Can someone get over to….” “You’re breaking up. Where are you? This is 911 Emergency. Say again?” “…battery…” “He hung up!” the operator said to her supervisor. “Try calling him back.” “Already on it…It went to voicemail.” “Alright, CAD direct to police and follow up with a phone call. “Will do.” # It’s way too late, nearly one in the morning. I’m such a fool. I have to work tomorrow. So I exited the bar where I was at. And around the corner from the bar, I see him—the same guy from before. I tried to call 911, but my phone was dead. Now, what do I do? “C’mon man, get up!” My hands are freezing. And I’m not wearing a winter jacket. There’s no one around. Anyone out there would be rushing to their cars, which I don’t have. A car, that is. It's back home in the underground parking lot. “C’mon! Get up! You can’t stay here! It’s freezing!” Where are the police when you need them? Are there no doughnut shops handy? I go to the corner and just catch sight of another man coming out of the bar. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I shout. There couldn’t be more than twenty feet between us.  He shakes his head and rushes off. Not wearing a winter jacket either. Too bad he wasn’t coming out of a church! Maybe someone like that would give me a hand! What if I help this guy, and he dies on me? Then, I’ll be sued or be charged with a crime. I think to myself. Go back to the bar, idiot. Call from there. The door to the bar is locked. Bang on the door. I see the bartender behind the bar through the door window, shaking his head. I bang some more. He comes to the door. “We’re closed!” he shouts through the door. “There’s this guy, he needs help!” The bartender frowned and then opened the door. I can smell beer on him, and the bar is so warm. I want to go in to warm up myself! “This guy is around the corner! He’ll freeze to death!” I practically shout as the bartender steps out onto the sidewalk and looks around. “What guy? Just get home! Walk it off, will ya!” He slams the door. # This guy was yelling at me. But I play dead . Been practicing that a lot. Some day, I will die. But that’s cool. It sure is cold, though. Now, here he comes again. Why don’t he leave? I’m fine. “Get up! We gotta go!” he says. I’m cool with it. I get up and dance around a bit. He’s all surprised. Takes me by the arm. We’re walking down a street I never been before. Lived here all my life, never saw this place. Some swanky apartment he has! Like there should be a doorman or something. Up the elevator, 23 rd floor. My my, so high this boy. “I‘ll charge my phone. Then I’ll call 911 for you,” he says as we get into his apartment. I sure hope this dude isn’t some kind of weirdo. Try something on me—something he’ll regret. I’m ready. # At least he’s comfortable, sitting in my favorite chair—stupid charger. I should have gotten a high-powered one; at least 30 watts would be nice. So cool to have one that you just lay your phone down on. But it’s only 15 watts. How long do I wait before I call? Ten percent battery on the phone. Twenty? I sure don’t want to drop a call again. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. At least he’s not throwing up or anything. Is he on drugs? I sure hope he’s no trouble. It's best to act casual and be cool, and he’ll be out of here in half an hour tops. Damn, it will be two in the morning before I get any shut-eye! Up at eight tomorrow! “Can I get you anything? Juice, water?” “Do you have Perrier?” he asks, laughing a little. “Actually, yes, I do! Blackberry or straight up?” I smile and bring him a can. He frowned, like I had insulted him. “What is blackberry, cracker? Some phone? Nothing fruity comes my way! Uh oh, Here we go . I put the Blackberry Perrier can on an end table and went and got him what he wanted. There’s a knife, where did I put it? There is a butcher knife somewhere. There it is. In the drawer by the sink. On the way back, I check my phone on the dresser in the bedroom—five percent. Call now. Call now! But I go back and sit on the sofa across from him. # This dude is too much. I sit here, and he thinks he’s in complete control. Sucker! Must have some fancy job to pay for all this. Even has expensive water in cans! I should just go nuts on him. It’s what he expects! What’s that? A cat? Coming over to see me? “Oh, that’s Fluffy,” he says, all nervous-like. “Harmless, stays up at night, just like us! He's just curious.” “I used to have a cat. Called him Mutt. Alley cat. Stayed out all night and brought mice home to eat.” “Isn’t Mutt a name you would give to a dog?” “Short for Mittens. You know, white paws…” I look around and take a swig from that can. Damn, I’m thirsty! “When was the last time you ate something?” he says. “Yesterday.” “Really?” “Yes, really!” I say. “You think being poor is a walk in the park?” # My phone rang, which jolted me. I was getting him something to eat. I had practically nothing in my fridge: sour milk, leftover mac and cheese. I throw a small frozen pizza in the microwave. Then it's off to answer the phone. The first thing I noticed was that my cell was at thirty percent. Where has the time gone? “This is a call back from 911 Emergency. Did someone call on or about 1:00 AM from this line this morning? “Yes.” “Are you that caller?” “Yes.” “What is the nature of your emergency?” “Homeless man, freezing outside. I called to get some help, but my phone died.” I gave the operator all my particulars, name, and address. A special crew that picks up homeless people at night in the winter will come by soon. I hang up. “Here you go,” I say as I give him the pizza on a plate with a fork and knife and another Perrier. “Thanks,” he says as he tears into his food. # They’re coming to get me. Now I’ll have to live by rules and shit until I can get out. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks. But I don’t want to be a pig, so I say no. I look around, hand the empty plate back, and finish my second Perrier. There’s another call on his cell. He buzzes them in, and not long after, there is a knock on the door. “Special Services here. A pickup?” a woman in a blue uniform asks, stepping into the apartment. She's looking around, and another man in the same blue uniform pokes his head in and says something to her, something about it being a "long night," and he hoped they'd get a break soon. I shrug my shoulders and turn away from them. Which dude will they pick up? Me or him? "Is someone leaving with us?" She's getting impatient, like it's not obvious who is supposed to go! I am dressed in a hoodie and sweats while he looks on, Mr. Perrier, all important looking and playing a game, like usual. I turn away. Get it over with already! Then he's at my side, putting his hand out. “I never got to know your name. Sorry. My name is Tom Bradshaw. What’s yours?” “Eli Wilks.” “Pleased to meet you, Eli. I’m going to take a day off work. Do you mind if I visit you tomorrow at the shelter?” “Can you bring the cat?” I say. “Certainly! And you can tell me all about Mutt.”


“Hey Andrea, stop standing there and come help me with these curtains! Giacomo’s annoyed voice snaps me from my daze. Blinking quickly, I look around. I’m standing on a stage. On the stage, lit with bright lights from every direction. I’ve gotten distracted by the elaborate theatre once again. How long have I been standing here? I look down at all the empty seats, and remember. The concert! I’d run to the theatre as soon as I’d gotten out of the conservatory this evening, passing horse-drawn carriages and small shops, making my way through the busy lantern-lit streets of Genova. From where I’m standing, I can make out the chatter of the crowd that is quickly gathering outside the doors. The most anticipated concert of the year is going to start soon, and I still have to help Giacomo set up the wretched curtains. “It’s always the same story with you. Do you want him to play with this in the background?” He asks, lifting one end of the fabric and shaking it in the air. I shake my head quickly and run over. As I help Giacomo fix the curtains, I feel an icy breeze blow on the back of my neck from one of the open windows. I shiver, rubbing my hands together as we walk off the stage. The devil’s violinist . That’s what the newspapers called Niccolò Paganini. For the past month at the conservatory, the only topic of conversation had been tonight’s concert. Walking to one of my lessons one day, I’d heard one girl talking to another. “Paganini creates such astounding music on the violin. His style is so new, and I hear that he fills his music with such unusual techniques and tricks, such as imitating roosters, donkeys, and dogs!” “Really?” Her friend had asked incredulously. Other students had pitched in, and the hallway had become a mass of excited voices. “Yes, and once, he broke three of the four strings on the violin while he was playing, on purpose, to show that he could play the whole piece with only one string, like nobody else can.” “Did you know that Paganini sometimes plays so fast, like twelve notes per second, it’s impossible for the ear to keep up! There must be something supernatural about him. Just look at him and you’ll see.” Don Conrado, my violin teacher, always tells me to sing with my violin. “Devi cantare con il violino! ” He says that if I were to hear the great Niccolò Paganini play in the theatre, I would understand. I’ve read that Paganini was born almost 50 years ago, here in Genova on the 27 th of October 1782. Not only is he the greatest violinist, but he is also a guitarist and composer. He has only ever published a few of his works, because he wants to keep the rest secret, and there is a rumor that he got his magnificent talent from the devil. I wonder if that’s true. Backstage, I turn to Giacomo, who has just finished shouting at some poor crew member. “Do you know what they say about Paganini and the devil?” I ask Giacomo. He just rolls his eyes. “I heard that Paganini's mother made a pact with the devil, and traded Paganini’s soul for his incredible playing abilities, so that he could become the greatest violinist there ever was.” I continue, excited. “I heard that he even encourages these rumors about him. Sometimes, he lies in his bed for a full day before a concert, not moving, without food or water.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe all this superstitious nonsense. He’s talented, and that comes from a lifetime of practice, not the devil!” Giacomo says, exasperated. I scoff and walk away, making my way around to find a spot to watch the concert, which should start soon. The concert had sold out, and quickly all the seats are filled. The rumors about Paganini must have a positive effect on him, with all the people who swarm to his concerts. However, forty minutes later, the concert hasn’t yet started. The musicians in the orchestra are complaining, and the audience seems quite restless. “Where is Paganini?” A gruff voice booms from the crowd. “Please, everyone, be patient! He should be here anyti-” Giacomo’s voice trails away, as excited cries rose from outside. I peer out of an open window and see an elegant black carriage slowing to a stop outside the theatre, pulled by four black horses. A thin figure dressed in an all-black coat slowly steps out from inside. “Paganini’s here!” I whisper. The theatre is deathly quiet, and I can feel the anticipation growing. The curtains part, and out steps the devil’s violinist. He is wearing a black vest on top of a white puffy shirt, with black trousers. He has long black hair, and a pair of small, blue tinted glasses, which I remember being told had been prescribed to him to help with the glare of the lighting. He is so pale and thin he resembles a walking corpse. Pausing at one end of the stage, he looks at the audience, bowing exaggeratedly multiple times. The audience erupts into wild cheers. Satisfied, Paganini slowly moves into the center of the stage. He places his violin onto his shoulder, and then, dramatically raises his bow.

The crowd is in awe of his playing! It’s spellbinding! Paganini plays with such passion and tenderness that some of the spectators burst into tears. Some ladies in the first row of the audience reach for Paganini, others dramatically fan themselves. Now I understand what Don Conrado meant about singing with the violin. Paganini has perfect intonation, and his compositions are so melodic, it’s astonishing. As the concert progresses, the level of energy in the hall rises. The audience is mad with amazement. Some ladies dangle from their boxes, waving their handkerchiefs at Paganini. He alternates between very complicated virtuosic pieces where he shows off with ferocity, snapping many of his bow hairs, and more melodic pieces, which he plays in a beautiful singing style. As he plays, he twists his body across the stage. Now I understand why some people call him “rubber man”. Now, Paganini plays the Capriccio No. 24, and I start to see him as demonic. He certainly does look possessed as he plays, shaking his head so much that his hair flies across his face, while his fingers fly across his violin. Whenever Paganini plays a complex passage, screams erupt from the crowd. I see a man in the audience transcribing Paganini's music by ear onto manuscript paper, so he can have a copy of Paganini’s compositions. A lady faints from the intensity of his playing. I look at the orchestra and see the jealousy across many of the violinists’ faces. There are so many tricks Paganini adds to his playing, that make him and his playing seem magic, creating magnificent sounds that haven’t been heard before, which he seems to do with inhuman ease. As the concert comes to an end, I watch Paganini while he dramatically ends his piece and looks up, his eyes staring back at me. Frozen in my seat, I can’t move. He smiles sardonically for an instant, before looking away and taking a deep bow. “Well, that was dramatic.” I whisper to myself. I’ll never know for sure if the rumors are true, or if it’s all silly superstition. But one thing’s for sure. Niccolò Paganini is hauntingly talented. They call him the devil’s violinist, and for good reason.