“Today’s the day I change. No, really, this time I mean it.” It was the best lie I’d ever told myself while being ushered out of our gate with 7,000 other males. We bundled up our 1 pair of clothes on our shoulders along with our pride. Our shoes were stripped away as well as our Manma’s fingers, gripping our brown collards… Would it be considered real change if we knew it was coming from day 1? In Boarding we were told the definition was “the act or instance of making or becoming different.” I guess that’s what I wanted… I wanted something different. Flies littered the air as the sun slowly faded behind the cracked buildings. A frigid wind slapped at our dark brown jumpsuits as we relentlessly walked forward, not knowing why, and not able to stop. In the early days we were plucked out because of the inevitable tendons snapping due to no stretching, or frostbitten toes back in the Hinge Valley. Miserable was an understatement when describing the trial we had been trained for since babes. “Listen, if we all decided to run how could they stop us?” Krane smugly asked, leaning himself against a younger boy behind him. “Because it’s never worked before.” Nearus softly said, shaking his rusty locks angrily. “We don’t know that for sure…” Stated my best friend, and leader of our dingy group, Lorel. “Yeah, s’pose you’re right, Lorel. S’pose that’s why none of our dad’s ever came back, no, NONE of the men ever come back. It’s because we don’t know nothin, and those masked fleas don’t say nothin.” Hefting his tall frame up quickly, Nearus turned angrily making his dramatic exit while wading through and stepping squarely on a mass of now angry awake boys. “He’s right ya know. We know nothin.” I exclaimed softly, already seeing the looks on my friend’s faces in my mind. Krane would roll his eyes, Lorel would drop his head in thought, hoping that a new plan would be better than the one before. Drinch inevitably had checked out due to our lack of sign language, and Fallow.. Well Fallow was probably sleeping at this point. “I can’t take that answer forever, Marr.” Lorel’s grey eyes searched my face as I looked up to him. “We have to try something, do anything and… and…” “And not die before tomorrow.” finished Fallow, who was surprisingly not sleeping. DAY 225 Dawnbreak today. Eyes meeting eyes as we finally let our bare, completely calloused feet find a stopping point. Splitting us up into groups of 8, The Grimms, or as we fondly called them, Fleas would lead us into the scrap of a tent on the edge of New Camp which was made every 5 days, and fed us. By day 20 Lorel realized that the groups picked to eat first were always at the back of the caravan VS the front… “It’s a sick game. Those at the back are the weaker… They’re a few hours away from collapsing and being plucked. They’re fed so they can go longer and the Fleas can watch us suffer more.” It’s hard to forget seeing a forgotten language for the first time… Fingers gracefully carving out words from the air around him, Lorel vented to his doormate, Drinch. My wide eyes gave away my surprise as Drinch looked over Lorel’s slight shoulders and pointed a dark finger at me. Since that moment I’ve known that I was following closely behind the winner of this… If there was a winner at all. Whatever this was. Questions whispered during the freezing nights were more numerous than the stars at this point. Death was our greatest fear, and on hour 22 of day 4 before Dawnbreaks, it was secretly our deepest hope. DAY 258 “JUST SAY SOMETHING!!!” Feeling every vertebrae straighten click by click isn’t something I ever thought would remind me of my humanity. Remind me that I was still a person. Speaking was forbidden until the cloak of night when The Flea’s couldn’t decipher who had spoken, or really just didn’t care anymore, and on Daybreak days. Though our sense of hours had faded away, the count of days was the only thing that left us feeling normal… Today was not a day we could use our vocal chords. Flashing forward Krane tackled Nearus to the dusty ground, and in an instant a lone hushed whisper commanded “Close in.” This was new, exhilarating territory. By closing the gap around the deviant yeller, we ourselves were choosing to die, choosing to disobey… Choosing to change. As if a conductor had lifted his wand, the symphony of us boys flowed together and closer to Krane who was shaking Nearus out of his death wish. But with the symphony there’s always the clashing cymbals to awaken the audience from their daze… Black helmets moved forward quickly, and expertly though to everyone’s notice not as effortlessly as usual. “Don’t. Stop.” This time the whisper was directly beside me. Lorel… The winner. If one could watch prayers and pleads fly into the sky, there would’ve been millions as we directly went against everything taught to us in Boarding. Rule 12.5 When in Wander Way there is no need to speak nor will it be permitted. Rule 15.8 When The Grimms move in to give correction, move away immediately. Move away immediately…. Move… Immediately… Shick. Shick this. Manma wasn’t tolerant of much, but luckily for her, she had a son who never disobeyed. This was how I would excel, she always said as she fussed over a stew. Excelling is the last thing coming to mind… move your feet. Move your feet. “Move your feet, Marr.” The hushed command startled my dark eyes upward again, and the realization hit that I had stopped moving. This was the only rule you didn’t break, and without realizing it, I had disobeyed in the biggest way. Panic flashed through me and my legs moved before my brain had time to give the command. Holding back a strangled sob, waiting to be Plucked, my eyes scanned around me. Grimms were being knocked around by incoherent, terrified boys as they were still trying to locate the vocal criminal. Safe. I was okay. DAY 305 “Next time you decide to be an absolute shickhead I won’t be there, got it?” Krane fumed, long dark hair plastered against his sweat soaked forehead. “What were you trying to accomplish, Neaurus? ” Drinch’s fingers danced through the air jerkingly, expressing his annoyance. “I’m sorry, okay?! I was just…” “Just trying to get half of this group killed, that’s what. Like yelling would’ve done anything.” Krane interrupted, leaning forward on his knees, staring daggers into Nearus. “At least I finally said something. Anything. Our motto is about doing something, right? RIGHT?” Krane slapped his hand over Nearus’s mouth, causing a brief struggle that eventually faded into sobs. There was no fault in his speech… Was our group motto just a hopeful quote that would fade into nothing? Like us? “You’re right. If we’re to have a motto, we’re to live by it. Today was a small glance in the right direction… A brief glimmer of warmth in our winter. There has to be change.” Sorel’s eyes closed in thought, and no one dared even breathe for fear that our only chance would blink out with the shifting of a boot. But how does one person change an entire way of life? Sorel was smart, really he was the only option of hope at this point, but was there really an escape? Without even knowing why we were marching, or why we had been trained for this… Was there even an end? DAY 333 Lorel’s plan was basically foolproof, except that we were all too cowardly to go through with it, minus Searus who was always up for anything rebellious these days. His words were on repeat like the old tune on Manma’s receiver, “Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away…”

Changing the words from “fly” to “die” hadn’t helped my nerves, but it was better than the alternative. Giving stock to Lorel’s plan would secure our death, along with the 41 others who’d died in the last 28 days… yet there it was, replaying again. Stupid plan. Stupid song. Stupid Frank Sinater, or whatever Manma said his name was. Loathing had begun to stretch across my skinnier, paler demeanor… 333 days. 66 meals. Out of 7,000 males there were now 82, soon to be 81 by the looks of Juno stumbling in the back, face paler than my own. “There has to be change.” The sure, strong, annoyingly calm voice of Lorel rang through my dehydrated mind. I went into this believing exactly that… But change wouldn’t come from ME. Staying neutral while others did the change making was my game… so why wasn’t that working? The world around me swirled and slowed the moment I heard “It’s now or never.” resound from Lorel’s small mouth. “No, wait. We can’t - “ My excuse was cut off with another sound from the mass. A low whistle shot through the air, clear and loud against the silence. Out of the corner of my eye, Krane’s body stiffened to a halt, fear lacing his veins. Neaurus oddly was out of sight, but with our eyes always pointed forward, taking the chance of turning around was deadly. The tune continued without end it seemed, until a new harmony joined. A voice from the midst. …..my voice… “Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…” The world had swallowed time in this moment. Escaping on the cusp of hope was impossible, so becoming change was the only option here. A smarter move on our chessboard of death. Grimms filtered into the mass of boys, their direction pointed at us and their mission apparent, when to my right I got the answer to where Nearus had been before. Perched on his shoulders Drinch signed intently, his lip quivering in fear while his golden eyes shined brighter than ever. “Don’t. Stop. Morr. Keep. Going.” Small hand signals fed into my courage as I looped the song again, smiling up at Drinch as I waited for a Grimm to end me. From the ashes of silence birthed a new change… Humming that started softly crescendoed quickly into a chant of change. “FLY. FLY. LETS FLY AWAY. FLY. FLY. LETS FLY AWAY” And then it stopped. We all stopped. Stopping was forbidden, but here it was creeping down our legs, the solid release of tension and tendons. Eyes meeting eyes, blinking away tears, trying to grasp onto an understanding of where we were… why it was so bright when just a moment ago we were at NightFell. “It wasn’t real… It wasn’t real… Fake. We are fake.” Lorel repeated this line over and over again for weeks as we were all taken to our new placement, he rocked back and forth in the “lab” as the Grimms… er… Scientists had called our new habitat. “They are a new breed of human, able to withstand all weather, survive off little to no sustenance, and the more and more they breed the less and less emotion passes down. A wonderful unit for any up and coming H. O. M. E. system.” A Gri- Scientist boasted to a dark suited woman, looking down at us with a countenance similar to Krane’s. Irritating. After weeks I still wasn’t sure what it stood for, but what it was… well it wasn’t good. We were scum, essentially. To be used, abused and tossed whenever the Fancies deemed us unusable, I guess. Lorel, in his psychosis, hadn't been wrong. It was all fake. A test to see what new breeding update had proquired for them… what new model we were. Everyday, 4 or 5 of us were taken upon request of the Fancies upstairs. Krane had been one of the first to go, walking away smugly until he got to Nearus. Shoulders dropping, I caught their hands slip together one last time. Nearus left 3 days later along with Lorel and Fallow. The trio turned before reaching the darkened exit, catching mine and Finch’s eyes, only nodding. Alarms raped the air angrily, causing us all to bow our heads in solemn understanding that it was yet another day of choosing and leaving. Gloved hands firmly gripped my shoulders, marking me one of the chosen today. Turning my body towards my last friend, I stumbled, seeing the tears race down Drinch’s face. “Thank You. For. Changing. Me. Morr” was the deafening scream of silent words carved from air.


The stocky, fortyish Black man walked toward the elderly couple. Regina Beckwith smiled neighborly at him. Checking her watch, she let out a hearty laugh. “Ten-thirty on the nose,” she said. Barton, her husband of fifty years, grinned placidly. “Yep. Right on schedule. I swear I can set my watch by you.” Starling Coyle took great pleasure and pride in compartmentalizing every aspect of his life, beginning with his morning walk through the Dobbs Ferry Town Park. Starling had no family and he liked it that way. His mother had been a bitter controlling wretch since the day she’d lost her husband to a sudden heart attack. She’d crippled Starling’s confidence with her criticism, treating him like her personal neurotic slave. The women Starling made the mistake of loving also seemed to take great pleasure in turning his orderly life into chaos, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing his goal of having a family. Starling generally saw the same people every day as he walked along the park’s oval path,  starting with the fitness coach. The enterprising exercise guru would be instructing some grunting overweight soccer mom, bending her into a pretzel, or making her jog in place until her face turned crimson. The trainer always greeted Starling with a New England accented “Yo, bro!” that seemed more condescending than polite. His next encounter would be an energetic old man, who always said, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” even when it wasn’t. The spry septuagenarian stroller always gave Starling a thumbs up after his pronouncement. Starling would then encounter a gaggle of retired blue-collar workers hanging out near the benches. They talked about their battles as dock workers, their escapades as cross-country truckers, or the aches and pains they’d endured during sweaty summers as laborers for the town of Dobbs Ferry. Their ringleader always wore opaque sunglasses that make him look like a mob boss ordering a hit. Whenever he spotted Starling, he’d turn to one of his cohorts, saying, “Cheese Louise! Every day! That’s dedication!” He also never failed to call Starling “buddy,” as he waved at him, further adding to his boss-of-the-park persona. There was one particular person Starling looked forward to seeing every day. She was cute, sandy-haired, kinetic, and fit, and she never failed to greet Starling with a thick Brooklyn accent and a ready smile. But there was an ever-present threat that can keep their relationship from advancing beyond a few hurried hellos. The German Shepherd that pulled her along was protective of its owner and itching to prove it. Whenever Starling moved toward her, the crazed canine lunged at him, barking at Starling as if he was a raw steak. The personable pet owner always claimed the dog was friendly. “Apollo’s just spirited. Let him sniff you.” Starling politely declined, but one morning Apollo gave him no choice. Jumping up on his hind legs, Apollo dropped his front paws on Starling’s shoulders. The man versus beast stare-down lasted until Apollo was convinced that Starling was petrified of him. He dropped back to the ground, pointing his nose in the air victoriously. “I see you here a lot,” the woman said. “Are you preparing for a marathon?” “No, I’m just trying to stay in shape. It’s a part of my daily routine.” “Cool. I admire people who can make a plan and then stick to it. I’ve always been a little scattered.” Apollo yanked on his leash, trying to pull his owner away from Starling. “So, what’s next on your schedule?” she asked. “Lunch, then a few calls with clients. I’m an accountant. You?” “A photographer,” she said. “Mostly magazine work.” Apollo yanked more aggressively on his leash, pulling the woman away. “Nice meeting you!” “Starling! Starling Coyle!” “Leah Hunter. We’ll see you tomorrow!” Starling’s cautious and orderly nature also helped to protect his sensitive stomach. It was Thursday when he met Leah. That meant Starling was going to go to Mardino’s for a slice of pizza with bacon. Monday, grocery day, meant a sandwich from the store’s deli, Tuesday, a pastrami sandwich from the store near the park, and Wednesday, a gyro from the Captain’s Café. On Fridays, he sampled the shrimp with lobster sauce lunch special from the Flower Garden Restaurant, and on weekends he managed to survive on what he had stashed in the refrigerator. Starling was heinous in the kitchen. He’d only used the burners on top of the stove a half dozen times in the year since he’d moved to Dobbs Ferry, and fearing an explosion, had yet to ignite his gas oven. His dinners were pre-made and delivered religiously every Monday by UPS, leaving him free of the possibility of ruining his food. Besides, microwaving dinner allowed him to watch episodes of “The Virginian” every day at six o’clock. Starling checked his watch. 2:45 p.m. Time to go to the hospital. Dr. London Herbert and Nurse Grace Harum waited for Starling to walk down the hallway at three o’clock, just as he did every day. The pair were a medical version of yin and yang. The white-haired, seen-it-all veteran physician played the role of the mistrusting cynic, while the shapely, blonde newbie nurse radiated innocence, hope, and trust. “I’d love to know what makes him tick,” Dr. Herbert said, his thick eyebrows crinkling together. “I’ve been at this for thirty years, and I’ve never met anyone so obsessive. Something’s up with him.” “What do you mean? He seems like a nice, shy guy.” “He’s come here every day for a year without fail.” “She’s his wife.” “Her parents don’t even visit every day and they live closer than he does.” “Maybe seeing her every day helps him keep his heart and soul together.” “Seeing her the way she is day in, and day out would drive any normal man crazy, but not him,” Dr. Herbert replied. “His devotion to her doesn’t make sense. Her mother said they weren’t getting along before this happened, that her daughter was seeking a divorce.” Starling’s reluctant glance shifted between Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum. “No change,” Dr. Herbert reported. Starling nodded, walking to his wife’s room. “You know what’s really strange?” Dr. Herbert asked. “He’s never asked me if she’s going to recover.” “Maybe he doesn’t want to jinx it. Maybe he’s afraid that if he cares too much she’ll die.” “That’s better than not caring at all.” Starling sat in the chair next to his wife’s bed. The ventilator made a slight whooshing sound as it pushed air into her lungs. Starling stroked his wife’s amber hair. “You’re going to have a birthday in a few days. What are you going to be, thirty-six? You’re heading into old hag territory. I told you we should have had a baby, but you wouldn’t listen. No, you wanted to play tennis. Stupid game. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you flaunted your affair with your coach. I begged you to come home to me and you laughed at me. Well, who’s laughing now? You look like something out of an episode of Star Trek.” Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum watched as Starling squeezed his wife’s hand. “Such devotion,” Nurse Harum said. “You can see the hurt on his face.” Dr. Herbert studied Starling’s expression. “Looks like anger to me, maybe even indigestion.” “He refuses to give up. That’s love.” “Maybe so,” Dr. Herbert replied. “I wish I had his confidence. A woman like her shouldn’t have had such a severe stroke. He said she collapsed after having her evening tea. Being in top shape may have saved her life.” “It’s strange that he’s never mentioned she was a tennis pro,” Nurse Harum said. “If I were him, I’d brag about it. She was the twenty-third-ranked player in the world. They called her the ‘Austin Assassin.’ She was famous!” “Well, I doubt she’ll be playing tennis again unless there’s an iron lung league.” “You’re so jaded, doctor.” “You know what else is odd? How’s a guy like that wind up with a beauty like her?” “C’mon, doctor, you’re not talking race, are you?” “No, of course not. I mean, he’s a bit flabby, isn’t he? And kind of nerdy looking, and certainly not a stimulating conversationalist.” “I guess some girls find plain guys sexy.” Starling’s sneakers tapped out a rhythm against the pavement. He said hello to the Beckwiths. Regina pointed at her watch, grinning. “Ten-thirty. Right on time.” The trainer waved at him. “You, bro!” and the spry octogenarian passed by saying, “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” The group of retirees waved at him, their ringleader commenting, “Cheese Louise! Every day! That’s dedication!” Starling paused as he looked around the park. Apollo yanked Leah onto the path in front of him. “Good morning, Leah!” Apollo moved in front of Leah, growling. “Good morning! Are you on your way to lunch?” she asked. Yanking on Apollo’s chain, she scolded him. “Yes, soon. I was hoping we could have lunch together today.” “Sounds good. I don’t know if there are any dog-friendly restaurants in town though... I’ve got an idea. It’s a nice spring day, and there are a lot of benches here. Why don’t we grab something and eat here in the park?” Starling gave Apollo a side glance as he nibbled at his shrimp with lobster sauce. Apollo licked his lips. Starling wasn’t sure if he wanted to take a bite out of him or his lunch. Starling offered Apollo a shrimp. He eagerly attacked it. Apollo yelped, spitting it out. He snorted at Starling, baring his teeth. “Sorry, I forgot it was hot.” “Nice try at peacemaking,” Leah said. “Hey, I’m not throwing you off your schedule, am I?” “No, I’ve got time. I don’t have to be anywhere until three.” “Oh, meeting with a client?” “No, I’m visiting a friend in the hospital.” “I’m sorry. Is it serious?” “I’m afraid so. She’s in a coma.” “She?” “She’s part of my past. An old friend.” “But you still go to visit her. I think that’s so sweet,” Leah said. “Any other ladies in your life?” “Afraid not. My mother died a few years ago, and she was my last living relative. When Alona had her heart attack, I sold the house and moved here to be closer to her.” “You’re a really good friend. Alona, that’s an unusual name. There was a tennis player a few years ago named Alona. My friend follows tennis. She said there was a rumor about her having an affair with her trainer.” Starling rolled his eyes. “It was her coach.” “Sorry. She did you wrong and you still stand by her.” “We weren’t romantically involved. What about you? Have you lived in Dobbs Ferry very long?” “I grew up in Brooklyn, as you can tell by the sound of my sweet voice. There were a lot of apartment buildings, no trees, and some of the most pathetic parks I’ve ever seen. Mostly it was me and my yenta girlfriends hanging out, yearning to move to the open spaces. I’ve always loved this area because it’s near the Hudson River. So, I relocated when I turned eighteen and started out by taking pictures for real estate ads.” Starling looked at Apollo. The dog snorted at him derisively. “Looks like I’ve got a way to go before Apollo and I become friends. Speaking of which, any close friends in your life?” “I was engaged to a sax player until I caught him mauling one of the backup singers.” “No kids?” Leah pointed at Apollo. “He’s my baby.” “Well, I’m not burping him,” Starling replied. “I’m sensing you have a fear of dogs.” “Not all dogs, just German Shepherds. When I was a teenager there was a kid in the neighborhood, Tinky, who had a German Shepherd named Smokey. Smokey was the meanest, most vicious creature I ever saw, but I pitied him. Tinky was a sadistic, wanna-be thug. He kept Smokey chained up outside, even in the winter. He turned Smokey into a killer. He’d give everybody who passed by a thousand-yard stare…” Starling looked down at Apollo. “Kinda like that.” Leah handed Apollo a few pieces of her chicken, patting him affectionately on the head. “…One day I took a shortcut through Tinky’s yard. By the time I realized that Smokey was loose, he’d jumped me and was tearing at my clothes. Tinky had to chase him off with a bat. If I hadn’t been wearing a long sleeve shirt, I might be eating my shrimp with stumps.” Starling rolled up one of his sleeves, showing Leah the gnarled scars on his arm. Apollo huffed at the sight of the scars. “Sounds like he’s admiring Smokey’s work,” Starling said. “No, that’s not it, Starling. He’s upset because I’m paying more attention to you than him. He’s just going to have to get used to that.” Starling was watching the Virginian and Trampas gun down a band of desperados when his phone rang. Part of him was angry that someone was barging in on his routine. He wanted to finish his dinner and watch “The Virginian,” just like he did every day. He picked up the phone. Listening to Dr. Herbert, Starling realized his comfortable daily routine would never be the same. “The machines could only do so much,” Dr. Herbert said. “They could keep her medicated, help her breathe, but they couldn’t prevent her from having another heart attack.” Weeks after Alona died, Starling still found himself getting into his car at 2:45 p.m. every afternoon, ready to drive to the hospital. The mornings were still the same. He was at the park at 10:30 a.m. in time for the Beckwiths to marvel at his punctuality. Then it was a cry of “Yo, bro!” from the trainer, thumps up and “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” from the old man, and “Cheese Louise!” and shocked approval from the retirees who admired him for his dedication to exercising every day. When Starling told Leah that his friend had died, she held him close. That led to their first kiss. Apollo looked away, huffing. Eight months and many walks later, Starling and Leah were married. Starling and Leah began a ritual of taking their morning trek together with Apollo still pulling rebelliously at his leash. Starling’s point of view about the people he encountered every day changed…Hello, old couple – don’t be surprised if you don’t see me at ten-thirty anymore… Yo, bro!, stop checking out my wife… Yes, it’s a beautiful day, and that smirk and thumbs-up signal you just gave me has now taken on new and slimy meaning… And cheese Louise, blue-collar boys, now you’ve really got something to talk about… Apollo never got used to sharing space with Starling, barking, and growling whenever he put his arm around Leah or kissed her. Starling finally suggested to Leah that Apollo might enjoy spending more time alone in the backyard. “He’s family,” Leah pleaded. “Your family. He acts like he doesn’t want to be part of our family.” “You’ll get used to each other.” “We’ve been together two years, Leah. If anything, he’s become more onery. It’s nice outside. Let Apollo terrorize the neighbor’s cat or chase after the robins. Besides, it’s impossible to be intimate when he’s sitting at the end of the bed staring at us.” Apollo looked bewildered and betrayed when Leah yanked him out into the backyard. He sat on his haunches in the grass, his ears pointed upward, as if listening to the birds and bugs make fun of him. When Starling took a bowl of water out to him, he lapped at it a few times, then knocked over in disgust. After a while, Apollo plopped to the ground. His expression turned sullen as he stared at the house. Apollo was in the same position when Leah called for him and he didn’t move. The vet said he’d had a heart attack. “Let’s get another dog,” Leah said. Starling hugged his wife, hoping a kiss on the cheek would assuage her. “I was hoping the next addition to the family would cry rather than bark.” “A ba…ba…baby?” “Why not? I think you’ll make a great mom. You’re funny, upbeat, and inquisitive. Kids love that.” “Wow, let me think about that. The wear and tear on my body alone…And I’d be out of work for months…” “And since we’re starting a family, I think we ought to make sure if something happens to one of us that the other one can take care of themself and the kids,” Starling said. Leah looked at him wide-eyed. “Not kid, but kids? More life insurance? Where is this coming from?” “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m moving along too fast. I was thinking about my friend Alona last night. When she died there was nothing for her mother, and she needed long-term health care.” Taking a deep, nervous breath, Leah said, “Wow, babies, life insurance. All I really want is another dog,” “Let me make you some tea and we’ll talk this out.” Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum looked up at the clock. “Any second now,” Dr. Herbert muttered. Starling walked down the hallway toward them. “How is she?” he asked. “No change,” Dr. Herbert responded as Starling walked past him. Dr. Herbert and Nurse Harum watched Starling reach for Leah’s hand. “Such a caring, loving person,” Nurse Harum said. “That poor man. Two wives, two heart attacks.”


December 28, 1966 Ava didn’t ordinarily cry, but then this was no ordinary day. She had only cried three times in her life. Three times before today, that is. Three times that she could remember. If she couldn't remember, it didn’t count. * 1953 She was six the first time and was surprised the details were so clear twelve years later. The small curly-haired little girl sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of soggy Wheaties in front of her. Her siblings, having finished their breakfast a millennia ago, had gone off to play. Only Ava remained alone, hopelessness washing over her. The clatter of dishes being washed in the background echoed inside her mind while she contemplated how unfair life was. Mother’s words broke her thoughts, sending icy tremors down her back. “What’s gotten into you, Ava? I remember you liking Wheaties last week. I can’t afford to buy something extra because you’ve decided you don't like them." Ava stared at the wall with unseeing eyes while Mother stomped out of the room. Anyone who spoke while Mother was angry, risked getting slapped for talking back. But the situation was out of her control. Every time those brown, limp morsels touched her mouth, she gagged. Looking at those soggy tan shapes swimming in her bowl of milk reminded her of the brown spots on the backs of his hands. Those clammy, limp paws that had inched under her skirt after asking: “You wanna play a game?” For seven days, Ava kept those memories tucked away in the hidden spaces of her mind. For seven days, she didn’t think about the incident until this morning when she’d come down to breakfast and realized what awaited her. Thoughts went rampant. Maybe, if I sit here long enough, I’ll become deathly ill, and Mother will have to take me to Dr. Lagazino. Then he will see how mistreated I am and take me home to live with him, and I’ll never have to eat Wheaties again.

The sound of Mother’s high-heeled shoes click-clacking on the linoleum grew louder and louder until the child stiffened when Mother's body hovered above hers, generating enough body heat to send shivers up Ava's spine. The girl clutched the seat of the chair, her knuckles turned white, and she almost bit her tongue while clenching her teeth. When the expected blow never came, the girl relaxed. “I’m going to let you go because Aunt Angie’s coming for lunch. I don’t want her to know what an impudent child you are.” Mother squeezed Ava's chin, lifting it until the child was forced to stare into fire-breathing eyes.   “You are never to tell anyone what happens in this house, do you understand me?” Mother said through gritted teeth. Ava nodded. “Answer me, don’t nod,” Mother growled. Ava mumbled, “Yes.” Running in the house was forbidden. So, Ava walked as fast as her little feet could move toward the back door. She still couldn’t believe Mother let her go. She spied freedom beckoning her through the half-open door. Five more steps, and she’d be free—four, three, two, …. Ava heard rather than felt the wallop that knocked her head against the door frame. Tiny pinpoints of light floated beneath her eyelids as she clung to the doorknob. Her face became heated, her knuckles white. Despite the pain, the girl kept her grip on the handle, refusing to fall. An all too familiar voice reverberated alongside the pounding inside her skull.

“Remove that smile from your face and get out of my sight; this is no laughing matter.”

Ava didn’t have to be told again. Once outside, she ran up the small hill in her backyard to her hiding spot under the weeping willow tree. Now that she was safe under the branches that brushed the grass beneath her, she couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks. Ava sunk to the ground and leaned her aching head against its cool, rough bark. * December 28, 1966 Ava pushed those memories away as she sat on the cold, steel office chair, folding and unfolding the slip of paper requesting her presence. Dark sunglasses covered swollen red eyes while she waited to find out what the school administrator thought about her

situation . Ever since hearing the news this morning, she’d been crying. As hard as she tried to keep her thoughts from drifting back in time, she couldn’t keep from remembering the second time she'd cried. * 1957 She was nine when Mother told them the latest development. “Your father and I are getting divorced.” she’d said in a flat, rehearsed voice. Ava’s world stopped spinning. A bowling ball replaced her stomach. Where her heart used to be, there was …nothing. Her mind also abandoned her for a couple of hours, leaving her numb and unable to do anything except sit under her weeping willow and stare into its branches. When it came time for bed, though, her thoughts returned with a fierceness that made her head spin. Memories of bitter-sweet times with Father flooded her brain. Daddy always appeared happy. Always telling jokes. Making her laugh. Ava loved him and was certain he loved her.

Her face was turned to the wall, her head covered with blankets to keep from waking her sister in the other bed. Ava waited in vain for sleep to silence those thoughts, but instead, she cried and cried and cried.

When the morning sunshine brushed her face, Ava scurried to the bathroom and splashed icy water on her eyes until the puffiness receded. Her heart was still missing, and the bowling ball remained, but she placed a smile on her face and came to the table for breakfast. To all observers, she was again her happy, cheerful self. After all, she was her Daddy’s girl. * December 28, 1966 It became apparent she wouldn’t be able to control her thoughts, so Ava sighed and allowed the third and last time she'd wept to surface from the locked compartments of her mind. * 1960 After the divorce, food was scarce. Whenever Mother left the house, Ava would race to the kitchen, grab a couple of sheets of saltines, slather them with jelly, and race to one of the forts she’d built in the woods behind their house. She never took more than two sheets and never more than twice a week, figuring Mother wouldn’t miss them, and she never did. This snack kept Ava’s stomach satisfied for an hour or two, allowing her more time in her refuge. One summer evening after dinner, Mother gathered them in the living room and announced the latest news. “Pack all your belongings. After your father

deserted us, there wasn’t enough money to pay the mortgage. So, we need to move.”  After Father left, the woods were the only thing that gave Claire any joy. So, the night before leaving, Ava raced back to a clearing in the woods, picked up a dead stick, drew a rectangle in the dirt, and stood tall in the middle. Staring up at the darkening brooding sky, Ava declared. “Someday, I will graduate from college so I can obtain a well-paying job and buy a piece of property that nobody can take away from me. Even if it’s only the size of this rectangle, I'll have furniture without holes, and I never go to bed hungry again. Goodbye, home, I shall never forget you.” She whispered while three solitary teardrops trailed down her cheeks.

Ever since the day they forced her to leave her world behind, every waking moment had been spent on getting excellent grades so she could earn a scholarship to college and escape her horrific life. This was the last time she’d shed tears, until this morning, that is. She didn’t even cry when she told him goodbye. * September 21, 1966 Charlie sat gawking at the steering wheel. After several long minutes, he turned to her, the corners of his eyes damp, and took both her hands in his. His following words spoke to her soul. “Don’t leave; stay here and marry me.” Ava wavered, for a second. Her heart made a quantum leap every time he touched her. “I’m too young, and I need to do this before getting married.” After a long pause, he murmured. “I understand. And I’ll wait for you. If you change your mind, though, call, and we’ll get married whenever you want.” Ava couldn’t remember the exact conversation; her throat kept closing, making it difficult to talk. She let him do most of it and just sat cuddled in his arms. She had to stay strong, refuse to break down and throw away this opportunity, knowing how lucky she’d been to be awarded a complete scholarship to a prestigious college. If she broke down now and threw this chance away, they would both regret it. In the end, they agreed to spend their summers and every holiday together. The moment she graduated they would wed. Then it happened. Ava often told herself she would never be intimate without the sacrament of marriage. It was a sin, and she was a Christian. It did happen, though. Something, hormones, she guessed, took over during that goodbye hug. * December 28, 1966 Now her dream was over. She was barely eighteen and had been hoping her suspicions were wrong, but they weren’t. The year was 1966. Ava was pregnant, unmarried, and options were few. “Good morning,” Ava winced as a voice brought her back to the present. “I’m Mrs. Jenkins. I understand the school doctor has confirmed that you’re with child. You've probably realized why I've summoned you here."

Seeing the girl's blank stare, the woman continued, "We're here to decide what to do now. You are a bright young lady, and in the two months you've been here, you have excelled in every area. I am sincerely sorry, but the school is just not able to manage pregnancies.” The rest of the discussion consisted of Mrs. Jenkins asking questions and Ava answering, with only a nod or a few grumbled, “nos.”

She recalled little about Mrs. Jenkins’ appearance, which didn’t matter. Only her words mattered, which were spoken softly but firmly from lips that were the same, soft, and firm. Ava was a problem, and Mrs. Jenkins was here to find the solution. “As I see it, you have two choices. You can either marry the father of the child or go home to your mother and decide whether to keep the baby or give it up for adoption.” She paused, cocked her head, and smiled. “Perhaps, you'd like to call the father. You can use my phone if that is the case.” Ava's heart responded. A wave of warmth replaced the cold in her bones, and she smiled for the first time since learning the unwelcome news. Mrs. Jenkins left the office to give the girl privacy. Combing her purse, Ava found the number Charlie had sent in his last letter. Shaking fingers made it challenging to dial. Somehow, she managed and finally heard the phone ringing on the other end. Holding her breath, Ava waited…. and …. waited. She was about to hang up when a strange male voice answered. “Hello. “Is - is Charlie there?” Ava’s voice croaked. “No, but his wife Doylene is.” The stranger replied. “Hello, hello? Can you hear me? Do you want to talk to Doylene?” “I…I…uhm," Because of the sweat on her hands, Ava nearly dropped the phone. Her heart pounded so loudly that she had trouble understanding the man's words. "Did you say his wife?” “Yes, they got married yesterday. Would you like to talk to her?” Ava didn’t remember if she responded before replacing the phone in its cradle. She sat in the steel chair, welcoming the coldness against her sweating legs. She sat, not thinking, not crying, not anything. It was as if she'd ceased to exist. When Mrs. Jenkins returned, Ava must have told her what happened but didn’t remember. Her lips were moving, but Ava's ears had stopped working. She just sat and followed the events as they unfolded. Although, her mind returned long enough to hear Mrs. Jenkins say, “Do you want to call your mother, or would you prefer I do?” The girl looked straight ahead through the gray fog but muttered,  “You call.” Mrs. Jenkins left the room, and Ava studied the clock, counting the seconds as the hands jumped forward, dot by dot by dot. Mrs. Jenkins returned; her voice echoed against the hollow remains of Ava’s mind. “Your mother wants you to come home and keep the baby." Mrs. Jenkins paused, waiting for some response when none came, she continued. "Best of all, she’s offered to help you raise the child.” Mrs. Jenkins said, smiling. * January 1, 1967 Chicago O’Hare airport felt larger and noisier than Ava recalled when she'd arrived three months ago. She vaguely remembered purchasing a magazine from the little stand, searching for the best place to sit. She found two chairs tucked away in a corner which afforded a view of the reader board but obscure enough that no one would bother her. After sitting in one seat, she placed her suitcase in the other, ensuring no one would sit next to her and try to make idle conversation. The girl found comfort in sitting among strangers who didn’t know who she was, where she was going, or what she had done. A young mother and small daughter wandered through the maze of seats until they found two empty seats across from Ava. Not close enough that they would try to talk to her, but near enough that Ava could study them from behind her dark glasses. The girl’s curly black hair and doe-brown eyes reminded her of herself at age two or three. Ava tried to catch the girl’s eyes, but the child kept her head down fixated on the floor. When Ava coughed, the girl glanced up. A slight grin formed on her tiny face when she spotted Ava smiling at her. This brief contact warmed Ava's heart. Someone announced a flight, and all too soon, the girl was leaving. The girl’s mother’s shrill voice broke the calm Ava had been experiencing.“Hurry we’re going to miss our flight.”

The sounds of slapping and heart-rending cries punctuated the words. Something inside Ava stirred. Not the baby; it was too soon. But her hand went to her stomach as she clutched her suitcase, straightened her shoulders, and marched over to the woman. Glaring into the mother’s eyes Ava said, through gritted teeth. “Don’t... hit... the ...child.” Then, Ava turned and walked away. Away from what she knew awaited her and her baby and towards the cold, dark, unfamiliar world. Fear engulfed her body as he shuddered, though not from the cold. Choosing something other than the familiar gave the girl a glimmer of something besides despair. So, despite the panic gnawing on the walls of her stomach, Ava chose hope.


She fell into the winter with a carcass covered in layers and layers of beautiful brown fat.

Lovely layers hanging low, covering wounds inflicted over a thousand years. Battles fought, some won, some lost but each one leaving behind a wide wake of damage. Each step out onto a fresh killing field, leaving yet

more scars.

Stabs that twisted and turned, leaking blood at every orifice . Stabs that punctured organs nestled deep within a frame so battered and bashed that it

knew mostly, only pain. She had endured pain so intense that all that remained were scars healed, covered over and buried within yet another layer of fat.

Wounds from the back. Wounds from the side.

Wounds inflicted with a smile that looked like love but hid vials of evil poisonous venom slowly dripping into a system taxed beyond its endurance. The final blow came as she poured water into a glass teapot. With no warning, the bottom of the teapot cracked, emitting an ominous scream. Boiling hot water poured over her body. In a state of shock, she dropped the pot, grabbed her dress and as she peeled the steaming mass of material from her body,

realized that she was also removing scalded skin. She almost panicked but managed to remember that she would be seeing her doctor later on that day for a different issue. She dressed the extensive damage as best as she was able and took to her bed, deciding sleep might be the best medicine. She knew she could endure the pain for the two hours before her scheduled appointment. Two hours later, as the doctor entered the examination room expecting to treat several boils, the shocked look on his face was her first clue that her injuries may have been more severe than she imagined. As she lifted her blouse he gasped, “I thought you had boils.” “I do, but this kind of happened in the meantime.” He barely was able to stop from rolling his eyes.

This man fully understood her aversion to the medical system, pharmaceuticals and a dread of

buildings where a certain percentage of people entered expecting a cure and never left. He had come to a begrudging tolerance of her stubbornness and insistence that she knew her own body better than he. That though she respected his medical experience, he did not know what it felt like under her skin. She had come to trust him and he her. He chastised her for not seeking help sooner and began doing his best to treat her injuries. He ordered antibiotics for the boils, went off to his supply room returning with enough bandages and dressings for her to take home and treat herself. He knew the futility of suggesting seeking home care but insisted he wanted to see her in two days. She agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. She knew the wounds were a little beyond her capacity and simply trusted that her amazing immune system would do the best job. He insisted on seeing her several times over the following week and was somewhat satisfied that her body was repairing itself and that his patient was indeed a fine nurse. More importantly, she was a good patient and knew when to throw

in the towel. His one concern was her approach to pain management.

She had allowed herself to be convinced by some well meaning friend that she was activating her addictions by using drugs to deal with the severe pain of boils plus second and third degree burns.

She’d had ongoing debates with this person over the years regarding her use of marijuana butter to alleviate arthritic injuries in her legs, knees that were bone on bone with little or no cartilage to protect them and osteophytes in her hip that x-rayed as small shards of glass the size of a fingernail. At seventy-two, weighing in at over 300 pounds she felt blessed to only have the arthritis. Many of her thinner friends carried their medication in a small fishing tackle box when they ate out. Her own pain was, however, rather intense and she found some degree of relief from the use of marijuana and acetaminophen. She did her best to keep her use down and if the pain was under a level 5, was able to cope with bathing and rest. She only resorted to substance when the pain escalated and held to a level 10 for more than several hours. Even with a pain tolerance as high as hers was, she could only endure so much before she found herself entertaining thoughts of suicide.

She was determined to tolerate the pain from the boils and the burn with no medications but found herself waking up from a deep sleep with her body shuddering involuntarily and her hands and feet ice cold. This cauldron of pain stirred up memories of old wounds and the double trouble was beyond her own devices. When she relayed this information to her doctor, he sternly admonished her, “Do you not understand toxic shock syndrome?”

She did understand, but had allowed her fears of addiction to cloud her better judgement.  Her doctor managed to override these fears with the warning that sustaining that level of pain for great lengths of time could cause severe damage to her body. She capitulated, went home, took her medicine and began the serious business of healing a badly damaged body with the assistance of medication. Her routine gradually worked and by the end of the third week she was well on the way to being mended. What took her by great surprise was her body’s refusal to pick up the old pace and let her get back to a routine of days packed with physical and emotional tasks. It simply refused to co-operate and she had little choice but to fall exhausted onto her recliner and sleep a sleep of the dead for hours at a time. Her rests became naps. Her naps became sleep and her sleeping resembled that of a coma victim. She began to dream.

Dreams of battles, blood and carnage.

Faces rising up out of misty graves, shaking their bony fingers, whispering, “take care me girl, ye may not escape this one.” She knew that this final battle was likely to be her

last. She knew the odds of surviving another were highly stacked against her. What she came to understand was this, she wanted to live. And so she began the arduous task of treating herself more kindly, more compassionately. She began truly putting herself first, determined to put her own needs before those of others.

She knew in every fiber of her being that though it felt selfish, she would lose her life and be of no assistance to anyone unless she were to succeed at this task.

She knew that her determination had a price, acceptance. She knew the paradox of turning her life over to a power greater than herself was the key to her redemption. She knew

that forgiveness, at a level unlike any she’d travelled to previously was the answer. She fell to her knees, begged for that help and strongly resisted the voices that whispered, “You are so selfish, you think only of yourself, who the hell do you think you are? For God’s sake get up and vacuum and do the dishes.”  She resisted all that which sought

to pull her down. The winter slowly passed, she crawled through the final drifts, emerging into a glorious spring. And she knew...life was good, life was glorious. She knew deliverance.


Leo Vey was getting weaker. Deep wrinkles lined his face as he smiled at the cashier, bidding her a good day. Leaning heavily on his cane, he grabbed the bag of groceries and hobbled out the sliding doors. He knew his knee would entirely give out soon; it was a constant ache he ignored. He did not have time for it. Warm sunlight hit his face, and he paused outside the storefront, welcoming the warmth. Closing his eyes, Leo's wrinkles smoothed as he inhaled deeply, the air fragrant with the smell of flowers. A sudden deep and hollow pang rocked his chest, and for a split second, he thought this was his last moment. A whispering, ever-growing darkness that relentlessly clawed at his weary soul hoped it would be. But Leo breathed that scent again and knew. Ushered through time and space, he was thrown into the past and remembered. ` There she was. His Lila James. God, he was the luckiest man alive. She hadn't noticed him yet, leaning against the sliding door with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade cooling his hand. Lila fixated on her little garden, her pride and joy. Oh, how Lila loved her garden. Out in the dirt, rain or shine, gardening even on the days Leo begged her to stay in. She would only shake her head and say, "Oh Leo Vey, don't be silly, it's dancing weather." Her eyes sparkled the way they did, and he lost all words. The sun beat down on her back. Leo watched the sweat gather at her temple. She’d braided her hair in a crown-like fashion encircling her head. Fitting, Leo thought, She looks like a queen. "Are you going to stand there and stare, Leo Vey, or will you hand me my lemonade?" Lila asked as she carefully placed a daisy into the earth. He chuckled, crossing the lawn to his beautiful wife, and passed her the cool glass. She smelled like the sweetest flowers, flowers he could never get enough of. Her grin was broad and unrestrained, a smile he’d spent his life chasing and would chase to the end of his days. Leo loved Lila like Lila loved her garden. Dirt speckled her hands and was smeared across her cheek. She wore her favorite gardener dress, a deep violet color embedded with beads that looked like tiny stars when she twirled.

"Care for a dance Lila James?" She threw him that same smile that made fireworks erupt in his stomach. As she drew up to full height, hands to her hips to brace her back, she winced, then laughed. "I've been waiting for you to ask."

She gripped his hand, and he twirled her loosely. A giggle escaped her as he placed both hands on her hips and lifted her to the sky. For a moment, he was young again, a simple boy in love. "Let me go this instant, Leo Vey!" Lila cried out. Although she protested, she secretly loved the wind brushing her face and tousling her hair. He placed her back on the ground, and they swayed to a rhythm of music only they could hear. They danced and danced until sweat slid down their spines and the sky darkened, for it was unspoken between them to dance while they were still able. Leo spun Lila one last time and tugged her close. She smelled of lavender and daisies, a smell that would haunt every daydream Leo had. His knee ached, but he ignored it, caressed her face, and whispered into the night air, "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me." Lila gave him her famous smile. "Thank you for being my best friend."

Her wrinkled hands covered his, and her face, worn with age and countless years before the sun, looked happy. A tear ran down his cheek as he pondered how they had gotten so old so fast. All the memories and years had merged into one long dream. Leo shook his head as if he could dust off the cobwebs. He wished they had more time. But he had no regrets, not when he spent his time loving Lila James. Their story was the same no matter what day it was. Leo would come home from work and follow the scent of flowers all the way outside, where his beautiful wife worked in her garden. When she was happy, her days consisted of lavender and daisies. Some days— rare days—Leo would step through the front door to the smell of Angelonias and bleeding hearts staining the air. Those days, he knew she was sad, so he would follow the smell to the garden and give her a hug. On other days, it was daffodils and roses, which meant she had too many feelings to sort through. Sometimes, she spent weeks planting Angelonias and bleeding hearts, and Leo loved her nonetheless. He picked her up, and they would dance. At least after spending a lifetime with Lila, that was what Leo concluded. He paid attention.

Most days were good days—days of lavender and daisies. Lila was usually happy. Weeks passed, seasons changed, and Leo Vey hobbled through the front door. He’d worked overtime and arrived home just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. He waited for the smell of flowers to waft to him. He waited some more. And waited, but there was nothing. He crossed the house, through the sliding glass door, through the little gate, and into the garden, where he smelled something new. Something sweet.

Leo could not breathe.

He stood frozen as his world fractured into a million pieces. Lila lay on the ground clutching a flower that—at the time—Leo didn’t know the name of. He choked on a sob and called the ambulance. When he built up the courage to go to her garden again, he planted her little flower, which—he later learned—was a moonflower, a flower that bloomed in the darkness under the dim light of the night sky. He choked down its significance, shoving the wickedly crafted meaning into a dark box in the back of his mind. He needed Lila. There was no other way. Leo blinked. Sunlight burned his eyes, and tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks. He was at the grocery store again. Leo gripped his cane and stepped toward his car. A familiar smell drifted on the wind, and he sniffed. Once. Twice. Lavender and daisies. His Lila was happy.


The tingling sensation in my body felt like a million fireflies dancing up from my feet and into my heart. I reminded myself to breathe. I freaking love being around groups of people. It’s almost like it’s electric. I looked to my friend, Kate, who was finally coming out with me, and smiled. She gave a reflexive smile. I felt like I was beaming with happiness that she had her face out of a book. She is seldom up for going anywhere outside their favorite spots. Sure, I love to just relax with Kate in our oversized hoodies, it was just something about seeing Kate in her “going-out” clothes that made me feel even more excited about having her outside the house. I looked down at my watch, but as I went to speak, Kate already knew the time without looking at her watch. So I said, “I know. You’ll give me all kinds of crazy signals until it’s time.” Maybe the word crazy was too harsh. Anyway, she will have a good time and will thank me later.

It was then that Taylor opened the door and flashed her perfect smile at us.

“Denise!” she shouted as she marched her feet in excitement. Matching her energy, I opened my arms and sang “Taylor!”. We embraced and I introduced Taylor to Kate. As we walked in, I immediately recognized almost everyone I used to work with back at Hanger’s Bar. I was washed over with different memories for each person. I set my things down and proceeded to greet each one with a short hug. It took me quite a few minutes to catch up politely with each hug recipient before separating to arm myself with a drink and my best friend. As I scanned the room for more familiar faces to reminisce with, I saw Kate approaching me with drinks. She’s the best, which is why I have a few people that I want her to meet. I knew that Kate’s energy reserve could be depleted quickly with too many social interactions, so I had to choose my recommendations carefully. I let her choose from my list of potential social options in the order that she thinks would be best. It is somewhat of a game we play when we go out. I choose four to five people that I think she would really enjoy getting to know and, based on Kate’s energy supply that night, we meet as many as she wants. It is a way that we can both be respectful of each other’s needs. And that’s why this party will be the best because, with Kate, it always is. The bodily sensations I was experiencing felt like a fuzzy boulder was sitting in my stomach while my mouth would put the dusty desert plains to shame. I reminded myself to breathe. My friend, Denise, looked at me and smiled. For as long as Kate could remember, Denise had always thrived when she was the center of attention. Denise long denies it, but if you look closely right before she’s about to step into the spotlight, there’s an almost too subtle to miss switch, like the batteries connecting in a toy.

It had been forever since I have come out with Denise. It has been forever only because I can almost always be found happily reading alone under my blanket at home. So according to best friend law, I am required one obligatory night a month to a place of Denise’s choosing. I could see Denise out of the corner of my eye, looking down at her watch. “Seven fifteen,” I said, without looking at mine. I checked five minutes ago. “We have one hour and forty-five minutes until” and she interrupted. She tried to tell me my very discreet finger-to-nose signal was crazy. “And they are not crazy signals,” I mumbled. It is just sometimes when my battery is running low, I can be, shall we say, eager to leave?

As I finished my sentence, the pale yellow door opened, and there stood our hostess for the next one hour and forty-four minutes anyway. She was wearing a very flashy dress and very sensible heels. I remember thinking that was either smart or not on purpose. I blinked as if to shake myself out of my own head. As Kate started her first round of hugs, I didn’t want to stand awkwardly to the side of the group of people while she caught up with everyone, so I kept it moving through the kitchen and into the living room. I grabbed a couple of red cups and filled them with the mystery punch from the refreshments table. As I stood there, drinking and scanning the rest of the faces in the room, I saw the cutest orange tabby cat on the top of the piano by the back wall. So naturally, I made my way over and began to scratch the kitty’s chin. I figured if anyone else wanted to pet the cat, it would be a natural conversation starter and something we would automatically have in common. When the cat decided it had its fill of human attention and ran off, I started to make my way back towards Kate. I gave her the punch and she started to give me short little bios of the people she wanted me to meet tonight. As much as I find comfort in my Netflix list and pajamas with Denise after school, I really do look forward to shaking things up once a month and coming out with her. She gives me that push I need to get my toes outside of my comfort zone. “Life starts outside your comfort zone!” Kate likes to sing out when I am resisting social shindigs. Most of the time, when we play our “Have you met?” game and keep it within my energy reserves, I am usually glad to be out.

And that’s why this party will be the best because, with Denise, it always is.


“Careful with that!” said Mrs Confidence to the removal team as they walked into Confidence Towers. She had been planning this move for nearly a month whilst her superhero husband was out saving the day. So far today she had been liaising with the previous Mayor Happiness, the removal team, the lagoon renovators for the back garden, the dog sitter for their pet ice cream Vanilla and then her family. The Confidence house working like clockwork was also completely down to her and the move was going well so far for the same reason. “We will be extra careful Mrs Confidence, we’ll go slower if you like?” said Mr Box, owner of Box and Family Removals. Being a family of walking talking boxes made it very easy for them to pack up people’s houses and then walk all the way to the new property, sometimes using Ellie Lorry and her family to get everyone there if it was more than a mile away.

Mrs Confidence nodded at Mr Box, he shouted out at his numerous box children and they all started to take smaller steps. She stood in the echoey reception area with her large foam turtle body and newly permed hair casting a huge shadow on the marble floor, pointing each box in the direction of the room they required. She had carefully marked up each box with the room location on the outside so her task was as simple as possible. Within half an hour all their belongings were in the house and she began to instruct each room of boxes where to unpack the items. Master and Miss Confidence were up in their rooms starting to unpack their things and couldn’t believe how much space there was. They were individually planning the epic sleepovers and birthday parties they could host and couldn't wait to be the one who got their parents’ permission first, each one thinking the parents would side with their better idea. Mr Confidence had finished work slightly early so flew through the back door to a flurry of activity with boxes unpacking themselves everywhere. He quickly saw his wife in the midst of directing the box traffic and asked what every spare part husband asks their partner. “Need a hand?” he asked knowing his wife was more than capable of handling this with her head fully inside her shell. “Green algae tea, please!” she said sounding relieved she was having a conversation with someone who wasn't a box. “Coming up!” he flew over to the cupboards and quickly looked around realising he wasn't in his old house anymore. He slowly turned his bulky amphibian body back round to find Mrs Confidence was smirking at him. “It’s all in that box that says Tea and Coffee on your left behind you.” Mr Confidence spun back round and helped the tinier box with Tea and Coffee on the outside unpack its cargo, which it thanked him for in a tiny high pitched voice. He plugged in the kettle and got started. He knew his wife was better than him in every way when it came to their home life but he did pride himself on the fact he was King of Tea. Of course, Mrs Confidence let him believe that so she got a nice cup of tea on a regular basis, but in actual fact she had a black belt in tea making. An hour later the Confidence family were chilling in the living room on their new sofas when there was a knock at the front door. Mrs Confidence opened the door thinking it might be Mr Box with the missing box from the move but instead no-one was there. She heard someone clear their throat and say: “Excuse me?” She quickly looked down and there was a medium sized box looking back at her. “Can I help you?” she asked confused that the package was here on its own, she looked down the road for anyone else and only heard the faint buzz of a nearby bee. “I‘m the missing box with your things.” said the box sounding quite tinny and faint for someone who was standing right in front of Mrs Confidence. She had no reason to question it, and she was waiting for a missing box, so invited her new cardboard buddy into the house. Mrs Confidence and the mystery box walked into the living room together as Mr Confidence asked, “Who was it?”, only to have his question answered as this strange looking parcel appeared by the side of his wife. “Oh? Hello.. erm box!” “Hello Mr Confidence I bring your things. Please help me open myself.” As the box reached the centre of the room a number of things happened at once: ·       Mr Confidence got up from the sofa to walk over to the box. ·       Mrs Confidence heard that faint buzzing again and thought the bee must have followed the box into the house. ·       Master Confidence thought it was weird his Mum had not put a sticker on this box to say which room it should go in. ·       Miss Confidence noticed the box’s arms and legs were made from plastic pipes and toilet rolls and it’s eyes were drawn on in black marker. The box seemed to be floating as if it was fake!? Miss Confidence leapt from the sofa screaming “DAD, NOOO!” Mr Confidence had already partially opened one of the flaps of the box and that activated the gallons of green sticky gunge that exploded out of the fake box. It covered everything and everyone within the living room. In the space of two seconds there was a drippy shade of green covering every part of the room. The whole family stood there in silence as gunge slowly dripped from their faces. In the silence the buzzing of the bee grew louder as a cackled laugh could be heard from it’s tiny body: “HAHAHA! Like my housewarming gift?” said their arch nemesis Tommy Terror coming to them live from his bee drone camera. Mr Confidence cleared the green goo from his mouth and eyes and slowly responded, “Tommy, what a lovely surprise! Where are you, I’d love to give you a hug in person!” he said through gritted teeth, hearing his wife seething underneath the many oozy layers next to him. “I’m sat here in my lovely back garden looking at my water fountain as I see a live feed of your wonderful new green décor in your living room,” Tommy said. “Do you like the smell I added to the gunge by the way – that comes straight from Gas Town. I hope you...” Mr Confidence hit the bee drone with the back of his hand and it crashed against the wall landing on the floor in a heap with no more buzzes to give. Mr Confidence, with goo still dripping from every part of his squashy body, looked at his beautiful home now covered in green stickiness and started to think through what to do next. It didn’t take long for the best idea to rise into his mind and take shape. “Dad? What...” Before Master Confidence could finish his sentence Mr Confidence interrupted him. "Nobody move until I say you can. Honey, where is the bucket and the spare lagoon pool?” Mrs Confidence spat out enough green gunge from her mouth to respond, “They're both in the garage next to your bike.” In a split second, where Mr Confidence had been standing there was just a number of green gooey splats in flight as the rest of him had flown off to get the bucket from the garage.

He dashed into the garage, grabbed the bucket and spare lagoon plastic pool and flew back to the house, leaving the pool in the centre of the garden. The Mayor and bucket shot back into the living room and quickly removed the goo from every piece of furniture, light fitting and member of the family he could find. As soon as the bucket was full, he dashed back to the pool outside and emptied the putrid green goo into it. Within a few minutes the living room was back to normal and the pool was filled with the green gunge. He even grabbed the raspberry ripple scented furniture polish and air freshener from under the sink to remove every piece of the pooey odour from the room. The Confidence family - still picking bits of green from under their scaley nails - followed their dad into the back garden to find the pool almost up to the brim with goo. “What are we going to do with that?” asked Mrs Confidence. Mr Confidence gave a cheeky smile back at her. ---------------------- Tommy Terror was catching some grey rays from the overcast sky above him wearing his cool (in his mind anyway) glum glasses humming his favourite theme tune about himself to himself. It wasn't often his plans worked but, on that rare occasion when they did, he had earned the right to gloat and kick back and enjoy his victory.

In fact he was enjoying his victory so much that he didn’t notice the additional shadow overhead or the faint foul gunk spitting on his arm which became a heavy downpour.

Within a matter of seconds Tommy Terror and a large part of his water fountain and garden were covered in disgusting green gelatinous goo from the skies. He lay frozen in time covered in gunk but could just make out, despite all the festering funk in his eyes, someone or something flying overhead holding a large object. He knew immediately who it was as Mr Confidence shouted down at him before flying back home, leaving Tommy sat in his pooey fluorescent mess. “Enjoy the smell!”


“I’ve never done this before. What do I do?” “Really? It’s just trick-or-treating. It’s so easy.” She wrung her hands together and stared at the ground. “Don’t laugh at me. I didn’t grow up in America like you did.”

“Hey,” he took her hands into his and gently kissed her wedding ring, smiling all the while. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make fun of you, it’s just a really simple concept, is all. You just go up to the house, take what you want, move on to the next one, and repeat. Easy, right?” “Yeah. Easy.” She refused to look up at him, refused to replicate his smile. “Minnie, what’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “Minnie…” She gave no response. He sighed. “Minnie, maybe you shouldn’t go out tonight. I know Dr. Singh said that you’d be better off staying in-” Finally, she looked up at him, but only to shove him away. “Dr. Singh doesn’t know what’s best for me. He’s just paranoid.” “He’s a doctor. I’m sure he knows what you-” “No, Sam. I want to go out tonight. I’m going to. Cheng was so excited for this and I’m not letting him down.” He stared sadly at her for a few long moments. “Okay,” he whispered.

She jutted her chin out at him and took a step back. “I’m going to get ready.” She turned around and trudged up the stairs, ignoring the eyes following her up. ~~~ “Mama! Mama! Mama!” She sighed heavily and looked down at the toddler tugging at her pant leg. “What, Cheng?” “What’re they doing?” Cheng pointed out the window. Minnie followed his hand to see hordes of children rushing around outside, all wearing cheap costumes and carrying pails or pillowcases. “Trick-or-treating, bǎobèi.” “What’s that?” “Go ask your father.” The child ran out of the room, calling out for his dad. A soft smile formed on Minnie’s face. Cheng was only two, now, but he already held all of his mother’s heart. Tiny footsteps returned only a minute later. “Mama! I wan’ go trick-treating!” “Oh, not this year, bǎobèi.” Cheng pouted. “Why?” “You’re too young. And it’s very cold outside. And you don’t have a costume.” “But I wanna go!” The toddler stamped his feet. “No, Cheng.” Loud cries suddenly rang out, so shrill that Minnie flinched. She hurried to scoop her child into her arms and shush him. “Next year, bǎobèi. Next year, I promise.” ~~~ Standing in the mirror, she looked like an angel, wearing a white dress and a halo over her head, but she did not see it. She was smiling down at a picture in her wallet. Bright eyes, almond in both shape and color; short, dark brown hair; pale, chubby cheeks; a perfect child.

“Mama.” The voice jolted her out of her memory. She looked up to see the child from the picture reflected in the mirror behind her. Cheng looked like a little zombie, complete with blue skin and dirty clothes. “You scared me, Cheng,” Minnie said to his reflection. “Where did you come from?” “I wanna go, Mama.” “I know, bǎobèi. Just give me a few more minutes, alright?” The child was gone in the blink of an eye. A moment later, Sam stood in his place.

Minnie’s smile switched to a frown. “What?” “I’m going with you,” Sam said.

She spun around to face him. “Why?” “You know why.” He stepped farther into the room to look through their closet. She glared at him the whole time. “No.” “Min.” “No! I don’t need to be watched like a dog.” “That’s not what-” “I am fine, Sam.” “I know that that’s not true.” “Oh, so you think I’m crazy like Dr. Singh does.” “No, I just know that you’re upset about….” “And you aren’t?” He looked at her, offended. “Of course I am. Why would I not be?” “You don’t act like it. And you don’t need everyone following you around and treating you like a baby.” “Why can’t I just want to go out with you?” “Because.” Sam moved over to her and took her hand. “Min-Jun, I love you. You know that. But I know how hard it is for you right now. It’s hard for both of us. But we have to heal, and we can start by spending some more time together. Please.” He was tearing up, but she just stared at him. “You’re just saying what Dr. Singh says.” “And? He knows what he’s talking about.” Her only response was a short huff. “There’s no harm in me coming with you. Just let me go.” “Whatever,” she grumbled. She pulled herself away from him and stormed out of the room. ~~~ “You look confused,” Dr. Singh said, adjusting the cuffs on his suit jacket. “Would you like me to explain it again?” “It’s just…” Sam shook his head. “She’s never had these...episodes before. I thought people with schizophrenia had it all their lives.” “Oftentimes, yes. But traumatic events can just as easily cause psychotic episodes as genetics. Many people have the genes to be schizophrenic, but only begin to have episodes after a particularly stressful event. And I know the beginning of this year hasn’t been very good to you.” “Right.” Sam let out a deep breath and massaged his forehead. “So, what do we do?” “I promise, it won’t be as difficult as you may think. Your main priority is to make sure you are both living your lives as healthy and happy as possible, which shouldn’t be too far off from what you were doing before. You just have to keep a close eye on her. People tend to hurt themselves or others while having a psychotic episode, without having the slightest idea of what they’re doing.” Sam scoffed. “She couldn’t hurt a fly.” “A lot of people think that.” Sam swallowed heavily. “Okay, well, will she need medication?” Dr. Singh nodded. “But she may not need to take it everyday of her life. Many only take medication during and after strong episodes. I will be able to prescribe her a medicine after I know a bit more about her symptoms.” Dr. Singh opened a drawer in his desk, took out a booklet, and handed it to Sam. “This will give you some more information and resources. I advise that you do plenty of research.” “Will do.” “Any other questions for me?” Sam just shrugged. “Min-Jun?” Throughout the entire meeting, Minnie sat silently, her hands flat on her lap, her eyes never moving from a small picture frame on the doctor’s desk.

Dr. Singh leaned forward. “Min-Jun?” Very slowly, Minnie reached out and grabbed the picture frame. She whispered, “You have beautiful children.” ~~~ She did not want to, but she waited at the bottom of the stairs for him. When he came down, he wore only a suit as a costume, and a solemn yet hopeful expression on his face. “Are you ready?” He asked, as if their argument had not just happened.

She shrugged. “Cheng is ready.” She gestured at the child calmly standing at her side. When she returned her eyes to her husband, she saw that his expression had shifted into pain and fear. “What?” “Min…” He stepped closer, shaking his head, and gently touched her arm. “What?” “I really don’t think you should go out tonight. Especially if you’re seeing-” She pushed him away and shouted, “Stop talking like I’m crazy.” “Minnie, you need to accept-” “And stop acting like that stupid doctor.” She snatched Cheng’s candy pail off of the floor and ripped the door open. “I am fine. We would all be fine if you would stop acting like this.” She left the house and slammed the door behind her. She heard him follow her out and call her name, but she refused to wait up for him. Instead, she broke into a sprint down the driveway and kept running until she was sure she had lost him in the crowd of trick-or-treaters. ~~~ According to the medical examiner, they should find solace in the fact that it happened so fast, that there was no pain. But the parents were always the ones to feel pain in situations like these.

The trial had been quick. The driver had pleaded guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter. He had apologized profusely, swearing that it was an accident. Saying that if he could take it all back, if he could bring back their child, he would. Minnie screamed at him nonetheless. The house was so quiet, now. They barely ate or slept. They never spoke. Minnie spent much of her time in Cheng’s room. Three months after the accident, they sat at the kitchen table together, slowly and silently sipping tea. The time of constant tears had passed, leading them to perpetual numbness and grief.

Yet, Minnie was unfazed when tiny footsteps padded into the kitchen.

“Do you want some cereal?” She asked. “No, thank you,” Sam muttered. She poured a bowl, anyway, and set it at Cheng’s place at the table. “There you go, bǎobèi.” Sam’s head snapped up to look at her. “What?” She casually sat back down and nodded at her son. “I was talking to Cheng.” Sam flinched. “What?” “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Minnie…” He stood and crept towards her. “We can’t be in denial, anymore.” “In denial of what?” “Minnie, he’s gone. He’s gone and we need to come to terms with it.” “Gone?” She glanced at her child. “But he’s right there.” Sam looked at where Cheng always sat, then back at her. “No, he isn’t.” His eyes started to water, and Minnie started to believe that something was actually wrong.

“But...But he…” As if a fog cleared, her memories returned, and she began to sob. Sam tried his best to quiet her, but to no avail. She wanted her son back. ~~~ She wandered through the streets for at least an hour, all alone. She lost track of the number of happy families she passed by. They angered her. At every home she went to, people seemed confused as to why she was trick-or-treating without a child, and those who knew of her loss seemed concerned as to why she was out at all. Still, she went on, collecting candy for her baby. Eventually, she found herself on the wealthier side of town. Bigger houses and yards, nicer costumes and cars. As it got later, the younger children began to return to their homes. Minnie kept her eyes on them. There was one boy she noticed, a small one in a zombie costume. She followed him and his mother down the street, getting closer with every step, until she was close enough to grab the child’s shoulder. He and his mother turned to look at her. “Sorry,” Minnie said, slightly dazed. “He just looks so much like my son did. So cute.” “Aw, thank you,” the other woman said. She nudged her son. “Say thank you.” “Thank you,” the boy said. Minnie knelt down to see the boy better. “What’s your name?” “Eddy.” “How old are you, Eddy?” “Four.” Minnie smiled. “You really do look so much like my son.” The boy had nothing to say to that. “I want him back.” Screams rang out, and suddenly she was running back the way she came. She frantically tried to calm the struggling child in her arms. There was no reason for him to be panicking; he was just going back home. At some point, she passed her husband, who called out to her, but she did not stop until she got to her house. She locked the front door behind her, then carried the boy up the stairs to Cheng’s room. “Calm down, bǎobèi,” she said over the child’s screams. “You just need to stay in your room for a while, okay?” She set the child in the room, closed him in, then quickly barricaded the door with the hallway dresser. Someone was pounding on the front door, so Minnie went to see who. She peeked out the window next to the door and saw a man in a suit. The only suit wearing man she knew was Dr. Singh, and she would never let him into her home. She assumed he was sent here because people were calling her crazy, again.

How dare he? She would need to defend herself from being taken away in a padded bus. So, she went to her kitchen and grabbed a large knife. Then, she returned to the door and slowly opened it, holding the knife behind her back. The doctor burst in as soon as the door was unlocked, shouting, “Min, what the hell is going on?” “What do you mean?” Minnie asked, innocently. “What do I mean? Seriously? Min, you ran off while you’re clearly in the middle of an episode; I’m an idiot for even letting you go out. And then you come back with a kid and the whole street freaking out behind you-” “All I did was bring my son home.”

“Min, you kidnapped a fucking kid! I can hear him upstairs. Are you insane ?” Her eyes widened. “I’m not crazy,” she whispered. “Stop acting like I’m crazy.” “Well, it’s kind of hard to do that when you kidnap someone.” He ran his hands down his face and paced in a circle. “Shit, I need to call the cops.” She screeched “No!” and lunged forward, swinging the knife wildly. The doctor raised his arms in an attempt to defend himself, but she was relentless, and soon the knife got stuck in the side of his throat.

He gurgled and gasped for air, crumpling to the ground. She followed him down, letting the knife clatter to the floor. He managed to let out a whisper of her name. She smiled and kissed him as she realized who he really was. She sat there, calm, as the screaming upstairs went on, as sirens blared down the street, and as her husband bled out in her arms.


Plink My world is spinning out of control. I’m tumbling helplessly in a hot, humid hell.

Not only is it hot and humid, it’s dark and noisy. I feel like I’ll never get out of this place. I hate the clothes dryer. Tossing, turning, and tumbling around in here with me are a couple of tee shirts, one of those shirts with a little reptile embroidered on it, a bunch of briefs with sagging elastic, any number of socks with grayed soles, and a pair of jeans. Last and least, there is a pair of black satin boxers with red hearts on them; they’re downright embarrassing. They’re the reason we’re here in a Laundromat, instead of at home, where we belong.

I’m the oldest of the bunch, but I’m also in the best shape. I may be a humble chambray shirt, but I’m sturdy and handsome. There is a faint plink. Damn! I think I lost one of my buttons. It’s been hanging by its threads for weeks now. No one could be bothered to sew it down and now it’s gone. I’ll bet that when The Guy comes back to get us, he won’t even notice the missing button and I’ll never get it back. It’s easy to get overlooked when you’re a little button. Plink. Plink. Plink. If the cycle doesn’t stop soon the plinking is going to drive me nuts. The dryer sheet that’s supposed to make us soft and static-free is loathsome. The odor permeates my every fiber, lingers for days. I’d puke if I had a mouth, but all I have are buttonholes.

I wish we were at home, where the woman with the brown, callused hands pinned us on a clothesline. I love dancing in the wind, feeling the warmth of the sun. When we’re dry, the Brown-Skinned woman takes us down, smoothes us with those same strong hands, and carefully folds us. The others get put away as they are, but she’d carefully iron me. She understands my value. I wish she lived with us, but she comes in only once a week. Plink. Plink. Plink. I want to be back in my closet where I hang next to the pink silk blouse. I love the softness and scent of the blouse. Like the woman who wears her, Miss Pink Silk smells of flowers and spice; it’s a perfume the Pale Woman calls Dolce Vita. Occasionally the Pale Woman would wear me. It was nice, even when her hair tickled my collar. Her skin is soft as the silk blouse. The Brown-Skinned woman does not wear me; she only takes care of me Plink. Plink. Plink. Ours was a happy house until those black boxers showed up. I don’t know where they came from; I just know that there was a lot of screaming and door-slamming when the Fair-Haired woman found them. The closet door was ajar and I saw The Pale Woman throw the black shorts in The Guy’s face. She wasn’t pale then; her face was as red as the hearts on the shorts. Now, no more Dolce Vita. No more hanging around with the pink silk blouse. No more tidy closet in a nice old house. Now we live in a cramped closet in a one-bedroom apartment. No more Brown-Skinned woman to take care of us, to sew my button back on. I hate having a gap right in front so everyone in the world can see how ill-cared for I am.

When The Guy thinks to wash us, which is seldom, he stuffs us in a duffle bag and hauls us here. Afterward, we’re lucky if we get put away. Some of the time I hang in the closet, un-ironed; other times I hang on the backs of chairs or on doorknobs.

There are a few barbaric times when I lie wadded in a corner of the bedroom or, worse yet, get tangled in the bed sheets. It’s a most humiliating situation for a loyal chambray shirt. Plink. Plink. Plink. It’s a wonder the button doesn’t melt in this heat. Finally, the dryer grinds to a halt. Naturally, the jeans land on top of me. I hate being under the jeans, they’re heavy and rough and still somewhat damp. Socks are scattered all over. UGH! The black boxers are wrapped around my right sleeve. I wish I could move my sleeve by myself. I’ll just have to endure; it’s my lot in life. At least the plinking has stopped. I hope The Guy hurries up and gets us; I don’t want any wrinkles to set in me while we wait. Thank goodness it’s quiet now. Waiting in the dark. Reeking of the dryer sheet, which is between me and the jeans. But not between enough, a bed sheet between us would be about right. Gag! Flopping around in here with it was bad enough, having the dryer sheet on top of me is unspeakable.

We probably haven’t been waiting forever, it only seems like it. Damn it! I want out of here. Even being shoved into a duffle bag wouldn’t be so bad. Hopefully, The Guy would eventually take us out and throw away that damned dryer sheet.

The last time I was in a dryer static electricity made the dryer sheet stick to my back. The Guy never noticed. Can you imagine how humiliating it was to be worn around town with that stupid thing stuck to me? Someone yanks open the dryer door. A moon-like face peeks in. It’s a woman, but it’s not our Pale Woman. When she sees the dryer is full, she slams the door. After a while, the next dryer rumbles to life. When is The Guy coming back? Doesn’t he realize we’re waiting? And waiting. After what seems like half of forever, the dryer door is yanked open again. This time it’s a man wearing a black baseball cap from which white hair sticks out. He mutters a curse, hauls us out of the dryer, and dumps us on top of another machine, then stuffs his own wad of wet clothes in, dropping a pair of briefs on the floor in the process. He curses the briefs, as if it was their fault for falling, throws them in the dryer, and starts the machine. Out here we at least have air, but it’s as noisy as being in the dryer. Coins clatter out of the change machine. Washers and dryers groan and whine. Something thunks and one of the machines starts to rattle.

A mother with a couple of children comes in; she’s carrying a hamper of laundry so full she can barely see over the top. The kids yelp like puppies. There were no children at our house. I know the Black Boxers were largely responsible, but I can’t help wondering if The Pale Woman would have let The Guy stay home if there had been children. A blond woman spreads a gray plastic trash bag under the door of one of the dryers before starting to empty it. In seeming defiance, a pair of lavender panties leaps over the bag and drops onto the bare linoleum floor. The woman picks them up, slaps them against her leg, and stuffs them in a hamper. Everything here, except the machines, is plastic: The beige tops of the folding tables, laundry baskets, blue molded chairs, a forlorn green plastic plant in a woven plastic basket. A TV attached to a bracket in a corner, up by the ceiling, mumbles and mutters. It’s ignored. Like us. The Guy we are waiting for does not come. At last, everyone has gone. A woman with brown hair pinned up behind her head vacuums the floors and runs a rag over the tables where people fold clothes and take them home. Finally, she grabs up the lot of us and dumps us in a cardboard box where a red tee shirt and a dark green sock already wait. This time I’m on top, free of the despised heart shorts. I can still smell the damn dryer sheet. If The Guy doesn’t hurry, they’ll lock the doors and he won’t be able to get us tonight. And that’s what happens. All but one light in the back goes out. The TV is turned off. One last car flashes its brights through the plate glass windows, then backs away and disappears. Outside the sky is dark as a pair of brand new jeans. Silence at last. What happened to our person? Why isn’t he here? Will he come tomorrow? How can you forget your laundry? Especially your blue chambray shirt.

I don’t think there were any more briefs left in the drawer, so he needs those saggy shorts. We only get washed when there’s nothing else to wear. I wonder how long that green sock and red tee shirt have been here? What will happen to us if The Guy never comes? I’ll bet my poor button is still in the bottom of the dyer.

I almost miss the plinking.