The keyboard was cold and bristly under my fingertips--space bar, ctrl, W--like snake scales. I breathed in, out, in, out. My heart slammed at my throat. Beside me Nathan stuttered, stumbled over half-spoken words. "I- Professor, it- I don't know how it got there- I didn't mean-" "You didn't mean to open ChatGPT?" I stared ahead across the lecture hall, eyes fixed on the paneled walls and blackboard displaying the remaining exam time in big, looping white letters. 45 minutes. I tried not to look down, at the heads that spun back, eyes up and wide. The whole room was coiled like a sour knot. Computers clicked, a clock ticked. "Really, Professor Lanning. I must have had it open before and--" "Let me see it again." "What?" "Let me see the tab again." I dragged my eyes down back toward my screen, vision meaninglessly glazing over the questions and answers–not that I knew the answers, anyway. I shuddered, I breathed, and slowly, slowly scrolled. I clicked a bubble, scrolled, clicked another. Nathan tapped his mouse twice. The clock ticked, the room silently hummed. I could feel Nathan bristle as the professor read. "Ok--Nathan. You are going to close your computer, wait here, and see me after the exam is over." "Professor, I didn't know! I--" "You read the syllabus just like everyone else. Do not try that, young man." "I can't fail this class- Am I gonna get in trouble?" "No, I'm taking you to Dave and Busters. Yes, you're in trouble. God. Every single class: ChatGPT. You think I was born yesterday? You think I’m not on the internet?" He scoffed, then paused. "What is that?" "What is what?" "That tab, right there, next to it." "Oh... uh, it's, uh, Discord, sir." "Discord..." Professor Lanning mused. Even though I'd nailed my eyes to my screen I knew the professor now had his bearpaw-hand cupping his bearded mouth, squinting. It was something he did when someone asked a stupid question, or when the midterm average came out as a C minus. "You're talking about the exam there–who is that? Who are you talking to?" My finger twitched on the mousepad. It took me seconds before I realized I was frozen. Nausea bloomed in my stomach and burned in my throat. I bit my lip, tasted blood. Then I kept scrolling, clicking, praying, feeling the eyes of the class slice across us. “‘ Wariosballs57.’ Who is that? Who are you talking to?" Professor Lanning repeated. Nathan didn't speak. "Nathan." Then the professor sighed, and his gaze cast about the room like a skilled hunter. "Ok," He said, louder now. "This is good. This is really good. Right there, you're talking about the question on the ‘prisoner's dilemma.’ So, Nathan, I'll make you a deal. If you go outside right now with the TA, and tell them who you're cheating with, I'll give you a 50 instead of a zero." Computers stopped clacking; the room listened, watched. “Really?” Nathan asked. “Yes.” Professor Lanning answered immediately. “You have five minutes.” In the icey whirlpool of my stomach I now felt the fire of fear . Please, Nathan. Please. I breathed again, slowly. Reminding myself. Nathan wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t do that. We’d gotten through worse, ever since Middle School. He wouldn’t do that. “ But!” Professor continued. “While Nathan is gone, whoever his accomplice is can come forward. Rat yourself out! Which is great if Nathan stays buddies with you and doesn’t rat you out, because instead of a zero you’ll get a 50. Or, better yet, if he rats you out and you rat yourself out, we’ve got two rats with two zeros on their final exams.” The lecture hall rang, and then silence was filled again with the persistent, annoying, infuriating clock. “But that’s not fair! What if–” “None of it’s fair, Nathan . This isn’t even the ‘prisoner’s dilemma.’ Either way you’re screwed because you cheated . This thing isn’t about self-preservation, this is about how much you’re willing to sacrifice for your little accomplice-friend. How much do you care about them? And how much do they care about you? Capisce? ” “Y-yes, sir.” “Yes, professor. ” He corrected. Then Professor Lanning leaned up, his jeans squealing louder than they should in the huge room. He made a clicking noise with his mouth. “Samantha! Can you take him to the hallway?” Jogging, a shrill nasally voice, “Of course, Professor.” It was our TA. There was a flurry of movement to my left. I didn’t look, just kept scrolling–out of habit, a hypnosis. Scrolling, clicking, scrolling, though the scrolling felt more like running now. Nathan got up, bolted chair flipping up violently. Two pairs of footsteps up the stairs. The door opened, hissed closed. Silent. Breathing. Ticking. Then Professor Lanning began to walk down the center. Slowly. “ Well!” He announced, as if beginning a lecture. “Welcome to Intro to Econ! Today we’re going to learn Game Theory! Take notes because this is gonna be on the final!” Step, step, step. “You all know the stakes. Someone in here is a cheater. Someone thinks they can come to my class and pass it without doing the work. What makes you special, huh? What makes you so important? What makes you so supreme that you can just pull up your little AI website and make all of academia irrelevant?” He paused at the bottom of the stairs, whipping his body all the way around. Facing the class, arms open. “The only thing that makes you special is the fact you are Nathan’s buddy. Nathan’s pal. Nathan’s co-conspirator. And maybe, just maybe he will save you.” A pause, the class watching. “Maybe.” He said quieter. I try to look as normal as possible. Another face in the stunned crowd, frozen. But my mind churned, bubbled like my gut. I imagined Nathan out there right now, what he was thinking. Dreading, probably. Imaging his Mom–that helicopter parent of a woman–just laying it down on him. Tearing up old festering scars of failure with her amethyst manicured fingers. Bleeding broken truths, crying hopeless futures. That fate was sealed, I couldn’t do anything about that. But maybe I could ease it, maybe– “Maybe.” Professor Lanning said one more time, cupping his mouth with his hand. Scanning the faces, hunting, prodding, prickling. Then he teared his hand away, bellowed: “Where the fuck are you, Wariosballs57 !?” The silence was stifling, and despite themselves trickling laughs peppered the room. “Yeah. Yeah!” The professor pointed at everyone he could see laughing. “Laugh! Fucking laugh! None of this shit is serious, right?” His voice was strained now, high-pitched, desperate. “Wario’s balls! Wario’s balls! Take out your phones and record me! Post it on all your Snapchats and Instagrams! Wario’s balls! ” Mid-sentence he began to march up the stairs–fast. Any part of me that was withdrawn, contemplative, spat itself back up, flopping like a fish. I jumped and hoped he didn’t see. Professor Lanning stopped at my row again, Nathan’s row, and looked down with cold, narrowed eyes. To Riley, the girl who sat by the aisle, to the empty seat, to me, and then to everyone beyond. “You wouldn’t be stupid enough to sit right next to each other, would you?” He chuckled to himself, shook his head. “No, no.” Then he looked down. “What d'you think, Riley? Think they’d be stupid enough to sit next to naughty Nathan?” “Um…” Riley mumbled, as if unsure if the question was rhetorical. “No, Professor Lanning, I suppose in this situation, it would be more strategic to sit far apart… as to…” She froze as she turned to find the professor hanging over her expectantly, then continued. “--as to make it easier to hide the cheating by making it less concentrated… spatially.” Professor Lanning arched back up, nodded slowly, grinning. “Very good, Riley. It would make more sense, wouldn’t it? Not that cheating on an exam I gave ample opportunities to prepare for was particularly intelligent , anyway.” Another silence, as if waiting for laughs. None came. “Well,” Professor began again, leaning down, looking at Riley’s computer. “Let’s see this exam you have here. Ah yes. Why, Riley, would you be able to show me what you put for the ‘prisoner’s dilemma’ question?” “Yes, professor, of course. Um…” She scrolled furiously on her mousepad, fingers slipping, then came to a stop. “Um, here.” “Well would you look at that! Exactly correct. B, Nash’s equilibrium.” “Professor Lanning, I– I promise I didn’t cheat. I studied! Look I don’t have any other tabs open–” “That’s all great, Riley, really great. But if you want to show me you understand the ‘prisoner’s dilemma,’ explain it to me now.” He leaned up. “Explain it to the class! According to Nash’s equilibrium, how should Nathan, and Wariosballs57 for that matter, proceed?” “Um…” Riley looked around, brushed an auburn lock from her oval glasses and swallowed hard. “According to Nash’s equilibrium, both parties can statistically gain the most by both defecting–” “Both ratting each other out.” “--yes. But, Professor Lanning, I don’t mean to–to overstep but Nash’s equilibrium doesn’t exactly apply here. Nathan is already convicted, but, um, the other one–” “Wariosballs57.” “--yes, has not. This gives them the advantage in either decision. The only way that Nathan doesn’t get a zero is if, um, Wario, doesn’t defect but Nathan does.” “Indeed.” Even though Professor Lanning was seats away, it was as if his coffee-tinged breath was hot on my nose, spittle slapping my cheeks and forehead. I breathed, tried to think. Tried. I could speak up now, but–Nathan knew the consequences for that, too. My Dad would find out. Find out I hadn’t stopped seeing Nathan like I promised him, and worse, that we’d secretly both arranged to get into the same college. He’d probably hit me again, harder than before, and tell me that I’m a disgrace to Mom’s memory; but that wasn’t the part I was worried about. “What do you think?” I jumped, and this time he saw. Professor Lanning’s eyes were locked with mine. “What do you think?” He asked again. “Wha—” “You. Whatever your name is cuz you never speak. What should Wario do?” “Oh, uh–” I realize I’m stuttering, stumbling, struggling, but I can’t do anything to stop it. It’s like sleep paralysis, an out of body experience, tied tight to the train tracks while the freight barrels down onto me. “Uh…” Louder and louder and louder. Say something. Say something! Suddenly, the back door hissed open. “Professor Lanning? It’s been five minutes.” “Perfect. Fan-tastic . Bring him in, Samantha.” The door yawned further, and Nathan shuffled inside. Cheeks flushed, eyes dropped. I could see it on his face immediately: he hadn’t told her anything. But it was wracking him, fissuring him on the inside. Regret. And terror. “There he is. Naughty Nathan.” “He wouldn’t tell me, Professor Lanning—“ Samantha began. Big hand met mouth, and then was pulled away. “You can’t calculate for this.” He muttered to himself. “But there’s still a lesson here, something you all will actually learn . Something you’ll remember. ” He paused, and the fire in his glare at Nathan was enough to light a match. Beside him, somehow, Riley tapped away at her computer. Slowly, deftly, poised to pounce, Professor Lanning moved up towards Nathan. One step at a time. I caught Nathan’s eyes and fell into them, our dreads becoming one, becoming whole. There was grief in that gaze, too, an anticipation of apocalypse. It was all falling apart. Then Nathan snapped his eyes away towards somewhere random, somewhere safe. The professor moved forward. “Why?” He asked, voice shaking, rage mixed with an almost academic curiosity. “Why do you think you could get away with it, hm? What made you think that this class was the one to butcher? To infect with your–with your– rat pestilence. ” He stopped in front of Nathan, jabbed a boney finger in his face. “Do you know how much time I spend grading your tests, annotating your papers, and replying to your stupid fucking emails? Hm? Do you even think about the shitty position that you cheating puts me in? No, you don’t care!” Nathan was shivering now, looking at the finger like it was a knife about to stab him. I wanted to run up there, to hug him, to take him away from this pain, to do anything . I could speak. I should speak. I’m going to speak. But out of the bellowing, the breathing, and the ticking of the clock–there was the soft trill of an Airdrop notification on my Macbook. Instinctually I turned, confused, but then I leaned forward. It was from “Riley’s Macbook Air,” and atop the white background of the image, typed in big, black Impact font letters was: “Tell Nathan to rat on me.” My head spun, and Riley was already staring back, eyes wide and insistent. She nodded quickly, then jerked her head towards the top of the room. There Professor Lanning continued. “It’s the pandemic, it’s gotta be. It’s gotta be! I can’t keep changing the syllabus like this, I can’t can’t keep going like this!” I looked to Riley again, for confirmation. Seriously? She nodded again, lowered her head and looked up grimly, and mouthed the words, “Do it.” And so I dragged my eyes away, back up towards Professor. “Tell me, Nathan. Please. Please. Why did you do it?” Silence, ticking. Nathan opened his mouth. “I– I had too many other finals and–” “ Bullshit . Tell me the real reason.” Desperately, I searched for Nathan’s eyes, subtly craning my neck. But he was fastened in, locked in deadly equilibrium. “It was–” Nathan began. “It’s–it’s been a hard semester for me so it was difficult to–” “ Bull-fucking-shit! ” I leaned further back in my chair, the two people above me looking down. “You could have contacted me about extenuating circumstances, like I advertised on the syllabus and many, many times in class. I’m reasonable! I’ve been reasonable!” He turned quickly to the class. “Haven’t I been reasonable!?” The clock snapped like a singer keeping beat. But in that tiny moment Nathan looked down to me in desperation, and we met in between. I could tell he saw something had changed in my eyes, then his eyes followed. I snapped my gaze down to Riley, who also looked up at him, then me, then him, then Nathan and I returned to each other. It all happened in a second, but just long enough for Professor Lanning to see something was wrong. “What?” He snapped. “What? You’re looking down at your classmates like they're gonna help you? You’re looking at Wariosballs57? None of them can save you!” He breathed in, then quickly spun around Nathan’s body. “Here here,” He gripped his shoulders from above, fatherly, then extended a hand out to the hall as if showing Nathan the kingdom he’d come to inherit. “Look at all of them, all 145 of them, all doing the same exact test. Now, Nathan, if you don’t tell me exactly who you were cheating with, every single last one of these students will be getting a zero .” Sensation erupted: movement, voices, laptops slamming shut. “You can’t do that!” Someone shouted from the front of the class. “Yes I can! Yes I fucking can! I am the Professor!” He stepped out from behind Nathan, and shouted over our heads. “I signed away my life to have this job. Years of grad school, of job searching, getting rejection letter after rejection letter, all because I knew in my heart that I wanted to teach. It was this class, this exact class, where I decided that was what I wanted to do. Professor Winley… he–it–it opened my mind ! When you see the world as a ‘prisoner’s dilemma,’ it all becomes so much more clear! So much more clear. Wars and nature and life and love–the real world: it’s the same dilemma, over and over and over again. And you don’t win by just being nice and staying quiet, but you don’t win by only betraying either. You have to be kind, be forgiving… but you also can’t take shit. You have to demand respect. Respect! Respect… That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Professor Lanning drooped over the top railing, rocking back and forth on his feet, rubbing the railing with his big hands like he was revving a motorcycle. No one moved. No one breathed. Except the clock. “It’s her, Professor.” Nathan said quietly, voice still shaking. Gradually, almost painfully, the Professor raised his head and followed Nathan’s extended finger. Down, down, down, until he landed on Riley. “It was Riley.” The girl let out a loud “eep,” slamming her computer shut with a snap, head spinning around the classroom. Her chest heaved, eyes wild. Then she looked up to the man above it all. “Professor Lanning, I–” “Riley…” Professor Lanning said slowly, but still cutting her off. “Riley…” He sounded tired, exhausted. But he raised himself nonetheless, plodding back down the steps with a kind of limp resolution. He stopped beside her. Now she buried herself in her knees, copper curly hair surrounding her, coiled and trembling and hiding. “Riley,” The professor said once again. “Show me your computer.” She slowly unraveled herself, never looking up. And with a quivering hand she peeled the computer open. I could see it was open to a Discord profile. “Wariosballs57.” He said, defeated.

He just breathed for a moment, looking at it. Observing. Then he gazed up at the ceiling, then back to the class. “It’s you who betrayed me.” Professor Lanning said softly. Half-stumbling he made his way down to the bottom of the lecture hall, gripping the railing then the podium for support. He stopped, wobbled, turned, and looked above us all: to the clock. He turned back.

Then the class watched, silently, as Professor Lanning carefully picked up an eraser and chalk and changed the “45 minutes” to “30.” He put them down and collapsed in his chair.


Be Warned This Story Contains Nearly 15,000 Dead Bodies. Even though Demann Nebraska was only abandoned a few decades ago, its existence and history have completely vanished from living memory. You can no longer find it on any maps or signs. No one talks about Susan’s iconic Baked Nebraska, or her diner anymore. No one remembers the famous family-owned inn located on Gertrude road. Route 61 has fallen silent, no longer do you hear the church bells, the traffic, or the chatter from the gas station rest stop. The radio station has ceased its broadcasting, its mast dark and dead. The typewriter in the newspaper office no longer rings with each typed line. The old computer in Miguel’s wood shop no longer keeps orders. You can no longer hear children laughing and playing during recess, or hear Mrs. Pearson teaching freshmen history. June 12th, 2018 Tony was driving down Nebraska Route 61 on his way to see a relative near Rapid City, South Dakota. He was jamming to some tunes on his phone when the music stopped. He looked at the screen, it had one alert displayed… “I can see you Tony.” “What on Earth? Is this some sort of sick joke?” He continued along until his engine chugged, started knocking, backfired, and then stalled. It sounded like it was coming apart and might explode. “What the heck! Are you kidding me? What just happened?” He coasted to a stop on the shoulder. As Tony sat trying to process what had happened, his phone dinged. Checking it showed a new alert… “We are watching you, we see you, we hear you.” Tony scoffed and cleared it. A few moments later, the camera opened and changed to selfie mode. His eyes widened and he reached for the door handle. Another alert chimed… “Please don’t open that door. We need you to save us.” The doors locked. “Uh! What? Help! Help! Help!” As he struggled with the lock, his radio came on. There was a bunch of static, then it started scrolling through stations before stopping. “This is KDMN 950 live from Demann, your source for all things Nebraska news. Today’s date is Tuesday, March 17th, 1992. Up next at 12 o’clock noon, a woman who went missing while walking her dog has been found. But first, weather and traffic.” The radio returned to static as Tony tried to turn it off. 1992? Demann? His phone rang. The caller ID read ‘Demann City Hall’ He sighed and answered. “What do you want?” A female replied cheerfully. “Is this Tony Mason?” “Yeah? What do you want from me?” “I just called to confirm you’re still attending the meeting with the permit office that you scheduled for today, March 17th at noon.” “I never scheduled that.” “Great! We’ll see you there! Safe travels!” There was silence. The other end had disconnected. After a moment, the engine started by itself. Tony restarted his directions and started driving to his aunt’s house, hoping that he was just tired. It has been a long journey, and that hotel bed was uncomfortable. I’m probably just going crazy from the long trip. “Recalculating. Recalculating.” His GPS told him. “Faster route detected. New arrival time is negative 9-5-8-3 days. In 1,000 feet, turn right, Gertrude Road.” Tony ignored his GPS. There was no way it could be accurate. As he was about to pass the turn, the car whined and started smoking. He turned onto Gertrude road and was about to stop when the vehicle quit having problems. He sighed as he understood there was no escape. He continued down the rutted overgrown road that had clearly not seen use in years. What is Demann? It can’t be a town, the nearest town is miles away. He pulled into a driveway and stopped. His phone chimed, an alert read, “Save us please. Explore Demann, free us. I beg you.” The car doors unlocked, so Tony parked, shut off the engine and got out. He was not doing this willingly, but had realized he had no choice. The building in front of him was large and two stories tall. There was a sign above the door that read ‘Bradson Family Inn’. There were no lights on in the lobby, and the place had clearly seen better days. As Tony approached, he saw someone pass by him wheeling a luggage cart with suitcases on it. He looked back at the building and noticed the lights were on, the decay was gone, and the parking lot neat, maintained, and crowded. A bell tolled somewhere in the distance, chiming 7:00. There was something about the people and cars, they seemed to be strangely translucent. He turned around and surveyed the area, brow furrowed in confusion. Cars drove past on a road that was free of ruts and grass. He turned back to the front door, a guy in some sort of bellhop uniform had exited and was helping someone. The image flickered back to its current dilapidated state. A rusty luggage cart lay on its side next to an abandoned car. He walked over to it, on the dash was a wallet. He tried the driver’s side door and found it was unlatched, so he reached in and grabbed it. There was an ID in it from a Joseph Nidwald, he stashed the ID in the wallet and left it on the dash. He headed towards the building and looked through the front windows, everything seemed to have been left behind. A thick layer of dust now coated the lobby. He noticed a person wearing ripped jeans, a flannel shirt, and a backwards baseball cap, slumped on a couch. Shuddering, Tony turned and returned to his car. Unfortunately, his car keys were no longer there. His phone showed a todo list, there were two items. “Investigate the Bradson. Uncover the past. Put our souls to rest.” and, “Check in, Francis Brooks.” Tony sighed and returned to the front door. When he arrived, the lights flickered and came on, he now saw guests roaming around. They were no longer translucent. However, everything had become slightly overexposed. A bell in the distance faintly called out the hour, 8:00. The sliding door opened and Tony entered, he looked at himself and realized he was wearing a suit and bow tie. In his hand was now a briefcase. He went to the front desk, but saw no staff. There was a bell, so he rang it. Moments later, an employee appeared from the back, his nametag despite being hard to make out read, “Joseph Bradson” “Hello! Welcome to the Bradson Family Inn! Are you checking in?” “Yes.” Tony’s voice was now fairly gravely, a significant difference from his normal one. “Alright! Can I get a name?” “Francis Brooks.” “Alright! How many nights are you staying?” “Just one.” “Alright! That’ll be 34 dollars.” Tony, or Francis as he is currently, checked his pockets and found a wallet. He paid with cash. Joseph smiled again. “Thank you! Enjoy your stay. You are room 113. Go right at the fork, and to the end of the hall.” He handed Francis a card. “Thank you.” Francis walked to his room and let himself in. He set his briefcase on the desk and sat. Everything flickered and faded. Suddenly he was Tony again, standing at reception. He noticed Joseph crumpled behind the desk, he then saw his car keys next to the bell and grabbed them. Once headed back outside and to his car, Tony saw that his phone showed a new message. “Now that you’ve seen the Bradson in its former glory, you are closer to understanding our story and helping our souls rest. Head into downtown, please.” Tony let out a small sigh and started his car. He checked his fuel and noticed it was now reading full. He put it in drive and exited the parking lot. His GPS guided him deeper into the woods. He passed a few derelict homes until his GPS finally told him his destination was on his left. He saw an old sign that read “Susan’s Diner”. He turned into the parking lot and parked. He shut off his engine and as he was about to take his keys out, they vanished. He sighed, now understanding the drill. He checked his phone, his to-do list had changed. There was a new uncrossed item, “Trevor’s visit to Susan’s Diner.” He got out and headed to the door, once again the lights flickered on and everything turned slightly overexposed. Tony looked at himself. He was wearing jeans, and a hoodie. He looked back, his car was gone, but everything looked neat and maintained. He entered the diner and found a free booth. A woman came over and handed him a menu. “Hello again, Mr. Murphy! Would you like your usual coffee?” “Yes, please. Thank you.” Trevor said. Tony didn’t seem to have much control over events, but that made sense since this seemed to be an echo of the past or something. He could look, but not act. The clock on the wall read 8:45. The bell on the door chimed and Tony recognized Francis Brooks. His drink arrived and he ordered pancakes. Cars drove past, it was peaceful, serene even. He heard a noise and looked up, it was the clock tower. After a short melody, it sounded 9:00. Tony continued to wait and listen to the rock and roll music playing over the speakers. He heard a lady yell, “Let there be fire !” He turned in time to see a woman brandishing a plumbing torch wildly before blasting a dessert. Other patrons cheered and clapped, Trevor did too. She brought the still-smoking dessert to someone and proudly announced “Here’s your Baked Nebraska! Enjoy! Careful, she’s still hot.” The lady went back into the kitchen and resumed cooking. Once again everything flickered and faded. He was Tony once more, standing at the counter. He saw the woman deceased, fallen backward away from an open safe. He assumed she must be the owner, Susan. Next to her was a plumbing torch with a faded label: “Susan’s Beloved Torch, Marlene.” Tony bowed his head and stood there silent for a moment. As he surveyed the diner, he saw several patrons still seated at their booths, and one waitress propped against the side wall. The booth Trevor Murphy had once occupied, now sat an elderly couple. Tony noticed his car keys on the counter and grabbed them. He returned to his car and noticed several abandoned vehicles. Once safely back in, he started the engine. “Can you hear me?” He called, uncertain. His phone chimed with a text from an unknown number. All it said was, “Yes.” “What happened here? Can I ask who is leading me?” There were bubbles on his phone, indicating the other end was typing. After a moment, he got a reply. “I do not know. We had no warning. My name was Raymond Young. I was the senior advisor to Mayor Henston.” “I'm sorry for how I've acted, I had no idea this town even existed. Does anyone besides me know about these people?” More typing. “Based on your reaction and the general state of our town, I’d say no.” “Where do I go next?” “3 stops remain. Go to the community center.” “Lead the way.” His GPS started giving him more directions. As he drove, he entered the heart of town. The device directed him through the residential area. He passed decaying old homes, their yards overgrown. There was an abandoned car that had crashed into a tree. Tony thought he saw what remained of a bicycle under the front end. Once he arrived at the community center, he parked and shut off the engine. His keys vanished and he got out and walked to the entrance. Once he arrived, the colors changed and he was once again in the past, at least visually. He wasn’t sure if he actually was or if it was a vision. Nor did he care. As he stepped in, he heard roller skates and looked around before heading inside. Again, his, or at least the person he was viewing’s, legs guided him through the building. He passed a roller skating area, a door labeled “Squash Racquet Court, 11 AM to 5 PM. Appointment Only.”, and the gym. He finally entered a small bakery and got a couple cookies and a coffee. The little old lady behind the counter handed him his stuff. “Enjoy. Thank you,” she said smiling. As he sat down in a small seating area, a clock struck 10. He looked around, listening to the noises of people enjoying themselves. He was wearing a uniform from “Joe’s Boiler Works”, his nametag read ‘Kevin’. After a few minutes, he checked his watch and quickly stood before heading towards the exit. His vision flickered once more and there he stood in the crumbling building, dead bodies littered the floor, the once joyful lively rollerblading rink now had a caved-in ceiling, and dead people everywhere, still in their skates. The sounds of dripping water echoed through the building. As he turned, he saw his keys on the table where Kevin sat earlier. Now, there was a man and woman. The woman was crumpled on the floor holding an open box containing a ring, the male facing her. His eyes welled up with tears. What happened to Demann? He thought as he grabbed his keys and returned to his car. His phone showed the next location. As he drove to Demann High School, he thought about what he had seen. He had to tell someone, but who? How? Finally, he pulled into the parking lot and found a spot near an abandoned station wagon. Tony parked and watched as his keys vanished. He got out and headed inside. As he passed the main office, everything returned to its former glory. He was now a teenager. A bell echoed through the halls and he walked to room 109 before taking a seat. As he looked around, he saw other students and a name on the board, ‘Pearson’. He unpacked his bag and pulled out a battered notebook, and a pencil. The teacher entered and set down a stack of papers. “Sorry I’m late, class. The copier was having a mental breakdown. But, aren’t we all?” The class chuckled. After sitting for a while as she taught history, the bell rang and everyone stood. “Don’t forget! No homework, but the test is on Thursday. Please study, I know you can do…!” She gasped and collapsed to the floor. As everyone stared in concern, everything went black and he stood by the main office, Tony again. He noticed several students, likely dead. It never smelled like decay, just musty. He realized he was holding his keys and left the building before getting in the car. His GPS guided him to the town square. He parked along the curb, near several abandoned cars, a few had their doors open, and others had crashed. As Tony got out, his keys vanished. He walked into the park. Then the bell of the clock tower nearby tolled. It played the Westminster Chime, then chimed 11 times, as he watched, birds sat in midair, mid-flap. As he watched, they began flying backward. The clock began doing the same, the hands grew faster, the sun began moving as well. As he stood there, the town around him began to show signs that it was repairing itself, as he watched, snow unmelted and went back up, and leaves rejoined the trees. Another summer passed, another spring, another winter, another year. It eventually stopped back at noon and the clock tolled 12 again. People roamed around. A radio played the news. He was free to wander now. Though, no one seemed to notice him. As he wandered, he suddenly saw a bright flash of light over the trees in the distance. As it approached, he saw several people slump over. A car crashed into a pole. Someone down the block ran, only to collapse like the rest. Tony finally understood as he realized he was back in his car. “What is in the woods outside of Demann?” He finally asked as he pieced everything together. “Not much, a radio station and a laboratory doing vaccine testing.” Came the reply from Raymond. After alerting the authorities about the mass grave, he continued on his way. He couldn’t stop thinking though, so once he was done visiting, he did some digging. To his surprise, he found almost nothing. No records. Just a small map, and several expertly missing pages. It was like it had been erased from history.


It was 8pm on New Year’s Eve and Lia was sprawled out on her couch, clutching the remote in her hand as she aimlessly scrolled through some movie options.

This is fine. This is fun too .

Her hair had been curled, makeup had been applied, and in her closet was the gorgeous sparkly dress that she had bought a month earlier. She had been so excited to wear it, but now she didn’t have the energy to put it on. Instead she was still wearing the pajamas that she had woken up in that morning. Lia figured that she must have looked pretty ridiculous, all dolled up but dressed in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see her anyway.

A new year was above her, and Lia couldn’t muster up an ounce of excitement. This wasn’t how today was supposed to be, it should have been one of the best days of her life, but instead it served as a painful reminder of just how alone she truly was.

Someone started knocking at her door, and instead of getting up, Lia merely yelled at the top of her lungs, “Go away!”. The noise stopped, and she breathed a sigh of relief before turning her attention back towards her screen. All she wanted was to be alone and wallow in self pity for a few more hours.

Unfortunately for her, the unmistakable sound of a key unlocking the door echoed through her house. Lia jumped to her feet and lunged towards the door, but before she could push it shut, it swung open to reveal the man at her doorstep.

“Oliver!” She groaned, putting her hands on his chest and trying to shove her friend out the door. “I want to be alone right now! Get out of here!”

“No can do.” Oliver gently moved her hands away from him, and shut the door behind him. Hanging from his arm was a grocery bag that was filled to the brim with snacks and drinks. “It’s New Year’s Eve after all. You can’t celebrate it alone.”

“Yes I can.” Lia huffed, although she graciously accepted the bag when Oliver handed it to her. Taking a quick peek inside, she was thrilled to see that at least he had remembered to bring her favorite cookies. “Thanks for the food, you can leave now.”

Oliver ignored her and walked towards the living room. Lia followed him, scowling as she thought about how she never should have told him where she hid her spare key outside. They had been childhood friends who had grown up next to each other, so normally she would have been fine with Oliver coming over unannounced but tonight was different. “You look nice.” Oliver said. If he found her appearance weird at all, at least he had the decency to be polite about it. “Your hair looks pretty like that. It's been a while since I've seen you with curly hair.”

“Thanks.” Lia touched one of the curls that framed her face. She remembered how Aidan, her ex, had always preferred it when she straightened her hair. Because of him, she had spent the last four years frying her hair every single week.

“So what are we watching?” Oliver asked, sitting down on the couch. He turned to look at Lia and saw that she was staring at him. “What?” “You look different.” Lia blinked in surprise, as she took in Oliver’s outfit. He was wearing a fitted collared shirt, with a blazer and dress pants. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen him dressed up so formally, normally he always wore jeans and flannel shirts. “You look good though.”

“Thanks. Kinda feel like I’m suffocating a little though.” Oliver laughed as he tugged at his collar. “I had to dig this out of the back of my closet. I wanted to match with you though, since I know you always love to dress really fancy.”

“Is this what you call fancy?” Lia asked, as she gestured at her outfit. The shirt was so long that it nearly reached her knees. “I feel ridiculous. I don’t know why I did my hair or makeup. I guess it was just out of habit, I couldn’t stop myself. I had this dress that I was going to wear tonight, I spent half of my paycheck on it.”

“Where’s the dress?” Oliver asked. “Did you burn it or something? Return it?”

“It’s in my room. Why don't you pick something for us to watch?” Lia said, finally accepting that she was stuck with him for the rest of the night. She sighed and flopped down on the couch next to Oliver. “It’s stupid but I didn’t want to return it because it was a reminder of the last time that I felt genuinely happy. When I bought that dress all I could think about was how I was going to wear it to Aidan’s family New Year’s Eve gala.”

“No offense but that’s kind of a dumb reason to keep a dress that costs hundreds of dollars.”

“I know.” Lia laughed, although it made her heart hurt. “But I didn’t realize that until after the fourteen day return policy was up. So now I’m stuck with the dress.”

“Why don’t you put it on?” Oliver suggested. “Make some new memories with it. Maybe you’re not gonna be surrounded by a bunch of rich people who eat caviar and drink expensive wine, but at least you have me and my post-college interview suit and Mamma Mia 1 & 2.”

“I thought you hated musicals.” Lia couldn’t help but smile. It had been the first time in a long while since she had done that.

“I do.” Oliver chuckled. “But for you, I will sit through as many hours of singing and dancing as humanly possible.”

“Alright, I’ll be right back.” Lia said, as she slipped away to her bedroom. She marched up to the closet and pulled up the dress. It was stunning. A gorgeous rich blue color with delicate sparkles scattered throughout the fabric.

She felt a pang in her chest, as she thought about what that night should have been like, but she shook those thoughts away and put on the dress. Oliver was right though, she couldn’t keep holding on to the past and thinking about what should have been. Plus, she had spent so much money on the dress, she needed to at least wear it once.

Lia went back to the living room, and blushed slightly when Oliver started cheering and clapping as she walked in. She sat down next to him, and turned on the movie.

They spent the next few hours on the couch, snacking on the food that Oliver had brought and watching the characters on screen sing about all their life problems. Lia snuck a few glances over at Oliver and was pleasantly surprised to see that he was fully engrossed in the story, despite claiming that he didn't like musicals.

She had to admit that she was glad Oliver had come over to spend New Years Eve with her. Him being there, made Lia feel a lot better.

“You wanna know something funny?” Lia asked him, as she grabbed another cookie from the bag. “I thought Aidan and I were gonna get engaged tonight.”

A look of surprise crossed Oliver’s face, and he reached out and paused the movie. “Really? You were going to marry him?”

“I really thought I was. I would have said yes if he asked.” Lia admitted. “You never liked him that much, did you?”

“No, it's not that….he was an okay guy, I guess.” Oliver seemed hesitant to speak. “I knew you were happy with him, and I wanted you to be happy, I care about you a lot.”

“But?” Lia asked, knowing that there was still much more he had to say.

“But you never seemed like your true self when he was around.”

Lia stayed silent. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but deep down she secretly agreed with what Oliver had said. When she had been with Aidan, she had loved him very much. But she had also changed a lot about herself, so that she could be the perfect girlfriend for him.

“Were you happy when you found out that Aidan and I had broken up?” Lia asked.

“I wasn’t happy, because I knew that you’d be really upset.” Oliver responded. “But I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit relieved.” He looked at her, and his cheeks reddened slightly when he realized just how close the two of them were. "Do you miss him?" "A little." Lia admitted. "He was a big part of my life for the last four years. But...I think it was for the best that we ended things. Aidan wasn't the type of guy who would lounge around on the couch with me and eat junk food. He didn't really know the real me, he just liked the idea of who I could be." "It's almost midnight." Oliver said, as he showed her his watch. Lia looked at the time, and saw that there were only a few seconds left before the new year arrived. She decided to do something crazy. Once the clock struck midnight, she leaned forward and kissed the guy that she had known all her life. To her surprise, he kissed back.


The house is quiet. It’s just after midnight. Beth turned in early. She has a big meeting in the morning. I have three people coming in for interviews first thing. I can’t sleep so I head downstairs to go over their resumes. On paper they all seem solid. I make a few notes in the margins. After a while, my eyes finally heavy, I head upstairs. Down the hall, I notice Charlie’s light is still on. It’s a school night. He should have been in bed hours ago. I tap at his bedroom door and hear a sudden rustle of movement, then footsteps. The door opens a crack. Even in the dim light, I am overcome. Somehow, he has taken the best parts of me and Beth and transformed them. He was always a great looking kid, wavy dark hair and deep blue eyes, generous smile. But now, at sixteen, the only word is beautiful. Through the crack in the door, Charlie leans forward, head down, and whispers, “Dad, the sun is dying.” His ears twitch, alert for my reaction. When he doesn’t get one, he steps back and opens the door wide. I haven’t been in his bedroom for maybe a couple of days, but it’s almost unrecognizable. Sheets of notepaper filled with writing are taped across the walls. His desk, usually meticulous, is piled high with books, drawings, and more paper. One thing that hasn’t changed is the telescope at the window, ever vigilant, aimed up high and into the night. Beth and I had gotten it for his eighth birthday. We would joke that his nose was always down in a book and now his head was in the stars. I take a step into the bedroom. “Charlie, when you say the sun is dying, what do you mean?” He’s always liked his hair long. It covers his eyes and folds in thick waves almost down to his shoulders. He reaches up and wipes the hair back from his forehead, thinking. It’s the same gesture he had as a boy. For just a moment I want to scoop him up into my arms and pretend it was years ago and I could hold him forever. But then he does something that surprises me. He looks me straight in the eye. Lately he’s gotten into the habit of avoiding direct eye contact, usually instead looking off somewhat to the side, to somewhere in the distance. He breaks away and heads over to his desk. “I’ve done the work.” He rifles through papers, picks one seemingly at random, and hands it to me. The page, torn from his school notebook, is filled with mathematical equations. Dense, they fill every line and curve into the margins. I can figure out some of it. They are computations on density, velocity, speed, temperature, spectral type. Each computation starts with strong, deliberate strokes and then trails off into symbols I can’t readily identify. I keep hold of the paper and take a seat at the desk. Charlie starts pacing, his arms rising and falling in wide arcs as he talks. “Alpha Centauri A. Point zero zero zero five five smaller than it was on Saturday. Tau Ceti, a G-type star just like our own sun. I’ve been studying some spectroscopic data. It’s chemical fingerprint—the balance between hydrogen and helium—is different than twelve days ago.” I pause, considering my words carefully. “If what you say is true—” Charlie’s stops pacing, his back tenses. I try again. “Your user group. Has anyone else noticed these anomalies?” He shrugs. “Total silence. It’s like they don’t want to hear it, like maybe they’re afraid of the truth or of panic if people knew what was coming. I called Dr. Fillman at the Observatory, but he’s so focused on the origins of everything that he’s blind to what’s right in front of us.” “But if—.” “Dad, there is no if about it. Why does everyone assume the laws of physics are immutable? Everything changes, given enough time. A star’s elemental makeup, the chain reactions that have been going on for billions and billions of years, it’s always been evolving. Now, though, for some reason, it’s all changing at an exponential pace. Solar flares and sunspots I barely noticed a week ago are increasing in intensity and size. The sun, our sun, won’t become a red giant in 5 billion years. It will simply die out. No grand explosion. A whimper. Soon. Not sure how long. I need better equipment, more data. All the books, all the science, all wrong.” Charlie suddenly stops pacing and stares at me, trying to measure whether I grasp what he is saying. But his hands become busy, fingers on one hand enfolding those on the other, releasing, tightening again. It all seems to exhaust him because suddenly his shoulders droop. He moves to a corner of the room, drops to the floor, pulls his legs up to his chest. I move to sit beside him. He rubs at his eyes with a corner of his sleeve. “There’s not much time. Mom. We have to tell mom.” I lean into my son, wrap an arm around him, pull him close. He tenses. A full minute passes before his shoulders relax, his breathing becomes regular. Slowly, he leans into me. After another minute he speaks again, his voice low and shaky. “Dad, is there something wrong with me?” There’s movement in the hallway. Beth is up. A creak as the bedroom door opens. She looks around the room, sees the disorder, then sees Charlie and me huddled together in the corner. She understands. She won’t be going to the office in the morning. Neither will I. Charlie won’t be going to school tomorrow. This, whatever this is, is bigger than the two of us. The three of us. Beth walks over and kneels in front of me. With my free hand I reach out. She folds against me. We remain there, Charlie curled under one arm, Beth under the other. My mind races for a bit, trying to figure out next steps. Then it, too, settles down. I take in the room. From here, on the floor, it all looks different. Charlie’s desk seems massive and immovable. The papers taped to the walls transform into a collage of color and lines and overlapping shapes. But the telescope. It hasn’t changed. It remains pointed up at the heavens like a sentry keeping eternal watch. And beyond the telescope there is nothing but the night sky and darkness. Hours to go until dawn.


The last of the campers either made their way up the steps of the bus that would be carrying them home for the night, or those old enough to drive themselves piled into their cars and pulled out of the dirt parking lot.

All that was left to finish for the night was to pull out the supplies for tomorrow’s craft for the youngins, write the outline for the camp sermon, prepare the special treat for the campers and to finally finish her Bible notes for the day.

Shouldn’t take too long if she got back to the farm right now and got started on her chores.

Savannah Ash, Sav for short, pulled up the long driveway, bumping along every pebble, feeling every imperfection in her older than dirt pick-up truck that everyone said she should replace, but she just couldn’t part with.

Realizing that it was 5:30, she ran into the house tossing her keys on the counter and changed into her work clothes, slamming into a wall of muscle known as her brother, as she zoomed out of her room.

Beau, with his 6’6” towered over her 5’10 frame, but though he hated to admit it, Sav could keep up with him on most things.

However, she didn’t play football so they’d never know the answer to that mystery.

“Whoa, where are you in such a hurry to?” he asked, his booming voice filling the house.

He was seven years older than Sav and he had practically raised her since their parents passed away when she was twelve.

“You know I got to get to the calf barn so that I can feed the cows and start getting the Jerseys weaned,” she replied, getting a little irritated that he was still standing in her way and her to-do list kept growing, “not to mention I have to get stalls for the new babies ready and bring them over.” She watched as his stern face morphed into a big grin and turned to sprint back to her room as his huge hook of an arm came and pulled her into a headlock and began messing up the pony tail she had just pulled her hair into.

“I was just messin’ with you Sav,” he said with a laugh, finally releasing her.

She pulled away, and looked him in the eyes as she fixed her hair. “Very funny,” she said with a look that reflected how unamused she was, “do you still have more seeds to plant?”

“Yeah, I have probably another three acres that need seeds.

I’m going to go do that while you are in the barn.

Let me know when you're done and we’ll figure out dinner.”

Without a word of response, she gave a quick salute and headed to the back door and slipped on her dirt-caked pink crocs.

As she walked to the calf barn, the sun hung golden in the sky, bathing the world in warmth.

She looked around the farm and smiled to herself.

Beau had done a good job of keeping the farm going since their parents died.

He did most of the work on the actual farm during the day, with the help of a couple other farm hands.

That meant that he was in charge of the cows and planting the seeds and harvesting of the crops.

Today he was getting the pumpkin seeds in the ground so that they would be ready in the fall for the pumpkin patch.

Sav was in charge of the calf barn and was also in charge of the bakery.

She would help out with whatever else she could, but she knew that this was Beau’s project.

She stepped into the barn and got to work thinking about how proud their dad would have been of Beau.

The town knew the story because they all had pity for the family when the Ash kids lost both of their parents in a car accident, but the pity was quickly replaced with respect.

Respect for the fact that Beau had raised his younger sister while expanding the family business the way their late father had wanted to and keep the family legacy alive.

With these thoughts occupying her mind, Sav’s chores were done before she knew it.

Later that night, after a dinner of barbecued chicken sandwiches with slaw and corn on the cob, Sav cleaned up the table and did the dishes.

She headed over to the bakery so that she could check inventory and then whip up the treat that she was bringing to camp in the morning as Beau headed into the den to watch some sports show.

Sav was greeted at the door with the ever present spicy sweet aroma as she flipped on lights and set down her bag.

Reba MacEntire streamed through the speakers above as she tied on an apron and thoughts of her momma crossed her mind.

She could see her standing over by the massive industrial ovens bouncing along to Reba’s “Pink Guitar” as she pulled tray after tray of her famous beignets out of the heat. Snapping out of her day dream, Sav began her Thursday night ritual of baking beignets for the campers on Friday just as her

momma had done when she was alive.

Although, once she started, she noticed that she was going to have to make more than she thought seeing as the bakery was out.

Not that Sav minded--it meant that she got to spend more time with the woman she most admired.

It wasn’t until 10:30 that the music fizzled out of the speakers and Sav removed the flour speckled apron that she had worn like a shield for the past three and a half hours.

She left the trays on a cooling tower, flipped the lights off, locked the door and walked back to the main house.

Opening the door, a sports announcer’s voice floated down the hallway as he announced the Braves, Giants score.

Sav walked into the den to see her brother passed out in the recliner looking like a spitting image of their father.

Turning back to the kitchen, Sav made herself a cup of tea before making her way to her room. After showering and pulling on her favorite red flannel pj shorts with the matching tank top that says “Country Girl”, she settled in her desk chair with her tea, her Bible, and her notebook.

Opening the Bible she let the withered bookmark float to the desk and she read the message that stared back at her: to my beautiful baby girl, you are an angel sent to me from God and I am so proud of you.

You will do great things.

Tears pricked her eyes as she slid the bookmark to the side of the desk and began reading, silently taking notes with Lauren Digal stream softly in the background.

This was how Sav always ended her summer nights--outlining the sermon that she was going to give in the morning shortly after the campers arrived.

It was the job of the camp director and she learned from the best having watched her mom do it for years.

Many parents of the campers over the years have come up to her and told her that she is just like her mother.

Everyone in town knew that the place to send their kids for the summer was over to Meriam Ash’s Chirstian Church Camp.

After her mother passed, the camp wasn’t open for a couple years, but once Sav turned fifteen, she started getting things ready and she brought back the camp as yet another way to honor her mother.

Soon the clock read 12:00.

Yawn. Stretch. Put the bookmark in the Bible.

Close the cover.

Crawl into bed.

Sav laid in her sea of pillows and stared at the ceiling.

Life was hard without her parents, but at just eighteen, she had accomplished so much.

Though she did not get to experience the rest of her life with her parents, she knew that they never truly left her.


Mara was sulking in her bedroom. This was becoming a rather common occurrence for her. Downstairs was the Christmas tree, fully decorated and lit up in the living room of the house she’d been living in for just three months. Normally, Mara loved decorating the Christmas tree, but this morning, while her father, step-mother Valerie, and step sister Janice, were decorating the tree, she was sulking in her bedroom. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Mara felt it should be illegal to put the tree up so early. She and her family always put the tree up on the first Saturday of December. However, it was her step-family’s tradition to put it up on Thanksgiving Day, and her father told her that this year, the holidays would require compromise from both sides of the family. Her father talked about the importance of compromise often over the last few months. Somehow, it felt like Mara was the only one who had to compromise.            Janice didn’t have to give up her Christmas Tree tradition, but Mara did. Janice’s mother was here for Thanksgiving, but Mara’s mother was on the other side of the state. Janice didn’t have to change schools when their parents got married, but Mara had to leave behind all of her friends. Now, Mara wouldn’t even be spending Thanksgiving with her family. Valerie’s parents, brother, and sister were coming to their house, along with some of Janice’s cousins. Mara just really wanted to spend the holidays with her family. Instead, she felt as though she was sharing the holidays with strangers.

*knock knock*            “What?” Mara snapped. Her bedroom door creaked open, and Janice entered. The two seventh graders were only a couple of months apart, but Mara often felt that they were ages apart mentally.            “Why didn’t you help us with the tree?” Janice asked, her voice soft.            “You’re not supposed to put up the tree on Thanksgiving. You’re supposed to wait until December,” Mara rolled her eyes.            “We’ve always put it up on Thanksgiving. It’s tradition” Janice shrugged.            “Well, it’s a stupid tradition.”            “My mom said we have to compromise. We’re doing some of your family’s traditions, and we’re doing some of my family’s.”            “We’re only doing what your family wants to do!” Mara argued in exasperation.            “That’s not true!”            “Is so!”            “It’s just a tree! Why does it matter what day we put it up? Who cares?” Janice exclaimed.            “It’s not just the tree! I’m the one who had to switch schools, I’m the one who had to move out of my house and away from my family, and you haven’t had to do anything! You haven’t lost anything!” Mara was yelling now.            “I had to do that too!” Janice yelled back.            “No, you haven’t. Get out,” Mara huffed. Tired of arguing, Janice turned and left the bedroom, leaving her stepsister to continue to sulk. What a stupid thing to say. She didn’t move out of her house or change schools or give up her holiday traditions. She gets all of her family. I’m the one who keeps losing. Mara thought to herself. ***            It seemed like Mara was always in a bad mood. Anytime Janice tried to get along with her, Mara would push her away. It was clear that Mara did not like her. Janice was easily the happier of the two, but after being around Mara, she was often in a bad mood, as she was after arguing with Mara. How dare Mara imply Janice didn’t know what she was going through? She was fully aware that Janice’s father had passed away when she was seven after a six-month battle with cancer. After her father died, people made a point to tell Janice’s family that he had in fact won the battle with cancer. Janice had always felt like the reality was that even if he did win his battle, she still lost. That year, it felt like all Janice did was lose. She lost her father, and soon after, her mother could not stand living in the same house her husband died, so the two moved. Her mother fell into a depression for a several months, and during that time, not a single holiday was celebrated. The next year, when her mother had come out of her depression, the two made new holiday traditions, along with keeping some of their old ones. Janice’s favorite was putting up the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day. There were pictures of her and her father decorating the tree together. When her mother explained the holiday traditions would have to include compromise this year, Janice was adamant about keeping the tradition of putting the tree up on Thanksgiving Day. It was the only tradition she felt really cared bout keeping, yet Mara was acting like it was the end of the world.            “And then, she told me to leave. She’s impossible,” Janice ranted to her mother, who was just about to put the turkey in the oven. Janice was clearly correct about this situation, and she wanted the backup from her mother.            “I think Mara is right,” Janice’s mother responded calmly.            “What?! How can you say that?! She’s being ridiculous!” Janice tried to convince her.            “Or, do you think maybe she is just struggling? She’s had a lot of change this year,” her mother tried to explain.            “So have I,” Janice reminded her.            “Of course, you have. But you also didn’t change houses or schools.”            “She’s acting like she’s the only one to ever lose something. I had to change houses and schools when Dad died. It’s not like I don’t understand her,” Janice continued complaining.            “Did you tell her that?”            “Tell her what?”            “That you understand.”            “No,” Janice answered, her voice softer.            “Maybe you should,” her mother said after placing the turkey in the oven. Janice sighed and walked out of the kitchen, suddenly feeling as though she’d approached the situation incorrectly. *** *Knock knock* “Yeah?” Mara answered. Janice opened the door, and her stepsister rolled her eyes before asking what she wanted. “You know I’ve done all of this before,” Janice stated. She noticed the tear stains on Mara’s face, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Done all of what?” Mara asked, confused. “You know… Moving houses, changing schools. The year my dad died, we didn’t even celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. It sucked,” Janice explained. “You didn’t do anything?” “Not that year. A couple of months after my dad died, my mom and I moved here. After the funeral and the move, I guess the shock wore off for my mom. She’d go to work and the grocery store, but she didn’t leave much other than that. She’d spend most of her time at home in bed or on the couch. She rarely cooked and hardly talked to me. I was seven, so I thought she was mad at me. But then, she got some help, and the next year, we celebrated holidays again. My favorite tradition has always been putting the tree up on Thanksgiving. The first time we celebrated holidays without my dad was really hard,” Janice went on. “When did things feel normal again?” Mara asked, listening intently. Janice shrugged. “They never really felt normal again. My mom and I created a new normal. Things never felt the way they were before, but they did feel okay again,” Janice answered. “Then, isn’t it annoying having to make a new normal again now that my dad and I are here?” Mara questioned. “Not really. I’ve done it before, so I know we’ll do it again. Besides, it feels nice to have you guys here. It almost feels like a family again,” Janice smiled. “Almost?” “Yeah. I’m sure it will eventually feel like a family, but I’m okay with it feeling just almost for now,” Janice confirmed. Mara nodded, but didn’t say anything. She was absorbing all that her stepsister had told her. *** A few hours had gone by, and family members were beginning to arrive. Janice had been introducing Mara to each family member that entered the home. The two girls and some of Janice’s cousins were in Janice’s bedroom, waiting for dinner to be ready.            “We always go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” Janice told Mara.            “Yeah, we go in order from oldest to youngest,” Kelsey, one of Janice’s younger cousins added.            “Does your family do that too?” Janice asked.            “We do it differently. We write what we’re thankful for on a tablecloth that goes on the table. Then, at dinner we say what we each wrote. We write it in a different color every year so that we don’t lose track,” Mara explained.            “That sounds fun! We should do that!” Janice exclaimed, jumping up and running out of the room. Mara and the cousins followed Janice downstairs.            “Mom! Mara and her family always write what they’re thankful for on the tablecloth! Can we do that too?” Janice asked excitedly.            “Oh, girls, I don’t know. This is a nice tablecloth,” her mother tried to explain.            “Please? Dad, don’t you think this would be so fun?” Mara begged.            “Yeah, you both said we have to compromise!” Janice reminded them. The married couple smiled before conceding. The girls ran to grab a marker, deciding on an orange marker since it was fall. Over the next hour, each family member made a point to write something on the tablecloth.            After praying over the meal, each family member went around and said what they wrote. They decided to go in order of oldest to youngest, since that was Janice’s family’s tradition.            “Mara, it’s your turn. What are you thankful for?” her father asked, peering over the basket of rolls in an attempt to see what she had written. Janice spoke up before Mara could.            “Mara and I wrote the same thing,” Janice giggled.            “What did you write?” he asked again. Mara smiled proudly.            “I’m thankful for compromise.”


TW: abuse As mum avoided our piercing stares as she dropped the dishes on the table to occupy herself, hoping that today’s dinner would not end in a fight. She sat down quietly and looked like she was suffering from a heat stroke. We knew that was not the case, she was just trying to find her voice. “Let’s say our prayers” She said a bit meekly as she bent her head down. I glanced at dad, who did not care much for the prayers or the food as he looked at mum with disdain in his eyes, he did not even bother to hide it from us, his three kids…or so we thought until a few days ago. After mum had said the prayers without much contribution from the rest of us, she looked at Elsa, my younger sister with pleading eyes. Elsa stood up and served the food quietly. I looked at mum and she nodded. I was to pour the water. Why couldn’t everyone just serve themselves? I thought to myself as stood up and picked up the jar of water. I had a bitter taste in my mouth as I went over to pour some for my dad. He still had the stench of cigarettes and alcohol on him. I did not have to think much before knowing that he had been to the club. He looked up at me with a glare that felt murderous, and the jar of water almost slipped off my hands. I quickly left him and went over to my mum. As she handed me her glass for me to pour the water in, I noticed the fresh red bruises on her clear dark skin. I was immediately filled with a dangerous rage, I clenched my jaws because I knew I had to control it, otherwise the whole situation will go way worse. I tasted a strong iron liquid in my mouth, it was blood. I had bitten myself when I clenched my jaws, I got a headache from the suppressed anger. I poured the water a bit clumsily with shaking hands, spilling some water on the table. I felt my dads angry gaze on me, and I looked at mum, “It’s ok Betty, I’ll clean it up.” She said with a smile as she picked up a tablecloth that was on her other sides and wiped the table gently. I sent her a smile of gratitude as I walked quickly back to my seat. I looked at Tom, my older who was sitting by me. He had clenched jaws and I could see his hands were in fists under the table. He was sweating and looked like someone who would commit murder. I put my hands under the table and maneuvered my hand onto his sweaty palm and have his hand a gentle squeeze. He looked at me and I smiled comfortingly and understandingly. “It’ll be okay” I mouthed to him. He raised his eyebrows up in disbelief to say that I was lying. He knew me well, or he knew there was no escape from here. I unclasped my hand from his and took a spoon of my soup, which had already gone cold. Tom started on his soup too. We both knew that if we did not, dad would get mad and blame it on mum. Elsa had started eating a while ago and was almost done with hers. I felt the soup in my mouth as I put my spoon in, the way it slid into my throat as I was secretly praying that time would fly quickly to escape this dreadful dinner. Halfway through the dinner, dad dropped his spoon with a loud clatter as the spoon hit the plate. “This is the worst thing that has ever entered my mouth Ava. If the soup turned out like this, you should have just served me cardboard, even that would have been better witch!” he bellowed angrily as he stared at mum who was looking at him nervously. “I’ll find you something else. I’m sorry” She replied getting up and going into the kitchen. I could see her tensed shoulders, which was once as flexible as a gymnast. Her wrinkled face, that could have once been passed for that of a model. Her bruised skin, that was once clear and soft and the envy of anyone who knew her. She was one of the best cooks I knew, and I knew dad was only looking for a fight. Mum came back with a plate of noodles and as she was about to drop it, dad hit the plate out of her hands intentionally with a smirk as it landed on mum’s feet. “Aaah!” Mum shouted as she moved back instinctively. Elsa, Tom and I all stood up and rushed to help her. I could see the burn marks and glass shards on her feet. We helped mum to her seat gently and carefully. I knew dad was not done; he never was. I was about to leave mums side when she held my hand quickly and gave me a questioning look. “I have to” I said freeing myself from her grasp. I headed towards dad and stood in front of him, giving him no space to maneuver me. I summoned all the courage I had and with trembling hands and knees, I said in the loudest and most commanding voice I could summon, “Dad, you have to stop this nonsense” I could not believe what I had just said. I could feel Tom and Elsa’s shocked gaze on me. Dad himself looked shocked, bust as he got over the shock, his pale skin turned tomato red with anger. “You do not tell me what to do missy” He said and now, I felt I could say anything. It was like someone had drugged me with courage. “Someone has to tell you what to do. It seems you weren’t given enough training”. I said in response. “You are protecting a witch and talking back to your father, you have committed a big sin. God will never forgive you.” He said bringing out a cigar and a lighter. He lighted it swiftly and took in a big puff. “I am not the one who beats his wife, has a lover and bastard kids. If there is anyone in this house who is a witch, and who committed an unforgivable sin, then that would be you!” I shouted in a matter-of-fact way. I could see his wrinkles become more defined and saw his lips twitch as I finished my sentence. I felt proud but not for much longer. Dad released a puff of smoke in my face and as I exhaled the smoke I started to cough uncontrollably. I staggered back as I felt my dad’s fist on my cheek. I felt the throbbing pain that felt like someone was injecting me on the cheek. I could not see clearly with my right eye and I felt the iron taste of blood in my mouth very strongly. Then I felt a hand firmly hold my throat and push me against the wall. Suddenly, I was face to face with my dad trying to choke me. I looked slowly to my right at my mum and siblings, and I could see the fear on their faces. Elsa was slowly moving towards the telephone while dad was busy with me and I could the anger brewing in Tom. I knew I had to buy Elsa more time, so I spat on dad with disgust on my face and then I felt another stinging slap on my face. “Who is the witch and sinner now dad?” I croaked out as he was still trying to choke me. I felt his grip tighten around my throat and I started to hit him and kick but that did not help, he was like a statue. I felt helpless and in pain. I felt my body go limp and weak and I started having black spots and could not see clearly with my good eye anymore. Just as I thought I was going to die; I felt my dad’s grip disappear as he grunted and a I heard a thud on the floor. I gradually started to see more clearly and the first thing I saw was my dad, on the ground, unconscious and my brother standing over him with clenched fists. Just as I was about to comfort my brother, I felt the world around me go dark as I collapsed on the floor. “She is going to be okay. They both are” I heard an unfamiliar voice say calmly as I opened my eyes to find myself in a white tin can smelling of bleach that just so happened to be a medical van.  I tried to sit up, but I still felt weird and then I got a sensory overload from the lights and then the sound of siren. I tried getting up again and this time I was able to. I stood up slowly and I felt my hip throb in pain, I guess that was where I had landed on. When I got out, I saw Tom, Elsa and mum talking to police officers and that is when I saw dad’s angry face through the window of a police car. When Mum saw me, she rushed towards me with a hug as she said, “You were so brave, we’ll be ok now. Peter’s going to go to jail.” I smiled in relief as I breathed in the scent of her jasmine perfume as my head lay on her soft bosom.


Somewhere in this village is a Library – hidden, out of sight. No one knows where to find it because no one searches for it; no one have ever even heard of it. But in this Secret Library, hundreds of thousands of Books live. Their pages magically pulse with life – a heart beating in the chest of a hardcover – while their words speak volumes to those who wish to listen. Nobody listens; nobody hears them; nobody even knows they exist. Except. A man led his six-year-old son into an office-type building that looked inconspicuous to the rest of the world. But the man knew better, having been there so many times before, that the lobby led to a spiral staircase that wound up to one room upstairs, drenched in antiquity and riches – draped in gold curtains, dripping in crystals, smelling of ink and paper, and lined with rows and rows and rows of ornately-carved bookcases. The father’s face lit up with recognition while the son’s with wonder. “I’ve told you stories, but it’s not something to truly believe until you’ve actually seen it,” Henry told his son, who was tracing the swirls in the shelves, running his fingers over the old wood; a splinter jammed into his small hand and instantaneously healed itself – without a scratch or a drop of blood to account for it. Even Henry stopped in his tracks and stared. “So what exactly is this place?” the son asked, already forgetting about the injury. “The Secret Library,” Henry answered in a hushed voice. “The place that houses all the Books of Destinies. Everyone’s life story is written here and stored on these very shelves. It’s infinite, even though it’s contained in such a small space.” “The covers are really pretty,” the son said distractedly, picking out a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine. A name and date were engraved at the bottom:

Katya Adriana Melvina, March 14 . “So everyone’s destinies are in these Book?” Henry nodded. “Is yours here? Can I see it?” He showed his son to a corner, where he picked up a dark green leather Book with a scalloped cover. “This one is yours?” the son asked, amazed, taking the Book from him. “Have you read it?” “No one can read their own destinies, Dima. To me, it’s blank, like one of your sketchbooks.” “I guess that makes sense,” Dimitri contemplated. “I guess we’re not supposed to know the future when we want to makes choices right now, no matter if it’s already written what our choice will be. Destiny may know it, but we don’t.”  “You’re so intuitive for your age, Dima,” Henry looked at his son with a sad smile. He didn’t need to be psychic anymore to realize the disease would get to him before he saw Dimitri grow up to be the fine young man he knew he will be, before he would truly understand what this Library meant. Dimitri traced the date engraved in his father’s Book, hearing the thoughts in Henry’s mind.

February 17 .

By that point, he’d already found out his dad was sick and tried not to think about how many more of these birthdays he might still have left, tried not to think if this could have been his last one. He blinked back tears and carefully put the Book back onto the shelf. “What about my Book?” “Your Book is a little different, Dima,” he said with almost a sorrowful glaze in his eyes. Dimitri followed him to a side wall, a bookshelf right next to a lofty stained-glass window, each panel in a shade of violet or amber. Henry gazed through the Books but Dimitri instantly gravitated toward it – a telepathic tug. He took out a burgundy Book with a fanning geometric engraving in gold, resembling flower petals or ivy leaves. He traced the shimmering shapes, a deep and lonely longing filling him, and he could sense his father’s apprehension as he turned the Book over in his hands, shocked to find

Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3. “That’s not right, that’s not my birthday. It’s supposed to be February 14 th ,” he argued, confused. He opened the Book and gasped: he saw words. It was supposed to be his destiny and he wasn’t supposed to be able to see it, but he did. He does. Supposed to, supposed to, everything about him was a long string of

supposed to . “If no one is supposed to see their destinies,” he told his father, “and I can see mine, then this isn’t my destiny. This is the one I was supposed to have had – if I weren’t psychic.” *** Present Day: Dimitri ***

The cloyingly sweet perfume of eternal flowers and the signature dusty scent of paper always hits me first whenever I step in here. Specks and sparkles scatter off the crystal chandelier as I step into the Secret Library. I’m never entirely sure why I come here. My Book is wrong, so it’s not like I can fast-forward a few chapters to read what happens next – it’s like an old friend every time I see it, familiar after all this time but still a complete stranger to me. I’ve never read it. I never will. I could and at times I’m even tempted to. But what good what it do? It would be like reading a fantasy novel – a story so close to reality that it could be nonfiction, but it isn’t; it’s an imaginary character living in an imaginary world in his imaginary life. It’s not me. And I wonder, which one of us is it that Katya really fell in love with? I have to hope that it is me, but I’m not sure if this really is me. So maybe that’s why I visit here often anyway, when I’m confused or unsure of what to do next – perhaps because this is where I most remember Dad, and he gave me more wisdom and guidance than my inaccurate destiny ever could.

The golden pixie dust in the air swirls around me in welcoming, recognizing my psychic presence, and I swat it away, annoyed as it tickles my nose. Instinctively, I go to my Book; it’s a habit – a magnetic pull and I’m the metal. On the shelf, under the violet and amber window, I find a burgundy cover with a petal-like engraving with the title

Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3.

I open it with no intention of reading it, but notice a piece of paper slotted between the pages. Funny, I never noticed this before, as I unfold the page and am struck cold. Dear Dima, It’s Dad. What? Everything in me goes numb and my legs buckle under me as I slide down to the floor in disbelief. No, this can’t- this can’t be possible. But I read the words over and over and over again and they are real, and I read on, stunned. If you’re reading this, then it means that you’ve grown up to be a fine young man. And a strong psychic. It also means that I am no longer with you. Tears spring to my eyes but I blink them back, needing to see this clearly to be sure I’m not hallucinating.

I have a confession. I probably should have told you this a long time ago, but you were still so young. So young and innocent; you shouldn’t have to live with the consequences of my mistakes. But it seems like they have found you anyway. I couldn’t tell you back then and I know I won’t be there to tell you when you’re older. I was psychic too. “What?” I try to take deep breaths without hyperventilating. My dad. Was psychic? No, no, that’s impossible. It can’t – it can’t be possible. My hands shake so hard that I can barely hold on to the letter. I know this must come as quite a shock to you. There’s no easy way of explaining this and unfortunately, it just gets more complicated. I only hope that when you finish reading this, you won’t hate me. It all started long ago. Very long ago. I’ll spare you the exact date but let’s just say it’s been a few centuries. Some chemical reaction in the cosmos triggered Destiny to become the most powerful force in the Universe, even more so than gravity, able to align – or disrupt – the planets and life here on Earth. And it reached out to me with a proposal: the chance to understand more, know everything about how the Universe works, and the promise of immortality. I agreed. You must understand, Dima, I was young, in my 20s. I was an astronomy scholar and Destiny’s offer made me feel like the best, invincible. I was also incredibly naïve. I leaped at the chance of the promise of all the power ever granted. In exchange, I was supposed to be an editor, a groundskeeper of its Library. I think you see where this is going. I think I do too and it makes me sick to my stomach and I close my eyes because if I don’t read the next words then maybe they won’t be real – the next words can be my Schrödinger’s Cat. But I open them again and the blue-inked words confirm it. I became the Librarian of the Secret Library. Destiny was the brilliant, prolific author, and I edited the Books according to its instructions and maintained the Secret Library. Tweaking a few sentences and arranging a few books on a shelf – it seemed like such a trivial price to pay for the immortality and the invincibility. And I loved it: moving things with my mind, never getting sick or old, reading people’s minds. It gave me such a thrill, like I could have everything and anything I wanted: leading a rich life in high style without a care in the world. In reality, I had nothing. Destiny controlled me. I had promised to do its writing and in doing so, had signed away my destiny. I never had any choices to make, though it seemed like I had it all. It took me a good few centuries to realize that. The day I met a girl names Irene – your mother – was the day I realized that no matter the power and promise of Destiny, I could never be truly happy without her, for what good would be a life forever if it was a life forever without her? I gave it up, gave up my powers and position in the Library, and tried to turn a page on that very long chapter of my life. However, when you were born, Dimitri, I realized that I would never be free of it, that Destiny had followed me into you. That’s why I’m writing you this. When I saw your eyes change color for the first time, like mine had all those centuries, I learned that was Destiny’s way of saying, the story must go on. I should have realized that Destiny would try to find someone to fill my position in the Library, and who better than someone who shares my psychic genes? You. I am so sorry, Dimitri. I never thought this could happen. It is true that your DNA is different because you’re psychic – it’s because of me, it’s all my fault. It’s tampered with because you inherited those genes from my old immortal self. I didn’t know – I never imagined – that it would pass to you when I gave it up so long before, and once I realized it, it was too late. But you, Dima, are psychic because of me, and you must take my place in the Secret Library.

I’m sorry, Dimitri. I never wanted this for you. Please forgive me.

*** Katya ***

1248 Chandler Avenue is the end of a small street in a busy corner of town. The backs of brick buildings surround me, some fire escape ladders trail down to the rugged asphalt, the hum of cars passing on the adjacent street rumbles between the walls, and a few lamps light the otherwise shadowy road. By this time of the evening, dusk already settles in, setting everything under a shady film that is eerily murky. I wouldn’t picture Dimitri lounging around in such an enigmatic place. Or maybe I could picture him perfectly, when I reach the building and he sits on the front steps waiting for me. He is as good-looking as ever in a royal purple sweater, but there’s a mysterious aura to him that makes him almost blend into the setting. He wrings his hands and adjusts his glasses; he’s been somewhat on edge the entire day. Yet, seeing me still seems to comfort him. “Hey, you made it,” he stands up when I come into his view. “Yeah, took me a while to find it, but of course. What did you want to show me?” I ask, giving him a quick hug. He turns so that we’re both looking at the building in front of us. From the outside, it looks like a regular office building, but I eventually follow Dimitri’s gaze to a faded wooden sign posted above the door, whatever once written on it worn away from years in the sun and rain, but I can still make out some of the faint lettering: Someone & Someone “Publishing Co.”. You could easily overlook it if you didn’t know it’s there and Dimitri obviously knows it there. He pulls the brass doorknob. “The Secret Library.” *** Dimitri ***

“Oh wow,” Katya gasps as she steps into the Secret Library from the stairwell, eyes drinking in the charm and magic in the room. “Dimitri, what is this place?” I cannot lie to her anymore; I need to tell her the whole truth, otherwise Destiny will keep latching onto my psychic secret to tears Katya and me apart. I don’t believe Destiny played any factor in whether Katya and I are meant to be – we fell in love despite it being written against us, and I have to hope she will still choose me knowing my psychic side. “The Secret Library,” I repeat. “These shelves all hold the Books of Destinies – Books that have every person’s life story written, a storyline everyone unknowingly follows because that’s what Destiny chose for them.” “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

I sigh heavily, knowing there’s no way I can explain this rationally. “I know you don’t,” I start, burying a hand in my hair. “I didn’t think you would. It’s not something easy to understand. I can barely understand it, and I have to, I have to, Katya, but I don’t know and all I know is that it’s true and, and I have no clue where to begin explaining this to you – or myself – how to even try.” I can’t stop the words from spilling out, strangling in my throat, sentences that run into rambles that makes absolutely no sense.

Katya takes my hands in hers to steady me; she must think I’m delusional. Her touch, once so warm and comforting, now sears red hot deep through my muscles. She opens her mouth to say something, but before any words comes out, her gaze falls on a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine. “Why- why does this have my name on it?” she looks at me skeptically. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Because it’s

your

Book of Destiny.” “What?” “I’m psychic,” I admit, and her brain whirls, a jolt of shock in her red aura burning me. “ What?”  she repeats, squinting her eyes at me.

“Please let me explain,” I try but she throws the Book at me. “Is this all just a big joke to you? Am

I

just a big joke to you?” “No, Katya, wait!” “Forget it!” she shoves me back as she tries to get by me in the narrow aisle, but we both end up toppling, a fall that trips me into the splintery bookshelf; I cut my hand on the sharp wood. “Ah!” I wince from the sting even though I know it’ll be over in a second. But Katya doesn’t know. Even furious at me, she still gasps and instinctively grabs my hand in concern – sees the gash slick with blood before it completely heals itself in front of her eyes “What – but you – I saw,” she jumps away and stares at me in disbelief. “This: this is unnatural.

You

are unnatural!” she yells and races out the door, letting it swing loudly and firmly shut behind her. I know. I curl my knees up and bury my head in my arms. I know. I’ve known, but hearing it from her confirms it: she has made her choice.


No one really knew what happened inside the Bath House--all they knew was that the people who went in were not the same who came out. Well. Not technically. Sure, they looked the same. They had the same mannerisms. The same essence. But that was about it. It was like looking at a stranger twin of the person you used to know. A stranger because they didn’t recognize you. They didn’t recognize anyone, or anything, from their old life. And all it took was one appointment. Move on and move into the new you--the Bath House’s very own slogan. No channels or podcasts had ever managed to interview any clients of the Bath House or gather any relevant information of what was really going on inside the ‘boring building on Blane Road number 10’. All the media had was speculation, wild conspiracy theories. Even after that one time an especially motivated reporter tried breaking in and instead broke his leg falling from the downspout. That was the first time Lenny heard about the Bath House. That was when he knew he had to get a job working there. He just had to. It took a while. A few months. It took patience. The screening process was rigorous. The paperwork endless. But then. Finally. They called back. When he announced the big news, his friends looked on blankly. The where what now? His sister rolled her eyes and murmured something like ‘whatever’. His parents were skeptical but congratulatory anyway. Whatever you want, son, you do you. He still wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Maybe their cautious doubt was understandable. Both his parents were spaceship designers for the Galaxy Corp. His sister had gone on to major in molecular physics. And Lenny was…well. Lenny knew his parents had borne through his multiple career choices over the years—‘career’ being a generous term--no matter how farfetched or strange or hard to explain. That time he signed up for the six-month Mars expedition. The Infantry training against Alien Invasions—heck, it was 2045, the year they really thought it was going to hit. He learned some basic coding, hacking imaginary enemy fire shields. Mostly he learned that he hated waking up early and sitting at a desk for fifteen-hour shifts. Anyway. He’d lasted longer at the Bath House than everyone thought he would. What do you even do there? His sister asked him every night at the dinner table. He’d explain it, every night, again: some people have a shit time, a bad streak of luck, say a traumatic experience. The Bath House helps them to move on. He just facilitates the process. Yeah but how? His sister always persisted. And what do you do? Like open the door for the doctor? Somehow she couldn’t imagine him doing anything important. He wanted to tell her that the Bath House didn’t exactly have ‘doctors’—not in the usual sense anyway. But that would be discussing company secrets and see, he’d signed an NDA way back when. Technically, he couldn’t tell her, or anyone, really, anything about his job or what he really did there. At the Bath House he usually clocked in at the regular time because he was a punctual guy—he always prided himself on that. Commitment issues aside (or so his therapist used to tell him), he could always commit to being on time. Maybe that was why he got so many job offers, why it was never hard to slip in and out of jobs—people liked guys like him—guys that just showed up. The Bath House was definitely a boring building—and by boring there was nothing remarkable or imaginative about it—square, white concrete, a film of windows on each of the ten stories. A flat roof. It didn’t even have a sign up front or on the door. Just a number. Ten. It could have been an office building or a bank that went under for all anyone knew. Derelict weeds adorned cracks in the parking lot and groped the side of the building. Lenny always thought it was kind of…depressing. Ironically so, because ‘moving on’ was their whole game show and ‘moving on’ was supposed to be, well…cheerful, wasn’t it? A hopeful prospect, a fresh perspective? Even the receptionist was nondescript—a woman with glasses and a bland beige cardigan and a fixed smile. There was nothing that stood out on her face and she was neither bad looking nor pretty, she was the kind of woman you’d forget the second after you turned away. Lenny felt a little bad about it—he felt worse he never remembered her name, but he reasoned it must be a plain name, too—she looked like a Sue. It unsettled him she didn’t remember his name, either. She called him ‘the tech guy’. When he walked into the front door and scanned his badge, she picked up the phone and said, in a voice that couldn’t have held any less enthusiasm, “The tech guy is here.” Usually, he rotated the rooms on eight floors. The top two were restricted access. The regular elevator didn’t even go up there. He tried not to eavesdrop as the ‘transition counselors’ led the clients from the waiting room to the consulting room to the changing room. He tried not to listen when they discussed personal matters that really wasn’t his business but sometimes he just couldn’t help it. Anyway, it’s not like they ever noticed he was even there, loitering in the hallway. The stories were real downers. Yesterday there was that woman whose sons had cut contact with her. Last week, there was an elderly man whose wife left him for her nineteen-year-old art student. And the first day he was here, a couple had lost their twin children to a freak car accident. It made Lenny realize his life was well, rather ordinary. Mars stint and alien shield hacking aside. He’d never experienced gut-wrenching trauma or horrific tragedy like those people and finally he felt like he was doing something that mattered. He was helping them. He just wished he could talk about it. Tell his sister and mom and dad. Show them that he was actually finally doing something that sort of mattered. Even if all he did was change the filters in the baths and replenish the water supply and plug people in. Okay, fine, maybe he didn’t want to tell his sister that her suspicions were accurate and that he really was just a ‘tech guy’. But still, let her wonder. Let her imagine him being cool and important just for a little while. The process was simple. The client entered the Bath Room in their issued white body suit, looking skeptical and apprehensive and awkward. Lenny delivered his lines. There’s nothing to worry about. Make yourself comfortable. It won’t take a minute. He guided them to the water filled pod in the middle of the room. Usually there was relaxing spa style music playing—a waterfall or random tropical birds fluttering. The client would then lie inside the water until they were partially submerged. Lenny would dim the lights. Apparently it was better to dim the lights before plugging people in because well, they’d probably tried it the other way around and that didn’t go so well. As much as the client had been briefed for the process, no one liked actually watching the plugs getting buried into their skin. The clients usually got a sedative before getting into the Bath so they wouldn’t splash around or cause a fuss. Lenny continued to say soothing stuff he’d learned in training like, You’re doing great. Almost there. Just try and relax. Then came the plugs. They looked like rubber wires and had incisor tips which dug a centimeter into the person’s arms, legs, torso, and feet. As the sedative kicked in, Lenny worked on the plugs. There were about eighty of them. It usually took a half hour. Usually, no one complained. They were too drugged out to feel anything. You’re doing so well, Lenny would say. Just try and breathe. The final stage had to be just right. Once all the plugs were in, Lenny would transfer the client’s tailored identity sequence into the main processor connected to the plugs. Then he waited for the download. Another hour, and the entire process was finished. No more Dark Past. No more unwanted memories. All gone. The last client of the day took him by surprise. She was young—early twenties, close to Lenny’s age. Tall and slender with crow black hair trailing down to her waist. Strikingly beautiful. But Lenny was a professional—he was the tech guy—he didn’t linger. He was even more surprised when she introduced herself. Kate. Mostly, clients preferred to remain anonymous. She didn’t ask any questions like people usually did. Will it hurt? How long will this take? Like they were getting a tooth pulled instead of an entirely new persona. Kate wasn’t like them--anxious or impatient. There was something about her eyes though. Even as she was lying in the water looking up at him. Trusting. And sad. As Lenny plugged her in, he saw the scars on her wrists. They reminded him somehow of tally marks on the wall of a prison cell. He thought it curious that she chose to leave them there. As Kate drifted off, he wondered what new identity she had created for herself. He wondered where she came from and what had brought her here. Today, there were no birds, there was no waterfall. What sounded over the speakers was a long and distant electronic hum that sounded as though they were flying through space. Being a tech guy, Lenny didn’t have access to personal information. He couldn’t actually open the client files and see what new personality they’d created for themselves, what new memories, what enhanced coping mechanisms. Not that he wouldn’t if he could—he just didn’t have the password. All he had was a sequence which he now typed into the processor and downloaded into Kate’s brain. He wondered if she wanted to keep her name. Mostly, clients adapted new names. New addresses. Sometimes, they awoke speaking a different language. There was not one vestige, one shard, of their past selves left behind. He felt a little regretful they hadn’t talked more. Maybe he and Kate would have had things in common. Maybe they would have been friends. Maybe more. But he’s getting way ahead of himself. The processor notified Lenny the download was complete. Maybe Kate would open her eyes speaking Russian and introducing herself as a pole vaulting champion named Natasha. People sometimes got carried away. At least, that was what Lenny wanted people to think. That it was all their idea. Their imagination. Their fantasy. He was, after all, just the tech guy. A step above the janitor, maybe, but still no one the ‘transition counselors’ looked twice at or even bothered to address unless they needed one of the hard drives looked at. It was the same old story. Back at the Mars habitat—the team leader sure liked his coffee hot and punctual but never thought to ask Lenny for anything that really mattered. He would never know about Lenny’s ideas on heat shields or rebooting the system for faster turnovers. It didn’t matter anymore, anyway. Here he could make his ideas heard. Even if no one ever found out it was his idea in the first place. It didn’t matter. Each day, clients came in with their own program, their own agenda. But at the end of each day, they left with his. In a way, he liked to think that he was sending his creations, little pieces of himself, out into the world. In a way, he was. And they would never know. Kate opened her eyes with a gasp. Yes, she was still Kate. Lenny didn’t want to change that part about her. But that was the only thing he hadn’t changed. He’d had fun with this one--he’d given her something special. Yes. It was his finest design yet. Lenny stood to greet his new creation.