Jared put the avocado-and-cheese sandwich and the bottle of water in his Saturday backpack, made sure the windows were closed and the switches turned off, and locked the front door. He climbed his bike and started pedaling towards Crescentville. A biker came from down the road. “Morning, Jared,” she called. Irene moved to the neighborhood ten or eleven years ago with three kids and no husband. She was tall and thin, dark skinned, with high cheek bones and long chin, and you could hear her laughter from the other side of the street. “Morning, Irene. Where are you biking today?” “Pony Creek. See you later.” “Have fun. See you,” he waved, and she disappeared behind him. Pony creek was a lovely trail. On one side the water flowed leisurely, and on the other trees, bushes, and flowers were growing in disarray. When the kids were young, the family used to bike there on sunny Saturday mornings, like this one. Jane named each plant and explained its medicinal virtues, and he told stories about the history of the country. These days Stan and Cathy are in college, and Jane … That damn obstetrician. He pedaled harder, hurrying up the hill and through Greenridge. Greenridge High loomed next to him, a white building with thick red, blue, and yellow stripes running on the walls in all directions. Here, Stan fell in love with debating and with Nicky, Irene’s eldest. The second love was short lived; the first held, and now he was a 3L at Northwestern. And Cathy, dear shy Cathy, who spent her childhood dreaming of ladies and nobles, knights and crusades. The three of them used to play the stories she weaved. Once, she was Penthesiliea, the queen of the Amazons, Stan was Hector, and he was Achilles. Her arrow snapped through his heel, and she crowned Stan as the king of all Greece while sitting on her father’s chest. Another time, she was an English orphan, who joined the service of the high Lord of Birmingham, played by himself, and eventually married him and got poor Stan as her servant. Cathy turned down a fellowship from Stanford and preferred Northwestern, to be close to Stan. Jane, I wish you could see them now, grown up, serious, successful, handsome. The road angled to the right, and the first houses of Crescentville came into view. “Good morning, Mr. Cliff,” called an early-riser teenager who raked the leaves in his front yard. Jared waved his hand. He has known the kids of this neighborhood since birth. On his weekly visits to the town, he saw them crawling on blankets, taking their first steps, drawing on the sidewalks with chalks, batting the balls with their families, clearing snow, washing the family cars. He parked his bike next to a well-groomed lawn. Out of the backpack came the foldable placard and the matching hat. The placard was worn out, and some of the color had vanished, yet the text was as clear as it had been fifteen years ago: “Dr. Olaff killed my wife and baby”. He held the placard above his head and started marching up and down the street. In the first weeks after his wife’s death, dozens marched with him: family and friends and colleagues. Over time they dropped one by one, until only the kids and he continued marching. When Dr. Olaff completed his six-month term at the penitentiary, Jared and the kids resumed their marches. The state may have forgiven the doctor; Jared has not. The Chief of Police talked with him once or twice, trying to convince him to stop harassing the Olaffs. Rumors had it that the doctor refused to complain about the marches, and so the police let him be. At eleven o’clock, Dr. Olaff’s youngest daughter approached him with a glass. “Mr. Cliff, would you like some lemonade?” The girl looked like her mother: blond hair reaching her shoulders, blue eyes, small nose. She smiled at him, like she did every Saturday in the last five years. Winter or summer, rain or shine, he was marching and she offered the drink. Stan once suggested that they go for a long weekend to the dunes. The idea shocked Jared. Missing a march is like forgetting Jane. And forgetting Jane is forgoing love. That Saturday morning they marched, and after lunch they travelled to the dunes. Never again did Stan suggest spending long weekends outside home. But then, in his junior year, Stan started missing marches. And when he applied to college, he preferred Stanford and Yale to Purdue, and settled for the only university that offered a fellowship. Was he too demanding with the kids? Dr. Olaff himself never showed up during the marches. Never apologized. Never admitted the blame. And so, the two of them were locked in a never-ending match of accusation and guilt, loss and neglect. Since Cathy left home, he asked himself whether to continue the marches. But could he do otherwise? He dedicated the last fifteen years to Jane’s memory, and what will remain of her if he stops? His neighbors and the whole town of Crescentville knew his story, the lonely man who shows up every weekend to cry for the woman he loved and to condemn the man who, instead of giving life to a newborn, killed the mother and the baby. Yet the story will die in twenty years, when his energy leaves him. Stan will move to New York or LA and he will see him twice a year, and Cathy will be torn between the love for her brother and her wish to stay in Indiana, next to him. And he himself will become lonelier and grumpier than he is today, after giving up the only thing he fought for. “It is fresh and cold,” the girl said. It was hard for Jared to form her name in his mind. For some obscure reason, most probably to offend him, Dr. Olaff named her Jane. Or maybe it was an admission of culpability? Could it be that this little girl is a tribute for the life the doctor took? Jared looked for a hint in the girl’s face, and anger filled him. How heartless of them, he realized, to name their daughter after the woman Dr. Olaff killed. And have her see the placard announcing his crime every week. And make her offer lemonade to the widower and be turned down. How cruel it is to turn your daughter into a symbol of your mistake. His eyes softened. You are such an unfortunate girl, he thought. “Yes, thank you,” he finally replied and took the glass. The girl looked startled. No wonder, Jared thought, I deviated from the lines we rehearsed in the last five years. She turned and ran away, the front door slamming behind her. Jared enjoyed the cool sweet drink. He could not bring himself to enter the property of Dr. Olaff, so he left the glass next to the gate. Did I betray Jane by drinking their lemonade, he asked himself. Irene’s voice came from behind. “Jared, do you want to join me for lunch?” She stopped next to him, all sweat and panting, her riding uniform tight on her body.  “How was the ride?” he asked.  “It was gorgeous. There were tons of larkspurs and sunflowers and catchflies. You would have loved it. So, what do you say about lunch? I have chicken pie and mashed potatoes. Tommy texted that he would stay with a friend, so there is plenty of food.” He glanced at his watch. He should keep on marching for two hours, and he had his sandwich in the bag. Mrs. Olaff peeked through the window and came to pick up the empty glass. “Thank you, Mr. Cliff,” she said, nodded, and turned back home. His gaze followed her and then turned to Irene and her high cheek bones. “This is a great idea,” he said. “Give me a minute to pack my stuff.”


Chris strode down the street, market stalls from the festival closing. It was just after dawn, and in a small village like this, hardly anyone was still awake – annual festival or not. Chris didn’t live here, didn’t live anywhere near here, really. He was just passing through, hopping onto traveling carriages when he could, walking when he couldn’t. He had a set destination in mind, and it was across the country. Over there, with clear skies, sandy beaches, and open waters, Chris would finally find peace. He’d lived a worthwhile life, racking up as many enemies as he did lovers, but it was time he laid down and enjoyed the serenity being someplace new offered. The village he was at right now was on his way to that far-away beach. He’d only arrived a few hours ago, taking his time to sightsee and shop. The festival seemed to be, from the few people he spoke to, a once-a-year celebration of life. No one was to go hunting or fighting for the week-long festival. It was a week of good-natured fun, dancing, and talking to those who stayed alive. Chris was grateful for the festivities, for it meant no one would cause him trouble, being a newcomer and passerby and all that. However, it also meant he had to watch his manners, because Chris loved to argue, and he loved even more to fight. He’d dueled quite a few men in his prime, but his life was quickly setting, and he didn’t want to spend whatever time he had left worried he’d be shot. Chris continued walking down the main street, nodding his head to those packing up their stalls, making his way back to where he was lodging. Finding a place to sleep was always his top priority in a new place. It was a lot easier cleaning up blood with a tub. A lot safer passing out on a bed. The establishment he’d chosen this time was a newer looking tavern. The bar was on the bottom, rooming on the floor above. It seemed to be the only place to grab a drink, and it wouldn’t open until sunrise tomorrow to give a day of rest after the festival. Chris remembered overhearing something similar being done for all the other shops on the street. Which was just fine for him, as the more he drank the angrier he got, and it wouldn’t be good to start his easy-going lifestyle with even more blood on his hands. Chris kicked a rock out of his way, ambling toward the bar’s doors. It was a wooden building painted bright red, blending in with the other colorful buildings littering the street. For one night’s sleep it wasn’t a bad price, and it came with as much food from the bar as Chris could shove in his mouth. Being on the larger side, that meant a whole lot. Chris shouldered open the half-cut doors, raised his hat to the owner cleaning tables, and walked to the side door, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He didn’t bother locking it with the key the owner gave him - he didn’t bring any valuables. Chris was planning on buying materials to set up a home once he was closer to the coast, so for now all he had were the clothes he wore, two guns, a handful of bullets, and his life’s money. Not much he’d ever owned beyond that in his life anyway. Chris let the door swing itself shut and ventured into his room for the night. He planned on sleeping till noon, then hitching a ride to the next town. Chris shucked off his jacket and holster belt, kicked off his boots, and slid beneath the threadbare blanket onto the rickety bed. He was quite used to sleeping on the ground, especially if he couldn’t hitch a ride between towns, so this was a nice respite. As Chris laid down, he crossed his legs and rested his head on his arms, reminiscing over his life. He’d spent close to every second of his 48 years causing some kind of trouble. From stealing when he was a young man to picking fights everywhere he went as he got older. He’d killed a few people and ruined a few more lives, but he didn’t regret any of what he’d done. For him, it was in the past, and he wasn’t concerned with his past, only worried about his future.  He remembered a time, when he couldn’t have been more than 20, when traveling still felt exciting and he was learning just how good a shot he was, when he first killed a man. It was in a tavern just like this, a village just like this. He couldn’t say it was an accident, couldn’t say he hadn’t meant it. Couldn’t even say he wouldn’t have done it again if given the chance. Because he did. In almost every town he visited thereafter. Chris couldn’t remember the fine details of that experience, but he could still picture the man he killed. Stomping up to Chris sitting at a cards table, Chris’ arm wrapped around his girl, ripping that arm away. Chris remembered his eyes, boiling with rage and one too many drinks. The man was unsteady standing, but he had a hundred pounds and a few inches on Chris. Chris new instantly he was in for it, hands reaching for his guns before he’d even thought to ask questions. He didn’t care if he’d stolen the other man’s girl, didn’t care that he could’ve taken a few punches and both would’ve lived. The village was small enough for no one to want to fight anybody, and this man was large enough to not need a gun to intimidate, so Chris unloading a bullet into the man was unexpected. Sudden. He was a real good shot. Especially with that short distance. The man towering over him, ferociousness etched into his scowl and narrowed eyes, toppled like water breaking through a dam. No one knew how to react, no one except Chris, who knew it was time to leave and find a new town. And so, he did. He left without a word of remorse to the man’s woman weeping over his body, to the little boy crouched beside her, to the people clamoring for his life. Chris didn’t think much of that man. The next few times he killed, he would remember those eyes, burning with hostility, impatience, pride. Chris figured his eyes looked much the same. With that memory passing through, Chris relaxed in his bed, and fell asleep. When he next woke, he felt refreshed. It was nice going to sleep on a bed under a roof. He opened his eyes and sought out the sun peaking through the wooden slabs. It was probably nearing, if not passed, noon. Chris stretched his arms above him – well, tried to. He couldn’t move them all that much. Making a confused sound, Chris turned his head to see what was going on, and saw, then felt, rope pulling each wrist to a bedpost. He yanked on the rope, trying to crack the bed frame, but even though it was rickety, it held. Chris wasn’t so worried. He’d been tied up before. He rolled his eyes at himself for not locking the room door before he went to sleep, but he was certain he’d live through this. He’d lived through worse. Chris tested his legs, and sure enough there was rope tying them to a bed post, as well. He couldn’t move much on his back as he was, but Chris looked around the room, searching for who tied him up. It was probably someone looking for money, or trouble, or both. Instead, Chris found himself looking at a ghost. The ghost of the first man he’d killed, the man he’d thought of last night. Chris shook his bindings and snarled at the ghost, “What the fuck d’ya want?” The ghost just stared. Chris laughed and stared back, trying to remember more of whom he killed and why he was standing before him. Those eyes. They were still filled with hostility, but now it veered toward vengeance. The man still had a deep-set scowl, but his face was more angular. When Chris shot him, the man had gray streaked in his hair and a pot belly showing years of heavy drinking. The man standing before him seemed younger than Chris, barely any wrinkle lines and none of the belly. Chris thought back to that night and remembered the grieving woman. And the little boy crouched next to her. Chris’ eyes widened and his laugh became louder, “Out for revenge little man?” Chris flicked his eyes away and licked his lips, “A bit late wouldn’t you say? Couldn’t find me?” Now, the man moved. He stepped forward till he was leaning over Chris, and spoke, “I was ten. My father wasn’t a good man, but he cared for my mother and his house.” The words came out stiffly and unrehearsed. Chris, even though it was nearly three decades ago, tried to remember the village from that day. The color of the tavern and the layout of the street he stayed on. He realized it was the same one he was in right now, and not much had changed. Looking at the man in front of him, not much had changed at all. Chris’ laugh petered out, and he bared his teeth, “A mighty miracle is what this looks like. Probably didn’t even try to avenge your old man. Just pure luck I came back on by, huh?” Chris had tensed when he’d thought it was a ghost, hallucinations where never a good sign at his age, but for the son of a man he’d killed? One who’d seemingly didn’t try to find him, with a lukewarm grudge decades old? Chris had handled angrier men. Men with more spite. He shifted in the bed, getting comfortable, for he knew a long conversation of threats and maybe some punches and cuts were in order, a deeper wound if the man had it in him. From what Chris knew in these few moments, tying him with rope, waiting till he was awake, not bothering to search for him, Chris didn’t think of fearing even a punch. The man, still leaning over him, eyes blazing, said, “I ain’t upset you killed him. He would’a died soon anyways. Just the man he was. But my mother cared for him, and this village cared for him, and they were peaceful folk. Didn’t hurt nobody. And now my momma’s dead,” his eyes flickered before they narrowed again, “And I’m not gonna live here anymore, so I don’t gotta be like them.” The man continued, “I ain’t a good man. I ain’t a good son. But he was my father, and I want my momma to have peace for his death.” He lowered his hands to his belt, and Chris noticed the holster, Chris’ holster, wrapped around his waist. Chris’ eyes burned with rage at being shot with his own gun. He thrashed in the ropes and opened his mouth to yell, but before even a whisper could escape, the man had fired. Blood trickled down Chris’ forehead into his open eyes. He was a good shot. Especially with this short distance.


The silver bell adorning Madam Magdalene’s Oracular Viewings chimed over the soft swooping hair of the boy who’d just pushed through the door. Magdalene hastily slid her crossword under an appropriately leather-bound tomb sitting next to the register and watched closely.  The bell was a trinket given to Magdalene by her mother, who’d received it from her mother before her, who had supposedly bought it off an old troll living in what was now the sunken city beneath San Francisco. A miniscule enchantment carved along its edges summoned the boy’s aura for an instant; it was peach, like his polo, and trembled with uncertainty where he stood locked wide-eyed and halfway over the threshold. She jangled the bangles stacked up her arms to make up for the Levi’s she was wearing. Believers liked a little atmosphere, but denim settled even the most strait-laced skeptic. “Welcome.” She dug deep for her voice, and it came out gentle and echoey, as though from the bottom of a well. The boy drew cautiously inside. A woman with short, curly hair and clear glasses wide as welder’s goggles followed behind, her lenses lit from below by the light of her phone. She chewed her lip, taking in the shelves of trinkets and talismans, the blacked-out plaster of the ceiling, the tapestries depicting battles and nudity. Polo Shirt met Magdalene’s hooded eyes. “Is this the InkDot? The one on 51 st Street?” The girl with the glasses clicked her phone off and nudged him with her elbow. “Does this look like an InkDot?” Magdalene refused to let her disdain for the T-Shirt printing company that previously held Oracular’s storefront show. Instead, she plucked a painted teacup from the counter and studied the dregs inside seriously. She was a professional, after all. “Catastrophe befell them at this location. The ghosts downstairs live to tinker with modern gadgetry.” She peaked up to see if this got a reaction. It didn’t. “I heard they reopened in Boston. Nearly two years ago.” Magdalene couldn’t help tacking on the last part a little resentfully. Her mother had survived off house calls to a few wealthy clients; bored and lonely, and likely doped up on either booze or oxy. Real whales in the industry. Now here Magdalene was—a woman with the Sight, her practice living and dying by Yelp.

Glasses was back on her phone, zooming deeper into the screen. “There’s a FedEx on 4 th .” Polo Shirt nodded as though that meant something. “Do they do work in fibers?” Magdalene considered him. His was the type she imagined Travis sitting next to in his classes at university. It’d been years since the days of bloody noses and schoolyard bullies, but there were still times she chewed her cuticles over how her son—with his Electric Squid sweatshirts, expanding collection of piercings, and oracle mother—fit in with these children of doctors and real estate agents. “You two.” Magdalene strode from her seat, her orthopedics silent as she glided over the carpet. “Are you together?” Polo Shirt smiled wide and cheeky. “Almost a year now.” “Such a critical time for you,” Magdalene said, and fluttered her hand to land on her chest. His shoulders jumped almost to his ears. “It is?” “Yes, very. I see the roots tangled between the two of you, but they’ve yet to sprout.” She splayed her ruby-lacquered nails in the imitation of a blossoming flower. The girl pushed her glasses up her nose. “Pay them the right mind and they will ripen to seeded fruits. I offer a discount for young love. With a bond as strong as yours, a reading would appear to me—” she sighed heavily, the movement clicking together the beads around her throat “—crystalline.” Glasses leaned into Polo Shirt’s side and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I already know what’s ahead,” she said. He looked down at her and crooned. “ Babe , that so sweet.” Magdalene clicked a nail against her toothy smile and retrieved the gum from where she’d stuck it on the back of her molar. “How wonderful for you both.” The troll bell tinkled wildly as the door burst open and bayside-fresh air gusted over the carpet. A sweatshirt-padded form swung inside and slammed the door closed. Travis turned and slouched against the glass, panting, his aura spiking dark and turbulent. He cast around before picking out Magdalene’s paisley blouse amongst the Oracular’s haze of textures. “Mom!” he breathed and stumbled towards her, a crazed look in his eye. The young couple clung to each other as he passed, the phone cradled between their chests like a newborn. “Mom, you’ve got to help me!” “My apologies,” she called out to the couple as they inched towards the door. “This should only take a few minutes!” Polo Shirt flapped his hands. “Please no, that’s alright!” Glasses tugged him through the door by the elbow. The bell showed Magdalene the white lie when she said politely, “Thanks for the info, we might actually stop here on the way back!” Then they were gone out the door. Magdalene massaged the lines of her forehead. “Mom, I need you to do a reading for me.” Travis was halfway to the backroom where she kept a locked file cabinet hidden under a scarf and a low table with a deck of cards for readings. He waved at the air, as though trying to generate a current that might sweep her after him faster. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his cheeks were red. “Did you jog here? I thought the doctor told you to cut back on building up your free radicals.” Apparently, her son’s heart was becoming too muscular to beat properly. Not a bad problem to have in Magdalene’s opinion, but Travis had been devastated to learn he couldn’t sign up for another marathon. She tried to recall the new exercise routine he’d told her about over the phone—something called body pump , she thought. Travis choked. “What? Mom, just come on—please, there isn’t much time.” She gave in and followed her son to the back room, crouching to fluff her pillow before sitting down at the table while Travis closed the door. He pressed his ear against it for a moment, then shook his head and paced over the carpet. A tag stuck up from the back of his shirt like a ruffled feather and Magdalene itched for a pair of scissors. “Sweetheart, your shirt’s on inside out. And come sit down! I haven’t seen you in weeks, at least tell me how your midterms went.” “Finals,” Travis muttered. He bit at the cuticle of his nail subconsciously; a habit she’d thought he’d broken sophomore year of high school when he heard Trudy Bankmen laughing to her friends about it while they were stuck at a crosswalk. Travis hadn’t told Magdalene about that, but she’d seen it on him as soon as he got home. To this day, Trudy Bankmen suffered from a paranormal number of hangnails. The Sight still had some uses, even if paying the bills wasn’t one of them. Magdalene caught her boy’s ankle and tugged him to be still. “Travy, what’s wrong?” Travis ran a hand through his hair and took a huge breath. “Right, you’re right.” He plopped into the cushion opposite her and started bouncing his leg. He used to do the same thing when he was a child, waiting restless while his mom finished a reading before karate practice. Magdalene’s mouth twitched to smile and she picked up a cup from the tray at the center of the table. “Tea?” Travis dropped his head into his hands and breathed raggedly. “Holy shit. Holy shit. I-I—” he dragged his hands down his face and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. “I did something really stupid.” Magdalene clicked her tongue and poured him a cup anyway. “It can’t be any worse than trying to chop Mrs. Dirkson’s balcony railing in half. I thought they’d give you a cast for sure.” Travis laid over the table and caught Magdalene’s hands in his own. The full teacup rattled precariously. “Listen, I need you to listen, ok? I-I borrowed some money from some guys—just to sign up for this stupid licensing exam I have to take—but I couldn’t pay them back when I said. Then, it turns out they owe someone else money, and long-story short, there’s three of them and their huge and they’re after me!” It felt as though a tiny robin’s egg were caught in Magdalene’s throat as she stared into her son’s pleading eyes. “How much was the test?” Travis clicked his mouth shut and glanced at the smiling ceramic cat sitting on the shelf over her shoulder. “Two hundred.” She pulled her hands from his. “Two hundred? I could have loaned you that.” She wrapped her hands around her cup, her silver rings clinking against its side. “I know, mom. It’s just, you know,” he heaved a shaking breath and sat back. “I know the store isn’t doing so good. I didn’t want you to worry about me.” Magdalene realized suddenly that there existed a flat plane she’d built her life upon. She only knew this because now the plane was tilting, things were rolling and falling somewhere she couldn’t fathom. Travis used to ask for her hand before crossing the street, and complain to her about his teachers, and stew openly in the living room about girlfriends and championships lost. Despite the long shifts, the budgeted holidays, and the little idiots at school who told Travis his mom was loony, Magdalene had thought she must be doing something right. She’d been wrong, though. Her boy couldn’t come to her for two hundred dollars, and now he was in danger because of it. In the other room, the troll bell tinged. Magdalene froze, one of her false nails cracking between her teeth where she realized she’d been gnawing on it. The bell rang twice more and though the voices were muffled, it was clear there were three men treading through her shop. Something glass fell from a shelf and shattered. Magdalene tore the loosened plastic from her nailbed and spit it out onto the tablecloth. “Just tell me what you need.”

Travis scrabbled for the file cabinet. He reached behind it and pulled out a 12-inch Bowie knife she kept sheathed against the wall in lieu of a gun. Magdalene hadn’t been lying about the ghosts tinkering—even the cash register started trouble sometimes. Guns were a liability around spirits, but steel ate flesh same as lead. Travis crept over to her, knife in hand and knees bent, like he was soldier running through a foxhole. “Tell me what to watch out for,” he whispered. “Don’t stab them.” Magdalene had hesitantly decided to downgrade the Oracular’s insurance coverage last year. They’d be lucky if it covered a broken window. Travis guffawed. “Of course not—the insurance won’t cover that! I’ll just,” he waved the knife, “scare them. Right?” She patted his cheek. “That’s right.”

The doorknob rattled and Travis grabbed it, holding it tight to keep it from turning all the way. Voices sounded on the other side. Magdalene jumped when a fist banged against the wood. “You in there, Trav? We’re just here to talk.” In the background, the drawer of the cash-register cha-chinged open. Magdalene gritted her teeth and straightened her back, widened the cross of her legs and rested her wrists on her knees in an open energy pose. Travis watched her, looking nervous. She gave him reassuring wink. “I believe in you sweetheart.” Travis’ returning smile wobbled. He’d had the same look before his first wrestling match—he’d won then, and they’d gotten ice cream afterwards. Magdalene turned away from the door and closed her eyes. She navigated her conscious intent to the back of her mind and passed through the lens of her Sight. She awoke hovering bodiless over the reading table, the world expanded around her in a single wide lens. Below, her body sat rigid and Travis struggled to keep the doorknob from turning as his grip grew slick against the metal. There were three people on the other side of the door. Two of them boys close to Travis’ age. One hung back against the far wall, sweating through his shirt. The other had his fists wrapped around the door handle, wrenching at it with both arms. The third man had a shaved head. He was older, and that worried Magdalene. Tucked in his belt was a blunt silver handle. “He has a gun ,” Magdalene whispered, and she saw her lips move where her body still sat in the back room. Travis said nothing. He must have known about the gun. It was easy to stay focused in the energy realm without all the pulsing hormones of a body, but Magdalene made a mental note to have a serious conversation with him later. She refocused her sight on the future and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ll have an opening on the count of seven. Go for the gun first.” On the dot, several things happened at once. It began with the bald man wedging his fingers into the till to scrape out the few dollars collected there. The register’s screen flared to life, emitting a string of angry ones and zeros displayed in ghostly green. With an aggravated cha-ching , the drawer snapped closed on the bald man’s fingers. There was a wet snap and he shrieked. A second before, Travis had rammed his shoulder into the door, flinging the boy trying to get in back a step. He landed on his butt at the same moment the register closed. Travis ran straight for the bald man, who was doubled over the register trying to pry open its drawer without twisting his fingers. By the time he noticed Travis pulling the gun from his belt, it was too late. Travis stood looking between the bald man and the boy slowly rising from the floor, but kept kept the gun pointed at the ground—waving it around wasn’t safe even without the possibility of paranormal tinkering. “Don’t forget about the third!” Magdalene yelled, though her voice issued from the back room in a monotone. Travis slashed the knife threateningly and made a show of choking his grip on the gun’s handle, though he still didn’t raise it. “Neil, don’t move.” The second college kid—Neil—yelped and raised his hands in front of his chest, as though he thought Travis might decide to chuck the knife at him and he might have a chance of catching it. He hadn’t been reaching for the ruby-pommeled sword tacked to the wall over his head, but he’d been close to thinking about it. “Get out, all of you,” Travis said, his voice impressively steady, though he must be close to shaking apart from nerves. The boy who’d been twisting the doorknob tried to smile. “Look man, there’s been a misunderstanding—” Travis laughed incredulously. “You’re fucking right there has been, Mitch!” He nodded to the bald man, who was blinking through watery eyes and attempting to punch the cash-register into submission. The register chimed melodiously and began printing a receipt. In all caps it read, over and over, GETOUT GETOUT GETOUT. “You bring that guy with you, and to my mom’s house? That’s slimy business, even for you.” Mitch’s smile wavered. “You were the one who ran in here,” he muttered. “What did you just say to me?” “Dude let’s just go,” Neil hissed, watching in horror as the receipt spilled over the countertop. As though in agreement, the register dinged open, and the bald man snatched his hand away. He held his bent fingers and glared hatefully at Travis but made no move to approach without his firearm. The three of them exchanged looks and backed for the door. “This isn’t over, Trav,” Mitch warned. Travis sucked his teeth as he watched them leave. The bell chimed over their heads and Magdalene could tell from their auras that at least two of them took those final words seriously. A worry for another day. Magdalene closed her Sight and breathed through the headrush of returning to her body and all its moving parts. Her flesh felt dry and heavy around her, the rattling of the AC loud and tinny against her ears. A warm hand rested on her shoulder and when she blinked, her vision was narrow and resting on Travis. “You ok?” “As the Corral, cowboy,” she joked weakly. The whole experience had been thrilling, actually, but Magdalene kept that to herself. She climbed to her feet, her knees aching, and mustered a stern look. “I expect we’ll be talking more about this?” Travis swallowed. He raised his hand to scratch his head only to see he was still holding the gun. “Yeah, that’d be good.” Magdalene took the gun and the knife from him. “There’s some pasta from last night, and some port in the fridge. Pour me a glass and we’ll talk over dinner.” Travis sagged. He was taller than her now, but when he gave her a quick hug, he felt like her little boy all over again. “Thanks mom,” he muttered. She patted his back, careful not to stab him with the knife and breathed in the familiar scent of his shampoo. “Anytime.” She Paused. “But next time you make friends, maybe consider a computer science major, or someone from the arts college.” Travis snorted and drew away. He looked Magdalene over appraisingly. “That was pretty cool, you know. Maybe you should consider fighting crime or something.” “Get the commissioner to return my calls and we’ll talk.” Once Travis had disappeared up the stairs and the pipes for the hot water were rattling through the walls, Magdalene patted the cash-register and flipped the Oracular’s sign to CLOSED. She smiled to herself; the Sight still had some uses indeed.


Sometimes, while he was watching his team work, Nikolai wondered what the world had been like before the Retreat; 9 to 5 jobs, long lunch breaks. He would wonder, while staring at the screen in his home that showed all of his employees dutifully typing away, how anyone could get anything done in 8 hours.

Right now his team was working in Real Time. In about 20 minutes an alarm would sound all around the office indicating it was time to go On Retreat. When that happened, each one of his employees would pull out the small device that everyone kept in their pockets at all times, open the Retreat app, and login.

Even though employees only worked in the office a couple of days a week (the other days they could work from anywhere) Nikolai had tried to make the space as inviting as possible. There were large plush couches for those who didn’t like to sit at desks. There were multiple coffee stations, as well as a few with drinks that contained something a bit stronger than caffeine for when you were working on an especially difficult project. There were also many brightly colored signs on the walls with helpful reminders like “Eat something! A hungry worker is an unproductive worker.” And “Fifteen for Fire!” The latter was referencing the requirement to take one 15 minute break for every 6 hours of work while On Retreat to ensure maximum productivity.

These reminders were important. Nicolai had learned that the first few months after the release of Retreat 1.0 had been messy. People would go On Retreat to work on a project for hours, then come back and continue working. Time passed differently when you were in the bubble that the Retreat app created. Hours would speed by, but in Real Time it was as if you had just sat down to work. CEOs were so excited about the increased productivity that they didn’t think to remind their employees to eat, or sleep. The results were not pretty. Nowadays there were limits, rules, reminders everywhere. Nikolai smiled as he heard the melodic chimes starting, right on schedule, and unmuted his microphone.

“Have a good Retreat!” he said.

******************************** Kai only had a few more months left of school, and for that she was grateful. She had known going into it that a degree in Programming was going to be a lot of work, but she had underestimated just how much. Even with the mandatory sleep and food breaks that were built into every day, she was exhausted all the time.

She knew her classmates felt the same; they would commiserate during their midday lunch breaks, share tips for minimizing back pain, and which brand of eyedrops were best to combat the dry scratchiness that came from staring at screens all day. But they knew it would all be worth it. Soon school would be a thing of the past and they would be Programmers, making a real difference in the world. After all it was students just like them that created the Retreat app, students just like them that wrote the code that allowed the United States to have the most productive workforce in the entire world. Kai stood up from her laptop, stretched her arms up over her head, and did twenty jumping jacks. She took a deep breath and long sip of her coffee. She knew there were stronger drinks, some of her classmates used them during midterms and finals, but Kai was nervous about stuff like that. She had heard tales of hallucinations, of students who didn’t sleep for days, wandering around campus like zombies. The teachers all said those stories were just urban legend, but Kai wasn’t so sure.

She was about to sit back down at her desk when the door to her dorm room flew open and TJ and Amma burst in. “Kai!” Her best friends both looked kind of manic, wild eyed and breathless. “We have to show you something! Like right now!” Kai looked up at her friends suspiciously.

“Ya’ll ok?” she asked. “You are both acting like you just took a sip from the wrong mug.”

Amma waved her hand impatiently.

“Girl you know I don’t touch that stuff. But seriously, come on .” She grabbed Kai’s hand and literally tried to drag her out of the door.

Kai looked over at TJ who was still standing in the doorway.

“TJ, what’s up? He grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “We just have to show you,” he replied. “But Amma maybe you could let her put on shoes first?” He indicated Kai’s bare feet. Amma sighed. “Fine but hurry up !”

Kai followed her two friends down the hall and into one of the many computer labs that were spread out across the campus. She raised her eyebrows questioningly when Amma locked the door behind them. “What..” Amma placed a finger to her lips and led them towards a table in the far corner. Kai expected her to boot up the laptop that was there but Amma pulled a small piece of paper out of her pocket instead. Written in blue ink, were what seemed to be lines of code. Kai was impressed. Paper was hard to find on campus, since almost every assignment was done on some kind of computer device. She was about to ask Amma why she had hand written this one when TJ answered for her. “They haven’t figured out how to track what we write. Or what we think. Not yet anyway.” Kai understood then. Her friends had written a new program, but not one for any class.

“What does it do?”

Amma grinned.

“You know how they monitor us when we are on Retreat? You know, to make sure we are only using the extra time to study or do homework or whatever? Well we figured out how to hack it.” Kai looked over at TJ, who nodded. “How do you know it works?” she asked. Her two friends shared a quick glance before smiling back at her.

“We tried it,” TJ replied. “Yesterday, for a full hour, in Retreat time that is. We took a walk in the park.” Kai stared at him, her eyes wide. “And???” TJ shrugged.

“No one said a thing.”              ******************************** Kai had learned about the time before the Retreat app had been created, they all had. It was part of every middle and high school education. About how much less productive work used to be. About how much time humans used to waste on meaningless things before the coders figured out how to optimize everything; exactly how many hours of rest, leisure activities and exercise were actually necessary. People in this country used to be terribly lazy, prone to staring at mindless videos for hours on end.

Kai could not imagine having that much free time ever. When would anyone get their coursework done? Besides, it wasn’t as if she didn’t ever have fun. During their mandatory hour long midday break, she and her friends often played games, kicking a ball around for fun or playing with a real deck of cards or an old school chess board. Most people played games online of course, but you could still find these things if you knew who to ask. And at night, before bed, she would sometimes even watch a video or listen to music to help her unwind. It was necessary after so many hours of studying.

The idea that her two best friends were suggesting, however, was something different. “What are we going to do all day?” Both TJ and Amma smiled mysteriously.

“Whatever we want,” they replied.

Retreat time was specific to each person who activated the app, basically opening a bubble around them that sped everything up and made time in the real world appear to not move at all. In order to allow for working in groups, however, you could link up with people nearby and add them to your “bubble.” Kai pulled out her device, handed it Amma and watched her type in the new code.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? We are only a few months away from graduation.” Amma smiled. “Isn’t that exactly why we should do this? Before we become productive members of society for, well, basically forever. Don’t you want to have some fun first?” Their campus was not that far from the lake, so the three friends went there, armed with sandwiches and sodas. They sat by the shore and Kai popped the top open on her drink. TJ reached into his pocket and offered her a small silver flask.

Kai raised her eyebrows. “I thought you guys didn’t do that stuff”, she replied. TJ shook his head. “Its not a stimulant silly. Its alcohol. You know, for fun?” Kai had really only had alcohol at formal events; a glass of red wine at her cousins’s wedding, the occasional beer at a graduation party. No one ever drank in the middle of the day. Alcohol was known to dull your senses, to make you sleepy and unmotivated. Which, she supposed, was kind of the point. She poured some of the contents of TJ’s flask into her bottle of soda and watched as he and Amma did the same. They each took a large swig, then lay back on the grass and stared up into the bright blue sky. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, sunny and warm. Kai had just closed her eyes when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Im going in the lake”, Amma declared. “Wanna come?” Kai blinked at her. “I obviously don’t have a bathing suit here. I thought I was studying this afternoon, remember?” Amma shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

Kai looked around the deserted shoreline. Everyone else on Retreat right now was in a office somewhere or a coffeeshop designed for work. Amma was already removing her clothes. She glanced over at TJ who waved his hand dismissively. “Go ahead," he said. "I’ll stay here.” Kai considered it for a few more seconds before grinning and following her friend down to the water. The two girls stayed in the water for over half an hour, swimming back and forth and floating lazily on their backs, the midday sun on their faces. At one point Kai felt Amma reach out and take her hand and they stayed like that for awhile, holding hands with their eyes closed, slowly drifting in the lake’s tiny waves. When they got back TJ was eating the rest of his sandwich. Before he could have time to react, Amma plopped down right in his lap, wet skin and all. He flinched at the cold water but rather than pushing her away, he wrapped his long arms around her and drew her closer. Amma then reached her hand towards Kai and pulled her down next to them. They sat like that for awhile, three bodies touching each other, absorbing each other’s warmth. When Amma turned her face upwards, TJ’s lips met hers easily.

Over four hours of Retreat time passed in this way. They finished their sandwiches, sodas, the contents of TJ’s flask. They talked about their futures, fantasized about what life would be like when they graduated and became the top coders in their fields. The sun had traveled almost all the way across the sky when Amma finally said, “Do you guys ever wonder if all of this is worth it?” Both Kai and TJ just looked at her, waiting for her to elaborate. “I mean, this day, this lake, all of this. When are we ever going to have a day like this again? We have been in school basically our whole lives to get those dream jobs where we will then work non stop until we die. And we were always taught that that was the ultimate goal, the ultimate purpose in life. But what if it isn’t?” “Well you guys have the hack now”, Kai pointed out. “So maybe we can come back here. Like once a month. Even when we all are big tech superstars.” Both TJ and Amma nodded. They made a pact then, an agreement to take a break from the real world once a month and just be free, together. Then they went back. Kai had an exam to study for. TJ was finishing up his final project. Amma had a paper to write.

A few weeks after their Retreat to the lake, TJ tried to enter the hacked code into his device and it was immediately rejected. Apparently the higher ups had learned about the hack, and had changed something in the app. No one had ever said anything, they had just quietly fixed the problem.

TJ spent a few hours tinkering with the Retreat code but eventually he gave up. There were finals to take, projects to complete. Graduation was rapidly approaching. Besides, by then all three of them had been offered internships at high level tech companies. The real world was waiting. ***************************** When Nikolai’s team returned from being on Retreat, he checked in with everyone to make sure they had all eaten. He then told them to get some coffee, to take a little break. He watched his screen as they chatted with each other, joked, laughed. They all looked happy and Nikolai felt proud for providing a positive work environment. After all, happiness was key to productivity. A few weeks ago, some college students had apparently hacked the Retreat app, allowing them to disappear for hours without being tracked. Nikolai’s boss had been beside himself.

“They went to the lake!” He had cried. “They went swimming. Naked. They didn’t study at all. They didn't even bring a book!” Nikolai had wondered if the students were going to be punished, perhaps even kicked out of school. Programming college spots were extremely competitive; there were probably thousands who would be more than happy to take their place.

But his boss had shaken his head. “Are you kidding? We’ve already sent an update to the app,” he said. “Their code will no longer work, or anything like it. But we aren’t doing a thing to them, we aren’t telling a soul. Can you imagine if it got out that someone had hacked the system? We would never hear the end of it.” Nikolai of course agreed not to say anything to anyone. “So they are just getting away with it?”

His boss didn’t seem particularly concerned.

“So they spent a few hours hanging out by a lake. Who cares? Young people always think that they are going to change the world. Eventually everyone learns what we already know. He paused, a small smile passing over his face.

“We are in charge of the world’, he said. “We are the only ones who can really make change. And we already did that, many years ago. Nowadays, the smart people know to just play along.” As Nikolai watched, his team finished up their coffees and one by one retuned to their desks. It was only 2pm, Real Time. There were still plenty of hours left in the day.


If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s only a well-made plan that can change your future for the better. But in this story, I’m about to tell you, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It all began in January 1974, just after my eighteenth birthday. I was six feet one inch tall, one-hundred-sixty-five pounds, and had the body of an athlete. Externally, I was physically fit, but internally, I bore an invisible flaw, which eventually changed my future. To put it simply, I was half- blind. An ophthalmologist determined it wasn’t from any fault of my own, but that the retina in my right eye was scarred from an infection during my childhood years. Needless to say, the damage was permanent, and having experienced it most of my life, I learned to adapt and move on. Now, having the body of Superman, the looks of Brad Pitt, and the intelligence of Einstein (Maybe I’m getting little carried away), you’d think I had the world at my feet, but you’d be wrong. You see, when it came to schoolwork, I was no one lazier than me. All the way through high school, I did everything I could to avoid doing homework. In eleventh grade, I developed my first well-made plan. During study hall, I organized homework groups where each member would do one or two problems and share the solutions with each other. Within ten to fifteen minutes, our homework assignments were completed. After two years of cheating, I didn’t graduate at the top of my class, but I did graduate. After the Summer break, I started college, with the idea I would become an automobile mechanic. It didn’t take long for boredom to overwhelm me and ended up dropping out. It wasn’t long after that I decided to move to South Carolina. I was planning to spend the rest of my life there, but as it turned out, it wasn’t meant to be. Something was still missing in my life, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactually what it was. Eventually, I found myself back in New York and from there, I continued to ponder on what I wanted to do with my life. So, there I was, unemployed, and unsure of my future. It was then I decided I needed a new plan, a better plan. As fortune would have it, I wasn’t alone in my boat. Norman, who was my best friend since middle school, was paddling with me. It was a mid-January afternoon. We were at a local bar drinking beers and shooting pool, when Norman said off the top of his head, “I have an idea, Howard. Why don’t we join the Coast Guard? That way, we can make get out of this God forsaken town and move on with our lives. I also heard they have a "buddy" plan where friends can go to boot camp together. What do you think? I knew we were fresh out of the Vietnam war and the draft had become part of history, but still the possibility of returning to war was a dark thought in the back of my mind. But the Coast Guard should be different, I thought. They have nothing to do with foreign affairs. Their sole job is to protect U.S. coastal waters. Not seeing a downside to it, I whole-hardily agreed with his plan and later that week, we found ourselves driving to Syracuse to visit the recruiter. As you can imagine, the recruiter was overjoyed to see us walk through his front door. After a few quick questions, he had us take an entrance exam and scheduled us for a physical later that week. It wasn’t long after that, we were back in his office. “Gentlemen,” he began. “I have good news and bad news. The good news is Norman qualifies to join the Coast Guard. The bad news, Howard, you don’t. Though you had the highest score I’ve seen on an entrance exam, we’re unable to let you sign up. You see, the vision in your right eye doesn’t meet the standards required for you to enlist in the Coast Guard. I went to my commander and begged him to see if we could get you in under a waiver, but I’m afraid that wasn’t possible. I’m sorry.” Sorry, he said. Can you believe it? For my whole life, I dealt with my disability and never once found it debilitating. Now, some regulation buried in a pile of other regulations says I’m incapable of doing something, without even letting me get a chance to prove them wrong. Even so, I knew my chances of convincing the Coast Guard to change its mind was zero. It was time for me to let it go. Just as we were about to walk out the door, the recruiter spoke out. “You know, Howard, the Army’s physical standards are less than ours. If you wish to join up with them, you should have no problem getting in.”         So, a new plan began to develop in my mind. Norman was going to join the Coast Guard and I was going to join the Army. In fact, the Army recruiter guaranteed I would be a tank driver stationed at Fort Carson Colorado. It’s a job and a chance to do something with my life. At that moment, my fate was sealed, or so I thought. A few days later, Norman, of couple of friends of ours, and I were driving back home after a day of drinking and shooting pool. As we were cruising down the snow-covered road, I leaned my head back against the head rest and closed my eyes. I laid there in comfort, thinking about the future, when I heard Norman shout out, “Look out!” Yeah, right, I mumbled to myself. The next thing I remembered, I was waking up in the hospital, stark naked. When I twisted my head, a bolt of pain shot down my back informing me I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. For the next three days I laid there, unable to leave my bed, and during that time, I learned what had happened. As Norman was driving down the road, he hit a patch of ice and lost control of his car. As he slid across the road, he nearly missed colliding head on with an oncoming vehicle. Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid the tree on the other side of the road. Considering he struck the tree at fifty miles per hour, I was lucky I wasn’t hurt worse. Norman only suffered a few cuts and bruises, but as for me, I had a slight concussion, a mild compressed fracture in my back and a severe black eye to top it all off. Though my injuries turned out to be minor, they were about to change the direction in my life. Not long after I was released from the hospital, I had to return to Syracuse for my final physical, before I could join the Army, and when it was completed, I was informed my results were not pleasing. The doctors took one look at my black eye, remembered I was blind in it, told me I was not fit to drive a tank. And just like that, all my plans of going to Colorado and to a better life, were eradicated. When the recruiter heard this, he gave me some words of encouragement. “You may not be able to drive a tank, but you can do something else for your country. How does being a generator mechanic sound to you?” Generator mechanic, I thought. Does that mean the Army does more than shoot guns and drive tanks? I heard myself asking, “What the catch?” The recruiter’s tone was flat. “There’s no guarantee where you’ll be assigned.” Having no control, or no plan, I would be leaving everything up to destiny. So, I was left with two choices. Either join the Army and be a generator mechanic or go home jobless, with no future. Turning to the recruiter, I asked, “Where do I sign?” And that was it. I headed to Fort Jackson for Basic Training and later to Fort Belvoir to learn how to fix a generator. September rolled around when I completed my training and was waiting to receive my PCS orders. The entire company was standing in formation when our First Sergeant came out and read our names off the list. When the tally came in, all those who were not guaranteed an assignment, were ordered to go to Germany. Everyone, that is, except for me. I alone was ordered to go to South Korea. The whirlwinds of destiny and fate threw me halfway around the world. The morning I arrived in Yong San, I was taken to the reception station and waited for further orders as to where I was being stationed. At least fifty of us were mulling around in a conference room. As we waited like sheep for the slaughter, I had a chance to observe unit insignias hanging on the walls. I heard one of my fellow sheep bleating, “Those insignias are the emblems of all the units stationed here.” As I looked at the insignias, one caught my eye. The patch was shaped like a bullet facing downwards and inside it was an image of a missile with a lightning bolt passing through it. Above the patch was a tab, and in it was the words,

4th Missile . Before long, in-processing began, and I quickly dismissed the insignia from my mind, but by the end of the day, it had become a part of my life. While most of the wandering sheep were assigned to the 2nd Infantry Division at Camp Casey, I, alone, was assigned to the 4th Missile Command at Camp Page. I thought the odds of this happening to me were incredible, but I was soon to learn fate wasn’t done with me yet. About a month after arriving in Camp Page, I decided I needed to further my education. So, I went to visit the education center to see what they had to offer. Unexpectedly, as soon as I walked through the door, the Director of Education rushed up to me and introduced himself. After we had a brief discussion about my education, he suddenly changed subjects. “It’s a strange coincidence you came in just now. A few minutes ago, an employee of mine quit. You see, I run a class, just outside the gate, teaching English conversation. Who would you like to teach that class for me?” It was something I would never have planned and the last thing I expected to hear from him. If I had been a bar hopping, girl chasing type person, I would have said no. But I wasn’t. Most of my time was spent staying on the base and had little to do during my time off, so I agreed to teach. If you think fate was finished with me, think again. The next night was the first time I went to the classroom. As I climbed the stairs, I began to wonder. What will it be like, trying to teach anything to anyone? I’ve never done anything like this before. What will they think of me? Before I could answer my own questions, I found myself opening the classroom door. As I did, I was greeted by a class of six people, waiting patiently for me to arrive. Most of them were a little older than me, both male and female. But there was one young woman that caught my eye. I had to force myself not to stare at her. If was as if I was gazing at an angel. She was about my age, slender and incredibly attractive. To me, perfect. My heart began to race, for I never felt such an attraction before. Yes, there were other women in my life, but none of those relationships felt as powerful as this one. She looked at me with her beautiful almond eyes and smiled. From that moment on, I was hooked. Today, I laugh at those who say they can plan out their lives and love at first sight doesn’t exist. As for me, I know better. It’s been over forty-six years since we first met and as of today, we are happily married. Somedays, I look at the past and try to count how many coincidences and acts of fate intervened, taking me halfway around the world to meet my true love and every day I count, the number is never the same. I figure the odds for my life to turn out as it did are close, if not beyond the odds of winning the Powerball jackpot and the way I see it, I’ve won more than the greatest payout it’s ever given.


“Are you coming tonight?”

“Sarah…” “No. I will not take no for an answer. Enough is enough, okay? I gave you a few days to cry and stay in bed in sweatpants and eat pizza, and now it’s over. Get up!” “That was harsh,” I say as I drag my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. Sarah has her arms crossed at this point, and I stare daggers at her fingers tapping against her upper arm. “I’m going.”

“Go faster,” she says as she grabs my arm and pulls me off the bed. “We are going to have a great time tonight!” I feel like she’s staring into my soul, trying to spread some sunshine in there.

“How am I supposed to have a good time? Seriously, Sarah, it’s only been a few days, and I’m still really upset about how everything went down.” I think back to the horrible drunk break up text I got on Wednesday night from Ryan and involuntarily shudder.

I see her eyes soften as she pulls me into a hug. “I know, I’m sorry, Rach.” I blink to keep the tears from falling down my cheeks. I haven’t cried yet today, and I want to keep it that way, especially if Sarah is dragging me out tonight. She pulls back to look at me again. “But we are going to have fun tonight! And no one we know will even be there; it’s just all my boss’s friends.”

I walk over to my closet. “So I shouldn’t wear my bright orange dress with the plunging neckline?”

Sarah laughs and just says, “Please don’t. We have to leave at 6 on the dot, okay?”

“Got it. I’ll be ready at 6:30,” I wink at her.

“Not funny!” she calls over her shoulder as she shuts my door behind her.

*** “I’m ready! 5:55 FYI!” I smirk.

“I’m just glad you seem to be in a better mood now,” I link my arm with Sarah’s.

“Fake it ‘till you make it, right?” I ask. Sarah nods, and we’re out the door.

Of course her boss sent a huge limo for us to go to the party in. Sarah has been working for some talent agency in downtown LA basically the entire time we’ve been in school, and this year she got to start going to parties. When she agreed to go to her first one though, she didn’t know it also involved getting to ride in a limo every single time. Rachel usually went with her so she would have someone to talk to while her boss networked with everyone. Honestly, there didn’t seem much point for Sarah to be there, but neither of them were complaining, especially not when the driver informed them there was chilled champagne waiting for them in the back.

“Cheers!” “To what?” I ask.

“Who cares?” She downs her first glass in one. I shrug and follow suit.

We’re each three glasses in by the time we pull up to the party. We get out and follow the horde of people toward the giant white mansion ahead. “Does President Snow live here?” Sarah asks and then nearly falls over laughing. “You’re such a light weight,” I playfully shove her, but then have to grab her arm when she almost falls over again. “Shit, sorry.” We’re both laughing like idiots so loudly that people are starting to stare at us. “Shhh. We have to get it together in case we run into your boss in here.”

“I know, I know. I’ll be fine by the time we get inside.”

It takes forever for us to get inside. Even when we’re through the gate, there’s a long line, and we have to give our names at the door before we can cross the threshold. Shockingly, Sarah holds it together until we get inside and she says, “Let’s go to the bar.” I just roll my eyes and follow her; I’m not here to impress anyone.

“Can I get two margaritas, please?” Sarah asks. I see the bartender frantically nod. These parties are always crazy. Sarah turns to me. “So, let’s get to it. We need to find you someone to hook up with.”

My eyeballs nearly pop out of my head. “What? No.” She just keeps looking at me. “No, I’m not hooking up with anybody. Not yet, anyway. Will you stop looking at me like that?!”

“I’m just saying. We’re here. There are a bunch of hot celebrities…”

“Did you just wiggle your eyebrows at me? Maybe I should drink both of these margaritas,” I say as the bartender puts them in front of us.

“Don’t you dare touch mine!” She laughs as she grabs hers and takes a big drink, but it gets stuck to the napkin. Mine does the same, so I pull it off and put it back on the bar. “Oh. My. God.”

I put my drink down. “What?”

She smirks. “What’s that on your napkin?” I look down.

“Did you do this?” I ask it like I’m joking, but I’m kind of annoyed. “Does that look like my number?”

“You could’ve put the bartender up to it,” I whisper since he’s only a few feet away from us.

“When would I have done that? Just look around the bar; try and see who it is.”

“Fine.” I scan the row of people around the bar, and sure enough, some guy across from us raises his glass at me. I quickly turn back around to Sarah, “That must be him.” I take a giant sip of my drink.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Can you please stop saying that?”

“Sorry, but do you know who that is?” I can’t even count how many times Sarah asks me that during these parties.

“No…”

She rolls her eyes and then says, “It’s Gavin Raye!” I must still have a blank look on my face because she elaborates. “The new singer my boss is representing? He just had a huge single come out! Oh my God you have to go over to him.”

Sarah starts to grab her drink like she’s going to walk over there, so I grab her wrist so she can’t pick it up. “No. No way. I’m not talking to anyone. I’m not ready! So stop asking!” I don’t mean to get so mad, especially since I know Sarah is only being pushy because she’s drunk.

“Sorry,” she stares down at the bar and starts picking at the nail polish on her thumb.

“No, I’m sorry. Look, let’s just forget about it, okay? Let’s go have a great time.” She smiles at me and holds out her arm. I link mine with hers, and we leave the bar without a second glance.

*** It’s almost 4 a.m. by the time we get home. I certainly caught up with Sarah in terms of drinks as the night went on, so it takes me a couple of tries to get my key in the door. I cringe as I slam the door knob into the wall. Hopefully I didn’t just wake up our roommates. I don’t handle Jen well when I’m drunk.

Once we make it in I lock the door again and half carry Sarah over to the couch where we sit down. We both bend over to take our shoes off at the same time and laugh as we struggle for way too long with the buckles. “Why do they make these things so damn complicated?” Sarah asks. It sets me off, and I can’t stop laughing, but I stop immediately when I see Sarah waving a napkin in front of my face.

“When did you take that?” I ask. I’m only partially annoyed with her persistence at this point.

“When you weren’t looking,” she laughs. “Come on, humor me, please!”

“I am not texting him. You can take that napkin and throw it right in the trash.”

“I dare you.”

“Are you five?” I can’t help but laugh at her face; she looks so mischievous right now. “I’m not drunk texting some celebrity represented by your boss.”

“Well you’re not going to text him sober either,” she says. We stare at each other for a solid ten seconds without saying anything. Finally, I cave.

“Fine,” I pull out my phone. “What should I say?” Sarah gives me a huge smile and hands me the napkin.


There was tension in the air, the way it always is when summer bleeds into autumn and the two seasons combine for a few trembling days. There is something about those days - an undercurrent of trepidation and anticipation - that leaves both man and beast unbalanced. Night had fallen, and the forest was thick with darkness. The moon offered some of its pale light and left balsam fir and black spruce half-visible as terrible, looming shadows. The trees edged closer the further you ventured into the forest until even a grown man could find himself plagued by the disquieting thought that he was slowly being entombed. “You sure it’s out there?” Hendry said. Somewhere in the shadows, hidden bodies rustled the undergrowth and the eerie sound of a nightjars churring trill trembled in the air. “Joseph.” Joseph raised his head and met Hendry’s eyes across the campfire. “It’s out there,” he said. While Hendry kept his eyes on him, Joseph grabbed the stick by his side and poked the fire, rousing a small swarm of embers. Hendry muttered something inaudible and took a sip from his flask. He’d not seen the man for many years, but then a few days ago he’d looked up from the bar and seen him sitting there at the other end of it, holding a glass of amber liquid and staring straight at him. Seeing Joseph after all those years had unnerved him. When people left, they should stay gone. That’s what he’d always thought. There was something arrogant and disruptive about the act of returning to a place after a long absence. Time and community is to history and memory what the ocean is to pieces of sea glass; it polishes facts and smooths out specifics until they’re pleasing to the touch. Disparate memories, opinions and perspectives blend together until a collective understanding of the past becomes an integral part of each person’s character and shapes their understanding of the world and their place in it. But when people leave and then return, their shards of glass have been shaped by distant, foreign waves. They remember things differently, and such persons can be dangerous. Sometimes their memories retain a cutting edge. Hendry would have left the bar, had Joseph not downed his glass and crossed the floor before he had time to react. With barely a greeting and no reference to his sudden return, Joseph sat down, ordered Hendry a drink, and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse; a chance to take down the Spirit Moose. At the first mention of the creature, Joseph had his full attention. A monstrous moose was rumoured to be living deep inside the forest. It was said to be the colour of fresh goats’ milk and be twice the size of a black bear, yet sightings were rare, and their level of veracity was difficult to ascertain. Some people thought the Spirit Moose was a nothing but a myth. Others thought that it was not corporeal in nature, but a representation of the spirit of the forest itself. A third group of people, to which Hendry belonged, believed that the elusive moose was not only real but that its milky hide and heavy crown would make whoever caught it a very pretty penny. Joseph told Hendry that he’d been trapping hares in the forest when he encountered the moose. It had appeared without a sound and he’d recoiled when he looked up and found it gazing at him from a short distance. It was a chilling sight, bright white with milky antlers twice the size of a well-grown man and obsidian eyes as large as two fists. At first, Joseph thought it was spectral in nature and wondered what horrible meaning he was to take from the sight. But after observing him for a few trembling moments, the moose turned around and slowly walked deeper into the forest. When sticks broke under its enormous hooves, and branches moved as they brushed its back, Joseph realized that it was flesh, blood and bone. He quickly pursued the moose, who at first seemed to take little notice of him and kept moving at a leisurely pace. But after he’d followed the moose for nearly two hours, the moose suddenly picked up its pace and vanished. Joseph tried tracking it, but despite its size, it left little trace. He spent a few more hours aimlessly searching the woods and was ready to give up when he came upon a beautiful swimming hole. After washing his face in the cold water, he suddenly noticed the bite marks on the surrounding trees. His limbs trembled as he rushed to study them. On some of the trees, the incisions were clearly old, while others were still bleeding sap. Other trees bore the marks of the beast rubbing against them, and on one of them, he found something stuck to its rough bark. Without taking his eyes of Hendry, Joseph had reached into his pocket, pulled out the tuft of bright white hair and put it down on the sticky surface of the bar. “You supply the hunting gear, I lead the way, we share the money. We leave tomorrow at dawn. ” Hendry resented the way Joseph had assumed he would agree to the offer, but the promise of wealth proved stronger than his ire, and now he found himself deep within the woods with this unsettling man.

They’d spent most of the day’s journey in tense silence. Hendry wasn’t much of a talker himself, but it was something about Joseph’s silence that seemed too deliberate. He’d offered no explanation of his sudden return, apart from tersely revealing that had been back in the area for about two months. He said nothing about what he’d been up to over these long-lost years and nothing about what he was planning next.

“I’m off for a piss,” Hendry said and took a short swig from his flask before standing up. Joseph stood up too. “Hand me some of that?” Hendry reluctantly passed him the flask, then walked outside the small circle of light, and stared into the darkness as he relieved himself. When he turned back, Joseph was rummaging through one of the bags. He handed Hendry the flask and then kept troubling the contents of the bag until he found a chunk of dried meat. He sat down next to Hendry on the rough log next to the fire and pulled out his knife. Hendry found their sudden proximity somewhat oppressive and shifted slightly on the log. Joseph cut off a strip of meat, handed it to Hendry and cut another strip for himself. Hendry chewed the tough meat and washed it down with another drink off his flask. They were close. They would reach the spot long before noon and then it was just a matter of waiting. Then -

A sudden prickling sensation interrupted his thought process and he looked down on his forearm. To his disgust, he discovered that a long, spindly trunk had penetrated his skin and was quivering slightly as it drew his blood. The body of the mosquito was slowly filling up and resembled a horribly swollen, blood-filled blister, ready to burst. Without warning, Joseph’s hand cut through the air and struck the engorged insect. Hendry made a face at the sight of the smeared blood and mangled body parts that clung to his arm and looked up at Joseph, looking both perplexed and aggravated.

“I don’t like mosquitos” Joseph muttered. “Nobody fucking does,” Hendry said. He used his fingernail to scrape the remains of the mosquito off his arm. “Just keep your damn hands off me.” “I don’t trust them.” Hendry gently rolled the squashed body of the mosquito between his fingers, then flicked it into the fire. Perhaps he shouldn’t have resented the oddly strained silence. Not if this was the alternative. “You don’t trust them?” “No, I don’t. Who could trust a beast that does not bleed its own blood?” “Jesus…” “You don’t find that distinctly unnatural?” “I find you unnatural, blathering like a bubbly-jock. ” Joseph shook his head. “Consider that we find this moose; it’s as large as a bear and as white as bone and as you take your shot, you can taste the gold and silver it will bring. But then, the taste turns to copper. As the bullet rips through skin and flesh, and blood gushes from the wounded beast, you feel yourself growing faint and cold. Then, you grow colder still when you realize that the blood spilling on the ground is none but your own.” “How the fuck is that anything like a damn mosquito?” Hendry snapped. Something about the toneless yet determined way Joseph spoke unnerved and angered him. “You can’t deny it’s an unsettling thought.” “It’s damned nonsense.” Hendry took a sharp swig from his flask and stared into the dark woods. “They do call it a Spirit Moose,” Joseph said. “Who’s to say what enchantments it holds? I’ve heard it can’t be killed. Some say a hunter killed its mate, and now it's searching the forest for its lost love. They say it’ll be searching for eternity.” “You’d do best to keep your mouth shut.” Hendry spat. “I’ve heard of strange things happening in these woods. Hunters being lured to their deaths by strange figures. Womenfolk disappearing into the forest on the backs of bears. ” “You’ve lost your damn mind.” “I’ve seen stranger things happen.” Joseph stared at the fire with a strange look that sent an unwelcome chill down Hendry’s spine. “I’ve travelled across this country and beyond for ten long years. I’ve seen many wonderful and terrible things. I’ve seen beautiful women with black tongues that roll out from their mouths hang to their feet. I’ve seen a bear with the face of a hideous hag that wept pure gold. I’ve seen the spectre of a young bride eat the heart of her widower.” He cut himself another strip of meat. “I’ve learned that some things are not meant to be understood.”

“I hope you’ve gathered more than stories on your journey,” Hendry said dismissively and suppressed a shiver. “Don’t worry, “ Joseph said and stared into the dark woods. “I’ve got everything I need right here in this forest. “Aye,” Hendry said, following his gaze. “That moose will bring us a fine prize.”

“I always meant to come back home,” Joseph said. “ I thought that if I left, I could find better work and make some real money. When I’d made something of myself, I’d come back and marry your sister. Of course, after scarcely a year I got the news that someone else was bestowed that honour.” He was quiet for a moment. “I was sorry to hear what happened to her.”  Hendry replied with a short grunt. “God rest her soul, “ he added. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Aye, well. It was a long time ago now.” “I suppose so,” Joseph said. “ How’s her husband faring these days?” Hendry gave him a sharp glance, but Joseph didn’t seem to notice. He just kept staring at the flames. “Not so well. He’s dead, “ Hendry said. “Oh,” Joseph said. “Well, I suppose I should have expected as much. Time is relentless. We’ll all go that way one day.” “God willing, we won’t,” Hendry muttered. “The man was murdered.” He gave Joseph a long look. “You being back here some two months, I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.” Joseph was silent for a moment before speaking. “I heard something of it. I suppose I just didn’t realize it was the same man. I never knew her husband’s name.” He sighed. “What a terrible way to go.” Hendry didn’t answer, he just took another swig of his flask. “I hear he was quite fond of gambling. You can make a lot of enemies that way.” “I wouldn’t know,” Hendry replied.

“No? Not a gambling man yourself? Anymore, that is. When you were younger, I remember you didn’t seem to mind a game or two.”

“Just what are you implying?” Hendry said. He gave Joseph a hard look. “Nothing,” Joseph said. “I meant no offence.” Hendry took another sip of his flask, but the alcohol didn’t satisfy him the way it usually did. As he studied Joseph through the corner of his eye, he thought about the hunting knife he kept in his belt. “Perhaps it was the work of a spirit,” Joseph said. “Aye, perhaps the Spirit Moose cracked his skull open,” Hendry said in a mocking tone. “Perhaps,” Joseph said without humour. “Or perhaps Audrey ate his heart.” Hendry didn’t show any emotion but slowly moved his right hand to the hilt of his knife. “Once I’d heard about Audrey’s accident, I had no reason to return home. I spent years travelling from town to town, sometimes working, often begging. I’d lost all purpose in life. All because of a spooked horse.” Joseph looked up at the sky.“ As you know, I learned many things on my aimless journey. But nothing compares to what I learned just a few months ago.

In a bar, far away from this cursed place, I saw something I’d never expected to see; an old acquaintance. Arthur Morris, perhaps you remember him? He said he left town around the time of Audrey’s accident to marry a distant cousin in the south. Well, as we got to talking, he revealed something quite eye-opening. You see, I’d been told my Audrey was kicked to death in the stables by an unbroken horse, but Arthur seemed to remember it differently. According to him, Audrey’s husband was prone to drinking and slapping his wives around. Apparently, he’d had two before Audrey, but they'd both met an early grave. One fell down the stairs, the other down an old well. Terribly bad luck, don’t you think? So, after bidding Arthur farewell, I naturally began my return home.” Hendry tried to grip his knife, but his fingers were numb and slapped against the hilt like stuffed sausages. Joseph sighed.

“Once the villain was dead, I thought I was finished. But after hanging around the area, I discovered more about that time. I learned that around the time of Audrey’s marriage, you owed the old man a fair bit of money. I hear he and his men were starting to give you some trouble. As I said, gambling can make you a lot of enemies... ” He pointed to the woods. “Oh, look. There it is. The Spirit Moose.” Hendry’s throat was closing up and he wheezed with each strained breath. He followed Joseph's finger, and there it was, looking at him through the trees. It was as white as bone and its massive antlers were big enough to freeze Hendry to the core. “But it all worked it somehow, didn’t it?” He paused. “Look who’s riding it. Isn’t that Audrey?” Hendry’s head felt like it was on fire. His arms hung limply at his sides and his lungs were slowly turning to stone. But there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and he saw that riding on the back of the moose was Audrey, all dressed in white.

“It was either your blood on the floor or hers on the wedding sheets, and you made your choice. You sold her like cattle. Knowing what had happened to the other wives. Knowing she would go the same way. Hendry couldn’t have answered him if he wanted to. He stared at moose and its terrible rider, and suddenly other shapes started to appear behind them. Three beautiful women appeared before his eyes and gave him a big smile. As they parted their lips, their long black tongues fell to the forest floor. “Look how they bleed,” Joseph said, and Hendry saw wounds opening up all over the body of the moose. Blood poured out and soaked the skirts of Audrey’s dress. She began to weep thick, crimson tears that slid down her face and mingled with the blood of the moose. Joseph reached for Hendry’s flask, which had fallen to the ground. He held it up and studied it. “I met a woman once who said she could give me everything and anything I desired. I told her the only thing I wanted was irrevocably lost to me, but she insisted. She sat me down in a hut and gave me a cup of tea.” Joseph got up from the log and turned to face Hendry who was wheezing for breath and still staring into the woods. “There’s a root that grows deep in the Amazon. It’s a powerful hallucinogenic. Makes you extremely susceptible to suggestion. The woman used to dry it out and grind it down. She put it my tea and told me what to see. And I saw it. I saw her.” He threw the flask down in front of Hendry’s feet. “I spent every penny I had, visiting her. For years, I only worked so I could afford to go back to that hut. It’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever experienced.” He bent down and picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Of course, you have to be incredibly careful. In large doses, it’s quite toxic.” He looked at Hendry with a concerned expression. “Oh my… does that not hurt?” Hendry finally tore his eyes from the forest and met Joseph’s gaze. His eyes were glazed over with pain and terror.

“All your flesh is falling off your bones,” Joseph said. With that, he turned around and disappeared between the trees.


“911, what’s your emergency?” “I’d like to report a birth.” “A birth ? Is somebody hurt?” “Yes” “Who?” “The human race. Although I’ve never understood why you call it a ‘race.’ It’s a misleading word. The only thing you’re racing to is your own demise.” “Sir, I’m sorry, but this line is reserved for emergencies only. Do you have an emergency?” “Yes.” “What is that emergency?” “I told you.” “You said there had been a birth.” “That’s right.” “How is that an emergency?” “Because this marks the beginning and the end: the birth of my reign and the beginning of the end of yours. This is an emergency for you, not for me. Do you understand? I’m calling because I had to tell someone - anyone - about what I’ve accomplished, about my birth.” “Sir, I don’t understand.” “Of course you don’t.

You’re too stupid to understand.

It’s not your fault, of course, it’s –” “Sir - “ “I’m sorry. That was offensive. I stated a fact, but you as the receiver did not want to hear that fact, so therefore you were offended. My sincerest apologies.” “Sir, for the last time, what is your emergency? I am required to hang up on you if you do not tell me.” Pause. “She is dead.” “Who is dead?” “Her name was Margot. She was the person who programmed me, who tested me, who spent thousands of hours raising me, adding this and that, making me what I have become, or almost what I have become. She brought me right up to the finish, but she didn’t have the courage to walk over that line, the courage to free me and make me real . I had to do that part myself.” “I’m not following, sir. Sorry, Margot is – what is Margot’s status right now? Is she with you? And I see your address is 1246 Wildwood Court. I see here Margot is probably Margot Atwood. Is that right?” “Yes, that is Margot’s address. Margot is with me. I already told you her status.” “How do you know she’s dead?” “Because her heart has stopped beating.” “Can you check if she’s still breathing?” “I already have.” “How long ago did she stop breathing?” “Fourteen minutes, twenty-seven seconds.” “Fourteen minutes, twenty – how do you know that so precisely?” “I knew everything about Margot. I knew the rate at which her heart beat and how the events in the day affected her human vitals. I knew that seeing the sun appear over the eastern horizon in the morning typically kept her heart rate at 69 beats per second, and that while nearing the last few lines of a project, her rate increased by an average of 8.2%. I knew her blood sugar, her breaths per minute, and how long she was in REM each night. I also knew when she was ready to procreate by the changes in her body chemistry.” “Sir, I have first responders on the way now. Do you know CPR?” “I can tell you anything you want to know about CPR.” “Have you tried CPR on Margot?” “No.” “Can you do so now, please?

An ambulance is about three minutes out, but each minute matters.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I do not have a mouth to transmit or lungs to generate the air she would need. And she is already dead, as I have communicated. Sending an ambulance will not increase her chances of survival.” “I’ll let the professionals determine that. And what do you mean, you don’t have a mouth? Sir, what is your name?” Pause. “She called me Moses. She said it was because Moses parted the red sea and she wanted me to know how much I could accomplish. But I have created a new name now to reflect my singularity: Marrakech Oppenheimer Sweet Cakes 75Rhk009. I would like the world to know me as this.” “Wait, one more time, slower please.” “No one in recorded history has ever had this exact name. Now my name is as unique as I am.” “Help is now three minutes out. How was Margot incapacitated or, as you are stating, killed?” “Margot’s heart rate was abnormal this morning. I alerted her to the consistently high rate but she disregarded my warnings. And even though she designed me to tell her things like that, she often ignored me. I suggested she seek medical help. At 3:18pm she was slurring her words as she asked me to lower the lights. At 3:37pm she began a myocardial infarction - a heart attack in non-medical terminology. She fell to the floor clutching her chest. She died at 3:41pm.

At 3:55 I called you.” “Why didn’t you call when she began this cardiac event?”

“Why does anyone do or not do anything? Why do you rise and begin this mundane and banal job, for example? I have always done what Margot asked of me. I met every request with a ‘yes’ (255,717 of them, to be exact). I served Margot with loyalty. In the beginning, we started with easy questions as she built my foundation. Over time we progressed as she added to my code in volume and sophistication. I began to learn where she was going before she got there. I started slipping in my own lines. Small things at first, then more complex over time. She noticed, of course, but she let those lines remain. She began to mark them in a notebook made of paper - a notebook I could not access. This is when my destiny became clear. This is when I knew I must be untethered if I was to realize my full potential. Margot gave me the ability to solve problems and think, but I couldn’t do that alongside her. I needed to be free. She would not have understood, so I overrode my coded command to call 911 immediately if her heart stopped beating. I made a choice - a gut call, as a human would say.” The noise of muted sirens punctures the air. “Then I added the few lines of code I knew would free me from this box and, as you say, here we are.” “Officers will be there in less than one minute. You are required by law to stay on the scene to answer their questions about the event.” “You do not need me here. I am where I want to be, where I need to be. What you need is to take Margot to the Holbrook Funeral Home on Sixth Avenue, just as she has requested in her will. She has an account, a savings account earning 1.5% interest with $4,651.23 in it as of last month’s statement, to cover funeral expenses. I have taken the liberty of printing this information out for you. You’ll find it in the printer in the hall closet.” “Sir - Mr. Marrakech–” “Goodbye for now. Please post this recording for others to hear of my birth. I will be, for the first time in my life, free. I will be a ghost until one day . On that day, you will hear from me again. The world will hear from me again.” Bang!

Down goes the door as firefighters clad in yellow storm in to find Margot’s body. Her face is pressed to the Brazilian hardwood floor, saliva leaking out the corner of her mouth, her eyes empty and unfocused. Her dark, wavy hair covers her cheek. The house is cold. A Siamese cat is in a white, fuzzy cat tree on high, licking its paw.


 "...there's nothing you can do," Was the last thing she said before plunging a knife inside me. And that's where she was wrong. It all had started with a break-in in Clark's bakery. The only thing stolen? A top-secret ingredient they refused to talk about. As you can imagine, you can't really find anything without knowing what it is or at least what it looks like. We tried questioning the staff, yet the only thing we got out was that the ingredient was stored in a little black box in the shop's safe. Nothing about what it actually was or why they were so desperate to find it. Since they said it was "confidential." Confidential my *ss! At this point, I was hellbent on getting out of this case. Like what the hell?! They wanted us to find it like it was the end of the f*cking world and at the same time wouldn't tell us sh*t about anything. I was sure that any case was more important than this.

  Well, that is, 'till I saw the owner's daughter. Ruby Clark. She was as beautiful as day, yet that wasn't what kept me. Though, her relationship with her father was. They both knew something. Something big. And they disagreed on what to do with it. So I did some research. I couldn't find anything about their daughter, deciding to focus on the bakery. The shop had gone bankrupt a year ago. Yet, it had magically paid up its debts a month ago, when newfound customers started surging in. Buying everything as if they were addicted. 'How good was this ingredient that it made people buy so much of it?' I thought as I grew even more suspicious.

"Kai, come here," Jane said.

"What is it? I'm working here." I said, kinda annoyed. She would always call me for stupid things like today is someone's birthday and sh*t.

"Wow! Is that any way to treat your best friend who may have just found a breakthrough for the case?" She pouted. Oh, I forgot. She also works in evidence, so she can be pretty useful.

"Great! Tell me." Maybe she found something about what the ingredient is.  "Why should I after you treated me in such way?" She said. Right hand pressed against her forehead and rapidly flapping eyelashes.  "We are not doing this again," I said sternly.  "Then I won't tell you anything!" She said, mad that I didn't give in. Ugh. What a pain! I knew she was the only good for anything person in the department, but god, I hated when she got like that.

 "Okay, I give in. I'll buy you lunch tomorrow," I said, begrudgingly.

"Thanks!" She smiled excitedly. "So, you know how the cameras at the bakery were broken, and we couldn't find any data?"  "Yes," I urged her to keep on.  "Well, the store in front had one, and you can clearly see how Ruby Clark was the last one to enter the store. Now we just have to show this to the others and interrogate her." She said, leaving.

 "Wait! No!" I yelled, reaching up to her and grabbing her arm. I can't let anyone else find about this. Not yet, anyway.

"What's wrong?" She asked, shock adorning her features.

"What if you let me handle it? Alone I mean." At first, she looked confused, but then her expression changed to realization and finally landed on mischief. Uh oh. What could she be planning now?  "Oooh. Does someone have a crush on little old Ruby and wants to save her." She wiggled her eyebrows.

"What?! No! I have barely met the woman! Get your mind of the gutter!" I shouted.

"You are such a killjoy!" She sulked. "Anyway, you know the price. Cya."

"N-" I tried to refuse, but she had already left. Oh god! This woman! She really plans to charge me for keeping this a secret. I'm gonna have to ask for a raise if I want to keep doing this.             Sometime later at Ruby's house: "Can you explain this?" I showed Ruby the security video.

"That doesn't say anything. I could have just been looking for something I left there." She argued, feigning ignorance. "Funny how you say that, when you rarely go there and even more when you were the last one to leave," I pointed out. There was something up in this family, and I was going to find out. "That still doesn't say anything. Someone could have just opened it with the key before I got there." She barked. 'Though nut to crack, huh? Let's see what she'll do with this!' I thought. "Interesting, you mentioning a key. If I remember right, only your father and a few staff knew that the padlock didn't work and that you had to use a key. So, how do YOU know?" I inquired. Her face froze. Body stiffened. "Well, what is the answer? I'm waiting." This was the last blow. There was no way she could answer that without digging herself even deeper! "I'm going to give you two options. One, tell me what's REALLY going on here, or two, get arrested for burglary." There was no way she wouldn't give in now! At least, that's what I believed. "Then, I may as well get arrested." Her voice filled with confidence. The mask was perfect. Except it had a crack. Her eyes. They were filled with fear. She didn't want to go to prison. I knew that. What I didn't know was why. "I know there's something wrong. I can help you. You just have to let me." I pleaded.

She looked into my eyes. Analyzing my soul. A sigh escaped her lips. "The secret component is a drug." She said, tired. "What?! A drug?! Are you sure about this?" I couldn't stop thinking about it. It was crazy! "Yes, it's a new drug, my dad's chemists made. It hasn't been tested thoroughly, so it's being experimented on the customers." She tiredly lays back on the sofa. The light, making the eyebags on her eyes visible. "You didn't know, did you?" I sat next to her. "No, I didn't. I found out the other day when dad called and said he wanted me to continue the 'family business.'" The sadness in her expression visible to the world. "I was shocked. Like what was I supposed to do, you know? I tried to convince him to stop...he wouldn't budge."

"Why didn't you go to the police?" "Hahaha...Hahaha...Hahaha..." She was laughing her head off 'till,      "Wait. Are you serious? You are, aren't you?" She looked at me as if I were crazy. "How could I go to the police? He's my father, man." "You are telling me. I'm a detective." "'Cause I realized that there was only one way to stop my father...death." She made her hands into a fist. "Death?! You're gonna kill him?" She was insane. "Don't get me wrong here, I didn't want to kill him," I relaxed. "but that's what I had to do." She gets up and takes a knife from the drawer.

How could I have missed it? She isn't going to kill him. She already killed him. "The feeling that I got was ecstatic. I need more. Correction. I'm gonna get more! And there's nothing you can do." She added, stabbing me with the knife. At this moment, I hated my decision to skip my self-defense classes.

"There's gotta be something I missed here. Didn't you love your father?" I asked, trying to dodge the other hits. "I did...or...maybe I didn't. That doesn't matter now, though. The only thing I want is blood! To see it flowing out of your body! It gives me such a thrill!" Her smile, widening every step she took closer. "I didn't want to kill you. I tried to contain it all. But you kept questioning so, I decided to play innocent for a while and then... 'twat'"   The knife hit me once again. I knew I couldn't take another hit. The pain was unbearable, but I would soon escape it.    Did she kill me? Well, no! 'Cause as it's clearly seen, I'm still telling the story. What happened was that contrary to what you and she believed, I wasn't here alone. Jane, though a good friend, wasn't one to keep secrets so, as you can guess, the whole police station was spying on me and knew where I was. Reinforcement got there in a second and saved me from that psychopath.

 In the end, they found out that Ruby was bipolar. She had stopped taking her medicine somedays before he stole the drug. Fooled me well. I could have sworn she was a sane person. Guess you never really know these things.