Delia sat in the front passenger seat of the car, practicing her nonchalant expression. She felt her shoulders creeping up to her ears and her jaw stiffening as her muscles clenched. Her fingers curled into fists. She shook her head, closed her eyes and tried some deep breathing exercises.    “In, one, two, three, through the nose, out, one, two, three, through the mouth,” she intoned silently to herself. She was just starting to relax a fraction when the driver’s door slammed. She immediately recoiled into a spring of tension.     “Ready, Mom?” said Bethany, happily inserting the key into the ignition.     “Whoa,” said Delia. “What do you need to do first? What’s that mirror for?”     “I checked my makeup before I left the house,” said Bethany, peering into the rear view mirror. Delia sighed.     “You’re kidding, I hope,” she said. “Check to make sure you can see in the rear view mirror and the side mirrors.”     “Oh, that,” said Bethany. “Sure.” Delia tried not to shudder. Bethany checked the mirrors and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved.    “Why are we not moving?” said Bethany.    “Keep your foot on the brake and release the parking brake. Then make sure the car’s in reverse and put your foot on the gas pedal gently,” said Delia through clenched teeth. Bethany peered around until she found the parking brake, put the car in reverse, and put her foot down. The car shot backwards.       “Slow down!” shrieked Delia. Her head almost hit the windshield as Bethany stamped on the brake.       “Mom, don’t yell at me like that.” Delia gingerly rotated her head and massaged her neck, noticing that Bethany was clutching the wheel in a death grip, looking scared.       “Go slow this time, honey. Hands on the wheel at ten and two.” Bethany nodded mutely. The car inched backwards to the end of the driveway. Delia’s voice came out squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again.       “Okay, now look both ways and back out.” Bethany carefully backed out and started to wave to old Mrs. Budd across the road who was taking out her garbage. Her foot was still on the accelerator. There was a bump as she hit the garbage bin at the curb. She stamped on the brake again. Delia groaned as her neck whipped forward.        “Don’t take your eyes off the road!”        “I was just saying hi to Mrs. Budd.” Mrs. Budd had dropped her bag of trash. Her hands were clamped over her mouth. Delia could not tell if she was scared or trying not to laugh. She fixed her eyes ahead.        “Ignore Mrs. Budd. Right now, she does not matter. You can apologize later if we’re alive to do so.”        “Mom! You don’t have to talk like that. It’s my first time.”        “I know and I don’t want it to be our last,” said Delia. “Now, put it in drive and go forward slowly.” Bethany inched forward, gradually picking up speed.          “Slow down gradually when we come to the stop sign,” said Delia. “I don’t think my neck can take much more whiplash. If I’m laid up, you won’t have anyone to go driving with you.” Bethany crept up to the stop sign and started to turn right.      “Wait!” said Delia, bracing just in time. “Stop and look both ways.”      “There’s nothing coming, Mom,” said Bethany. “Not even a speck on the horizon.”      “I don’t care,” said Delia. “We do it by the book, so you get in the habit.”      “What, no rolling stops?” Bethany said with a grin.      “This is when you do what I say, not what I do. That car in front is slowing down. Pay attention! You’re not in the mall parking lot any more.” They proceeded uneventfully for a few miles.      “Mom, you don’t have to keep braking for me,” Bethany said.      “Just trying to help,” muttered Delia, planting her feet on the floor. Bethany cautiously turned into her school gates. She pulled up smoothly into the line of vehicles at the entrance and braked. She turned triumphantly to her mother, then gasped as the car lurched forward. The car stopped an inch from the vehicle in front.     “Brake and put it in park!” Delia yelped as she yanked on the hand brake.      “Put it in park,” she repeated, lowering her voice several octaves. “Good job, honey. You did well for a first time.” Bethany looked shaken, but smiled proudly, waving at some of her friends. She hopped out, giving Delia a little wave as she walked off.       “Thanks, Mom. Can’t wait to do it again this afternoon.” She disappeared into the swirling crowd of students. Delia leaned back, closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. She got out of the car.      “First time?” said a sympathetic voice. Delia spun around. A middle-aged man who had emerged from the car behind was smiling at her. She grinned back.     “How can you tell?”      “Oh, the pale face, the fixed smile, the trembling knees.”      “You look remarkably calm.”      “I’m on child number three. So far all of us are intact. Vehicles okay apart from a ding or two.” Delia shook her head.      “I can’t imagine doing this three times. She’s my one and only. They don’t warn you about drivers’ ed when you bring them home from the hospital and I must have missed that chapter in the child rearing manual.” The man laughed.       “I know. Now I understand what my parents went through when I started driving. I thought I was hot stuff. Couldn’t understand why they were yelling at me. I had it under control.”       “I never felt so powerless in my life,” said Delia. “I don’t want to think what it’ll be like when she gets her license and starts driving on her own.”       “One day at a time,” he said sympathetically. “You survived this morning which is a good beginning.”  Delia got into the driver’s seat.        “I wonder if eagles feel that way when they launch the chicks for the first time,” she said. “It’s not only that I want us both to survive the driving experience. It’s realizing that this is the true beginning of her independence. It’s bittersweet.”       “I get it,” he said. “It is hard. But it’s a sign you’ve done your job well. Now go and get a massage to work those kinks out of your neck.” Delia laughed.        “Good idea,” she said, waving as she drove off.


DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT???? LET ME TELL YOU A STORY...... It was a chill noon.The weather was cold. serena picks her jacket and waits for her mother. serena is 10 years old.she looks beautiful and  she always smiles with her heart. After serena's mother comes from upstairs they both went to shopping mall.. when they reached the mall serena's mom was busy with talking her friends. In the meantime serena went to see the new collection toys. she searched for a nice toy more than 20 mins. after 20 mins her eyes started to like one teddy with a quote "I am alone take me with you". After seeing that quote she decide to take it home. she went to find his mother and she brings her mother to the toy section  but she was shocked.The teddy was not there.Her mother understands the situation  from her face and she asked the salesman about that teddy.while she was asking serena started to walk with a sad face.suddenly a boy rushed into serena. serena fell down. The boy helped serena and she wake up.The boy looked into serena's eyes and serena looked into the  boy's eyes and they were started to staring each other. The boy also looked like 10 years old.Even though they want to looked away they cannot able to blink their eyes  from each other.Their heart is full with joy.when serena's mom return she saw the boy with a teddy and asked serena  "Is that the teddy you want?" she came back into the real world and looked that teddy and she shake her head with a smile. With  her smile the boy understands that she want it and he give it to her .Then he said " Treat the teddy like your family".she smiles and shake her head.Then she started to walk with her mother. after for a few weeks the boy is in search of that girl.but he couldn't find her. Years passed the boy turned into handsome man ; Serena turned into a gorgeous woman everything is started to change but their heart is not changed. Both  of them were thinking about each other, but they couldn't able to find each other.one day Serena read a newspaper she saw a headline " THE PEOPLE OF GENOVIA WELCOMES THEIR NEW PRINCE  DAN BRYANT" .Then she looked the picture and she saw the eyes of that prince.she realized it was the boy who she met her 10 years back. when she realized he is a prince,  she stopped dreaming about him.she seems so sad.She thinks that a girl like her cannot able to end up with the prince.On the other hand the prince was thinking about her so badly. At that time the prince went to toy shop in mall as usual to search her but this time he found Serena's mother and he introduce himself  as a boy with teddy and he asked about Serena . The prince explains about himself and her love and attraction towards  Serena .Serena's  mother seems shock.Then she tells about Serena that she is a good kind hearted girl , may be she likes you too but she is a dumb.she cannot able to speak since birth.She cannot able to marry a prince like you."I AM SORRY". Then   Serena's mother left.After serena's mother returned to home she tells about the prince.serena was sad but her heart was filled with joy that the boy remembers her. Next day the prince was standing in front of serena's house and ring the bell.when serena came and open the door , she was happy to see that eyes once again they were again looking into each other.The prince came to serena's house with the king and queen of genovia(his mom and dad) .serena's mother looked confused .All over the press is in front of the serena's house the prince standing in the door step and he suddenly take a ring and kneel down in front of serena and he told This is going to sound crazy, but...from the moment I first set eyes on you I haven't been able to stop thinking about you ,"WILL YOU MARRY ME?" serena smiled with her heart and shake his head, they kissed each other.The people  of genovia were in happy about his new beautiful countess.The king and queen were happy.serena's mother seems happy.After a few years he become the King of genovia and he married serena. KING DAN BRYANT AND QUEEN SERENA BRYANT lived a happy love life with their kids.


                        In my family, we have our own holiday. As much cheer, frenzy, and zest put in to it as, say, Christmas. October 30 th  is the day my grandmother almost drowned. She should of drowned, according to logic. She was lost inside the ocean for four hours. To commemorate the miracle of her survival, we eat from the sea. Sometimes crab, sometimes tuna, and I find it all in poor taste. Because of the fisherman. The fisherman lived alone on the coast near a cliffs edge and a wood-line of conifers. His closest neighbor was fifty acres away. A big family. He would salute them as they passed by on the way to the beach. Sometimes he would pick up little pieces of trash that they would leave in their wake. But he enjoyed watching them walk by, and hearing them laugh or yell at each other. They had a formation, the grandmother and the mother linked together at the arm, brothers and sisters to the right and left, and the father leading the front, plowing the way, swiping the air when the path inclined. The fisherman would sit from his top deck and watch them while he smoked a pipe and fantasized about retirement. Of course had respect for the sea, but he wasn’t in love with it. His feet fit fine on the shore. Lately he was having recurring dreams  about the ocean having forests of pine and fur, towering out of the waves. Everyday on the water he would see some piece of garbage floating along, lifeless. And there was nothing left to fish! Only things to throw out. The fisherman’s last catch was an orange road cone. The cone had inside of it, a purple dildo. It was a blatant message—you’re fucked. It was a gift, a last gift from the sea, for a fisherman turning his back on his purpose.

            After this he drove the boat slowly back home with the sun behind him, watching the waves and trying to identify waste— Tuna cans! Shoes and ragged tarps, tires, bottles, and clusters of pieces of that horrible immortal: plastic. “I wont even go for a swim again,” and he swore the ocean off forever.  I hate October 30 th  now. It almost makes me sick. Nobody else on the planet can share this with us, my grandmothers survival and the perennial reliving of her fall and rescue by the lord.  It’s embarrassing for me now to see my father sitting at home on a Wednesday, using vacation time from work, for his mother-in-law. We dress up, fill ourselves with sea food, and hand out presents to grandma. This year, I had a Halloween party to attend, and I was going to wear my costume. My mother called me that afternoon.             “What are you going to wear tonight?” She said.             “The sweater,” I said. “What did you get her?” “A life jacket,” “You better not have!”

After we hung up I put on my costume. The beanie, the woolen sweater, and the rubber bib. I really filled the pipe with tobacco, and smoked it. Before the accident I would see him from a distance, loading his boat or walking the hill to his house, and I could see small smoke clouds hop out from his face, I imagined he was a machine, releasing exhaust, performing a task he’d been ignited for. He would wave to us sometimes, as we took our family walks. One time we met him on the trail, my grandmother was speaking bible versus to him for good fortune. He had been in a slump. “I think I’ve pulled all the yummy stuff out of that ocean. Me and all the other assholes on the sea. What should I destroy next? Maybe I’ll set my sights on the wood line,” said the fisherman. All upon deaf ears apparently. This was a man with something to vent, with an existential hang up, and all he could get in return were non-applicable versus from my grandmothers favorite book. From her mouth, “ ‘Fishermen will stand along the shore; from En Gedi to En Eglaim there will be places for spreading nets. The fish will be of many kinds—like the fish of the Mediterranean Sea.’ That’s a little wisdom from the book of Ezekiel.”             The fisherman said “Yes many kinds of fish, even the plastic ones. I appreciate the support and encouragement.” The poor guy.                         The next day, the accident happened. I was watching the fisherman smoke his pipe on his front porch when my grandmother fell off the cliff. My dad claims he saw her hit the water, that she was caught by a waive that slammed her to the rocky bottom immediately. The jump alone was suicide. Surely she was dead. We had to run down a dirt path to make it to the beach. . When I got to the beach the fisherman was just pulling in with the raft, and he tossed me his pipe. I watched him fight the tide and make a rough way over to the cliff. Then he jumped into the water. We waited and cried for four hours. But just before we gave up all hope,  my purple grandmother washed up, practically right at our feet. She was as purple as cartoon grapes. Her eyes were bloodshot and bulging from her skull, and her body mass had doubled. She was unrecognizable, monstrous. My father hoisted her upside down with a rope that he’d thrown through an exposed wood beam at the entrance to the public toilet. Then my father and mother started pushing against her bloated stomach, then punching it, and finally my father squeezed her. Wherever what’re could exit, it did. It came pouring out of her ears, I’m sure if it.            The fiasco of draining her of water worked! she came back to life coughing and vomiting. Weall hugged and kissed her, while she clutched a cross on her breast. But we didn’t wait around for the fisherman, I don’t remember ever hearing about anyone from my family informing anyone about the missing man either.             When he’d brought his boat to dock, he stepped off empty handed, and walked to his house for a shower. After his dinner he sat on the deck and sipped coffee. “I’m a free man,” he said to himself as his eye caught the family walking down the trail. The grandmother was behind the pack by a few steps, and he saw her  looking over the cliff’s edge. “She’s gonna fall,” he said, and before his sentence was finished, she had.             He stumbled down his stairs, but transitioned to a somersault and opened the garage door. He got the raft, pushed the oars into the locks, and leaned it against his back while he ran with it as fast as he could toward the sea. When he made it to the beach, he took his pipe out his mouth and tossed it to the eldest boy of the family.             The fisherman paddled against and through violent waves and found the spot where the sunken grandma was drowning. Her red jacket, his guide. He jumped and sank. Her leg was stuck in the rocks. He pulled her free, but to get the leverage he’d gotten his own leg stuck in the same trap. The fisherman pushed the grandma up as far as his body would let him. Next he tried to free his own leg, he pulled and squirmed until his mouth was finally forced open and filled with the sea. The last thing he saw was a trash bag floating to the surface, in trail of the grandma.

So on this October 30 th  I was dressed just like him, with his own pipe. When I got to my grandmas house the rest of the family was already inside, at the table, with plates of crab and tuna, and bottles of wine. Everyone all dolled up, and then me, the fisherman.             I knew my mother was furious with my costume because she took a bite of tuna before we had prayed.             “Get that pipe out of your mouth!” My father said, then snatched it.             “Let us pray,” Said my grandmother.             “Allow me,” I said, and commenced. “Lord, we thank you for your great love, your overflowing cup. We praise you this day for the miracle you bestowed on our family. You pulled my beloved grandmother from the depths of the sea, from death. I just would like to know—”             “Louie!” Yelled my mother.             “Dear lord, What about the fisherman?”


Content Warning: mentions of assisted dying. The couple sits across from me, her hand in his, and I ask myself if I have the strength to break their hearts. Her face hides nothing: tears already quiver, ready to fall no matter what I say. His fist rests on a rapidly bouncing knee. I tear my eyes away from the screen. “I’m so sorry. There is an incredibly high demand for fertility treatment. You aren’t eligible.” What comes next is painful enough, but not for the first time, it strikes me that I’m more than just another stranger in their lives. I’m not the passerby walking carelessly through a family photo, nor the tiresome subject of a story they’ll tell over Christmas lunch. For the rest of their lives, they’ll remember my face, my words, on the day they learned they would never have children of their own.

I miss the days when a patient’s thrumming heartbeat or the whoosh of air in their lungs meant something. It is all about technology now. Someone who never set foot inside a hospital, who never saw the naked hope in a patient’s eyes, decided an advanced algorithm could determine a patient’s eligibility for treatment. All you need are their symptoms, medical history, and genetic profile. But rising costs of healthcare mean more and more people are missing out. And I’m the messenger.

* Pa calls me on the train home, pulling me away from memories of strangled sobs and tear-stained shirts. His voice is weak. “My belly’s killing me, son,” he mumbles. “And I can’t crap.” “You’re constipated again. Did you take your laxatives?”

He sighs. “I must’ve forgotten. The pain’s too much these days.” I know he’s not just talking about his belly. Two years ago, he tripped and fell down the stairs - often a death sentence for a frail ex-smoker in his mid-eighties. Instead, he somehow pulled through, even if he’s now dependent on a walking frame to get around.

Worst of all, the excruciating pain in his hip never went away. My Pa is a fighter, but he’s not too proud to call me in tears first thing in the morning, too stiff to get out of bed. Once, he pinched me hard on the arm, and when I yelped, he told me he felt that in his hip all the time.

The opioids and anti-inflammatories take the edge off, but they clog his bowels and space him out. I worry he’ll fall again. If he does, that’ll be the end of it. “Son?” “I know, Pa. The pain medication is your best bet. You aren’t eligible for surgery.” “I just want the pain to stop. Can’t you rejig the algorithm or something?” My silence is enough of an answer. He makes a noise that breaks my heart, sniffs, and hangs up.

* A curious pair sits across from me today. She is over ninety and looks it: her skin is tinged yellow and thin as clingfilm, and her back is hunched almost ninety degrees. Even seated, she grips a wooden walking stick to keep herself steady. Yet, she is not the patient. The elderly man sitting beside her in a wheelchair is her son. Seventy, and paraplegic. He is past the point of tears. He has a downcast look about him, as if he knows he’s the kind of patient the algorithm spits out and sticks under the table, discarded and forgotten. “It starts in my hips,” he says, “then it spreads down both of my legs into my feet. Feels like I’m being electric-shocked. Stings something awful. Think I’m immune to the medication, doc. It doesn’t do nothing for the pain anymore.” I nod sympathetically. “That sounds horrible. Yes, you are on the maximum dose. Unfortunately, the scans show that surgery is the only way to relieve your symptoms permanently.” “Please, doc,” he whispers. “I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s too much.” His words remind me of Pa. Chronic pain has a way of exhausting hope, and I wonder if there is any purpose in running the algorithm when we can all predict the outcome. But before I can respond, his mother speaks up. “I know what you’re gonna say. Time for the bloody algorithm,” she croaks. Her eyes fix on me defiantly, as if I've bullied her child at the playground. The screen glows an upbeat green as it waits for me to enter his details. As with every patient, an analysis of his bloodwork has already been made. Once I enter the details of his pain, along with a list of medications he has trialled, the algorithm will estimate his potential surgical benefit, weighing this against the average score of other patients. Unsurprisingly, paraplegia does his eligibility no favours. I look back at them to begin my usual condolences, but something sticks the words in my throat. It could easily be my Pa sitting there without hope.

“Congratulations. You’re eligible,” I say. “I’ll have your surgery booked immediately.” Their faces transform; the walking stick clatters to the floor as his mother almost leaps out of her seat to embrace him. Great, shuddering sobs wrack his body.

He spurs his wheelchair forward and takes my hand. “Thank you, doc. This’ll change my life.” I squeeze his hand back. “You deserve it.” * The algorithm doesn’t look kindly on disabled children. For a tool that is meant to be objective, it seems to share many of the biases of whoever created it - or perhaps those of society as a whole.

The child gamboling before me looks perfectly healthy for a six-year-old with Down Syndrome. Thus far, her development has followed the expected trajectory, and all of her vital signs are within normal parameters. All this despite the lump of cancer cells growing inside her brain. “Why even run the algorithm?” her father asks. “She obviously needs surgery. You need to get that thing out.” “It’s part of the healthcare protocol, sir. There’s a process that needs to be followed." “Screw your protocols. My daughter has a brain tumour. You don’t need a fancy degree to figure out she needs surgery.” “I’m sure she’ll be eligible,” I say truthfully. I don’t voice my suspicion she might be waiting months for her operation, given the absence of any major symptoms. “Every minute we wait is a minute that thing’s inside her head, damaging her brain. I just want her to live a normal life. Please, do it quick.” I run the algorithm. The green screen blinks, then flips to blue. The computer chimes a confirmation.

“She’s eligible,” I tell him. “Good. How long?” I click through several more screens. My heart sinks.

“Eight months.” Preparing myself for a verbal onslaught - there is usually at least one per day - we lock eyes for a tense moment. But then he looks away and kneels next to his daughter, whispering something in her ear that makes her giggle. He strokes her hair and wipes his eyes with his shirtsleeve.

“Why be a doctor?” he says finally. “Why do this, if you can’t help people?” I consider saying that I did help. That she is getting surgery. But I don’t, because I know those words are just as pointless as my condolences. “There might be more I can do,” I say. The child’s positive eligibility test has placed her on the waiting list for an operation. The eight-month timeframe is a guarantee, but if another patient loses their place, she could have surgery within a month. I enter her details, looking for a “less worthy” patient for her to replace.

Only one patient pops up.

A paraplegic man who was never meant to be eligible at all. On the train ride home, when I should think of the ecstatic father bouncing up and down with his daughter on his shoulder, whooping and punching the air, instead I consider my Pa and people like him. The ones society always remembers last. * It’s been over a year, and my paraplegic patient is struggling. His pain is severe enough that he over-medicates himself in a futile effort to live a normal life. The electric shocks have spread into his arms, his fingers tingle, and his feet have permanent pins-and-needles.

I book him another appointment to deliver the news about his surgery. Before they even enter the room, I can hear dull, rhythmic thuds under the mechanical whir of his wheelchair, like a heartbeat trapped in a cage of machinery. His mother leans heavier on her walking stick, but it is his appearance that affects me the most. His face is wan and sunken; devoid of colour. The pain has taken its toll. “My boy’s still suffering. Why are we here?” she says without preamble.

My expression must have given it away, because he speaks first.

“Never getting surgery, am I?” His voice is oddly changed, compared to his face. It’s stronger than before. More resolute. I shake my head, unable to meet his eye. His mother glares at me. Her hand snakes across and rubs his shoulder. “Then I’ve had enough,” he says. “What?” she chokes out. Her attention shifts to him, and the hand holding her walking stick starts to tremble. “Can you do the algorithm again, doc?” he pleads.

“It won’t change the result,” I reply. “Not for the surgery. I told you the first time: it’s too much. Can’t live with it anymore. If you can’t fix it - if I can’t stop suffering - at least let me choose a quick, painless way to go. On my own terms.” She's shaking her head now. She watches her son with an intensity I've never seen. As if she wants to memorise every last wrinkle on his face. Two desperate pairs of eyes bore into me as I turn back to the computer. I imagine my Pa in such a position - confronting mortality. I wonder if he would look at me the same way. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I run the algorithm again, this time for physician-assisted dying. The green screen turns blue, chimes joyfully. Eligible. He sighs in relief, all the air rushing out of him at once. A bit of colour returns to his face. For the first time in a year, he smiles. “No,” his mother whimpers. * When their appointment ends twenty minutes later, she pauses at the door.

“Run along for a minute,” she sniffs to her son, waving a hand as if he’s five years old again. The whirring fades into the corridor. “How can I help?” I ask, dreading the answer. She blinks and looks up at me. “I’m ninety-four, dear. Everything hurts, and all of my senses are failing. There’s not much left to live for. Only him.” “I see.” I’m already moving back to the computer. She shuffles close behind, still sniffing. I sit down, open up her file, and enter in her details.

“Are you sure about this?”

Her eyes take on the glaze of long-held memory. There's the shadow of a smile. “Yes. As sure as when I first wanted a child of my own.” I run the algorithm, reminded of what it had once taken from a devastated couple in the same seat. I consider why an equation capable of denying new life can equally save it. How a system designed to preserve lives can easily take them. And I ask myself if I still have the strength to bear the algorithm’s message. It now deliberates the weight of one life - or two. Green turns to blue.


The residents took off their blindfolds as soon as they were instructed to do so and allowed their eyes to adjust to the piercing bright atmosphere. Once the realization that they were in the middle of nowhere sat in, two armed security guards led them to a dark-haired man in a crisp suit. His professional attire appeared so out of place in comparison to the arid desert backdrop, that the residents were taken aback. He smiled and appeared oblivious to their discomfort. "Welcome to HT Incorporated, where pure human connection starts!" Immediately after saying the well-practiced phrase, he turned around and placed his wrist on what appeared to be an electronic door sensor on a solid metal wall. The wall immediately split in two and a large gap appeared in the middle revealing the inside of an elevator. The doctor stepped in and motioned his residents to follow.

As quickly as the doors opened they had shut, leaving the residents cramped and silent. Stealing nervous glances at one another, the familiar feeling of an elevator travelling downward crept into their stomachs.

The elevator stopped, and after a loud beep, the doors opened into what looked like a single unit on a hospital floor. Swarms of women and men in white uniforms were collected at what HT Inc. referred to as "the hive", the central nursing station. Some were typing and reading giant monitors, others were drawing up a clear solution in a large syringe, and some were speaking to important looking men.

The doors shut behind the residents, and every one of them noticed the large stone-faced security guards standing on either side of the elevator door. A sterile white hallway branched off from "the hive". The hallway consisted of 10 doors on each side leading to the individual client suites, AKA interaction rooms. For marketing purposes, "suites" landed better in the focus groups, but interaction rooms were what the staff used to refer to these small client rooms. A heavy steel door with a large square window was the only way into an interaction room and was locked from the outside. There were 17 adult interaction rooms, and the remaining 3 were reserved for children. In the adult rooms, the only furniture present was a bolted down table with 2 bolted down chairs and a small sofa in the corner. The children's rooms had a smaller bolted down table, 2 small bolted down chairs, a colorless play mat, and a small box of children's toys and books. If one looked closely, they would notice the books and toys were colorless and wordless. Blank covers were followed by blank pages. Inside every cell, there was a door to a holding closet where the HTs were activated and paired to their human counterparts, which was locked on both sides and controlled by the staff at the central station.

"We believe we found the cure for loneliness at HT Incorporated. We are going to change many lives here, and you all should count yourselves lucky to be a part of the first phase of human trials." The medical director's voice shocked the residents out their dull, humming reveries brought on by the buzz of the monitors and disorienting walls. He gave them a cold, clinical smile and proceeded on with the tour. His smile, similar to the walls and floors, was almost too white, and hadn't reached his eyes.

"The clients are seated in their assigned suite when they first arrive. A nurse then takes a baseline set of vital signs, lab tests, and then conducts a psychiatric screening. This information allows our experts to cater the experience to our clients, as well as streamline the care for the most effective outcomes. It's this combination of advanced medicine and client personalization that sets us apart from any current competition."

The director led the residents towards the 1st doorway on the left, and they all huddled around the window looking into the room.

"Here is Sonya. She is a 42-year-old widow who has suffered extreme familial and financial loss in the past three years. She signed up for the human trials, desperate and discouraged after many therapeutic approaches were not successful in controlling her severe depressive symptoms."

Through the window, the residents saw one of the nurses inject Sonya in her left arm with a clear, colorless solution. The nurse's bright red lipstick contrasted severely with the white walls. After she applied a small bandage to the injection site, the nurse was observed speaking to Sonya and then promptly exited the room. The residents moved off to the side as the nurse opened the door and walked back to the station.

"The clients have portable heart monitors on so we can monitor any changes the medication may cause," the director explained.

One of the residents, a tall young man with large glasses asked, "What is the medication you are administering?"

"It is a combination of three medications, actually. One is a blood pressure medication to prevent any fatal blood pressure spikes during the interaction with the HT. The other two medications consist of an anxiolytic and a specific psychoactive compound that is tailored to the client's genetic and physical make-up."

"Which medications are those specifically?" glasses asked again.

The doctor gave another cold smile and scanned the room before answering. "Given how this trial is still in its early stages, I have been advised by the company not to state the specifics. We have a lot of rival companies who are willing to do anything to access our secret formula. I apologize for the disappointment this may cause, but unless you are a spy, I'm confident you will find that a reasonable answer."

Immediate silence spread through the group.

"Now, let us observe how Sonya does when the HT is brought in. The medication should be starting to take effect now."

The residents looked toward the window. Sonya was seen sitting at the metal table looking towards the door in the back corner. A few seconds later, the door opened, and out came what was named after the company that designed it. The HT had the basic structure of a human and was fitted with a layer of white silicone material. Even with these features, it appeared even less life-like than it would without them. The face, if one could call it that, had no defining structures.

Before the residents could express their confusion, Sonya flung out of her chair and began crawling towards the HT on her hands and knees. The HT stopped and tilted its head to look down at Sonya as she began crying and kissing its feet.

"What is happening?" one of the female residents asked, clearly concerned.

The doctor flashed another one of his award-winning smiles, "Despite Sonya's losses in this life, she is a deeply religious woman. She believes one day, the suffering and sickness that make up this world will end and be replaced by eternal life, but only after Jesus Christ's second coming." He paused, allowing the residents to observe the scene, "Well, I'm not able confirm or deny if that is true, as I am a scientific man, but here at HT Incorporated, we were able to get Jesus to come back a little earlier for our friend Sonya." The director smiled a little longer after this last sentence. It was as if his mouth was completely detached from his face manipulated by an unseen operator. Another resident chimed in, "So, she thinks THAT is Jesus?"

"No, she doesn't think anything. She 100% believes it to be the case."

Before anything else could be said, the director began to walk further down the hallway. The residents looked in the windows of each room they passed. In one room, a lady was slowly dancing with an obvious HT, but to her, it must have been a long-lost lover. Her face was resting on the thing's torso, with her eyes closed and a sweet smile forming at the corners of her lips.

"We have installed settings to help the HT's respond to their human counterparts that would be the most comforting to them. Within the silicone covering, temperature sensors are present to help mirror the body heat of the client. The legs can change height to mimic the height of the person the client is remembering or fantasizing. They even have an audible heartbeat, breath sounds, and movements that respond to the client's facial expressions, change in heart rate, and non-verbal cues."

The director continued, " By achieving this with an extremely cost effect model, production will be fast, and anyone can afford it. The medication is the trickier aspect. We are currently working on a long-acting tablet form, but that is going to take some time to get the formula just right."

They stopped in front of one of the children's rooms. Looking in, a child of about 4 years-old was sitting on the play mat with an HT, who was holding one of the books up and appearing to read to the child. Looking closer, a light coming from the HT's torso was projecting a story onto one of the blank pages.

"Johnny has severe difficulty in school. Not only with the materials, but the social aspect as well. By allowing Johnny to learn at his own pace with someone who can foster social interaction in the most comforting way to him, I am confident we are going to see significant improvements in his functional and emotional well-being."

The director and his residents passed by the remaining rooms. Room by room they passed. A man sitting with an HT appearing to fish, an elderly woman rocking a small HT in her arms, a man kissing an HT on its silicone mouth, a laughing child being carried on an HT's back. Each of these people were engrossed in their own perfect worlds, completely unaware of the real humans in the rooms next to them.

The residents came to the end of the hallway and followed the director back to the elevator entrance.

"I sincerely hope you have enjoyed your first day here at the HT headquarters. We are doing excellent work, and I have no doubt we will be the leading face of human flourishing. I will see you all back here at a time undisclosed."

With that, the director flashed one last sterile smile, and the elevator doors opened behind the perfectly still residents. They got in and started their return trip back, blindfolded and speechless.


C/W: terminal illness

I found him lying on the sidewalk with a bloody smear streaked across his gray forehead. Black rim glasses lay nearby broken in two. Like me, he’d just left the gym on that mid-June day when the cloudless sky and fresh air made me glad to be alive. But the man hadn’t even made it to the parking lot. It had to be a heart attack, I thought, clogged arteries, dying muscle.

The last ashen face I saw was my sister Conni’s on the day she died. Her belly had been swelling for months. It was Hep C the doctors said, from a blood transfusion. Before they knew better.

A guy in a gray shirt with the gym’s logo on the pocket knelt beside the man, said the guy was okay, just waiting for the EMTs. But the man was motionless, not breathing. Leaning close to his ear, hand on his shoulder, I shouted, “Hey buddy, take a breath.” There was no facial grimace, no movement. In under five minutes his brain cells would die.

Conni had six weeks from diagnosis to the end. Less time than most victims of liver cancer, but eons beyond this man.

“Someone call 911!” “Yes, yes, they have been called,”said the man kneeling across from me.

In a matter of days my sister's heart became progressively weaker. her strength dwindled along with her ability to swallow and stay awake. I’d painted her toenails bubblegum pink when she could still get up. Toward the end, her feet became cool and blotchy, swollen like grotesque little sausages.

I moved my index and middle fingers along the man’s neck. Pediatrics was my nursing specialty. I’d never before felt a person's neck without a pulse. I knew what I had to do, but hesitated to begin, and rechecked.

Conni’s bloated figure rested on the Hospice bed upstairs in the front bedroom. That day, my sister missed out on the sunshine and shadows flickering around the room. Sugar maple branches waved outside her window. Bright orange and red against a brilliant blue sky, the leaves were just beginning to let go, pushed against the glass by the wind.

I lifted the man’s shirt.

“I’m scared,” Conni said from where she lay with hands folded over her body.

“What are you scared of?”  She lifted her gaze to mine, imploring, “I don’t know what it will be like. What if it’s horrible, worse than this?” “Oh, no,” I said, “It’s going to be wonderful. You’ll be free. Floating above everything. You’ll be weightless, like in a flying dream, you’ll be in the breeze.” “Do you really think so?” “Oh, yes. Absolutely. It’s going to be wonderful.” She closed her eyes after that. Her face relaxed a little.

Sudden cardiac arrest gives no time to be afraid. Instant nothingness, like a cord pulled from an electrical outlet, life ends without a flicker of fear. The man’s soft skin was still warm under my finger as I traced his lowest rib to the breastbone. I laid the heel of my right hand over his sternum, left hand over the right, fingers interlocking. I pushed straight down.

No one does chest compressions on the terminally ill. Resuscitation on my sister’s chest, unimaginable, painful, prolonging the agony in the cruelest way. After dabbing her face with a cool cloth, I swabbed her dry cracked lips with a spongy lemon-flavored Toothette.

His rib cage and breast bone felt compliant, easily depressed two inches. “Get the AED,” I shouted to the flummoxed observer kneeling across from me. An electric shock to the heart can be the key to surviving a heart attack as the signals are reorganized, synchronizing the muscle fibers.

She was my older sister, but I was taller. Only eighteen months between us, Irish twins. Long ago, on a warm summer evening, Conni and I walked along a country road and came upon a horse pasture surrounded by wire. I intended to step up on the fence in hopes of coaxing the chestnut mare closer. I grabbed a hold, screamed and spun around in circles with the electric shock that vibrated up and down my arm.

A defibrillator jolt is like being kicked in the chest by a mule. The automated external defibrillator pads in place, a monotone robotic voice said, Analyzing data. Do not touch the victim. The man lay flat on his back, both feet splayed out. The machine searched for a rhythm while I knelt at his side, waiting.

Shock advised. Do not touch the victim. Aware of the powerful shock about to be delivered, my breath held, I hit the red button. The man’s body jerked. Suddenly he drew in an enormous breath like a drowning victim gasping at the water’s surface. Perhaps I’d been wrong and he wasn’t dead after all. His face color improved for about three seconds but went gray again. My hands back on his chest, I resumed compressions.

Dying gasps are known as agonal breaths, a sign that the body is not receiving the oxygen it needs. Terminally ill patients near death might take occasional breaths for many minutes before the final one. Conni’s agonal breathing lasted nearly an hour. Her breath stopped before the heart, just a beat now and then. Conni’s time had come. The family entered the room for a final goodbye.

A siren screamed in the distance and wound down at the curb next to us. Black clad EMTs appeared with a tool box of supplies. Splitting away from the man at that moment felt strange. I wanted to stay with him, not ready to let go.

After Conni’s last heartbeat, when we were alone once more, I lay down next to her, holding her and kissing her face until her skin lost elasticity and her body turned cold. They told me I had to let go. The mortician assistants moved her body onto the stretcher. They covered my sister’s face with a sheet.

I walked over that sacred place on the sidewalk three days later. He was a complete stranger but was all I thought about. My hand went to the door and as I pulled hard, I looked up to the deep blue sky.

Just then, a warm breath of wind reached my face and blew the hair from my eyes.

At the check-in desk, the manager handed me a red envelope with a dime store greeting card inside. The man had written in shaky script, thank you for saving my life. On the front, an angel in pink with shimmering wings hovered over the Earth. Below was an inscription written in swirling letters, Angels are real .


“How did you hear about this place?” My voice broke the long-established silence, a silence that had been building since we snuck out of our houses. It was almost like Marty thought his mother would still be able to hear him despite the hour of walking we put between us. “You know, those like, internet rabbit hole type site.” He replied in a quick tone that almost sounded like he was trying to hush me. I had initially been excited when he brought of the proposition of some festival hidden deep in the nearby woods. “I found this invite online, don’t worry I checked it out, it’s legit.” Those words continued to rattle in my brain. The woods weren’t particularly dense and it was easy enough to find your way back to our little town, just listen for the water, find it and follow it upstream. I had, however, never been so deep in the woods and never that late at night. The moon punctured the tree's canopies lighting our way with a scarcity of natural spotlights. “How are you holding up?” I questioned Marty not wanting the silence to settle back in as I had no idea how long we still had to go. “I’m alright.” His whisper quite responds only audible thanks to the still forest. He knew what I was referring to, I could see it when he reached up and gripped his sleeve-covered arm. “We should be getting close now.” ‘Thank god I thought, I was getting sick of getting playful branches whipped across my face and the foliage was making my thighs sticky. His words rang truer than either of us could have imagined as after only a few minutes we saw the silhouette peeking through the clearing in the trees. A prominent and mysterious mass of shadows saw just a few feet in front of us. “Well shit,” I spoke more to myself than anyone. With each step bringing the place further into view I was filled with more and more disbelief despite it being right in front of me. Standing in a large circular clearing in the forest, devoid of trees or up reaching foliage was the imposing shaping of Carnival Vivacity. The miniature city before up was completely shrouded in shadow, the light beaming through holes in the clouds being the only reprisal. “Did we miss it?” I addressed the Carnival that lacked any signs of life. “Let’s just check it out? We’re already here.” Marty spoke taking small and timid steps towards the towering tents in front of us. “Okay, but I’m not too keen on being eaten by Lions,” I remarked, I heard Marty mimic the sound of a Lion growling up ahead. I didn’t want to say it out loud but my nerves were standing on the edge, something about a darkened Carnival refused to sit right with me. It wasn’t a secret that Marty was nervous too, despite it being pretty high in the nineties he was visibly shaking under his long sleeve shirt. We got into the grounds without meeting any resistance, the Carnival was like a long-abandoned ghost town as we walked through it. Empty food stalls sat unmanned and the three large tents around us were devoid of the chaos you’d expect from them. “This is cool man, but maybe we should come back another time?” “No way.” Marty spat out almost irritated at the thought. “This is my last chance, Andrew.” He more calmly stated while looking around like he was trying to find someone.“Last chance for wha-” My question was quickly halted in my mouth as the Carnival Vivacity sprang to life without warning around us. Like a switch had been flipped we were suddenly surrounded by a cacophony of colored lights resembling a Christmas tree. Powerful beams of orange illumination reached out from the openings of the tents. There were people around us when the lights turned on, I was almost unable to really comprehend their sudden appearance, it felt like my brain accepted it as normal. “Hello, Miyazaki,” Marty said aloud with drawn-out syllables as he looked around the newly lit up Carnival ground with complete awe. His smile was so wide I thought he would fit right in with some of the clowns I witnessed trotting around in my peripherals. “So what do we do first?” I asked, surprised that the first thing out of my mouth wasn’t, “Let’s leave right now.”Marty lifted his hand and rested it gently on his stomach as he feverously eyed a nearby food stand with steam from a grill pouring out of it. “I’m feeling pretty hungry,” I said, even though it was so outwardly expressed Marty was never going to say he was hungry. I can’t imagine what he got for dinner that night if anything at all. I walked behind him, mildly vexed when I saw that no one was manning the stand and in fact, no one else was there at all. Sitting on the small round stools in front of the stand I peered over looking for someone who could help serves us. When I didn’t see anyone I began turning to Marty to bring up how odd it was when a work appeared out of the corner of my eye. Surprised I went to look at the man approaching us but when I did he had vanished into thin air leaving only a vacancy. Marty started to speak beside me but I only registered what he said after I had already come to the same conclusion. I could see a crowd of people walking around the Carnival but they were only there when in my peripherals if I turned to look at them, they’d be gone. “You can only see them directly if you’re one of them.” Those were the words that slowly registered. One of them? I thought about that sentence all the way up until it was closing time. “I’d like whatever you recommend,” Marty spoke to the spectral worker, if I looked straight ahead it was just a steaming pile of meat, but through the sides of my vision a cook was working around the stove flipping the meat and seasoning it. “One for my friend too.” I took the time to look around the Carnival with a more observant eye, everywhere I turned the tightly packed crowd would vanish when meeting my direct eye line. We were alone and completely surrounded at the same time. All but for one, I saw him only for a moment initially. Slightly shaken I started turning back to Marty when the clink of a porcelain plate meeting the bar in front of me aroused my interest. A steaming plate of meat and vegetables on top of a flour tortilla shell filled my nostrils with a heavenly smell. Marty was already wolfing down his food like he had been hunting it all night. The food made my mouth salivate and forcibly pushed and thoughts of suspicion or anxiety from my mind. The food was exquisite, I had never and likely will never taste something as good as what the Carnival offered us. When I thought about asking for more I was pleasantly surprised to find that I felt full despite eating fairly little. Marty too let out a huff that told me he was stuffed. “Okay, this is super cool I admit, but maybe we should go it’s- not normal.” I had tried to keep it together for Marty’s sake, I hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time and the smile on his face was something I almost forgot he could do. “It’s only here for tonight. It is harmless.” He retorted. “Once it’s gone, like the people, you won’t be able to see it.” He turned his head around the grounds before his sights landed on the tent. “Besides we at least have to check out the show right?” He was beaming. With a quick nod of approval we rose up from our seats, I turned back and said a quick thank you to the cook, a whispy ‘you’re welcome’ crept into my head. Not like it was said by anyone it felt just like a thought I would have. We made our way to the tent, my steps were cautious as I kept thinking I was going to run into someone. When we parted the flaps and walked inside I saw the man in the red coat standing in the middle of a dirt ring. Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw an audience seated and ready for the show to start, I could feel that they were waiting on us. “This is incredible,” Marty whispered as we slowly made our way to the only two open seats we could find and claimed them as our own. “Welcome to Carnival Vivacity!” The ringleader’s voice boomed throughout the tent, his words were said instead of heard in my thoughts. Even though I could see him when I looked directly at him, his face was difficult to look at for an extended period of time. His features would constantly shift creating this blurring effect. He was warping between a culmination of every face that I had ever committed to memory. As he spoke, welcoming the crowd and describing the night’s events I watched the familiar features of my parents, kids from school and even Marty’s sunken eyes appear on his face. Then the Ringleader rose his hand and I could feel the metal seat I was in trembling, the whole tent, in fact, was shaking. I turned my head hoping to catch whatever was causing it in my peripheral And then I saw it clearly. It was unbelievable, I had seen them in textbooks before when were would study our ancestors but there it was. A massive Woolie Mammoth had waltzed into the middle of the ring, I could see both the creature and Marty’s infatuation with the whole ordeal in one scene. A few more things played out. A group of people in acrobatic attire walked out and began swinging off ropes hanging from the high ceiling. There was a gasp from the crowd that flooded my thoughts when one of the performers dropped to the dirt. I could see her body fold on impact and become twisted and mangled, bones poking out from her knee. Then the girl lifted her hand and gave a thumbs up accompanied by a wicked smile. Everyone laughed, everyone but me. I watched in horror as the girl manipulated her body and put it back together. I hadn’t gotten to take it all in but the girl sparked a notion in me, that everyone around us looked so conventionally attractive. Each one sculpted from perfection belonging on the front of a magazine. Marty no doubt noticed it too, I would catch him touching the bags under his eyes or running his hands through his scraggly hair. After watching a Tiger jumping through rings of green fire, a fire that would cast a light on the Tiger revealing its true decaying self, I decided I had enough. “And now I just need a volunteer!” The Ringleader asserted nearly gluing me to my seat. I knew it was going to happen before I had time to try and stop it, Marty’s boney arms slipped right through my grasp. His lanky body was already standing up and shuffling through the crowd, I could hear him offering apologies to the people he passed by on his way to the stage. They all just cheered in my head creating an obnoxious buzzing noise. It all happened so fucking fast. Before I had a chance to protest or try to storm the stage, hell who am I kidding I wouldn’t have the nerve to do something like that. As Marty stepped into the ring and the Leader asked the crowd to applaud the young man I watched with my every breath stuck in my throat. “Thank you for volunteering, this won’t hurt a bit.” The Ringleader affirmed as he reached into his pocket. The whole time Marty stood there, smiling and bowing at the roaring crowd he continued to scan. Then his eyes landed on me. He mouthed something, something that was only for me as I sat surrounded by people I couldn’t see. My eyes became hot and stingy as I read his lips and before I knew it my fingers that were gripping the seat tensed up. There was no time process of what was going to happen before the Ringleader made his move. Pulling his hand out of the duster he put a revolver up to Marty’s head and without an ounce of hesitation, pulled the trigger. Once a spattering of red was thrown onto the dark brown circle of dirt I could feel my body lifting from the chair. I rose and Marty fell. He fell to the dirt at the Ringleader’s feet. I thought my emotions were running hot enough to evaporate the tears on my cheeks as I rushed through the set of chairs offering no apologies. Even though looking at his face created an intense urge to vomit I stormed right up to the Ringleader ready to - I don’t know honestly, I was stopped before it got that far. “It’s okay Andrew!” My eyes were still fixated on the Ringleader, his face continued to shift but his body was unmoving. I kept my gaze on the Leader, hoping he could feel what I was feeling but out of the corner of my eye Marty started to stir. Slowly he rose to his feet, I couldn’t see any sign of the gunshot but the blood still rested on the ground behind him. “We’re fucking leaving.” I scowled being more assertive at that moment than I ever had been before. “Are we free to leave?” I asked the Ringleader. “You’re free to go, Andrew.” The Ringleader responded through ever-changing lips, his calm voice almost a mockery of my emotions. “I do hope you enjoyed your time.” Those words were like a punch to the gut, like he was so far above me that he couldn’t care less about my swelling rage. “Come on Marty.” I quickly turned around and began to storm out of the tent, looking over my shoulder to confirm that Marty was following me. He was, walking much slower than me with his head shoulder hanging heavy. I didn’t want to stop, all the while as I made my way out of the tent and back to the grounds, every so often turning my head to make sure Marty was still there. The trees came into view as I shuffled through the invisible crowd that only appeared as they passed by my sides, I could feel their shoulders and arms brushing up against mine. “Andrew,” Marty spoke behind me. “We’re almost out don’t worry,” I replied, not even looking back to make sure that he could hear me. “Andrew.” His tone was the same but it was quieter, no not quite, I was just further away like he had stopped walking. All of a sudden my body felt like a rock, like a was a statue planted into the ground and each part of me feared to turn around as the realization punctured my lungs like cutting knives. I could feel his presence behind me, I could feel him standing several feet back and suddenly the night became quiet. There were a few guests in my peripheral that had stopped their meandering and stood completely still around me. “Please don’t,” I said in a whisper to no one in particular. Perhaps a plea to the orchestrating higher powers. My face was becoming wet again, cool streaking tears running down my face on the verge of a manic break. “Andrew, it’s okay.” Marty’s voice was soft. As his words were a warm blanket wrapping around me on a stormy night. It reached me, Andrew, you’re feelings reached me. My lead foot slipped from the patch of grass it had flattened allowing my body to begin its pivot. I swiveled around until I had turned to face Marty. And I was alone. The lights were off and the crowd was gone. My head became heavy as it rolled back and my eyes closed pushing the well of forming water out. My lips moved, mouthing words I couldn’t even decipher. I dropped to my knees in the large empty field, it was just me. My emotions dripped off my face and watered the warm blades of grass that hugged my legs as I let it all out. In those woods is where I left my sorrow, it’s where I let all the pain seep out of my chest and become one with the forest. As the sun started to peek above the horizon I too lifted myself up and made the hike back into town. A town that in time would forget Marty. His mother would pretend to care for a few days until the public eye was taken off of her. Very few people knew the kind of monster she was to Marty after his dad passed away. Marty saw a chance, a chance to be well fed and to see the world, be a part of a family. To do something that only a person at their lowest could accomplish. Seeing the world beyond showmanship. There were search efforts to find him. I was put into counseling and questioning at the same time as I was his only real connection to this town. I couldn’t tell them, it would seem like a fever dream to anyone who wasn’t there but Marty, he was gone. And all I had left of him was the words he mouthed to be the final time I was able to look him right in the eyes. “Thank you, for being my friend.”


One Father, One Son It was late spring in the city – one of those days, when both sunshine and light rain are received with joy and, let’s say, with hope. It was an early afternoon – lunchtime in downtown: hugs and handshakes, half-buttoned shirts, a sip of lemonade from the decanter. Chair legs squeaking, silverware clattering, the humming of talk. Lunch specials on the table, pages rustling – people devouring pastas, meats, and soups so intently, as if the meal were altogether a detective novel. Lunchtime was booked for the dates that were not exciting enough to spend an evening with, but, pleasant enough for a meal. A middle-aged, medium-tanned gentleman in a white polo and a jacket, blue jeans, and moccasins – like from glamorous adverts of the '90s – beckoned to the waiter, asked for coffee, and then looked at his watch. The man looked around and didn’t see someone or something he was expecting to see – and finally he opened a newspaper, slowly turned the pages and, eventually, buried his nose in it. After the man had finished his second espresso and handed the cup to the waiter, a voice behind his back said: “Hey Father!” “Finally!” the man responded joyfully. “You are here!” He turned and gasped. “What happened? You look like you’ve been ran over by a... cow.” The young man he was talking to didn’t look that bad. He had dusty boots and shaggy hair, as if he had traveled from afar. Also, he was wearing a questionable, in terms of style, tracksuit, but the “cow” reference said more about gentleman’s hunger than about the appearance of the young man. “And what’s here?” Father asked, “What’s with the neck?” “Oh, that?” Son touched a patch on the right side of his neck. “I removed the mole. It was annoying me.” “This mole?” Father pointed at his own neck. “Not 'this,' of course, but a similar type, yes,” Son said, nodding. “That’s weird,” Father said. “It doesn’t annoy me.” “Clearly, I am not you.” Son gave a subtle smile. Father folded the newspaper and tucked it away in his square-shaped leather bag. Then he stood up and gave a hug, a tight one, to his Son, who didn’t offer much hugging in response – he rather sank in Father’s arms. “I’ve got news,” Son said in a muffled voice. Father released him, and both finally they sat down. Both Father and Son were easy on the eyes. They had straight backs, massive chins, and long necks. When these men moved – say, for an extra tissue, or an ashtray, or to get a spoon that fell to the ground – they did it with an elegant slowness, even grace. They could make quite an impression on someone – for instance, on some bored eater at the next table – so he would wonder if these people actually had learned not to hurry unless there was a really serious reason. “Hold it for a little,” Father said, “the guy is desperate.” He nodded at the waiter. “He approached me, like, three times already. People don’t like to wait, you know, even if they are called “waiters.” Father laughed at his own joke. While he was giving his order about wine and the rare cook of the meat, Son plopped a transparent folder with some papers in it on the table. Then he asked the waiter to bring him the salad with couscous. “Did you come by car?” Father asked. Son nodded at the parked bike. Father laughed. “Can you drink and bike?” he asked. Son shook his head. “I am okay with water.” “Then I will have the whole bottle,” Father concluded. He lit a cigarette and inhaled. “What?” he asked. “Life teaches you nothing,” Son said. “That’s actually fascinating.” “What, again?” “Mum died of cancer.” “I know.” “She was a smoker.” “Your mum, unfortunately, had underlying health conditions.” Father made another puff. “She was 52!” “Exactly,” Father said, nodding. “A critical age for women of their family. Genetics. There is not much we can do about that.” “You are just damn stubborn.” Son sighed. “I am going to be suing you,” he added. “For smoking?” Father chuckled. “No, not for that,” Son said, taking the papers from the folder. “Not just for that. My company is suing your company.” Father finished his cigarette. “I don’t understand.” The waiter brought the couscous salad on the same tray with the drinks. Son sipped his water. “You know what I do for a living, right?” “I believe, you work... at a research center,” suggested Father. “And I certainly know that you chose this job over getting your PhD.” “It’s an Urban Environmental Research Center,” Son explained. “I am an expert, one of the experts.” Father remained silent. “The data we just got in, show that your company, your company’s production is causing pretty terrifying damage to the western part of the town, and...” he sighed, “to the workers as well.” Son had a bite of the salad. “What are you doing?” Father asked. “Oh, sorry, I realized I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Son said, putting the fork down. He continued speaking, though: “This is toxic metal, for the most part. You’ll have to either replace it with something less environmentally challenging, or, you know, we’ll shut you down.” As Father was pouring another glass of wine, his medium rare steak, covered with cranberry sauce, arrived. “We?” he said. “Who is 'we'?” “We’ve got an amazing legal team.” Father grunted, cut off a tiny piece of meat and chewed it slowly and carefully. “This is not the first time someone has threatened me,” he said. “I am not threatening you,” Son said, sounding surprised. “I am warning you.” “You are warning me?” Now they were both eating. “Dad, you don’t need more money.” “Excuse me?” “You’ve earned a lot, from my perspective, and you don’t need more.” Couscous or bread went down the wrong pipe, and Son started coughing. He then leaned toward the water, but, accidentally, grabbed the wine instead and took a good gulp. “Put my wine back,” Father demanded. “Sorry, man,” Son said and swallowed what was left in the glass. “Nice wine, though,” “Do you know that I once almost killed a man who was trying to squeeze me for my business?” Son paused for a second, as though recalling something, then said: “Yeah, it was a nice bedtime story.” Father smiled. “So you know who I am,” he said. “I am not trying to scare you. I am just warning.” Son shrugged. “The law is on my side, Dad,” he said. He waved to the waiter and asked for a tea. Father took off his jacket – the sun was roasting his body from his forehead to his chest. “I am telling you – your manufacturing is screwed,” Son said firmly. “We’ve got the evidence. Complaints, measurements, numbers. The impact you are making is horrifying. Better leave now, and, you know, go travel, embrace life, all that...” “What you are suggesting exactly?” “If you look into the documents, you’ll see I am offering you a good deal.” Son smiled rather happily. “I’d give you a name. You would transfer the company to this person. You quit. We win the case. The company pays the fee to us and to the state. I pay you a certain commission. Win-win, and – our city is a slightly better place to live in.” “Okay,” Father agreed. “Let’s see this battle.” “What battle?” “You are challenging me to.” Son looked confused. “You are rejecting the deal?” he asked. “This is not a deal,” Father said. “This is everything else but not the deal. Who taught you that?” “Taught me what?” “This.” “I only care about...” Son began, but the phone interrupted him. Son took the call. “Yeah… Sure… I am just in the middle of something… No-no, I will be there. Of course, you can count on me,” he said softly, if not ingratiatingly. Father, in the meantime, was dipping a piece of bread into the sauce, and then eating it with his fingers. The sauce left brownish marks in the corners of his lips. “Is it because of your mother?” he asked, when Son put his phone away. “What? Why?” Son needed a moment to switch to a different tone. “Is this because I left her when she got ill? Because if that’s the case, I can explain.” “I don’t need an explanation,” Son said, gesticulating expressively. “And it’s not because of that… Though it’s awful what you did.” “She didn’t want me to be around,” Father said. “She despised me, just like you do now. She said she wanted to spend her last years without me.” “It’s really not about Mum,” Son insisted. “I am just doing my job, and I like it.” “But I never stopped supporting her – money, good doctors, care,” Father said, squinting at the sun. “I think I left my sunglasses in the taxi.” “I don’t want to hear that!” Son shouted. People at other tables glanced curiously over, waiting for the continuation. Father didn’t say anything, a fight was not flaring up, so people soon returned to their own conversations and meals. For a while Father and Son just sat in silence. “I don’t care about the past,” Son said finally. “I’m trained to care about the present moment and the future.” “You were trained?” Son nodded. “And who paid for your training, I wonder?” “Who?” Son asked. “I did!” Father slammed the glass on the table so hard the stem broke in two. “I paid! To see you betray me!” The waiter came over. He looked displeased. “Is everything okay here, sir?” he asked with moderate irritation. “Yes-yes, I’ll pay for it,” Father murmured and handed him a broken glass. “Can I have another glass?” “More wine?” the waiter asked a bit stiffly. “I said – another glass of wine,” Father said. The waiter hovered over them for a few moments as if he wanted to say something else, then headed into the restaurant. “So this is what you meant by ' I love nature and all that, Dad '?” Father said to Son. “When did I say that to you?” “When you were little. Like eight or something.” “I didn’t lie,” Son agreed. “I do love nature. I want this planet to survive. It is in danger, as you probably know. Oceans, climate, species… My job is to heal it. Or, at least, not to let it die.” “It is a chronic disease,” Father said. “What?” “The disease can get worse or better at times, but it won’t kill the Earth.” Father yawned. Son grinned. “You clearly don’t give a shit!” “Do you?” “I do,” Son said – all of a sudden, joyful. “I don’t know if I'll have kids of my own, but I want future generations to treat the planet with respect. And to enjoy its enormousness, its beauty, its hospitality...” “I just don’t understand,” Father responded quietly. “You were such an affectionate kid. We spent a lot of time together. We hiked, we played football… We did stuff! Do you remember?” “Just some bits.” “How come you abandoned our bond so easily?” “Look, Dad. I am done worrying about insignificant stuff, like how you and Mum screwed up your lives, or me not having the right partner around.” He now sounded and looked like a doctor who was about to deliver bad news to a patient. “Times have changed. The world has changed. There are more important things in the world than two people’s interactions with each other.” Father whistled. “Oceans, I guess?” he said. “Not only, but oceans, too, yes.” “Are you recording our conversation?” Father asked. “No, I'm not.” Son looked perplexed. “That’s an amateur mistake,” Father laughed grimly. “Now you are thinking that you should have, aren’t you?” Son didn’t respond. “I think I have to go now. And you do what you want.” Father waved at the waiter and gestured that he’d like the bill. “I am only paying for myself,” he said to his Son. “Are you leaving?” “Oh, yeah.” He put on his jacket. “You can’t leave!” “Why not?” Father saw his Son clasping his head with his arms. “Headache?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent. “If I don’t bring them this deal, they will fire me,” Son said. “What?” “We are broke,” Son continued. “We lost most of our donors. You know, the world is in crisis.” “Yeah, I read,” Father noted with sarcasm. “We don’t want to go the court,” Son whispered. “We want money. We still have to pay rent, and bills, and salaries… This fee would cover most of our costs and help start new campaigns… Anyway, I promised my bosses to bring them this deal. They don’t know you are my father. If you’d just agree to transfer the company to the third party!” Father suddenly laughed. “That’s some dirty business you’re in, Son!” “For the good cause,” Son said. “Why won’t you find a new job?” “They will sue you anyway.” “You don't have much to offer, huh?” Father asked. “That’s why you are not quitting. Apparently, it is not enough just to declare your love to Mother Nature. You’ve got to have some hard skills, even if you are a bloody damn environmentalist.” Finally, Son started crying. The waiter brought the bill, and Father stood up and paid his half. He was about to leave. “Give me the papers,” Father said. Son looked up at him. “Give me the papers,” Father repeated angrily. “And the pen.” “You will sign?” Son asked. His tears dried up. “No, I will just make a doodle,” Father sighed. “Yeah, I will sign. But first I’ll read what I am about to sign.” Father lit a cigarette and looked at the documents with disgust. “This is the right thing to do,” Son said. “I am happy you are contributing to helping the planet.” “Just so you know,” Father replied, “I don’t give a shit about the planet.”


Bohdan Kozak had lived on the outskirts of Kyiv all his life and he’d seen Russian tanks trundle past his front door before. Thirty-five years ago, his house had trembled on its foundations as dozens of heavy old Soviet T-62’s retreated East to Moscow. He could still recall the thunderous approach and the sulphurous fumes left in their wake. His wife, Oxana, had compared them to a flight of cantankerous dragons suffering from acute halitosis. They’d laughed at the time and brushed off their home’s minor structural damage as one of life’s unfortunate events. Deep down, both knew there’d be no apology and little recourse for redress; distress would get them nowhere. # Today’s return visit had started two days ago when the first platoon of shiny T-14 tanks had rumbled towards them, followed by support vehicles and A.P.C.’s packed with fresh-faced conscripts. The tanks travelled two abreast and were the head of a long column that disappeared into the far distance. There had been a news blackout. The local TV station had gone off the air. There was no explanation for the sudden appearance of Russian tanks. The old couple had no choice but to ignore the rumpus and hope the commotion would soon desist.

For two long hours, the couple’s windows rattled and the internal woodwork creaked as the mighty battalion ground its way towards the capital. Oxana resorted to burying her head under two feather pillows and Bohdan stuffed his ears full of cotton wool. Their precautions dimmed the racket to a certain degree, but did nothing to stop the house from complaining. Its timbers and beams shrieked as the weight of the passing cavalcade twisted and undermined the property’s fabric. After the din diminished, the house relaxed once again, and Oxana raised her head and gesticulated at Bohdan to check outside. Bohdan exhaled dramatically and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a relief that the commotion had stopped, but Bohdan had an unpleasant surprise. The noise had subsided; it was true, but that was because the endless line of armoured vehicles had come to a halt. Eight feet away from their front door, there was a solid wall of heavy metal; caterpillar tracks, armour plating and countless 125 millimetre cannons. # Clutching her ear protection to her chest, Oxana poked her nose past her lace curtains and peered out of her front room window. The stationary vehicles’ exhaust pipes coughed and spluttered noxious fumes and that was the only sign of life. However, as the afternoon drifted away, they heard orders barked, distant shouts and the crackle and splat of radio transmission.

The column remained motionless in front of their home and, by early evening, there was an eerie silence. All the engines had stopped belching out diesel fumes and as the sun dropped below the tree line, Bohdan detected nervous birdsong in the surrounding woodland. He recognised the familiar chirrup of a friendly blackbird, but it seemed more remote than usual. It was as if the creature had retreated to a safe distance, just in case. # Oxana fretted all afternoon, and Bohdan did his best to calm her. She’d made noises about an evening meal and said she couldn’t wait any longer.

“It’s no good,” she says at last, “one of us must collect the groceries.

Bohdan inhales with my mouth closed tight. “Mister Kalashnik’s store isn’t open all night and he’ll be closing his store soon,” Oxana says, presenting Bohdan with a list of groceries as though it was both a challenge and a commission to accept or be damned. Oxana had trained her husband well over their long marriage. Bohdan was an obliging fellow and his partnership to Oxana had flourished for four decades despite all the regime changes that had occurred over the years. He accepted her scrap of paper, double-checked the list of provisions, and saluted Oxana.

“I may be some time, my dear,” he says, hauling on his outer coat and knotting his scarf.

Oxana pinches his long, straight nose. “Now, don’t you stop on the way and get talking to any strangers,” she says, pursing her lips and frowning. “I won’t,” he says, clapping his hands together. # There was a fug of wood smoke outside the house, and Russian voices echoed up and down the column of static metal boxes. Bohdan shuffled up his short garden path, closed the gate behind him and edged his way past the convoy towards the village.

It was a pleasant ten-minute walk on most days, depending on the weather or any local impediments. The rolling pastures beyond the pine trees support cattle and it’s not uncommon for a herd of Ukrainian Greys to delay a trip to Mister Kalashnik’s store. Milking times occur at regular intervals during a working day and all traffic stops when they cross the road. Bohdan wondered if there’d been any cows traversing the tarmac today or if they’d abandoned the milking schedule.  # Mister Kalashnik is folding his metal chairs and coffee tables outside his store.

“Hey, Kalashnik!” Bohdan says, checking his list again. “Had a busy day?” “Busy day?” He asks. “It’s always a busy day. I’m busy here and busy there and I’m busy everywhere.” “Is that good business?”

“I’m always busy in my business and any business is always good.” Bohdan enters the premises and places his wicker basket on the counter.

“You have Oxana’s list for me?” “You know me too well, Mister Kalashnik.” “I can supply most things, but…” He scratches his chin. “Business today has been---”

“Busy?” Bohdan asks, frowning. “But we live here and---” “I can’t turn away extra business and today I’ve had an extra busy day.” “We’ll take what ever is available.”

“I’ve had a run on toilet rolls and flour is in short supply, too.” “Milk and butter?” He shakes his head. “Bread?” “Yesterday’s only.” “You have been busy.” “That’s business.” # Today’s unwelcome visitors have lingered longer than expected.

We do not know when they’ll leave or in which direction they’ll depart. The End


January 11th

First time I’ve had the elevator dream since Doc told me to start this journal. Fourth time I’ve had it total, I think, maybe fifth. It’s always the same. In the dream, I’m just getting off work, except it’s later than usual and I’m the only one left in the office. I fill out my timesheet, set my desktop to sleep mode, and head toward the elevator. I’m the only one on it, and instead of starting from the 33rd floor, I’m on the 400th floor. I press the button for the lobby and the elevator begins its slow descent. It beeps as it passes each floor on the way down, never stopping, never opening for more passengers. It seems as if there isn’t another living soul in the entire building. I lose count of the beeps, but it must be at least a hundred before the lights go out and the elevator stops. Suddenly I’m plunged into darkness. Panic starts to well up, and I try to yell for help but my voice is weak, I can’t force the sound out for some reason, like when you try to punch someone in a dream but your arm seems made out of feathers. So instead, I reach out and try to touch the walls. At first there are none, and I nearly fall forward, certain I'm tumbling over a cliff. It seems as if the car has doubled in size, but eventually I fall against the door, and regain my footing. I try to pry open the doors but they won’t budge, I feel for buttons but they do nothing. Then, without warning, I hear a deafening screech the room begins to plummet. My blood vessels swell from the sudden change in pressure, and all of my internal organs try to escape through my throat, choking me. Despite that, my lungs finally begin to work and I scream, I scream louder than I’ve ever screamed in life. When the elevator lands, I am jerked awake by the sound of the crash. Every time I swear to God I hear that crash for real, as if it’s in my bedroom or just outside my window. My heart is pounding and my throat is sore, tired, strained as if I’d actually been screaming into my pillow.

Every few days this happens, exactly the same way. Doc thinks writing about it will help me sort out my emotions, get my brain under control, and improve my sleep. Writing this entry feels a bit like laying the first brick of the Great Wall of China but I guess we will see what happens.

January 19th Had the dream again. Doc said I should try something called “lucid dreaming.” Apparently, some folks can become conscious during their dreams, and take control of what’s happening, maybe stop it from becoming a nightmare. Sounds kinda nuts to me, but it’s worth a shot. She said the simplest way to do it is through “reality testing.” Basically, it means constantly checking your surroundings to make sure you’re awake, getting to know things inside and out, how they feel, how they sound, what they look like, so that when you’re dreaming, you notice right away when something’s changed and you “come online” in a manner of speaking.

*** I spent the entire day rubbing the surface of my desk, feeling the wood, trying to break the laws of physics by pushing my hand through it. On my breaks I stared at the grain, trying to memorize the patterns. When I went to the bathroom, I gawked at myself in the mirror, making sure my nose, eyes, and ears were all still in the correct places. Everything was accounted for, including the bags under my eyes. Maybe I’m thinking about this a little too hard.

At the end of the day, I focused really hard on the elevator. Biggest difference, right off the bat, was people. The office was never deserted at my normal end time. There were usually four or five, sometimes as many as ten people in there with me. And it smelled. I’d never noticed the smell before. Like a high school locker room. How can people who sit at a desk all day smell that bad? I guess mental stress can make you work up a sweat too. Then of course, there’s the floors. The building only goes up to the mid forties, starting at 400 should be a dead giveaway.

January 23rd Had the dream again. Didn’t notice any heightened awareness. Everything just seems normal in the dream. The changes don’t strike you as weird, the late hour, the lack of people, the impossible height, you just accept them in the moment. How is this supposed to work? Maybe it takes more time. And more minute details. Doc says it’s like reprogramming your brain. It takes a lot of inputs to get it to behave how you want.

*** I concentrated on the really small details today. I stood at the back of the elevator car and pressed my fingers against the wall. Felt the coolness and smoothness of the metal. I listened to the music, some new-age drivel, meant to calm the employees, make them more docile I suppose. I listened to the beeps as it passed each level, tried to log the pitch and timbre in my memory, as if I’d actually be able to recall such things. It’s actually kind of a calming ritual, in a strange way. Pretty soon I’m going to be counting the streetlights on the drive home and humming along to tires on asphalt. Whatever works I guess.

January 28th Finally noticed some progress. The dream started just like normal. I got in the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby but something was different. It took a few floors for me to figure out what it was. Then I realized, the ding was wrong. Not just wrong it was … incomplete. It sort of crackled, as if coming from an old analog radio stuck between frequencies. Like it were trying to come through the speakers from across dimensions, an ambassador from the waking world failing to fully surface in the dream world. It made me wonder why the music didn’t sound the same way and then I realized, there was no music…

I woke up prematurely. For the first time, the dream didn’t follow through to conclusion. It was as if the dream were a burglar, aborting the mission as soon as it was found out. I was confused at first, disoriented, but not panicked like normal. As I came out of my grogginess, I thought that was it, I won, I got out of the dream. Then I grabbed my phone from the night stand and checked the time. 2:53AM. Great. I swapped terrifying sleep for no sleep. Now no matter how hard I try, I can’t drift off again. Work is going to be miserable today. This clearly isn’t going to work. I need to learn to steer the dream in another direction, instead of just bailing on it.

February 4th I did it again. This time, I noticed the dings and the missing music much sooner. But it wasn’t enough. I needed one more thing to anchor myself. So I stepped back and felt the wall, just as I’d been doing every day on the real ride down to the lobby. It felt wrong immediately. Softer, rougher, less cool to the touch. I turned around and saw wood instead of metal. It looked just like the surface of my office desk. Don’t wake up was my next immediate thought. And then everything changed. Time seemed to slow down. The air decompressed … or did it compress? I’m not sure, but the room seemed to flex. I stepped back toward the middle of the car and every motion seemed to shake the very fabric of reality. I got the feeling that the entire would could shatter at any moment, that I was fighting to hold it together.

Open the door I thought. I tried to say it out loud but I still could barely speak. It was the same sensation as when you’re trying to carry on a conversation even though you can feel yourself drifting off. Made me wonder if I was talking aloud in my sleep. So I stuck to internal thoughts. Open the door . But I had to stop the elevator first. Of course the elevator did stop, and the lights went out, just like always. I thought no, don’t let it drop . Then it released with that ear-splitting screech, only it didn’t drop all the way. It fell what I would guess was about twenty feet, then stopped. I fought to stay standing and it felt like the floor was drifting back and forth, like a raft on water, and I realized that somehow I was holding the car in place. But it was difficult, taxing, and I was losing focus. Finally I let go and woke with another violent start, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I’m going to be tired again today, but I’m starting to think this lucid dreaming thing actually works.

February 12th

The dream got weird this time. I went through all the same beats as before, the crackly dings, the lack of music, the wooden instead of metal walls. Open the door I began to think again, and this time, when the elevator came to a halt, the lights stayed on, and the door did open … and a stunning woman in a red dress stepped through into the elevator. She didn’t look like anyone I knew, or anyone who worked in my building. She seemed to be coming from some sort of lavish holiday party. The dress hugged all of her curves and exposed her shoulders and cleavage. Her lips were a deep red to match the dress and her hair was a cascade of curls tumbling down her back. She didn’t say a word, she simply stepped forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and began to kiss me passionately. I knew she wasn’t real, I knew I had to stay focused on the dream sequence, but I surrendered. It seemed as if I was falling back asleep as I placed my hands on her hips, enjoying her lips and imagining what we could get done with the remaining three hundred floors.

The lights went out and the elevator fell all at once. The sound that woke me up was not the crash of the car, but a blood-curdling scream. A woman’s scream, the same woman who seconds before was draped over me like a curtain. It was high-pitched and shrill, like a banshee, and I swear as I write this that my ears are still ringing from it. Where did she come from? Is my own brain fighting back against me? Did it make her up to disarm me, to lull me back into a passive state so it could finish terrorizing me? I don’t know, but it worked. I need to not let her in next time.

February 17th I was determined to beat the dream this time. I checked the dings, the music, the walls, and then abruptly reminded myself: don’t let the woman in . The elevator slowed to a halt and as the doors began to slide open, I thought: No . Just as a flash of red fabric came into my field of vision, the doors snapped shut like a pair of hands smashing a fly. Okay good, now go down . The elevator began to move again, almost reluctantly, as if it didn’t like following my orders. As it descended, I focused, pretended I was laying a trap, a net to catch it before the inevitable fall. When the lights went out, I thought now! The entire elevator shaft seemed to shake violently as the car ground to a halt. I sprinted forward, knowing the room had grown, and braced myself against the doors before I could fall. Stop! I commanded the room as it inched downward, attempting to enter free-fall. Stop now! The world seemed on the brink of collapse as the elevator tried to wrench itself free of my invisible net, but after about thirty seconds it seemed to concede defeat.

As the room settled, I straightened up and commanded the doors: Okay, now open . The sound they made was not like metal nor like wood. It sounded like stone, a deep, earthy rumble, like the tomb of an ancient pyramid. A brilliant light flooded into the room, forcing me to shield my eyes. As my pupils adjusted and I was able to see out, I realized I was no longer in an office building, but floating in space. I stepped out onto a seemingly invisible surface, floating above the milky way galaxy, but feeling totally balanced and safe. To my left I saw the Horsehead Nebula, to my right a black hole. Everything was an explosion of stars, gas, and colors. And suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a profound feeling of freedom. I had become the master of my own dreams, and with that came endless possibilities. The universe itself was at my disposal. I’d escaped certain death and could now travel anywhere I pleased.

I sat down on my invisible platform, and merely basked in the sea of stars. After what felt like hours, I decided that where I wanted to go was home. I opened my eyes, feeling peaceful and well-rested for the first time in months.