Walter and Joan waited at the local IHOP. They had been excited and arrived early not because of the fluffy French toast instead their excitement stemmed from the adventure they were about to start. They were meeting with a couple of friends for a 10-day road trip up north to see the fall colors. Each year they would talk about it but so far no one had ever actually made any plans. Joan had decided that this would be the year to go. “Come heck or high water, I’m going.” Her husband Walter knew better than to try to change her mind. She had been watching an old movie from 1985 about a group of old people who had found a sort of fountain of youth by swimming in a pool with aliens. Then and there she had begun writing her bucket list and right on top was “see the fall colors.” That was before the diagnosis. Now she was absolutely adamant about getting through her list.

Last Tuesday, during Bible study, Joan told her friends about the list of plans. They had embraced her with love and promised to help whenever they could. Henry and Olivia were the first to volunteer. They both grew up in Texas and as teenagers, their families had taken road trips up into Virginia to see the trees and the colors of the autumn leaves. Unlike Henry and Olivia, Joan came from a poor family. Her family scratched out a living growing crops down near the Texas-New Mexico border. As she sipped her coffee Joan reminisced about those dirt crops where she spent so many hours picking out rocks and guiding a horse and plow. They had been poor but those were some of her happiest memories. Outside they could hear another motorcycle pull into the parking lot. Soon Henry pulled open the door for Olivia, both were cheerful they looked just as excited too. Hugs all around then they sat and ordered breakfast too. After the waitress cleared away the dirty dishes Joan began laying out the itinerary. “Rule #1 no one is allowed to mention time. No looking at our phones. No checking our watches. We are absolutely going by the seat of our pants and playing it by ear,” Joan explained. She locked eyes with each person at the table and received both smiles and heads nodding in agreement. “Rule #2 no one is to ask me ‘how I’m feeling?’ or ‘Do you need to sit down for a minute?’ because for the next ten days I want to be treated like a normal person. So no side glances between you guys behind my back. Yes, I agree it isn’t fair that I have this tumor but if the doctors say they can’t remove it then we will pretend it isn’t there. Do you understand?” More heads were nodding but the smiles had slid from their faces a little. “I looked it up last night on my computer. It shows a 23-hour drive but if we are playing it by ear maybe we will just ride 6-8 hours a day plus stopping every hour for pee pee breaks. Henry smiled knowing his bladder would be grateful for the frequent breaks. They talked a little longer about the details of the ride and then were ready to go. They paid for their meals and thanked the staff. The men get on the motorcycles first then assist the ladies in getting comfortable. Helmets were put on and they were off to begin Joan’s adventure. She waved goodbye to San Antonio, and they began riding east on Highway 10 heading towards Houston.

They stopped when they pleased not rushing each other. Lunch was a deli sandwich from a travel plaza. They sat outside on a bench and enjoyed chatting with one another about nothing in particular. Before they left Walter bought himself a new handkerchief and Henry found himself a book in the discount bin. “John Saul has a way of keeping me awake like no other writer.” Olivia just rolled her eyes at him. She loved the fact that he was a bookworm even though they didn't always agree on the genre. By the time they reached Lafayette, Louisiana they were ready to find a place for the night. They got two rooms at the Drury Inn & Suites after having dinner at Cracker Barrel. Before bed, they had a small Bible study together then slipped into pajamas and went to sleep. The next morning they returned to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. Olivia had purchased a map. She now had it splayed out on the table. “If we take 55 north we can go through Jackson MS up into Memphis then follow Interstate 40 across Tennessee, maybe stop in Nashville and take in some real good bluegrass music. Look here,” she pointed to Knoxville, “we would take I-81 then follow route 460 to I-85 and ta-da Richmond Virginia.” Henry agreed, “I’ll do anything to avoid driving through Atlanta.” They folded up the map and were back on the road. They came to an interchange and headed north on 55 just as planned. They had been on the road for almost two hours when Henry’s bike started acting up. They pulled into a Chevron station and the men began looking it over. Everything checked out fine but they decided to take route 51 North because it was more populated and easier to find help if needed. They hadn’t traveled far when she got a craving for pizza and it reminded Joan that she had eaten a small breakfast. They made a left onto Black Cat Rd and pulled into the Hunt Brothers Pizza place but as they parked Joan changed her mind. There was a food stand on wheels. “Let’s give that a try.” Henry and Olivia stop in their tracks. “That is not a good idea.” Walter agreed saying, “I see a future of diarrhea and vomiting if we eat there.” Joan ignored them all and approached the cute food truck. A short little old black woman stood behind the counter. Her face was creased with years of crow's feet and laugh lines. The woman's silver-white hair was neatly held down with a hair net. She wore fresh clean gloves and a genuine smile. Everything about the food truck was clean and tidy. “Well good day," the short old lady said to Joan, "How are you doing? What brings you to our little town?” Without meaning to, Joan began to unload everything onto this stranger. She felt so comfortable that she found herself telling the other woman all about the road trip and why she had started her crazy bucket list. It felt like time stopped. The other three people stayed back by the motorcycles so it felt like the universe had made a pocket of time just for these two women. When she had emptied herself, nothing else was left to say, the old woman took off her gloves and patted Joan's hand. "You need some of my special cherry pie." Tears stained Joan’s face as she watched the old woman put on new gloves and prepare four slices of pie. “Don’t you waste anymore more tears on that nasty tumor.” She pushed the plates of cherry desserts toward Joan saying, “Go enjoy the life you have left.” Smiling from the kindness she had been shown, Joan gave the woman $20 and then called the group over. They each took a plate and fork and sat under a shady tree where several tables and benches had been arranged. Having a difficult time hiding his concern, Walter asked Joan in a hushed voice, “What was all that about?” She kept her eyes down, a little embarrassed. “I guess we just had a special connection for a moment.” Olivia piped up, “Probably all the stress you’ve been feeling.” They ate the pie in silence. It was really amazing. The tart cherries and the buttery flaky crust made Joan feel like she had when she was a kid. The taste reminded her of Christmases of long ago. She was reminded of cold days and hot cocoa. Ice skating and snowball fights. Lost in her own thoughts she must have fallen asleep for a moment. When she opened her eyes, she was back on the family farm. She wore her old brown sweater and black trousers with wool socks and snow boots. As she looked around she was knocked off her feet by a clumsy black and white dog. “Sally?” Joan muttered in disbelief. The dog paused when she heard her name then bounded back over to play in the snow at Joan’s feet. From behind she felt more than heard the presence of their old bay. He nickered and pawed at the snow a little. “What was in that pie?”


“I’d like to go see it,” I said one Saturday morning, when we were lying in bed. “See what, Mark?” Surya, my wife stretched herself lazily. “The most famous painting in the world… you know.” “You must mean the famousest  painting in the world. Please use real words,” she said and smiled. „Why did I marry a Pleiadian?”

I said with a heavy sigh. Before 2030, famousest wasn't even a word. Surya giggled and rolled over in the sheets. She kissed me on the neck. Yes, why? I thought to myself. They’re pompous, boring and are always correcting people. Famousest, most famous. What the heck does it matter? Of course, I knew why  I married her. I fell in love, head over heels. She was more beautiful than any Terran woman I’ve ever seen. Deep, gray-blue eyes, silky hair, not quite white but almost. Depending on the weather they seemed gray or a shimmering beige. The Pleiadians brought with them a new culture. They were peaceful, honest and agreeable. Something Terrans  had never experienced in written history. With their culture they introduced new words and rules of literary purity. Everything had to make sense. It wasn’t “the most beautiful” anymore. It was: the beautifulest, the grotesquest or the incrediblest. Surya had told me that the Pleiadians couldn’t come into contact until we reached their level of emotional evolution. Otherwise, we’d kill them right away. There weren’t many of them on Earth. About eight hundred thousand extraterrestial Terra fans. The most dedicated. They knew everything about us. We knew nothing about them. Surya studied Terran anthropology in school and she took a course on Terran politics. She knew everything about our social customs. Sometimes I felt she pitied me. Our ways were different but our biology didn’t differ at all. We were technically the same species. Earth was once a Pleiadian colony, thousands of years ago. Then it gained independence and became controlled by another species of humanoids. Surya said she couldn’t tell me anything more about that part of history. When they landed on Earth it wasn’t an invasion. It was tourism. And then they stayed and offered real civilization. Really humane  like. They brought with them their Pleiadian technology. Massive construction robots and modified mushrooms capable of producing any organic matter from penicillin to Parmigiano cheese. And the sweepers. *** We went to see the painting the following afternoon. The art center was located near the river. The building was a pristine rectangular block made of smooth concrete. Sweepers were busy day and night cleaning its surface, like every surface in the city. There was a loose crowd, we didn’t have to push through. We went in and there it was, a twenty foot canvas, all lit up in an otherwise dark, black room. The painting was ridiculously huge, painted with tiny strokes in a hyper-realistic style. It depicted something I didn’t expect to see at all. A dirty snow path between piles of old snow. On the path - two feet in slippers. The skin had a pinkish-gray color. Above the ankles, several layered skirts. Rough, wrinkled linen fabric. Nothing matched, the layers had been put together out of necessity not fashion or aesthetics. The slippers – a rubber undersole and dusty, light mauve, quilt stitched velvet. Granny feet, I thought. Everything covered with a layer of black dust and dirt, so common to Earth. That's all? I didn’t understand. “What does it mean?” I whispered, shaking my head. “It’s so beautiful.” Surya said, teary eyed. “What’s so beautiful about it?” I asked, squinting, trying to analyze the painter’s technique. “It’s the essence of Terra,” she whispered. I looked at her and my mouth dropped. Now I understood. The artist tried to appeal to the Pleiadian aesthetic. And this painting was exactly just that. That’s why I didn’t find it compelling. I was a Terran. I’d never understand. “You mean old Terra. When there was still dirt and snow,” I said. “Yes. I think that dirt is very poetic,” she said. “You can have all of your poetic dirt back. Just turn off the sweepers,” I said. “You can’t turn them off,” she said and smiled, “besides, that would be unwise.” Yes, the Pleiadians - always the wise. We left the gloomy art center. The painting made me think. There had been no snow since 2055. And dirt? Well, it technically existed. In the fields outside the city. I could go there one day and maybe touch it. Get really dirty. And snow? Ice cream was now the closest thing to snow now. We got some on the way back. It melted quickly in the heat. A milky drop landed on my shoe. The gray blur of the sweepers immediately cleaned it. The cleaned everything in our home too, but usually at night. It happened everywhere, all the time, in every household. Abstract paintings were a problem though. The sweepers perceived random specks of paint as accidental spills. And many of them were probably exactly just that. Humanity lost some art pieces, but no one really cared. The sweepers stayed away from human skin but cleaned the animals while they slept. They were tiny, smaller than a fruit fly. Too fast to see them. All you ever saw was a blur. “We too have ice cream on Qiacubba. It simply doesn’t taste anything like Terran ice cream,” Surya sighed and licked the bottom of the cone. “Oh look, a tree rat!” she said, pointing at a squirrel. The animal climbed down the tree, watching her with its two shiny eyes. She fed it some peanut crumbs and laughed. It’s been ten years since she came here and she still acted like a tourist, marveling at Earth’s nature, animals and local food. She wore khaki pants, a white, linen shirt and brown loafers. She dressed like this on purpose. She wanted to look Terran. The clothes contrasted with her alien beauty, making her look even more stunning. Of course, she looked nothing like a Terran. She shone with an inner light. She was peaceful and calm. Their evolved emotionality made them age slower, they lived up to two hundred years. No stress hormones. And her hair. Silky smooth, greyish white, not like an old woman’s hair, but like the hair of a kitten. The details of the painting haunted me. The texture of the layered skirt, the bright snow, the stubbornness of the two feet. Why? Damn it, I thought. I won’t be spending my time thinking about some painting. Maybe that’s why it was the most famous, oh excuse me, the famousest painting in the world. People couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was all in there, poverty, pain, entropy, decay, the lost winter, the poetic dirt, so cherished by the Pleiadians and… the human stubbornness, our unapologetic will to live. No matter where life would throw us, we’d persist, against all odds. Naked feet in slippers, in minus temperatures, a slap in the face of brutal reality. Frail old feet, deprived of the things, that could protect them from the cold. They carried a message. Here I am, out in the snow, wearing slippers and some old clothes, not dressed for the weather at all. And I will persist. *** I needed to find out more about the sweepers. My good friend Jake did some conservation work on the servers in the sweeper processing facility. We met for a beer in the park one afternoon. “What’s it like in there?” I asked and nodded at the grim, oval shape on the horizon. “You don’t want to know,” he said. “What? It can’t be that bad,” I shrugged. “The sound is unbearable. And the smell!” I decided I’d go with him, to see it for myself. The grey buzz filled the hangar. It was the size of a small stadium. They dumped all of their load on the floor and left it there to dry. Every tiny bug ejected the dust, scraps and grime. They piled the tiny lumps layer by layer, building a rug of a dark sludge. Bits of animal droppings, vomit, food waste, dirt, oil and paint. All the worst smells in the world combined. It was difficult to bear. Even with a mask on. “I thought they ate it,” I said, as we stood on a high balcony overlooking the plant. “Nah, they’re bio-bots. They run on solar,” said Jake. “I can’t take it, let’s go.” “You know, birds eat them sometimes.” “Oh yeah?” “They go through unharmed. These suckers are indestructible.” *** “What do you love most about Earth?” I asked Surya one night, after making love. “You?” She said and threw her arms around my neck. “But seriously,” I insisted. “The animals. We don’t have many animals on Qiacubba.” It had crossed my mind, that I also was a type of an exotic animal to her. I had always wondered what she saw in me. Surya was beyond beautiful. Her grace was unearthly. Literally. And when we made love, it felt like traveling to another dimension. Next to Pleiadians, we were cave men. As for me, I was never particularly handsome. A hopeless nerd with a blobby face. No distinct features. Almond shaped, brown eyes, a button nose and thin lips. But she loved me. On some days, when we were out together, I’d just watch her, frozen, mesmerized by her beauty and absolutely confident she’ll dump me any minute. But she never did. She loved everything Terra. That summer, I became obsessed. It started with the painting. It haunted me. It was a window to a lost reality, a dirty world. It made me think about the invisible sweepers. But they weren’t really invisible. They were just too small and too fast for human eyes. “Have you ever seen one?” I asked Surya, as we stood in the kitchen preparing our lunch one morning. “No. It’s impossible to see them,” she said. “I want to see what they look like,” I said. Surya looked displeased. Her blue eyes turned stormy gray. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked with a worried face. “They’re in our home. All the time,” I replied. “All of those years, you didn’t mind.” “I know but… It just bothers me,” I said. We packed our lunch and went to work, and I kept thinking of a way to trap one of the sweepers. Fly traps didn’t work. They’d just eat their way through the glue. They steered clear of the electronic traps too. They were programmed to avoid danger. But I didn’t need to trap one to see one. All I needed was a microscope and a high-speed camera. I had to hide my plan from Surya though. I went straight from the store to the park. I called her and said I needed to work late, cringing at the cliché phrase as I lied. Like a traitor, cheating on her with my own, sick curiosity. It was a sunny afternoon with a bit of cloud. The park wasn’t too crowded. I saw some couples walking by. I bought an ice cream cone, sat down on the fake grass. I set up the microscope and the camera, and pressed record. I dripped a tiny speck of ice cream on the glass. It only took six seconds and the sweepers came in a blur. I repeated the process a couple of times to make sure I get a good shot. I took the camera and played it. The third sweeper was slow enough to get a clear picture. For the first time, I saw what a sweeper looked like. It didn’t look alien, even though it was the product of Pleiadian biotechnology. Its entire body was transparent, like one of those deep-sea creatures. The abdomen was irregular and whitish, like a fat larva. I took a closer look at its wings and head. It resembled… “Oh God, it’s a cockroach,” I whispered to myself, staring at the screen. The sweepers were genetically modified, tiny cockroaches. I felt sick to my stomach and put the camera down. I looked at the blur of the sweepers on the benches and the paved alleyways. All of a sudden it all looked completely different. It wasn’t just a nameless blur. It had a face. The face of a cockroach. I shivered in the sun. I had to tell someone. I called Jake and told him everything, about the painting, about my obsession, my little escapade to the park and finally my discovery. He wasn’t shocked at all. “Well, it makes sense. That’s what cockroaches do. They feed on dirt,” he said. “Do you not realize what this means? We have a cockroach infestation. Everywhere!” I gasped into the phone, “they’re on our clothes! In our homes!” “Well, they clean things,” he said. “They look like cockroaches. Aren’t you at least a little bit alarmed?” I asked. “I don’t know, I mean, I can’t see them,” Jake was unmoved. And then it hit me. Surya knew. She had to know. That’s why she didn’t want me to go looking for answers. I packed up the gear and wandered aimlessly, not wanting to go home. The clouds of the sweepers, I saw them everywhere now. On the pristine sidewalks, hanging above the cars, on the walls of the buildings, the walls scraped clean and beautiful. *** “They’re cockroaches,” I said in the door. Wow, I thought I would play it a little more subtly than that, I thought to myself. “Mark… You shouldn’t have looked,” Surya said, her eyes gleaming with the promise of tears, “your human mind is too prejudiced. That’s why I didn’t want you to know.” She hugged me and cried. *** The next two years, I now remember as “the transition years”. I moved out of our apartment and rented a cheap, rundown cottage outside the city. There were less sweepers in the countryside. I sealed all the windows and rarely left the house. Whenever I did, I’d put on a hazmat suit. Some of the sweepers went through anyway. I kept spraying them with metallic paint. It was the only thing that worked. Surya visited me sometimes, each time a little sadder, but eventually she stopped. I kept busy. The picture I took went viral. Soon everyone was photo-hunting sweepers, trying to get the best shot. I remember the posters when the Pleiadians first introduced them. A white cartoon man in dungarees with a broom. They lied to us. Not the Pleiadians. Our government did. Three months later I started an anti-sweeper campaign. It was vile, I admit. I used every manipulation I could come up with. I made flyers, stickers, wrote articles. Everything. I worked day and night. I built groups, sites and reached out to likeminded people. And scientists. I was looking for a way to get rid of all the sweepers on Earth. And I found it. “We can only affect one area. But it will work,” said Cal. He studied bioengineering and had it all figured out. “How?” “Very simple. The sweepers are bio-robots. They have an AI neural network, sensitive to electromagnetic bursts, just like any other electrical device,” he said. “But won’t an EMP destroy the infrastructure?” I asked. “Not if we design it to target the sweeper frequency. We need to be very careful,” We deployed the EMP through cellphone towers. One day, the sweepers started falling out of the sky. In our underground the news spread fast. Everyone wanted our tech. And then the day came when all the sweepers had gone. Grey piles of sweepers filled the streets along with other garbage that had piled up during the days of their demise. Three weeks later I went back to the city breathing in the dirty air. For the first time, the air smelled like something. I needed to see Surya. Now I could move back in with her. Without feeling stalked by cockroaches, I felt free for the first time in years. I got to our apartment building and walked in. There was litter everywhere in the hallways. They didn’t have time to hire cleaners. The job hadn’t existed for the past twenty years. It would take time, I thought, but it will go back to normal again. In time. I knocked on the door. Surya opened. At first, I didn’t recognize her. Matted hair, wrinkles and… she seemed to have a skin rash. Her skin had aged visibly. Her eyes were red. She saw my expression. “I’m allergic to dust,” she explained. “Oh… Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” I said and hugged her. The apartment was a pigsty, just like my cottage for the past two years. But that was understandable. No one in the city owned a vacuum cleaner. She tried her best using cut up clothes and shower gel, but she was a Pleiadian. They had no cleaning skills. “I love you Mark,” she said. “I love you too,” I replied. “But I’m leaving. I’m going back to Qiacubba,” she said and sobbed like a little girl, “I can’t live like this!” “Surya… Don’t go,” I said, holding her fingers in my hands. I kissed her fingertips and noticed her fingernails were dirty. I fought the desire to wipe my mouth. “We have lived with the sweepers in a perfect symbiosis for hundreds of years. We aren’t used to this,” she said. “But... but… You said that dirt was poetic!” I protested and looked into her eyes. “Yes, poetic! Meaning it belongs in art galleries and tiny books that never earn the cost of the paper they’re printed on,” she yelled and pushed me away. She hid her face in her hands. “Surya,” I pleaded, but less heartily, „It’s not fair.” “Go away. I don’t want you to see me like this,” she said quietly. And I didn’t too. She had lost her unearthly beauty. Her Pleiadian loftiness had gone. No more playful or happy but downtrodden with the toil of everyday labour. The endless job of fighting the earthly grime, the dust that somehow gets everywhere. She finally became something she had been longing for all of those years. And the dirt made it possible. She was now a Terran.


“Whoa! That was close. Try again!” Clayton laughed gleefully as he encouraged his brother.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, their dad was busy making his homemade tomato sauce. It was his favorite part of harvesting bushels of tomatoes from the garden. His wife helped him harvest, chop and prepare, but the patient work of boiling and simmering rested with him. He savored it. His biggest pot was happily bubbling away over a low flame. It was filled with a nose tantalizing combination of tomatoes, garlic, onions, and olive oil. The sauce would slowly reduce and thicken with patience and time. He puttered about the kitchen while he waited, tidying and organizing. Clayton, his middle child of 10 years, came in. “Hey Dad, can I have a taste?”

“Sure,” Dad dipped a spoon into the sauce and turned to his son. “Wait,” he paused, scrutinizing his face, “what happened to your forehead?”

Clayton smacked his hand to his forehead quickly and gave his dad a hasty, guilty look before slurping the spoon and fleeing the kitchen.

“Sauce tastes good!” He yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared. Dad returned to his pot, slowly stirring while he thought. Clayton had a red dot on his forehead, which was definitely not there earlier. There was no obvious reason for a cut or mark like that. Usually Clayton’s shenanigans resulted in scrapes or bruises. He lifted the spoon to his lips to give the sauce a taste. Not ready yet, he thought.

Later, Jacob came into the kitchen. At 14, his oldest son was as tall as him. Without a word he opened the refrigerator to get a drink. “Hey Jacob, what happened to your brother's forehead?” Dad asked.

Jacob paused briefly. When he turned, he casually replied, “What do you mean?” “He has a red dot on his forehead. It looks like blood, but he ran away before I could look at it. What’s he been up to?” “Did he say he was hurt?” Jacob asked, while taking a sip of his seltzer.

“No, he didn’t seem hurt.” Jacob shrugged. He glanced into the sauce pot, gave his dad a thumbs up and left the kitchen.

The sauce was reducing nicely. Every time he returned to stir it, the bubbles formed a little slower in the thickening liquid. Just as they always do. Dad knew there was a reason for Clayton’s most recent injury. He was also certain Jacob knew what happened. They were clearly up to something that required concealment. He would get to the bottom of it. He always did.

While the sauce continued to do its delicious work on the stove, Dad went about some other chores around the house. As he walked by the patio doors he saw his boys on the deck, leaning towards each other conspiratorially. This was worth watching. Jacob was talking. Clayton looked up at him with rapt attention and clear admiration. Finally, Jacob pressed a single finger into the red dot on Jacob’s forward, playfully pushing his head. He laughed and ruffled his little brother’s hair before turning to walk back inside. He saw his dad standing behind the glass doors and had the briefest pause in his stride. A look of surprise and worry flashed across his face before his step continued. He gave his dad a smile and a wave on the way to the couch.

There was definitely more to this story, Dad thought. Later, returning to his sauce, Dad gave it some slow stirs and a few thoughtful tastes. It was thickening. All it needed was some of his secret additions. He gathered the bottles of fish sauce, worcestershire sauce and soy sauce to create the infusion of salt and umami that made his tomato sauce better than anything he could buy at the store. As he estimated his pours with a tilted head and critical eye, his 6-year-old daughter skipped into the kitchen.

He smiled at her. She was playing make-believe as she often did, fully capable of entertaining herself with any combination of toys or sticks or silverware or french fries. In her imagination, anything could become a character in her stories. As he let the last dollop of soy sauce fall into the measuring cup, he gave his daughter a second, curious look. “What are you playing with Molly?” he asked. “This is Jillian. And this is Dipper. They are trying to be fliers but they keep fighting about how to fly.” As she spoke she held up her current story characters.

“Where did you get those?” Dad frowned. Seeing his expression, Molly’s face mirrored his concern, “Jacob and Clayton were playing with them,” she said seriously, “I only took 2, they have the rest.”  	Dad put his hand out with a raised eye-brow. Molly put 2 sharp darts into his hand, then skipped out of the kitchen to find her next makeshift playmates.

Dad looked down at the darts with a clear realization, a little anger, and a lot of worry. Before addressing this, he needed to finish his sauce. He poured in his special mixture and stirred it slowly. The dark flavors flowed deliciously into the crevices and folds of the now perfectly thickened sauce. He took another spoonful and put it to his lips. It’s ready.

With the sauce covered and waiting, Dad picked up the darts and went to find his boys. Having taken a moment to pause, he felt more ready to address his mischievous offspring. This was actually perfect timing, he smiled to himself. Jacob saw his dad walk through the living room with two darts in his hand. He didn’t stop or talk to him. He just walked through. Uneasiness stirred in Jacob’s chest.

Clayton looked up from his legos as his dad entered his bedroom.

“Come with me,” his dad said. Clayton glanced at the darts in his hand and followed without a word.

With Clayton in tow, Dad returned to the living room to find Jacob listening intently to Molly. They both stopped talking when he entered the room. Molly put her hands to her mouth to hide whatever look crossed her face and backed away.

“Boys. What happened to Jacob’s forehead?” Dad asked as he put the darts down on the coffee table.

Neither child offered an immediate response.

“Noone got hurt,” Jacob said defensively.

“Hurt doing what?” Dad insisted.

Clayton met Jacob’s eyes and they both resigned to the inevitable. “I was the dart board Dad,” Clayton said. “We found your dart board set in the closet and I held the dart board while Jacob tried to hit the bullseye!” Clayton’s naive excitement about their game could not be diminished, even by the look on his dad’s face.

Dad considered his boys carefully. So many admonishments, rebukes, reprimands and chides flowed through his head. They were all fueled by the fear of his son losing an eye. His boys waited quietly, unsure what the steady gaze of their father could mean. Clayton finally realized something was wrong. Jacob knew he was in trouble and just wondered how much.

When Dad finally spoke, it was directed at Jacob. He picked up the darts and said, “This was a bad idea, and you knew it.” Jacob lowered his eyes and said nothing. Dad continued, “The sauce is ready. You will help me with the canning. You will do it without moaning or avoiding. You will teach your brother and sister how to do it. And I will supervise.” Jacob hated the canning process, but he loved his dad’s tomato sauce, and he loved his dad. He sullenly followed his dad into the kitchen to accept his consequence, without complaining. Molly and Clayton looked at each other, then quickly followed to be a part of it, just as they had when Jacob had dramatically revealed the dart board set from their dad’s closet.

Dad sipped his wine while he watched his children work together. He smiled. He also hated the canning process, but he loved his sauce, and he loved his children. His wife walked in and quickly observed an uncommon scene. “How’d you pull this off?” she asked. Dad filled a second glass with wine and handed it to her. He shrugged and clinked her glass in celebratory cheers. Sauce and parenting, successfully managed for another day.


The sun had set by then and the world had drawn its curtains as the rain cloaked the darkening sky. The cold descending upon the earth, painting the streets in wet lights. And it all seemed silent; like a town about to pull the covers and drift into dreams, goodnight. But somewhere, near the town plaza where the fountain stands still for night, red lights glowed and grew in the dark, twinkling over the puddles and the wet asphalt about the roundabout. The shops around had closed up and there were no other people around, no pedestrians, no shop-keeper. The place felt abnormally quiet. One could almost feel the bated breaths and the secretive eyes of those hiding out of sight, wondering what happens next as if the world had spun into some dystopia overnight. The plaza had been taped off, and every shop was ordered to close, the owners told to return home. Every shop, except the one bakery where all the police cars gathered before. Something had happened, something enough to require the attention of every cop in town. Something severe: murder? Akane walked into the store, passing through the dark shadows hanging like curtains all around. The lights were too bright, everything seeming to blaze in the windows left and right. She pulled out her notepad, her heart thumping, as she readied herself, wondering: what’s the case? She had been called without a word about what the case really was. All she knew was that the crime scene happened to be the town’s favorite bakery. She’d bought a strawberry shortcake here once… Everything seemed just the way it was, only now draped in darkness, giving the place an eerie feel. Haunting, even. Places really do seem different in the dark… She reached the back, walking behind the counter and passing the large cabinet of cupcakes along the left side, making it through the door into the back. There were policemen near the door, interrogating a middle-aged woman at a distance; the woman at the table, sitting down, the moonlight lighting her back, but leaving her face and front in shadows. Everything really did seem haunted… The woman— it was the owner. When the woman noticed Akane’s arrival, she told the policemen to give them a moment. Without questioning, they left the room, passing through saying, “Excuse me,” their voices tired. Or maybe carrying a weight. Just then, with Akane looking behind, watching the men walk out the store to the front against the blaring lights, the owner called her over, telling her to sit down at the seat across of her. “Why did you call me, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Something happened,” the woman replied, her words simple but vague. Akane could see the woman’s face now; seeing it, the familiar sight, Akane felt herself calm. She put her notepad down on the table, turning herself so she could see what she wrote in the pale moonlight. But just as she wrote down the title and the date, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “A secret ingredient was stolen.” Akane looked up. “Eh?” Akane’s mind seemed to freeze for a moment, as if the thing the woman said were too quick to catch. “Stolen?” “Yes, darling. Stolen.” Her mind froze again, trying to wrap her head around the idea: was this a joke? It couldn’t be. The police were all out, the whole station probably out for this one case; this one case requiring the need for the whole plaza to shut down. All this couldn’t be some prank. Besides, who would they be pranking? The town? “Um, Mrs. Yoshioka,” Akane started, confused still. “What is this secret ingredient?” “It is in every recipe.” Eh? “But… what is it?” “It is a secret. No one must know.” Akane withdrew into her thoughts again. If it really was a secret, then how would the police, let alone her, solve the case? If solvable at all? People would only report if something valuable were stolen. But couldn’t an ingredient be bought again? If it were some sort of flour, then couldn’t she just buy a new stock? And, now that she thought about it, why were the police here if they didn’t know what the ingredient was? If they heard that some ingredient was stolen, then wouldn’t they’ve simply dismissed it as a joke? Why were they all here? Why was everyone so serious about this? It didn’t make sense. It only would if the police knew what the secret ingredient was— but even then, how would that have made any sense? What was this ingredient? Just then, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “Where do you, Miss Minami?” Why was she asking? “At the Harukawa neighborhood… why?” “Do you have a husband?” “No,” she replied, suspicious; but, feeling like her answer were inadequate, she added, “My boyfriend and I broke up last month.” “I see.” Akane started feeling an odd sensation in her chest, as if some dark, animated slime were moving around within her, swirling around her heart like some slug, some obsessive hand. “You bought a cake here earlier this week, right? Or am I mistaken?” “Yes. I did, Mrs. Yoshioka…” She didn’t feel comfortable anymore— it was making her feel the exact way when she visited the family murder case last year. Something just felt off about everything— it’s as if a person had broken into her room and replaced all her things while she was asleep. “May the police investigate your house, Miss?” “E-Eh? Why?” What’s with this woman? “The secret ingredient.” Akane couldn’t think— how did her home have anything relating to the case? And how did her last statement fit into any of this? “What are you saying, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Have you eaten the cake?” “Half of it. But-” “Did you like it?” “Y-Yes?” The woman fell silent for a moment. Just then, she asked, her tone changed, the air changing with it, as some dark feeling seemed to float up and linger around her: “Do you want to know what the secret ingredient is?” This is crazy… “What is it?” A moment of silence passed. But when Mrs. Yoshioka opened her mouth and spoke— Akane couldn’t hear anything. “E-Eh?” “You now know the secret of this place,” the woman said; she could finally hear. But just then… “Mr. Koizumi. Do it.” Akane felt her heart skip. “Do it?” “You now know.” “But—” Just then— “ Agh-?!? ” Something caught her throat— her vision faded, her hearing disappeared. All she could feel was a numb feeling as she crashed to the floor behind her. Before everything went dark. What did you say…?


Maria could tell almost before waking that Santiago was sleeping next to her. From the street came the sound of distant sirens, a noise that had become a comfort to her by familiarity, and she felt the early morning sunlight filter through the curtains onto the bed. With a groan, she rolled onto her back and glanced to her left. There was Santiago, his suddenly long and lanky body sprawled over the white sheets, face dark and expressionless. Maria watched him breathe softly through parted lips. The sun lit up his sweaty head like an angel. “Santi,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder. Her fingernails stood out pale against her sun-spotted skin. Maria was not used to thinking of herself as old– she wasn’t, really, only prematurely aged. “Santi,” she tried again, louder this time. She propped herself up on her elbow. “ Mijito , wake up. I’ll make you coffee and bacon, OK? You don’t want to miss your very first meet.” Santiago curled up like a roly-poly and threw his arms over his head. But at least he was awake. Maria sat up and yawned. She blinked sleepily at the small room: her dresser, piled with jewelry and religious candles; the closet door, broken where Santiago had once batted a baseball indoors; the bathroom, which connected her room with Santiago’s. Besides the kitchen, these were the only rooms in their apartment. She stood with a sigh. “Get up when you’re ready,” she said gently. By the time Maria had finished dressing, Santiago was already sitting bleary-eyed in the kitchen over a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Maria fussed with the little coffee pot and made one-sided small talk. “We will have to wear sunscreen today, Santi,” she said. “It’s going to be eighty-five degrees. It’s very sunny, so maybe you want to wear a rash guard under your jersey.” “None of my friends at school drink coffee,” Santiago muttered. Maria’s heart sank. Lately she had been afraid of Santi showing defiance. He was such a sensitive, gentle boy– a weak boy (but Maria would not acknowledge even to herself that she thought of him as weak)– he didn’t know what it would mean for him if he resisted her affection. He didn’t know, either, what it would mean for her. She loved Santiago, she adored Santiago, she sacrificed for Santiago, she would die for Santiago. No one else could ever do that for him. As for herself– there was nobody, nobody at all except Santi. Maria could not have endured it if he had turned away from her in shame. “Mexicans always drink coffee at breakfast,” she said out loud. “Don’t forget, I’m also making bacon, your favorite.” Maria wondered which of the other eighth graders he meant by his “friends.” Last August, when she had requested that the school move Santiago from the Special Day Class to the ordinary sections, Mr. O’Connell warned her that Santiago would have a difficult time making friends. “Students with autism can really thrive under the care of our specially qualified teachers,” the principal explained, slowly, as if Maria couldn’t speak English, or hadn’t heard these exact words a hundred times. “But he has Asperger’s,” she argued. She was angry at how close she was to crying. Mr. O’Connell gave her a pitying smile. “Asperger’s is on the spectrum, Ms. Martinez.”

Maria did not know how to explain to him that she already understood this, or how to articulate just what she meant. But she refused to leave until she spoke to both SDC instructors, the child psychologist, and one of the eighth grade teachers. Whether she convinced them or simply wore them out, Maria succeeded. Santiago turned out to be a B student with particularly good grades in science; Maria was tempted to show up to San Miguel Middle School herself and taunt Mr. O’Connell. “I told you so,” she'd say, in perfect English. But Santiago also came home angry most of the time, complaining that he was being bullied or left out. Every so often, he’d have a full-blown tantrum (oh her baby, her angelito ) and start throwing objects at walls and windows. The worst was the night he destroyed his snow globe, the one she’d bought him at SeaWorld. Santiago loved that snow globe– he could spend hours turning the little dolphin, mounted on the crest of a wave in perpetual leap, surrounded by a flurry of sunset-hued confetti. But he had seized his own greatest treasure with both hands and brought it down, hard, on the corner of the kitchen table. Shattered glass and glycerol flew every direction. Maria watched the shards glisten slow-motion in mid-air, then fall almost gently to the carpet in a puddle of pink glitter. Both she and Santiago cried that night. But Maria scolded herself afterwards. “If I am not strong for him, who will be?” she asked herself. Gradually, the bubbling coffee and sizzle of the pan cheered Santiago a little. He put on his Roadrunners uniform, a red-and-yellow jersey and shorts that were several sizes too big– he said they were more comfortable that way. Maria snuck a glance in the mirror before they left. There was no helping her hair. It had always been rough and curly like wool. Her father used to call her his “ ovejita negrita ,” his “little black sheep.” She’d just pull it back tight and hope most of the hairs would lie flat. She winced a little at her blue Albertsons polo, size large, envisioning the other parents scoffing at her. But Maria was annoyed with her own embarrassment; she decided to wear the shirt just to punish herself for such a thought. Almost as soon as they got outside, while they were still waiting for the #6 bus, Maria began to sweat copiously under the thick knit cotton. She resorted to fanning herself with the track schedule. After the bus, the walk from their stop to the track was another quarter mile. Maria puffed for breath, languishing in the California heat, as she struggled to keep up with Santi. He wouldn’t hold her hand to cross the street. This surprised Maria, and made her uneasy; but she supposed it would look silly, her leading along a boy five inches taller than herself. Maria had never been to Buffman Charter. The school was a private junior-senior high in a slightly nicer part of the city. A tall metal fence painted blue surrounded the outdoor facilities. The buildings looked modern, mostly glass, and the lawns were so green she guessed they must feed them bottled water. The track itself was completely disorienting. Maria felt overwhelmed by crowds of middle-aged men in baseball caps and their middle-grade kids, most of whom like Santi towered over her. She thought she must look very foolish, floundering about with her face brilliantly red and sweat stains appearing at her armpits. “Stay close to me, Santi,” she gasped, “stay close, you will get lost.” Maria impulsively clutched at his arm. Santi pulled away from her. “ Mami , I know where I’m going,” he said. “Look, there’s the Roadrunners tent”– Santi was pointing somewhere Maria couldn’t see– “and over there’s the long jump pit”– in the opposite direction. “That’s my first event.” “Are– are you sure?” she said, stunned by his confidence. “ Mijo , I don’t–” But now it was Santiago’s turn to lead her by the hand through the maze of much more competent parents, all who looked at her with disdain (so Maria imagined). Suddenly they were standing with the San Miguel Middle School track and field team under a red-and-yellow tent, set up against the back of the outdoor bathrooms. Santiago went to check in with Coach Rasmussen as Maria, almost frightened, looked back and forth quickly between the other families and the schedule. She couldn’t make anything of it. Times, events, and names swam on the pages– there were multiple, stapled together– until she managed to find "Santiago Martinez" written in several places, clinging to them in desperation. No one tried to speak to her. Good , she thought, maybe they think I understand . Maria waited for Santi. She grew nervous as his teammates began to disperse in all directions, but still she waited for him to come back and lead her to their next mysterious destination. She needed to make sure he had water and put on extra sunscreen, and then she would cheer him on as loudly and expertly as any of the other parents. The idea comforted her. But why wouldn’t he hurry? Maria stood for several more agonizing minutes, tortured by the sun. Only when other Roadrunners started coming back from their events, crimson and exhausted, did she realize that Santi must have gone off without her. Maria tried not to panic. She asked the nearest sweaty kid, “Please, do you know where is Santiago? Santiago Martinez, can you help me find him?” The kid, a blond boy taller even than Santi, graciously agreed and asked to see the schedule. “His first event is long jump, then he’ll run hurdles, the 100 and 200 meters, and then the relay at the very end,” the boy said, pointing to each instance of Santi’s name. Maria didn’t know what all this meant. “Boys’ long jump is still going. I can take you there so you can see if he’s gone yet.” “Yes,” Maria said. “Yes… thank you…” They arrived at the sand pit just as Santi landed his third jump. “Sixteen feet, two and a half inches.” Several onlookers clapped and nodded, impressed. Another Roadrunner offered Santi a high five, who accepted mechanically. He kept swiveling his head around, looking for something; when he caught sight of Maria he came running to her. Maria was closer to being angry with him than she had ever been in his life. “I waited and waited for you,” she said before Santiago could say anything. It came out sounding childish, petulant. The blond boy took his leave delicately without waiting for thanks. “I did not know where you were.” “Sorry,” Santi said, a little surprised. “I told you I was doing long jump. Did you see me?” “I did not see you at all.” Maria’s voice shook. “Please, remember me next time.” Maria followed Santiago to the stands overlooking the crowd. It was relatively pleasant here (at least she could see everything), but the metal seats radiated white-hot, preventing her from sitting down. Their shadows shortened and shortened until they were directly underneath them. “You can do this?” she asked, gesturing generally at the girls’ hurdles. “That looks very hard.” It looked impossible– Maria’s legs could never have moved that way, like the two hands of a clock. “Uh-huh,” Santiago said, distracted. “I need to go down in a second.” “I am going to stick next to you,” Maria insisted. She took the little bottle of sunscreen from her purse and poured some into her fat palm. “You need more of this, you are sweating so much.” Santiago brushed her hand away from his face. “You can’t come onto the track,” he said. “I want you to see me run. Wait in the bleachers.” “But–” Santi was getting upset. “You treat me like I’m a baby just like everyone else, but I’m not. I can run track by myself.” “Santi”– Maria would not cry– “please let me follow you”– how did he know everything?– “I don’t know where to go”– and wasn’t he her baby, after all? “These are the results for the boys’ A-Team Long Jump event,” a voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “In sixth place, Logan Abrantes from Pleasant Valley. In fifth place…” Santi straightened up and listened hard. Maria cupped her hand behind her ear to catch the sound. “...David McKenzie from Buffman Charter. In fourth place, John Suarez from Pleasant Valley.” Santiago gripped the railing. “In third place, Santiago Martinez from San Miguel. In second place…” “Third place!” Santi whipped his head around, shocked. “ Mami , that means I got a medal!” “You won a medal?” Maria repeated stupidly. “A bronze medal, in long jump, that’s third place.” Santi flapped his hands in excitement. “I’ll pick it up at the end, but I have to go, Mami , stand with Coach Rasmussen so you don’t get lost.” He pointed at the grass in the middle of the track where the coach was standing. It looked like several parents were near him, keeping a sharp eye on the hurdlers. “OK, Santi, OK,” Maria sighed, “I’ll watch you the whole time.” Coach Rasmussen waved as she came over. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but his smile was kind. “Hi there, Ms. Martinez,” he said. “I heard Santiago got a medal for long jump.” “Yes,” she answered with dignity, “third place.” “So, Ms. Martinez, what's gonna happen is that all the hurdles will go, then all the meter dashes, and relays last,” the coach explained to her. Maria was grateful that she didn't have to ask. “We'll be here for a long time. Several more hours, at least.” Coach Rasmussen was true to his word. Maria gave up trying to understand what was happening and fell back on imitating the other San Miguel parents. She learned to cheer at any suggestion of red-and-yellow. Only after several rounds of strangers’ hurdles did she see Santiago’s heat. He didn’t do very well, losing to twin boys wearing green-and-black. She mislaid her schedule, forgot which events Santi was in, and became steadily more miserable. Santi won both his heats in the meter dashes– even Maria could tell that much– but they were over so quickly and sandwiched between so many others that she lost him almost immediately. When Coach Rasmussen wasn't running alongside the track, screaming at the sprinters, he would courteously jog over and tell her which event was next. But it didn’t matter. She didn't even notice if Santiago’s name came over the loudspeaker. Maria did not know and hardly cared where he was anymore. That was the real agony. After fifteen years of dedicating herself solely to protecting Santi, Maria had been defeated by a silly middle school track meet. She had thought she was strong because she could endure anything, tough and silent, the way a poor mother had to endure. Endure anything– what a joke. She couldn't endure four hours in the sun. Maria accepted her suffering in humiliation and prepared to wait it out. “Hey Ms. Martinez, you'll wanna watch this.” Coach Rasmussen nodded his head toward the track. “Last event. I think Santiago’s gonna do great.” “This is the last one?” Maria roused herself. “I need to see. I want to–” Then Maria saw Santiago standing nervously with three other Roadrunners. All four boys kept shifting around and wandering in circles, arms folded or hands on hips, thrusting their shoulders back and gazing upward. Santiago’s demeanor perfectly matched the others. He looked like an ordinary teenager, Maria realized with a slight pain. “Boys’ A-Team Medley Relay, to your places!” Maria watched Santi and his teammates jog to separate corners of the track. “The first two boys each run 100, then 200, then Santiago’s gonna run a 400 around the whole track.” Coach Rasmussen traced their paths on his hand like a map. “He's our anchor, so just watch near the finish line for him.” Maria inched closer to the track. She watched the first runner from San Miguel, a curly-headed black boy, kneel and rest his hands on the polyurethane. He closed his eyes and let out a deep, controlled breath. Someone blew the whistle. The first boy was gone before Maria had time to process. She barely caught sight of him as he passed the baton to the blond boy, the one who had helped her earlier. He took off beyond her field of vision– she was afraid to move from her spot and miss Santi– but she kept cheering, straining to see the third runner as he came around the curve. Two other teams were ahead of him. “ Come on! ” Coach Rasmussen shouted, his face purple. The runner, who had long orange hair that clashed with his uniform, stretched the baton toward Santiago, who was already picking up speed. As soon as his cupped fingers made contact with the aluminum Santi’s feet seemed to lift from the ground. Maria saw a familiar glint in his eye– anger. She screamed sounds and not words as his legs moved like coupling rods past the boy ahead of him. Coach Rasmussen started running alongside him with clipboard in hand, waving his arms frantically above his head. Santi gritted his teeth and bowed hard into an italic stance. He was far enough from Maria now that she couldn’t make his features out exactly, but she saw him closing the gap on the boy in first, one of the green-and-black hurdlers. Santiago tore around the last corner, his long skinny fingers balled into fists. Now the whole crowd was in uproar. Maria forgot her own misery in the rush of colors and noise and adrenaline. Santi was a machine, his legs hydraulic pumps. They were tied– Santi edged in front– then the other boy– Maria was nearly hysterical– at the last moment, Santi stretched his neck out, eyes bulging, and lunged over the finish line half a step ahead. Santiago was laughing, actually laughing. Maria, dumbfounded, watched his coach and teammates surrounding him, leaping with supernatural energy, pouring their waters out on his head. The blond boy slapped Santi on the back. Santi grinned almost bashfully with surprise, then turned and gave Maria a beautiful, radiant, gentle smile, the one she knew so well. Maria’s knees felt very weak. She saw herself and Santi as if from above: a fat, frail old woman and a healthy, victorious young man. “Who will be strong if I am not strong? Santi will be strong. He is strong. How did I not know?” Maria wept, but she was not ashamed.


Niko woke up to the sound of a gunshot. Luckily for Niko his life did not end with that sound, as would be expected.

“Sugar snaps!” That was another thing you would probably need to know about Niko (the first being he was not already dead), he had an obsession with food that blended into his language, that and he was, to put it plainly, pretty weird. Niko tore through his living room where he had fallen asleep doing history homework, his books and papers flying everywhere, and raced to his bedroom. The gunshot sound had been loud (as gunshots generally are). Too loud. Hopefully it had not woken mother. Once Niko reached his room he stopped at the door, only momentarily, so that he could pull on the small yellow string barely visible at the top of the door. It was his secret method of security–a precautionary measure to stop his little sister, Bessy, from wandering in his room. And for his mother so that she didn’t come in and find that his school projects were… Not for school Not entirely healthy for a 14-year-old boy Once the yellow string was pulled and Niko entered the room, he saw immediately that something was wrong. To the average person it might have appeared that everything was well and good, but Niko knew his room very well and specifically, his computer. “We appear to be in a bit of a pickle, Pixel,” Niko murmured to his computer. Though at the moment she could not hear him.

Niko walked forward quickly, and the wrong-ness was suddenly more obvious. On his screen a flashing yellow sign (that he had coded himself to warn him when someone had gotten past his first firewall) that was beeping more and more insistently.

“Finally, you’re here. Slugs move faster than you,” Pixel snipped. She wasn’t generally snappish but the thoughts of people hacking into her inner workings always made her anxious. The reason behind the gunshot was that Niko had meticulously programmed (a habit of his) a preemptive warning system. In the event he dozed off or found himself away from his computer during the initial firewall breach, Niko had embedded a distinctive sound—a sound that would unmistakably signal him to rush to his cherished Pixel. He figured nothing would do better than a gunshot. After all, who could possibly ignore such an urgent and attention-grabbing signal? Now Niko was having second thoughts on the volume of his selected sound byte. “NIKOLAS SMITH! WHAT IN GLORIES NAME ARE YOU DOING AT THIS HOUR!”

Niko winced. Mother was awake. He’d have to deal with mother and then he could get to his major issue. Fortunately for Niko he could hide evidence of his hacking quickly.

If the need came, Niko could shove his computer into the closet. Which probably didn’t seem like all that great of a system but there was a reason it worked. Niko’s closet had been transformed into a clandestine hacking lab, complete with posters, graphs, paper, wires, and a cleverly designed table that swung back when shoved. Pixel, his prized possession, would find herself unceremoniously tucked away in the closet. Next, Niko would secure the closet door, locking it tightly, and obscure it further by covering it with a large blackboard adorned with intricate white chalk equations. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “Uh, what mom!” Mother called back. “Niko! What in the glorious heavens above have you been doing?” Pixel pinged. She’d probably sorted through his Excuses-For-Mother file and found the most plausible one. Niko quickly looked at the excuse Pixel had picked and acted on it. “Oh, sorry Mom! It's this new video game, I guess I forgot to turn it off before I went to bed. I’ll turn it off right away!” He silently prayed mother would fall for it. “Alright and turn your volume down! You’ll wreck your hearing!”

“Okay!” Niko could hear footsteps and knew mother was getting back in bed.

“You’re welcome,” Pixel muttered. Niko ignored her. Now that that little errand was done, he could get to the real problem. Pixel, or more accurately, what Pixel was warning him of. Niko quickly hit the yellow sign on Pixel’s screen and followed the link to a program (of his creation) that monitored his many firewalls and such. To fit his preference, he had made it video game themed. He called it DragonWall, because firewall (get it?) and from DragonWall Niko could hurl his defense protocols at hackers.

DragonWall showed a black race car (symbolizing the hacker) driving away from a dragon (his firewalls). Niko watched as the black car simply labeled “N/A” raced through his blocks as if they were mere vapor. In fact, the little game was having problems computing and kept glitching the character ahead, as if they were teleporting. “Alright, Glitch,” Niko said. Naming the hacker on a whim. “What are you up to?” Niko followed Glitch through its progress. It was as if Glitch already had access to his firewalls and could just breeze right through them. Niko was having a security update after this. After a little more watching he sent one of his many tricks to deceive Glitch. On Glitch’s screen a small ad would open up advertising a video game. If Glitch clicked “yes”, which probably wouldn’t happen, but if they did then Glitch would be thrown into a game of Niko’s making. The longer Glitch stayed in the more info the game gained. The game was really quite fun too. It was Mario Kart and Packman mixed together, so maybe Glitch would want to stay.

Oh, and it was impossible to uninstall. Pixel made sure of that. If Glitch clicked “no” the game would just be stealthily installed and would activate on Niko’s command. If Glitch clicked the “X” at the top–just kidding. Niko hadn’t added that option. He called this game a “CyberGame”. Except…none of those things happened. Which was strange. Niko had worked on that for months and it always worked. Pixel’s chipper voice emitted from the speaker. “My apologies,” she giggled. “It appears ‘Game o’ Everlasting Hacker Pain’ is not available at the moment. Would you like me to try an alternative game such as ‘Quantum Locks’, ‘Eternal Gamenation’, or my personal fave, ‘Gotcha Keyboard’?” “No, Pixel. If Glitch blocked one game, they probably blocked them all…we need to think outside the box…” “Would you like me to make your tabs appear circular instead?” Niko sighed. “No, Pixel.” But he was not dismayed for long. Niko started typing his plan into the DragonWall. Soon, Niko injected a little idea he’d had while at the corn maze last october. He called it “Data Maze”. The basic idea was that it created a loop so that every time Glitch tried to exit, they would be sent to some random site on the internet. And since there are almost an infinite number of sites on the internet Glitch would be stuck for quite some time until they hacked their way out. Creating a practically endless maze that should give Niko some time to boot Glitch from his server. …Or maybe Glitch would immediately (and rather implausibly) come through the maze’s exit and continue on their way. Which is what happened. Niko’s eyebrows raised. This was getting interesting. “Well, that was unexpected,” Pixel said. She sounded a little more annoyed now. She didn’t like it when her things didn’t work. “Decoy Network,” she asked. “You read my mind.” The Decoy Network would look like it was the entrance to Niko’s main system and if Glitch fell for it (which they probably would as it was incredibly realistic and Niko himself had fallen for it once by accident) then he would have them stuck in a waiting room, unable to do anything but wait while he hacked into their inner workings.

“YES,” Pixel shrieked. Quietly, as to not wake mother.

“Glitch is in the network, I assume?” “We got’er! That’ll teach Glitch not to mess with this circuit board all right! Boo-yeah!” Niko smiled. Pixel was intense when she won. And then he frowned. “Uh…Pixel?” “Yes, Niko,” Pixel said a little impatiently at being interrupted mid-celebration.

“Why is there no one in the waiting room? Glitch is in the Decoy Network, right?” “Huh,” was all Pixel said. A tab from Glitch opened on Niko’s screen read:

nice try stoopid-hed. “Ugh. Glitch spelled ‘Stupid-Head’ wrong,” Pixel said petulantly. And the next thing Niko knew he was booted out of the Decoy Network and Glitch was back in DragonWall racing along. “Niko,” Pixel cried. “Glitch is nearing the final Firewall!” “That son of a biscuit!” He took a deep breath. He had several other protocols, HoneyTrap, MirrorProgram, OhNOYouDidnt, and more but he knew which one he needed to do. “Initiate GhostScare.” “Are you sure, Niko? It's not quite done yet and it could go badly wrong. The backups aren’t downloaded and-,” “Pixel.” GhostScare was a code that would make it appear as if his network had shut down. Then the Glitch would either be kicked out or eventually just leave when he did not turn back on. The downside was that without the proper failsafe's he might actually go down and that could delete tons of data and projects. Niko held his breath. He could hear Pixel muttering. “Please, please, please, oh please work…” The room went dark. All the machines had turned off and since Pixel was connected to pretty much everything in his room (Heater included) it went silent as the grave.

Then beeping started again. Pixel lit up. The fan (it was connected to Pixel like everything else in his room) started whirring. The heater turned back on. The small speaker used for white noise when he slept remained off, the batteries had died years ago. “Pixel,” Niko asked, tentatively. “WOO HOO, BABY!” “Pixel! My mom! You’ll wake her up!” “Oh right. Sorry, Niky,” she said sheepishly. “But it worked! Glitch has no idea we’re still live! Look.” Niko saw a new message from Glitch: r u skared??? like a baby or somthing??? where did u goooooo!!!! “Glitch’s spelling really is terrible,” Pixel commented. “Someone should give her spelling lessons. I’d do it if I wasn’t plugged into a wall.” “Holy guacamole, it worked,” Niko beamed. Niko watched as his server sent Glitch a message reading: Server connectivity terminated. Commencing countdown: 3… 2… 1… And with one last badly spelled message Glitch was gone: wait!!! how u do dat! dat is so mean!!! I thot u was dead but you actually not and kicked me out!?! HUH! MEANIE POO FACE “Maybe I should have my censor code block out ‘meanie’ as well as swear words.” “I’ll get started on it, Niko. There's just one thing.” “Yeah,” Niko questioned, turning to face Pixel. “How was Glitch getting past all our programs?” “I’m not sure. It should be impossible unless they were actually connected to our computer which is impos–hold on! What's this cable!?!” “That one,” Pixel asked. It was pink and sparkly. “Someone put it in while I was offline. I thought you were installing-,” “Good Gravy! It wasn’t me!” “I see that,” Pixel said lackadaisically. Niko picked up the cord and followed its trail with his fingertips. It fed through a small hole in the wall that hadn’t been there last night. Had someone broken in? Pixel pinged urgently and the flashing yellow dot reappeared. “Niko! Glitch is back in DragonWall!” Niko looked at the cable in his finger and something just felt…off. “Hold on,” he said. “Glitch is flying past the barriers! You have to do something! I’m trying to hold them off, but I can’t do much without you!” It was true. Without Niko all Pixel could do was inject viruses and programs Niko already had. “Keep trying,” Niko said. Grabbing his ear set and connected it to Pixel in one swift movement. “I’m going to go check something.” Niko crept past Mother’s room as Pixel fed updates into his ear. Glitch was past the beginning stages. Not good. How was Glitch getting past his defenses so easily? Of course, Niko got past his firewalls because he was already connected to the computer…was glitch doing the same thing? Was this cable… Pixel interrupted his thoughts and read a message Glitch sent him aloud: “u is never gonna beet me poo-poo-hed.” Niko ignored Pixel’s frantic warnings and headed to the Gameroom. Which held their family TV, Nintendo, and other devices Niko occasionally stole materials from. He pressed his ear to the door and thought he could hear…video games? Who would be playing at this time of night? Niko thought he knew. With a dramatic flourish Niko flung open the door and called, “Drop the controller Bessy! I’m onto you!” Pixel gasped in his ear. “Glitch’s not moving in DragonWall anymore…” “Because she’s right here.” Bessy dropped the Nintendo controller on the ground and sulked over to him. The sounds of his animated dragon eating her little black car filled the room. “You’re so mean! I almost getted you!” Niko gave her a stern look. The feelings of betrayal stung. He’d never expected his little sister to turn on him. To be honest he wasn't really sure how Bessy had turned on him. Did she even know how to hack? And he was pretty embarrassed that his 7-year-old sister had almost hacked into his database. “Bessy…How did you do that! How did you know I hack! How–when–who!” Bessy sighed. “Well, I sneaked into your room ‘cuz I wanted to see what's in it, and I found your secret closet. So, I hooked up my gaming Nintendo to your computer and started hacking into your data-whatever. But then you woke up. ‘Cept you couldn’t catch me ‘cuz I was already hooked up and I knew all your tricks.” “Except for the GhostScare,” Niko finished. “Since that one was new.” It was so simple. She had gotten past his firewalls because she was hooked up straight to his computer. He had to give Bessy credit; it was a good plan. “Yeah. I was so close, you Poopy head!” “Why were you even trying to hack me?” Bessy stuck her tongue out at him. “Because you never play video games with me anymore and I wanted to play with you. Even though you're still a poo-poo-pee-pee-stupid-face.” Niko considered yelling at her for a while but then he had an idea. “You know, Bess. That was pretty cool.” She smiled, proudly. “Wanna help me? Instead of trying to hack me?” Bessy thought about it for a moment. Then she gave him a thumbs up and a smile. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Niko,” Pixel asked. “No.” But if it stopped her from hacking him… Three weeks later… The flashy red car raced along the track. Dodging the dragon’s every advance. The dragon roared in fury. The red car zoomed by heading for the final wall. Niko leaned forward in his chair. His face was so close to Pixel’s screen it was almost touching. The clock showed that it was 10:37 pm. The perfect time for hacking.

“Pixel! Initiate CyberGames!” “They’re all blocked!” “MazeData! MirrorProgram! GhostScare! Anything,” Niko called desperately. “Nothing,” Pixel said. Equally devastated." There’s nothing we can do, Niko!” Niko sighed. He hated when this happened. The sad thing was it was happening more and more after Bessy’s first attempt. “Man, I hate losing. Bessy,” he called. “It’s go time!”

Bessy, who was seated on the pink bean bag in the living room giggled. They were both wearing headsets. At Niko’s signal she grabbed her Nintendo controller and entered DragonWall. Her small (now pink) car zoomed onto the track. She bounced against the large, red car until it was driven off the track and into the dark nothingness of 0s and 1s that made up coding. Niko hated when Bessy outcoded the hacker. It was barely even coding. It was just gaming! But no, every time she took the credit even though it was, he that had engineered a way to give her access to the DragonWall and given her a way to defeat the hacker. Niko watched with a mixture of pride and annoyance as the red car fell into oblivion. The red car did have a last message, but Niko didn’t let it pop up on Bessy’s screen. That kind of language was not appropriate for 7-year-olds. Even if it was censored. “See, pee-pee-face! I can hack better than you,” Bessy’s voice said from Niko’s earpiece.

“Girl has a point,” Pixel added from the speaker. “That wasn’t really hacking! It was gaming! Which is totally different. Plus, I was the one that added her to DragonWall so she could boot the red car!” Bessy stuck her tongue out at the ceiling above her head where Niko’s room was located. “I still winned. You owe me ice cream!” “Oh! Me too,” Pixel chimed in. “You don’t even have taste buds.” “You don’t even have micro-processors, but I don’t point that out.”

Niko sighed and got up from his chair. He quietly crept into the kitchen where Bessy was eagerly waiting and got bowls of ice cream out for him and Bessy. He downloaded an ice cream gif for Pixel and kept his earpiece on. Pixel liked to be part of conversations. And they sat together whispering about hacking and eating ice cream. Quietly laughing over a betrayal that had gone rather wrong. And it wasn’t just Niko, his computer, and Bessy eating ice cream as quiet as ninjas in a dark kitchen at night. It was The Hacker, Pixel and Glitch. Oh, and his mother. “NIKOLAS AND BESSY SMITH! WHAT IN TARNATION ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED!” The end.


Lisa stared at the screen, the image of the camera staring back at her. She always enjoyed photography and always wanted to do more. Her friends always told her she had a good eye, and her Instagram posts of landscapes and waterways always garnered lots of likes. But those were taken with her five-year-old iPhone, and she knew she could do much better if she only had a real camera, which is why she found herself staring at the online camera store’s website. She had lost her job recently which was a blessing in disguise, for sure. She hated her boss, and she was going nowhere there anyway. Pigeon-holing is what she thought they called it. Stuck in a job because she was good at it and there was no one else readily available to do it. Unemployment and the small severance package she received were helping her hold her own, but she was at a crossroads in her life. She didn’t want to go back to what she was doing, but it paid the bills, handsomely. On the one hand, she debated in her head, she liked the steady stream of income a regular job paid, as well as the benefits like the 401(k) and health insurance. On the other, she hated being tied down, working for someone who didn’t respect her and always asked her to do menial tasks, like ordering office supplies when he knew full well there was a whole department set aside to do just that.

Lisa needed to branch out, to let her creative side blossom, to stop doing the same thing repeatedly. She knew that and yet she held back. Before surfing to the camera shop website, she had been posting her resume on various job sites and applying to jobs that looked interesting. She had been doing this for months, to no avail. She had interviews, sure, and sometimes even second ones. She was encouraged and discouraged so often that it became a running joke in her head that it was not a matter of if, but when, they would turn her down. She had the skills, she had the experience, but she also had her age to contend with. Ageism is against the law, but it still exists.

We received many applicants for this role and although we were impressed with your credentials, we have decided to move forward with candidates who better meet the requirements of this position. Or some other bullshit like that. And that’s even if they bothered to let you know. Ghosting interviewees was becoming more and more common, and she found it irksome, to say the least. Her attention turned back to the camera. It was a high-end, brand-name one, one which she had been eyeing for a long time. She had added it to her cart and the orange “1” on the edge of her in the upper right-hand corner of the screen taunted her. BUY ME it screamed at her. She had read countless reviews on this website, none of which she believed, the cynicism she embraced in things such as customer reviews evident. Probably the seller’s uncle or daughter or friend. She read countless reviews on other websites, from photography magazines to consumer publications to blogs and vlogs. They all said pretty much the same thing. This was an excellent camera and while not top of the line, it would be sufficient for all but the most demanding photographers. Lisa closed the cover of her laptop, got up, and paced around the room. She went down to the kitchen and made herself a coffee and a snack. She called her friend Ruth, her always dependable friend. She knew her since middle school and Ruth was Lisa’s biggest cheerleader. Although she moved halfway across the country after getting married, she was always just a text or a phone call away.

“Get it, Lisa,” Ruth said almost immediately after being posed the question of whether Lisa should make this purchase. “You’ve always wanted to do photography!” she said encouragingly. “Ruth, it is so expensive,” Lisa protested, weakly.

“Honey, you are unemployed, and hate what you do when you are working,” Ruth continued, taking a breath. “What better chance than now to pursue your lifelong dream?” Lisa hesitated before protesting some more. “I shouldn’t spend this much money.” “Oh, Lisa, when have you ever really spent on yourself other than necessities,” Ruth continued. “And alcohol doesn’t count!” Ruth laughed when she said this, thinking of the many drinking nights they had down at the pubs when they were in their twenties. “I know, but…” “No buts, Lisa. You never had kids, you married that guy with serious mental health issues…You are so lucky you got out of that one, babe,” Ruth continued. “He was a bum and you lucked out. You got to keep most of what you earned. Lord knows, he didn’t earn much while you were together.” “He had so much potential…”

“Potential doesn’t put bread on the table or a roof over your heads, Lisa.” Ruth admonished. “I know, I know. You’re right,” Lisa agreed weakly. “Bite the bullet, pull the trigger, press the button! I can keep going with all these silly phrases if you’d like.” “No, no need. You really think I should?” “YES!” *** She obsessively checked the tracking status every day since she clicked the BUY NOW button.

SHIPPING LABEL CREATED It stayed on that status for a week since she ordered the darned thing. What was taking so long, she wondered. ORDER SHIPPED She tracked the cities her camera visited, most of which she had never seen.

DES MOINES, IA MEMPHIS, TN PITTSBURGH, PA KEARNY, NJ Where the heck was Kearny, NJ anyway, she thought to herself. And then finally, those words she had been waiting to see since she ordered it: OUT FOR DELIVERY She had butterflies in her stomach when she saw that after she logged on in the morning. She turned on the radio to listen to the news to pass the time. The nor’easter is in full force, with a total accumulation of 6 to 10 inches expected. Drifts could be up to two feet with the wind this storm is bringing. Power outages are expected. Her heart sank as she peeked out the window. How could she have not known about this? She refreshed her screen again. A bright yellow bar appeared at the top of the browser window.

DUE TO EXTREME WEATHER CONDITIONS FROM STORM WENDY, DELIVERIES CAN NOT BE GUARANTEED IN THE FOLLOWING STATES… Of course, her state was listed. She glanced out the window again and saw big, white snowflakes falling fast. She got up from her chair and looked down at the ground. There must have been about two inches of the white stuff accumulated already. Lisa decided a nap was in order. *** It had taken Lisa months of trial and error to learn what an F-Stop was, or aperture, or ISO. After taking some courses at the local art school, and reading a lot online, she had gotten the hang of it. Photoshop was another story, however. But she learned enough to edit her own photographs so that they were at least presentable, in her mind, anyway. She had taken hundreds, if not thousands, of photos, many of which were not very good. The composition was off, or they were blurry, or the bird standing on the rock took off just as soon as she snapped. She tried, but sometimes she wondered why she had spent so much money on what was turning out to be a toy. Her friends were much more supportive than her ego could ever be. Ruth, ever-faithful Ruth, praised her but was not reluctant to offer blunt but honest critiques when appropriate. Lisa, despite her fragile ego, found herself getting better as time progressed. Lisa finally got up the courage to enter a photography show at the local art school where she had taken classes. There was one photo of a copper fountain that was spraying water during an unexpectedly early autumn snowstorm. The image of the water spouting, the mums in full bloom at the fountain’s base, with the flakes coming down around them created a beautiful juxtaposition. Lisa attended the opening, her first one ever. She walked around the gallery, searching for her work. She strolled past ceramic sculptures of twisted bodies, huge paintings of abstract landscapes, bent metal evoking images of horror and fright. She turned a corner and found herself in a somewhat dark alcove, her photo hung in a corner, with little light, next to the bathroom. She frowned. With Ruth’s encouragement and additional training, Lisa’s talent flourished. She became the unofficial photographer at gatherings of friends and family. Bar mitzvahs, children’s sporting events, and anywhere hired photographers were not present. She did not want to be an events photographer, that wasn’t her thing. She preferred to take pictures in the moment, the serendipity of life unplanned is where she got her pleasure. More photographs, more contests, more shows. The email she received one summer afternoon intrigued her. It was a notice of the 46th Annual National Photography Show, sponsored by the Women’s Photography Society. This show was one of the most prestigious in the country. It had launched careers. The deadline for entry was in a month. She thought about her peers who probably had dozens of photos at the ready. She had none. She had to take one, and soon. Driving home from the supermarket one evening along a road that paralleled a small river, her groceries packed in the back seat, she found a potential opportunity. The sun was setting, and she glanced to her left. She saw a car parked in the lot of the small park, a man standing outside his car, trying to capture the perfect sunset. Why not? She thought. She pulled in and parked next to the man taking photos. He nodded and smiled at her, acknowledging the camaraderie of a fellow shutterbug. She got her equipment out and made the adjustments as quickly as she could. Sunsets are fickle things, she knew, and the perfect shot is gone before you know it. Still, she took shot after shot, her disappointment growing with each one. As expected, the sunset was gone. She got back in her car and drove home before her frozen foods melted. It took Lisa several days before she looked through her set of photos from that evening. She wasn’t completely happy with them but found there was one that might be good enough to submit to the show. The jurors probably wouldn’t accept it, but she was going to give it her best effort. Opening Photoshop to tweak it a little, she adjusted the brightness here, the contrast there, making color modifications as necessary. Not many changes, nothing so overly processed that it stopped looking like a photo and more like an abstract painting. Finally, after a couple of hours of work, she deemed the work done and submitted it to the show. Several weeks later, she received an email from the Women’s Photography Society. Her eyes scanned it for the inevitable rejection. Much to her surprise, they accepted her one and only entry. Ruth screamed on the phone when Lisa phoned her a few minutes later. Lisa so wished Ruth was with her in that moment, as she had wished Ruth was with her during so many other important events in her life. The show was to be held a few hundred miles from where Lisa lived. She had the photograph matted and framed and held the finished product in her hands, pride beaming on her face. The sunset was not your typical golden one, but one bursting with pink, orange, and coral, and was reflected in the water below it. It was beautiful, she finally admitted to herself. The day of the show opening arrived, and she had driven up a day earlier and stayed in a cute little bed-and-breakfast a few miles from the gallery. They were going to announce the winners at the show, and she was anxious. She didn’t think she was going to win, of course, but there was always that chance… The gallery was packed with people, and wine and cheese platters were placed strategically away from the artwork. Folks milled about, whispering here and there, surreptitiously criticizing works they didn’t like, sometimes a little too loudly.

In the main gallery, she found her work, displayed proudly next to works she thought were much, much better than hers. And bigger. She knew she should have printed the larger size. “That’s a really beautiful piece,” Lisa heard someone behind her say.

Blushing, she turned. “Ruth!” she exclaimed, shocked and surprised to see her friend standing next to her. Ruth pulled her into her arms and hugged her.

“What are you doing here?” Lisa asked Ruth sidestepped the question and said, “I love you, Lisa, and I am so proud of you!” Lisa was overwhelmed with emotion. She couldn’t believe that her only piece, which she hadn’t even taken until recently, was hanging in this gallery in a very prestigious show and that her best friend, whom she hadn’t seen in decades, had traveled thousands of miles just to be with her in her proudest moment.

A glass tinkled and she saw a middle-aged woman standing at a podium that Lisa would have sworn was not there a minute ago. “We’d like to announce our winners,” the woman said. “Although we have received many beautiful pieces of art, these truly stand above the rest…” Ruth pulled Lisa aside after the announcements were made. It was then that Lisa noticed a little green dot on the side of the frame of her photo, indicating the piece was sold. Lisa looked at Ruth. “Did you…” the unasked question trailed off. “Wasn’t me, sweetie, but I personally think Salmon Park Sunset was the best one here!” © 2022 Stephen A. Massa


It generally takes me about 20 minutes to find a cafe or restaurant to dine in. I start with Google recommendations, searching for the general term ‘restaurants near me’ before my sparking tastebuds narrow it down to the flavour I desire at the time.

The images of Indian dishes make my mouth water, especially when I think about warm garlic naan covered in melted butter, then a photo of pulled pork tacos with super fresh slaw from a popular Mexican restaurant draws my attention. But most of the time, it’s Asian cuisine that makes my stomach gurgle in approval; Vietnamese my preference at lunchtime, Japanese an evening favouite. If a restaurant doesn’t feature images of their plated offerings, they don’t even get a look in. If the plates aren’t presented well or nicely garnished, I will scroll on by. Presentation is everything when it comes to promoting your business online, I should know, I judge businesses for a living, as a marketing consultant.

To see the shortfalls in a business in order to improve it, you need to inspect it with a critical eye, from first impression to sale. In order to then promote the business effectively, you need to inspect your market and yes, you need to be judgmental; age, income, and gender all come into it. Then, of course, this behaviour carries over into your everyday life. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but it can make you look at the world with cloud-tinted glasses. The other consideration when browsing search results is customer reviews. Of course, this is an absolute given. I can pick a disgruntled customer a mile away, so I’ll scroll past those, disinterested in their rant. I also avoid reviews with poor spelling and grammar, reviews that spell the business name wrong, and outright abusive reviews to the business. Once they’re weeded out, I can then get on to the real reviews and base my personal ranking on those, plus the visual presentation of the business. So you would think that when I walked into the lowest rated restaurant in the city I was visiting, I must have forgotten my phone, it surely can’t have been on purpose.

On the outside, the restaurant looked welcoming. It was quiet, but post-Covid most businesses were struggling so that came as no surprise. The front window was clean with very little advertising, and a simple red stenciled sign that read ‘Fusion Delights’.

I’d come across it after the meeting when I was walking back to the hotel. It was the first restaurant I’d seen that was open at 11 am, and while it was early, I wanted something substantial having skipped breakfast to get to my appointment on time.

Fusion Delights had a familiar ring to it and I immediately thought that the menu would have an Asian influence, but when I picked up a menu from the display stand on the way in, I saw it was a fusion… of various cultures signature dishes. Crumbed Calamari Rings with Satay Sauce Pulled Beef Sliders with Hollandaise Slaw Butter Chicken with Pesto Naan Teriyaki Chicken with Bulgur Pilaf In a way, they all seemed strangely appetizing but the thing that really caught my eye was the price. Not one main dish was over $15. This made me doubt the quality a little, but hunger led the way and I went ahead and approached the counter to order. The counter was clean and the Raspberry and Dark Chocolate Muffins on display were large and looked fresh with just the right amount of chocolate chunks, I almost ordered one but figured if I were still hungry after my super cheap main, I might just get one to take back to the hotel. A coffee machine sat to the right of the counter, and although I’d been cutting back on caffeine, I decided I’d order one to give me a boost to get through the rest of the day.

When ordering coffee at a new establishment, I would select a Mochaccino. I figured the addition of chocolate would mask any substandard coffee-making skills, I couldn’t bear being disappointed by burned milk, or coarsely ground beans. When the server came out of the kitchen to greet me, I thought she looked tentative, even a little scared. She smiled and was polite, but looked at me from under heavy quizzical eyebrows and with a slightly shaky voice she said, “Good morning, how may I help you?” So far so good: a clean restaurant, a quirky menu, tasty looking muffins and a lovely server.

“Hello, this is a lovely looking restaurant,” I started by saying, while gesturing around the clean white walls and tasteful simple red and black stenciled artwork. “Oh really?” She said, raising her face to look at me directly. “I mean, thank you so much.” “Yes, it really is, and I’m excited to try some food from your menu.” “Great!” She replied, now seeming a bit more lively and comfortable with me. “What can I get you?” I decided on the spur of the moment to go for gold, and ordered a Latte, I felt like she was a person I could trust to treat the beans gently.

“I’ll also get the Teriyaki Chicken with Bulgur Pilaf, please.” “Sure, that’ll be $17.50 please? But I’m sorry, your coffee will take 10 minutes or so, I haven’t started the machine yet.” “No problem,” I said with a smile. I had a feeling the wait would be worth it. I returned to my table and within one minute, a fresh bottle of water was placed in front of me with a small plate of Cabbage and Wasabi Mayo. Fantastic. The Latte arrived at my table within the promised 10 minutes. It was served in a glass, the froth was thin and tight, and there was a perfectly formed silver fern pattern on the top, representing our country, New Zealand. I waited until she had left before I put the cup to my lips and took a sip… of the best coffees I had ever tasted; smooth, creamy, strong enough but not to the point of bitterness, and an ever so subtle caramel finish.

“Is your coffee okay?”

The coffee was so enjoyable that I hadn’t even noticed the server return to my table holding a beautifully presented Teriyaki Chicken and Bulgar Pilaf plate with fresh slaw on the side. “Oh yes, it’s gorgeous, thank you so much.” She put the plate in front of me with chopsticks and a fork, and I saw her nametag read ‘Bethany’. She was startled when I thanked her again by using her name. Then smiled shyly as she remembered she was wearing her nametag.

“You’re welcome. Enjoy, and let me know if there’s anything else you need.” The chicken was the first thing I tried. It was tender and the sauce was so rich and tasty, I could tell it was homemade. The bulgur was next. I was somewhat of a bulgur connoisseur as it was one of the first dishes I’d ever made. Cracked bulgur wheat is cheap to buy, and with simple ingredients including tomatoes, stock, onions, and oil, it was very easy to make. But to get the taste just right? That was another thing.

The first mouthful of bulgur was warm and comforting. It wasn’t too flavoursome and while tomato isn’t normally something I’d have with teriyaki anything, it complimented the chicken perfectly and I had to stop myself from audibly moaning with foodie pleasure. The slaw was as fresh as it looked, light, and with just the right amount of mayo so as to refresh the palette.

My Japanese Turkish fusion meal went down a treat; every mouthful with the right mix of flavours. I washed it down with the cool filtered water and sat back, satisfied with the size of the meal, and impressed with the quality. Bethany had peaked at me a few times during my meal, clearly trying to figure out whether I was enjoying it or not, and noticing I had finished, she came over to clear my table.

“How did you enjoy your meal?” “With every ounce of my being,” I replied. And she beamed. I added, “could you point me to the bathroom, please?” You can always tell a good food establishment by the condition of its bathroom, and Fusion Delights did not let me down. The benchtop was sparkly clean, the toilet equally so. Ample toilet paper was available, displayed in a wall cabinet with a glass door, and foaming soap was available at the sink for handwashing. There were hand towels, and a hand dryer available to suit both preferences, and the feature wall displayed a print of various famous landmarks from around the world: the Taj Mahal, Great Wall of China, Statue of Liberty, and the Colosseum - another addition to the ‘fusion’ theme. When I returned to my table, my used plate was gone, and in its place was a small bowl with a few M&Ms surrounding a Starlight Mint - very cool. I popped the M&Ms in my mouth and the mint in my pocket for later.

Having paid when I ordered, I could have just walked out, but Bethany watched me curiously as I walked back to the counter. “Bethany, can you call the owner of this restaurant for me, please?” Her cheeks blushed and it was then that I noticed how young she was, she can’t have been older than 20. “Was there something wrong?” “No, everything was perfect. I just need to speak to the owner for a moment if that’s okay?” Bethany nodded and picked up the phone, and the owner answered straight away. “Uh, hi Bruce. It’s Bethany here. Sorry to call you at home but I have a customer who would like to speak to you.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, we did try hard. We did. She told me everything was good and she just wants to talk to you.” Bethany’s blush had turned a deeper pink as the owner’s voice rose, berating his staff member and I could see her eyes were welling up with tears. “Put the phone on speaker please, Bethany,” I asked calmly and gave her a reassuring smile. “And stay to listen to our conversation.” She did as asked without warning the owner and his voice continued, over the loud speaker now. “We’ve talked about all this Bethany, what did you do wrong? I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you.” “Hello, Bruce.” I interrupted, and was met with silence. “Bruce, it’s me, Sarah.” “Sarah? I-I didn’t know you were visiting today, I’m at home.” “I know,” I replied and winked at Bethany. “That was the point.” “You, you know each other?” She whispered, and I nodded in response. “Bruce, I wanted to speak to you straight away and congratulate you and your staff. Everything, from the new sign on the window to the cleanliness of the bathroom, to the tastiness of the food and quality of your newly trained barista’s coffee… was perfect.” Bethany raised her eyebrows in shock as she heard quiet sobs coming from the other end of the phone. She couldn’t believe her stern boss was crying! “Th-thank you, S-Sarah. Thank you so much for everything, for bringing us back from the dead.” I laughed. “Bruce, you could have taken every bit of advice I had given you, and thrown it out the window, continuing to do the things you were doing. But you chose to fight, to give it one more push and make the improvements this place so needed. And you and your staff did it. You didn’t just do it, you ACED it!” “So you don’t think we’ll be the lowest-rated restaurant in town anymore?” “Hah. Absolutely not. Once word gets out and customers have the same experience I just did, you and Bethany here are going to be rushed off your feet. People want, people NEED to socialise again now that restrictions have been lifted,” I reassured him. “And Fusion Delights is going to be THE place to go.” With more tears and congratulations, Bethany ended the phone call, and looked at me shaking her head, “you tricked me! You actually Mystery Shoppered me!” Smiling, I nodded and said “I did, that’s part of my job. I make recommendations and then I follow up with a sneaky visit, and do you know what the last recommendation is that I’ll be making to Bruce?” Bethany shook her head. “That Bethany gets a pay rise.” I was still smiling when I left Fusion Delights, the name Bruce and I had agreed upon when he hired me to help him revive his restaurant after the pandemic had forced him to cut costs and quality, resulting in it becoming the lowest-rated restaurant in town. But now this will change, and being part of that change is what drives me. May the five-star reviews roll in!