Dear Sam.                I know you've got a lot on your plate at the moment, especially given everything that's been going on in the world. I don't expect you to give a response to my message, it's good enough to know that you're listening and you'll take my thoughts as seriously as ever. I would really appreciate it if you might be able to find the time to get back to me though, given everything that's happened. I have to say it feels quite liberating to know that you'll listen to my worries with a trusted impartiality and you won't judge me in any way. You've always been a good friend and as an habitual observer of my own moods I'll never run out of problems to throw your way.                So here it is once more, a tale of woe if ever there was one, but nonetheless important (if not unique) to myself. I remember you saying that our problems are valid and authentic to each of us and that it's better not to compare oneself with others, easier said than done, but true enough.                I did what you told me to do yesterday, but I couldn't look at what's left of my garden for very long. I managed to sit still for nearly half an hour, just looking through the window at the tufts of grass that seem to be creeping inexorably towards the fence and the hollow stems of last years weeds that still tilt at odd angles all over the place. Someone's chucked a pile of old newspapers over the gate and there's a mangled-up shopping trolley full of wet cardboard that wasn't there last week. It's a sight for sore eyes, it really is, especially as I'd kept it all looking so nice when I moved in.                But I pretended the view was a stage and everything on it was  part of a performance, just like you said. There's a crack in the window, it runs from the bottom corner to the middle of the frame at the top. I didn't tell you about that. It doesn't help, I keep thinking the glass is about to fall out and I'll be left with a huge hole where the wind and rain will come in. I know it's unlikely but that's the way my mind's working at the moment.                The streets have been virtually empty of people for ages now as you're well aware. The pandemic seems to have scared the living hell out of us all. As you know, it's never been easy for me to get out and about at the best of times. I can move around my apartment easily enough now but my wheelchair limits me in so many ways I would never had imagined. It's okay, I'm used to cooking for myself, washing, getting in and out of bed, that sort of stuff. But without my neighbour helping me with the stairs I'm sort of stuck here.                I really don't know if it's all connected but my mood has taken a much bigger hit recently. I wake up feeling quite sad, which isn't a good way to begin the day. Sometimes I don't even bother to get out of bed at all, I just lie there and stare at the ceiling. I can't even force myself to put the television on because I'm afraid of the news bulletins that crop up every now and again. I struggle to deal with the endless loop of depressing information that the networks seem to think we all need to absorb. It's like being sucked into a black hole of misery and despair. I know, you told me to stop using words like those but sometimes it feels good to write them down so I can see them. It makes me feel like I've purged them from my system for a bit, until they come creeping back into my mind like (here we go again) a dark cloud of despair.                So it's all fairly bleak for me at the moment. I cried yesterday for no reason, and then I decided to pretend to myself that I was upset because I had been thinking about all those poor people that had contracted this awful virus and were suffering more than me. But it wasn't that, I guess I cried because I was just, well just miserable. Is that wrong? I thought it was at the time. Feeling stupidly upset because of my own selfish misfortune. Feeling ridiculously unhappy because the milk in the fridge had gone off and the light bulb in the hallway had blown. How ridiculous is that! Stupid, stupid, stupid ! There are people much worse off than me, and they cope, they survive, they manage, muddle through, handle things, hack it. So why not me?                I really did try to imagine the big window in my living room as a theatre curtain, and then to pretend everything I saw outside was a play of some description, I honestly did. You said it would take me out of myself and make me use my imagination, and you said it would divert my attention away from my thoughts, stop me dwelling on stuff. Do you know I actually tried it without doubting it would work? I know, first time for everything. First time I've ever listened to your advice properly anyway. There, that surprised you didn't it? But the mess in my garden made me more depressed so I won't be trying that again. Hello again Sam.                Thank you for your reply. You were right, the garden's so bad there's absolutely zero chance that looking at it will help my mood. And that damn crack in the glass has really got into my head. I can't seem to stop looking at it and wondering when the glass is going to shatter and spray me with a hundred pointed shards. I imagine them slashing my skin to shreds and piercing my eyeballs so I can add blindness to all my other issues. That really would finish me off for good wouldn't it? 'Destructive, Injurious thinking'. That's what you called it. I know I'm doing it but it just seems to creep in to my mind like poison fog. HA! POISON FOG! You see now I've learned how to describe what's happening to me with ingenious creativity. Is there no end to my self-destructive talent?                But, as you suggested, I tried to look beyond my garden into the park on the other side of the street, and guess what? It was rather a pleasant experience I must say. At least the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Oh, and there's a Mountain Ash covered with the most glorious orange berries, it actually looks like it's on fire. But the crack in the glass seems to be getting thicker now. So all is definitely not well and good. Hi Sam.                Your last message was most helpful. The window does broaden my outlook somewhat. I looked beyond my fence and stared at the Ash tree for ages, until something else caught my eye. Who'd have thought it? There's a climbing Rose that's snaking its way up the side of stone wall and guess what? It's still flowering! There are the most delicious pink blooms all along its thorny branches, I bet they smell gorgeous. Too bad I can't get out and give them a sniff. Maybe if my neighbour comes home one day she'll take me out and we can go and take a closer look. Yes, that's definitely something to look forward to. I'll make a mental note. She loves Roses and I know she'll go wild over the scent.                Someone's chucked an old carpet over my fence and it's broken my rotary clothes line. Oh, and the crack's now so deep there's probably no chance of the window staying intact through the night. I've convinced myself that there's going to be a storm tonight and it'll be so cold in here I'll freeze to death. I know I'm going to have another sleepless night. I just know it. Hello Sam.                Before I say anything else I'm going to thank you for your most recent piece of advice. I've put a label on each of my emotions, just like you said. Where do I start? I know, I'll tell you about some of the things I've seen through the window and then leave you to ponder.                The Mountain Ash is still resplendent with its multitudinous berries. It made me feel happy to keep looking at it, and I labelled that 'Blissful'. Is that okay? And the climbing Rose made me feel the same, but more so because it reminded me that my neighbour might be coming home soon. So I'll label that one 'Cheerful'. During the two hours I spent looking out of the window this morning I spotted a single Autumn Crocus poking its little head through the soil by the park gate. At first I thought it was a piece of litter that had blown under the fence so I used my binoculars to try to see if there were any leaves attached to it, and there were. So that's good as well isn't it? Funny really, that smallest of things made me happier than ever. I'll label that one 'Jubilant'. Or is that a bit of a stretch? No, I don't think it is. I wonder what my neighbour will think when she sees that lovely Crocus flower? I'm quite looking forwards to telling her about it. Should I label that feeling as well? Let me know your thoughts.                The crack in the window seems to have got longer, although I don't think it's any deeper, which is a blessing I suppose.                 'Saddened' but 'Hopeful'. Hey Sam.                I appreciate the comment you made about me labelling my emotions, but however hard I tried I just couldn't seem to put a positive spin on it all. After all, how do you replace the word 'Saddened' with anything else? I searched high and low in my repertoire for another word that would adequately reflect that particular mood but all I could come up with were words such as  'Distraught' or 'Troubled', which were just variations on the theme. And then I saw what you were getting at, and it all clicked into place. So I substituted 'Saddened' with 'Peeved', and then reframed it slightly to 'Moderately Peeved'.                I spent some more time in the morning looking through the window and I have to say how 'Moderately Peeved' I was that the crack appeared to be longer now, but strangely enough no deeper! And then, (you'll like this) because there was so much to see in the park I forgot about it all together!                As well as the Ash, Rose and Autumn Crocus there are now three rows of lovely winter flowering Pansies that have appeared. I think somebody from the Parks Department must have planted them when I wasn't looking. The whole scene's looking a picture now I can tell you. Someone's even painted the litter bin and trimmed the grass edges.                Unfortunately it started to rain and the wind got up so I pulled the blinds in case the glass blew in.                 'Cheerful', 'Contented' and (you'll like this one) 'Fortunate'. Hi Sam.                Bad day. The mist rolled in and I couldn't see anything out of the window.                'Bored', 'Lonely', but still... 'Expectant'. (I'm struggling to choose positive words all of the time so you'll just have to go with it). Sam.                Because of yesterdays mist my mood has taken another turn for the worse I'm afraid. I spent the whole day with the blinds down in case the mist crept in through the GIANT crack and suffocated me.                I did, however, wake up early on purpose to see if things had improved with the weather and I watched the sun rise over the park. It was the most glorious sight to behold, the autumn leaves picked up the golden rays and made everything look as if it was bathed in a fountain of liquid gold. (Blimey, I never used to write like this!) The berries on the Ash Tree were like yellow nuggets and the Pansy flowers were like little smiling faces. (I think I've overdone it now.) 'Relieved', 'Uplifted', 'Overstated', (I know, it's not really an emotion but what the hell.) My Good Friend Sam.                I stayed up late just so I could watch the sun set. It was truly wonderful, everything seemed to take on a delicate reddish tinge. Just before dusk a little low fog crept in and made it look like there was blanket of cotton wool over the ground. The Pansies were covered but the Crocus heads pocked valiantly through the mist and seemed to smile heroically at me. (I've been reading some Daphne Du Maurier). I spotted a flash of brilliant red by the bench when the air had eventually cleared and upon further inspection (binoculars again), it turned out to be a wild Poppy throwing out a final flower through the 'burnt leaves of a spent summer'.                I have to admit I felt sad when it got dark though. Then I started to worry about never being able to leave this place and dying a lonely death, and being found in a year's time all rotted away and smelly, and my neighbour being upset, and the crack in the window spreading across the whole building. Actually, everything fell in on me all at once and I ended up lying on the floor in tears because I couldn't lever myself into bed. Two steps forward, one back, as they say. But, and it's a big 'but', I woke up in the morning really looking forward to seeing what else had happened in the park.                'Imaginative', 'Morose', but then (surprisingly) 'Positive'. Sam.                I decided to lie in my bed for most of the day because my mind was playing tricks again. I think it might have been something to do with dreaming about being stuck forever in the dark. It was truly awful, I only remember bits of it but the general theme was quite bleak. Although I was able to walk again I had nowhere to go because my room had no door and there was no way to get out. Worse still there was no window. I was miserable all afternoon even though I knew it was just my stupid imagination running away with itself again. If I had to label my thoughts at that moment I'd have used the words 'Isolated', 'Despondent', and 'Inconsolable'.                 For some reason though my mood appeared to have lifted somewhat as the day wore on. The sun shone through the window and, as I was sitting in my wheelchair reading, a tiny sliver of light brightened the open page. I took it as a sign to remove myself from my wretchedness and take a look out of the window. Which I did. (I'll be honest with you Sam, looking at it now, I think the crack in the glass is exactly the same size and shape it was a few days ago. Maybe I've been thinking too much about it. I guess sometimes we all feel more broken than we actually are).                I watched an elderly couple walk slowly through the park and then sit together on the bench. They didn't say anything to each other, they just held hands. It was the loveliest thing I've ever seen. Needless to say I cried, but this time it was because I felt completely at peace with the world.

               I want to thank you Sam, not just for listening but for nudging me along in the right direction. You truly are a good friend and I hope we can meet again soon.                I have to go now because somebody's knocking on the door, I hope it's who I think it is.                'Happy'.


Did You See It? By Heather Ann Martinez 6 AM Ryan realized his alarm never went off because he forgot to set it. He scrambled to get dressed and ready for work. He brushed his teeth while attempting to shave. He slapped aftershave and cologne and decided to skip breakfast as his face was burning. He ran down the nineteen steps of his apartment building and threw the door open towards the bus stop. His mouth was dry. He smelled fresh ground coffee and periodically turned his head to see if he could pinpoint where the intoxicating aroma was coming from. He knew he didn’t have time to stop if he were to make it to his bus stop that would take him to the commuter train and then the trolley to his workplace downtown. He kept running and was nearing his bus stop when he heard it. He was so shocked at hearing it that it didn’t register when he saw what came next. The scream startled him. The silence after turned everything else in his life on its head just for that moment. He thought that he needed to check in with his parents. He needed to check on his elderly neighbor who lived just above him. When the police arrived, one of them asked him if he saw it. All Ryan could do was nod his head. “What did you see?” The police officer asked. 6:02 AM Jolee finished her morning run. She took a shower, ate breakfast and walked slowly to the bus stop. She was thumbing through her emails on her phone periodically looking up. She left her house early and was trying to catch up on work before actually getting to the office.  She looked up from her phone, saw it and focused on her phone again when it chimed. Then she heard the scream, people shouting at her to call 9-1-1. She panicked and started dialing emergency services. Her heart was racing and she was hoping she wouldn’t have to hear his voice. She was hoping she would get one of the other emergency service operators. It had been six weeks since their break up and she didn’t want him to think she was desperate to speak to him. She heard his voice as he answered. He asked her if this was a real emergency and she told him that it was. All of his phone lines and those of the other operators started to light up. Vic asked Jolee if she was at the scene. She muttered a yes and he told her he was coming to join her. He told her not to move from where she was and not to say anything to anyone until he got there. The police were taping off sections of the street. A crowd of by-standards started gathering. Several of them started asking Jolee what she saw. She looked across from where she was standing. Ryan was pacing back and forth. The police officer was trying to take his statement and all Ryan could say was that he saw it and if his alarm went off on time, he would have missed it. He knew he couldn’t un-see it. Jolee started crying. Ryan’s reaction confirmed her suspicions. She hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on around her as the others on the street had been. She was trapped in a web of emails and deadlines. Her ex Vic knew she would not be a reliable witness to what happened and he rushed to join her. 6:03 AM Devin was returning home from a long night of drinking. He lived further south and west of Jolee and east of Ryan. He thought he was carrying a bottle of vodka in a paper bag. He lived closest of the three to the bus stop that Jolee and Ryan were heading to. He often saw both of them pass by in a dash to catch the bus. Today, however, was different. There were more people out in the street. They were asking one another when the police would be there and wondered if there was any hope for the boy lying on the street. Devin looked down at the paper bag he was carrying. There was a hole in the side of it and gun powder residue on the bag as well as his left hand. It wasn’t a bottle of vodka that he was carrying in the bag. It was a gun that he had been tossing about carelessly. He stopped and leaned against a tree. He wasn’t certain he was responsible for what happened. He wasn’t near the boy and didn’t remember seeing the car. The car was stopped in the street. The boy was quietly lying on the street. The driver of the car had his hand on his heart where he had been shot.

Then Devin made eye contact with Jolee. She covered her mouth with her hand. He was trying to tell her he was sorry. He was trying to tell her he didn’t see the car, the boy or even the gun in the paper bag. Jolee just kept shaking her head as tears flooded her face and fingers. She was trembling and blamed herself for not paying attention. She wasn’t running late. She had time. She could have gotten Devin from the pub the night before. She could have been kinder through his last failed relationship, and at least pretended that she cared for her older brother. Like Ryan, she saw everything. The only difference being she saw it from the west and Ryan from the east. Devin pulled the trigger, tossed the bag in the air, and the gun went off. The gun shot a man driving a car that hit the boy. When the ambulance came, the medics were able to stabilize the driver while he was in the car. The boy was not moving. The emergency specialists said they could still feel a pulse and put the boy on a Gurnee and took him to the hospital. Ryan was pacing when Vic came up behind him. Ryan told him he hadn’t gone anywhere near Jolee as he had promised. Vic asked him what he saw. Ryan told him he saw the boy first and then saw the driver get shot and then the car hit the driver from Ryan’s left side. Vic knew that Jolee would have seen it happen from her right side. Because it was Devin that shot the driver, he knew she would not be a reliable witness. Out of her guilt and anger, she would do anything for him including lie for him. Devin would have seen the driver first and would have missed seeing the boy. Vic ran across the street to where Jolee was standing. He wanted to protect her from what she had seen. He wanted to fix this for her. He did what he thought best. He very slowly took her hand and guided her away from the street. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. Jolee leaned her head against his right arm and walked her home. She told him she did as he suggested and didn’t talk to the police or anyone about what she saw. In the following days, Devin and Ryan were arrested. Ryan couldn’t handle his guilt. He had the gun sitting next to him at the pub the night before. He accidentally grabbed Devin’s bottle of vodka instead of the unregistered gun he had just bought from the bartender. Ryan had been stalking Jolee for months. He wasn’t certain if he was going to hurt her or himself with the gun. He just wanted the pain to stop. She was somehow encroached in every waking minute. If he heard a song, he asked himself what she thought of it. He knew Jolee well enough from the bus rides every morning what she ate for lunch, what she planned for dinner and what she and Vic planned to do over the weekend until six weeks ago when Vic asked her for space. This was not Devin’s first brush with the law. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to place blame on anyone else. He was going to have to do time. He could only plea to a lesser charge. Fortunately, the boy and the man lived to tell their stories.


“Be a man,” said Joseph. “I'm tired of your complaints.” “But an artificial limb?” Lawrence shuddered. “How does that make me more of a man? I get along fine with one leg.” “Bullshit!” Joseph's scowl dug trenches in his forehead. “Yesterday you were practically crying in your beer. Called yourself a cripple. Don't tell me you get along fine.” “Jeez, relax.” Lawrence held up his hands. “You know how I feel about robot stuff.” “Yeah, I know how you feel about robotics, and it's stupid.” Lawrence began to see red – his pulse raced. “Hey, don't you call me -” “- stupid. Too bad, man. I've heard you crabbing about that leg of yours ever since you lost it, there's a perfectly good solution, you're too scared and stupid to take advantage of it because you've seen too many sci-fi movies or something. I've been trying to soothe you and coax you to take care of this for way too long and I've had enough. Man up. You're going to the mech center with me right now. I made us an appointment. Get in the car or I'll throw you in there.” Joseph had a strange way of expressing love. Lawrence still found himself kind of moved by it. He grabbed his crutches and headed to the driveway where Joseph's car waited. The mech center, a brand-new building five miles away, had a drive right up to the front door for people with mobility problems like Lawrence, but it still took him about four minutes to get out of the car and get his crutches under him – not a lot of time, really, but it seemed like longer than it really was to Lawrence. He found himself worrying that some other car would pull up behind Joseph's and the driver would get impatient and honk while he was trying to get out. Didn't happen, but it could have. More evidence that he needed a mech leg so he didn't have to rely on crutches. He still didn't like the idea of having a mechanical contraption with a half-intelligent sensor set gripping his knee. Finally, he stood near the door on his one foot and crutches. He moved through the door as Joseph pulled away and headed for the parking lot. A young blonde woman in a lab coat sat at the white reception desk with an earpiece tucked in her left ear. Silly, really. Obviously meant to look all clinical and sterile, and the receptionist meant to look like a medical professional – if she were a med pro, surely she'd be back in one of the examining room. “May I help you?” she said with a bright smile. “Uh, I guess so, Lawrence stammered – med pro or not, he found the hospital-looking reception area kind of intimidating. As intended, no doubt. He cleared his throat and told himself sternly to stop stuttering. “I'm here for a mech leg.” Better – strong sounding. The receptionist gestured behind her to an inner door with no windows. “Take a seat through there, please. Would you like a wheelchair?” “Don't need it, Lawrence grunted, pushing himself toward the door. The receptionist got up, hustled to the door, opened it and smiled her big smile at him. The smile actually reached her eyes. Kind of impressive, really. Lawrence smiled back – he suspected that his smile did not reach his eyes, but the receptionist looked perfectly satisfied with it. Lawrence went through the door and found two rows of plastic chairs, bolted to the floor as in all medical waiting rooms. The carpet was beige and the walls were beige. The other door stood at the opposite end of the waiting room. Also beige. Just a typical medical waiting room altogether; maybe cleaner than most. He took a seat and waited, looking down at the stump where his leg had been up to six years before. Tuberculosis of the bone – who knew that was even a thing, especially in this day and age? And especially when the lab equipment at work failed and released tubercular microbes into the air at his station? And in an age when doctors didn't even recognize bone TB anymore? Infected his thigh bone and wasn't recognized until it was much too late...and now he was supposed to trust more medical tech in the form of an artificial limb? Right. He was just about ready to forget the whole thing – actually stood up and was on his way out the door – when Joseph came through and stared at him. “Where the hell are you going?” “Home,” Lawrence muttered, not even looking at him. “Changed my mind.” “Turn around.” Lawrence saw Joseph's feet right in front of him. He could try to walk around and continue out, but Joseph would just move to block him. The man was stubborn once his mind was made up. Lawrence turned and went back to his seat. Joseph sat down next to him. Lawrence didn't bother to look over. Six minutes went by and the door opposite the waiting room entrance opened. A nurse – or a middle-aged woman in hospital whites, anyway - walked in and said “Mr. Lawrence Brown?” “He's right here,” said Joseph. Lawrence was all set to get pissed off, but thought better of it. If Joseph had kept his mouth shut, the nurse would only have had two people to choose from – there wasn't anyone else in the waiting room, so what was there to get pissed off about? “Right this way, Mr. Brown,” said the nurse, and stood aside to leave room fr Lawrence to get by into – whatever was through the door. Lawrence gripped the edge of his chair and pushed. The chair was a little low. Lawrence pushed harder. “Do you need some help, sir?” said the nurse. Lawrence ground his teeth. “No,” he grunted, and pushed again. The nurse took a few steps towards him, letting the door begin to swing shu. “Allow me...” “No!” Lawrence barked, pushed harder, got to his foot, grabbed his crutches and started to the door. The nurse hustled past him and pulled the door all the way open again. Through the door, Lawrence came to a white-painted hall with three more doors to the left and a desk and chair to the right. The nurse came around from behind him, said “Through here, pkease” and opened the third door. He hoisted himself down the hall – it would be the farthest door he had to go through, of course – and into the room the nurse showed him. That room was painted beige rather than white, at least. Inside was an examining table and a stool, where a plump man in a white coat sat facing him. “Mr. Brown,” he nodded, “please have a seat.” He gestured to the examining table, his face relaxed into a friendly enough expression. No smile, though. Professional. Lawrence turned away from the table and pushed himself onto it. The man in the lab coat tapped his knee. “Looks good,” he muttered. “I'd like to untie your pant leg please.” Lawrence felt his teeth grind together again. “I'll do it,” he said, trying not to snarl and not quite succeeding. Why did the whole world assume he was a cripple? He tugged at the knot in his pants. The slipknot opened. Lawrence rolled the leg up clear of his stump. The man in the lab coat squeezed a purplish ointment into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and smeared the ointment onto Lawrence's stump. Despite the hand-rubbing, the stuff was still freezing. “Hey!” “Sorry.” The tech didn't even look up. He took a square of black plastic out of a drawer and stuck on Lawrence's ointment-laced stump, followed by a metal cup that he got from somewhere. “What the hell is that stuff?” Lawrence asked. His irritation turned his voice into a growl. “Contact jelly,” said the tech. He didn't seem to notice Lawrence's grouchy growl. “Connects the electronics in the mech to the nerves in your leg.” He opened a cupboard and took out a device shaped like a calf and foot. “You mean I have to smear that stuff on every time I wear the mech?” This was getting better all the damn time. “We're expecting to have a mech that doesn't require contact jelly in a few months.” The tech slid the mech over Lawrence's stump and flipped a few switches. “Let's see, power, service, feedback...all green.” He backed away and actually smiled. “All right, Mr. Brown, why don't you stand up and see how it feels?” Lawrence slid off the table and onto his foot. The mech's toe touched the ground. “Go on, Mr. Brown,” said the tech. He still smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Put some weight on it.” Lawrence did. He felt as if...”I'm tilted, aren't I?” “A little.” The tech squatted near the mech and adjusted something with a screwdriver. Lawrence felt the leg shorten until the tilt was gone. “How's that?” “Better.” “Great.” The smile still didn't reach the tech's eyes. “Take a few steps.” Lawrence swallowed. It felt like he was going to fall. He stepped out with his real foot, then with the mech. He stayed upright. The mech embraced his stump with a strange vibration. He took a step. The mech squeezed his knee. There was a little pinch. He took another step. The mech squeezed him again. It felt almost like a massage, except for the tiny electric jolt. Another step and the electric massage strengthened. It was almost comfortable. “How is it?” said the tech. “Okay, I guess,” said Lawrence. Another step. Again, almost comfortable. “What's that electric shock?” “You'll get used to that.” The tech smiled. “Most people do.” “Yeah?” Lawrence realized he didn't want to get used to it. He thought about walking around like this for the rest of his life, having an electrically buzzing massage with every step. The bionic walker. No. He sat down, took off the mech and the sticky electrical cup thing on his stump, said “No thanks,” grabbed his crutches and headed for the door. The tech behind him looked stunned. It looked more real on him than any expression Lawrence had seen. “But, Mr. Brown...” “Thanks for your time.” Lawrence pushed the examining room door open, went down the wall, pushed open the waiting room door and ducked through it before it could shut. Not a bad job. Joseph, facing the door, stood up. “So when are you going to get your mech?” Lawrence's lungs filled and he straightened to his full height, for the first time since he lost his leg. Silly pride. “I'm not.” Joseph seemed to wilt. “What the hell...” “Yeah, I know. It just doesn't feel right.” Joseph's eyebrows knit. “But what are you...” “I know, man. I just don't want to be a half-robot, okay?” Joseph stared at him. It looked like he was about to yell. Then his face relaxed into a tiny grin. “What am I going to do with you?” Lawrence grinned back. “Damned if I know.” They went out to the car. Lawrence made the whole trip without crabbing once.


“Whew!” Hank whipped out a hanky and mopped his glistening brow, squinting hard as the sun blazed overhead. “If this ain’t the hottest darn day…” He had just finished loading the last sack of provisions into the wagon. Bill Druthers, the General Store owner, was inspecting the mound of goods so he could tally up the bill. “That’s fer sure.” Bill agreed. “Can’t last too long, though. Way them clouds look we’re in for a squall come nightfall.” Hank lifted up his Stetson a bit, peering at the deep, dark clouds that were gathering over the distant mountains. “They’re getting ready to hit the war-path, alright. Fine with me! Anything’s better than this inferno.” Grunting in agreement, Bill turned toward the store. “Well, come on in and we’ll settle yer bill.” Spurs clinking and chaps swishing, Hank started to follow Bill inside, when movement down the street caught his eye. Pausing in the doorway of the General Store, Hank watched as three men strode out of the bar, evidently having indulged in some mid-day drinking—just enough to make them a little testy and more likely to do something rash. It was the McBaney brothers, dark hair, dark eyes, and even darker hearts. Hank couldn’t help glaring at them, his blue eyes narrowing as he gnawed on his lower lip. He had been in several tangles with the McBaneys. He couldn’t stand their bullying, cowardly ways, and somehow, they always managed to light his red-haired temper on fire.

“You comin’ Hank?” Bill called from inside the store. Stepping inside, Hank kept one eye on the wagon to make sure everything stayed put. Couldn’t be too careful with those skunks around. Just as Hank was pocketing the receipt for the goods that he had bought he heard a commotion outside. Whirling around, he charged through the shop door, glancing hurriedly around him to see what was going on. Sure enough, it was the McBaneys, back at their bullying. An old man law sprawled on the ground at their feet. Evidently they had tripped him, and now Jep, the oldest brother, had one large boot planted on the old man’s back. In a flash Hank’s temper exploded, and he charged down the boardwalk at top speed. “Hey, you let him be!” The McBaneys snickered as they watched the lanky red-haired cowboy sprint towards them. “Take it easy, Hank. It’s no big deal.” Jep sneered. Jase, the middle brother, chimed in. “Just a little fun.” His lips curled back over his ugly yellow teeth in a sinister smile. Hank, however, didn’t waste any time talking. He had had enough of their cruelty. He reached Jep first, and it only took one quick jab to the chin to send the startled man reeling against the nearby wall. Jase was next in line, and in the blink of an eye Hank had grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it over his head. Joseph, the youngest, squealed as his older brother’s heavy figure crashed into his. “Hold up!” Hank froze. By this time, he had already spun back around towards Jep, and his elbow was halfway to crushing the bully’s face. “Leave us be!” Jep continued. “We didn’t mean no harm.” “Yeahhh…” Joe whined from underneath Jase. Hank was still raging mad, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to see the backs of the McBaneys. “Fine…” He snarled, “But you better get out of here !” Too cowardly to fight even with the odds in their favor, the brothers were gone in a moment, and Hank turned his attention to the old man that had been knocked down. The man, a stranger to Hank, had turned himself over and was sitting on the boarded walkway. For a moment all Hank could do was stare at the man—there was something intriguing about him. Bushy, snow-white hair cascaded over his forehead, blending in with a thick mustache that draped lazily over his mouth. A blue checkered shirt was shoved into a pair of tawny brown pants—held up as high as they could possibly go by bright red suspenders. In every way he seemed to be just an ordinary old coot who wandered from one town to the next, coming from nowhere in particular and going nowhere in particular. Yet Hank was startled when, beneath the wild tangle of snowy hair, there sparkled a pair of shocking blue eyes. There was something captivating about them that the cowboy couldn’t quite put his finger on. Trying to shake of the strange feeling that had overtaken him, Hank knelt down and asked if the man was all right. “Jest fine!” Crinkling up in a smile, “Thank ye kindly, son. Folks like you are special—you remember that! If you’re kind to others, good will come to you.” Again, the man’s blue eyes twinkled merrily. Hank blinked. Why did this old geezer give him such a strange feeling? He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. “Shucks, it ain’t nothing. You wait here while I fetch my wagon and then I’ll take you wherever you’re wantin’ to go.” And, without giving the man a chance to answer, Hank scurried down the boardwalk to the wagon. Bill stepped out of the store when he saw Hank through the front window. “What was all the commotion about? You took off like a wet cat!” “Just some trouble with the McBaneys.” Hank replied. “They were messin’ with some old fellow—a stranger. I’m getting’ the wagon now to take him wherever he’s goin’.” Bill peered in the direction that Hank was gesturing towards. “What old man?” “Huh?!” Hank whirled around and gazed down the street. The mysterious old man had disappeared! “Well, I’ll be hickory smoked. Where’d the old coot get off to?” Bill shrugged, “Well, wherever he went, he must be okay. I wouldn’t worry too much about him. Tough old goats like that can handle anything.” As Hank drove out of town, he tried hard to catch a glimpse of the man, but he had vanished. Soon, however, he had put the incident out of his mind completely. He was headed back to the Circle G, where he worked, and once he delivered the supplies there would be plenty of work to do before the coming storm. Just as he was entering the ranch property, the sunlight hit something on the seat next to him. The glistening object caught his eye, and, keeping a firm hold of the reins with one hand, he picked it up to examine it. To his surprise, it was a gold locket—slightly tarnished with age, but still beautiful, and very intricately designed. “How in the world did this get here?” Hank thought, puzzled. Quickly stopping the horses so he could give his full attention to the discovered trinket, Hank’s fingers worked quickly to open the locket. Within seconds it had sprung open, and the red-haired young man was surprised to see a tiny slip of paper fall to his lap. Upon further examination, it appeared to be a map of some sort. Having lived in the area his whole life, it didn’t take long for Hank to realize that it represented a certain small canyon up in the nearby mountains. He had been there many times, having discovered the place while searching for a lost calf. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by lush green trees and carpeted by ferns and flowers. A waterfall, cascading down into the hidden gorge, settled into a gentle stream that flowed on to join a mighty river. The river was well known, as it was the main source of water for the town, but no one besides Hank had ever ventured very deep into the mountains. It was his secret place. “Well, what do you know…” The cowpoke breathed out in amazement. “Here I thought I was the only one who knew about that spot.” Suddenly his heart skipped a beat as he peered at the tiny map, worn and faded with age. A tiny X had been drawn on the map, and it appeared to be…under the waterfall? Hank had never explored behind it, so there could very well be something hidden there that he had not yet discovered. Practically boiling over with excitement, Hank tucked the map back into the locket and fastened the necklace securely in his shirt pocket. As soon as he could, he was going to find out what was behind that waterfall.

                                     *                  *                  *

All of the work had been done for the evening, everything was secure from the coming rain, and the men were headed to the house for supper. Straggling behind the rest, Hank gazed up at the sky, watching the clouds move slowly towards the ranch. It only took him a moment to calculate how much time he had before the storm broke. He had a plan. “It might be cutting it close, but I’ll chance it.” The daring young fellow couldn’t wait to find out what the map led to. If he hurried, he could get to the spot, complete his search, and still make it back to the ranch before the clouds unleashed their full fury. Although the planned adventure had its appeal, so did supper. It wouldn’t do to set off on an expedition like this without some provisions! Dashing to the kitchen door, Hank knocked quickly. In a moment the door was opened by a young girl, small and blonde. Her blue eyes widened when she saw the grinning redhead standing outside the door. “What’re you doin’ here?” She whispered. “Why aren’t you in getting’ supper with the others?” “I’ve got somethin’ I need to tend to, Jenny!” Hank whispered back, still grinning. He liked Jenny a whole lot. In fact, he wanted to marry her once he had saved up enough money, if she was willing. “Would you mind just fetchin’ me a few biscuits or somethin’ to take with me?” Jenny’s brow puckered up with bewilderment. “Well, alright. Don’t know where you could be goin’ right before a thunderstorm, but it’s not for me to be stoppin’ you.” She moved quickly, worried that the boss’s wife would find her talking with her fellow when she was supposed to be getting supper. “Here y’ are.” Passing Hank a tied-up handkerchief filled with biscuits and jerky, Jenny shooed him on his way. “You’d best be getting’ out of here before the Missus walks in and finds us talking’.” “Thanks, Jenny.” Hank flashed one last grin in the girl’s direction before sprinting to the corral. Several of the horses clustered around the fence as Hank approached them. He was kind to them, and all of the animals trusted him. He had his eye on one in particular, though. “Come on Rocket, I need all the speed I can get this evening!” Hank and Rocket were soon dashing at break-neck speed across the prairie, across the river, and on to the mountains. Hanks’ eyes were fixed on one particular area. He knew that, hidden behind that ridge, was a hidden place—that apparently held more secrets that he had thought.

                                   *                    *                   *

Shivering in the cold spray of the waterfall, Hank peered behind the rushing wall of water. Sure enough, a black hole gaped in the side of the natural wall. “I can’t believe it. If this ain’t the craziest darn thing!” Hank shook his head in disbelief. A distant crack of lightning reminded him that his time was limited, and he quickly squeezed behind the falls to inspect the dark crevasse. A match from his pocket supplied a bit of light, but it wasn’t enough to reveal much of the dark tunnel that lay ahead. Although the eerie void caused Hank to shiver a little in apprehension, he continued to creep slowly into the passageway. Withing a few feet the opening took a slight turn, and Hank was surprised to see a soft glow of light through an opening ahead. Hank wished his heart would stop beating so wildly in his chest. Something about the place made him feel like an intruder, and he barely dared to breath as he approached the dimly lit cavity beyond. What met his eyes caused his mouth to fall open in astonishment. A hidden room, lit only by a small stream of light coming through a tiny opening up above, was lined with green moss and ferns. The only sound was the gentle trickling of water that dripped down the walls of the cave, and the muted rumble of the waterfall outside. In the center of the room, two large, flat stones were laid side by side. Inching forward, Hank strained to read the words that were chiseled into them. One read “Mary Pickford, 1807 – 1872”. The other was inscribed with the words “Moses Pickford, 1804 – 1875”. Hank gulped, his eyes wide. These were gravestones. He was tempted to turn and hurry away from the dismal place, but suddenly his eye landed on a small metal box, slightly rusted, that lay between the two stones. Brushing aside a patch of ferns, Hank picked it up. It was intricately designed, like the locket, fastened shut by two clasps. Hank’s eyes shifted towards the two graves. Should he open the box? Regardless of the lingering apprehension that he felt, Hank’s curiosity was too great, and soon he had forced open the rusty clasps and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was an envelope, laying atop of a little burlap sack. Although the envelope was yellowed with age, it had been well preserved in the box. Gently opening it, the young man pulled out a folded piece of paper, along with a smaller square object. He unfolded the piece of paper first. It was a note, written in a clear but old-fashioned hand. Although there was barely enough light for him to see, he could just make out the contents of the note.

To the Reader of this Note, Thanks for everything. You’re a special person. I know you will use the contents of this box wisely. Just remember this—if you are kind to others, good things will come to you. M. P.

Hank fell back in shock, his hands shaking violently. Those were the exact words that the old man had said to him that very morning! It took a few moments for him to calm down, but his curiosity again got the better of him as his eye fell on the burlap sack that lay in the box. Still trembling slightly, he slowly opened the sack. To his amazement, the bag was filled to the brim with glimmering stones of gold! Had the this “Pickford” fellow really left this for someone to find? Hank could scarcely believe it. Then he remembered the other object that had been in the envelope—the small square piece of cardstock. It had some writing on it, although the handwriting was not the same as in the letter. All it said was:  “ Mary and Moses, 1856 ” Flipping the card over, Hank realized that it was, in fact, a faded picture of a man and woman. She was a lovely-looking lady of about fifty years old, with dark hair (streaked with gray) and dark eyes. She had a sweet, pleasant expression, one that revealed a tender heart and a kind spirit. The man, slightly older, had a bushy shock of white hair on top of his face. His clean-shaven face was crinkled up in a smile. It was that smile that stopped Hank’s heart cold. If he had been stunned before, he was doubly shocked now. Even in the black-and-white photograph he recognized that grin, and those eyes…twinkling like diamonds. The events of the day flashed through Hank’s mind. The old man with the startling eyes and crinkly smile…the locket that mysteriously appeared on the wagon seat…those words… “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” That phrase echoed over and over through his brain. Was this a dream? It had to be. But it seemed so real… Crack! The entire cave lit up as lightning flashed through the small opening up above, and Hank jumped, startled. How long had he been there? As quickly as the cavern lit up, it plunged into deeper darkness as the sky outside blackened. He needed to leave—right away. Pausing, Hank was unsure what to do. Should he…? No. It wouldn’t be right. Lighting another match so he could see what he was doing, he started to tuck the letter and photograph back into their envelope, when he caught one last glimpse of the old man’s face. Those glistening eyes, and kind smile. Again, the man’s words reverberated through Hank’s mind. “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” Suddenly, he felt less afraid. He slid the envelope and locket back into the box, picked up the sack of gold, and hurried out of the cave. Soon he and Rocket were racing the storm back across the prairie. Glancing over his shoulder, Hank’s mind swirled with questions…questions that would never be answered.

                                   *                   *                   *

Within a year Hank and Jenny were married, and he had started a ranch of his own. He hadn't told her, or his friend Bill Druthers, about what had happened. Maybe he would one day, but how could he explain what he himself couldn't understand? For now it would remain his secret…shared only with the mysterious blue-eyed stranger with the crinkly smile.


Did you know, in some species of spiders, after mating, the female will cannibalize the male? Funny isn't it? How betrayal seems to lurk even beyond the human race.

The library is empty, it feels dead. A place once occupied with breathing and beauty now filled with existential dread.

My phone continuously buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to check it to know who’s desperately trying to reach me, or maybe I’m just too scared to check. The librarian scowls at me as I pull my phone out to silence the device. I can’t help but glance at some of the words on the messages sent to me. “PLEASE” “HURT” “ANSWER” “SORRY” I push each message bubble back into my brain, but the word ‘hurt’ plagues my mind. I pull out my phone and decided to finally check what was said. 11:59 pm “I’LL HURT YOU” I feel vomit creeping up my throat, desperate to kiss my lips. 12:01 pm “RESPOND. IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.” 12:03 pm “I HAVE YOUR LOCATION.” My heart stops beating. I quickly click the contact, the silence doesn’t feel so quiet now.

⇨ ‘David <3’ “Stop Sharing Location?” I quickly click the button, stopping him from seeing my location.

The silence mocks me, leaving dead echoes asking ‘were you quick enough?’ 12:05 pm “DID YOU REALLY THINK TURNING THAT OFF WOULD STOP ME?” I throw my head in frantic circles, like an owl who can’t get its head to turn 360. The librarian is gone, I’m too scared to check behind her desk. I never thought he’d be capable of something like this. My mind takes a moment to escape to the past, clutching each decision I've made through time as if it would bring me back.

9:30 pm 3 HOURS PRIOR. The air outside was cold, crisp even. The air in itself simply felt like the crunching of fall leaves. I walked up the steps to a big door, bringing my fist down to knock. A few seconds later, a friendly familiar smile welcomes me in. “Hey Dana! I’m so glad you could make it. Welcome in!”

The tall man in front of me ushers me in. He takes my coat as I nervously walk further into the giant house.

“You failed to mention you live in a castle” I exclaim jokingly. He lets out a phony laugh and leads me to his dining room. “Hey guys this is Dana. She’s not like us so you play nice now you hear?” He lets out another one of his fake laughs and so do the rest of the people sitting at the table.

“It’s nice to meet you Dana.” A woman, with dark brown hair and piercing eyes says to me coldly.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” I almost whisper back. “And you are?” The look on her face shows me she isn’t too happy I don’t know who she is. “You don’t know me? Really?” There’s silence before she answers. “In that case, my name is Marie De Chevalier. I’m David’s girlfriend.” I smile at her, ignoring her obviously ply to make me jealous. “That’s a beautiful name.”

She gives me a reluctant smile back, the same way a butcher smiles at a pig. “Okay well you’ve met Marie, let me give you an introduction to everyone else.” The tall man speaks. “You already know me from work… but in case you forgot, my name’s David.” I let out a giggle and Marie gives me a soul piercing glare.

“This is Tom, Becca, Ray, and Claire.” They wave one by one as David goes down the line. Each person looking more rich and bitchy than the one prior. Six snobs sitting at the table in front of me. My parents always taught me to never judge a book by its cover, but that’s hard when the cover is wearing Gucci and smells like Coco Channel.

Silence fills the air and David leaves to get the food.

A blonde girl who goes by the name of Claire wearing a white flowy shirt and a black formal skirt speaks up. “So, Dana, where do you work?” I try to relax into my chair and decide maybe I’ll try to get into this book, even if it does have a Louis Vuitton bag attached to it.

“I’m currently employed at a restaurant.” They all make, what they think to be, sly glances at each other. My face goes red as I speak again. “I-I get to make my own hours, and the tips dare really good!” Another girl with red hair and the shortest green dress I've ever seen, snickers. “No, no, that's really good. Maybe one day I can hire you at my dads car company. We always need more cleaners.” My head scrambles as I try to find a way to quickly change the conversation. “I thought there was supposed to be six of you?” I say. They all fall silent.

A boy with slicked back brown hair, and an outfit that resembles something you’d see Leonardo DiCaprio wear clears his throat.

“Yes, unfortunately Aaron was not able to attend our gathering tonight.” He pauses and nibbles on his lip. “I’m afraid he’s feeling rather, ill.” The silence that lingers is clearly filled with lies. I don’t push for answers.

“Will you give him my regards? I hope he feels better.”

Each word bounces off the dart of an eye. No one makes eye contact with me. The room feels empty, suffocating, until finally David comes back with drinks and food. “Whoah who died in here” he laughs, but this time his friends don’t laugh back with him.

“Aaron clearly” I joke. David’s hand slips, sliding over the glass martini. His hand gushes blood as the drink leaks all over the carpet. “David!? Are you okay?” I yell. Quickly standing up trying to find something to clean the blood. His friends stay seated, and David looked frozen in the air.

A man with black hair, beady eyes, and a freshly shaved beard speaks. “David, it’s okay. We told her he was sick .” The emphasis on sick almost makes me puke. What did he mean? David lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding.

“Oh.” He quickly clutches his hand, the pain seeming to have just now hit his nervous system.

“Shit this hurts.” I pick up the broken glass shards, and place them into the trash. “Where’s your bathroom? I’ll go get you a towel.” His once friendly demeanor is eaten by a demon of anxiety and irritation.

“Down the hall to the left.” His friends still don’t meet their eyes with mine. The hall is dimly lit, there seems to be rooms with every turn of my head.

I walk into the first room I see on my left. Red light hit my eyes hard. Photographs hung on a line, I had entered a dark room. My feet turned to leave, but my mind inclined me to stay. I walk around, looking at the different locations and faces on each photograph.

“I wonder who took these” I thought to myself, admiring the photography skills of this very skilled artist. I turn each photo around and see a date and time each piece was taken.

I hang the photographs back up and finally decide to leave, that is until I catch a glimpse of thick black liquid.

“What the fuck is this” I whisper to the strangers in each photos. Inside the liquid seems to be photographs of some sort. My mind attempts to rationalize with me. Telling me it’s just the substance that processes the photos, but I know better. I’m smarter than myself.

“Oh fuck here I go.” I take a deep breath and grab the photographs out of the black sludge. It’s cold, cold in the same way organs are when they die. The mysterious black ooze slides off the photographs.

“What the fuck.” my breaths come out shakily.

A little white photograph sits in my hand. The girl in the photo isn’t a stranger at all, in fact, she’s me. I quickly reach for the other photographs and pull them out. Me going into work, me working at my restaurant, me smoking a cigarette outside. My breaths get heavy as I hear a voice call for me coming from the other room. “Hey Dana, you okay? Do you need some help?” I throw the photographs back into the sludge, some of it sticks to my hands. I take a minute to breathe before I give him my reply. “Y-yeah sorry. I was just looking for some, uh, antibiotics.” I hold my breath, listening for the sounds of expensive shoes coming down the hall. I close the door to the dark room, and pinch my fingers as I walk back to the dining room table. Confirming this isn’t a dream.

“There you are!” David smiles.

“We thought you ended up like Aaron for a sec!” he and the rest of his friends let out a phony laugh. I laugh nervously, sweat creeps down my back.

“H-hey so, my mom actually called me and she- she’s not feeling very well so I- I need to go back and make sure she’s okay.” My hands stay planted behind my back as I talk. “Oh okay I get it. Do you need a ride home?” He takes a step closer to me, I fight every urge to take a step back. “It’s okay, I can get a cab.” I grab my bag and hurry out the door quicker than I should have. I wave down a yellow taxi.

“Take me to the downtown library please.” The driver nods his head and I look out the window up at the giant house. Through the window, I swear my eyes see bony, pointy hands peeking through the silk curtains. Marie’s hands. 12:06 pm “I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.” My hands race to his contact again.

“Block This Caller?” I click the button and shut off my phone. I take a deep breath that gets sucked into my chest when I hear the creak of a library door.

I quickly, but quietly stand up and run behind a shelf surrounded by murder mystery books.

Great. “Dana? I know you’re in here.” Each foot step mimicke the sound of my racing heart. I whip my head around looking for a way to exit the building.

All the way to my right, straight across the library, is a void filled room. It’s pitch black, and it seems to be my only option. “Dana?” His voice calls again. We play a game of cat and mouse and I go behind each library shelf filled with different genres of books. He goes to the very back of the library, and I pull my shoes off to creep across the open war ground, i’ve got a red target painted on my back. One step.

No sound.

Two steps.

A creak, no David.

Three steps. I rush behind a bookcase and hear the sound of shoes still creeping along. I enter the room, my hands feeling around for a light switch. “SURPRISEEEE!!!” “AH WHAT THE FUCK” I scream and flail my arms around, fighting the air and bullying the wind. “DON’T HURT ME, DON’T HURT ME.”

Face around turn into a frown. I crouch down throwing my face into my knees. “D-Dana?” A soft, familiar voice speaks.

“Dana it’s me, what’s the matter?” I stand up and spin around. My eyes meet Davids as he stands in the doorway holding a chocolatey cake in his hand.

“Please don’t hurt me!” I shout again. He has a look of confusion on his face, genuine confusion. “Dana no one’s gonna hurt you, this is a surprise party.” He speaks sadly. I finally look around noticing what I hadn’t before, the face of all my friends. “But, but the photos.”

David cocks his head. “What photos?” “When I went to get you a bandage, I saw photos of me.” I say breathily, still shaken up. “Oh Dana, thats for your present. I knew it was creepy guys!” Everyone shakes their head assuredly. “No, no David just wait until she sees it!” I turn in every direction, scared and confused.

“What about Aaron? You got all shaken up when I said he was dead?” David takes a breath, that’s because we planned a murder mystery for your birthday. I thought Marie had snitched. I whip my head around making eye contact with Marie. “Why was she scowling at me then? And being so mean?” Marie walks up and takes my hand in hers. “I’m so sorry about that Dana, I’m really bad at keeping surprises. That was just the face I made trying to contain my excitement. If I had talked to you any other way I knew I would burst!” I pull my hands away from hers and rip my phone out of my pockets.

“But the messages! What about the messages!” David pulls out his phone to see what was sent. “When I saw you went to the library, I thought you had figured out the surprise. Hence when you turned your location off, I sent” “Did you really think that would stop me?” I say, cutting him off and finishing his sentence for him. He nods. “And as for the “I’ll hurt you” it was autocorrect. I meant to say “I’ll coerce you” and before I could finish saying “coerce you into leaving the library, you had… blocked me?” He began to speak again. “I thought when you had entered the library, you would have seen Aaron with his murder mystery makeup on. Hence the “it’s not what it looks like.” My eyes meet David’s until the shame I feel forces me to look at the tips of his shoes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry everyone.” There’s silence, until David pulls a lighter out from his pocket. One candle, two candles, three candles lit. “Happy birthday to you.” David begins. “Happy birthday to you.” Soon, the rest begin to follow. “Happy birthday dear Dana, happy birthday to you.” David laughs and adds “Anddd many more where you won’t think i’m a killer!” Everyone laughs, including me, and David smiles. Thank You guys. This was an interesting birthday for sure, but a great one now nonetheless. The rest of the night is filled with laughing, cake, and games. And even a dumb blanket, custom made, filled with the silliest candid photos of me in my most special moments.


Eagles dancing in the sky help inspire threads of connections, weaving together the lives of an Oregon Coast lighthouse keeper and a woman on the East Coast. A copy of the 1898 Matrimonial Bazar publication for personal ads sat on Elias's desk. Below the heading, it said, ” Our aim is high: To increase the number of home firesides, increase the happiness of other people, in short, to do what we can in mitigating woe and loneliness in any sphere or grade of life. To cultivate the aims of life and help men and women into a state of bliss. Yours respectfully, C.G. Horton, Editor.” On the Pacific coast in the Oregon wilderness, Elias looked at the reply he received to his "Objective: Matrimonial" personal ad. “ I very much liked her letter and photo. Good women suited for being a wife are scarce out here. If I need to bring one from back east that is alright." He knew what he wished he could say. “But h ow should I say this? I don’t want to be too direct ,” he thought. The flames on the logs in the wood-burning Franklin warming stove kept the room cozy and warm. Elias was heating a pot of fish and vegetable stew on top of the stove. Herbs sent aromas making the air fragrant. Elias earned about $800 a year as head keeper for the remote, isolated Mystic Lighthouse. The job included housing in the Queen Anne Victorian house overlooking the sea. The house, four years old, and designed by an architect, was artistic and comfortable. It was very different from many of the homes built by the homesteaders doing the work themselves. The building supplies had arrived by sea, floated in from ships on smaller boats and rafts, and by horse-drawn wagon using the beaches at low tide for part of the journey. A village crew came from an 8-hour horse ride away to live there while building it. Seafood, vegetables from the gardens, and other sources meant food was abundant. " All it needs now is a wife for me and children, I'm ready for a family," thought Elias. Outside, the ocean stretched far till it met with the sky. The waves made their rhythmic music. Elias looked into the wood stove flames while he thought. On the other side of the country from Elias, in the village of Dawn’s Harbor on the Atlantic coast, two women walked downtown toward the ships and distant lighthouse far out on the rocky point. Maryanne turned her head toward her sister. “Thank you, Nora for coming with me. I am trying to imagine what life with a lighthouse keeper would be like.” “You are wise, sister, to think hard and take your time finding out more, ” said the other woman. They strolled in the cool March wind past the ships and out to the point where waves splashed high on the rocks. The white lighthouse sat on a squat base and rose 40 feet with its lantern room at the top.

Next to it rested a cottage for the lighthouse keeper. Conveniently near town, Maryanne thought this lighthouse must be different from what she knew about the wilderness of the Oregon coast. Back on the opposite coast, next to the Pacific Ocean, Elias was filling kerosene reservoirs high in the lantern room of the tall lighthouse surrounded by vast, mostly empty lands. A picture of the letter from Maryanne of Dawn’s Harbor on the East Coast flashed through Elias’s thoughts. The widowed seamstress with a small child was well-established and owned her dressmaking and tailor business. At the lighthouse, he and the other two lighthouse keeper families always needed clothing to be mended or replaced. Their clothing was serviceable for work in the wilderness. But perhaps if she still desired finer seamstress work she could sell her fashions in the village. She had skills that would be useful in a partner for life. Living in a coastal town, although on the other side of the country, she described growing vegetables, drying fish, and canning vegetables and fruits. He liked what he saw in her picture. Maryanne sounded responsible, mature, and reliable. Her photo showed a face that looked like she was kind and fun-loving too. He kept the letter and photo in his pocket and took it out often. In it, a young woman wearing a well-tailored dress with lace inserts sat on a carved chair, with a little girl on her lap. Elias saw calm eyes, hair pulled back, a stylish wide-brimmed hat tilted on her head, and a soft smile. He felt there was mystery and something calling to him in the photo. He looked out the window at the lighthouse, the sea below, and the horses in the corral near his lightkeeper’s house. “March 3, 1898,” he wrote. “Dear Madame, It was a pleasure to receive your reply and your photo,” he wrote. For a long time, he sat, wondering what to say. He looked at the poem he had found in the traveling lighthouse library book about courtship. This is what it said. " Two Eagles fly, Talons grasped tight, Wings in the sky, Courtship in flight. In courtship dance Spinning a song They test each other Do they belong? Cartwheels of wings Whirling dreams Ocean wind sings Sun's ray beams. Will they be Entwined to share A nest by the sea Woven with care." Elias drew in a deep breath and continued writing his letter to Maryanne. “This week when I tended the beacon at the lighthouse, an unusual sight appeared in the air nearby. From the lighthouse lantern room, 60 feet above the ground, sitting on a 200-foot bluff next to the ocean, I feel I am part of the sky and clouds. Outside the glassed lantern room, I saw two eagles meet in the air. Their wings were as wide as tree boughs when they swooped past the windows. The winter fog drifts by the lighthouse and the waves are far, far below. In and out of the misty sky I saw the eagles' wings flashing. Then they clasped their talons together and began a spinning dance, round and round, wings fluttering and unfurling. Like two dancers they floated and tumbled, cartwheeling, drifting, wings tilting as they spun, holding each other’s talons. I’ve been told this is how they court, testing each other to see if they can be mates. If chosen, they bond for life and grow old together, sharing the tasks of caring for their young. They build a beautiful nest. Each year they bring more twigs and branches to renovate it, strengthening their bond while their nest grows. The male and female take turns sitting on the nest’s eggs, although the female does sit on the eggs more. One of them will be hunting for food or perched close nearby to protect the nest.” Elias paused, sitting very still, looking into the air at nothing. He included some more details about himself. “What do you think about these eagles?” He kept writing. “Aren’t they wonderful?” He wondered if she would catch on to the implication of the courting eagles. He hoped she would understand what he was trying to imply. The next day he left for the 8-hour ride to the village, leading several strong horses to carry supplies on the way back. The other two lightkeeper's would cover his shifts and he would bring them supplies in return. The sky was grey. Foggy fingers reached through the mountains and floated close to the ocean waves. But the rain held off and the trails were wet, but not deep, soft mud. Elias rode the lop-eared, steady, grey horse, whose powerful haunches sent them over the beach and along the dirt trails toward the village. A few days away from lighthouse tending were invigorating. Elias felt a weightlessness to his thoughts and feelings. After he fed the horses and left them in a paddock in the village, Elias went over to get a hotel room. The next morning he walked along the riverfront in the village. Without bridges, all water crossings were by boat. Now Elias saw a rowboat dragging a big raft of logs lashed together across the water. The rowboat bobbed in the river and the oars swept up and around. On the other shore, the distant figures loaded another boat. “Somebody grab that ferry raft,” a man’s voice called. Fir trees and mountains framed the wide waters. Brisk air brought scents of salt water and forest fragrances. “I’ll get it,” Elias hollered. He thought of the modern city of San Francisco, many days by ship to the south.

It even had experimental horseless carriages. But this tiny village on the wide river was a step back in time.  Although it was already 1898, the remote village was isolated by mountains and bodies of water without bridges to cross them.

Water sloshed against the wharf. The raft bumped the pier pilings. A young woman nearby named Cora watched the attractive man grab the rowboat lines. Elias's arms spun and he wrapped the lines around the posts. The boat was snugged up tight.

The river current swept the flat raft, with its lashed logs, hard against the posts. The man stooped, grasped the raft lines, and snugged it up tight also. Barrels and boxes rode high on the raft. Cora’s father stepped onto it. He untied the lashings, lifted boxes, and stepped onto the wharf with them. “Here, let me help you," Elias said. Cora was still watching him. "Who was this?" She decided to find out. “Thank you, good to see you, Elias,” said the man unloading boxes. “I believe you haven’t met my daughter, Cora.” “You’re welcome, George. No, I don’t believe I have.” Elias nodded to Cora and they shared glances. Her smile was enthusiastic. She liked what she saw. George thought “ I heard this young man is searching for a wife. He has a good position as the Mystic Lighthouse Keeper. Salary, nice Victorian home, a good living. Maybe I can play matchmaker for Cora.” “You had nice weather for your trip from the lighthouse yesterday,” said George.

Cora’s hair was blowing in the breeze while she continued smiling at Elias, who had paused. George decided to keep the conversation going. His daughter needed suitors and this man might be a prospect. “Yes, the footing was good for the horses, too, after this break between the rains. I rode and led the pack horses. Stocking up today with supplies,” said Elias. “Tonight there’s a barn dance at the Mill Hotel, maybe we’ll see you there,” George said. Cora’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got a fiddler and a country dance caller.” “Now, that would be something I haven’t done here before,” Elias said to George. “I may wander by and see what this is all about”. Cora’s smile widened but Elias did not notice. He helped unload the raft and went to several shops to order supplies. At the stable, he checked on his horses.

With only around 300 people, most of the people in the village knew each other. Lumbering, fishing, and homesteading drew many young, single men who sought opportunities. But women could be scarce. Elias went to the post office and mailed his letter. He knew his ad in the Matrimonial Magazine was seen across the country. He picked up a stack of replies. When he tried using the personal ads in the regional newspaper, he ran into the same issue of the scarcity of single women. Using the national matrimonial magazine was the only way to reach single women across the country. But when he thought of the letter he had just sent, he wondered if he had already found a wife. Cora, unaware of the ads and the letter Elias carried, went home and prepared for the country dance at the mill. She picked her best long blue dress and twirled her hair into big curls on top of her head. The evening was early when Elias heard the music and looked in the doorway. The room was lit by kerosene lanterns hung around it on the walls. The musicians included a fiddler, a flute, and a guitar. Men sitting around the edge of the room stomped their work boots to the music, adding a drumbeat. “ This is good, ” thought Eias. “ I am so isolated out at the lighthouse. The other keepers and the homesteaders are good company. But a trip into town and a chance to socialize is interesting. I forget sometimes what this is like.” The wood floor shook with the sound of men’s heavy boots. A country dance caller hollered out commands for the steps. There were not enough women for partners and circles of men stepped to the music. Each woman had a line of single men waiting for a dance. The men came from all over the country to the wilderness, drawn by opportunities for homesteading large acreages, lumbering, fishing, and a chance to leave cities and live with freedom and privacy. Elias saw one of the ladies head in his direction and he recognized Cora from the wharf that morning. She approached and greeted him. “Well, you made it,” she said. Elias had a quick impression of something hard in her eyes, something hidden. He felt his intuition raise a sense of being on guard. His thoughts quickly flitted to the letter about the two eagles courting that he mailed. “ What would Maryanne think when she read that letter? What if she had already found someone on the East Coast?” Cora tilted her head toward the dance floor, unaware. The message she implied was clear. Elias nodded and they stepped out onto the dance floor, joining a group of three other couples forming a square.

The fiddle music played, the caller hollered dance moves, and the couples bounced across the floor. After the dance Elias joined Cora’s parents and their friends at a large table. The conversation flowed and Elias listened, feeling a little awkward and out of practice. “How long has it been since I did something like this?” he thought. George and Mara, Cora’s parents, turned to him. “Tell us a little about yourself, Elias. I bet you have some interesting stories. Where are you from?” “I grew up near the fjords in Norway, in a seafaring family. My father and ancestors traveled far and wide on voyages. They were brave and loved to explore. At home, we managed to scrape by a living. When I heard about the western United States opening up, about the gold, the homesteaders land available, and the opportunities, I talked my brother into coming with me. He lives on the east coast now, married, with a growing family.” Cora was listening intently and Elias felt her strong focus. Her eyes were observing him closely. George and Maria nodded. “I came out for the same reason. We’re from the eastern side of the country, too,” George said. At the same moment, thousands of miles away on the Atlantic coast, Maryanne was already asleep in Dawn’s Harbor after her trip that day to the local lighthouse. She breathed slowly and gently, dreaming of a lighthouse beacon sweeping across ocean waves somewhere. Later that night, on the Pacific Coast, Elias was awake for a while after the country dance. Cora’s focused eyes observing him floated through his thoughts. The hardness and secrecy in her eyes troubled him. Elias took out the photo of Maryanne. He looked at her eyes in the picture by the lantern light in his hotel room. There was a softness and a gentleness in her gaze. The little girl on her lap smiled and her eyes were happy.

“What did her voice sound like?” Elias tried to imagine it. "Would he like hearing the sound of it?" What was she like as a human being? ” Elias knew what he did not want. Cora’s eyes spoke of her personality and he was not interested in her as a possible wife, despite the obvious efforts of George and Mara to be matchmakers. He set the photo of Maryanne on the table next to his bed, where he could see it easily when he woke up in the morning. He felt like the photo was keeping him company. Outside the window, clouds scudded in front of the moon. Elias pictured the two eagles, cartwheeling through the air together.

Something caught in his throat at the thought. On the edge of falling asleep, he pictured a sign over his front door at the lighthouse, " The Eagle's Nest ."


Jennifer bit her lip and knocked on the door, acutely aware of the probability that her article hinged on which direction this meeting swung. A lady with a bob of gray hair and a red apron opened the door, and a sweet, buttery smell escaped into the winter air. “Well, come on in, sweetie pie. Don’t want you freezin out there.” She waved her in with a white, flour covered hand. “Thank you, Ms. Brenda.” Jennifer stepped inside, although the fifty-five degree sunshine felt amazing compared to the icy blasts she’d left behind in New York City two days before. “Wow, your house smells amazing. They should make a candle with that scent.” Ms. Brenda chuckled. “Shortbread cookies. I make them every Tuesday. You sit right here while I finish this batch. I’m ready for your questions whenever you are.” “Well, like I said, I’m Jennifer Andrews with The New York Times. I caught wind of the quiet property sales in your neighborhood, all of which sold without ever going on the market. You’re one of the last original owners left in this development along the river, aren’t you?” The wooden rolling pin squeaked as she flattened the yellow dough. She nodded without looking up. “Seven families gone.” “Has anyone approached you about buying your place?” “Oh yeah. I’ve gotten three phone calls, and I told them not a chance. But now my neighbors are gone, and I feel kinda lonely. I’ve been wonderin if I should reconsider.” “Before you do anything like that, hear me out. I believe there is a company using unethical tactics to buy up these properties. Do you know why your neighbors sold? Were they offered a lot of money?” Ms. Brenda scored the dough into rectangles, then popped the pan in the oven. She slowly wiped down the counter and rinsed the sponge. Jennifer bit her lip again and tried to wait patiently. “I’m sorry if this hits a sore spot.” Ms. Brenda shook her head. “It’s just… well, I feel ashamed to admit it, but we all did somethin terrible. On accident of course, but it’s catchin up to us.” Jennifer frowned. “I don’t understand.” “I suppose I don’t mind showin ya.” She moved to the built-in desk at the side of the kitchen and pulled a paper out of the top drawer. “We all got one of these in the mail last summer.” Jennifer studied the paper. “An unpaid riverfront tax from the past thirty years of $130,000 due in full this April?” She looked up in shock. “That’s ridiculous!” “I can’t pay that, and they couldn’t either.” “Have you called the number they provided?” “No, I’ve been tryin to forget about it.” She sniffed and looked out the window. “I know that’s foolish, but I feel downright sick when I think on it.” “Forging a letter from the IRS is a felony. This may be a scam to pressure people into selling. Would it be okay if I called this number right now?” Ms. Brenda smiled broadly and patted her heart. “That would take a load off my chest!” “Awesome. I think there’s a good chance you’ll get a call from another buyer soon after, so be prepared. Also, is it okay if I impersonate you? It might be slightly offensive.” “Go right ahead. I’ll sit here and watch the show.” She handed Jennifer the phone and sat down on a big, flowered armchair, one of two in a bay window overlooking the Red River. Jennifer dialed and waited on speakerphone. A female answered. “IRS accounts receivable department. This is Nancy. With whom am I speaking?” “Hey, there. This is Brenda Myers,” Jennifer said in a gravelly drawl. “I’m in a tizzy cuz I’ve got this letter here sayin I owe the government a lot of money. Can you help me out?” Jennifer glanced over at Ms. Brenda in alarm. She had clamped a hand over her mouth and was bobbing violently in the chair. Please don’t have a stroke in the middle of this. “Of course, Ms. Myers. I’ve got your account pulled up. It looks like you owe $130,000.” “Lord Almighty, that’s a fortune! Whew, lemme take a minute.” She covered the phone and whispered, “Are you okay?” Ms. Brenda’s face was now purple, and tears squeezed out of her eyes. She nodded. Jennifer broke out in a sweat. “Nancy, tell me- do you have financin options? I was thinkin I might take out a loan. Or maybe I could ask my daughter for the money. I don’t know, what do you recommend?” “We, um... y-yes, financing is an option. Would you like me to send you some information on that?” “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, dear.” “Of course, Ms. Myers. I’ll put a pamphlet in the mail today, and it should be there in a week. Goodbye.” Dial tone. Ms. Brenda exploded. She leaned over and smacked her knees as loud cackles ripped out of her chest, one after another. She dragged in a deep breath and let out another round of trapped laughter. Relief washed over Jennifer, and she started to giggle, too. “Oh my gawd, you sounded just like me!” The oven beeped. “You deserve a snack, young lady!” Jennifer flashed an impish grin. “I was hoping you’d say that. Did you notice how nervous she got when I talked about actually paying?” “Yeah, she had ants in her britches. Coffee?” Jennifer and Ms. Brenda ate and chatted for the next ten minutes as if they were old friends. Then the phone rang. Ms. Brenda answered and hit speakerphone. “Hello, Ms. Myers? This is Elizabeth Pelfrey. My husband and I are looking for a riverfront place in your area. One of my good friends recently bought a property on your street, and I was wondering if there was a chance you might consider selling?” Jennifer wrote on a notepad: Let’s hear their offer. “Well, I suppose we could talk about it. Tomorrow at 3?” When Ms. Brenda hung up the phone, her eyes were huge. “You can just hear them out without committing to anything. I’ll record it as evidence.” “Will you pretend to be my daughter Hannah? She won’t mind, and I’ll need the support.” “Of course. Texas accent?” “Yeah, sweetie. You got it down pat.” There was a knock at the door. It opened half-way, and a young man with a nicely trimmed beard leaned in through the opening. “You doin okay, Ms. Brenda?” His smile faded when he spotted Jennifer. “Jacob! Oh yeah, Jennifer here has been a huge help to me, and I’ve laughed more today than I have in years. Lemme get you some shortbread.” She bustled over to the kitchen. He stepped inside and eyed Jennifer warily. His plaid shirt, tailored khaki pants, and clean boots created a unique blend of cowboy and businessman. “Jacob’s the son I never had, grew up four houses down thataway.” She handed him a paper bag full of buttery sweets.

“Well, I better go.” Jennifer headed to the door, hoping to draw him out with her before he blew their plans. “You be nice to this one, Jacob!” Ms. Brenda called out. “She might look like New York, but she’s got Texas in her heart.” The warmth dissipated as soon as the door shut. He followed her down the steps. “Are you tryin to buy her place?” “No, I’m a journalist from The New York Times.” “Like hell you are.” He narrowed his eyes. “You leave Ms. Brenda alone, you hear?” Jennifer rolled her eyes and hopped in her vehicle. “You’re full of it. Goodbye, Jacob Antonio Bracken.” She smirked at the shock on his face as she reversed. She always did her homework. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?” asked her boss through the phone. “Big lead- I’ll be there tomorrow for an offer. I’ve done three interviews, and I also went to the City Council Office. The land is zoned single-family residential with no pending applications for change.” “Great progress. Make sure you record that.” “Got it.” Time to start typing. *** Jennifer rolled up to Ms. Brenda’s house at 2:30 on Wednesday with adrenaline pumping through her veins. She had abandoned her sleek black boots and leggings in favor of brown work boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt. They set up the video camera in the living room, as well as a small one on Ms. Brenda’s shirt. The meeting went as expected. The couple tried to reschedule when they realized “Hannah” would be attending, but Ms. Brenda told them it was now or never. They seemed uninterested in checking out the house, yet eager to buy, and quickly made a lowball offer that only covered the value of the land. Mrs. Pelfrey had scrunched her nose and whispered, “We heard about your little tax problem. We’d be willing to pay your debt if you gave it to us at this price. You’re digging your own grave, otherwise.” Ms. Brenda fanned her face after they left. “Who would have thought that fake taxes would be so stressful?” Jennifer smiled. “You did great. Thanks for playing along. It could make a huge difference in the future of your neighborhood. Do you think I could leave my car here for a bit while I walk the properties?” “Sure thing, sweetie.” Jennifer decided to walk along the river, just in case she saw anyone and needed to hide out below the banks. She had no idea what was going on behind the locked gates that had been put up at the end of the driveways. Each property consisted of five acres of heavily wooded land that could easily hide something. The river meandered through the flat terrain, with red silt beaches that bumped into steep banks overhung by gnarly tree roots. Jennifer relished the fresh breeze on her face and the smell of the dry grass. She took deep, cleansing breaths and promised herself she would make an effort to get out in nature more often when she returned to New York. Suddenly, she walked into a clearing and found herself surrounded by bulldozers and rubble. An eerie silence hung over the site where a home had stood only days before. Jennifer jumped into action. She whipped out her phone to take pictures of the work site and the tractor license plates. Illinois. Mrs. Pelfrey definitely had a Chicago accent. A half-empty bottle of AtomZ water sat in a cup holder. A gun cocked behind her. Jennifer’s chest constricted. She held out her hands and slowly turned to face the danger. Jacob Bracken and the barrel of a shotgun stared her down. “What are you doin here?” he asked in a low voice. “Investigating,” she answered breathlessly. “Do you work for them?” “Of course not. I’m taking pictures to condemn whatever company is destroying your neighborhood. I promise I’m trying to help!” He tilted his head to the side, and his gaze traveled from her braid to her boots. Then he lowered the gun. “I haven’t had time to explore until today.” Jennifer quietly let out the breath she’d been holding as he took a look around. “They brought in their own equipment and workers. No locals have been hired,” Jacob said. She climbed the steps of a backhoe. “Hey, this one still has keys in it.” She gasped loudly. “What?” “There’s an AtomZ emblem on this keychain! Maybe that’s the company buying the land.” She snapped another photo. Jacob shook his head in disgust. “I saw an ad for AtomZ the other day. Their motto was helping you help the environment. More like helping you right out of your home.”

Jennifer glanced over at Jacob. He set the shotgun on the ground and climbed into the tallest tractor. She slunk toward it. “I found a wallet!” he called out. “Take a picture of the ID!” Jennifer grabbed the gun and rapidly unloaded it. She shoved the shells in her pocket right as he looked down. “What the heck!” Jacob leapt out of the tractor with fire in his eyes. She dropped the gun and backed away. “Gimme that ammo, girl,” he warned as he closed the distance. “Don’t you dare stick your hand in my pants.” He grimaced and halted. “I wasn’t gonna do that.” “If you were thinking about grabbing the shotgun shells, then yeah, you were.” “But you made it sound wrong.” “I’m glad you have the decency to rethink it.” The woods began to rumble as a truck approached. Jacob grabbed his gun. “To the river!” They sprinted to the edge and jumped. A tree hung over the bank, half of the roots exposed from erosion. They ducked under the cave it created. A door slammed. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.” “You leave your wallet everywhere, man.” Jacob stowed his gun on two loops made by the tree roots in the dark recess behind them. “Nice gun rack,” he whispered. Jennifer covered his lips with her fingers, desperate to go unnoticed. The warmth of his skin spread through her fingers, and she pulled them away, embarrassed. Particles of dirt remained on his lips. “Sorry,” she mouthed. He smiled in amusement. “Dude, you left the keys in this one! We’ll get fired if AtomZ finds out about this.” The men bickered their way back to the truck. The engine rumbled again and sat idling. Jennifer looked out at the river as they waited, aware of how her arm, hip, and leg pressed against Jacob’s in their tight hideaway. The sky had transformed during their investigation; pink and orange now streaked from the horizon upward until it faded into a soft purple. Jacob rotated to look at her. “This is an interesting way to watch the sunset.” “Mm-hmm.” She didn’t dare face him again. He continued to study her profile. There was a twig caught in her braid and a smudge on her cheek. “You look like you’ve done this before. How’d you learn to work a gun like that?” “My dad taught me. What made you trust me?” “Ms. Brenda trusts you, so I will too. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like a farm girl today.” Her lips twitched at the corners, and she twisted to peek over the bank. “All clear.” They crawled out and brushed off their clothes. Jennifer gave the shotgun shells back to Jacob. “Wanna walk down to see our old place? My truck is parked in the woods, and I can drive you back to Ms. Brenda’s.” “Sure. Hey, I’m sorry about your Dad passing in November.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Thanks. I forgot you already know everything about me.” She threw up her hands. “I’m not claiming that.” “Mom took it really hard. Then three days after the funeral, she told me she sold the place. Just like that. So she moved in with me, which is fine, but I hate that our land is gone. My grandfather developed this neighborhood.” “I didn’t know that.” “You weren’t very thorough with your stalking,” he teased. “Then I’ve found my New Year’s resolution: Be a better stalker.” He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re too pretty to be a stalker.” He cleared his throat. “How’d you find out about this debacle, anyways?” “A tip from a friend.” She wasn’t willing to admit she’d been wistfully perusing real estate in the area for the past year. “There’s a place in Pennsylvania where this is happening as well.” “Why’d you come here when that one was closer? Do you have family in town?” “No.” She reached into her leather backpack and pulled out a map. “But I grew up right there.” “That’s right across town!” he said in surprise. “No, we would have gone to school together. I would have known you.” She pointed to the map again and shook her head. “That’s the school zoning line. I was in another district.” “Can you start a fire?” “Yes.” “Do you hunt?” “I shot a water moccasin when I was ten.” She laughed. “Did I pass the Texas Verification Test?” “Why’d you leave?” “My parents died in a car wreck when I was fifteen, and I was in the foster system until I graduated. I got a scholarship from NYU, so I took it. I figured what better place to be lonely than New York City where everyone’s too busy to notice?” “Are you lonely?” She smiled softly. “No, I have a lot of friends now. New York’s been good to me.” “Next question. What’s going to happen when you write this article?” “Well, AtomZ’s business practices will be exposed to the world. There will be an investigation, and I think there’s a good chance the land will be returned to its rightful owners.” “Damn. Your plan is a lot better than mine. I think I’ll get rid of the dynamite in my closet.” “Please tell me you’re joking.” He grinned and shrugged. “You’ll never know.” “Will you rebuild if you get the land back?” He nodded. “There it is.” The river swung wide around a big piece of land that rose above it, the only hill for miles. A giant oak towered over the water with a wooden swing. He glanced at Jennifer. Her eyebrows had pinched together, and she pursed her lips as she fought back tears. “What is it?” he asked. “My dad pushed me on that swing once. We went tubing, and I begged to stop there to try it. I’m sorry for trespassing.” “We let the neighbors use it, and it sounds like you were our neighbor, Jennifer.” She turned to face him. “Jennifer Andrews is actually my pen name.” She held out her hand. “I’m Bonnie.” “Bonnie…” He smiled warmly and took her hand in both of his. “A girl with Texas in her heart.”


Black and red glinted across the darkened town. Sirens wailed through the night quiet, and as more joined the fray, it was apparent that something terrible had happened. In the span of an hour, the small beams of flashlights broke through alley-mouths and glided along the outskirts of town like the workings of a bee-colony. François lit a cigarette. He was seated on a bench beneath a tree overlooking Vanquios. The warm smoke steadied his trembling fingers and calmed his heart. He leaned against the bench and closed his eyes. Even in the autumn wind the distinct smell of blood lanced through that of his cigarette. The pain in his abdomen flared up again and he pressed a hand to where the bullet was lodged inside. He could not find the courage to close his eyes. What had been a simple act turned scary knowing it may be the last time he ever would. It seemed even here, well past his breaking point, he feared death. Dread filled him realizing that even madness would not free him of the fear. A car pulled curbside, its tires screeching against the asphalt. The door opened and then slammed shut. He knew she was crying before she even came into view. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him, sniffling. For a moment there was only silence. “Why?” The hand holding the cigarette drooped in his lap but there was just enough strength left in his fingers to keep it from falling. His chuckle turned to a grimace as the pain in his abdomen flared up again. The air was thick with burning tobacco. “You were scared I would come back. You were scared what it would mean, hm?” The word rested at the tip of his tongue, but he lingered, scared that he would break as soon as he said it. He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves, but as he mustered the courage to look his sister in the eye, the brittle wall he had built came tumbling down. He buried his face in his hands and cried. She took a step forward. “Run!” Hissed François. "There's nothing you can do for me!" She begrudgingly hurried back the way she had come as the police-sirens grew louder and red and blue lights flashed in his peripherals. The last thing he ever heard was the screeching of his car’s tires as his sister pulled out of the parking spot. --- Marie speed further down the road built into the mountainside, away from the approaching police, but more importantly, the only one in the world whom had ever cared about her. The radio station was tuned to a dead channel, the volume turned all the way up to disrupt the terrible thoughts that would have otherwise paralyzed her behind the wheel. She would not fail after the lengths François had gone to keep her safe. A tunnel had been carved through the mountain like the mouth of a beast, unlit because of François’ blackout. They had not discussed it, but it was apparent enough that she would have to make herself scarce before the lights came back on. Terrible things were stirring in the town of Vanquois. Their parents had only been the beginning. Thankfully, the tunnel walls were made of ceramic tile so she could see them glint in the headlights well before crashing into them and steer the around the bend accordingly. But she did not rely on it for long. As the tunnel straightened out again it was lit with flashing blue and red lights. Marie squeezed the steering wheel with frustration, unable to get a better grip because of her palms, slick with sweat. The dim echo of the car’s engine along the tunnel walls, mingled with the radio static made everything feel like some vivid nightmare. The fluorescent panels built into the ceiling of the tunnel flickered on and off as François’ blackout neared its end. The afterimages bloomed across her vision in purple blotches, but she kept her foot pressed firmly against the pedal as the speedometer hand ticked at maximum acceleration. She emerged out of the tunnel and sped past the streetlights built into the face of the mountain, showering the colour of gold through the dark. The sea glimmered off to her right, a pair of helicopters flying low over its surface and their taillights blinking red. Marie raised a sore arm and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She lowered the radio-static, too deep into the chase to worry that her mind may stray elsewhere. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, she found that the police lights that had been following her had disappeared and so had their sirens. Returning her attention to the road, she drove for a few minutes in eerie silence before her car jerked to a stop. Marie looked about frantically, light-headed from breathing so rapidly. She turned the car-key, but the engine made no sound. She tried again and again, but nothing. The streetlights flickered like the lights in the tunnel, and went out. It was pitch black. The only sound was the distant crash of waves against the cliff face to her right. Minutes passed, the stillness jarring after the chase, turning terrifying as the irrational fear that something would nab her from the dark festered. Suddenly, the radio switched on and bathed the dark, dim-yellow. Its red dial quivered at the end of the printed frequencies, and from that unlisted station came gentle, measured notes of violin bleeding through the silence from what felt more like the air around her than the car speakers. The notes held long and wavered in a way that felt distinctly human, but despite its beauty, part of her wanted to crawl out of her skin and run as far away from it as she could. It was magical in the way a Siren-Song was: alluring, yet steeped in foreboding. She reckoned that unlike the stories, she at least had the advantage of knowing something was off. But what good would it do her? The streetlight just above the car switched on as the final note of the violin’s melody tapered with vibrato into silence. Her breath fogged against the air, and the car switched back on without a sound. It rolled slowly down the road as the radio-dial swerved to the opposite end of the frequency listing. Static crackled momentarily before heavy breathing filled the quiet. Pinpricks of warmth beat against her neck, heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. “Too late,” came the voice of static, shaking the entire car. Marie felt a hand close around her throat just as the first tear dropped, and no more…