“We have found the individual behind the rebel organization calling themselves ‘The Flood.’ His name is Miguel. Last name is unknown.” The lights in the small briefing room dimmed as a projector hummed to life. An image appeared on the blank wall behind the Harmony Division Officer. The image was of a man in his late twenties. His black hair was cut short at this nape but left long on top. His clothes were the typical style of civilians: black pants with a white shirt and gray overcoat. If not for the hairstyle, he would pass for any average person on the street. The Officer continued addressing Danika, the only other person in the room. “You have been tasked with infiltrating The Flood, finding Miguel, and gathering as much intel as possible.” The image on the wall changed to an unassuming three-story warehouse. “This is where we believe the next rebel event will take place. Your assignment will begin this evening. Garments have been provided for you.” He indicated a cardboard box sitting on one of the empty desks. Next, he handed her a small tube similar in shape to Chap Stick. “If you need an extraction, press and hold the top for three seconds, and we will send in officers to retrieve you. This is only in case of an emergency. Otherwise, you are on your own. Questions?” Danika pocketed the small device and stood at attention. “No, Sir. I understand.” The Officer nodded and turned to leave. He paused before opening the door to the small briefing room. “Observe, assess, and control.” She repeated the Harmony Division’s doctrine, remaining at attention until the Officer left the room. She grabbed the cardboard box containing her disguise and left. It was time to get ready. ~*~ The pressure of imminent rain hung heavy as Danika walked down the silent industrial road. It was well past evening, and the sound of Danika’s heels echoed down the empty streets. A chill ran up her arms, and she pulled her jacket around her tighter. She felt uncomfortable in the clothes the Division had given her to wear as a disguise. Rather than a customary pant and blouse outfit, she wore long flowing pants made of thin blue silk that billowed as she walked. The fabric wrap she wore to cover her stomach and torso was a darker shade of blue and thankfully thicker than the pants. The cloth clung to her figure, making her feel naked and exposed. She had been provided a thin white shawl to cover her shoulders and exposed collarbone but had opted for her usual black coat. The heels she wore provided as little cover as her clinging blouse. The heels were reasonably short, not much higher than her boots, but the tops of her toes and ankles were open to the elements. It had taken numerous attempts to figure out how to secure the shoes to her feet and legs using the long scraps of material that wrapped up her legs to nearly her knees. The whole ensemble felt unnatural, but she would not question the Division. As she finally approached the storehouse that was The Flood’s current base of operations, she stepped into a side alley and waited. Minutes later, a small group of five individuals approached the building. They wore dark coats that reached down to hover just above the ground and were chatting loudly. Their banter echoed down the street and covered the sound of her steps as she approached them from behind. The group quieted as one knocked at a small door next to the loading bay. The door opened a crack, and someone peered out. The two exchanged a few words that Danika didn’t hear before the door swung open, and the group stepped inside, Danika hot on their heels. The guard must have assumed she was a part of the group, as he didn’t stop her as she followed. She followed the group down a long hallway to another door. This one they opened themselves and excitedly walked through. Her senses were immediately assaulted the moment she stepped through the door. Thumping music blared from every direction, and the base was so deep that she could feel it in her bones. Bright lights strummed and flashed in the otherwise dark space. A sticky heat surrounded her. Whether that heat was from the blinding lights high above or the amount of bodies packed into the space, Danika couldn’t tell. Overwhelmed, Danika didn’t know where to look first. Bars and tables lined the open warehouse on every side, where people crowded together. Bodies moved and writhed on numerous risen platforms throughout the area, including a massive platform in the center that was wider and taller than the rest. At some point, someone had asked for her coat and removed it from her motionless form. Though she felt cooler without the stifling garment, she feared she would stand out like a bright blue beacon. That was not the case, as everyone in the crowd wore an appalling variety of colorful clothes. Dizzy, she managed to stumble to the nearest bar, falling more than sitting on an empty barstool. The man behind the counter, who wore only colorful body paint on his exposed torso, tried to offer her a drink, but she waved him away. She could tell by the sickly sweet and tart smell in the air that the bar served alcohol, which was strictly prohibited. She wondered if the Division already knew and made a mental note to add it to her report. Closing her eyes, Danika took a deep breath, trying to get her rapid heartbeat under control. She silently repeated the Harmony Division doctrine until she could breathe properly. In control of her emotions once again, she looked out over the confusing mass of bodies, lights, and colors. She hadn’t known exactly what to expect the rebel base of operations to look like, but it certainly hadn’t been this. The number of violations she observed in just a few minutes since she had arrived was too numerous to keep track of. After centuries of war and conflict among people, every nation had come together in peace to find a solution to end their differences once and for all. After years of debate and several failed trials, an accord was finally struck. At the root of everything was emotion—rage, hate, greed, lust. Powerful emotions were enough to lead even the most pious of people astray, blinding themselves to logic. As such, a global decision was made to suppress emotions. The mandate took decades to establish and control, finally coming into full effect with the invention of suppressant medication provided to all citizens. The world finally saw a time of peace the likes had never seen before. Without greed, crime vanished. Without rage and hate, disputes were settled with levelheadedness and pragmatism. Despite the global peace, there were still factions who openly opposed the emotional suppression, claiming the act to be against the very nature of humanity. To combat those rebellious factions, the Harmony Division was founded. An elite force of agents trained in combat, negotiation, infiltration, and survival. Their mission was to track down resistance organizations and put an end to the very atrocities Danika observed at that moment. She felt the urge to sneer with disgust at the sight but managed to rear in her emotions quickly, just as she had been trained. She had graduated from the academy at the top of her class, and this place and its influence were already pulling emotion from her. It was no wonder the Division wanted this group, The Flood, to be eradicated as soon as possible. She had successfully infiltrated the establishment, but how was she supposed to find Miguel in this crowd? By some stroke of luck, she was saved from her predicament as the man himself emerged from the crowd and headed directly to the bar and empty space next to her. She watched as he leaned across the bar and shouted to get the naked-torso-man’s attention. They exchanged a few words, and Miguel was handed a bottle of what Danika assumed was alcohol. He glanced at her twice out of the corner of his eye before turning to face her. “Are you alright?” Danika blinked, realizing that she had been staring. She didn’t want to shout over the noise, so instead, she nodded. Miguel didn’t look convinced. “You look a little… overwhelmed. Is it your first time here?” She pushed down her offense at the insinuation that she could not control her emotions. “Yes, this is my first time. I’m not used to all,” she gestured widely at the space, “all this.” He nodded and took a long drink from the bottle. “That’s to be expected. How long have you been clean?” Her brows furrowed. How long had she been clean? Did he mean since her last bath? What an inappropriate question to ask her. He must have noticed her confusion, for he laughed and moved to stand a little closer to avoid having to shout. “I meant, how long has it been since you stopped taking the suppressants?” Her eyes widened with shock. Did everyone here not take their government-mandated suppressants? That explained the blatant disregard for order. “A few days,” she lied. “That’s to be expected then.” His gaze roamed over her then, and she feared for a moment that something was wrong with her disguise. Her heart rate threatened to pick up. She wished she had thought to bring emergency suppressants with her. “Would you like to dance?” “What?” Between the look on his face and the question, she wasn’t sure which confused her more. He was smiling, but it was more than the expected pleasantness. There was more, dare she say it, emotion. “I asked if you’d like to dance. With me.” He took another drink from the bottle, emptying it. A flush colored his cheeks. “I don’t know how to,” she admitted. Dancing wasn’t something people usually did. There was no reason to, as the act had no practical use other than exercise. She knew what dancing was but had no firsthand experience. Miguel’s smile widened, showing white teeth. Before she knew it, he had placed the empty bottle on the counter, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into the writhing mass of bodies. She wanted to protest but was pulled in before she could react. The crowd seemed to part for him, people sending smiles and nods his way, patting him on the shoulder, or waving. He led her through the mob and up the stairs to the massive platform in the center of the warehouse. The music seemed louder here, the vibrations of the bass deeper. A small space opened up around them, and he released her hand. She watched in confusion as he started moving. Everyone around her moved as well, though no one seemed to be in sync, each moving in their own flailing way. Was this dancing? It wasn’t at all what she had thought it was. Her attention was pulled back to Miguel as he laughed. “You weren’t kidding! You really don’t know how to dance!” Her face burned. Was he making fun of her? She had told him she didn’t know how, so what right did he have to be surprised? Before she could voice her frustration, Miguel moved so close that they were practically chest-to-chest. He placed his hands on her waist and gently pushed her side to side. Danika stood ramrod still, unsure of what was happening or how to react appropriately. “Just relax! Follow me, and I’ll show you.” She took a deep breath. So far, she had done an excellent job finding the target, though truthfully, he found her. Now, she needed to get him to talk. And if ‘dancing’ is how she accomplished that, she would dance. Slowly, she relaxed her limbs and allowed the gentle pressure of Miguel’s hands to guide her hips from side to side. “Good! You’re getting it! Now, lift your arms. No, not like that! You look like a zombie. Bend your elbows and let your arms sway with the beat. There you go. Now,” he released her hips and stepped back. “Now you’re dancing.” She felt utterly ridiculous, even more so that he had stopped guiding her. The way her hips and arms moved reminded her of the running chimpanzees she’d seen in a documentary. She was about to stop when Miguel started dancing. She found it was easier if she matched his movements. “You never told me your name,” He shouted. “Danika.” She immediately regretted giving him her real name. She should have made something up. “Beautiful,” he said as he took a step closer. “I’m Miguel.” Heat rose to her cheeks, and she stepped back, hoping that it looked like a part of her dance and less like the retreat it was. “So why all this?” She waved one hand out, again indicating the entire warehouse. He shrugged. “Why not?” “Because it’s against the law,” she deadpanned. “The law?” He scoffed. “What is so illegal about feeling?” “How about it leading to war and crime?” Miguel’s smile dropped. “Not all emotion is dangerous, Danika.” He closed the space between them and grabbed her hand. She kept her body pliant and followed his lead as he twirled her in a circle. “We can feel more than anger and hate. What about joy? Happiness?” He spun her again so that her back rested against his chest, one of his hands moving down to rest on her waist. “Excitement?” A chill ran down her spine at the same time as her face heated. She spun, facing him. He tugged her into twirls, moving her body with the guidance of a gentle hand. All the while smiling. She was caught off guard as he suddenly stopped. Once again, her back was flush against his chest. “Want to see something cool?” He didn’t wait for her answer, instead pulling a phone from his pocket. He tapped on the screen and a moment later Danika felt something wet drip onto her hair. Looking up, she watched in awe as the distant ceiling slowly moved, parting down the middle to open to the sky. Rain fell upon the cheering crowd, the music rising to match the pounding of water on bodies and the dance floor. Rather than run for cover, the people around her were invigorated. Most who had crowded around the bars and tables moved to join the throng of people dancing in the rain. Danika watched, enraptured as even the elements could not dampen these people’s emotions. The strobing and swaying lights' color refracted off the water, casting everything in a hazy rainbow as if looking through a tinted lens. How could something so terrible be so beautiful? Miguel spun her to continue their dance. His smile was radiant and infectious as she felt a smile of her own force its way past her barriers. Between the beat of the music, the thrum of the rain, and the warmth of dancing alongside Miguel, Danika lost herself. After a time, the music slowed just as she felt she could no longer go on. She had given up keeping her joy at bay, at least for now. Her cheeks were sore from smiling, and her throat felt raw from shouting and laughing. “So,” Miguel began, leaning down so that he didn’t have to shout as he moved them both slowly to the beat. “What do you think? Still want to shut us down?” Danika froze, all semblance of joy and warmth leaving her. Suddenly, the gently falling rain felt like pinpricks of ice. She looked up at Miguel, speechless. He smiled, though this time, the joy was replaced with sadness and guilt. “The Harmony Division isn’t the only organization with spies, Danika. I knew who you were the moment you stepped through the door.” “Then why…” She trailed off, knowing what she wanted to ask but unable to formulate the words. Miguel pulled her from the center of the platform to stand at one of its edges. She faced the crowd below as he stood behind her. His arms caged her in, resting on the railing on either side. “Look at them. Do you see how happy they all are?” Danika looked out over the mass of people. Couples swayed, lost within each other. Some danced alone, lost to the atmosphere as she had been earlier. Others moved in small groups. Everyone was laughing. Smiling. Living. “Why do we have to deny ourselves something that can bring so much joy? Humans were born with emotions, Danika. It’s not right to take away the opportunity for someone to find happiness in life just because there are bad people out in the world.” “Why are you called The Flood?” She asked. She hadn’t meant to voice the question, but her emotions were too raw to control. “Because this suppression mandate is just a dam holding back the natural order of things. And once that dam breaks, the ensuing flood will be catastrophic. People have forgotten how to live. How to feel. I will do my best to stop that flood from destroying as many people as possible.” He stepped away from her, taking his warmth with him. She turned to face him. “So, what will you do, Danika? Will you try to keep the dam from breaking? Or will you prepare for the flood?” She didn’t have an answer. Not able to stand the intensity of his gaze any longer, she lifted her face to the rain, allowing the cool water to wash over her. When she looked back, Miguel was gone. “How can I do anything but prepare for the flood when I know it’s coming?” She asked, knowing full well the music and rain would drown out her words to anyone but herself.


“You wanna do something fun?”

I looked up at Janie, red, slick hands wiping the jean windshield that was my narrow thighs. I could see the heave in my chest, feel the bones rattling in my neck. Her eyes were bright and crazed, and standing up at this moment felt like lifting a car. Still, I stood. “Something fun, huh? More fun than this?” I gestured to my torso. The broken skin mixed with torn fabric and blood reminded me of the inside of a strawberry danish. Talk about taking a bite out of life.

I could sense her resolve, and while not so much as glancing down at her well-done friend, she turned back around to the mouth of the cave.

Eight hours earlier “You know what I actually hate? It’s this. It’s what we’re doing.”

I laughed out loud. This trip was all Janie’s idea. Her voice bounced around the stone walls, our tent doing little to muffle the acoustics. I watched her zip up her sleeping bag and stuff it neatly into the corner of our tiny, synthetic-blend green tent.

“I thought you were dying to come here,” I snorted, lacing my boots up. I bought them specifically for this trip. The tread was new, leaving wet marks in the shape of my shoe size all over the freezing stone ground. As I did this, my ears caught the quiet drips of water whose mother lake hid miles within the earth. “I was,” She sighed, disappointed. Whether it was in herself or in the great wonder that was nature, I wasn’t sure.

There was a little truth to it. The glitz and magic of Destinations Magazine ’s must-visit locations only included well-edited photos. Unbeknownst to its readers was the feeling of the unforgiving, freezing stone ground and the ten packs of astronaut food we spent good money to pack. Honesty doesn’t sell an article, however.

“I think you’ll like it,” I lied, mostly talking to keep myself warm, “once we’re in there, we’ll be in there , you know?”

Janie grunted at me in agreement. I shoved an extra bottle of water into my pack, and we made our way into the beloved Meramec.

My companion turned on her headlamp first. “Weak,” I teased, and as she chuckled back at me from behind, “you’re not getting the true cave experience.”

“I want to see what we came to see, Anna. Is that okay with you?”

It was, but to be honest, there wasn’t much to see. Not yet, anyway. The glittering stalactites were about a mile away, past the slippery tundra of rocks and water. I turned my headlamp on then.

As we crunched further in, the sound of droplets became more coherent, and every now and again we needed to slosh through puddles of ice water. It was always just enough distance to keep my boots wet, and mark my tracks. If there were any other direction to turn but forward, then it may have even been handy.

Janie turned around to look at me, her headlamp making a black spot in my vision. “What?” I asked, squinting.

“What did you say?” I covered my eyes with my hand. “I didn’t say anything, but you’re blinding me.”

“Oh,” Janie switched off her light, “Sorry. Did you say something just now?” “I said I didn’t.”

I walked past her, eyeing her. She had come to a full stop to rummage through her bag, but she seemed fine. A few cones of mineral and stone began to appear, like a ceiling of elderly teeth. I shined my light on them, watching them shift and glow.

Stepping closer into the pocket of rock to get a closer look, I sank my boot into a knee-high tower of freezing water. Damn. I pulled the full weight of my body out with my arms, catching the silver bodies of cave fish swimming

inside with my headlamp.

“Janie! Hey, there’s some fish over here.”

Nothing. “Janie? Let’s stay together, okay?”

I continued to call out for her, listening for the rustle of her backpack. The floor of the cave copied her footsteps, leading much more deeply up the rocky path. I quickened my pace, almost running, my voice echoing over and over. The black of the cave swallowed my view of everything the light couldn’t touch.

I ran further inward than I ever figured Janie would go without me, and thinking back, for much longer than I would have hoped. Time really plays tricks on you in the catacombs.

“Anna.”

From behind me, Janie’s voice was low and calm. Low enough not to echo, even. I turned around to see her.

“Janie, what the hell? I was looking for you!” Her face was incredulous. “Yeah, Anna, you were running . I wasn’t sure if maybe there was a bear or something.”

A bear? Her breaths were heavy, perhaps from having to run after me. “I don’t think a bear would wander in here.” I scoffed. “Let’s just make sure to stick together.” Janie made a face. “Speak for yourself.”

We continued our trek into the cave, next to the drying footsteps I thought were my friend’s. Unable to stop myself, I finally looked down at them. Size ten.

“What now, Anna?” “These haven’t been here the whole time, have they?” I motioned to the tracks.

Janie looked nervous. “I don’t remember them. But there could be other hikers here. I mean, this place has to be popular.”

I nodded. Other hikers, here because of the spread in Destinations Magazine . It made sense, but wouldn’t we have seen them? I spanned the length of the cave with my headlamp. Nobody.

My anxiety matched Janie’s now, as we squinted at each other through our blaring lights. I watched Janie rifle through her bag once more, and this time, I waited for her.

“What are you doing?”

She seemed hypervigilant now, the rifling becoming a blatant search. “I can’t find my phone. I thought I left it on earlier, I heard voices. I thought it was you.”

I remembered. Janie went down on her knees to search, emptying her pack. I helped her, going through our snacks and water. No phone.

“It’s probably in the tent. We have mine, if anything happens.”

If anything happens? I knew I shouldn’t have said it.

“Make sure you have it,” Janie said, pulling my backpack off my shoulders, “just in case.”

 	I obliged, but somehow, I knew. I unzipped the top for her, eyes glossy. When all the pockets were empty, I repacked my bag with sweaty hands. I remembered packing my phone. Better than stepping into the water, better than my sixteenth birthday, I remembered. I looked up at Janie, who was still glaring at the overwhelmingly large bootprints. “Let’s go back,” she suggested, shivering. “We haven’t gone far, maybe thirty minutes?”

There was no way to tell how long we’d been here. No sky, no time. But I nodded. I was cold, and I knew Janie was going to do what she wanted regardless of my feelings-- especially if my feelings were that we’d been exploring for significantly longer than half an hour. “Anna.” I was zipping the last pocket. “What, Janie?”

I turned my head toward her voice. When she wasn’t standing there, I felt a familiar hand on my bicep. Shaking, pitched high, Janie whispered in my ear.  “That wasn’t me.”

I wrapped my arm around my back to feel her inches behind me. I began to stand, and she mirrored me until we were both upright.

“Do you have all your stuff?” I whispered back. “Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

We ran. Somehow, we decided at the same time that an all-out sprint was appropriate. As we were running, I watched the ground. Fresh, wet size tens faced opposite us on the stone floor of the cave. I started to slow down when I noticed them disappearing.

Anna began to jog with me, and we both stopped at a small joint in the leg of the cave. For a second, I wondered if we were two girls who fell hilariously victim to a silly prank. We stood there to stare at each other, our chests inflating a little less with each passing second.

Click .

A bright flash of white hit the black air like lightning, blinding us for a moment. Janie stumbled back, and as I went to catch her, I felt something hit my abdomen. I was facing the wall, my arm reaching out sideways to reach her. Harsh, copper penny blood creeped up from my throat into my mouth.

“Anna, oh my god!” Another click, and a flash, like a camera. I grabbed Janie’s collar and dragged her out of the corner we were in, waving my left over arm at anyone who may have been in front of us. I couldn’t see anyone worth running from, but my now-bitter tongue said otherwise.

When I felt confident that Janie had chosen flight over fight, I let go of her and felt down my stomach. Perpendicular to my body was a long, cold object, jutting neatly from my ribs. It was too thick to be a knife, and really too rough to be any traditional weapon of which I could imagine.

My boot caught uneven ground, sending me flying onto my back. My head hit the rocks, freezing stone immediately soothing the hot pain that followed.

“Janie! Janie, I fell!” It came out like begging.

She slid to a stop, turning around to face me. I arched my neck away from her, back into the sorry, sullen earth that was suddenly very noisy. Barreling down the length of the cave came a man. He was large, over six feet, pounding the ground with thick, black soled hiking boots. He wore an army green jumpsuit, and held a camera close to his body. He had a rough beard, and blue eyes--

Janie picked me up with strength that surprised me. “Anna, let’s go .”

We continued to run, and my mind raced with us. I knew that man. I knew his face, but I couldn’t place it. I felt like I should have, while I was awaiting my inevitable death on the floor. Coward. Reporter: Can you tell me the most exciting place you’ve ever explored? Bairn: Absolutely… I visit a lot of places, and I’ve always, uh, figured I’d never choose a favorite. I mean, all over the world, you know? But there is one.

Reporter: Care to elaborate?

“Anna, are you okay? Anna!” Janie’s voice echoed in front of me.

I had slowed down, almost to a stop. I knew where we were now, very, very close to camp. Maybe five more minutes and we’d reach the tent.

“Anna!”

“Janie, keep running!” Janie stared at me, incredulous. But to my intense surprise, she did as I asked. I turned around. And I waited, while this flashback continued to play.

Bairn: There’s a cave in Missouri, the Meramec Caverns. It’s amazing. You can really be… alone, in there, you know? No one, and I mean no one, can find you.

Reporter: And you enjoyed that?

Bairn: Of course. You can do anything. Be anyone. When I think, “Hey, you wanna do something fun?” I think of Meramec. Mark Bairn. He was close now. I egged him over to me, acting hurt, helpless. I stood against the deceivingly small pond of water that maimed my still-soaked pant leg.

“Please, no,” I feigned, my big doe eyes black under my headlamp. I watched him sink long-ways into the deep, narrow cave water. He splashed and slipped around, his enormous arms grabbing for me. Waiting for an opening, I lifted my leg as high as I could.

I landed an even, sturdy kick to the face, and his head hit the corner of the pool. Splat. While he was limp, I slipped the strap of the camera over his head, and stuffed it into my jacket. He looked like a goner, but there was no way to be sure until I could get his pulse. Instead of doing my due diligence, I ran as fast as I could to meet Janie.

When I found her, I realized just how late it was.

“Anna…”

It was the first chance I had to look down at myself. A stalactite, once pinky brown, was now red and lodged squarely into my ribcage. Giving Mark Bairn’s camera to Janie, I began to unlodge it.

“Not so deep,” I grunted, the tip coming out easier than I could have hoped. She made a face, and I noticed a large rock in her left hand.

“Where’s that guy?” Game face, Janie. “That guy is Mark Bairn. It was his article that we read in Destinations .” I decided not to watch her eyes widen, or to console her in the emotional death of her favorite literature. Instead, I sat down, taking my boot off to make a bandage out of my only dry sock. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, she sat down next to me, his camera around her neck. We flipped through the contents, most of which were photos, but there were videos as well. Men, women, children. Most dead, some dying. From behind us, our camera man groaned.

I stared into Janie’s face, and she began to stand. She still had her rock.

End.


   “I was molested.”     “What?!”     It was a Thursday evening; but when your friend had had a fight with his secret boyfriend, you now had an excuse to declare it a long weekend. First , ask your seatmates to cover for you in classes you can’t fuck, and just fuck the rest. But because you’re a roguish student and a good seatmate , they probably got your back in everything until graduation. Second , drop by your apartment to change because someone from school might see you buying booze with your nun-like uniform: white, long sleeve blouse and black, below the knee skirt. You’re not a good student, but you’re not stupid either—you can’t fuck up college, especially when it’s already your last year. Third , let him chose the drink. It’s his night. Buy from small liquor stores to support small businesses. Buy cheaper ones because the goal is to gulp and get drunk; not to sip, smell and whirl it in your father’s fancy tumbler that you stole four years ago because you wanted to punish him for making you go to a sectarian business school in a town you’ve never been. And make sure to buy enough to last you ‘til 5 AM because in a place like this, everyone’s asleep after ten o’clock. Fourth , drink your sorrows away! “Molested?!” I stood up abruptly and towered in front of him, brows furrowed and mouth agape. The neck of my bottle warm in my right hand. We were drinking cheap cut brandy straight from the bottle while sprawled on the wooden floor in the upstairs living room of his house. It was an old Spanish colonial house that had been owned by his family for generations. The huge house was practically empty except for the antique jars and vases of different sizes placed in every corner: foyer, receiving area, dining, even on pillars of staircases. He shared the house with a housekeeper and his two cousins: one who also went to our school, and the older one worked as I-didn’t-know-what somewhere in this town. While the rest of his family were back in the city with a lot of irons in the fire managing their steel factory. Pun intended.     “Shh... I think my cousin’s still up working,” he whispered as he twisted his body to look if there was someone else around; his almost empty bottle toppled but was still safely nestled in his crossed legs.     When we started playing twenty-one questions, it was fun. We laughed and giggled at our stupid questions and silly answers until I asked the question, “How did you become bisexual?” as a joke. “What do you mean molested?!” I scream-whispered. He only sighed, propped his elbows on his bent knees and buried his face in his palms. My head spun, maybe from the sudden movement. So I sat back down beside him, legs stretched, still holding the bottle. I heard him breathe deeply, and then myself. “Who did it?” “My uncle...” he said quietly, face still buried in his hands. “What?” I gasped. “...and my cousin,” ...and a family friend.” His voice quivered. He sniffed and moved his left hand to wipe away his tears that I didn’t see, but knew was there. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Yes, it happens a lot in this country especially to those poor children living in the slums, but to him? He’s from a rich, respected family for Christ's sake! “How? When? Your parents, do they know?... Why not?!” He only kept crying and sniffing and shaking his head while I rapidly blurted out those questions. "Why didn't you tell them?" I pressed on. "I don't want to be the cause of some sort of dispute in the family." "Seriously?!" He didn't answer. “Wait, which cousin?” He jerked his head to the left where there was a hallway lined with bedroom doors, but there was only one occupied room in that part of the house, “Friendly?!” We had been friends since freshman year, and I had been in this house countless of times for the past four years. The people of this house knew me. I’d even assigned nicknames for them, but only used it when talking to my friend. The housekeeper was Mrs. Lovely because she was sweet and kind, one cousin was Friendly because he was warm and welcoming, and the other was Shabby not that he was untidy but because he was either shy or snobby.     He only nodded.     “Is he still doing it?”     “No, it only happened when I was a kid. When I still wasn’t strong enough to fight them off.”     “What about Shabby? Did he also...?”     “No, we’re the same age. It was only my uncle and—“     “Friendly. Because they’re much older and stronger.”     He sobbed, bent his back much lower to hug his knees and bury his face.     “Animals!” I muttered. When you see those innocent girls on the news with their young faces blurred—victims—some are dead, others alive (but are they really?); or the high rate of reported child abuse and trafficking from a research article you were reading for Psychology class, you clenched your teeth while clicking on that down button harder and harder as you read more and more about these bastards! But there was nothing you could do.     A door creaked open then closed. My friend stopped crying, but he was still hiding his face, sniffing. His cousin padded down the hallway. I looked up when he passed by us, and he met my gaze.     “Love life?” he chuckled, pointing at my crying friend. I nodded once.     “Where are you going?” I asked.     “Kitchen,” he never stopped walking, “midnight snack.”

Animal! I thought.     Once he descended the stairs, I stood up. “I need to pee,” I told my friend and walked calmly towards the stairs; bottle of brandy still in hand.     When I reached the wooden rail near the staircase, I placed both of my forearms on top of it and let the half full bottle of cheap brandy dangle from my fingers. I turned to my right and stared at the antique vase placed heavily on top of the pillar. No, too hard. On impulse, I changed my hold of the bottle. I now held it horizontally with the neck in my left hand and bottom in my right. The amber liquor inside took another shape. I leveled the bottle, breathed, and waited. And then, it all happened so quickly: a shatter, Friendly bawled in pain, my friend’s footsteps, then I ran downstairs. When I got to Friendly, there were shards of glass on the floor and he was clutching his head still screaming in pain. “What happened!” my friend exclaimed behind me. “I dropped the bottle and it hit him!” I replied rather honestly. Mrs. Lovely emerged from a dark corridor, confused. When she saw Friendly, she went straight to him and led him to the couch in the middle of the room before hurrying for the first aid cabinet. Once Friendly was seated, in pain, and still clutching his head, a beautiful red blood dripped and stained his sordid face. I sat beside him on the couch, “Oh my god! I’m so drunk. I didn’t mean to...” And then I gently put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry!”


“When am I?” was the first thing I said when I got out of the pod. I knew where I was. I was in the same room where I had been on June 10, 2020, the day I would travel to the future. If all went well, a team of scientists would be awaiting my arrival on June 10, 2050, thirty years in the future. “Something must have gone wrong,” I told myself; there was no one else to talk to. Water was dripping from the ceiling and there was a funky smell in the room. I tried a switch, but the light didn’t turn on. Apparently, there was no electricity. Fortunately, my pod had its own power supply in the form of a battery with an extremely long life. The only light in the room was coming from the large window in the East wall of the Kunos Tower, named after Mel Kunos, the founder and CEO of Kunos Industries. I walked to that window and looked down from the tenth floor. I shuddered at what I saw outside. As far as the eye could see, all buildings were in ruins. Streets and facades were overgrown by lush vegetation. I didn't see a living soul on the broad lane that divided the city in an East side and a West side, only a bunch of rusty car wrecks that looked as if they were thrown there in a random order. “I have to get out of here,” I said. Walking towards the door, I stumbled over something. To my horror I discovered that I was stepping on human remains. I recognized the silver necklace of Dr. Fey who had been at the buttons, operating my pod. On the other side of her desk, I found the dead body of a second person. “This must have been Dr. Blake,” I mumbled. He was the inventor of time-traveling. There had been a third person in the room on June 10, 2020. Dr. Thompson was Dr. Blake's assistant. I looked at where he had been monitoring my journey through the fourth dimension, and there he was —or rather: there was what was left of him. “It’s as if my voyage to the future wiped out the whole city, maybe even the whole world!” I uttered in despair. “Am I the only person left alive?” I remembered how Dr. Thompson jokingly informed me of a lunatic who had broken into the lab, claiming this would happen. The stranger had somehow managed to bypass security and intended to sabotage the experiment. He had been arrested and taken into custody before he could do any harm. We laughed about it. We had done the Math; nothing could go wrong. The door jammed, but I managed to enter the hallway. The elevators didn’t work —obviously. I had to take the stairs down. That was quite a challenge. When I reached the seventh floor, my way was blocked by debris. “There must have been a fire in this part of the building.” Talking to myself was my way to keep my nerves under control. I went up one level and found another staircase that brought me to the third floor, where I met another obstruction. Eventually, I got on the ground level by lowering myself to the terrace of the company restaurant on the second floor and taking the outside stairs on the back of the building. “A drink!” I said. “I need a drink!” I went back to the restaurant, hoping to find a bottle of booze that was still intact. Much to my surprise, I came upon an improvised habitat that was built half inside, half outside the main room of the restaurant. There was a water supply, probably consisting of rainwater; herbs were growing out of flowerpots; there was a small bed on the inside; one spot on the outside looked like it had been used for a campfire for many years. Someone was living here. I was not alone! The kitchen of the restaurant was ransacked. The cellar was too dark to explore, but given the large number of empty bottles piled up in the kitchen, I don’t think there was any alcohol left. I quenched my thirst with water and decided to wait for the person living who lived here. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I smelled food. “Who are you?” I asked the woman who was preparing a meal. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You told me to wait for you in case something went wrong, but I lost track of time. I wasn’t aware that today was the day thirty years had passed.” “Anna?” I asked. Anna was a woman I had been dating in 2020. She worked on the ninth floor. Back then, we were about the same age. The strange woman in front of me looked like an older version of the Anna I knew. If Anna had been waiting for me for thirty years, she must be sixty-something now. “It was so lonely waiting for you,” she answered. “What happened?” “You came to me the day before you were scheduled to travel to this time,” she explained. “You said you had already made the trip to the future, and that you had come back to warn us for the disaster that was about to happen. You asked me to trust you and to help you in case you didn't succeed to stop the experiment.” “The lunatic!” I realized that the stranger Dr. Thompson had told me about wasn’t a stranger at all. It was me —a me from the future— who had come back in an attempt to prevent the catastrophe we were about to cause. I had failed. “You sounded crazy that day, but I was in love with you. I did what you asked. An hour before the experiment would take place, I used your credentials to get access to the backup pod in the basement. I waited there for half a day.” “You survived the cataclysmic event in the shelter of the time-traveling pod?” “I survived, but when I got out of the pod, it was still 2020. Since you are here today, I’m assuming we’re 2050. I’ve been the only person in the world for thirty years. I’m so happy to see you, but I already know what you’re going to ask me next.” “What am I going to ask you?” “You’re going to ask me to send you back to June 9, 2020, to prevent the catastrophe. That’s what you told me that exact same night. If you failed, I needed to wait for you so that you could try again. You needed someone in 2050 to operate the pod from the outside to travel back.” “Yes, that makes sense! If only I could undo this disaster.” “No, it doesn’t make sense. What is done cannot be undone. We’re trapped in a time paradox.” “What do you mean?” “If someone is needed to operate the pod from outside, who sent you back the first time you returned?” “I … I have no idea.” “It’s a paradox. You came back from the future before you ever went there, and now we’re trapped in a loop. The current me will never see you again if you go back. The past me will have to wait for thirty years once more. Everything that happened will happen all over again. Who knows how many times it has happened already?” “Maybe this time will be different!” “I don’t think so, and anyway: it doesn’t matter anymore.” “Why not?” “I dismantled the backup pod many years ago, trying in vain to go back in time myself.” “And my pod?” “I destroyed your pod while you were asleep.” “But that means that…” “… we’re the only two people left on this world, my love.”


I hop over the 20 dot kolam and open the gate. I know I will be sent to Mayura Bakery and Sweets within minutes. I look back at the four swans with cherries in their beaks, encircling a sharp leafed twig. They float on the street outside the gate only when special guests visit us. The guests who could potentially become family. I remove my school shoes and carry them inside. The shoe rack has been shifted from the front door to the back door in honour of visitors. I walk into the living room. A new diwan cover set with red elephants parading on them greets me. The diwan is strategically placed to catch the best natural light on its occupant. Notes of elaichi tea float from the kitchen as I make my way to the back corridor. As soon as I place the shoes on the rack, Amma peeps out of the kitchen, and launches a barrage of words, “Usha…so late! Change clothes. Drink milk. Go get the sweets.” Then rotates the strainer in her hand and adds, “quick…quick.” Yes. Guests are coming. I change. Dip two Parle-G biscuits in the milk and shove them in my mouth. Gulp down the milk and pick up the green and cream wire basket. “Same?” I enquire. “Yes.” Amma sighs. And scoots to Akka’s room to check on her. Her silk blouse has already formed two sweaty circles at her armpits. I catch a glimpse of Akka on my way out. An aunt is helping her drape the saree. I overhear her admonishing Amma, “Meera, what is this? you have given her a green saree! Do you want her to look like a snake? A mustard saree would have brightened up her complexion.” I see Akka’s face, aglow. Her eyes, ablaze. My stomach knots. Would Appa have let this happen ? I grip the handle of the bag and step out onto the narrow alley. A neighbour from the opposite house gives a knowing smile and asks, “Guests?” I nod and quicken my pace. I dodge a cricket ball sent for a sixer by Sachin of the mahalla , and pat a country dog with a collar before reaching the main road. I weave my way through a ravenous crowd gobbling chat , samosas, jalebi and pastries on the pavement outside the bakery. I sense a few eyes that scrutinize my body and elbows that are ready to brush against it. I clutch the bag to my chest and reach the counter. “Uncle, 12 samosas and half kg jalebi, parcel,” I shout. Over the din of the clattering cutlery and honking traffic. I look at the items of sweet and savoury on display in a glass cabinet. An odd fly in the middle of it looks drunk with the sugary syrup and drags itself slowly through the traces of sold pastries. “Here,” a shop assistant with callused hands plonks my parcel on the counter. I pay and pick up the plastic cover that has two packets. Two packets, one sweet and another savoury. For the everchanging guests. Who have been visiting us for the past four years. In these four years, my school uniform has turned from skirt to salwar kameez, Amma’s hair has turned from black to salt and pepper and Akka’s heart has turned from a swan to a stone. I pray she transforms it. *** Back then, when I could see through the window by climbing up on a cane chair, Appa used to fill the window box with seasonal flower plants. I remember him listening to M.S. Subbulakshmi on his Philips two-in-one every morning. The dew drops on shankhapushi wobbled with violet glee as the silken melody filled our home. Akka had already started school. Once she came back, we would play in the backyard. We would check if the bananas were yellow or the papaya was orange enough to be eaten. We would pull down the lanky stalks of papaya, snap them, and turn their hollow bodies into floodgates of the dam we had made by digging the soil. The muddy water would whoosh out to the other side through the bits of the stalk when Akka poured mugfuls of water on one side. “Brown! Brown!” I remember gushing and clapping. I had just started naming the colours. Years later, I understood it was not a colour. It was an axe that threatened to sever the bond that held us together. An odd relative would smirk, “Such nice features, if only she was a bit fair, like Usha.” An ever-observant neighbour would advise Amma, “Two daughters, so different” tch…tch… “Why don’t you try Fair and Oily?” A random motley group on the road would whistle and snigger, “Vanilla and dark chocolate!” Every Sunday morning Amma sat us down with a bowl of warm coconut oil. She would dip her fingers in it and run them through Akka’s headful of luxurious hair. And then through mine. Afterwards, she would meticulously apply a face pack made with gram flour, rose water and turmeric powder on Akka’s face and just massage mine with rose water. I would scoop the leftover face pack and dab it on my face in patches. I was scared to leave Akka alone with that mask. I didn’t want us to fall apart like the dried face pack. Bit by bit. I wanted to round up all the advising aunts, pesky strangers, and Fair and Oilys of the world. Tie them to a boulder and toss them into the Arabian Sea. But the only thing I got to scatter in the sea was Appa’s ashes. *** “Hey, boy cut! please throw the ball”. The boy with shining eyes and a thin frame, who is new to the neighbourhood calls out. He too has joined the street cricket gang. I fume, wedge my basket in the crook of my left arm and throw the ball. The ball hits him hard and he makes a mock display of being hurt in his chest and then smiles. Something turns in my chest. I move past without giving a second look. There’s a red and black Hero Splendour parked outside the gate. My father’s brother is here. To fulfil his role as the male head of the family. I find him sitting on the sofa, in his cream-coloured silk shirt and dhoti with a maroon border. He is scrolling through the newsfeed on his mobile. I smile and say dutifully, “Namaste, chikkappa.” He waves his bejewelled right hand at me and grunts, “Why so late, Ma? Hurry up. Guests would be arriving soon.” I nod and mumble, “Okay chikkappa”. Amma dashes out of Akka’s room, snatches the bag from my hand and heads to the kitchen. She is a woman on a mission. The Aunt comes out of Akka’s room and asks, “Usha, are you going to stay at the neighbour’s place when the guests are here?” “No, chikkamma.” She is not happy. “Then stay in the room and don’t come out till they leave,” she warns and heads to the kitchen. I go to Akka. She has changed into a yellow saree. Her face is impassive. I sit beside her on the bed. The jasmine in her hair perfumes the air. We don’t say anything to each other. A car engine sputters to a stop outside. Akka’s face looks pale. I want to hug her tight and tell her, “Don’t let this get to you! Don’t let someone decide your worth.” *** A beige-coloured house on black velvet. With a coconut tree flanked path leading to it. A school project done by Akka. Framed and hung on the wall by Appa. Time stands still as I sit in the room staring at it. Akka has walked into the living room with a tray filled with chai . Amma has served the samosas and jalebis. The initial round of pleasantries has been exchanged. I sit behind the closed door. Dreading the talk outside. “What are your hobbies, Ma?” a gentle male voice inquires. “Music, reading, movies...” Akka’s voice trails off. “Ah! our Suresh also loves classical music… can you sing?” A pause. “She used to sing as a child… now she is busy going to the office and coming… where is the time?” interjects Amma in a singsong voice. “Oh! I see…can she cook? Nowadays, working girls think they don’t have to learn any housework.” Says a voice full of mother-of-a-son privilege. “Ma, please,” cuts in a polite male voice, probably the son. “Of course, she can cook. These samosas… she only has prepared,” Chikkamma chirps. Another pause. I hear a murmur and shuffling of feet. Footsteps approach and move away from the door. The toilet gurgles. The footsteps approach the door again and there is a sudden thud against the door. The door handle turns and the door bursts open. A heavy-set woman with her legs splayed on the floor regains her standing position with surprising agility. Her face is a mixture of pain and surprise. Amma and Chikkamma rush to her aid. I stand up awkwardly. The woman moves towards me. Uninvited. “So…you are the sister?” she smiles brightly. Amma and Chikkamma are flabbergasted and I have been turned into a hostage. “How old is she?” she enquires Amma, her eyes scanning my form. Amma gathers her kanjeevaram pallu, tucks it at her waist and mutters through her thin lips, “Old enough to be in school,” and turns to leave. Hoping the guest would take the cue. But the guest lingers. Till my sister comes and our eyes meet. Mine flushed with shame and hers with anger. At that moment, I see her heart turn. From a stone to a diamond. She says with a grace that makes my heart swell, “I think this meet and greet is over. I have made my decision.”


Work was like any other day, daydreaming of a day I can get away from this work life. One would think I would be used to it, after all I have been here for fifteen years. My husband is always away while I work and then go home with the kids. I have three teenagers. My boys are loud, eat a lot, messy, and stink, but to their dad, they are good boys. Connor is my oldest at seventeen, Matthew the middle child, sixteen and Zechariah the baby, is only fifteen, They are good boys at heart, but I wished that I would have had a girl. I longed for my little princess, who would go get her hair and nails done with me.

We are at the end of 2019, I’m so happy to see it go. My 40th birthday is coming up, and I’m not ready to let go of my 30s. John is planning a big party in Barbados and I can’t wait to go. We are going for two weeks this man never took a day off from work in the 25 years we have been married. My birthday and our anniversary is in the same week of May, so this vacation is well worth it. I wonder what made him plan this but nevertheless I’m happy. Working in the hospital is a pain, but I love my patients. They come in with cancer, but they are the bravest people I have ever met. As I'm sitting in my office, listening to the news I hear that a virus broke out in China. They are calling it coronavirus.

"Oh Lord please don’t let that come here," I think, fearfully, "it’s killing them over there." I called my husband, who is a Neurosurgeon, to ask him what he thinks.

"To be honest babe, I’m not sure what to think. I just hope it doesn’t come here." he sighs.

March 20, 2020 rolls around and, it's here! Coronavirus has hit the US. I don’t know what to say. We'd have never thought it would come here. The impact was immediate. Schools have been shut down, supermarkets have no food in it, there’s no toilet paper in no stores and me and John have been working overtime. The kids stay with my parents because when we do come home we don’t want to expose them to COVID-19.  I have lost so many patient, and we have to work in the ER now, I have seen people come in and die within five minutes, people who died without their families by their sides, whole families not even knowing their loved ones are gone. I miss my boys, I can only FaceTime them and even that is short-lived. I'm being paged every five seconds. Outside of our hospital is a freezer truck full of dead bodies.

One day, I ask my husband, already knowing the answer,

"Does this mean we can’t go on our vacation, John?"

He answered with a mournful and silent hug. The world had shut down. I miss my boys, severely, but for their safety I can only FaceTime them, and there's never enough time. I'm being paged every five seconds. I can’t use the bathroom without a code blue going off. I’m frustrated and exhausted. I haven’t slept in weeks. Our anniversary is here and our trip was canceled. I never cried so much in my life, but John tired his best to make it up to me by stopping by my office. He had got flowers and cupcakes and chocolate cover strawberries, my favorite, we both had been so busy, basically living in the hospital. We haven’t really seen each other, I barely recognize him. His face has so many lines from the masks we wear constantly. I have never seen him look like he'd lost a fight before and I'm sure I look the same. He gave me a kiss. Oh how I missed this man, he bent me over my desk pulled down my panties, cleaned me then he had his way with me, and I loved every minute of it until I heard the dreaded announcement blaring over the intercom.

"Paging Dr. Harris! Code blue! Dr. Harris, cold blue!"  John got up and pushed me back down on the desk. He was still aroused. He opened my legs wide and bent down and lapped me up again. I could feel it I was about to explode all over his face. I’m trying to hold back from screaming his name.

Then, he stopped. I was so close I knew I had to go but before I can fully sit back up he was inside me again. This time he wasn't  making love to me. I could tell that all of his anger, his frustration and his exhaustion fueled his thrusts. He pumped into me. The faster he went, the harder he was. My eyes rolled into the back of my head I can feel it, I'm about to come! I could feel my butt getting wetter, the desk was moving and John was finished.  I found my voice. "Babe, hand me that wet wipe, I have to go. I love you so much John." " I love you too, babe,"he breathed, as he kissed me and walked out the door.  Something is wrong with him, he is not himself, I sensed, but it could just be that we are under so much stress. The summer is here and we are still battling this virus. The city is under so much stress. We are either told to stay inside or to come and live at work. With the cops killing unarmed black men and women the US was under attack. Things were out of control. People wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to feel normal again. I missed being called mom every five seconds. I miss hearing John play with the boys out in the backyard while he grilled steaks. As of lately I had this knot in my stomach, along with this bad headache. One of the doctors who seen me asked me if I was pregnant. I just looked and laughed, replying, "Girl, I've been here at work! I haven’t seen home in a long time!" Sighing, she replied,

"I suppose you're right, but I still think you should take one, to be sure." There was no way I was pregnant!

Well, there was that one time way back in May, but I just couldn't fathom it.


January 2nd, 1996

Throw vodka out.

January 3rd, 1996 For Real This Time January 4th, 1996

I cannot wind up like Gran. Eighty year old woman blacked out floating in her pool at her birthday party ← bad.

Could be fun?

Sounds grim.

January 5th, 1996 This does not mean you will end up blacked out floating in a pool on your eightieth birthday party. BUT a month-long-stay-away from the good stuff will help “ground” you. Or whatever load of shit David used to say before he dumped you for someone with a sensible hair color.

January 6th, 1996

Went out for after-work drinks. Did not drink. Did not die.

January 7th, 1996

Was wrong. Want to die.

January 8th, 1996 Packed myself a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. Smell is much more pleasant when not nauseous in the morning.

January 9th, 1996 Ran into David. Looks too happy. Must get to a salon soon. Didn’t buy gin on the walk home.

January 10th, 1996 Very clear now that not drinking has not stopped me from being wildly annoying at work.

Reminder to self: keep voice down. Also: not everything is funny. Also, also: everything you say isn’t always funny.

January 11th, 1996

Missing David.

January 12th. 1996 Sometimes it feels like everybody is good at the ordinary bits but me. Cannot imagine being good at grocery lists and knowing how to sear a fish. The seafood section of the grocery store gives me stage-fright— Or whatever the equivalent is when you can’t remember why on earth you might prefer tilapia over salmon. Fishfright.

“ Hello, good man. Tell me, what’s hot in ‘fish’ right now?” God I’m a lunatic. Maybe I’ll ring Mum and tell her how good I’ve been doing with the no drinking thing. Maybe I’ll just try bangs again instead?

Buy a comb.

January 13th, 1996

Starting to think the bangs actually suit me. Didn’t do too bad of a job.

GO. TO. SALON.

January 14th, 1996

Was feeling brave and went to Lou’s birthday party. Massive mistake. Ran into David near the profiteroles. Left early.

January 15th, 1996

Starting to think the bangs are an issue.

January 16th, 1996

What’s so great about going drink-free? All this effort for what? So that everything can be sharp at the edges with no breaks?!

January 17th, 1996 Made some soup. Was shit because I didn’t have any bouillon.

January 18th, 1996 Maybe Gran had it right.

January 22nd, 1996 Missed a couple of days. Caved. Made a whisky sour on the 19th. Made four more. Called David. He told me not to call him anymore.

I think he misses me.

Woke up with something crusting in my hair. Really, truly must go to the salon.

January 23rd, 1996

Double caved. Rang mum. Drunk rang mum. Finally told her David left. She said the dreaded words, “Well isn’t this just like you, Piper. He was a good one.” IknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknow !!!! January 24th, 1996

Finally tossed the whiskey down the drain. Wish I could throw myself down the garbage disposal with it. Wouldn’t be a bad way to go really. Maybe they’ll let me do a story at the paper about the dark underbelly of the u-bend.

January 25th, 1996 Got bouillon.

January 26th, 1996

I started all this because of Gran’s big eightieth. Because I thought it was cool at first. Funny. Classic Leo she is. I was proud I saw a bit of myself in her lanky floating body— Just without the muumuus. But the thing is. If you catch her before noon she’s viciously sad even though I think all she’s ever wanted was to laugh everything off. But even when she laughs I can see how Puppa was unkind to her growing up. In the pool she looked shockingly little. Maybe it was the years she wasted making cabbage soup, cottage cheese on tomato– obsessing over that ridiculous book Dine Out and Lose Weight: The French Way to Culinary Savoir Vivre. I’ve told Gran she’s already a smoker, what's with the extra reading? Mitterrand should have her on his payroll. Dad had to actually go in the pool and drag her out. He doesn’t drink when we’re visiting Gran. He doesn’t come out and say it but I think we’ve all sort of noticed. David was always saying that it seems like Dad doesn’t trust her to be left alone.

Guess he was right about that, left to her own devices she might’ve hit her head or let her fab silver crop sink a little too low and start breathing in water by mistake. I saw Dad standing there on the lawn while everybody else laughed. I was laughing. But he looked like The Parent. That’s what I thought. I couldn’t take my eyes off that little crease in between his eyebrows, well worn like one of the archeology digs he did before he herniated a disk in ‘82.

How have I managed to fuck things up with a dad like that? ‘Cmon party girl.” Is what he said. Wading into the water in his trousers and loafers, not caring that his favorite watch got wet.

David and I got into a fight on the car ride home. He told me that’s where I was headed. I told him he was doing a seriously good Anthony Hopkins impression. He gave me an ultimatum. I told him to go fuck himself. By the time I called him up saying I could cut out the drinking for a bit— and show him, really show him that I’ve got things perfectly under control— he had already started going with whatshername. As horrid as I am I always thought I’d be tough to replace.

That was Summer and I was probably drunk until Christmas. I couldn’t get Gran’s floating little body out of my head. I’d think of her while lying awake at night. Instead of counting sheep I’d count little old ladies who have too much fun for their own good. But you know, new year, new me and all that. Tricky part is— all I want is a drink.

January 27th, 1996 ¼ cup of olive oil

1 onion 2 shallots ( shellfish?)  kind of onion!! 4 cloves of garlic

2 carrots

2 celery stalks 3 cans of cannellini beans drained and rinsed (surely that’s too many beans)

2 bay leaves (?? ring mum)

1 teaspoon Italian seasoning.

½ teaspoon red pepper flakes 5-6 cups vegetable broth

½ teaspoon sea salt

½ teaspoon black pepper 3 cups of spinach

January 28th, 1996

Had Mum ‘round for soup. She said that it was pretty good even if the beans had gone a bit soft. Told her nobody wants a hard bean.

She apologized for what she’d said on the phone. The bit about me making a mess of things with David and “how that’s just my nature.” Told her that I’m trying to quit drinking. Don’t know why I said that.

January 29th, 1996

I stopped by the cafe. Can’t believe I ever thought that was a good idea. This is why people shouldn’t ditch their girlfriends when they start dating someone because girlfriends are the people who stop you from doing this kind of shit. I tried to act surprised when I saw him even though he works there every Friday morning because he bakes their pies back of house and even though he’s supposed to only bake pies they’re always cajoling him to work counter when it gets busy and they don’t have weekend staff.

I tried to look sort of effortlessly sophisticated— sort of grown up. But I think I wound up looking too much like Lorraine Kelly.

When I got to the front of the cue I didn’t even know what to say. Said I was sorry. That I’ve been thinking a lot about how I couldn’t have always been easy to be with sometimes. I told him I’m thinking about quitting drinking. Don’t know why I keep telling people that.

January 30th, 1996 I’m actually feeling sort of nice? Watch out London! Went on a little walk even and bought a ticket for a cheeky Shakespeare show. Like I’m an intellectual or something! Thinking about pitching a new column at the paper about reviews of local entertainment. Lorraine Kelly eat your heart out.

Addendum: David came by very late. He almost had my pants off when I realized it was just a terrible fucking idea. Told him to go home to Marzia. Going to sleep wondering if we really ever loved each other.

January 31st, 1996

No calls from David. Went to the Salon (thankeffingod ) and think I’ll stick with the pink for a while? It sort of suits me at the end of the day. Got the fringe straightened out which looks fab. Took the long way home by the water and it started to snow. Very pretty, that stuff.

It’s nice to feel cold again, I used to think I ran warm. That feels untrue now which makes me feel sort of strange and embarrassed. Especially when there’s something about Winter that reminds you you’re alive. Something about faces and fingers cooling and reheating and noses going pink. Maybe I quite like the new year— like I might not make a mess of things this time. Like it’s not my nature at all. Just timing.

At some point on the walk home I heard a group of people singing loudly at a local pub and it sort of broke my heart to not be a part of it. But the noise floated off the Thames and it made me feel less alone all the same.

Terrible singers. Not a Celine Dion in the bunch of them.


"... then Suzie comes in, starts screaming at him and tells him to pack his bags! Can you believe it!? He told me himself, from man to man." "Holy moly! This is like... wow!" "Yeah, right! This just happened!" "Oh, my God!" "I know!" is his instinctive response. "Loren, you should call your sister. Loren ... call your sister. Now." She picks up her phone nervously and types in her sister's number. Riing...Riing... "Hey, Suzie! Your big sis' here. How are you? Have you got a minute?... aha ... aha ... oh, really? ... aha ... no way! ... aha ... did he? ... and what did she say? ... oh, I see ... ok, no no no that's absolutely fine. ... I'll call you tomorrow. Ok then. Byyyye!" "What did she say?" "Fred came home late apparently. He was due to be back from his team building weekend last night but only got home a few hours ago and-" "- She smelled someone else's perfume on him!" "I don't know about that. She didn't say. But she is furious. The neighbours came in to calm her down. They have just left her house." "So, what happened?" "Well, it sounds like he was the only one who had got home late. The only one beside his boss. You know, the new guy from Paris... uhm... Jonn Pawl ... John-Paul-" "- You mean, Jean-Paul. So, what about Jean-Paul?" Matt was getting nowhere close to hearing the full story. "Well, come on, then! What happened next, Loren?!!!" "Okayyyy!", she yells back. She stands up from the sofa to distance herself from him and heads for the fridge where she pours herself a glass of white wine. She returns the half-empty bottle in the fridge, closes it carefully and takes a deep breath in. "It sounds like he was having an affair..." "What! Jean-Paul and him?!" Matt asks incredulously. "No way!!" His right hand combs through his hair before falling flat onto his lap. "There is no way in the world that your brother-in-law is having an affair with Jean-Paul! No way! Not in a million years!" Loren watches Matt pacing their living-room. "My sister does not actually HAVE any real proof other than the fact that he came home a day after the training. He said that he had spent the night at Jean-Paul's and-" "- and that's why they must have slept together! That's it?!" Matt scratches his face. "There could be hundreds of other reasons why he did not come home last night", Matt suggests tentatively. "Maybe they had to finish off important business that could not wait until Monday", he interjects. "Or maybe... maybe Jean-Paul needed someone to talk to and Fred volunteered his time." Dead silence. "I don't know! They could have been involved in something after the two-day training..." he ventures. "Suzie said to me that Fred had come home wearing a suit that did not belong to him. She seems to vaguely remember Jean-Paul wearing one very similar to the one Fred was dressed in." Matt's pupils are moving left, right, then left and right again, as if trying to make sense of what has just been implied. He is now staring at his wife in disbelief. "Your sister has got it wrong, Loren. He loves her. He has always loved her so much. This weekend was their only weekend apart since they got married. This is not right..." He sits down on the sofa again, facing the TV on mute. From the open kitchen, she can see his head going down. He is now massaging his neck. "Matt? Maaat...? Is there something that you have not told me?" She is now standing in front of the TV, facing a man who seems to be avoiding her gaze. "What were you two talking about over the phone? ... You said you had talked to Fred." "Fred had come to see me just before the training weekend. He came to ask me for money to buy himself a new suit." "Aha..." "He wanted it to make a good impression. He wanted to impress his boss to... to get a promotion. He had it in his head that the start of this new year would be the start of a new him. He had made plans for a better future." "Go on..." "Fred told me that he was onto something good that would allow him to be the man he had always wanted to be and ..." "And...?" "He didn't go home last night because he... because he..." Matt buries his face in his hands, tears flowing through his fingers. "He didn't go home last night because he was scared." "Scared!? ... Of who?! Of what?!" Loren goes back to the fridge resigned to finish the bottle of wine. " Somehow during the training, someone left an envelope addressed to him. In it, he found some official documents. He told me that he had looked at them on the way home, at the end of the training but he could not TELL me what it was about. He stayed at Jean-Paul's because he could not face his wife." "And that's why you asked me to call my sister..." It all made sense. "But guess what? She has thrown him out of the house so we'll never know..." Ping! Matt searches for his phone and finds a message from Fred. He reads the message out loud: " 'Sorry I didn't get to say goodbye or explain. Tell Loren I love her. And tell her to look after Suzie. I need some time to process what I have just found out.' " Both Matt and Loren are puzzled by the mystery behind these words. Ping! Matt reads out the second message: " 'Whoever did this for me did us all a favour... I guess. Can I come for a sec? I am in front of your house.' " Matt and Loren stare at each other. Fred is here... Just as Loren prepares to open the door, another message comes through. "No message" Matt says. "Just two attachments." He opens the first one, a screenshot of a letter: "Hi Fred, upon checking the validity of the documents you received, I can confirm that they are authentic. The content has been checked by my lawyer friend who can be contacted on 0453231547 should you wish to discuss the implications of your recent findings. Take care, Jean-Paul." "The second one is a printscreen. Something about DNA tests... " Matt meets his wife's eyes. "Loren, you need to sit down. This DNA test confirms that Fred and Suzie are.... related... According to this picture, they are... they are siblings..." "He is my brother..." Loren's glass hits the ground, she runs through the main door and hugs Fred who falls apart at her sight. For the pain is real. The hurt, agonising. Change, daunting. A new man this year, Fred will be.


[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: DINING ROOM - NIGHT] The stale air of the dining room is filled with the aroma of charred meat and fry oil. The sounds of nearby traffic bleed through the poorly insulated walls, pushing past the sun-faded décor, and adding a consistent static to the otherwise silent room. Behind the trebly country-western music playing from the vintage speakers in the ceiling is the cadence of the kitchen pouring out from the small space. A vote would have to be taken on which of these soundscapes was the most annoying. Sitting alone at a table is a

PATRON  in his mid-forties. His splotched coveralls are faded and tarnished with stains of past and present. His dirt-soiled face hangs with disappointment as he watches the young

WAITER  approach with his food. PATRON : ( flabbergasted ) Oh, no. Ya'can not be serious righ'now. CLANK. Startled by the man's sudden outburst, the plate slips from the teenager's poorly gripped fingers, dropping onto the graffiti chiseled table. WAITER : ( flustered ) I'm sorry, sir. My hands are wet. PATRON : This ain't even what I ordered, boy. The kid pauses for a moment to regroup, but it does little to help him. Nothing short of taking this man to a better steakhouse was going to make this better for either party. WAITER : Y-yes it is, sir. You're the only person in here, so it had to be what you ordered. PATRON : This-- THIS ( pointing his fork at his plate ) is the eight-ounce sirloin? WAITER : ( unsure of himself ) Um, it should be. I mean, yes-- yes it is. PATRON : Alright then, y'all gotta way'ta weigh it back there? There ain't no damn way that this is'uh eight-ounce steak, now. I'm not paying seventeen damn dollars for you to-- MANAGER : ( calling out ) Excuse me, is there a problem? The

MANAGER , a stocky man in his mid-forties, approaches the table. The Patron whips around his seat to look at the person he will now be directing his anger towards. PATRON : Ya'damn right there is. This ain't what I ordered. This ain't even half'uh what I ordered. To further prove his point, the man shoves his fork into his-- admittedly smaller than advertised-- steak. With a quick flick, he dramatically flips it end over end as if to show the manager that there wasn't another one underneath it to make up for the small size. His best cook no longer worked there due to poor business practices on his part. So he had a new line cook that had no idea what he was doing. That wasn't at all an eight-ounce steak, but he wasn't going to admit that to him. This is Rita's. MANAGER : ( gleefully ) I see you got the eight-ounce. PATRON : ( fuming with anger ) On what fuckin' planet does this weight eight fuckin' ounces? Are we seriously gonna have to get a damn scale in here for ya' fuckin' morons? Come on, now! I have been comin' here off and on all year, and I ain't never had y'all fuck me like this. Despite the growing fury within the man, the Manager simply smiled, doing his absolute best to ignore his rude statements. Those words may have emotionally affected him two years ago. Or really, any time before he became the manager here. But this customer's reaction to his entrée is something that one grows to expect at Rita's. Or at any restaurant with fewer customers than their review ranking. That might be an exaggeration, but not an extreme one. Rita's wasn't known to be the best place in town, and those that knew why steered clear of the place. Though, every now and then you get a guy like this one. His high hopes aren't unwarranted, as the few times that he had attended Rita's, ta great cook was working Now that he was gone, the place was back to its normal menu of disappointment. PATRON : ( exasperated ) Ya'know what, asshole? Just feed this to someone else. Oh, wait! Almost in a twirl, he motions around to an empty restaurant. A small display of agility that normally wouldn't be associated with someone of his stature. PATRON : ( continuing ) Thaaaat's right. There AIN'T no one else here. I wonder fuckin' why. With a loud huff, he storms out of the small steakhouse, and (if one were to guess) probably to the nearest fast-food restaurant. The Manager picks up one of the home-fried potatoes from the plate and tosses it into his mouth. With a grimace, he chokes it back. Yeah, the food isn't the same with Gary gone. WAITER : ( laughing ) I don't get this place. How do we stay open? Whatever you got going, I want in. The Manager claps his hand on the waiter's back. MANAGER : Just steaks kid. Just steaks. Now go ahead and do your closing duties. You're cut. The kid nods to his superior, immediately removing his apron, and tossing it onto the man's deserted meal. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER] The doors to the small kitchen sway open as the Manager bursts through them. Upon his entry, all of the cooks turn their faces towards their stations, never once looking at their boss as he moves past them. And without as much of a glance towards his employees, he exits through the back door. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BACKLOT - CONTINUOUS] SLAM! The heavy steel door closes behind him as he steps out into the breezy night. He swiftly turns to the door, shifting a deadbolt to the locked position. As strange as it was to everyone that there was an ability to lock the restaurant's back door from the outside, not a single employee that didn't already know why asked any questions. Like inside the steakhouse, the backlot was also filled with the echoing static of the nearby highway. The weathered wood fence did very little to stop the sound, even though the sound was the reason that they gave the zoning committee as to why they needed fences that neared twelve feet tall and surrounded their entire lot.

He lifts his wrist, checking the time. 10:45 PM ERRRNTTTTT . A loud buzzer-like noise erupts from a metal box attached to the side of the building, accompanied by a strobing red light. Without hesitation, the Manager pushes the button and begins walking across the lot towards a storage building in the back. Like clockwork, as the Manager approaches the door, it gently creaks open, allowing entry into the dubious space. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE BUILDING - CONTINUOUS] The warm halogen lights beamed down from the ceiling, washing the room out in a yellow hue.

KERRY , a heavyset man in his fifties, hunches over a table that is entirely covered in five-dollar bills. He glances up to greet the Manager as he walks in. KERRY : How ya doin', boss? MANAGER : About the same. Where are we sitting on this order? KERRY : Bout the same as well. It's doin' the same damn thing as it was this mornin' actually. I don't know how we are gonna catch up. Spread across the table are thousands of five-dollar bills. With a closer look, it's easy to see the ink is faded and frayed, making the counterfeit currency, not at all believable. MANAGER : ( frustrated ) Well, damn it, Kerry, we have to get this out by tomorrow morning. We can not be late again. Kerry shakes his head, turning his attention back to the task he is being scolded about. To answer the young Waiter's question from earlier about how this place has managed to remain open-- this was how. Rita's Steakhouse was nothing more than a coverup for a counterfeit money operation. An operation that had been operating for nearly thirty years. The owners had developed a simple process to keep themselves in the shadows. Number one: never make anything higher than a five-dollar bill. And two: you never wash the money in the same town you press it in. If they were to have stuck to those two rules as instructed, tonight wouldn't have had to happen. MANAGER : Where is it? Kerry doesn't speak, he just lifts his eyes, pointing them to a back door. The Manager nods. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BEHIND THE STORAGE SHED - A FEW MOMENTS LATER] The clouds glide through the sky, relieving themselves of their diffusion duties, and allowing the pale light of the moon to beam down upon the Manager as he stands above a tarp-wrapped corpse. With a sigh, he squats down, preparing himself for the grizzly sight he is undoubtedly about to see. Delicately, he pulls the tarp to the side, revealing the swollen distorted face of what was once an attractive young man. Swollen with blood, his cheeks protrude out, meeting his broken brow, covering his eyes. Lacerations scatter his face, the tattered flesh of stringy muscle escaping from underneath. MANAGER : Gary, you fucking idiot. Why. GARY : (gurgled and breathy) Uhhhh. The startled Manager stands up quickly, tossing the tarp back over Gary's bloody face. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE SHED - CONTINUOUS] THWACK! The Manager's hands collide with the metal table, knocking a stack of the shoddily printed money into the air. MANAGER:

You didn't fucking kill him? WHAT THE FUCK, KERRY? Kerry stops in the middle of a printing process, lifting his eyes to his employer. KERRY : ( defeated ) I'm sorry! I just couldn't do it. MANAGER : ...I can't fucking believe this. KERRY : Why don't you just do it? Why do I gotta be the one that hasta do everything 'round here? MANAGER : Excuse me? Kerry clears his throat, changing his approach. KERRY : Look, I'm jus'sayin'. You could do it just as much as I could. MANAGER : No. Because you couldn't even kill him like you were supposed to. Kerry breathes in deeply through his mouth and exhales slowly through his nose. A technique his divorce attorney taught him during heated custody hearings. The Manager notices, sympathizing with his oldest friend. MANAGER : ( reasoning ) I can't do it, man. I can't kill someone. And I damn sure can't kill someone I know. KERRY : Me either. It jus' ain't me. I managed to do the first part... MANAGER : I know, I know. Look, I'll take care of it somehow, okay? KERRY : Ya sure? I don't wanna leave you hangin' on this like before. MANAGER : No, you did what you could. I'll take care of it before Aaron calls asking about it. That's the last thing we need right now. [NOVAK'S RIDGE: LARGE SAND DUNE - LATER ON THAT NIGHT] DING... DING... DING... DING... The annoying melody of the ajar car door rings throughout the vast empty desert. The clouds from earlier have long since gone, leaving the wintry night sky twinkling with the light of onlooking stars. Parked on top of a tall dune is Kerry's car. A compromise was made since he refused to complete the initial task given to him. The golden light of the trunk shines out onto the dune, reflecting off of the glossy blue tarp. It gently moves, the plastic rustling against the skin of the man bound beneath it. The manager reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, revealing a small handgun. With the delicacy of his grip, it's clear that he hasn't had to hold a firearm often in his life. He gingerly cocks the hammer back on the pistol. MANAGER : Fuck-- you dumb son of a bitch. He throws his hands to the top of the crown of his head, resting the weapon upon his wind disheveled hair. Just like his more emotional colleague, he too did not want to kill Gary, as he was a fantastic employee. Gary was one of the few that was capable of working on both sides of the business. The elaborate front that is the ' should be failing ' steakhouse, and the successful printing press. Gary was by far the best cook they had, and what little clientele they did have, usually returned for him. But that was before he nearly destroyed the press business. Disobeying the rules set forth by the owners of the business, Gary decided to sneak in after-hours and make his batch of money. Ten thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills to be exact. And as one would probably expect him to do, he also broke the other rule of never washing the money within the city it was printed. ' Washing Money ' is a slang term for laundering. To keep it simple, the printer must always have a way to enter counterfeit money into a natural form of circulation without it being tied to the printer. This was something Gary had neglected to do. And before anyone knew it, word had spread through the sewers of the city-- Gary was now being watched. So he had to go. He quickly yanks the gun down from on top of his head, pointing it at the squirming man within the tarp. MANAGER : I wish things had turned out differently, kid. I really do. POW!!! His eyes immediately snap closed in an attempt to shield himself from the horrors that will plague his subconscious for the rest of his life.


Trigger Warning: Contemplation of Suicide. (And also swearing) The night air chilled my skin. The downpour forced the trench coat to wrap around me like the cold hands of death grasping at my soul. Gusts of wind spat rain at my face in periodic breaths. The wind’s exhales dared to snatch my fedora off my head. I checked my holster one more time and twisted relief washed over me as I found the pistol safe next to my chest. A single bullet was loaded. “They may have my badge, but not my gun.” The words sounded weak coming from my old lungs. Either the callous hands of time were clasped on my neck or my smoking habit finally caught up to me. I let my arm rest on the bridge’s railing and stole a glance at the winding river below me. The falling rain sent ripples through the flowing water mirroring distorted reflections of the city lights. Buildings flickered with light like man made stars amidst the darkness that is humanity. “This city in the rain is full of promise now.” The voice couldn’t be anything other than Johnson. I’d recognize that police lackey’s pubescent voice anywhere. “Case closed, Detective. All thanks to you.” My gaze stayed on the evening’s weather. A grunt of agreement left my chest. “They said you retired, sir.” A moment of silence passed as if by waiting he wanted me to deny it. Of course he’d want me to continue, he admired me too much. “What now?” I turned towards him. The poor fellow was soaked to his skin even through an extra large coat. Cars sped down the road behind him growling like beasts.

“What’s left for an old man?” I said throwing my weight on the cane for emphasis. Johnson pushed back his dark wet hair, resting his hand on his head as he kept his sight on me. Those young eyes of his watched me with concern and childlike awe. He didn’t drop his gaze causing a smirk to appear from my lips. No verbal response from him, I thought. He took my lesson to heart then.

“There isn’t much left for me.” Was that a softness to my voice? “Not a lot of time, not a lot left to do.” Johnson watched me with hawk-like vision. Subtle movement of his eyes searched my posture and poker face. An expression of shock and horror crossed his face. “You aren’t planning to... jump. Are you?” A stab of guilt pierced my heart. Damn the boy, and damn me for caring. One simple action, and I could make amends. My hand grasped his shoulder. “No, I was planning on using a pistol.” I looked back at the river with my hand gripping my cane until my knuckles turned white. I’d done my duty cleaning up the streets of this city. 40 long years to lock away 70 of the worst scum this metropolis could produce. Make that 71 as of tonight, though I could hardly take credit for it; not after the life it cost. Any detective could have solved the murder in two months and it took me three. The decay from time had finally muddled my mind enough for me to sink back down to the common fools of society. Ever since my first case, I was told I had a gift from God. I must have drained all of the divine ability he gave me like a fine wine. Can’t angels enjoy a cigar every now and then? Can’t the devil take a day off? If God can hear me, at least give me this wish. Can I fade from memory without anyone batting an eye? Johnson laughed. “Didn’t expect to be dried off by your sense of humor.” I didn’t laugh.

“You mean it; don’t you?” he said. I shook my head.

“Don’t get emotional on me now, Johnson. I lived my life the way I wanted to. Left this city better than I found it. At least let me die in peace.” My hand twitched in an involuntary reach towards my holster. Johnson glanced at the movement a without hesitation extended his hand. “Hand it over, Detective.”

“Didn’t know you got promoted enough to give me orders.” “You retired, hand over the gun.” “Not on your life. The bloody thing is mine” “Not anymore, sir. Let it go.” “Why?” “Because you wouldn't send yourself to wait for judgement day when you have one friend left on this side of heaven. Now hand it over, Rick.” Damn the boy, he said my name. I remained stunned by his words for a second too long. Johnson dashed towards me reaching for my gun. My old muscles couldn’t keep up. He had the gun out of my holster before I could grab his arm. He pointed the weapon at me in the same movement.

“Impressive” I muttered. Johnson finally turned his skills into instinct. He smiled with a mix of joy and mischief. For the first time since I could remember, I was perplexed. I even raised an eyebrow, which caused him to grin more in a giddy sort of way. “What’s this now?” I said. “I managed to impress and surprise the city’s best detective. Didn’t know a couple hours of retirement is all it takes for you to lose your touch.” His words pierced my heart quicker than any bullet ever could. He was right. I lost my touch. I let my shoulders slump. My knees felt weaker than before. I slid to the ground and rested my head against the railing. The rain like forgotten tears flowed down my face. Johnson sat next to me still holding my gun in one hand.

“This city is in the rain,” Johnson said. “Like you always said, sir. Not a comfortable place and not bright, sunny or happy. Partway in the dark, but with a little bit of goodness washing away the filth.”

Johnson looked me in the eyes. “The clouds are parting, Rick. I think I can see a star shining through.” The poetic words of a starry eyed fool forced tears to add to the watery river falling from my face. I felt an arm rest behind my neck and around my shoulder. Johnson embraced me.

“Careful now,” I said. "I'll suffocate.” Johnson laughed and let go of me. The rain filled in the lapse in conversation. The traffic ceased as the night stretched into an unholy hour that had the scent of eternity. That smell pulled the trigger to my memory sending a spray of hurt back into my mind. Regret redrew her face on my closed eyelids. Those freckles stained crimson. That dark hair matted with blood. Those blue eyes that once shimmered with life stared into forsaken nothingness. A pull of the trigger and my sin would have been paid for. One simple action, and I could have made amends. “One mistake Johnson. If I was quicker…” My voice fell silent against my wishes. “If I was sooner-” Johnson cut me off. “Don’t do that to yourself, Rick. Not once in three years have you ever wondered what if out loud, and don’t you dare start now. You can’t save her life by wondering what you could have done better. Damn it I didn't know her well, but she sure as hell wouldn’t want to see you on the other side tonight. Further more she wouldn’t want you wasting the rest of your life wallowing in pity.” He stood up and held out his hand. “You are sad, detective, as you should be. Even through that stone face and sadistic humor, you have a heart that chooses to love people sir. If anything is for certain it's that the only place you'll be free from the dangers of love is hell and an angel like you can't get there even if you tried. I know you try to hide it and you toss aside your emotions to make decisions no one else would. But damn it detective, you love people and you love them fiercely! So be sad, Rick. For her sake let your sorry ass be sad.” Johnson's words struck cords in my soul as if conducting a whisper of a song of hope in the shards and shadows that resided there. The empty abyss of longing remained tearing me from the inside out, but a peace wrapped itself around the sorrow soaking in the sadness just enough for me to find it bearable. I looked up at his outstretched hand and despite the arguments my pride stated, I reached out and let him help me to my feet. He held out my gun to me. “Careful now,” He said. I glared at him with a smirk on my wrinkled face. Since when did this city have such heavenly fools like Johnson? I took a final look at my trusted old pistol as it rested in my hand for one last time. Then I looked at the river below me and it beckoned me again. No regrets, I thought. Whispering a final goodbye, I sent the gun spiraling over the rail.

“Take me home Johnson,” I said. “You know the way.”