The center was quiet for a seasonal afternoon. Usually, the residents sat around playing bingo, cards, or dominos. The other residents plopped themselves in front of the television for entertainment. But today, everyone seemed to be in their rooms, patiently waiting for the day to end, so the cycle continued. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened; some staff remarked that every day was groundhog’s day. Nothing ever changed, just the visitors that came and went. Although the residents would never know if anything did happen, and when things did happen, the residents forgot everything by the following day. Except for one man, Mr. Charlie Ray Carlson, he remembered something no one else could recall. When he asked for his old nurse, Nurse Sandy, no one could tell him where she went or when she would be back. The other absentminded nurses promised him she would be back tomorrow, but she never was. That was fine; Mr. Carlson would continue to ask for her until she returned. Mr. Carlson may have forgotten what he ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But he never forgot about Nurse Sandy. Even if everyone else did, he couldn’t remember what year he saw her last, but Mr. Carlson could remember the day he’d last seen her. It was a holiday. All Hallow’s Eve, Nurse Sandy always brought him a small pumpkin full of candy. When Christmas came along, she baked him homemade gingerbread, and for his birthday, she baked him an Italian Creme cake. Mr. Carlson missed when Nurse Sandy stopped by; he liked when she was the one who wheeled him down to the cafeteria or when they visited the side gardens. She was his only caretaker that’s name stuck with him. “Good morning Mr. Carlson; how are you doing?” The nurse that walks in is Philippine, she is thin, short, and her hair is blacker than oil. She looks nothing like his usual nurse, and he frowns with a grunt. Nurse Sandy is a petite but tall woman, with blondish-brown curls down to her shoulders, a light spray of freckles across her cheeks, and she sports a tan all year long. His morning would be better if Nurse Sandy quit horsing around and got her tardy behind here. For a few moments, he does not say anything. Instead, Mr. Carlson stares at the woman with an expression that he hopes tells her to go to hell. He didn’t like when Sandy sent others. He only wanted Sandy’s assistance; everyone else could forget bothering. “Where is Nurse Sandy? I don’t want anyone else helping me unless Sandy told them too,” That was the only way the other nurses could help him. But, first, they had to convince him that Sandy had already set him up with a nurse she trusted. “Nurse Sandy took the day off; she told me you’d be asking for her,” The young nurse swiftly carries on with Mr. Carlson. She eases through their conversation without a single pause to think; she is used to dealing with their reluctance. “And who are you to, Nurse Sandy? I ain’t ever heard of you before,” He growls at the nurse; indeed, Sandy would have told him about her friends. “I am Nurse Tina; I will do my best to do half the job Nurse Sandy does to take care of you,” She smiles, reassuring him, grabbing his shoes from the end of his bed and gently placing them in front of his toes. “You have your work cut out for you,” He gripes again, breathing deeply. His hunched back bars his movement, and the nurse assists him with his house shoes. Nurse Tina knew that sometimes the patients she worked with here would have various perceptions of how the patients process their environment. Some patients remember people that never existed; others do not remember the last sentence spoken to them; each case was different. Nevertheless, Nurse Tina took personal fulfillment from helping these people, even if they never appreciated her. She did not mind their hatred. However, she didn’t shoulder their negativity; they had every right to be pissed off when they spent eighteen years growing into an adult, just to be dumped by their adult children after they reach seventy. Some of these people had family members who never missed a weekend; others were dropped off and never saw their family again. The spectrum varied, and each patient was different. They all had their individualistic backstories that cultivated the person they are today. Tina liked to bring the patients that tended to spend most of the time by themselves little gifts. She’d buy crosswords for the puzzlers, cards for the dealers, and books for the readers. Their reactions always justified the cost, but Tina never added up the receipts anyways. She enjoyed helping others feel better. Her heart was too big, but Tina herself went home to no one. She didn’t know her parents, she grew up in a shelter, and when she turned eighteen, the shelter threw her out. The world ate her alive for months until Tina eventually turned things around. Everything that Tina had today she had herself to thank for, and maybe she felt more empathy for these people because she would end up just like them one day. Cold, lonely, miserable, forgotten, and forgetful. “Let’s get some food in your system, Mr. Carlson,” The young nurse suggests, but Mr. Carlson belligerently shakes his head. Tina just smiles; her time is Mr. Carlson’s today. “Nurse Sandy always takes me on a walk first. She even brings her dogs sometimes.” She smiles at the older man’s sassy tone, and she ponders about this Sandy person. She’d never heard of any of the other nurses bringing their pets to work. “We can walk first; we can sit out in the garden; how does that sound?” Tina wondered if Sandy was a nurse here way before her time, but she knew she could not ask how long ago she’d been here. Mr. Carlson would not be able to tell her. “What is today?” Mr. Carlson asks with a long face. His bushy eyebrows are wiry and long. Thick hairs come off his face in all directions, and his face is wrinkled like an oatmeal cookie. He frowns, and it makes his ancient features all the harsher. His skin looks dry and feels like sandpaper. His hair is paper-thin and covers his scalp in patches. “It is Halloween today,” Tina replies, wheeling him out of his room. He shared the space with another man, Mr. Zane, but Mr. Zane passed away many years ago. Although the facility never filled the bed up with another person, Mr. Carlson did better when bunked by himself. “Nurse Sandy never misses Halloween. Where are you hiding her? Why are you keeping me from Nurse Sandy? SHE IS MY NURSE.” Mr. Carlson is indignant. He clutches the arms of his chair, and he tries to push himself off so he can stand. He loses his balance, but Tina helps him safely slip into his chair. Sometimes, her job is nerve-racking, at times too strenuous on the soul. She took a few deep breaths, keeping her face blank. “The day isn’t over; Nurse Sandy will come back, Mr. Carlson.” “I want my nurse back!” Mr. Carlson is hollering now, and the other orderlies are starting to send her weary glances. The last thing Tina wants is for one of the other contentious nurses to stick their noses in; she has to find a way to soothe him quickly. Or they will sedate him and stick him back in his room. “The garden isn’t too far now,” She’s at a loss for words. Mr. Carlson doesn’t reply, he grunts with frustration, and he impatiently taps his feet against the footrest of his chair. They turn down the last corridor, the wheels of his chair squeak and creak like a haunted house. The Assisted Living Center for Memory Impairment is outdated. The building needed renovations decades ago, so naturally, the building required some work. The walls were no longer cloud white but a rather off-butter yellow that made the place appear scuzzy. In addition, the warped wooden floors are ruined from water damage, and broken tiles litter the kitchen and bathrooms. Tina brought this up to management, but they never handled the issue with priority. “Tell Nurse Sandy when she gets here that I am firing her and that I will have a new nurse. One that shows up. One like- what’s your name again?” He gently requests a reminder, even though his tone is as spiteful as a crossed snake. “I am Tina,” She almost repeats his name, but she stops. “Tina! Pretty name. Yes, tell Nurse Sandy I found someone reliable,” He compliments her with a backhanded remark, but Tina laughs with a grateful smile. As long as he is not boisterously griping, Tina could handle it. So she brought him out to the garden and parked him on the terrace next to a white bench. The garden was lovely; that was one thing that management never let go of. Their bushes and hedges were all meticulously trimmed, not a leaf or stem out of place. The sprinkler system kept the plants and flowerbeds hydrated. “Nurse Sandy liked to read to me. Won’t you read to me?” His voice is soft; his expression is callous. “What would you like to read, Mr. Carlson?” Tina shelved hundreds of books in her office; if only he would have told her this before they’d made it all this way. Tina watches with careful eyes as her patient struggles to get a grip; he frowns. His angry eyebrows slant upwards, and his mouth makes half of a frown on the left side of his face. The gears are gradually turning, but his memory does not work as fast as it should. The frustration that scrawls across his face is heartbreaking, and Tina can’t stand to see him suffer. “I have a small copy of the newspaper; I clipped the poem for today. I will read that,” “Good,” His quick answer is abrupt. Tina fumbles through each pocket of her scrubs before she finally finds the short poem that touched her this morning. “In autumn, the leaves metaphor and the animals prepare, In winter, snow frosts the grass, and bears hibernate in caves, In spring, squirrels climb trees and birds sing, In summer, the sun shines, and the blue sky looms above, As the seasons change, So do people, As time passes, The world moves on, So remember to stop every once in a while, And listen to the breeze of the wind passing you by,” Tina finishes, not sure what she likes about the poem just that she likes it. Mr. Carlson’s beady eyes are focused on her face, he seems to disapprove of the poem, but the older gentleman doesn’t say anything. Tina listens to the engines of cars that pass by on the road in front of the facility. “That had nothing to do with Valentine’s day; Nurse Sandy would have read something that related to the holiday. So, Save that poem for spring Nurse-” He stops rambling, the octaves of his voice stretch, and he tries to fumble through his memory like he is searching his wife’s purse for a missing object. “I am Tina. And I thought the poem was fit for any occasion. Especially a nice afternoon outside, under the shade.” She’s finally starting to wear down. Her willpower to be excellent was strong, but after too many chinks in her armor. Tina’s bark could be just as powerful as her bite. “Well, read me something else,” Tina chuckles, feeling the stress nesting between her shoulder blades tingle. Mr. Carlson wasn’t the most challenging patient, and he never could compare to Mrs. Winston. That lady was about as pleasant as a thumbtack to the heel. “We will have to go back inside,” “That’s fine. It is hot out here anyways,” Tina knew for a fact that the weather was not hot; in fact, the temperature outside was cooler than the thermostat stuck at seventy-five degrees inside. “I’ll take you inside then,” Their walk was short if one could consider it a walk at all. “I’m hungry,” Mr. Carlson scratches his head with long fingernails; he doesn’t let anyone touch his nails. “They are serving steak and eggs for breakfast this morning; tonight’s dessert is pumpkin pie,” “Pumpkin pie is my favorite. Must be Thanksgiving,” “Do you take whip cream?” Nurse Tina navigates to the dining room, where most of the residents have already left. Breakfast was over an hour ago, so hopefully, there was food left for Mr. Carlson. If not, she would have to make him a snack. “I do; Sandy used to make the best turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches. My mouth waters just thinking about them.” “Let me go get you something to eat, Mr. Carlson,” “Maybe you’ll find Sandy in there,” He sends her the first smile he has in a very long time. His lips are just a few shades of pink darker than his white skin. His happy expression makes his face appear so fragile, as his skull may fracture at the slightest touch. He is weak and old. His body is tired, and his eyes are secretive. Tina walks into the kitchen, where there are cooks busy preparing lunch. Loaves of bread, stacks of tomatoes, lettuce, bacon, and cheese linger on the counter. “Do you know if there is any cranberry sauce?” She asks Debra, the older woman that runs the kitchen. Although, most people call her Deb; she’s been here longer than anyone else. “Haha, baby doll, you are in luck. I just made some fresh cranberry sauce this weekend. It’s in the fridge. Who do you need it for?” “Mr. Carlson,” “You mean to say, Charlie Ray?” The older woman pauses to glance at Tina; a perplexed scrunch of her nose makes her look like a pig. “The very one,” Tina replies with a soft tone. “Oh, Charlie Ray! He’ll love a turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Just like she used to make. For the sake of Halloween, I’ll make him his favorite.” “You know Mr. Carlson?” “Of course, not many people around her know about him or his wife anymore. Such a sweet woman, she came to see him every day,” Her voice is sticky with sweetness, and she’s already popping the roasted turkey back in the fridge. “That was nice of her,” “Has he asked you where she is? It breaks my heart every time someone complains about him. He can’t help his memory,” The older woman babbles and gossips. “Not that I know of,” Her reply is absentminded as she stares at the time on her watch. “I am sure he will; she was his favorite.” The woman slides the plate over to Tina; her lips stretch into a rueful smile. Tina thanks her for her time, still staring at her watch. She grabs the plate, paying little attention to the context of their conversation. She is just about to walk out the door when she pauses. Could Nurse Sandy be his wife? “Did you know her name by chance?” “Yes, Sandy Mable Carlson. She was a doctor.” Tina almost dropped the plate of food. Her heart tumbled into her stomach, and she swallowed the large lump in her throat. “Thanks a-again, Debra.” Tina stammers, swearing the temperature just dropped twenty degrees. As she left the kitchen, her eyes immediately sought out Mr. Carlson. He was sitting alone at a table with a pumpkin centerpiece, his frail hands are outstretched across the surface. His palms are faces the ceiling as if he were holding another person’s hand. She could tell that he was talking, his lips moved quickly, and his mouth opened and closed as he finished speaking. Pity flooded her stomach and muddled together with the breakfast she’d eaten this morning. She felt sorry for Mr. Carlson, he’d spent a lifetime knowing someone, and now his brain confused him and tricked him. His brain made it increasingly more difficult to comprehend her absence. She took her time, doing her best to exaggerate her steps so she did not startle him. Once she reached the table, Mr. Carlson beamed at her with such a joyous expression; Tina couldn’t help but wonder if somebody had ransacked him for his personality. “Oh, Nurse Tina, I found Sandy! She brought us some little cakes. Why don’t you pull up a chair and take a seat?” The chair across from Mr. Carlson is entirely empty, although he gestures for her to grab another chair. She does, without really comprehending what she is doing, too worried about the empty room, to care what chair she was grabbing. Tina glances around the room with chaotic eyes, but there is no one here but Mr. Carlson. Her heart hammers as she tries to play off her concern. There is no one here, but Mr. Carlson seems to be content. “Nurse Tina, we sure are glad you could join us,” Mr. Carlson places a hand over hers and smiles with watery eyes. Then he turns his head to the apparition only he can see and strikes up a full-blown conversation. Tina sits in silence, as she listens to Mr. Carlson chat up his dead wife.


        “Wherever you want to go,” the man in the sport jacket said. He had an athletic build, and the white shirt he was wearing looked like it was just pulled out of the packaging. Blinding white. No one in Bend dressed like that. D was dressed in his regular school clothes, joggers and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He towered over the man in the sport jacket.                “How about Ruby’s?” D said.                The man in the sport coat and the heavy-set coach to his left smiled. “Yeah, sure, but you can go higher end, if you want,” Coach said. “We’re trying to get you to come to our school. You can order the chateaubriand.”                D didn’t know what chateaubriand was, and he didn’t want to ask. But he knew enough and he hated the implication. It was as though some fancy dinner and the prospect of financial gain could just make him do whatever they wanted. “That’s just the way those big schools do it,” Robert told him. Robert and Karen, D’s adoptive parents, were not persuaded that D should even pursue an athletic career. Karen, especially was concerned that D needed an education. She cited statistics about the success rates of those who pursued big school or professional sports.                “We just don’t want you to think that’s all there is in life,” she said. “When your career in sports is over, you need to assimilate. Sports careers are not that long.” But when he started being scouted, she and Bob, along with the rest of the community in Bend, got caught up in the hype.                He was a phenom, as the press put it.

               Coach and the man in the white suit climbed into a large black Cadillac Escalade. They seemed oblivious to how it stuck out in a town whose inhabitants drove Subarus. “Take the front,” Coach said. “I need to stretch out my legs, anyway. Too much traveling.”                Ruby’s was an unassuming local place. It was the sort of place that Robert and Karen took D when he got a good test grade. Sandwiches, wings, pizza and burgers. He had to hand it to them, Robert and Karen knew what he liked from day one, not like the other foster parents. Prior to Robert and Karen, D saw it all—the out-of-touch agency ladies and the leeches. The leeches were the ones who collected foster kids. Each kid was a new source of income. They piled them into the house and didn’t care what happened to them. And the other kids were insufferable. Some had been beaten up, and they were quick to beat up on others. D cowered away from them and tried to hide, until the day that Karen and Robert came to take him in.                Karen never had children and Robert was in sales. They went to church every week and had already fostered D’s other adopted brother, Sid, who was now a banker in Ohio. Robert signed D up for basketball. It was white man’s ball. By that, D understood that it meant just the basics. Robert and Karen lived in a huge house and had a half court outside. On Saturdays Robert and D shot layups. Robert told D that basketball and sports would build character. But D didn’t care at the time. He only played it because there was nothing else to do.                Ironically, Karen was the one who saw how much D took to it. She brought a flyer home about a travel clinic. She thought it’d be good for D to develop some skills. Besides, she’d pointed out, she and Robert could use the time that D was away for a little break. D was pissed at first. A break. They weren’t his real parents. D did practically everything for himself anyway. But it turned out Karen was right. D took to basketball naturally. When he started to pour himself into it, something magical happened. D grew. A lot. And the travel team played better basketball. They lined the players up and threw the basketball hard at their stomachs. Some of the boys got the wind knocked out and D found himself gasping for air, but it was a turning point. D knew it served a purpose. When D played other teams, he wasn’t afraid of getting hit or fouled. It sure beat getting a basketball launched at your solar plexus.                “You’re Demetrius, aren’t you?” the waitress had long, dark hair that was tied up in a high ponytail. She was pretty.                “Yes,” D said, before Coach cut in.                “Hon, we’re trying to keep it low-key, OK?” The man in the bright white shirt tucked some extra bills into her hand.                The waitress waved it away, “you got it,” she said. “Just wanted to tell you it’s a pleasure to serve The Phenom.”                Coach smiled, but it was not a real one. “Lots of phenoms out there, honey. Now can you get us a couple menus?”                Coach and the man in the bright white shirt perused the menu. D put his down.                “What looks good?” the man in the white shirt asked.                “I’ll have the double-decker burger, no fries,” D said. “Mind if I get two?”                “Whatever you want,” the man in the white shirt said.                “And the malted shake,” D added.                This was a little splurge. In season D didn’t like to drink shakes, but this was an occasion to celebrate. He led his high school team to a winning season and now he was being scouted by the big ten schools. The press then caught wind. When national sports reporters showed up at the house, D knew that things were changing. They wanted to talk to D. They tried to get pictures.                “You know we can’t offer you cash yet,” the man in the white shirt said, as he cut his burger in half and bit into part of it. Coach grabbed some fries from his plate. “Look here, son,” he said. “The money will come, but before it comes, you gotta show the world what you’re made of. I can help you get there. You come with me, and you’ll get court time, provided you are committed to putting in the time.” He paused. D smiled broadly. “I can put in the time,” he said.                Coach smiled back. “Then you can collect your shoe contracts and do your commercials.”                The man in the bright white shirt spoke next. “We brought along a couple things we thought you might like.” He pulled out a large duffel bag. “Just some college swag for our college boy,” Coach said. “You ever see these before?” He pulled out a pair of high tops. They were huge and light, but had some sort of stiff wedge above the sole.                “No,” D smiled.                “That’s cause no one has,” the man in the white shirt said. “Factory made for you when you join our team. Can’t wait to get you signed up.” He handed D the duffel bag. “Look through that when you get home,” the man in white said. “I’ll call you on Monday morning.”                When D got home from dinner, he expected Robert and Karen to beam. Instead, Karen was pale and looked at D through red-rimmed eyes. There was a woman sitting on the sofa.                “Demetrius, baby!” she held out her arms.                Karen looked sidelong at D. There was a rather long pause.                Robert spoke first. “Demetrius, this is your mother, Destiny Laximoore. She showed up at our door tonight.” *            *            *                 That had been three weeks ago. There were other schools after that. They all wanted to take D out to dinner. Some had given him gas cards, warmups. D wasn’t sure that cash equivalents were kosher under NCAA guidelines. At first, it had been fun to be treated like sports royalty, but D still found something unsettling about it. It was as though each duffel bag was a little piece of him that the colleges were buying. They wanted return on their investment. They really didn’t care what happened to D, D thought. They wanted to buy winning. Only Karen and Robert gave any thought to what was best for D, and then, well Destiny.                It was obvious that Karen didn’t like Destiny. She never said anything negative, but D could tell the way she looked at Robert when Destiny called, as though she wanted him to say that he didn’t need to tell D that Destiny had called. When D gave Destiny the gas cards he’d been given, Karen looked hard at Robert, who’d said nothing.                “Demetrius, I have always loved you, and I only need a little money so that I can get enough to get us an apartment together,” Destiny said. D took one look at Destiny and knew it was true. Destiny was skinny, like she could use a meal. She also needed to see a dentist. Years of neglect, thought D. The world is good to the Roberts and Karens, but the Destinys had to make it without any help.                “Mom, how’s the search going?” D asked one day. “I’m pretty close to picking North Carolina for school. We could move there together. Look what I got you.” D pulled out the pages that he had printed from his computer. He circled three apartments. He’d given Destiny money from his savings account, already. It would easily have covered a down payment on any of the apartments.                “Honey, I’m still looking,” Destiny said. “I gotta go now, catch you next week.”                D hated it when she said that. It meant that she might or might not show up the following week.                “Yeah,” he said, handing her a roll of cash. “Don’t forget to call me next week.”                But she did. And every time she did, D found himself taking out his anger at the court, slamming the ball through the hoop, lashing out at anyone who screwed up at practice.                Karen and Robert took notice.                “Hey, D,” Robert said one night. “What’s going on with your savings account? I thought you were saving up for a car—remember, I’ll match whatever you put down.”                “Yeah, my mom needed some money so she can get to her job,” D said.                “Hmm. D, maybe she needs to come up with some of that money on her own.”                Karen broke in. “Enough!” she said loudly. “Honest to God, I have had enough of all this. Why do we have to keep pretending? Demetrius, your mother doesn’t have a job. She’s sucking all the money off you because she sees you as one big paycheck. Where’s she been for the last fifteen years? Where was she when you spray painted the side of the school, huh? Did she get you out of that? No! That was us, Demetrius. Where was she when you were sick? Did she come to you then? How about when you couldn’t pass Algebra? She didn’t knock on our goddamn door then, did she?”                This was scary. Karen never swore. Her face was white and D could see a vein throbbing in her neck. Even her fingers were shaking. “Wake up, Demetrius. She’s using you.”                Robert looked bothered. “Karen—”                “No, I got it,” D’s own hands were shaking now. “You’re wrong. You hate her because she’s my real mom,” he heard himself say. “You wouldn’t have any of this, the fame, the attention, all that stuff you love if my real mom didn’t bring me into this world. Now you’re just jealous. Yeah? Well, you’re gonna find out the hard way. I’m outta here. I’m not your son anymore. I never really was.”                Robert looked bothered now. “Demetrius, we don’t mean that—”                But it was too late. Demetrius had grabbed his jacket and was out the door. *            *            *                Three hours later, he had traced Destiny’s steps. It wasn’t difficult. She drove a beat-up gold duster that stuck out like a sore thumb in a town of middle-class people. A few questions at the convenience store, and D found himself watching his mom from behind a dumpster in a parking lot on the edge of town.                “Yeah, I got it,” he heard her say. She handed a man the roll of cash that D had given her. “Now you give me what you got. D didn’t see what he gave her, but he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was she doing? That was the money that was for the apartment. The feeling in the pit of his stomach began to rise. It was nausea. D swallowed back bile.                When the man left, D emerged from behind the dumpster. Destiny immediately turned toward the sound of a can falling from the dumpster.                “Demetrius, what are you doing here?” she called.                “What are you doing here?” D asked. “That money was supposed to be for our apartment, remember?”                Destiny looked hard at D.                D looked hard right back. “What’s your explanation? I mean, mom, why are you doing this?”                “Demetrius,” Destiny said. She paused. “I’ve, I’ve—” She gathered herself. “It’s for my job, like I said,” Destiny finally said. “I’m a nail tech. That man gets me my supplies for cheap. Too expensive to buy them at the store. I buy ‘em on the street.”                “Yeah? Where are they?” D asked. “Show me.”                “Actually, he delivers them for me,” Destiny said. “You know I can’t show them to you—cause he delivers them so I don’t have to carry them home. . . Then I do my nails. I’ve got some saved up, Demetrius. It’s gonna be you and me. I’ve got some saved up. We gonna live in that apartment—I just need one more thing, Demetrius. Just one more thing, and that’s the gel drying machine. Cost me about $500 more. Can you get that for me next week? Think you can get me $500 more by next week?”                D sighed. “Yeah, mom.” He walked slowly back to Robert and Karen’s. *            *            *                Karen had been crying. Her face was red and her eyes were swollen. “Sorry, D. I didn’t mean it,” she was saying. “We love you and are just glad you’re back.”                D looked at Karen and Robert defiantly. “I’ll sleep here,” he said. “But I want to you to know that you’re wrong. You were wrong. My mom’s a nail tech, and she’s been saving up to live at college with me. Till then, I’ll crash here, but only till then.” D then felt the overwhelming urge to cry, to run into the arms of Karen and Robert and cry, but he didn’t know why. Instead, he spoke. “I’m signing. North Carolina,” he said. “Then I’m outta here.” *            *            *                The man in the bright white shirt was back. “I just want you to know that you made the right decision,” he said. “I think you’ll find that we are a real family at NC. This is where you belong.”                Coach smiled and all his large white teeth showed. His large stomach shook with laughter. “So long as you perform, D!” he punched D in the shoulder.                Karen and Robert looked on. They smiled, proudly. “Well done, son,” Robert said.

               They were standing outside, and D had signed four times on a clipboard balanced on the front of the Escalade.                “Wait, wait, we didn’t capture this moment,” Karen was smiling. “Someone take my phone!” She handed it to Sid, who had come home to celebrate D’s signing. “Sid, you get in the next one.”                Sid snapped a picture. D’s phone chimed.                There was the picture. Karen, smiling with joy. Robert, slapping D on the shoulder. The man in the white shirt looking victorious, and Coach looking as though he had just eaten the canary. Ironically, only D looked out of place. A big kid, in an even bigger NC warmup jacket, looking out from a bowed head, just like he had when he cowered behind the sofa at his first foster home.                “As long as I perform,” D thought. “as long as I perform.”


Herb Goes Hermit Herb peered over the top of his cubicle, mesmerized by the agonizingly slow movement of the minute hand on the clock at the far side of the room. In his one lone, exhilarating act of defiance, he had tossed his watch into the waste basket in the company cafeteria years ago. Everything else in his life was constraining and suffocating. As illusory as it was, Herb could at least imagine he was freed from the bonds of time. Time. 34 years = 408 months = 1,768 weeks =12,410 days = 297,840 hours = 17,870,400 minutes. The last 20 minutes would be the most painful for Herb- anxiety soars as the moment approaches. In twenty minutes Herb would walk out that door for the last time, liberated from the mind-numbing, torturous tasks he had so long endured. Herb hated his job, but not quite as much as he hated his boss and his coworkers. Punching out at the end of another miserable day at work brought little relief as he also hated his neighbors, their noisy, bratty kids, and their incessantly barking dogs. He was particularly burdened by old man Johnson’s rooster which faithfully announced the arrival of every new day a half hour before sunrise. The feelings were mutual. Herb’s going away party would be held the week after he left. Kids forfeited their baseball whenever a foul ball sailed over his fence. Conspirator theorists might even have suggested the dogs and the rooster, even though situated on opposite sides of Herb’s property, were running a tag-team operation designed to drive poor Herb, in layman’s terms, “woo-woo”. There was no salvaging Herb’s relationship with the rest of the world. Twenty minutes. Each jump of the minute hand took forever as Herb’s mind bounced back and forth from the scourge of his painful past to the peaceful, soothing, serene thoughts of the wondrous future that loomed just over the horizon. He had it all planned out. Walt had Disneyland; Michael had Neverland; Dolly had Dollywood; Herb would have his Herbville. Having no friends, no interests, and no pleasures, Herb stashed away a small fortune during his working years. As such, he was well positioned to acquire his Shangri-La, his Camelot, his Promised Land- a one-room cabin on a remote 50-acre parcel in the Montana Rockies. The nearest sign of civilization was the aging town of Butte, affectionately referred to by the locals, and by some phonetically challenged visitors, as “Butt”. With the mindset of a junior accountant, Herb had meticulously prepared for his great escape- a small wood-burning stove, stockpiles of firewood, flintstones, oil lamps, oil, tin cutlery, hunting and fishing equipment, and a moderate supply of bomb shelter-style food rations in case his hunting and fishing efforts proved inadequate. He made one concession for the sake of a possible medical emergency- a cell phone and a solar-powered charger. Herb and his hideaway cabin in the wilderness would be a self-contained unit; he had no further need of anyone or anything. Good riddance, world. Herb hatched his plan five years ago, right after he got a new, even more intolerable boss at work, and his canine-loving neighbor brought home two rescue German Shepherds that added volume and consistency to the cacophonous nightly bark-a-thon. He found his little piece of paradise in an ad in Wilderness Living Magazine, and he spent all of his vacation time making the place ready for the move. Herb supplemented his very limited survival skills with books and Internet searches. With his remarkable lack of commitment to the task, the workday provided ample opportunity for Herb to research life in the wild. He even picked up a few helpful tidbits by streaming a little Rambo online. Herb was as prepared as any unprepared guy could be for wilderness living. At 5:00 PM Herb was out the door faster than a kid heading for summer vacation. He drove straight through, Minneapolis to Butte. His final stop was Big Bertha’s General Store on the outskirts of Butte- “Everything You Need Under One Roof, And More.” By this time in the process, Herb had befriended the young man behind the counter. “Today’s the big day, Seth. I just filled up with gas, you know, in case of some kind of medical emergency. And I’ll need a few more cases of beer. Could you throw them in the truck?” “Will do, Herb. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” “This will be as bare bones. I want to live like the early pioneers, free of all the crap society throws at us.”  “And what about that pistol I suggested, you know, for those long walks in the woods you talked about? There’s Grizzlies up there, you know.” “No, I’m good.” “And Mountain Lions.” “I’ll be all right.” “And wolves.” “Well, not a Dirty Harry gun, maybe just a little one.” “Grizzlies, Herb.” “Ok, a medium size one.” Herb teared up when he saw the cabin. Sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the actual event, but not in this case. Totally relaxed, at peace, far from all the tribulations society had inflicted upon him for so many years. He was what he had dreamed about for so long, a happy Herb.

Hopefully, we will all have that one great moment in time, a defining instant that can be called upon from our lockbox of memories to bring a smile even in the most difficult of times. Herb’s moment was rooted in the crass, the most primitive of actions to be found in the human experience, but nonetheless, it was as glorious an event as one could hope for. Immediately after unpacking the truck, Herb walked out his front door, gazed upon the vast valley below, took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air, and peed. Functional and symbolic, the exhilarating feeling of the freedom to do whatever he wanted, as well as an overt expression of his distaste for the world below. When the deed was done, Herb triumphantly raised his arms above his head, Rocky at the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ali leaping atop the ropes after Liston failed to answer the bell, Jack declaring he was King of the World at the bow of the Titanic. Oops, maybe you don’t want to go to the Titanic thing, Herb. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness. Herb, the cabin, the mountains, crisp clean air, the moon peaking in and out of wispy white clouds. And no people, no rooster, and no barking dogs. Some pilgrims wander through the wilderness to find salvation; Herb found his in the wilderness. Unfortunately, the body operates on a separate track from the mind. Herb’s state of mental bliss was interrupted by nature’s call. < Warning: The following descriptions may be disturbing for some readers.> No, Herb had already gone pee-pee. Now it was time, as delicately as can be stated, to go… poo-poo. Herb read all about the early pioneers using leaves for…shall we say, cleanup. Herb realized his first miscalculation as he walked through the stand of tall pines toward the outhouse. Pine needles and leaves, similar in purpose when they are on a tree; not so much after they’ve fallen to the ground. Nothing in Herb’s research noted the dearth of leafy trees at higher altitude. Herb’s first visit to his new bathroom was…unpleasant. The splash of stars across the night sky was spectacular. Herb sat on a fallen log, taking it in all in, a heavenly panorama of sheer wonder unknown to those who dwell within the glow of bright city lights. Herb smiled as he snuggled under his quilt. He felt a great sense of relief over all he had left behind, but surprisingly, he had trouble sleeping. He was on edge the whole night as he kept waiting for the disturbing sounds of the barking dogs. And under the spell of some form of subconscious anticipation, Herb awoke the next morning a half hour before sunrise. A sheepish Herb entered Big Bertha’s the next morning. “Herb! What are you doing here?” “ I guess there is one more thing I could use.” “What’s that?” “Toilet paper.” “Ha…ha, ha…ha, ha, ha…” Herb, seeing no humor in the purchase, quickly grabbed voluminous amounts of toilet paper, and headed back to his little piece of paradise. Herb’s seller had boasted of the good fishing in the trout stream that bordered the property, but he (cleverly) neglected to disclose the competition. Even before he wet his line, Herb felt the menacing gaze of the grizzly bear just a hundred yards downstream. His first thought was he didn’t think a bear could be that big. His second thought was the gun sitting on the floor next to bed. Herb hurriedly gathered his gear and left today’s catch to the bear. Meals placed on your table at a restaurant may not look as good as they did in the picture on the menu. Meals pulled out of a box previewed only with written descriptions may appear even less appealing when held in your hand. After a lengthy review of his options, Herb went with the “Black Bean Burger.” Herb felt good about starting his cooking fire in the mode of Daniel Boone. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch click. God dammit. Scritch, scratch, click…scritch, scratch, click. You’ve got to be #@*! Kidding me. “Hey, Herb, what do you need?” “Just some matches.” “You came all the way down here just for matches?” “Matches, Seth, matches.” Herb managed to down the Black Bean Burger with the help of a few beers. He couldn’t help but note that tonight would have been pizza delivery night from Felipe’s back home. The prospect of fishing was akin to Herb’s temptation to misbehave in grade school. He had never seen a nun whacking a kid with a ruler, but the reputation for such acts was enough to keep him in line. Likewise, Herb had never seen a man ripped to shreds by a grizzly bear, but recalling such reports was sufficient deterrence to keep him from the stream. Plan B- hunting. As Herb had never done it before, it may have been imprudent for him to rely on taking down big game for his subsistence. Herb figured he should get a little practice in. The guy at the sporting goods store showed him how to load his hunting rifle, but Herb’s hands were shaking as he put the bullets into the killing machine. He stood just 20-30 yards from the target, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. The shockingly loud bang and the jolt to his shoulder scared him to death. Maybe hunting wasn’t his thing. He could acquire a taste for the bomb shelter food. As nightfall drops in temperature in the mountains can be extreme, Herb tried to limit his outhouse visits to the daylight hours. Going pee-pee wasn’t an issue, as one of the benefits of his new life was he could now pee anywhere. Going…poo-poo…was the problem as Herb’s butt was not accustomed to making contact with freezing cold surfaces. The sound of howling wolves in distance only added to the discomfort of the experience. Boiled potatoes, powdered milk, Black Bean Burgers, crackers. Herb wasn’t a prayerful man, but he was thanking God for beer on a nightly basis. One night he put in a call to Big Bertha’s. “Hey, Seth, does Butte have any pizza joints that would deliver up here?”  Short walks through the woods. Even though Herb packed a pistol whenever he strayed far from the cabin, he feared the odds of hitting a wild animal in full attack mode would be slim. He stayed close to home after sundown as the howling wolves in the pitch-black darkness unsettled his nerves. Quiet, then it got even more quiet. Herb had grown tired of debits, credits, reruns of Colombo and Gunsmoke, traffic jams, wait lines at the grocery store, barking dogs, and a crowing rooster. Could he now grow tired of nothing at all?

The evergreen branches covered with snow brought extra beauty to the setting, but the cold temperatures created more challenges for Herb. He was making more frequent trips to the wood pile, brushing the snow away, and kicking logs to free them from the pile. Herb moved his bed closer to the old wood burner, and he and his blanket became one. Sometimes the scales are tipped with that proverbial last straw; sometimes it comes with a ton of bricks. Shivering in bed, Herb felt a little something else going on. It was just past midnight, the snow was falling, and a fierce wind was blowing. The last thing Herb wanted to do was make a trip to the outhouse. It is a known fact that the coldest experience in life is a bare butt placed on the ice-cold surface of a seat in an outhouse in winter. Herb will attest to that. As Herb opened the door, ready to race back to the cabin, he saw them approaching, first one, then two, and finally a third. His research was correct- wolves do hunt in packs. Herb slammed the door shut, breathed a sigh of relief, and snuck a peek out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves were drawing closer. Oh my God, Herb! They know you’re in there. He looked, they were gone. He looked, they were back. They were circling the outhouse. Herb about couldn’t breath. He thought if he stayed perfectly still, they’d leave. And then scratching, clawing at the walls, at the door. It finally occurred to Herb to fasten the small, rusted hook on the door into the eyehook on the door. The hook immediately broke off. Herb grabbed onto the wood slat running across the door and held on for dear life. He couldn’t believe he was being hunted Jaws-style by three freaking animals. The door swung outward so he just had to keep the banging from creating a sliver of an opening for one of the beasts to stick its head through. He once again pictured his pistol resting comfortably on the floor next to his bed. Repeated failed attempts to gain entry seemed to only anger the attackers and intensify their efforts. Growling, snarling, frenzied clawing at the door and walls. Holy crap! One was digging at the base of a wall! The sight of a paw under the wall nearly gave Herb another poo-poo moment. Suddenly quiet. He prayed the wolves had left. But even if they had, would he have the nerve, the courage, the requisite speed and energy to make a run back to the cabin? Herb looked out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves had not left. They were lying down just 10 feet from the door, their fur flecked with snow and flickering in the wind. All eyes were on the outhouse. Herb was under siege. He began to tire. He sat down on the floor, never releasing his grip on the wooden slat. Herb was so terrified he didn’t notice the drop in his body’s core temperature. He had only thrown on a pullover sweatshirt for what should have been a quick trip to the outhouse. He now wished he had researched just how long a body could survive sub-freezing temperatures. He recalled one interesting and hopefully helpful hint from his research. When confronted by a dangerous animal, a mountain lion, a bear, or perhaps a dog, make yourself look big…and scary. The tactic seemed risky to Herb, but he could feel his joints tightening up, and his fingers getting numb. He feared freezing to death, and the writer of the article had impressive credentials. He’d give it a shot. Herb stood up and took a look. The wolves were still there. As soon as he opened the door, three heads in unison turned toward Herb. He raised his hands high and let out a primordial scream. Unfortunately for Herb, the wolves had not read the same article, and snarling, growling, and flashing their teeth, they charged at Herb. They hit the door just after Herb managed to get it closed. Herb assumed his sitting position, holding onto that life-saving slat, and fought to stay awake, struggling to survive. Throughout the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange thoughts, dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations, visited poor Herb. He wished his outhouse were built of stone rather than wood, recoiled in horror as “Two-Socks” turned on Kevin Costner and went for his jugular, and saw himself as Little Red Riding Hood running through the woods. All the while his body temperature continued to drop. Irony. A rooster. Did a rooster somehow appear in the area? Or was it part of his mind flipping around haphazardly from the cold and lack of sleep? They say some people dream in color; maybe Herb dreamed in sound. Either way, it was the morning crowing of a rooster that awakened Herb that day and saved his life. The wolves weren’t in sight, and Herb understood that to stay was to die. Arms and legs grudgingly cooperating with the hazy signals being sent from his barely functioning brain, Herb rose, pushed the door open, and trudged through the snow to his cabin. He hurriedly threw on some warmer clothes, grabbed the keys to the truck, and after a long, wistful look at the cabin, he was headed down the mountain. Herb stumbled Frankenstein-like into Big Bertha’s, disheveled hair and eyebrows covered with frost, his jacket buttoned unevenly, a fur hat tilting sideways on his head. He had the look of a crazed man. “Jesus Christ, Herb, what happened to you?!” “Nothing. I just had a bad night.” “I guess. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” “What do you need?” “Nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to buy a cabin in the mountains.”


Aloysius Lets the Cleaning Lady Go It really was time to let the wretched woman go. Goodbye, but as graciously as possible, of course. Aloysius had forty pounds in his pocket and the words on the tip of his tongue. She stamped into the room, in the middle of a sentence as usual; another thing that irked him, her non-stop chatter. “So, you see, Mr Aloysius, there is a big difference between being alone and being lonely , if you get my drift. A big difference.” Maggie was unusually stern, having finished her hours. They were in the orchid house, where she was allowed one cigarette after her shift, but Mr Aloysius, having inadvertently broached a comment earlier, thought this might not be the case. He rather feared for his new Dendrobium and moved it slightly away from the floating smoke. They were sitting at the potting table, with Maggie using a plant saucer for ash. “It’s like this Maggie …” he began … “Here’s my friend, Rosalind, been married 40 years, loses Harry just like that. So, you could say she’s alone. Anyway, after the crying her eyes out, and me and her with a bottle of the whisky, she says she always liked some flipping poem, about wearing purple and eating sausages and stuff. Anyhows, we got the poem from the library, and blow me, if we didn’t do everything on it and she was like a new woman. Stupid things, but it made us laugh, going out in the rain in our slippers and that. I didn’t get it really, I’m not a fan of purple at the best of times, and she doesn’t do everything in the poem now of course. She got this little white dog that sits on the end of the bed while she reads her library books, ‘til midday if she wants to and then off they go visiting all over. Don’t get me wrong she grieves for Harry every day, she misses him heart and soul, but it’s been a couple of years now and she doesn’t feel lonely.” Against his will, Aloysius found himself strangely interested. “She does still eat a big plate of sausages all at one go sometimes. I’ve tried it myself. It’s very satisfying.” “Maggie…”, Aloysius steeled himself. Maggie paused, lit up another cigarette and Mr Aloysius, as discreetly as possible, opened a window by the rare Phalaenopsis and sat down again. “My friends, Wendy and Sharon, I’ve told you about them, haven’t I, what works at the restaurant in town. Now I wouldn’t say they are the most sensitive girls around, and they’d be the first to say the same. But do you know what they hate working the most? Valentine’s Day. You’d think you’d want to work it for the tips, eh?” Aloysius did indeed wonder why. “But they try and wangle it for a day off on that day. They say it’s the saddest day of the flipping year; some of those couples sitting together, trying to look together, but they’re not, Mr A; they’re pretending, and they’re not alone , but some of them are feeling the loneliness, that’s what Wendy says. She says it makes her really sad. Them trying to look together and happy for the day, but not really; not really.” Aloysius drew a determined breath. “Then get me, eh. Nothing more I love than a good car trip on my own. Alone, Mr A. singing along to the music like anything. Smooth FM, all good songs on there. I like going up to places to see the birds; Flamborough Head and all the terns, puffins and such. You should get yourself out Mr A., a bit more, really. So, one day I’ve had a really good walk, got my binoculars and all, see the little chicks in their nests, it’s brilliant. Just as brilliant as yer beautiful orchids, if you don’t mind me saying. And then I pass this family of four; the kids are real little shits, sorry to say that, but they are, the mam’s telling them they can have anything they want when they get back to the car; she’s as bad as them not wanting a walk, all moaning like mad. Then the dad comes up behind, and it’s him I see, his eyes. He’s tried to do something different, maybe, take everyone for a bit of fresh air, but that’s not the point. His eyes, he’s like lonely and alone at the same time; like ‘is this the rest of my life?’ This spoilt wife and these spoilt kids? His eyes went down to a right desperate soul, I could tell. Lonely and alone; I’m not sure, I’ll have to think about that a bit more for my theory, you know.” Aloysius could see it all, felt the breeze on his skin. Maggie puffed away on her cigarette. “Just finish this, Mr A. and then I’m off. Got me pilates class; I know, you wouldn’t believe it, but it’s good for me back. Another time, I’d been down to see Sue one afternoon in Cleethorpes. That’s another story. But driving out, oh, it was such a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I had this real hankering for fish and chips. Sit by the beach, watch the waves, see everyone splashing around, glorious. So there I am, all settled under a tree, mouth watering, just starting on my fish and chips, when I felt like I had just stepped off a cliff and fell into a sea of lonely. Oh, it was dreadful. All the world carried on around me; seagulls crying, children shouting, people laughing and chatting, and I was so apart from it, so, so lonely, it grabbed onto my insides and I started to cry into my chips. I don’t know what happened there, still don’t. I can still feel that lonely plunge today if I call it up. And I have never eaten fish and chips by myself since.” Aloysius clutched the notes in his pocket. “Right, I’m off. Have a think about it Mr A. when you said what you said today. Lonely, or just alone? Come and see those lovely little baby birds on the cliff, eh? I’ll drive.” Aloysius sighed. Another day, perhaps. That woman definitely had to go.


Depth: 3.3 kilometers. Distance from New Alcatraz: 900 meters. Time since loss of contact: 27 hours, 43 minutes. I squeeze the grip on my M4 carbine. The on-board submarine computer sounds deeper than Barry White. I try to ignore it. All I can think about is the safety of my platoon. This is unlike any mission we’ve ever been on. Technically, the place we’re going to doesn’t exist. The US government set it up in international waters, outside of official jurisdiction. It was touted as the world’s first functional underwater prison, designed for the most hardened criminals. Completely off-the-grid with its own nuclear power source and 3D fabricators for food, clothing, weapons, and other supplies. Once you’re there, you never have to leave. And good luck trying to. Distance: 500 meters. New Alcatraz comes up on the monitors. The glass dome covering the facility looks rather beautiful. The wipers used to clean the algae are operating, so the place must still have some electricity. No sunlight penetrates this far down into the ocean. The only lights I see come from inside the prison. “What do you think happened, Commander Park?” Dax asks. He spins around in the pilot’s seat. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead, and he’s not even wearing full body armor like the rest of us. It must take a toll piloting a sub like this one. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. Distance: 100 meters. There’s another submarine docked in the moon pool. That must have been the last prisoner transport before contact was lost. Something got in there that shouldn’t have. Docking sequence initiated… When I started out as a private, all I could think about was being the one that yelled out the orders. But now that I’m the one in charge, I wish I could turn the clock back. Because now I’m the one that has to go into New Alcatraz first. I inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly. Docked in Bay 2. “Let’s go,” I say. The bulkhead door opens. We enter the processing center. There’s an enclosed space in the middle of the room with windows where the guards would sit. We’re the only ones here. One of the doorways out of the room is locked. Another has been left ajar. My heart almost jumps out of my chest as we creep across the room… Nothing is waiting for us around the corner. We walk into a wide-open space. The circular tables make me think that this is the mess hall. Most of the chairs are set on top of the tables, but some of them have been knocked to the floor. The place looks like it should on any normal day. Except for the puddle of red on the floor. “Son of a bitch.” The acids in my stomach churn. There was a struggle of some sort, but there aren’t any remains or body parts on the ground. Just the blood. “Stick together,” I say. We cross the room and head to the staircase on the side of the panopticon-shaped prison. I feel like I’m walking on egg shells with each step that I take. The moment that we reach the second floor, an alert from the submarine AI comes through on our com link. Bacteriological agent detected. Exercise caution. My insides sink to the bottom of my chest. That would explain quite a bit. One of the prisoners must have come down with something and infected everybody else. But apart from rabies, I can’t think of any disease that would cause somebody to go berserk and take over the facility. And wouldn’t the officers screen all the prisoners before putting them on the transport sub and bringing them down here? Levels Two through Six house the prison cells. There are streaks of blood scattered on the ground without any remains to speak of. It’s as if the corpses disappeared or something. The further we go inside the facility, the sicker I feel. I’m not even behind bars, and I feel like I’m a prisoner in here. Commander, this is Dax. Do you read? “What is it?” I say into the com. Sir… there are… well… fish in the moon pool. They jumped out of the water and now they’re just sitting on the dock. My mouth falls open. That is not something that I need to know about right now. Dax does not have the best timing. “Is that all?” No, sir. I’ve also been picking up something on the sonar. Something big is circling the outside of the facility. You might want to hurry it up in there. Don’t want to stay any longer than we have to. “Roger that. One more floor to check.” The last place to explore is the confinement level at the top of the facility. We go up a final flight of stairs, moving at a snail’s pace. I can hear the breathing before we exit the stairwell. It doesn’t sound like a noise that a human is capable of emitting. It sounds guttural. Animalistic. Depraved. The prisoners are all standing in place with their hands at their sides. In this prison, the inmates wear white jumpsuits. Most of them are covered in blood. For some reason, it makes me think of a red and white candy cane. “FREEZE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” None of the inmates move. Their heads are slumped forward. They stand as still as statues. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” One of the prisoners turns around to face me. His black eyes lock on to mine. His mouth droops open. “You! What happened here?” I ask. He points to one of the solitary confinement units. Blood is caked into his hand. “The guards were annoying us… we took over… gave them a taste of their own medicine… now we own the place.” That’s when I notice a thumping noise coming from the unit. Somebody’s pounding on the door, trying to get out. “Put your hands behind your-” I can’t even finish the command before the inmate leaps forward and tackles me to the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of my lungs. My gun clatters away. Boy , he is stronger than he looks. I feel every ounce of his weight on me. He bares his teeth like some wild animal. Red spittle shoots out of his mouth and sticks to my helmet. Instinct takes over. I headbutt him and push him off. The other inmates snap out of their trance. They surge towards us. Guns discharge. The popping sound hammers against my eardrums. Some of the inmates collapse to the ground. The others don’t seem to notice that they’ve been riddled with bullets. They run into us like a football team executing a play. I sidestep one of them and plant a bullet into the face of another. Still, they keep coming like a pack of wolves. A scream rips the air apart. I almost jump out of my combat boots. One of my brothers lies sprawled on the ground. His black helmet rolls across the floor. An inmate has his face planted in his neck. A puddle of blood flows out from his body. “GET OFF HIM!” I barrel across the confinement area. Using the heel of my boot, I kick the inmate onto his back before emptying a mag into him. “SPLINTER! ARE YOU OKAY?” His face is as white as a sheet. A chunk of his neck is missing, body armor and all. He’s not going to make it. My breath catches in my throat. Everything seems to happen on fast-forward. Another scream, more bullets, a horrendous chomping sound. In less than thirty seconds, half of my platoon is dead. Only four of us remain. “FALL BACK!” We scamper back down the stairs. I never leave any of my teammates behind, dead or alive. But this is beyond hope. At this rate, we’ll all get infected. We’re outnumbered ten to one. The only thing we can do now is escape. I almost trip over my feet as we sprint past the cells on Level Six. The inmates pound their fists on the white cell doors as they chase us down the hall. A blanket of sweat covers my body. It’s hotter than hell in the body armor. My lungs scream in protest. “HERE! TAKE THIS!” K-9 throws a grenade at the inmates. I shoot forward and cover my head with my hands. Seconds later, an explosion rocks the entire facility. I feel myself lifted into the air. Pieces of shrapnel shoot out in all directions. The prison cells sway in front of me. I definitely have a concussion. “Well… fuck that …” I say. “Quick thinking, K-9.” “That was insane,” K-9 says. “What’s wrong with them? Those prisoners went crazy…” “I don’t know. Some kind of sickness or something…” I say. A big chunk of the staircase is missing, cutting us off from the horde of infected. They growl at us from their perch on the floor above. I collapse to the ground in exhaustion. I wrench my helmet off and toss it aside. “You know, the guards are still stuck up there in the confinement cells,” K-9 says. “How do you think we’re supposed to get them out?” Before I can answer, I notice a crack on the glass dome overhead. It looks like a spiderweb. “Oh shit…” A trickle of water breaks through the glass. The trickle turns into a gusher. Water flows down through the opening in the center of the floor and falls straight down to the ground level. Soon, the whole fucking dome is going to be flooded. “RUN!” I shout. It sounds like we’re next to Niagara Falls. Water splashes around with each step we take. I hear a shattering noise above us. The hole in the glass widens. Soon, the whole fucking thing will cave in. I look over the balcony down to the ground level. The water looks taller than me now. There’s no way we’ll make it in time. “Guys! We have to jump! The water should be deep enough now!” I throw my rifle away and step onto the railing in front of the balcony. It seems like I’m on top of Mt. Everest looking down. My head swims. “You sure we can make that?” K-9 says. “Come on!” I force myself to take a step. For a moment, I feel weightless. Then I fall into the abyss. The floors of the facility rush past me. I keep my body as straight as a pencil. The water rises up to greet me. I close my eyes… SHOOM! The moment I hit the water, I kick my feet in front of me so that my body levels out and stays parallel with the floor. Fortunately, our body armor works underwater. I’m still able to breathe. I swim back up to the surface and see the rest of the platoon jump in after me. The water is almost up to the second floor now. “Everybody okay?” I ask. “I think I broke my butt bone,” K-9 says. “Good. Let’s go.” We go back under and swim through the processing center towards the entrance to the facility. The double doors prevent the moon pool from filling up with water. I gasp in relief at the sight of the submarine waiting for us. Commander… do… a… on… when… My com starts to crackle. It must have gotten damaged in the fall. I can barely make out what Dax is saying. “Dax, can you hear me? Come in… do you copy?” That’s when I notice the colony of fish swimming around the sub. At first, I think that they’re barracudas, except for two things. The first is that they have wings at their sides. Some of the fish jump out of the water and soar over the dock before going back in. My jaw detaches from my mouth as I watch them fly through the moon pool. The second thing is that barracudas don’t have razor-sharp teeth. These fish do. “What the hell…” I have no time to react as one of the fish jumps out of the water and shoots toward K-9. It latches right onto his chest and hangs erect off of him. “Holy shit! Get this thing off!” He tries swatting at the fish. It keeps its death-grip on him. I unsheathe my army knife, grab the fish by the tail, and slice it in half. Finally, it comes loose. Then two more fish jump out of the water and take its place. One of them bites into K-9’s neck. A stream of blood shoots through the air. Soon, the fish shoot out of the water at us like bullets. It’s a deluge. K-9 is literally knocked off his feet and sent flying backwards. I slice through as many as I can, but each one I kill is replaced fivefold. COMMANDER! GET OUT OF THERE! WE’VE GOT INCOMING! Now the com decides to work. I ignore Dax and try to find K-9. I can’t even see him under the horde of fish. I make a move towards him only to have the rest of the platoon wrestle me back to the submarine and in through the bulkhead door. “NO! STOP IT! WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! LET ME GO!” Everybody else knows that it’s too late. I want to scream as loudly as I can but my voice escapes me. Crimson blood covers the dock. The fish continue to enter the moon pool. Some are even stuck to the submarine now. “Strap yourselves in!” Dax says. “We’re leaving!” The nuclear engine hums to life. A blanket of monitors flickers on in front of us, showing feeds from different cameras attached to the ship. All systems operational… proximity alert… switching to stealth mode… The lights dim throughout the submarine and are replaced by a red glow. I hold my breath. Nobody says a word. We’re going to have to be dead silent if we want to slip by whatever’s waiting for us… Suddenly, there’s a pounding noise from outside. It sounds like somebody’s banging on the bulkhead door. I take off my seatbelt, bolt out of my chair, and look through the glass dome on the door. “Oh no… no no no no…” It’s K-9. He’s just like the inmates now. Infected. Blood drips from his mouth. He bangs his head against the door over and over again. My stomach feels like it’s about to expel its contents. He must have contracted the disease from the fish in the moon pool. The sub starts to descend. We leave K-9 and the rest of the infected behind. Darkness covers the camera feeds. Outside of New Alcatraz, there are no other sources of light nearby. “How far away are we from the nearest port?” I whisper. “19 km,” Dax says. “Have them get a medical team ready for when we arrive,” I say. “Because we’re going right back in there and-” The submarine lurches to the right. Something pushes against it from outside. My seatbelt digs into my chest. A siren blares. WARNING! PROXIMITY ALERT! “Dax! What the hell is going on?” I needn’t have asked him. I can see them on the camera next to the radio antenna. The infected fish. Thousands and thousands of them. Acting together as a single predator. The submarine is their prey. “Get us out of this!” I say. “Can’t… there’s too many of them,” Dax says. “I can’t steer this fucking thing!” We’re doing donuts underwater. It’s almost impossible to believe that something so small could have so much power. None of our weapons work against a threat like this. We’ve got to do something. If we crash into the seafloor or a cliff, we won’t make it. One of the cameras shows a plume of smoke erupting from a crevice in the ground. There must be some sort of volcanic activity nearby. There’s no way the fish could survive that heat. An idea takes shape in my mind… “Dax! Head to that subduction zone over there!” “Sir, we’ll be killed! The submarine can’t withstand those temperatures!” “It’s our only shot! We’ve got to get them off! Do it!” Dax shoves the joystick forward. I almost fall backwards as the sub shoots ahead. Fire belches out of the fissure in the seafloor. Time to use our surroundings to our advantage. WARNING! EXCESSIVE HEAT! TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! STRUCTURAL FAILURE IMMINENT! The alert falls on deaf ears. We’re going too fast. It’s impossible to change course. The dot on the sonar follows us right into hell. The fish won’t let us go. It’s as if they know that there are healthy hosts inside of the submarine for them to transmit their disease. We go right over the subduction zone. Fire shoots up around us. I feel the rumble of the Earth below. The submarine rattles like a child playing with a toy. Every single camera feed turns white. It seems like the fire goes on for hours. TEMPERATURE CRITICAL! ABANDON SHIP! There’s nowhere else for us to go. This is a real trial by fire. I send a pray up to whatever God may be there in the sky. “Commander! I think I’m getting control back!” Dax says. “The fish are dying!” The fire diminishes from one of the cameras. Then another. Eventually, we make it out of the subduction zone. The submarine holds up. The fish float in the water behind us. None of them are moving. They’ve been charred to a crisp. I collapse back into my seat. It actually worked. We made it out in one piece. “Holy shit,” I say. “That was insane. I don’t think we’ll be seeing them around again.” “Maybe next time they should stick with an aboveground prison,” Dax says.


  There was silence before the birds began to sing in fear. Above them, storm clouds rolled in the sky, causing the forest to undergo a dark tone. Lightning bolts striked and thunder screamed accros the forest, threatening to set trees aflame. Squirrels, birds and other animals quickly ran off for shelter once thunder began to echo throughout the valley. It was only a matter of time before the wind would pick up and destroy anything on its path. None of this mattered, however, to Jack, who continued to run below nothing but a couple of leaves. Jack knew this forest. He had spent more than half of his life exploring it in his free time. It should’ve been a maze to him—the trees all looked exactly alike and there were barely any landmarks. But, he could tell exactly where he was and what way he needed to go to get to his rustic cabin called home.

The leaves began to sog underneath the pouring rain, no longer providing comfort for Jack. Heavy raindrops soaked through his sweatshirt and jeans, making it more than uncomfortable to continue running. He ducked underneath branches and jumpedd over logs. For once in his life, he was thankful that his father had made him run track when he was a kid. Dim lights shone through the huge fog. There were only a few hundred yards between Jack and the small cabin when a lightning struck. It didn’t land near him, but it released a bright glow, showing Jack that he wasn’t alone running.

Within the trees was a man watching Jack run. The rain blurred a lot of his vision so he couldn't catch the man’s face. Once the lightning faded, the man’s silhouette was still visible. But he did not move.

Jack swerved around a tree and looked back at where the man had been. No one stood there anymore. The boy shrugged, assuming he had imagined the whole thing in his head. Finally, he reached his ratchet fence and jumped right over it, landing with a thud on the ground below. He ran straight into his front door, but came to a stop before he could slip. The door creaked as it opened, light enveloping the boy’s figure. He smiled at the sight of his mother, curled into herself on their living room couch. It was a flimsy old thing that they had found on the side of the road the day that they were leaving the city. His mother said it was some kind of sign that they had to take it. It was more of a purple lump rather than a couch, but the two of them loved it.

Jack shut the door quietly behind him, locking it and then proceeding to bolt it shut. Carefully, he slid off his muddy sneakers, dropping them on the floor. His brown hair fell all over his face, invading his line of sight. Drops fell from it, leaving a small trail behind him as he wobbled into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed an apple from the fruit drawer. He threw the apple into the air, watching it spin a few times before it softly landed back into his palm. Jack grabbed a knife from a drawer and hummed with happiness as he placed the apple on the counter. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and the storm he endured made him ravenous for food. He continued to cut the apple into small pieces popping each one into his mouth. A few minutes passed as Jack ate his apple in bits. He was putting the knife in the sink when a loud bang from behind him startled him. He turned around quickly and scanned the room. His heart rate had skyrocketed and his hands were shaking. His eyes fell on the door. It was still closed, making him less worried. “That hallucination must’ve really gotten to me,” he laughed to himself. He looked down at his bare feet, only to look right back up when he heard a groan. “What the—” Jack took slow steps. He creeped over to where his mother was laying on the couch. She was huddled in a ball on the rug that sat beneath the coffee table, holding her head.

“You alright?” Joey asked, with a humorous tone. “Fine,” his mother spoke from where she lied. Jack bent down and, helped his mother get up “Did you shower?” Joey looked at his mother, confused. “You’re all wet.” He laughed, “There’s a storm outside. Can’t you hear it?” At that exact moment, thunder struck from above, shaking the small cabin. Fear spread through the houes. “Someone’s at the door,” his mother muttered, staring straight ahead.

Jack only sighed, lifting her from underneath her arms and placing her back on the couch.

“No, mom. That’s the storm.” “It doesn’t rain out here in Hawaii, sweetheart.” “We don’t live in Hawaii, mom.” “Let your mother go back to sleep,” was the last thing she said, her voice dropping a few octaves too low. Jack gave up and stood, leaving his mother to sleep her day away on the couch as she usually did. He made his way back to the counter, where his unfinished apple sat. Biting into it quickly. So fast, he bit his lip Jack walked toward the bathroom at the edge of his cabin. Stepping on the cold tiles, sending shivers down his spine. Rust chipped off the faucet as he twisted the handle. Getting in under the water turned his back numb. CRASH. “What was that ?” Jack thought. He stopped showering abruptly, slamming the faucet shut. He tiptoed into the kitchen, bending beneath the counter. He jumped up to see the living room. Glass had shattered all over his gray rug. In the middle lay a red brick. Jack carefully observed the object in his room. He slowly picked the brick up. Flipping it over to the side where in small letters one wrote, “I'm watching you.”


“Gina Fortier? Here’s your new New York State license, ma’am” the lady sitting behind the glass at the DMV slides Gina’s new license under the partition. Gina lets out her breath, not realizing she was holding it. She picks up the shiny new driver’s license. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. Eyes: BL. HT: 6-02. Gina wipes tears away from her eyes and rereads. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. For the last 14 years her ID said something different. SHE was someone different. When she came into this very same DMV at the age of sixteen, she was a young, confused boy, yearning to get his license so he could get out of Buffalo and go to the city. But here she is. Still in Buffalo. But grown. Matured. A woman. “Thank you,” Gina says as she takes the treasure and places it in her Michael Kohrs wallet. She’s not sure if the woman gives her a judgmental look or not before Gina gets up to leave. But it doesn’t matter now. These people can look all they want; Gina is, by the State of New York, a woman. She has a new name and license to prove it. As she walks towards the exit, she feels her phone buzz from her clutch. As she picks it up, she sighs remembering it’s her dad’s 60 th birthday dinner tonight and her mom is obviously calling to remind her. “Brian?” her mom asks before she can say hello. Gina grimaces hearing this name. She hasn’t been called Brian by her friends for at least 10 years. Why can’t her mom understand that? “Gina, mom. It’s Gina,” Gina says into the phone sternly. She is not going to be treated this way by her mom today. Not today. “Brian, Gina, whatever you call yourself these days. Are you meeting us at Applebee’s for dad’s birthday? You can’t be late you know. You’re always late,” her mom scolds her. Gina can hear her mom’s yapping yorkie in the background. “Yes, mom. You reminded me yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. I will be there soon,” Gina replies, feeling frustrated. She sees that Virginia is calling on her call waiting. “Listen, I have an important call coming in. I will see you soon. Love you.” Gina hangs up the phone and clicks over to Virginia. “This is Gina,” she says formally as if she’s answering a business call. “Is that my strong queen?” a voice booms on the other line. “You like that I went with Fortier? Not too much?” Gina asks as she presses unlock on her key fob and steps into her silver Lincoln Nautilus. “No, I love that you went with a last name with a meaning. And you are the strongest woman I know so why wouldn’t you go with Fortier? And really, what kind of last name was Whitehead anyways? When I first met you and you told me your last name was Whitehead, all I thought about was a big pimple.” Gina laughs aloud and turns her car onto Swan Street. “Can we celebrate tonight? Ladies’ night out somewhere nice?” “I can’t,” Gina says feeling disappointed. “It’s my dad’s 60 th birthday and I’m headed to Applebee’s right now. There aren’t enough skinny margaritas in that place to get me through this dinner.” “Oh girl,” Virginia consoles her, “You’re going right now? The only people in there are gonna be you and some geriatric customers. It’s still daylight out.” “I know, my parents won’t drive past dark,” Gina responds as she stops at a red light and checks her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. “Then let’s go out for drinks after?” Virginia offers. “Nine O’clock? Boxwood?” Boxwood was their go-to spot for a guaranteed good time. Gina smiles into the mirror, making sure she doesn’t have any lipstick on her teeth. “I’ll see you then,” she says with a grin. Knowing she’s meeting Virginia later will help her get through this dinner with her family. “See you then Miss Queen,” Virginia says and hangs up the phone. As Gina pulls into the Applebee’s, she sees that her parents are already standing in the parking lot with her younger sister, Rosemary. Rosemary still lives with her parents even though she’s 23 years old and is more than capable of living on her own. Gina can’t imagine living with her parents one minute more than necessary; she moved out when she turned eighteen although her dad tells people he kicked her out. She knows the truth. She left on her own free will. “Happy birthday, dad,” Gina says as she crosses the parking lot and hands her dad a present. Her dad, a heavyset man with a permanent growl on his face, looks at Gina as if she’s intruding on their evening. “Hello, Brian,” her dad says as he hesitantly takes the present from Gina’s hands and looks her up and down. “You look…interesting as always. Hope we don’t see anyone we know here tonight.” He turns and hands the present to Gina’s mom as he heads towards the entrance. Gina’s mom smiles politely at Gina and then turns to follow her dad’s lead. “New highlights?” Rosemary asks as she walks next to Gina into the restaurant. Gina reaches her hands up to touch her hair, almost forgetting she dyed her once brown hair to a more summer blonde. “Yea, felt like going with something a little lighter,” Gina says as she holds the door open for Rosemary. “Looks nice,” Rosemary says politely as she steps inside. Gina can feel eyes turn to her as she follows her family to the table. She senses people whispering, looking her up and down. Or maybe they aren’t looking at her at all. Maybe it’s in her imagination. It usually is her imagination. She sits down next to Rosemary, facing her dad. “So, dad. Did you do anything nice for your birthday yet?” Gina asks as she opens the menu and scans the drinks. Maybe she’ll get a vodka soda instead of a margarita. Or maybe a red wine. “Fixed the lawn mower. That thing has been acting up,” her dad responds as he opens up his napkin and places it on his lap. “Oh, that’s great,” Gina says, trying to be respectful. She sees a young waitress approach their table. She looks to be younger than Rosemary. “Hello, and welcome to Applebee’s. My name is Amanda, and I will be serving you today. Can I get you all some drinks while you look over the menu?” the waitress asks as she pulls a pad of paper and pen from her apron. “Budweiser for the birthday boy,” Gina’s dad says right away before anyone can speak. “Happy birthday, sir,” Amanda says and scribbles his order down. “I’ll have a strawberry daquiri; extra whipped cream,” her mom orders with a sneer. “It’s a special occasion so I’ll indulge myself!” “I’ll have a rum and coke,” Rosemary orders. “Vodka soda,” Gina blurts out. She needs some alcohol and quick. “Okay so that’s a Budweiser, strawberry daquiri, rum and coke, and vodka soda?” Amanda asks. “And sorry to ask this, but I have to ask anyone who looks under the age of 30 for IDs.” She turns and looks at Gina and Rosemary. Gina can’t tell if this is the truth, or if Amanda is snooping and wants to investigate her more. As she takes out her ID, she feels pride and shame all mixed into one. Amanda takes Rosemary’s ID first from the table, eyes it quickly, and hands it back to her. She then grabs Gina’s ID, inspects it, looks up at Gina, inspects it more, looks up at Gina, and inspects it more. Gina now knows Amanda isn’t just looking at it for her age. “Is there a problem?” Gina asks, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m clearly older than she is, and you just handed her ID back right away,” she gestures towards Rosemary sitting next to her. “No problem,” Amanda says handing the ID back to her. “Sorry about that Ms. Fortier.” Amanda turns and heads to the computer station to punch in their drinks. Flushed with anger, Gina takes the ID back and places it in her wallet wishing she had said no to the invitation for this dinner. She sees her parents on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays and that’s it. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she bother spending time with them when she’s never felt one ounce of confidence or happiness in their presence? “Did she say Fortier?” her mother asks, looking at Gina with a confused appearance on her face. Gina fumbles putting her wallet back into her purse. How can she feel so empowered and strong one minute and the next minute feel two feet tall? “She did say Fortier,” Gina responds, sitting up a little taller in her seat. “Why would she say that, Brian?” her dad asks, sliding a toothpick from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. “Because that’s my last name,” Gina replies. “And my first name is Gina. Not Brian. I had it changed legally. So, I would appreciate it if you would all remember to call me by my correct name.” “You changed it legally? But what if you decide to go back to Brian Whitehead” her mom asks as Amanda comes back with a tray of drinks. “Mom, I’ve never been Brian Whitehead,” Gina says as she begins to scoot out of the booth and look for the bathroom. She needs a break. “I need to use the restroom,” she murmurs before she’s embarrassed anymore in front of the waitress. Gina spies the bathroom across the bar and walks past a couple tables of men eyeing her up. She wonders if they are eyeing her up in a good way or bad way. Why does she care either way? She would never date a man who chose to eat in Applebee’s in the first place. She heads towards the lady’s room and opens the door right as a woman with short blonde hair is leaving. “Excuse me,” Gina says as she holds the door open for the woman. The woman, who seems to be in her mid-fifties and is about a foot shorter than Gina, looks up at her in surprise. “Excuse me,” she says, eyeing Gina up and down before scurrying away. Did Gina scare her? For the most part, Gina looks like a woman. The breasts, the clothes, the hair. Even the hormones make her voice more feminine. But her height. Her feet. No money in the world can change those things. So, it’s harder for her to blend in. All she wants is to blend in. As Gina finishes up in the bathroom, she inspects her face in the mirror and applies more mascara to her faux eyelashes. She makes sure not to buy lashes that are too long. She isn’t trying to look like a drag queen. She isn’t a drag queen. She’s a woman. A woman whose name means strong queen. Gina zippers up her purse and as she begins to walk out of the bathroom, the door opens and a large man in a Harley leather jacket walks in, eyes wild. “I think you have the wrong bathroom, sir,” Gina says in astonishment. “This is the ladies room.” The man looks directly at Gina, and she sees rage burning behind his eyes. Her knees begin to buckle. “No, I think YOU have the wrong bathroom SIR,” he says as he walks closer to her. “You nearly scared the life out of my wife walking in here you circus freak!” he begins to grab at Gina, reaching for her. She screams and fumbles in her purse for her ID. “What do you got under there, huh?” the man says as he begins to grab at her dress and lift it up. “You like to pretend to be a woman just so you can peek on them in the bathroom you sick pervert?” Before Gina’s hand grabs her license, the man slaps her hard against the cheek and she feels blood trickle down her cheek. “Stop it!” she screams, scrambling around in her purse. “I’m a woman! My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman! I have a license here to prove it” she realizes her voice has deepened in her panic. It sounds like a man’s voice now. Sounding this way is almost worse than feeling the pain running through her cheek. She gives up on the ID and knees the man as hard as she can in the groin, making him drop to the floor. She pushes the door open and runs into the restaurant realizing all eyes are on her. Why do all eyes always have to be on her all of the time? What must she look like to them? Her dress is hiked up. She has tears streaming down her face. She has blood running down her cheek. She sees her parents look at her from across the restaurant. They look embarrassed. She turns towards the exit and hurries to her car as fast as she can before anyone else comes after her. Why did she come here? She pulls out of the parking lot hastily and speeds down 190 to a rest stop, wiping mascara filled tears from her face. Pulling a tissue from her glove compartment, she dabs lightly at the blood on her lip. She opens her clutch and takes out her wallet. She takes out her license and reads. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. “I’m a woman. My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman. I have a license here to prove it,” she whispers to herself as she stares at her treasure. She starts the car back up and heads towards Virginia’s house, holding the ID tightly in her fist.


Things had a tendency to show up in Twinlake. From a teenage boy who’d last been spotted at a roller skating rink three years ago, to celebrities everyone had forgotten, to relics of the past found in unruly bushes and beneath the floorboards of the town hall. That was probably where the town got its motto. “If it’s not here, it’s nowhere!” It was probably referring to the many artisans that sat on the streets on Sundays to sell porcelain trees and paintings of dreams you’d forgotten, and wine glasses made from the sands of beaches that had broken your heart. But for those who lived there, there was a hidden meaning.

Twinlake was perfect for people who wanted to hide. The town was positioned deep in the forests of Vermont, the heart of which was a lake that was more of a pond, and streets that were more like paths, and buildings that were more like old dollhouses, teetering and ornate, filled with dust and memories.

The people who lived there kept to themselves. Everyone had the same deep, melancholic core, like a rock in their chest, never able to get rid of it. Maybe it was more like a magnet, the way it drew everyone to Cheshire Lake and Twenty-Second St, and the inn with soft quilts and fine china. *** Trap shuffled his way around Cheshire Lake, clutching an old rake. He probably once had a different name, one lovingly handed to him, wrapped in silk and good intentions, but he hadn’t kept it. Maybe he had pawned it on a whim, in exchange for the map to a town where everyone had a deep melancholic core rooting them to pine trees and sallow rocks. It didn’t matter, because once he had arrived, this name had been given to him, tucked in a box that looked like a coffin, alongside rusty house keys and a book of poetry leafed with advice and a crow’s feather. Trap lived off of milky tea and paint on soft shirts. He raked around the lake because it got him out and about, and when he finished, he would take a trip to the bakery, where it smelled like memories, and the scones tasted like the old wood and rockwork of places you had never been. As he walked, metal leg scraping the ground, arthritis stricken fingers holding the rake like a lifeline, he felt his good foot hit something. He looked down. Light wash denim overalls and a black button down. This was the first new arrival in months. Covered in moss and a film of misery that would take days of hot showers to clean off, and it often stuck around, in the crevices of ears, clinging to eyelashes and between fingers. Trap waited, sitting down with a squeak, as the metal that took the place of the leg he had given up for just one more year to live, which had stretched into decades, because time was strange here. He watched the new arrival, probably in their early twenties, watched their hair drift like a being of its own. It would do that, now, and before his hair had been taken by something that had no name in exchange for a sketchbook that would never fill and a palette that would never empty, his had done that, too. The new arrival whispered a name they would forget upon waking, and fluttered their eyelids.

“You wake.” Trap whispered with a voice that was not his. “Do not try to speak. Marian!” He stood with a creak, and watched the treeline, as a lithe figure that moved like dancing reeds on the shores of Cheshire lake danced over.

Marian appraised the new arrival, and took their hand. “Come with me.” She said, pulling them up. *** Marian had picked the cabin on the hill, with the large porcelain bath, and the ornate copper telescope, and the woodstove near the bed.

The new arrival was confused, but seemed to understand some of what was going on. The moss had fallen in a sheet when they walked through the door, a woven green blanket in its place.

“Welcome home.” Marian had said, handing them a box that looked like a coffin, and walking back into the treeline. They opened it. Minthe. A book of poetry. A crow’s feather. Inside of the book was a leaflet.

Welcome home This is where you belong It is normal to be disoriented, you are in the process of forgetting Please speak to Marian if the confusion gets worse Sundays are market days, where our citizens may sell their wares We don’t use money here, so no need to worry Your clothes are in the closet of your new house Uttering the name of a citizen will alert them that you need them The library is always open, and the librarian knows what you need Jade will be by with a meal, your first days here might be difficult You are safe here There was a knock at the door, and Minthe opened it to reveal someone that smelled like freight trains and red sand.

“I’m Jade.” the person said, extending a black gloved hand. “Don’t speak yet.” She handed them a tray that contained a bowl of tomato soup with two halves of a grilled cheese sandwich, and a handmade mug filled with a warm brown drink that smelled like board games by a fire. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m your neighbor. Please, get me if you need anything.” *** The food was lush and filling, the drink softening Minthe’s vocal cords and easing their stiff muscles. Looking around their home, they noticed a map on their countertop. It showed the town, hand drawn by someone who knew what they were doing. It listed places. The Bakery, The Library, Cheshire Lake. They ran a hot bath, noticing spiderwebs clinging in their hair and vines pressing into their arms that didn’t wither or die in the steaming water.

The closet had soft blue clothes that fit Minthe well, the vines and spiderwebs holding tight. When they tested their voice, whispering, “Jade?” there had been a knock on the door barely a minute later.

“You can speak.” Jade had smiled. “Walk with me.” Arms intertwined, Jade led Minthe to the library. “This is where Aurora works. She knows almost everything. Would you like to ask her a question?”

“Yes please.” Minthe whispered in a voice that was not theirs. The pair walked into the library, and were greeted by Aurora, who’s name fit perfectly.

“Welcome.” she smiled. “Do you need anything?” “Minthe has a question.” Jade nudged the new arrival, who cleared their throat. “Why am I here?” they asked. Aurora smiled. “You belong here. You’re home now.”