It's almost seven in the morning. Stephan's lying on his bed with his eyes on his alarm. He's been awake for almost thirty minutes for now. He's just been staring at the alarm clock since then. He needs to be at his new work at ten o'clock. It's his second day as a call connector in Bangalore police department control room. The alarm starts ringing. Stephan sighs and gets off his bed. He goes to his kitchen and prepares his coffee. He walks towards the balcony with his coffee mug to watch the streets. He sees his neighbor Brad mowing his lawn. Both Stephan and Brad wave at each other and continue with their work. Stephan gets back in. On his way to kitchen Stephan passes through a window located beside his bed. There was an old warehouse located behind Stephan's house which was visible through that window. He was terrified of it because the warehouse was full of bats. Long time ago when he was a teenager his father threw his new phone into the warehouse because he was angry that Stephan was spending more time with it. When Stephan went inside it to get back his phone he was terrified by all the bats hanging through the ceiling. So he never went there again. Years passed and time's changed but Stephan always had his little fear towards the warehouse. Stephan looks at the clock and it's almost nine. He starts hurrying because he can't be late for work. He skips his breakfast and put on his clothes. He wears his shoes and floods towards the door to get out going. He locks the door from outside and starts walking but, suddenly he remembers something and decides to go back. He runs towards the door again and opens it. He goes in and takes his cellphone which he had forgotten. He comes outside and locks the door again and starts walking towards the street corner.

Brad still mowing his lawn shouts laughingly " Late again, huh? ".  Stephan - "You wish ".  Both of them smile at each other and Stephan moves away. In the corner of the street Stephan sits waiting for his bus. Stephan looks at his wrist watch to know how late he is. Suddenly he hears a thud behind him. He looks back frightened. He sees a white old RV truck parking in front of the old warehouse. The driver gets off the vehicle and looks around, he sees Stephan staring at him with a complex expression on his face.

The driver- " It's cool if I park my truck here for a while, right? "  Stephan -" You don't seem familiar".  The driver - "No I'm not sir, I'm just here to deliver a shipment".

Stephan senses the bus arriving.

Stephan (smilingly) - "Enjoy the city"  Stephan gets on the bus and takes a seat. On the way Stephan starts to think of his work. He never wanted to work as a call connector. He had applied for the post of a police officer trice and he had failed each time. When he got the offer to work in the control room, he took the job because he knew that it was the only way he could work for the police. Working for police ment a world to Stephan as he thought that it was the bravest job. He was heartbroken when he failed all the tests but he believed this job was his new chance. That was before yesterday. Yesterday was Stephan's first day at work and he saw the absolute reality of how police actually works. He was very disappointed and disheartened by the fact that his seniors were so lazy. He started to drift towards his past life but he suddenly notices that his stop has arrived. He gets off the bus and walks in the Bangalore PD building and takes the elevator. The control room is situated in the seventh floor of the building. As he reaches his floor he takes a view at the scene of his work place. "Disgusting" he thinks to himself by looking at the computers and telephones that are in the room. He walks towards his chamber and plugs his cellphone in for charging.

Gretta his co-worker sits on the chamber behind Stephan's and says "We have a problem ". Stephan looks annoyingly at Gretta and says " Now don't tell me that Captain Ribbon is mad at me because I'm seven minutes late".  Gretta stares blank at Stephan's face and says laughingly "No, Laura was caught drunk yesterday in working hours".

Stephan -" Laura? you mean the clerk?".  Gretta - "Yes, and Captain's really mad at her. She might get fired".  Stephan - "Well, good for her".

Both Gretta and Stephan gets on their work. Every worker in the station starts getting calls. Calls of the whole city emergency affairs. They get call for every irregularities in the city including sewage, electricity, burglary, fire or anything. The employees often get tired at the end of the day by connecting tons of calls. Stephan puts his telephone down exhausted. He looks at the wall clock at the office. It's almost five in the noon. It's the end of the shift. He sighs and looks over at Gretta. She's still attending someone's call. Stephan checks over his personal phone and starts packing up. Suddenly his telephone starts to ring. Stephan gets annoyed. He looks at the clock. It's not five yet. He grunts and sits back in his chair.

He picks the call and says in an annoyed tone "100, W h at's your emergency ?". He hears a disturbance in the call.  "Hello, this is 100 what's your emergency please? ". Now he hears nothing. Just a plain silence. Stephan says loudly "Hello?". He again hears some disturbance in the call. He decides to disconnect the call but as soon as he was about to take the telephone off his ears, he hears a girl screaming "Help". Stephan is shocked. He gets pushed back by the anxiety. His quick panic catches Gretta's attention. She moves over to him. Stephan lashes out at the telephone " Hello? Can you hear me? hello". By that time the call had been disconnected from the other side. Stephan looks at Gretta with a confused face. He looks back at his telephone and tries to take out the call history in panic.

Gretta - " Dude, what happened?". Stephan still looking for the history, explains what happened.  Gretta laughs hysterically and says "Welcome to Bangalore PD".  Stephan angrily stares at her and says "What? ".

Gretta - " It might just be some teenagers trying to pullout a prank on us. Last week Tyler got some similar call and he sent a Officer Louis and his whole team to a location. Then they were told it was just a prank by a bunch of teenagers".

Stephan shockingly asks "What happened then? ".

Gretta - "Well, The pranksters were arrested and then they were bailed out by their rich parents. Captain was really mad at Tyler because he fell for a prank. Stephan still out of his breath says "Well that didn't sound like a prank to me. I could sense it". He looks at his telephone and says "Why wouldn't the history show up in this trash? ".

Gretta points towards the clock and says " The shift has ended dude, the call history is saved in the servers. You can't get them out now. Only authoritarians have access to the server".

Stephan shouts "What the hell?". Gretta says while calming him " Calm down buddy and don't shout, we both get fired if Captain hears any of this". Stephan says " I swear that sounded true. What if someone really needs help?".

Gretta answers "It's your second day at work. Don't get soo tensed. The shift is over. Everyone's leaving the building. Probably you should too". Gretta walks towards the elevator and leaves.

Stephan is still sitting in his chamber. He's still shocked with that tone of voice he heard from the call. Captain Ribbon walks in and sees Stephan sitting in his chamber.

"Why are you still here? " Captain asks. Stephan stutteringly replies " I'm uhh working for over shift Captain". Stephan regrets saying that soon after he says that. Captain just stares at him for a moment.

Captain- "Well, looks like its only you and Ms. Laura here tonight. Have a good night ". Captain Ribbon walks into his office and leaves with his briefcase.

Stephan sits down on his chair with his hands up and eyes closed. Disgusted with himself he chants "I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot". Laura on the other side of the room laughs hysterically and says " Why would you do something so dumb?". Stephan angrily replies "Speaking of dumb, aren't you supposed to be fired?". Laura- "I am getting fired. But I have to work two shifts today to make it for paycheck".  Stephan feels sorry for her and says "I'm sorry".

Laura says smilingly "It's okay. I didn't think it was rude".

Stephan asks her " Why would you drink alcohol in the working hours?".

Laura - "Cuz I'm addicted. Do you have any problem with that young man? ". Stephan- " Do I look like I do?".

Laura smiles and continues with her work. Stephan looks down and notices that he hasn't been getting any calls since the second shift started.

Stephan - "Hey Laura! why am I not getting any calls now? ". Laura - "Oh! Well that idiot Ribbon has stopped the server at the end of first shift. Nobody's working for the second shift today but you showed up".

Stephan - " What am I supposed to do now?".

Laura - " Well I do the paper work but, if you really wanna work for Te second shift I can open the server again". Stephan freaks out and shouts exited "You have access to the server?".  Laura replies frightened "Jesus Christ, watch your voice. It's just you and me in tears building so don't scream". Laura takes out a inhaler from her bag and takes two puffs.  Stephan moves over to tell other side of the room near Laura's work table. Stephan - "I'm really sorry to freak you out but, do you have access to server? " Laura - "Well, yes but why?". Stephan's eyes fills with happiness and he says "Listen, can you please get me access to the call history of the last shift please?".

Laura smiles hysterically and replies "Well, we'll get fired if we get caught doing that. The call history is not to be manipulated".

Stephan interrupts her and says " Well I don't wanna manupulate it. I just want to note a contact number I received and you are getting fired tomorrow anyhow right?". Laura looks in Stephan's eyes for a moment and says "Alright, here's the access card. If you get caught, you stole from me. Alright? ".

Stephan laughs and says "Deal. Now just one more favor. While I'm in the server cabin, just warn me if anyone comes in the building".

Laura - "Don't you worry about that. At this the of the night, not even ghosts come in this building".

Stephan thanks her and gets inside the server cabin. He swipes the access card and activates the BPD server. He then starts the access computer and opens the call history. He selects his cabin number in the layout to obtain the call records of his system. He gets a spreadsheet on the computer screen showcasing all the calls he got in his first shift today. He tries to find his last recived call but he sees that list is mixed up. So he decides to search for the time of call. He remembers that he saw clock before picking up the call. It was almost five. So he searches for calls from the relative time. He gets four numbers in the time between 4:55 to 5:00. He takes a photo of the numbers through his phone and shuts down the server. He gets out of the server cabin and sees Laura working with her papers. Stephan - " You won't speak about this with the Captain, would you? "  Laura smiles and replies "Not if you buy me a beer sometime".

Stephan smiles at her and leaves the building. Stephan looks the photo he took and tries to call the last number. Stephan knew what to do now. He had a friend in a private networking call centre who he knew could help him. His friend's office was twelve blocks away from the PD building so Stephan started walking faster. Stephan was happy and proud after a long time because he was doing some real police work rater than sitting in front of a computer. Stephan finally reaches his friend's office. He walks in and looks around for his friend. He sees him and calls out "Daniel!".

Daniel hears Stephan's voice and looks at him. He walks near Stephan. Daniel -"What are you doing here in this time?".  Stephan - "Same as you. working". Daniel gives a wierd looks and asks "You're working on field? You're supposed to be connecting calls right? ". Stephan interrupts him and says " I need a favor".

Daniel -"What do you want?".  Stephan -"I need you to track a call for me".  Daniel laughs and says " Dude, you work in a control centre of BPD. You can tap a call faster than us".

Stephan annoyingly says " Yeah. But I wanna track it not tap it. The call's already done ".

Daniel -"Oh, okay. follow me".

Daniel takes Stephan to his office cabin and opens his computer.

Daniel -" Give me the phone number". Stephan opens the photo he took earlier and says "Here, track the last one". Stephan passes the phone to Daniel. Daniel notes the number and runs a check on it.

Daniel - "Alright buddy, now I can only say which tower is the call connecting to".

Stephan with an annoyed look says "Well, what good is that?".

Daniel sighs in dissapointed and says "Well genius, if we find out which tower the network's coming from, we can find out the area the phone's located in". Stephan - " Alright then. Find it". Daniel - " Okay, so. have you tried calling back to this number?"

Stephan says "Obviously. It's switched off".

Daniel -" What's it all about anyway?". Stephan explains the whole story. Daniel's computer makes a noise. Daniel looks towards the monitor and says "Looks like the track is completed. The tower from which the call was connected was 'ZER6' tower which is located in Tangent street". Stephan got even more curious and says "Tangent street, that's my neighbor hood . Where in Tangent street?" Daniel - "Slow down officer. I can't find out anything else about this call because it's an old call and a short one too". Stephan gets depressed by the fact that he can't know anything else but still mocks his friend and says "That was not really a valuable information from you ". Stephan and Daniel laughs and walks towards the door.

Stephan -"Maybe I'll try calling it one more time". Stephan reaches the phone and tries to call the last number again. Stephan -" Daniel can you recite me the last number so I can dial it?" Daniel walks towards his monitor and recites the last phone number.

Stephan shouts "Are you kidding me?". Daniel asks with a confused tone "What?".

Stephan takes out the photo he took in the server and verifies the number. Daniel still confused asks "Dude, what? ". Stephan - "It's my number. The number of the phone my day threw in the warehouse when I was thirteen. But how? ".  Stephan looks at Daniel. Daniel's still confused. Stefan runs towards the door and leaves in a blink. Daniel tries to stop Stephan but he leaves too quickly. Stephan started running towards Tangent street. He knew there was something wrong in the warehouse.

Stephan finally reaches the street corner. He leans forward on his knees to catch is breath. He looks at the warehouse. It looks like a horror house. Although he was terrified of the warehouse he wanted to go in because this mystery was killing his brains. He opened the door of the warehouse and turned his mobile flash on. Some bats flew right in Stephan's face. Stephan fell into the ground terrified. He crawled in keeping his head down. He saw a white thing in the dim light of his phone. As he moved closer, he was shocked by what he saw. He saw the white truck inside the warehouse the same one he saw this morning parked in front of the warehouse. Stephan decided to do what he has to do. He took a metal rod and broke into the RV. There was absolute darkness in there. He turned on the lights and he saw a small girl with his old phone in her hand connected to a charging cable. The girl was bruised and she was unconscious. Stephan called Laura immediately and asked her to inform Captain Ribbon about this. He carried the girl outside and waited for few minutes and then police arrived with an ambulance. Stephan's old phone was taken away as evidence and the driver was caught in the nearby motel. Captain Ribbon comes towards Stephan and says "Overshift huh?".

Stephan looks at Captain's eyes and fearlessly says "Prank calls huh? ".

Both of them stares at each other for a moment and then laughs together. Captain Ribbon - "Good work " He moves towards the ambulance. Stephan gets a call from Daniel.

Daniel - " Dude where are you?".

Stephan -" I figured it".

Daniel -"No you didn't. The call you asked me to track didn't even connect to your telephone during your shift. You just missed the call completely and the number was recorded in the history. The call you picked up was not that one. In the photo you took you can see the timing of the server. It's been setup five minutes early. So the server has been shut down five minutes earlier before you even got the call. So we don't really have the number that you wanted".


If I could give it zero stars I would. The funny thing is the name of the restaurant should have been a warning in itself. It was called the Michelin Star Inn. It didn’t really have a Michelin star; that false claim was just a cheap marketing ploy. I wonder on reflection if any inns have Michelin stars. They’re too homey for fine dining, but still, I fell for it. That makes me feel idiotic, knowing that their laughable promotional idea worked on me. I thought I was reasonably intelligent, but I’ve questioned my own brain power since that day. I walked inside and there was nothing immediately alarming in the surroundings. First impressions can be misleading. They’d hidden a lot of dirt in the dark corners, pretty lights distracting your eyes, so you didn’t get acquainted with them until you were already sitting down - and you’d committed yourself to seeing the meal through. I was seated at a table beside the toilets. No one hopes to eat in a location where urinary and faecal movements are audible through the neighbouring door. My stomach isn’t easily turned, so I didn’t bother asking to be relocated. I thought if I overlooked it, the meal would make up it. Their menu was overloaded with options. They used print so small you would have required an eyeglass to see it. I wondered how one kitchen could possibly produce such an array of different meals. Had I given it more thought, I might have walked out then and there, but sadly, I sat on. My posterior was offended by the uncovered seats. They were made of hard wood, like bar barrels: somewhere designed for perching rather than getting comfortable for the duration of a meal. Still, I didn’t complain. I knew they were trying to create a certain “feel” to the place. It was convincing as an 1800’s era inn. I noticed there were a dangerous number of candles close to the exposed wood. I didn’t know if they were there to create ambience or to keep the electric bill down. In hindsight, I think it must have been the latter. They might have been an unsuitable replacement for heating too. The waitress approached us, with a worried look, like she was holding her hand out to a rabid dog. She hoped we’d give her a friendly lick rather than tearing off a limb. Maybe she was used to that. Maybe she had good reason to be used to it. She didn’t greet us or ask if we’d had time to look at the menu. She rattled off the specials like she was a child, unwillingly reciting her spellings to her mother. It didn’t inspire me to try any of the daily offers. There was monkfish on the menu, but I knew it would be tough. Never get seafood when you’re too far away from the sea. My stomach was complaining by then. I’d already been there for the length of a slowly eaten meal and I hadn’t even ordered yet, nor did I feel compelled to order anything in particular. So, I went for the mixed grill. It is hard to get wrong and you are guaranteed a good-sized portion, in my experience. By the time the meal finally appeared, I was considering what I was going to do with my pension, and I’m only thirty-five years old. I expected it to be piping hot, at least. I could almost forgive a poorly cooked meal if it arrived at a hot temperature, but it was lukewarm. I didn’t bother to alert the waitress to the fact because she had such a bored expression, I knew that sharing anything resembling a complaint would be met with nothing but lethargy. I knew she’d just remove the plate and I mightn’t see another one, if I was lucky. I don’t know which is worse: a bad meal or no meal at all. I prodded the mushroom with my fork. It looked like it was sweating butter all over the plate, and not in a good way. There was a grey juice coating everything else on the plate. The meat was overcooked. I had a steak knife, but I needed a hacksaw. No, scratch that – a chainsaw. My side of chips was substandard too. They were so pale I wondered if they’d even been introduced to the oil that night. It was all extremely disappointing; so disappointing, in fact, that I didn’t order dessert. To a glutton like me, that’s like refusing cake on your own wedding day. I deserved it, but I didn’t think my belly deserved to suffer any further. You know a meal has been bad when you find yourself fantasising about your own home cooking instead, and I’m no chef. I wasn’t asked if I enjoyed my meal when the waitress removed my plate. It was probably a question the staff had been advised to stop asking. My full plate adequately answered the question anyway. It looked much the same as it had when they’d brought it from the kitchen, but rearranged into a new, but no more unappetising formation. I knew I wouldn’t be leaving a tip. The service was sullen, and that’s a kind description of it. The entire meal was interrupted by draughts of air that came from the bang of the bathroom door as people went in and out in a continuous flow. I’d never realised how often people needed to use the bathroom before. I’d never had a reason to take it under my notice, especially not in a restaurant. You don’t want to be reminded of your baser bodily functions while your palate is doing its refined job. As I said, I have a stomach of steel and I’m not easily turned off, but this was an experience I have no desire to repeat. I wonder if there are any real chefs employed in the kitchen, or if it’s just a team composed of several stragglers they found on the street. To add insult to injury, they close at nine PM and if you’ve failed to vacate your table at that hour, they upturn unused chairs onto your table. Has there ever been a clearer way of telling someone to get out? What more can I say. I won’t be hurrying back, but if you decide to proceed (at your own risk) after reading this review, remember to bring your own bottle, own food and own plate. Hell, bring your own pots and pans and offer to make it yourself.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The crackling sound is what first caught my attention, as I was kicked back in my easy chair, watching TV. The dry leaves burned quickly, snapping sparks flew all directions and rapidly burned the surrounding grass. Leaves blew up and spun in the air as they blackened to ash. The grass wilted as hot embers landed and hissed. I uncoiled the hose, getting it tangled and kinked in my haste, then I wasted precious seconds that seemed like hours, getting it straightened out. I usually like the woodsy smell of burning leaves, and campfires with burning branches, but in this setting, I'm keen out putting them out before the fire spreads any further. I finally get the hose uncoiled and I crank the knob all the way open and blast the flames with cold water, putting it out and causing an explosion of soaked leaves that flies everywhere. I hear my six year old daughter clapping wildly in the opening of the sliding glass door behind me. "Yaaay! Do it again, Daddy!" "No, sweetie, fire is dangerous, I'm not going to do it again." "Aww! But why?" "Because fire is dangerous, sweetie." I take the rake and spread out the pile of leaves and douse the few embers that are still burning. I notice something in a burned patch of grass and bend down for a closer look. When I realize what it is, I snatch it up, and spin around and march up the stairs to my teenage son's room. I pound on the door and throw it open without waiting for a response. My son is lying on his bed flipping through a magazine. When I burst in, he jumps up, looking startled, then his expression quickly changes to one of anger at the invasion of his privacy. I don't care. "Mark, give me the cigarettes!" I shout. "What cigarettes?" Mark asks, doing his best to look innocent. I hold up my evidence, a half-smoked, sodden cigarette, and shake it in his direction. "This one, that almost burned our yard, and the house too, If I hadn't noticed the nasty smell of burning leaves!" He looks at the cigarette in my fingers and crosses his arms over his chest. "Hand them over or so help me, I will tear this room apart." Mark sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Here." He pulls a rumbled, half-empty pack of Morley's out from under his mattress and with a look of disgust flung in my direction, hands them to me.

I walk back downstairs and out onto the back porch, quietly closing the sliding door behind me, but leaving it open a crack. I quickly look around to make sure no one is watching, and I tap one of the Morley's out of the pack and light it with the Zippo in my pocket. I pull a long drag into my lungs, and close my eyes, enjoying the nicotine rush. I quit six months ago, so my body welcomes the nicotine it has been craving. I let out an arrow of smoke into the crisp evening sir. "Whatcha doing daddy?" My six year old daughter, Kellie asks, standing right in front of me. I jump, startled, as she seemed to appear out of nowhere; I didn't hear her open the back door. "Oh nothing, sweetie." "You was 'moking. That stinks." Kellie wrinkled up her cute little nose and pointed at the cigarette. Feeling ashamed, I bend down and press the cigarette into the concrete, extinguishing it. "It does stink, you're right. Why don't you get ready for bed, I will be up soon to tuck you in and read you a story. "Ok daddy." She goes in and closes the glass door behind her. I ruefully tuck the cigarette back into the pack with the rest and pocket it. I grab the rake and scrape the leaves back into a pile. I will bag them up tomorrow, hopefully I can get Mark to help me. I lean the rake against the house. I frown as I notice that Kellie has closed the sliding door all the way. I tug the handle, but the door doesn't budge. I tug harder. Nothing. Installing an automatic lock seemed like a good idea at the time, but right now I could kick myself for it. I knock on the door as hard as I can, knowing it is pointless. Kellie probably has her bath water running and Mark usually goes to sleep with headphones phones on. I sigh and go to get the ladder from the shed. I only hope one of the second floor windows is unlocked, else I will be sleeping in the car tonight. I tugged the heavy ladder over and leaned it against the back of the house. I was beginning to get really cold in just a tee shirt and jeans. I hadn't had time to put shoes on, so my formerly white socks were now soaked and covered with grass clippings, which made it slippery and precarious to slowly make my way up the ladder. I walked along the sloping roof slowly, crouched low to maintain my balance. I passed by the bathroom window, I didn't want to scare Kellie by knocking on the window while she was taking her bath, and aimed for Mark's bedroom window. I had to rap on the glass until he finally heard me and rolled towards the window, looking alarmed. When he realized it was me, he got out of bed and sauntered over to the window, wearing an amused smirk. He slid the sash up, and then struggled to open the screen. "Weird place to take an evening stroll, dad." "Very funny. I got locked out." I replied, as he pushed up the protesting screen and stepped back so I could climb inside. "Thanks." I told him, as I peeled off my socks to avoid soiling the carpet. "Good night, Mark." I ignored his chuckling behind me.


         Valentina

                             Jack Bernard Rhodes

The bedroom door creaked open, and I was once again overwhelmed by terror. I was about five years old when my sister, Valentina, would quietly walk into my room at bedtime. Sometimes I could fool her by pretending to be asleep.  One night I remember her saying, “I know you’re awake, Marco. You just went to bed, and it’s time for your prayer. You’re so silly, and why do you act like you’re sleeping? Do I scare you? She asked with a giggle. “It’s just a simple bedtime prayer. Now, put your hands in mine.” It became a nightly routine that I dreaded. For me, it wasn’t just a simple prayer but a nightmare.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep?

Really? Is God going to take my soul?

If I should die before I wake?

Hearing those words left me too petrified to sleep, for I was certain that one night I would never awaken. A few of those nights, I would arouse and scream in utter horror, for in my dreams, I was dragged away by a giant hand. It wasn’t just the realism of those words that scared me. It was also the sound of Valentina’s voice.  She was blessed with an exceptionally eloquent and persuasive speech. She was only nine but had a rare gift, that made her prayer seem so real. The following year our church was preparing for an annual event that allowed its teens to do an entire Sunday service. One of the boys was always chosen to conduct the spiritual message on

Youth Day.  Another would lead the choir and a group of four boys would collect the offering. Teenagers of both genders would make up the choir.

Valentina had been anticipating the event since the year before when Matthew was its chosen teen pastor for that Sunday. He nervously stammered partially through a written sermon

his mother prepared. He finally raised his head after reading only for a minute after stuttering and mispronouncing his words. He was overwhelmed with a wave of shock at the sight of over four hundred people sitting in the pews, staring back at him. He stood frozen, with his head down, until his mother hurried on the stage and grabbed his shirt collar to lead him back to their pew. “You want to be this year’s youth pastor? Are you kidding?” Esther, our mother asked Valentina, in astonishment.

“Well, I heard they were going to let Matthew do it again! Abigail Spinster said he pee-peed his pants.” Valentina said with a laugh.

“Don’t say such a thing! Matthew is Pastor Finnigan's son! That poor boy was just nervous. He’s such a sweet young man and he wants to be just like his daddy.  It’s not biblical for girls to participate in a church sermon anyway, honey”. Our mother tried to reason with Valentina. “You're too young, anyway”!

 Valentina waited for our dad to arrive home from work. She was the epitome of a

daddy’s girl

and

he loved her to the breaking point. He would pretty much do anything for her and he would not deny her the chance to be the youth pastor. For one so young, she expressed herself clearly and effectively in a way that was difficult for either of our parents to resist her charm. Pastor Franklin Finnigan, sat in his office and pondered how life could have been different if he’d not chosen to be a clergyman. He remembered, as a child, how he combed the area collecting arrowheads. He had an impressive number of them he’d kept all these years. It was really the only time he enjoyed true happiness. He decided to be an archaeologist and travel the world to study artifacts. However, his overbearing father, who was also a pastor, said it was a stupid idea. He persuaded Franklin to forget about such a silly dream, as he described it. “It’s always been my wish, son, that you follow in my footsteps,” his dad would say.

Pastor Finnigan had received an unanticipated visit from Booker Victor, one of his most active and generous laymen. He had the audaciousness to ask that the church break with its tradition and allow his daughter, Valentina to deliver the sermon on Youth Day. Finnigan guessed her age to only be about ten. Not only would the deacons oppose a female child, but Eleanor, the pastor’s wife, decided that Matthew would do the service again. This was despite his disastrous performance the previous year. He took an antacid to relieve his indigestion that was coming and going in waves.  Martha Higginbotham was known to speak her mind. It seemed she would scrutinize every word that Pastor Finnigan uttered, as he stood behind the podium. Often, on Sunday afternoons as he relaxed with family, she would call to take issue with his morning sermons. Finnigan had just arrived home after an exhausting day that finished with a meeting with his deacons. A number of topics were discussed including the request that the young Victor girl be the annual youth pastor. After a contentious debate that concluded with a prayer, a final decision still wasn’t made. Finnigan usually allowed the deacons to make decisions, upon a vote, although he had veto power. The phone rang and as he picked up to answer he was not surprised to hear the voice of Mrs. Higginbotham.  Without even a greeting, she shouted, “you’re not going to allow that little girl to try and preach a sermon, are you?” He had no doubt that one of the deacons would leak this matter that should have been kept confidential until approved. He didn’t think it would be disclosed this soon after the meeting. Overcome by frustration of the day, his patience with Mrs. Higginbotham had run its course and he shouted back. “Yes Martha!” He had never used her first name. “Valentina Victor will be our youth pastor!”

Egos were normally left at the door when the church members disagreed, even concerning earthly political differences. However, news that Valentina would be the youth pastor, even though it would be for just one Sunday service, caused many to threaten to find a church home, elsewhere. It was a hotly debated issue in the church of that time over the issue of females serving as pastors for it violated the articles of faith. Nonetheless, overcome with curiosities, the church was at its capacity on that day. Parents filled with anxiety, prayed their teens performed well. Others who usually skipped previous annual youth services, because they felt it was boring, attended as gawkers. For many it was viewed as an unbiblical and unforgivable practice.

The atmosphere inside the packed auditorium seemed as if its attendees expected to witness an enigma. The buzz in the auditorium quieted as the organist played

Beautiful Savior

and performed surprisingly well for a thirteen-year-old .  One-by-one the choir made their way to their seats. A young song leader wearing a suit, one sized too big, borrowed from his dad, stood before the patrons. After the end of three short hymns, Valentina walked confidently to the stage. Profuse Gasps could be heard as she stood behind the podium. Sitting on the front row was Herschel Berger, the director of Deacons, who glared in disdain.

During the days leading up to that moment, Valentina was very careful that nobody could overhear her rehearsing her sermon. She repeatedly practiced in front of a mirror and did numerous recordings. Within the first five minutes of her message, the mood among the crowd became lively. Within minutes “amens” could be heard from all over the auditorium. Then someone sitting in the back row loudly uttered a word that had never been used in memory of the congregation when he shouted “hallelujah”!  Then the word was loudly heard again and again. People rose to their feet in excitement and dozens walked to the alter to kneel. Many were praying out loud and Mrs. Higginbotham was dancing in the aisle. Deacon Berger looked up at the ceiling with his arms held out as if he was reaching for heaven.

Cell phone videos, of the scene, were posted on various social media sights by that evening.  Rumors had spread throughout the community and beyond the following day. Some believed the behavior that was out of character within that church was a bizarre form of mass hysteria of an unknown cause. Others said it was somehow drug induced possibly from spiked communion wine.  Those in attendance said it was the Holy Spirit that made itself present and roused the church like never before. A televangelist that would one day captivate the nation and the world was born.


       Salvation looked like hell. So it was exactly as Iris Danes remembered it. She steered her Jeep around a jagged crack in the asphalt just ahead of the faded sign that read Welcome to Salvation! Posted beneath the cheery welcome message was another, more ominous sign.

For your safety: Turn on the radio Keep your windows rolled up Do not feed the monsters        “Good to be back,” Iris muttered, syncing her Bluetooth and cranking up the volume as she drove past the sign. Stevie Nicks’s voice blasted from her speakers, singing about white winged doves. The sky over Salvation was always dark; the foreboding black clouds hadn’t receded once in the last twenty years. In the five since Iris had been gone, they seemed to have gotten even darker. Jagged bolts of purple and red lightning forked through them like spears from time to time. And below the clouds, the southwestern desert sprawled out in every direction. Cacti stood like kings overseeing their otherworldly domain; sage brushes and the occasional tumbleweed serving as their sentinels.

       Iris tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to the song. Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw movement. She turned up the volume on the radio and pushed the gas pedal a little harder. She didn’t turn her head, keeping the monster in her periphery until it dropped out of sight altogether. She turned and drove the Jeep up to a large black gate strung with barbed wire and overgrown ivy.

      Iris simply sat there, halfway wondering if the gate would just remain closed. After all, she’d been the one to walk through it and not look back, until now. After a couple of minutes the gate swung open and she drove through. She put the Jeep in park and stared at the house, at once as familiar to her as her own face and as foreign as a stranger. She’d been gone for five years but it felt like a lifetime. The garage door opened and she pulled inside. Once the garage was closed, she made herself get out of the car and walk inside the house. Her father had built the garage, and it was soundproof.

       But as soon as she stepped inside, she was engulfed in noise. It wrapped around her like a safety blanket. She was in the kitchen, which was full of white noise machines. She could faintly hear the tinkling of half a dozen

wind chimes outside the window. Her mother had loved wind chimes, and they had each hung a set out front like a shrine. Iris had left the next day.        She moved out of the kitchen, the sound of wind chimes and the memories of her mom making Sunday dinners trailing after her like ghostly sighs. Her feet walked the familiar path down the hall to the living room, the corner of which was occupied by a large monitor that showed the camera feeds from around the property. And seated in front of the screens was her father.        “Hi, Daddy,” Iris said. Her voice was loud though the words were quiet; she spoke them almost like a question. Or maybe a plea. Teddy Danes was a hard man to read, but he rose from his chair and studied her face.        “You came back.”        His voice settled on her like a weight, but then he hugged her, and she didn’t crumple under the burden of her grief and her guilt. She hugged him tightly, savoring the feel of his flannel shirt against her cheek. She had hoped to return home with some dignity but tears pooled in her eyes as soon as her father kissed the top of her head. She felt like a little girl again, nursing a scraped knee and needing Teddy to make it better.

       “I’m sorry I left,” she said, her voice thick around the lump in her throat. “I guess I thought I had to leave Salvation in order to find it.”        Teddy’s chuckle rumbled through her since she still had her face pressed to his chest. He gently pulled her away, looking at her face again before squeezing her shoulders.        “You look even more like your mom than the last time I saw you,” he remarked and Iris knew that in the language of Teddy Danes, that meant “welcome home.” She wiped at her eyes and offered a watery smile. She glanced toward the hallway again, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms. A jumble of noise spilled down from up there, but she could tell the sounds apart. Grams was listening to Sinatra; Luck Be a Lady. There were strains of Beethoven, which conjured the image of her brother Simon. Cameron was the one with an action movie playing at full volume, and Jamie was wailing on an electric guitar. And of course, Teddy had Bobbie Gentry and Tammy Wynette keeping him company in the living room.

       This was the soundtrack to Iris’s life. Her house had never not been full of noise, except for that night when the power had gone out and the monsters had stolen her mother in the moments of silence. These monsters didn’t hunt in the traditional sense. They slithered into people’s minds, using voices like snapping jaws to trap them. They made people do things. Terrible things. They forced their prey to do the killing and then feasted on the corpses left behind. Scavengers of fear. You had to surround yourself in noise to block them out, to prevent their projected voices from digging into your brain like a burrowing parasite.

       Iris’s mother had been awake, downstairs in the kitchen when the power went out. The voices had taken her, urging her to grab a knife from the drawer and walk outside. The rest of them had been startled awake by the deafening hush, and Iris had spotted her mother from the window. She screamed for Teddy and the power had stuttered back to life, filling the house with noise again. But Laura Danes was caught up in the whispers weaving through her mind, and the music blaring from the house and even the anguished shout of her husband as he’d tried to reach her wasn’t enough to break the spell. Laura had slashed the blade across her own throat. Iris had run down the stairs after her father and watched from the back door as her mother’s body fell, graceful but limp and blood-stained; like a fallen angel.

       A week later, Iris left home. She’d been nineteen and her heart had become a shredded piece of raw meat in her chest. She’d felt as if she’d been buried alive, the house crowded with noise and memories a sealed crypt that she needed to escape. She had craved silence. A place where when people spoke of their grief, they could do it in whispers instead of shouting the pain to be heard over the clatter of unending sound. She’d just wanted to be able to scream and actually hear the echo of her own pain instead of it being absorbed by everyone else’s noise.

       “Are you ready to see the others?” Teddy asked. Iris didn’t think they were ready to see her but she nodded anyway, wiping her eyes again. Teddy went upstairs to bang on bedroom doors. Footsteps pounded on the stairs and Jamie rounded the corner, stopping short when he saw her. He laughed.        “Holy shit, I thought Dad was messing with us. You’re really back.”

       Jamie was across the room in two quick strides of his long legs, embracing her in a bear hug that lifted her clean off her feet and almost broke her back. He set her back down and promptly tousled her hair in that affectionate but annoying big brother way. Iris scowled and swatted his hand away.        “Leave my hair alone,” she complained, trying to fix her now messy ponytail. Jamie grinned.        “Picking up where we left off. It’s like you never left,” he said.        “But you did leave.”

       Simon had appeared in the doorway, emotions flickering wildly behind his glasses. Iris took one hesitant step toward him, like he was a horse that might spook and run from her.        “I did,” she agreed. “But I won’t do it again. I missed you.”        Simon pursed his lips into a hard line but he was forced closer to her on the tide that was Cameron and Grams and Teddy.        “Oh, baby girl,” Grams said. She came forward and pinched Iris’s arm.        “Ow!” Iris yelped. “Grams, what the hell?”        “That was for leaving, Iris Katherine Danes,” Grams said sternly. “You worried this family half to death.” Then she wrapped Iris in a hug. “And this is for coming back.”        “Are you back for good?” Cameron asked, and Iris nodded.        “I’m not leaving again,” she said. “I promise. I shouldn’t have left in the first place, but at the time it felt like it hurt more to stay. Everything reminded me of Mom and I kept forgetting she was gone and then I’d remember again and I just…I couldn’t breathe. I wanted some peace and quiet so I ran. It was selfish and unfair. I’m so sorry.”

       “Did you find it?” Simon asked. “Peace and quiet?”        “I found quiet. And I realized that silence isn’t always golden,” Iris said dryly. “And I realized too that the only place I’m going to find peace, if it even exists, is at home. Even if that home is filled with obnoxious, weird looking creatures. Not to mention the monsters.”        Teddy’s lips twitched and Jamie laughed. To Iris’s relief, the laughter spread and Cameron came forward to hug her. Simon tried to hold out but he finally cracked when Cameron suddenly held Iris in place so Jamie could mess up her hair again. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Simon came over and they all nearly group-hugged her to death.

       “Can I pinch her for leaving, too?” Simon asked. “Grams got to.”        “No, you may not pinch your sister,” Teddy said. Simon did it anyway and Iris elbowed him in the ribs.        “So what made you decide to come home?” Jamie asked.        “I had a dream about Mom. I think she was trying to warn me.”        “Warn you about what?”

       The world knew about the monsters, in a, “far away problem” kind of way. They had even become something of a tourist attraction for the thrill seekers and the dumbasses; hence the town’s welcome sign. The monsters had never left Kettle County. Twenty years ago a chunk of meteor landed in the desert not far from the town, and it brought the monsters with it. They seemed content to terrorize Salvation and the other few small towns that were scattered across this small stretch of desert. But Iris suspected that was about to change.

       “I think the monsters are going to start spreading,” she explained. “I think they’re going to destroy Salvation, and then they’re going to finally move on. To the entire world, maybe. We’re the line of defense. I wanted to be here, to help. I am the best shot in the family, after all.”        “Wow, that five year sabbatical really humbled you,” Jamie quipped.        “And if the world is going to possibly end, I want to be home. With all of you.”        “Depressing, but kind of sweet,” Simon said.

       Iris was home for three days when her prediction about the monsters proved to be true. She moved through the house as if on eggshells, still plagued with the guilt of leaving. It was a dark fortress built inside her chest, the rough stones scraping her bloody and weighing on her heart. But every moment she spent in the company of her family chipped away at the stones, wearing the fortress away to ruins. No one dismissed her dream or her warning, and on her fourth day home they found a monster lurking at the front gate.

       It was rare to see one right in front of you; they usually preferred to exist in the shadows and the corners of your eye. A long body on four legs; the hind legs were considerably longer than the front and they ended in feet that looked like a cross between human and raccoon hands. The six toes were long and bony. Its skin was the same, slightly nauseating shade of gray that appeared on spoiled meat. The head was small and seemed vaguely featureless aside from the impossibly long mouth full of tiny teeth that never quite closed. It looked like the edge of a saw blade. But the very worst part was the tongue. It was long and bloated and tapered to a narrow point. It unfurled itself from the mouth and flicked through the air like a snake’s.

       “Never seen one just standing out there like that,” Jamie commented. As the day wore on more monsters appeared at the fence. By sundown there were ten of them.       “Christ, how many do you think there are out in town?” Cameron asked. Grams whacked his arm.        “Language,” she scolded. But her gaze was locked on the monsters. They were all gathered in the living room, locked in a staring contest with the demons at the gate. Twenty minutes passed in silence, aside from the wind chimes and the noise machines and the speakers.        “What the fuck do they want?” Jamie said, his voice the closest to a whisper that Iris had ever heard it. Normally Grams would scold him but she said nothing. She was incredibly still, face almost pressed up against the glass. Abruptly she reared back and then smashed her head against the window. Iris jumped two feet in the air.

      “Mom!” Teddy yanked her away before she could head butt the glass again. She thrashed a little in his grip as he dragged her away from the window and closer to the speakers, which were currently blaring Patsy Cline at high volume. He cranked the dial up higher, yelling at Grams to snap out of it. The blank stare on her face morphed into confusion.

       “What happened?” she asked, touching her forehead.

       “They almost got you, is what happened,” Teddy said. “Simon, get a towel for your Grams.”        “That’s why there are so many,” Iris said, glancing back out the window with her heart pounding. “They’re trying to overpower the noise.”

       “Why don’t we get even louder, then?” Cameron suggested. Soon they had the walls vibrating with the volume of the music. Metallica and Johnny Cash and Dean Martin and Kansas and Mozart all overlapped with each other, creating a discordant mess of noise. But it may as well have been a choir of angels with those stretched, ugly creatures outside. Their bruise purple tongues kept reaching out to test the air; Iris wondered if that’s what they looked like when they were “talking;” planting violent compulsions inside people’s brains.        “They’re climbing each other,” Simon said. “They’re trying to come over the fence.”         “Then let’s make sure they have a welcoming committee,” Teddy said. It was ordinarily difficult to put down a monster. They didn’t usually show themselves so blatantly, and if they did it usually meant you were already dead. But the Danes were armed and prepared all the same. Teddy popped open the safe and distributed weapons like Santa handing out presents.

       “As soon as any are in range, shoot it,” he ordered. “We hold our ground until they’re all dead or we are, understood?”        They moved as a unit out onto the porch. One monster had managed to get over the gate, its feet trailing blood from the barbed wire. The Danes raised their rifles almost in unison. Iris fired a shot that ripped through the creature’s head. Its body fell, twitching, but another was already scaling the fence. Jamie glanced at her and grinned.

       “Welcome home, Iris.”


Nannette answered the door with a smile Kathie wanted to slap off her face. She probably had good news, but not for Kathie; it never was. Rather, Nannette would tell her that she’d gotten a raise, that she’d planned another vacation at a posh resort in the Bahamas or Hawaii, that she’d managed to snag one of the now-sold-out new iPhones, or any of the other infinite number of perks of her unearned station. Kathie would have to sit there as she gushed, simmering with a heat all too familiar, and that became more caustic each time it struck.            Nannette backed up, allowing her into the foyer, a two-story cavern offering high ceilings, white marble floors, and a crystal chandelier that twinkled in the light spilling through the French windows, all framing a polished ebony staircase. Kathie remembered how she’d beamed the first time she’d brought her here—as if she hadn’t had this, like everything else, handed to her on a silver platter. Kathie had forced herself to proclaim it a “lovely” home and congratulate her, reminding herself that she didn’t deserve censure, that anyone in her position, including Kathie, would have taken and devoured what lay on that platter. Her head knew this, yet heat continued to crackle in her chest. She didn’t know how much longer she could take it. She hated herself for it—she didn’t want to think herself so immature as to reject someone who’d treated her well just because she had it better than she—but each meeting with Nannette chipped a little bit more off her soul.            Nannette ushered her into the living room, where she took a seat on one of the sharp suede couches positioned in an “L” around a polished oak table holding only a snickerdoodle-scented candle and the remote controls to the sixty-inch flat screen on the wall opposite.            “I’d offer you something to eat,” Nannette said, “but we’re about to have lunch.”            “We are?”            “Yup,” she said, smile intensifying the heat as she dropped onto the other couch. “First, though, how’re you doing?”            She knew that telling her the truth would prove useless—she couldn’t possibly understand. And, yet, she found herself babbling about the interview she’d had that morning. They’d sent in three HR managers to grill her— three —as if their boss thought interrogating and intimidating candidates too difficult for one slime ball to handle. They’d fired off questions, some job-related, some not. Their eyes had dulled as she detailed her previous gigs—a server at McDonald’s, a “sandwich artist” at Subway, a babysitter, a camp counselor, a waitress—and dulled still more when she informed them that, no, she didn’t have sales experience, but she was willing and eager to learn. She didn’t know why she’d bothered adding that. They didn’t care. Experience, experience, experience—an aphrodisiac to headhunters, without which they wouldn’t give a candidate a second glance. Never mind the fact that this excluded an entire generation of otherwise-ideal hires. How could one get experience if no one would hire them without their already having it?            And the stupid questions. Where had she grown up? What did she do in her spare time? What did “teamwork” mean to her? What did she consider her worst quality? Questions supposedly meant to “feel her out,” to determine whether she “fit in” with the company culture. However, of course, no one with an IQ higher than their birth weight answered such inquiries honestly, and these players knew it. They just enjoyed seeing the fear in their interviewees’ eyes when one of these questions sent their unprepared mind scrambling for the best response, as a hunter would in those of his prey.            Nannette nodded, expression sympathetic but distant. As expected—She’d had her path cleared for her since she’d dropped, screaming, into this world. No need to burden oneself with the squalor given to peons when Daddy set you on goose feather pillows. She pushed back the heat trying to claw its way into her gullet. Nannette smiled, leaning forward. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”            Kathie braced herself.            “My dad’s company’s got an opening in sales. I invited him to have lunch with us so you could talk to him about the position, if you’re interested.”            “Yeah. Yeah, of course I’m interested,” Kathie blurted, eyes widening. She hadn’t dared hope for an offer from Fontaine Sprinkler Systems, but, if given, it would be an answer to her prayers.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch . She still had to impress the boss—a man she’d never met, and about whom Nannette had said oddly little. If she couldn’t ace the interviews she’d already endured, what made her think that she could convince Nannette’s father to give her a chance?            The doorbell rang. Nannette sprang to her feet, strode to the door, and opened it. Though clad in relatively casual attire—khakis and a chartreuse polo shirt with the name of his company, tastefully small, stitched on the right breast—the sixty-something man on the porch carried the air of a king. Nannette greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and ushered him inside. Kathie had, by this time, joined them, so Nannette introduced them—“Daddy, Kathie”; “Kathie, my father, Anderson.” He offered Kathie a firm handshake, his fingers’ short, clear-polished nails winking in the light of the chandelier.            Then, he turned to his daughter, expression dropping. “Your sales are down this month, Nannette. Any reason why?”            Nannette shifted. “There’s a drought, Daddy.”            “Doesn’t matter. There’s always a reason people don’t wanna spend their money. Your job is to get past it. Capeesh?”            “Yeah, okay.” “Did you see the memo?”            “Yeah. No more dirty dishes in the break room. Got it.”            “What about our new sales quota? I’ve projected we can nearly double our growth if we—“            “Yes, I saw that, too.”            He nodded. “Good. Now, have you decided on who you wanna work with on Friday?”            “Not yet.”            “Well, you’d better get on it, or else you’re gonna get last pick.”            “Yeah, I know.”            “How’re we doing with the new model? Do people like it better than the old one?”            Kathie could see a well-earned sigh building in Nannette’s chest, but Nannette tamped it down. “Yeah, I think they like the improvements.” Before he could speak again, she nodded toward the dining room and said, “Come on. Let’s have lunch.” She led them to her dark cherry table and, as they took seats, brought out the meal she’d prepared: salad and green bean casserole. She set the food down, the fine china on which she’d served it clinking. She took a seat, and they served themselves. Kathie skewered a piece of lettuce on her salad fork, turning it around and around as if trying to commit its spindly veins to memory. She told herself to say something pleasant, something witty, anything that would give Anderson a positive impression, but her mind responded only with white noise.            Anderson took a bite of the casserole, chewed, swallowed, and scowled. “Could’ve gone a little easier on the salt, Nan.”            Nannette’s expression froze; she barely opened her mouth to say, “Got it.”            “And this cheese,” Anderson continued. “What brand did you use?”            “Velveeta.”            Anderson shook his head as one would at a child who’d pressed a button whose sound effects had scared her moments before. “You know that’s garbage, Nannette. You see this color?” He scooped up a bite and held it, as if Nannette wouldn’t have done so otherwise. “Nothing that’s not pumped with dyes and artificial flavors looks like this.”            Nannette swallowed, pinkness blotting her cheeks. “I said, I got it.”            “I don’t think you do. You never pay attention to the quality of your ingredients.”            A corner of Nannette’s lips twitched. “Sometimes, you just need to get in and out of the store.”            “At the price of what you’re putting in your body? That’s poor priorities, Nannette.”            “You don’t do your own shopping,” Nannette pointed out. “You don’t understand—“            “I got where I am because I go the extra mile—because I always make sure what I’m getting and what I’m putting out is the best product possible.”

Goody two-shoes for you, Kathie thought. She gripped her fork so tightly that her knuckles blanched and, to staunch the words coming up, shoveled a huge bite of casserole into her mouth.            Even through the blunting of emotion, it tasted delicious.            Anderson moved on to the salad, eyes rising in thought like those of a professional food critic as he chewed. “Is this organic?”            “Organic’s expensive, Daddy.”            “You get what you pay for.”            Nannette’s face had grown as red as a shallot, veins swollen and pulsing in her temples. “Why don’t we just eat at your place, then, next time?”            “You’ve gotta learn to do this yourself.”            “Well, you’re not exactly encouraging me.”            “My job isn’t to encourage. It’s to teach.”            Nannette’s face flushed so deeply that Kathie feared it would burst into flames. “You know what? Fine.” She jumped to her feet. Reached across the table. Snatched his plates. Shards of lettuce, cheese, and tomato rained onto the table. “You can starve.”            Anderson’s face reddened. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”            Nannette lashed him with a glare that could have cut down Hercules—but, apparently, not Anderson Fontaine. “I’ll talk to you however I want.”            His eyes narrowed, his fists clenching so tightly that his palms wrinkled like raisins. “All right, then. I didn’t wanna do this, especially not in front of your friend here, but you’ve given me no choice. You’re fired.”            Kathie’s jaw nearly hit her chest. She looked from Nannette to Anderson and back at Nannette, aftershocks wracking her. She wanted to deny what she’d seen and heard, for even the heat that had preceded it beat this. Anderson jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Katherine,” he said in a tone that would’ve convinced her, had she no common sense. Retorts tingled on her tongue, but her lips refused to part to allow them out. Instead, they festered, just like those that had built up during her job interviews, just like those that had built up for Nannette before she’d known the truth. Nannette, too, had frozen, face now as white as coconut, eyes bulging. Kathie wanted to run to her, but her legs, like her mouth, wouldn’t budge. Anderson snorted. Turned. Marched out of the dining room, to the foyer, to and out the door, and slammed it. The bang rattled Kathie to her core.            Hands trembling like kicked doorstops, Nannette set the plates on the table and grabbed the back of the nearest chair; Kathie didn’t have to look at her knees to know that they would otherwise collapse. The sight pressed her heart in a place Nannette had never pressed before, and she found herself springing forward and flinging her arms around her. “I’m sorry, Kathie,” she said, clutching her as if to prevent gale-force gusts from blowing her away. “I really wanted to help you.” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find something else.” The last thing she wanted to do was make her feel bad about not getting her the job. She no longer wanted it.


The sandwich was mocking her. Leah stared at the bread, lost in thought, hoping no one would approach her. She had been sitting alone for twenty minutes, watching the other children chatter away. Their laughter and animated conversations sliced through the air like shards of sound, but Leah remained in her cocoon of solitude, invisible among the sea of faces. Days like this, when she felt the sting of loneliness the most, were the hardest to endure. As Leah trudged through her thoughts, a voice unexpectedly broke the silence that enveloped her. “Mind if I sit here?” Leah's gaze lifted from her sandwich to meet the curious eyes of Isadora, whom she vaguely recognized from class. Was this a prank? A cruel joke orchestrated by her classmates? Or did Isadora genuinely want to sit with her? After a moment of hesitation, Leah managed to find her voice. “Uh, sure. Yep. I mean, go ahead.” As Isadora gracefully settled into the seat beside Leah, the awkward silence between them loomed over the table, threatening to smother them with it. Leah fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her mind racing to find something to say that wouldn't make her sound like a bumbling fool. Isadora, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of conversation, opened her lunchbox and cheerfully exclaimed, “I packed my favorite sandwich today! It's grilled cheese. What did you bring?” “Oh, um, just a turkey sandwich. Nothing special.” To her surprise, Isadora's face lit up. “I love turkey sandwiches! My mom makes them sometimes. They’re great! Don’t get enough attention.” She paused to take a big bite of her sandwich. Then resumed. Her words were punctuated with little crumbs and pieces of food, and her cheeks were puffy as she struggled to chew and speak. It was both hilarious and endearing. Something inside Leah began to unravel, the tension in her body loosening its grip on her, and she found herself smiling despite her earlier anxiety. Isadora swallowed the mouthful and continued. “Everyone seems so weird about their lunch. For example, I know a girl who only eats a specific type of granola bar or the same yogurt every day. And then there's the kids who just go nuts. Like they've never eaten anything in their lives.” Leah bobbed her head up and down, still not wanting to say much. After a few seconds, she ventured a response. “Well, everyone likes different things, I guess.” “Yes, exactly. Exactly. Preferences. Hm.” Isadora took another bite, apparently deep in thought. After a while, Isadora suddenly jumped up. “I have an idea!” “What?" “You come eat lunch with me tomorrow. You don't have to say much, but it would be nice to have a friend. Besides, all the boys are scared of me because they think I'm gonna steal their souls.” Leah laughed. “You have a soul?” “Oh, hush. I'm serious. Come, have some fun. You can sit by me. The others won't care.” “Okay, sure. Why not?" Leah went back to gazing at her sandwich. “You seem pretty entranced by your lunch.” Leah glanced up at Isadora, whose head was cocked to the side. "It's the most interesting thing here." Isadora shook her head and rolled her eyes. A hint of a smile tugged at Leah's lips. “Sorry, it was calling out to me. Asking, ‘Are you just gonna stare at me forever, or are you actually going to eat me?’ And the truth is,” she gestured emphatically, “I can't quite decide. Sandwiches are serious business!” Isadora giggled, her curls bouncing as she threw her head back in delight. “Maybe a short verse about how delicious your sandwich is would persuade it. Your sandwich really does look good. Especially with those sliced pickles. Would it give you some if I asked nicely?” “Depends on the poetry, honestly. Watch.” Leah cleared her throat dramatically and leaned forward. Her slender fingers interlocked in a prayerful pose. “O dear sandwich, how beautiful you are, with your charming pickles. You have tasty bread, delicious crisp lettuce, and juicy turkey meat, which will soothe my hunger should I consume you. With a wide flourish and a dramatic pause, her impromptu performance ended. The girls fell silent before bursting into giggles. Their other classmates occasionally glanced in their direction, their expressions a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Suddenly self-conscious, Leah tugged on the tip of her ponytail. What was she doing? Acting all foolish and boisterous, making a scene, and now she had everyone staring at her, thinking what a buffoon… Leah ducked her head, her face warm with embarrassment. She had made a spectacle of herself. Again. Isadora didn't seem to notice Leah's discomfort. Her eyes shone with glee. “I can see why everyone thinks you're weird.” "Thanks," Leah mumbled, trying not to let her humiliation show. Isadora shrugged. “But I kind of like that.” Leah looked up, confused.

She smiled sheepishly. Wait. Had Isadora been put off or weirded out and quit trying to converse with her? Even more, had she found her antics foolish or absurd? No. No way. Isadora wasn't laughing at her. She had liked the poem, right? A small voice in the back of Leah's mind piped up. It was a joke. Leah shook her head. No, that wasn't true. Maybe it wasn't a joke. Maybe Isadora was just trying to be nice. Leah glanced at her companion, who was happily munching away on her sandwich. Isadora met her eyes, then flashed her a toothy grin. Butterflies fluttered in her chest. The pair spent the rest of lunch swapping puns and stories and snacking while their classmates gawked, whispers surrounding the unlikely friends. Once lunchtime ended, they parted ways with a cheerful "Bye, friend!" and a beaming, genuine smile. When the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Leah gathered her things and went to the front of the school building for pickup. As Leah stepped out of the school, she spotted her family's white van parked at the curb, its engine idling softly. She quickened her pace and soon joined her parents and siblings in the car. With her heart as light and free as a bird, the little girl settled in her booster seat and fastened her safety belt.


Achilles was a hero. All of Greece would know it when he went to war against the Trojans and killed their most valued warrior, Hector, son of Priam. Prior to that, Achilles was merely a boy. A boy, favoured by Phthia's people, who played the lyre and spent time on Mount Pelion with the wise mentor Chiron, learning music and hunting. He would grow up to be a somebody. Patroclus was none of that. Unlike Achilles, Patroclus couldn't play the lyre and wasn't liked by his father's men. He only spent time with the centaur because of Achilles. He would grow up to be a nobody. So how did a somebody fall in love with a nobody? How could someone so smart, beautiful and strong fall in love with Patroclus, a poor, scraggly boy who tripped over his own two feet? And how could that nobody have fallen in love with that somebody? * * *  Patroclus stood outside Achilles’ tent. He knew Achilles wasn’t inside; he had seen the boy leave the tent a while ago and hadn’t spotted him since. Ever since Hector had taken his concubine, Briseis, he had been in a foul and irritated mood. Patroclus tried not to let that bother him. He knew Achilles cared for him. Even though Achilles had already fallen for Patroclus, the mere possibility of Achilles choosing her over him was painful. If Patroclus had been stolen, would he react the same? Patroclus shook his head to rid these thoughts. Right now, he had more pressing matters. More drastic ones.When they took Briseis, Achilles refused to fight despite the decade-long war between the Trojans and Achaeans. He was their best warrior; they would lose without him. And Patroclus wouldn’t let that happen. He hesitated before stepping inside the tent. Patroclus had been inside many times since he shared it with Achilles. But somehow, this way felt wrong. Perhaps Patroclus knew that what he was about to do wasn't exactly bad, but he didn’t think anyone would be happy if they found out. And Achilles would not approve. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. He’d have to do this. To secure them a win, he'd need Achilles back on the battlefield. They’d need Achilles. He pushed open the flap and stepped inside. The tent wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large, either. Bedrolls lay on the floor, as well as swords and other weapons. It was the armour, however, that caught Patroclus' attention. He picked it up and tried the plumed helmet on, but it slid down his face and over his eyes. Definitely Achilles’. He picked up the accompanying pieces and put them on. The metal was heavy and unfamiliar, but he tried to look confident in it. Achilles was always confident in his, after all. He’d have to look as close to Achilles as he could get. Despite Patroclus having to push up the helmet so he could see, he was glad for how large it was. That way, nobody could tell it was him and not Achilles. He made his way over to the flap and hesitated, his hand outstretched. Should he do this? It had seemed like a good idea moments ago, but now that he was ready to play the part, he wasn’t so sure. He blew out a breath. He had to do this. For Achilles. For his people. He stepped out of the tent, and a few heads swivelled his way. Patroclus just hoped Achilles wasn’t one of them. The Achaeans couldn’t remember the last time Achilles had stepped out onto the battlefield, and many wore astounded and astonished faces. Patroclus hefted Achilles’ sword and made his way to the chariot. “I will kill them all,” he said to Odysseus, who stood there readying the horses. “Every last one of them.” Odysseus turned to face him. “Achilles?” “Yes?” “You are fighting again?” His voice was suspicious, as if he suspected it was a fraud under all that shiny armour. Patroclus dipped his head in a way he hoped looked respectful. “Yes, my friend. I am returning. I will end this war.” “I do hope so,” Odysseus said. For ten years he had gone without his wife, Penelope, and his son, Telemachus. It was no secret Odysseus’ biggest wish was to return home to them. “End them all, Achilles. And curse old Zeus who has banished us here for reasons unknown to man.” “Yes, King of Ithaca.” Odysseus climbed into the chariot, and Patroclus followed. He hefted his spear in one hand. It was odd and unfamiliar. Achilles’ spear had been made for his own hands, not anyone else’s. He knew if Achilles saw him, he would be proud. Right? With a snap of the reins, Odysseus got the chariot moving to the Trojans’ camp. Many gasps met them, and a few soldiers lifted their swords, spears, or any other weapons they possessed. “Achilles?” someone in the crowd asked, and Patroclus gave a curt nod of his head. If he spoke, he would be discovered. He couldn’t let that happen. Patroclus’ plan was simple: he would arrive on the Trojan side, perhaps kill a man or two, and then retreat back to the Achaeans’ side. Everyone would think that Achilles was once again fighting, and then the war would end. Odysseus glanced at Patroclus. “Achilles?” Odysseus asked, and Patroclus nodded. “Is this smart? Why not wait till they charge at us—” “I know what I am doing, King of Ithaca,” Patroclus told him, doing his best imitation of Achilles’ strong, confident voice. Odysseus looked skeptical, but continued to drive the chariot deeper into the Trojan’s land.

What happened next took Patroclus by surprise. He knew the Trojans would be angry, and Patroclus was prepared to be lunged and stabbed at by the enemies. Similarly, If Hector had crossed into the Achaeans' land, he would have been slaughtered in a matter of moments.

Nearly the entire camp lunged at Patroclus, cursing his name into the depths of Tartarus, stabbing and shooting arrows, trying to get their hand at killing the best warrior of his age, Achilles, son of Peleus. But of course, it wasn’t Achilles under the armour. Just a stupid fraud who was pretending to be something so much more than what he really was. At last, it was too much for Patroclus to handle. He had killed a few men, but they just kept coming, their rage and hatred clear in their aggressive actions. Patroclus jumped off the moving chariot, ignoring Odysseus’ protests.

Then he ran. He didn’t care if he was ruining Achilles’ perfect reputation. He had to live. Because life, after all, was where Achilles was. He managed to make it all the way to a sheer rock. Patroclus thought about attempting to climb it, but then he thought better. He would surely fall to his demise before any of the Trojans got to him. Patroclus darted behind some foliage, hoping to conceal himself. A laugh bubbled up and escaped his lips. If Achilles could see him, what would he think? How dare he hide and run and run from a fight donning my armour? Would he be angry? Or grateful that he hadn’t yet gotten himself killed? He put a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. It was devoid of any humour. It was a laugh that people made when they knew they were about to die. A shadow loomed over him, and Patroclus looked up. Hector stood in front of him. Much like how Achilles was their best warrior, Hector was the Trojan’s. He smiled wickedly, his eyes glinting maliciously. Hector hefted his spear, and Patroclus shot to his feet, his shield and spear in hand, ready to fight. He took off his helmet and threw it aside. He couldn’t win a fight if it was obscuring his vision. Then Hector stood there, dumbfounded. Slowly, his smile faded as realization struck him. “You’re not Achilles.” “No, I’m not,” he agreed. He gripped his spear tighter, never taking his eyes off Hector. And then Hector grinned again, like he knew he would win this fight against this nobody. To him, Patroclus was easy prey. Just another man to kill. Hector lunged at him, and Patroclus narrowly dodged the point of his spear. He thrusted his own forward, but Hector easily deflected it with his shield. He laughed and lunged. This time, the spear bounced off Patroclus’ armour. But it still knocked him back a step, which Hector used to his advantage. He hit Patroclus hard on the chest with the flat of his shield. Patroclus fell, and Hector loomed over him, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re over, son of Menoetius.” And then he drove the spear into Patroclus’ chest. * * * It wasn’t being dead what bothered Patroclus. Or the fact that he would forever be in the Underworld, or even the fact that he couldn’t even go there until the ashes of his burned body were buried. He would be stuck up here, in the living world, unable to touch, to communicate. No. It was none of these. Achilles wasn’t with him. Patroclus’ spirit stood over his body, watching Hector laughing. He had killed someone, and he was laughing . He saw Achilles run over, saw him kneel next to Patroclus’ body. Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder, but his hand passed right through. Achilles wept. It remained like that for a long time. With Achilles weeping by Patroclus’ rotting body, Hector laughing, antagonizing and taunting the boy. And then Achilles stood and drove his spear through Hector’s body. Hector fell and never moved again.

Then Achilles started to kill. He killed every Trojan he could see, and Patroclus begged for him to stop, but he couldn’t hear. Achilles couldn’t be stopped. He wouldn’t stop. And then, just like that, he did. The world stilled. Warriors lay on the ground in pools of their own blood, crying out with pain or already dead. And Achilles was among them. Paris stood by the Sun God Apollo’s side, a bow and arrow in his steady hands. There was an arrow embedded in Achilles’ heel. His only weak point. Paris grinned. He had killed the ever-famous Achilles, guided by Apollo’s hand. And Achilles didn’t even mind. In fact, he welcomed death. Because death, after all, was where Patroclus was. * * * It had been years before Patroclus and Achilles reunited once more. After Achilles had died, his body was burned and buried, and his spirit had moved into Tartarus, into the afterlife. But Patroclus’ body hadn’t been burned; it lay there to rot, and he was fated to walk the living world as a dead soul. Until Thetis. Thetis, the Nereid goddess and mother of Achilles, had come along one day, burning his body. Thetis had never liked Patroclus. Maybe she burned the body because she felt she had to respect a dead man’s wishes of being buried next to his lover, or perhaps it was because somehow, someway, she could see Patroclus and knew he was lonely and in despair. But she burned his body and buried his ashes with Achilles’. And then a warm, solid hand intertwined with his. “Patroclus,” Achilles breathed. And from that day forward, Achilles would be known as a tragic hero. END


A sliver of light seeped beneath Dolly’s door.

Shadows paced back and forth, while beads of sweat dampened her forehead. She rubbed the cool opal pendant beneath the quilt, trying to sooth her nerves. The door squeaked open, flooding the room with light. Dolly’s heart thrummed against her rib cage.

The stranger’s imposing figure towered in the doorway. “How are you today, Dolly?”

Her pulse quickened. “Who are you? Where is my husband? What have you done with Harold?” He wheeled a trolley across the floor, blocking the exit. “It’s time for your medicine.”

She sucked in a breath, and pulled the quilt to her chin, her limbs aching from arthritis. “I don’t have any money. Please, please, leave me be.” He halted a few steps from her bed, and tilted his head to the side. “It’s me, Dolly, It’s Nigel.”

A flash sparked behind her eyelids. A short circuit of memories. Harold’s funeral twisted like a knife in her stomach. “Oh, Harold, - w- why did you -l -l - leave me?”

Nigel’s warm hand rested on her back. “I’m sorry, Dolly.” “He was my angel.”

“And he loved you very much, I’m sure.” She winced as she shifted onto her side. “He did.” Wiping the tears, she gazed into her care-givers dark brown eyes, and breathed shakily. “He always said, Doll, you are too skittish.” She sniffed. “I dare say, I think he was right.” Nigel stood by her nightstand, the top edge of a pewter frame was visible behind a pile of books opened at varying degrees of completion.

“May I see your photo?” Nigel said. Proud, and shy at the same time, she nodded. “Harold was so handsome.” On the bottom of the frame was engraved Mr. and Mrs. Harold Chambers, September 12,1945.

He handed it to Dolly’s outstretched hand. “You looked beautiful, Dolly.” With a delicate touch, she ran her finger along Harold’s face. “You know I was fifteen when we married.” She closed her eyes, feeling Harold's embrace as he twirled her along the dance floor. “We were so happy, barely a fight between us in fifty-five years.” “You’ll need to tell me your secret. Velma and I are in our fifth year. Not sure if we’ll make it to the sixth.” “Just say your sorry. Oh, and make her laugh, Harold used to make me laugh no matter how angry I might have been. Come to think of it, that got me even more angry, but still there was never a harsh word between us. Don’t go to bed angry. You never know when the end is near.”

His black curls fell in waves across his forehead as he helped her to sit up.

She gripped his arms. “Nigel?” “Yes?” “I had one of those nightmares.”

“The one with the eyes?” “Yes, those piercing blue eyes, staring at me in the dark.” She bit the inside of her cheek.

“What is it?” “The man with the blue eyes. He was walking the halls.” A chill shook her to the core.

“I’ll talk to the doctor about adjusting your medication”

“But what if he comes back?” Nigel lifted a plate of biscuits off the trolley wrapped in cellophane. “It’s just a side effect of the medication. You’re safe here.” She squinted at her watch. “Oh, dear look at the time. We’re well past tea time.”  “I know, sorry about that, I got held up with a new patient. He was a bit disoriented. Insisted on seeing someone. Said there’d been a mistake.” “Poor dear. He’ll settle down. We all do eventually.” He handed her two pills in a tiny cup. “Take these with your cookie, it’ll help with the pain in your back.” “They’re biscuits, like my mum used to serve. She was a marvel in the kitchen. Three-course meals and not a speck on her apron.” Nigel's eyes creased at the corners.

“She could teach a thing or two to my wife. The house is a disaster when she cooks.” Pulling a chair along the tile floor, Nigel settled beside her bed. “How’s the pain?” “I only just took the pills two seconds ago.” He quirked his mouth on one side. “I meant in general.” “At my age, you’re bound to start wearing down.” She inhaled deeply. “What’s that smell? Aftershave?” “My kids got me a bottle of old spice for my birthday.” He leaned in.

“Do you like it?” “My sister’s boyfriend James, or was it Peter… no it was James, he wore the same cologne. He practically bathed in it. We could smell him a block away.” Dolly covered her mouth as a titter tickled her lips.

Nigel sniffed his light-blue scrubs. “Too much?” She patted his forearm.

“You’re fine, dear.”

“Tea?” A lightness lifted her spirit as Nigel presented a dainty cup and saucer. “Where did you get that?” “Don’t tell the others. I brought it from home. I thought it would be nice for a change.” She ran her finger along the rim. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Nigel. It can't be easy dealing with the likes of me. I know I can be a terror.” His dimples deepened. “If you’re a terror, I’d hate to think what Velma is.” He poured the amber liquid into her cup.

The cup and saucer clinked in her trembling hands. The feel of china on her lips brought her back to a simpler time. “I remember one time, oh dear, it must have been seventy years ago now. My best friend was supposed to get married to a strapping young man named Jacob Tremble. She was a lovely girl, though a bit head-strong.” “I know the type.” “We were to have a party, you know, the kind before the wedding. Just us girls.” “A bachelorette party? I hope you didn’t get into any trouble?” He winked. She dunked her biscuit. “Stop teasing.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “What happened?” “Oh, yes. Well, it was a catered affair. Nothing too extraordinary. I just remember the gift she gave us.” She lifted the opal pendant from beneath the quilt. “See it has my initials in gold.

DD for Dolly Duncan, I hadn’t married Harold yet.

Helen had one made for herself. It was rather controversial as she wanted her maiden initials. HP for Helen Poole. Her fiancé was none too pleased.” She dabbed the corners of her lips.

“But that was Helen, she did what she wanted.” “Did he get mad?” Dolly’s face heated up. “It was a terrible thing.” “Some guys can’t take a strong woman.” Dolly balled her fists. “I saw it all. I saw what he did.” Nigel stood up and felt her pulse. “Hey, it’s okay. We don’t need to talk about this anymore. How about something more pleasant.” “She never made it to the altar.” He placed his hand on her forehead, and set her tea cup down on the trolley. “You’re burning up.” Gripping Nigel's hand, Dolly widened her eyes. “She was murdered.” “Deep breaths, Dolly. I’m going to give you something to calm your nerves, your heart rate is sky high.” “It was Jacob. He-- he killed her, I saw it.” “Lay back. I’m calling the doctor.” She bit her lip, holding back a scream. “I see her, she’s right there in front of me… Get out of there, Helen!”

Nigel shook her gently. “Dolly. Look at me.” Blinking, she focused on Nigel’s chestnut skin. “Helen lived in the apartment across from me. I could see her through the window. She was talking to Jacob, but something happened. He slapped her across the face.” Dolly cupped her cheek as if the sting was real. “Helen backed away from him, but he kept coming.” Dolly squeezed her eyes shut. “He, he- he pushed her. I called out. I shouted her name, but no one came.” Tears stung her eyes. “He kept pushing her.” Dolly covered her face. “She fell, Nigel. She fell from the balcony.” Bile churned in her gut. “I should have saved her. I should have done something.” The mattress dipped, and Nigel held her in his arms. “You did everything you could. You’d have never made it there in time.” “When the police found her, she was dead. They said it was suicide, said she couldn’t go through with the marriage. But, I saw him. I saw him--. He did it.”

Nigel’s face blurred, as her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Dolly. I’m so sorry.”

“He left after that. No one saw him again.” Visions of Helen’s limp body sent shivers up her spine. “She would never have taken her own life. If she didn’t like something she’d tell you straight out. She would never...” “I shouldn’t have got you talking about all this.” “I pray for Helen every night.” Dolly’s eyes fluttered closed. “I’m so tired.” He tucked the blanket around her shoulders. “Sleep.”

*** Dolly woke with a start, and clutched her neck. A knock at the door sped her heart.

Nigel peeked around the door. “Can I come in?”

“Where am I?” “You’re at Cedar Residence. It’s time for dinner.” He pushed a wheel-chair beside her bed. “Hop on, I’ll take you for a ride.”

A child like merriment bubbled in her chest. “Really? Like we did with Mummy and Daddy?” “Yes, we can go as fast as you like.” She gritted her teeth, as the throbbing pain pulsed down her legs. “It’s bad today. I can’t move.”

Nigel scooped her up, and sat her on the edge of the bed. “Let’s get you dressed first.” He presented a pink dress from the three hanging in the closet. “Oh yes, I like that one.” He gingerly unbuttoned her nightgown and slid it over her head. There was no shame or sadness as she gazed at the sagging skin. She lifted her arms while Nigel slipped the dress over her head, and slid her arms through the sleeves. “You’ll be the envy of the dinning hall.”

She leaned against his arm. “You’re such a sweet lad.” He picked her up and sat her in the chair. “Ready?” “Ready.” The chatter in the dining hall hummed like a whirring tornado.

“We have some new residents,” Nigel whispered in her ear.

“Mummy doesn’t like me talking to strangers.” She bit her lips. Gliding between the tables, Nigel seated her with three white haired women engrossed in conversation.

Nigel squeezed her shoulder. “It’s movie night tonight. I’ll make sure you're seated next to someone respectable.” ***

The lights dimmed and the reel to reel clicked to life. A black and white title appeared on the screen, “How Green Was My Valley.”

A man hunched in the seat beside her leaned over. “I love this one.” “It’s one of my favorites. Roddy is so young.” “And how he cares for his mother. It breaks your heart that they can’t be together.” She batted her eyes. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” He nodded, squinting in the darkness. “The pleasure is mine.” He nudged a little closer. “Can I get you some popcorn?” “Oh, how lovely, yes thank you.” He lumbered out of his chair, and limped toward the popcorn machine.

Nigel sidled up beside Dolly. “Seems like you two are getting along.”

Giddy, Dolly bounced in her chair. “This is my favorite movie, and he knows all about it.” “That’s a good sign.” The white haired gentleman weaved through the aisle with two bags of popcorn. “Oh, shoo, he’s coming back.” She patted the chair. “I saved your seat.” “Aren’t you sweet.” The movie ended, and pleasantries were exchanged. The dapper gentleman kissed the back of her hand, as the lights brightened the hall.

A scream lodged in Dolly’s throat. Her chest constricted.

His blue eyes narrowed. “Small world isn’t it, Dolly.” “Get away from me.” “Now, now, don’t be like that. It was an accident.” “I saw you.”

A sly smile curled his lips. “She tripped.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What was I to do?” He fiddled with his opal tie clip, initials HP shining under the light. “Now she’ll always be Helen Pool, just like she wanted.” “How’s everything going over here?” Nigel backed Dolly’s wheel-chair a few inches. Short breaths strangled her words.“Take. Me. Home. Please.”

Nigel blocked the man from view. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.” Dolly closed her eyes, terrified Jacob would do to her what he did to Helen. “Please, Nigel take me home.” The man peeked from behind him. “Is there anything I can do?” Nigel wheeled her out of the room. “She’s just had a long day.” “Maybe we can meet tomorrow, on the terrace?” His voice trailed off. Dolly reached back and clutched Nigel’s hand. “Hurry.” Once in her room, Nigel lowered her on the bed.

She sobbed into her pillow.

“What is it, Dolly? Tell me.” “Harold? Is that you?”