The evening was ushered in, damp and getting colder. The man with short dark hair walking steadily through the bush was dwarfed by the gum trees all around him, whose loose bark shuffled and shivered as the cold wind blew the evening in. The forest was wide and tall. The man was thin and tall. A green rucksack weighed him down, and his fingers wrapped around the handle of a violin case were red and stiff from the cold and from holding the position. His steps were steady; not slow, but not fast. Earlier in the afternoon, when the light edged the trees in gold, he had looked around him as he walked, searching for the little birds that scuffle in the tops of trees, or for lyrebirds strutting in the understory, or for wallabies hopping past him on their way. But now his head was focused forward, direct, because it was late, he was tired, and he knew he had to reach the camping-spot before dark if he wanted to start a fire while the sun was still above the horizon. He walked on. The path was narrow and unworn, just a thin strip of naked dirt winding through wild underbrush. Many people did not travel this path, for it was a long and lonely one that stretched through a quiet and untravelled stretch of bush. Because it was untravelled it was wilder than most sections of bush known to the man. He thought its wildness was beautiful because it was foreboding and foreboding because it was beautiful. The man cared for beauty. He was a violinist, and rather a good one, and on Sundays he liked to steal away into the bush behind his cottage and write poems about his surroundings, and by day he was a leatherworker. The sun was sinking into the sky, and the trees’ once-sharp edges had become murky and indistinguishable from each other. The man quickened his pace. He had now given up hope of lighting a fire before dark. He was cold, and the dark sunk into him and made him heavy. His rucksack felt heavier now, and his hand gripping the handle of the violin case was redder and stiffer from the cold and from more time holding the position. He switched the case into his other hand and flashed his red fingers open and closed. He was considering shoving his way into the underbrush and setting up a makeshift camp on whatever flat ground he could find, but he saw a tiny light between the trees, and all thoughts of stopping at that moment were lost. It was red and flickering.

A fire. But who else would be out here?

He quickened his pace even further, but almost stopped when he remembered the tales his Scottish grandmother had told him of faeries who’d lure you deep into the forest with twinkling lights so they could kill you. But he dismissed that thought. Besides being appreciative of beauty, the man felt curiosity was a virtue bestowed to very few and that his own curiosity should be conserved by any means. And he was very curious. So he continued on quite quickly and reached the fire within minutes. As he got closer, he saw the campfire was of good size; its roar and occasional pop told him it was well established. He turned the corner. Now he could see it: the campfire was in the centre of the camping-spot he had been trying to reach for so many hours. He set down his rucksack and case and moved to where the fire burned in the middle of the camping-spot clearing, warming his hands front and back, and he was so transfixed by the small luxury of a pocket of warmth in a cold dark night that he did not see the man on the other side of the clearing who was watching him.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Said the stranger. The man jumped and said, ‘Oh!’

Then, shaking his head a few times and half-laughing—more out of shock than amusement—he replied, ‘Hello. I should’ve known this fire couldn’t’ve built itself.’

‘No worries. I wouldn’t’ve expected to find anyone out here on this lonely path either. What’s your name, old boy?’ Said the stranger. ‘Thomas Parkinson.’ Said the man. ‘Well, Tom, pleased to meet you.’ The stranger stuck out a strong hand from within the folds of his long brown cloak, which Thomas shook. ‘I’m Blue,’ said the stranger.

From what Thomas could see of him by the firelight, Blue was tall, taller than Thomas, and had straight red hair which was unfashionably long. His outdated brown cloak had a dark stripe along the bottom where it sat in the dirt, and Thomas could count three patches on its front alone. Thomas thought him a strange kind of man, what with his long hair and raggedy too-big cloak, and he smiled to himself imagining Blue wearing shiny black pointed boots and three different-sized guns at his waist underneath that great cloak like an adventurer from a children’s book. Still, you could never be too careful.

‘I see you’re a violinist,’ said Blue. ‘So am I. Fancy playing a tune?’ Before Thomas could respond, Blue had turned away with a wave of his cloak into the darkness and re-emerged holding a violin. It was a pale yellow and had five strings instead of the usual four. Thomas noticed this and thought again what a strange kind of man Blue was.

‘What a glorious instrument! I could hardly call that a violin myself. It looks otherworldly.’ ‘Thanks, Tom. Had it made from huon pine when I was down in Tassie. Wonderful place, Tassie. You been?’ ‘No,’ said Tom. ‘You should. Now, what do you play?’ Again, Blue didn’t wait for an answer. He launched into Waltzing Matilda, playing it slowly and beautifully, and the tune echoed out into the trees for miles. And as he played, he looked not down at the bridge or neck or fingerboard of the violin, but out into the darkness beyond the fire where the two men stood. There was something very lonely about it—about his look, and about that lone melody filling the depths of a shadowless dark. Some bats flew overhead. Tom scrambled to get his own violin, which had a chip off one of its pegs and an unevenly rounded chinrest. Halfway into the second verse he joined in, amplifying the tune and, still looking into the distant darkness, Blue seamlessly switched to a harmony as they moved into the second chorus.

It would have been a strange thing to hear, were you camping nearby. The two violins, one pale, the other worn, together meshed into a hollow, haunting sound that the surrounding trees seemed to pick up and transmute between them, through their branches where birds crouched asleep and through their root systems underground where rabbits curled into each other for warmth. There was something different about the song; it was at once bright and dim, soft and harsh, joyous and sorrowful, confined to the spot beside the fire but echoing into the bush all around. And in his mind Thomas could hear the song’s lyrics as they played. He imagined the trees were whispering the words back to him. Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me… The last note faded into silence. ‘You’re not a bad player, old boy,’ said Blue. And then they played ‘The Road to Gundagai’ and ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’ and ‘Bound for Botany Bay’, and they sung along, too. And the sound carried for miles. The sound of old songs brought to life in their native land. Once the music had dissipated, Thomas realised that he had become quite hungry and quite tired, and all his sense of self and of where he was returned to him. He went to search his rucksack for the dinner he had packed, and finding that he had forgotten to pack it, he turned around to ask Blue if he had any food to spare. Blue was crouched by the fire, grinning and watching a fat rabbit turn dark on a spit that seemed to have materialised out of nowhere. Thomas thought again what a strange kind of man Blue was.

They shared the rabbit and it was good, better than what Thomas’ wife cooked at home. They filled the silence with light conversation about what they knew of the area, of the weather in the area, and of the people in the area. But Blue was getting tired of this kind of conversation.

‘Don’t you think possibility is more exciting than reality, Tom?’ He said.

‘Why—yes, I suppose it is.’ Thomas was caught off guard. ‘What makes you say that?’ ‘Well, don’t you think it’s more exciting when you’ve got a whole future ahead of you than when you’ve already lived all your life? Looking back isn’t as good as looking forward, is it.’ ‘Quite right. Yes, quite right.’ Thomas hesitated. ‘You know—I sometimes wonder if maybe our lives are nothing but stories being read by other people.’ Thomas did not often share such poetic musings. Blue laughed. ‘I reckon you’re right on the money there, old boy. I bet all those ghosts and angels and all the rest of them just sit up there in heaven, all lazy, and just watch us do the real work. Ha! I like that. I like that very much, Tom.’ And with that he slapped Thomas on the back heartily, said ‘’Night, old boy,’ and went off to his swag and slept. Thomas slept soundly that night, for he felt safer with another person around, even though he was a stranger. In the morning when Thomas woke, Blue was gone. He had left no trace but the pile of glowing embers from the previous night’s fire.

Thomas lay on his back where he had slept on the ground under the quilt his wife had made him, and with his hands folded across his chest he watched the sea of leaves above him move about in all directions. The sky was cloudless. The wind whistled hollowly through the eucalypts’ branches and rustled their leaves. A kookaburra swept across his view and alighted on a nearby branch. Thomas turned to watch it laugh.

What a strange and wonderful world , he thought. And he packed up his makeshift bed and continued on his way.  The same morning, Thomas reached the town that marked the end of the bush through which he had travelled. There he stopped at his aunt Mary’s house, merely out of obligation, for he had little interest in hearing her stories about town gossip or her two little dogs’ backyard adventures. This day was no different; she was as talkative as ever and told him all about her new yellow window curtains which she’d had made for her by Tim the tailor who was in fact ‘a right gentleman.’ Thomas bore her talk well, nodding and smiling and saying ‘yes’ at all the right moments, until aunt Mary asked if it would be ever so much trouble for him to play her a little tune on the violin. He obliged, and played Waltzing Matilda for the second time in two days. As soon the last note sounded, Thomas said to his aunt, ‘I played this very same tune last night with a stranger I met in the bush.’ ‘Good gracious!’ Exclaimed aunt Mary. ‘You know as well as I do that that bush is under-travelled—it is rare that one would find a companion in that place—and one with which to play music! I say, that is rather peculiar. Yes, rather peculiar indeed. Did he tell you his name, Thomas dear?’ ‘Yes, funny sort of name—a nickname, I suppose. Blue.’ Aunt Mary’s teacup clattered into its saucer as her hand jumped to her mouth. Some tea had slopped onto the floorboards and her two little dogs waddled over to lap it up. ‘Why, Tom, my dear,’ she said, ‘I believe you’ve met a ghost!’ ‘What? Oh, auntie. You can’t be serious.’ ‘No, no, I really am serious—deadly serious, yes, deadly serious.’

The two were sitting on opposite overstuffed pink-and-white-striped couches in Aunt Mary’s lavish drawing room. Aunt Mary now leaned forward in her seat, looked Thomas in the eye and spoke with the tone and manner of a well-versed storyteller.

‘Many decades ago, a young boy went wandering off into the bush alone to look for birds—kookaburras were his favourite, I do believe. He had been gone a while and it became dark, so his father went out to search for him. The boy was never found.’ She leaned so far forward she was perched right on the very edge of the couch and was so tense she looked as if she might fall off. ‘But the boy’s father never gave up looking,’ she continued. ‘The father’s name was Douglas Menzies. He was a peculiar sort—they say he always wore old clothes that were far too big, and that he played violin—just like you, Thomas. Yes, he was an eccentric sort of man. Not that I think you’re eccentric, Thomas dear,’ she added hastily. ‘He had bright red hair,’ she continued, ‘and because of his hair colour they used to call him Blue.’ And with that she leaned back into the couch, with her hands resting daintily in her lap, chin up, a little smile on her lips. ‘So, Thomas dear, you’ve met a ghost.’ ‘Oh,’ said Thomas.


She held the hot cup in her hands, letting the warmth spread through her and ease the stiffness. She took small steps, watching the liquid hit the rim of the mug as she moved into the living room and sat in her armchair. Carefully, she brought the scalding hot drink up to her lips and took a first sip of Christmas cheer. It always brought her back to Christmases in her childhood. She eased into the calm of it and turned to look out the window.

There was a small dusting of white powder on the window frame and little dots of white covering the yard. The snow wasn’t strong enough to stick to the ground but it was still a beautiful sight. The woman stared for a good while at the dancing flickers of snowflakes as they moved past her vision. She could almost pretend it was happening just for her.

The slight buzz in her pocket woke her out of her reverie and she was brought back to the moment. Instantly her body stiffened, just a little and her heart sank a fraction in her chest. She pulled out her phone and looked at the message. It was from someone named David on one of the dating sites her sister had signed her up for. Her pain deepened and she felt like she might fold in on herself - crushed from the wait of it.

Sunday would mark two years since he’d been gone. Two years of lonely nights, solitary birthdays and empty holidays. Now as she looked back at the snowfall, marking the season as officially winter, it felt almost as if no time had passed at all. The wound was fresh and seemed to cut deeper with each lingering thought into the past.

The woman clicked on Davis’s message and viewed his profile. He was reasonably handsome, well educated with a good career. There was no reason to turn this down. She knew what her sister would say if she were there. But the woman was alone, looking at a lifeless screen, holding onto a dream she would never recover.

Instinctively, she dropped the phone. It fell to the ground with a thud on the floor. She turned her eyes up to the ceiling and tried to will the tears to back down from their attack positions. Slowly, the tears started to lose their power and faded back into the background. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. She didn’t want to focus on the absence she felt or the hollowness in her life. She didn’t want to think about anything but the falling snow outside. The woman picked up her mug once again and took a longer sip, burning the edges of her mouth.

Abruptly, she stood up, knowing the only thing that might ease some of her discomfort. She threw her auburn hair up in a tight bun and covered it with a pink beanie. She only wore this one when she went to visit him . She still remembered the Christmas when he bought it for her. At the time she thought it was silly to wear a pink hat with a puff ball on top but now it felt like one of the last remaining tethers to him.

She grabbed her gloves and her keys, leaving her phone discarded on the floor and headed out into the cold. The wind whipped around her as if trying to invite her into the winter dance. She ignored the calling of the snow and stepped into her car. The warm air started to blast full force as the engine came to life. Carefully, she pulled out of the slippery drive and down the street to her destination.

Christmas carols poured into the car, echoing the joy of the dancing weather. It was a symphony of jubilating nature. The feelings of it did warm her to see but only for a moment before she remembered why she was driving and what was missing.

When she pulled into the parking lot her car was alone. It was what she preferred in this particular setting. Other people would only make things more difficult for her. She put on her gloves and wrapped her scarf more tightly around her. The wind had become more wild in her drive, more determined to involve her. She resisted.

The woman followed the path that she had become much too familiar with the past two years until she reached the stop she was looking for. The stone stood there, unchanged and unmoved with the same letters carved through it. The flowers she had placed there, the last time she had visited were dying and wilting away. Little droplets of snow lingered on some of the petals.

She made no effort to stop the tears this time. She put up no resistance as the pain started to consume her. She knew this part was necessary if she were to feel any sort of relief. She could feel her knees starting to buckle under her and she let herself fall to the ground. She reached her hand up, pulling off her glove and traced the lines of his name in the stone.

“Did you know him well?” came a soft voice behind her. She didn’t bother to turn around but nodded.

“Yes, he was my husband,” she answered through her tears. There was a sharp inhale behind her and she turned around carefully.

“I didn’t know he was married,” the man muttered. The man before her had deep charcoal skin that shone like onyx against the falling snow. His fierce eyes were the crisp blue of a fire’s center.

“How did you know him?” she asked, standing up now to face the gorgeous man in front of her. The man shoved his hands hastily in his pockets and gave her a sheepish expression.

“I was his college roommate. We used to be very close, I only just heard….” his statement trailed off and the rest of his sentence hung in the air like a toxic fume. “I’m Matt,” he said finally, clearing the air. He held out a hand for her and something in her heart twisted. It felt almost as if this hand could be the start of something new, a change or an escape from the dark cave she had banished herself to. She hesitated for a moment.

Suddenly, the wind whipped around her, warmer than it had been, and pushed her forward. She almost fell into the man. She smiled to herself and felt that she already knew the answer. She reached out her hand and shook Matt’s, that was still outstretched. Her heart instantly felt lighter and his smile melted away so much of her pain. For the first time in two years she felt like it might actually be a merry Christmas.


It had been twenty-four years since she had last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Josephine stood in front of the little cottage that had featured in all of her fairytale dreams, the rolling hills, and the surrounding forest. That had been the happiest summer of her life. She’d wanted it to last forever. She’d been warned that day that it was only a temporary stay, but she had so hoped that things would be different that time. The woman who had greeted her, Mrs. O’Brady, had rosy cheeks and such a warm smile and her husband had such a jolly laugh that Josephine wondered if she was staying the summer with Santa Claus. Walking slowly up the slight incline that had seemed so much steeper all those years ago, she came to rest at the base of the large walnut tree. Its branches spread wide and twisting, creating a canopy of leaves for shelter. Sitting at the base as she often had as a child, Josephine let herself breathe deeply as she took in the sight before her. The cottage was white with blue shutters on the windows, a yellow front door, and the dormered window reminded her of rainy days playing dolls in the attic bedroom. She hadn’t been that only little girl here that summer. There had been two sisters, Tabitha and Janie, that had been there for a few weeks already. She had worried that she would not be welcome, but oh how wrong she had been. They had been adamant about her joining all of their games and nicknamed her Josy. After the first couple days it was as if they had always been together. Tabby was a blonde cherub and Janie was a redheaded hellion, she with her dark hair and solemn attitude had completed the set. With them she had learned to smile. Shaking herself from these thoughts, she headed back down and around the house to her car. As she unloaded her things, she was reminded of the day she left. A new foster family had been found and they wanted her settled before the new school year began. She had known that the O’Brady’s couldn’t keep her, but it had broken her heart all the same. The girls and Mrs. O’Brady had tearfully hugged her goodbye, while Mr. O’Brady solemnly promised that he was only a phone call away.  The heartache she felt that day was soothed as she prepared to enter the house for the first time as the homeowner. Unbuckling the carseat she lifted her son as gently as she could, hoping the little one would continue sleeping peacefully. She entered the house and let herself drink it in for a moment before heading up the stairs. The moving truck had left just over an hour before, after unpacking and setting up the bigger pieces of furniture. In that attic bedroom she remembered so fondly there was now a toddler bed and boxes full of dinosaurs and trucks. Laying her baby down, she smoothed his hair before kissing his forehead and heading back downstairs to continue unpacking. Life had not been easy since that fairytale summer. Experience had taught her that believing in fairytales was not always a safe thing to do. She spent so long believing that if she just wished for it hard enough, eventually all her dreams would come true. This way of thinking eventually brought her to a dead end and she found herself needing to start over, though luckily, she was not starting over with nothing. Wanting to give herself a good start she found herself looking at the one place that she had been truly happy. She found a local job and while taking a drive one Sunday afternoon she was amazed to come across her dream house and find it had a for sale sign by the driveway. Unable to help herself, she had knocked on the front door. Mrs. O’Brady had been as rosy cheeked as ever and tears came to Josy’s eyes as she was remembered and given a motherly hug. She had been welcomed in for cookies and tea and she found herself telling the kind woman everything that had happened in the long years since they had seen each other last. When she had finished, she was enveloped in another hug and was amazed at the relief and joy it brought. Mrs. O’Brady then took her turn, explaining that she was just too far from everything she needed at her age but confessed that she was worried that her home would go to someone who wouldn’t love it as she and her husband had. Their visits became a weekly thing and the next month she was able to tell Mrs. O’Brady that she was the person buying the house. Josy’s gaze fell on the tea set that Mrs. O’Brady had given her as a housewarming gift. It was a delicate china set with pink roses. She smiled thinking of past and future tea parties. She had been ecstatic when she discovered that Tabby lived just a few moments away and Janie came to visit regularly. Tabby had found her happily ever after with a local farmer and was having the time of her life raising their children while Janie, now going by her full name of Jacinda, was climbing the corporate ladder in Denver. They already had plans to get together the next time they were all in town. From the kitchen window she had a perfect vantage point of the walnut tree. Her mind already filled with plans for a tree house and a rope swing. For her son, she dreamed of long summers watching her son play pirates, colorful falls with leaf piles and pumpkins, and winters full of snowmen and cocoa. For herself, she dreamed of springtime filled with flowers. She felt her heart could beat out of her chest with joy. Maybe dreams don’t come true exactly the way you expect, and they don’t happen immediately, but maybe, just maybe, if you believe in them strong enough and work for them hard enough you eventually find what you are looking for. After so many years, she could happily say that this is what she had been looking for. She had found her happily ever after where she will be able to give her son the things she always dreamed about and that was all that mattered.


“I couldn’t believe it, Mom,” Ella said. “She's done the all things you expect at her age—picky eating, backtalk, drawing on the walls with crayons—but this was a whole new level. I walked into Charlotte's room, and her clothes were in rags—all of them. She’d got her hands on a pair of scissors and cut holes in all her jeans. She cut the sleeves off her t-shirts and—why are you laughing?” The breathless laughter through the phone grated on Ella’s nerves. “This isn’t funny. Do you know how much we spend on clothes for her? She outgrows them almost as fast as we can buy them, and most of these were brand new. I’m at wits’ end.” Hannah managed to get her laughter under control. Mostly. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said, still giggling a little. “I know exactly how trying that sort of thing is. It sounds like my curse has finally found you.” “ Curse? Mom, don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?” “The mother’s curse, Ella. Every mother says it at least once, when her beloved child drives her to the edge of madness. At some point, you’re bound to say, ‘I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.’ It’s almost guaranteed to come true sooner or later.” “Oh my goodness, Mom.” Ella ran a hand through her hair, torn between laughing and crying. “That’s exactly what I did say to her.” “You’ll say it again,” said Hannah. “Daughters are a special challenge, I’ve always found. Not that your brother was any picnic. I remember the last time I said it to you, the night you tried to sneak out to that silly concert—” Ella cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Well, I suppose the daughter’s curse is one day learning just what she put her mother through.” Or waking one day to find she's become her mother, she thought with a guity twinge. Ella laughed again, a little forced this time. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Give my love to Dad, okay?” Ella spent a few moments breathing deeply, remembering the incident her mom had mentioned. They could laugh about it now, but it was still a sore spot with Ella. When she thought back to her teens, the ghost of old anger still rose in her, the old frustration and restlessness. She remembered daily battles with her mother over everything: her hair, her clothes, her dates. Nothing was ever good enough. The worst memory of all was the night of the Spaceman concert. Ella still cringed, thinking back. On the day of the concert, Ella lay on her bed, listening to music on her headphones and being the happiest girl in the world. She blew a kiss to the Spaceman poster on the wall, imagining that the enigmatic smile he wore was just for her. Tonight, her dreams would all come true. Last week, as she’d waited for the bus after school in the autumn chill, her best friend Janice had come running to her, screaming and waving two tickets in the air. Finally, speechless, she had just handed the tickets to Ella, who stared at them in disbelief. “No way,” Ella said. “No way!” “I won them on the radio,” Janice shouted. “One of those contests where you have to be the seventh caller—Ella, I was the seventh caller. We’re going to see Spaceman!” “We?” Ella asked, stunned. “You… you want me to come with you?” “There are two tickets, dummy. You’re my best friend. Who else would I take?” Janice threw an arm around her, her dangly earrings catching in Ella’s hair. Spaceman was Ella’s idol. She had every one of his albums, even the bad ones, and her room was plastered with posters of his otherworldly face. Now she was going to go to his concert, stand in the crowd, be in the actual same room with him, breathing the same air, and— “Ella? Earth to Ella,” Janice gave her a little shake and looked into her eyes with concern. “Are you gonna faint?” “No,” said Ella. She swayed, suddenly lightheaded. “Maybe.” She sat down on a bus bench before her knees could give way. She had never been so excited in all her seventeen years. “You’ll come, right, Ella?” Janice said. Ella stared at her. “Are you kidding me? Of course, I will.” There was just one little problem. There was no way Ella’s parents would ever let her go. They made a plan, a sneaky one, as Janice’s parents were just as lame as Ella’s. Ella would tell her parents that she was going for a sleepover at Janice’s house, and Janice would tell her parents that she was going for a sleepover at Ella’s, and then they would meet at the bus stop and sneak off to the concert. “What do we do when it’s time to go home, though?” Ella asked. “It’ll be really late, Ella,” Janice said. “Your folks will be asleep. Just sneak in and go to bed. If they ask in the morning, say you got sick and my dad drove you home. I’ll say the same.” It was foolproof. Ella’s mom readily agreed to the sleepover. Hannah Thompson didn’t like to admit it, but these days it was a relief to have an occasional break from her younger daughter, so long as she knew that Ella would be safe. It was all settled. Tonight, after dinner, she would be on her way to the concert. She lay on her bed, singing along with her favorite song, “Starship Journey,” and daydreaming about how Spaceman would look out into the audience and their eyes would meet. He would beckon to her, the crowd would part, and she would walk forward to stand before him under the smoky blue stage lights. He would take her hand, look deep into her eyes, and say— “Ella! I’ve called you three times. Dinner is ready.” Ella yanked her headphones off and jumped up. Her mom was standing in the doorway, red in the face from shouting. Ella wanted to yell at her for barging in without knocking but forced herself to smile instead. “Sorry, Mom,” Ella said as meekly as she could, brushing past her into the hallway. “What’s for dinner?” “Never mind that.” Hannah put her hands on her hips and looked Ella up and down disdainfully. “What on earth have you done to your clothes? You look disgraceful.” Ella looked down at herself. Her jeans were fashionably torn and frayed. She had cut the collar off her shirt so that it hung attractively off one shoulder like the girls in music videos wore. “I look cool , Mom. You wouldn’t understand.” She tried to keep her tone light, but she could feel an argument brewing. “Oh, I understand plenty. I understand that you have chosen to destroy the very expensive jeans that you insisted I buy you, and now—” “Blah, blah, blah,” Ella said, flapping her fingers and thumb together. “They’re my jeans, so what’s the big deal, anyway? I like them this way.” Hannah’s nostrils flared. “The neighbors will think our family is so poor you have to walk around in rags. You look trashy, and I won’t stand for it. You turn right around and put on something decent this minute, Ella Thompson.” “You wouldn’t know style if it jumped up and bit you, with those frumpy dresses you always wear. One day I’m going to get away from you and those awful dresses! I’ll move to New York or Los Angeles and be a famous fashion designer, and then you’ll see…” Ella trailed off. Her mother’s eyes had narrowed dangerously, and she knew she had gone too far. “All I see,” Hannah said in a low, steely voice, “is a bratty, disrespectful little girl who isn’t going anywhere tonight. You can forget about your sleepover. You’re grounded.” Everything Ella said after that only made it worse. She begged and pleaded. When that didn’t work, she showered her mother with compliments, swearing she hadn’t meant what she said about her being frumpy and uncool, all to no avail. Her mother simply looked at her in disappointment, shook her head, and said, “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Ella could have screamed. She did scream, in fact. She screamed, ran into her room, slammed the door, and threw herself on the bed in a storm of tears. She refused to believe that she was going to miss the concert. Meeting Spaceman was her destiny. She phoned Janice and explained the situation, sobbing and raging. Janice listened sympathetically and then made a daring suggestion. “You’ll just have to sneak out.” Ella sat in shocked silence. Could she sneak out? There was a tree next to her window. All she had to do was climb out, balance on the windowsill, and grab a branch. It wasn’t even that high up. She had been prepared for a certain level of dishonesty, but that was too far. “I can’t do that.” “That sucks, Ella, but I get it. Would you still cover for me if I go without you?” Janice asked. Go without her? Ella was silent for a long moment, seeing Spaceman once again holding his hand out to her under the smoky blue light. His strange eyes gazed deeply into hers. I need you, Ella , he said. Come explore the stars with me . Ella sat up and wiped her eyes. “Meet me at the bus stop in thirty minutes,” she said and hung up. Climbing out the window was easy, and the tree was a sturdy one with closely spaced branches. Ella couldn’t believe she’d never tried sneaking out before. She dropped to the ground and headed to the bus stop, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t followed. She waited there for a long time, growing more nervous by the minute. What if her parents decided to go for a nighttime drive and caught her? She knew how unlikely that was, but she couldn’t shake the thought. Ella looked up the street, watching for Janice. It was well past the time they’d agreed to meet. She could see her breath, and the air was icy on the patches of skin exposed by the meticulously frayed rips in her jeans. The bus came around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of her. The door opened, and Ella waved awkwardly and stood still until it closed again. The bus drove away, leaving her feeling colder and more nervous than before. Janice wasn’t coming, she realized, disappointed and a tiny bit relieved. She had no choice but to go home. As she walked back toward her house, she started to worry about a new problem. How would she get in without being seen? Her mom was probably already asleep, but her dad liked to stay up late watching TV on weekends. If he was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, there was no way she’d be able to go in through the front door. She wasn’t confident that she could climb back in through the window, but she’d try it if she had to. It was really cold now. Ella shivered and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, wishing she’d dressed more warmly. When she got to her house, she silently crept up and peeked through the window. The lights were on, but she didn’t see anyone, and her dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Where was he? It didn’t matter. Now was her chance to slip in. She patted the pockets of the thin, stylish denim jacket she wore, looking for her house key, only to realize that she’d left it in the pocket of her warm coat that still hung in the hall closet. The window was the only way. She ran over to the tree and climbed. Balancing carefully on a sturdy limb, she leaned out and reached for the window. A sudden brightness made her turn quickly. Her dad’s car was pulling into the driveway. Ella panicked. Her foot slipped, and she lost her grip and plummeted toward the leaf-strewn grass. The back of her jacket caught on a branch, yanking her to a stop just above the ground. She dangled there helplessly as her dad approached. “I think you kids would call this ‘getting busted,’” her dad said, lifting her down. For the next hour, her parents took turns berating her. Ella hunched down in a chair, angry and ashamed but grateful to be warm, as the story gradually unfolded. Her mom had called Janice’s mom to explain that Ella was grounded and wouldn’t be able to sleep over that night. Janice’s mom, puzzled, had asked if she meant Janice couldn’t come to the Thompsons’ house as planned. Hannah had told Janice’s mom that she must be confused. It was Ella who was supposed to visit Janice. Janice’s mom had said that she certainly was confused, as Janice was getting ready to go to Ella’s house at that very moment. “Janice is grounded until college for this little trick,” Hannah told Ella, wagging a finger at her, “and so are you. Of all the selfish, sneaky, underhanded—” Ella couldn’t take it anymore. “Whatever, Mom. Are you going to lecture me all night?” “Don’t you dare take that tone with me after I caught you trying to sneak out, young lady!” “Actually,” Ella could not resist saying, though she knew it would only get her in deeper trouble, “you caught me trying to sneak in .” Ella expected an explosion of anger at this, but instead, to her horror, Hannah’s shoulders slumped. She seemed suddenly old and fragile. She looked at Ella, and in a trembling, bitter voice, she said, “I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.” Ella had never felt so awful in her life. There had been little more to say. Ella had been grounded for a long time, though not quite until college. Her friendship with Janice never recovered. There was too much anger and distrust on both sides after that. Gradually, though, she and her mom became friends. Ella started to realize how much of Hannah’s behavior came from deep love and anxiety for Ella’s well-being, and she cut her mom some slack. Hannah began to understand Ella’s restlessness and need for freedom. They both learned to give each other some room to breathe. Years later, when she and Dan were newly married, they went to a Spaceman concert together. Ella was excited and the show was amazing, but it wasn’t the thrill of a lifetime anymore. She was over her infatuation with Spaceman. Ella sat at her kitchen counter, the phone still in her hand, as the memories washed over her. She tried to picture Charlotte as a sulky, impossible teenager and hoped that she could handle it. She looked at her watch. Speaking of Charlotte, it was time to go and pick her up from school. She shook her head to clear it, grabbed her car keys, and left. “How was school, honey?” Ella asked as they left the school grounds. “It was okay,” said Charlotte. “Can I go to Jessie’s for a sleepover this weekend?” Ella looked sharply at her in the rearview mirror. She’s only six, Ella. It’s fine, she thought. “Sure, sweetie,” she said, then paused for a long moment. "I like your outfit today." Charlotte's eyes widened. "Really, Mom? Thanks. When I grow up, I want to be a fashion designer like you." Ella's heart turned over. "You'll be a great one. You have a good eye." She reached over to turn on the radio as Chalotte grinned with delight and struck poses in her the back seat. As they were pulling into the driveway, the radio DJ said, “Sad news today in the world of music. Rock legend Spaceman has passed away from cancer at the age of forty-nine. The world has lost a great artist. He will never be forgotten.” The opening chords of “Starship Journey” began to play as Ella sat stunned. “Mom?” Charlotte said when Ella made no move to get out of the van. Ella snapped out of it, shut off the engine, and went around the side to help Charlotte out of her seat. By the time they got into the house, Dan was already calling her cell phone. She threw herself down on the couch and answered. “I just heard about Spaceman, Ella. I’m so sorry, hon. Are you okay?” “Oh, Dan. Of course I’m okay.” Then she burst into tears. “I guess I’m not really,” she sobbed. “I feel so silly. We never even met, but somehow I feel like I’ve lost a dear friend. I feel like, I don’t know, like—” “Like part of your youth is gone forever,” Dan said. “Like when he died, he took that young, starry-eyed girl with him.” Ella let out a sad chuckle. “Yes. Though I remember that girl wanted so much for Spaceman to take her with him, away into the stars.” “I’m glad she stayed here on the ground with me,” Dan said softly. “I love you, Ella. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” She ended the call and rubbed her face, wondering what she would tell Charlotte about her outburst. Then she felt a soft little hand resting on hers and something fuzzy pressed against her face. She opened her eyes as Charlotte silently climbed onto the couch and hugged her. “I brought Captain Cuddles to help you feel better. She’s the best teddy bear when you’re sad. I’m sorry about your friend, Mom,” Charlotte said, looking up at her with wide, worried eyes, “but you still have me.” Ella pulled her daughter and Captain Cuddles into her arms and held them both tight. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said, “I hope one day you have a daughter just like you.”


Checkmate       Shannen Taylor kicked a stone along the dirt road as he made his way toward the asphalt that would be teeming with heat as the temperature was already in the low nineties. Soon the stone was transformed into Bettle’s head and Shannen stopped to mush it into the dusty sand. It only made him feel better for a moment. Shortly after he arrived, Bettle would likely be at his desk with the perpetual mocking or ridiculous antics that often started his day.       As Shannen reached the street, he quickened his pace. He had been running a bit late this morning and did not want to miss his bus into the city. When the bus came the usual driver, Hal, was again not driving, but Shannen still took his seat just to the rear and right of the driver. Hal and Shannen had formed a kind of friendship over the last couple of years and their talks spanned many topics. Shannen appreciated that Hal was philosophical and enjoyed their discussions. Yesterday, when Hal had failed to be driving the bus for a fourth straight day, Shannen inquired as to his health or circumstances with a simple, “Is everything okay with Hal?” Responding in a gruff manner, the bus driver said, “I don’t talk about other employees and you should mind your own business.” Shannen was taken aback by the answer and had since ridden in silence. Today, he simply took out a couple of wet cloths in little packets and used them to clean the dust off his Oxfords. After making his way to his destination, Shannen quickly went to his desk. As he was getting himself seated, Bettle appeared. He set a coffee cup balanced precariously on the top of where the two cubicles came together. Bettle said, “Well, good morning, S-h-a-n-n-e-n.” He always drew out the name Shannen as if it were its own sentence. Shannen glanced at the cup before meeting Bettle’s eyes. He continued, “Did you do anything special last night? My wife and I went to a party given by Supro. Surprised we didn’t see you there. Oh, I forgot. It was for couples only.” Bettle sneered, used his forefinger to gently tip the cup of coffee, turned and walked away. As it was falling, the top flew off and his entire desk got covered, including him being splashed on his bare arm, where it immediately started to sting. Shannen wanted to rip Bettle’s head off at that moment but knew he would not give any response to the gesture that made sure his day began as miserably as possible. Little did Philip Bettle know, but Shannen had more than a girlfriend, he had a beautiful fiancé named Julia. In fact, he did get an invitation from Supro, a large client of their firm, but never even mentioned it to Julia. He would under no circumstance have brought her to mingle with his co-workers for he knew they would definitely take the opportunity to embarrass him in front of her. Also, they did not need any more fodder for their office roguery. Making his way to the men’s room to fetch some paper towels, he could hear the teeheeing going on in the cubicles. Surely, news of Bettle’s early morning tomfoolery was making the rounds. His arm stung from the burn so he rinsed it under some cold water. It was red but thankfully the liquid had not been hot enough to cause blisters to form. As Shannen returned to his desk, for the first time he showed a half smirk to the co-workers that were watching him while gathered around the water cooler. He knew he would only have to put up with their shenanigans for a short while longer. Shannen made quick work of getting rid of the mess then surveyed his cubicle, the four walls he saw for eight hours a day, five days a week. He was thankful that he soon would not ever have to stare at the temporary office structure again. Their projects were all done individually, though other co-workers had good camaraderie and found time throughout the day to visit with each other.

As a structural design engineer who had reached a near expert level in AutoCAD and Autodesk, Shannen was usually finished his assigned projects early. In his current position, he knew that seeking a more responsible job at PRUDO Engineering was futile. Those that occupied the offices along both sides of their cubicles were not going anywhere soon. After completing his current task, which was not due for two more days, Shannen sat back in his chair and let his mind wander. Beginning in kindergarten, Shannen had also been the proverbial ‘mark’. It started on his first day and continued until he graduated high school. There, he had been bullied by Billy Parker and his little gang of torturers. First came the name calling but it soon escalated to knocking books out of his hands and the occasional slap on the back of his head, which he never saw coming. In those early school years, Shannen would not stick up for himself and instead he initiated building his defense mechanism which would serve him well the older he got. When he was younger, he would cry when Billy and his gang surrounded him while he was taking a shortcut home along the baseball field. When Billy would shove his head into the fence it hurt and Shannen could not stop the tears from coming. When their abuse was over, Shannen would gather up his belongings and sit in the woods for about an hour, which was time enough to calm himself before continuing on his way home. Shannen worked on training himself to show no emotion, so when Billy stuffed him into a locker and dunked his head in the toilet in middle school, the expression on his face never changed but at least the crying had stopped. In high school, he spent most of his time hiding in the library. Though he loved to read, he had to admit that he was just tired of the bullying and wanted to get through to graduation as unscathed as possible. He did the same in university, but had a small bunch of friends he liked to hang out with. Though they did not talk about it, they were the bullied ones too.       After finishing university, which was only a four hour drive away, Shannen moved back in with his parents and got the job with PRUDO Engineering. Thankfully, two of his friends from university had jobs nearby and they did get together for the occasional drink after work. Shannen secretly wished they would run into people from his office, if only to prove he was not the recluse he was accused of being, but it hadn’t happened.       Tragically, his parents were killed in a small plane crash on their way home from a mountain retreat. Shannen was an only child and took a couple of weeks off work to handle their final affairs. When he came back to work, there was a card on his desk signed by everyone in the office but not a word of condolence was said and things simply continued the way they had been. Shannen had briefly considered selling the house and moving to another city but knew his track record as ‘the mark’ would continue so he didn’t bother. Plus, he was able to save a good portion of his earnings with no mortgage to pay or expensive downtown parking rates since he rode the bus. Then he met Julia.       Shannen was sitting in the park reading when a shadow came over him. He looked up to see a beautiful woman standing a few feet away. She inquired if she could sit and he answered, “Of course”. That was the beginning of their relationship.       He was startled out of his walk through his past by his boss who was standing at his cubicle. Jacob Ross had a loud and vibrating voice that exuded dominance but not unkindness. Ross said, “There is an issue with the ERT file. Would you have time to take a look at my notes?” Shannen sat up straight in his chair and replied, “Certainly, Mr. Ross.” He left the file he was carrying and said he would email Shannen before the end of the day.       Having set his emails to audible notifications, Shannen continued to think about Julia and how she had unknowingly given him the strength to work his way around always using his defense mechanism, which he had many years to practice. Shannen was a master at not showing his feelings. No matter whether he was being bullied or introduced to a new client, his face remained stoic. He knew this was not the person he wanted to be but he would never give the satisfaction to anyone who thought they would give him a rough go. Unfortunately, he had perfected it so well that it filtered into any social situation in which he was involved, all that is except for when he was with Julia. He had immediately felt at ease with her and let his delight show whenever they were together.       As their relationship grew, Shannen had introduced Julia to his small group of friends for he knew they would be kind and welcoming. However, he still had to dodge questions about when she would meet his co-workers. He had finally said they did not socialize together and stuck to that excuse.       Shannen knew he had to overcome his societal issues if a long term relationship with Julia had any chance of success. He had to protect the fact that he had been the chosen mark for the entirety of his life. He signed up for two online courses, ‘Building Your Self-Confidence’ and ‘Bullied? You Can Turn it Around’ and worked on them diligently on the nights when he and Julia were not together. Somehow, he had to practice his new found skills so when Julia invited him to dinner with her parents, he willingly agreed.       Surprisingly, Shannen found himself strangely self-assured and the evening was a time of laughter and stories. It seemed Julia’s dad had fun embarrassing his daughter with tales from her childhood and her blushing responses only made him love her more. Since Shannen only had an aunt, uncle and cousin who he barely knew as family, he could not offer much in the story department except a few tales from his own childhood and he helped to keep the conversation flowing. Later when he asked Julia how she thought things had gone, she hugged him and declared, “My parents love you!” After finding success with Julia’s parents, he finally agreed to meet some of her friends, professing that he had been working on not being so shy in terms of socializing. He found that he was accepted into her group of friends and, while he gave credit to the courses he had taken, Shannen had to give Julia the most gratitude for she inspired him to change.       Shannen had also made another huge decision in his life. After determining that his projects could be done at home, he resolved to open his own business and work from a home office. This was a short while before Christmas and Julia, who was a special events planner, was thrilled with the idea. She had moved in with him a couple of months earlier and had been busy updating the house. She suggested the attic would make the perfect location for his office since there was plenty of space and lots of natural light. He agreed and figured all he would need would be the desk from the spare bedroom and a chair to get started.       While he was lost in thought, Shannen’s email notification went off. He quickly brought himself back to the present and got to work on the changes to the project as requested by Mr. Ross.       As he was working, Tricia passed by his cubicle and, being nosy, saw the file open on his desk. She spouted, “What are you doing with my file?” Shannen, knowing he would soon be rid of this bunch and bolstered by his new found self-confidence, blurted back, “It is not your file. It is a project file for PRUDO and I am working on it for Mr. Ross.” Not likely expecting his forthright reply, she continued past his work area in a huff. Shannen smiled. He was proud of himself.       On his way home, Shannen thought about how he proposed to Julia. They were going to her parent’s home to spend Christmas Eve. Before they left, Shannen had suggested they open the stockings they had made for one another. Julia said she would rather wait until they got home. Shannen, thankfully, won out and they each looked in their stockings. When Julia thought she had finished hers, she found one more package shoved into the bottom. It was a small box. She started crying before she even opened it. Shannen laughed and teased, “Why are you making such a fuss? You know it could be a gag gift!” When she unwrapped the box, her hand was shaking so Shannen helped her open it. He still remembered the lights from the Christmas tree shining on her tears and the smile on her face was beautiful as she looked at the diamond he had spent hours picking out for her. He got down on one knee and asked her to marry him to which she threw her arms around him and gushed, “Of course. Yes! Of course I will marry you.”       When they arrived at her parent’s house, Julia had not even taken off her coat before she was showing off her ring and announcing their engagement. Her parents and gathered family and friends were thrilled. Shannen had never felt so fulfilled in his entire life.       That evening, Julia had a surprise waiting for him. She led him up the stairs to the attic to see his new office! Shannen knew she had a few days off, but did not know she had spent that time making the perfect place for him to work. He was, however, curious how she had managed to get the new office furniture up the attic stairs. She giggled and told him her father and uncle had been all too happy to help.       Shannen was in a good mood as he made his way to work the next morning. He knew that a week from today would be his last day at PRUDO but he had kept that information to himself.       When he arrived at his cubicle, he found the likely reprisal for his reply to Tricia the day before. His desk was plastered with sex toys of all shapes and sizes. He was silently happy that his co-workers had spent so much unnecessary money merely to get back at him. As he was gathering the garbage and putting it into a bag, Bettle made his presence known with a smart remark, “Oh, S-h-a-n-n-e-n. I see you are bagging your toys to use at home. Too bad you will have to adapt some of them so you can use them alone. Although your blow-up-girlfriend should come in handy.” Bettle laughed as he walked away. Shannen thought about replying but decided it wasn’t worth it. He would soon be rid of the buffoon.       Thankfully, the next week was uneventful. Since he would no longer be taking the bus every morning, Shannen was pleased that Hal had returned to his regular place in the driver’s seat. It turns out that he was only on holiday, which made Shannen wonder why the substitute driver had felt the need to be so nasty. He had already told Hal about his future plans, and they exchanged cell numbers so they could stay in touch.       On his last day of work, Shannen decided not to brown bag it. He would go out for lunch, primarily to give his co-workers something to converse about that afternoon. He found a cafe close by and savored every bite of his Caesar salad wrap. He was most stoked about the fact that he thought of the perfect way to end his employment with PRUDO. He had planned to simply put his resignation on his boss’s desk, which stated that he was leaving immediately in lieu of two weeks’ notice; he would forfeit two weeks pay. However, this little addition to his plan was perfect.       When his workday was almost finished, Shannen stepped away from his cubicle and left the building. He returned a few minutes later and proceeded to Mr. Ross’s office and left a white envelope on his desk as his boss was out of the office for the day.       Next, he approached Bettle’s work area and held the large coffee he was carrying on the top of the partition. Bettle looked up, obviously surprised to see Shannen standing there.       Shannen stood silent while Bettle voiced, “Well, well, S-h-a-n-n-e-n. This is new. What the hell do you want?” Shannen simply tipped the coffee cup. As it went tumbling toward Bettle’s desk, Shannen smiled broadly and uttered, “Checkmate.” He then proceeded to walk out the door without looking back.


Kyle rests back into the hospital pillow and lets out a sigh.

“The doctor wants to keep an eye on that temperature of yours.” his wife says. “How do you feel?”

“I’m comfortable now, Sara. A little sleepy, I think or…” “Kyle, the nurse gave you something to help bring the fever down because it was so high. She said you might drift in and out before it comes down. The nurse told you all that before, but you just rest easy. I’ll be here when you wake.” “Okay, sounds good. I’ll just close my eyes for a bit then.” Kyle’s breathing soon becomes more rhythmic. - Sara turns back to the book in her lap. Kyle opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling of his green camping tent and, rolling over, looked down at the other inhabitant, his dog Dingo, snuggled next to the sleeping bag. Putting a hand to his forehead in confusion, he says, “I feel like I was somewhere else a minute ago.” Dingo raised her head and blinked the slumber away. “Where?” Kyle looks at her, “I’m not sure. I think I was really sick, lying in a bed somewhere.” “Sounds like a dream to me.” Giving Dingo a gentle scruff, with a smile, he says, “You’re right. I’m sure it was; let’s have some breakfast!” He unzipped the sleeping bag, and they climbed out of the tent to stare at the sunrise. Kyle felt a little fuzzy about why he would be out here and looked down at Dingo, “What’s our plan today?” Dingo interrupts her bush sniffing to glance over at Kyle. “How ‘bout we go into that town we passed?” Kyle pointed to the nearby path. “That sounds like a great idea, and we can grab a little breakfast there. What do about that?”

The path made a half-circle around town from the south to the north, ending a short distance from a café. Dingo and Kyle met a few people out walking the path that morning and one older guy riding a mountain bike. He slowed to pass-by and, looking at Dingo, stopped. “Is that a Kelpie?” “She sure is. About four years old, maybe. Her name’s Dingo.”

He dropped a hand for her to sniff and said, “Hey, Dingo. Are you friendly?” Kyle was about to say, “Very.” but Dingo had sniffed his hand and was already leaning on his leg.

The mountain biker pushed back his sweaty white hair, dismounted his bike so he could crouch next to Dingo. He sunk his fingers in Dingo’s fur and, with a grin, turned his face up to Kyle to share his happiness. “Is she smart?” “She’s super smart. In fact, that’s the smartest dog I’ve ever seen.” The mountain biker nodded and turned back to Dingo. “I’ve never met a person as friendly and open as a dog, and I’ve met many people.” Almost as if speaking to himself, he continued: “I have about 50 people working for me in my business, and I have three dogs at home. My dogs never meet people with callousness or any kind of pretense. It seems like all people are hiding behind something, kinda like a mask. It’s almost impossible to see beyond that invisibility cloak . With some folks, it’s possible, but it’s always there. Dogs don’t have anything like that. You might think it’s the person, but it’s just the thing they hide behind. It’s like some façade they want you to see. They think the mask makes them invisible, but it just makes it harder to know whom you’re talking to.”

The mountain biker said, “Well, thanks for letting me pet your dog.” He stood up as if he’d made some monumental decision and mounted his bike to continue up the path. He turned back with a “Good-bye Dingo.”

Kyle continued up the path. “That was really nice to meet another dog person.” Dingo fell in to step with Kyle wagging her tail and a ghost of a smile in her eyes. “It was, but it sounded like people had let him down. Human expectation often does that, though. People always seem to have some motivation or expectation in friendship. Still, there is nothing other than the expansion of the soul. Love that looks for anything besides it revealing its secret is not love. He probably just got distracted by something.” Demonstrating distraction, Dingo stopped to sniff a bush next to the trail.

Kyle asked, “So, he was focusing on the mask he was talking about, instead of, as you put it, expansion of the soul?” Dingo looked both ways on the trail, maybe to make sure she wouldn’t be heard. “Yes, it seems he got distracted. Let me ask you, Kyle, what is a friend if you seek them out with hours to kill instead of hours to live? If it’s hours to live, then expansion of the soul just naturally happens. The point is if your focus is on something fruitless, then you will be rewarded with something fruitless. Here’s one for you: Think of your friend like a plant in your garden. You’d be grateful for harvesting any fruit, but if you planted the seed for that fruit, you might be even more grateful.” As they continued, Kyle got quiet as he examined his previous and present friendships for anything other than ‘expansion of the soul.’ He planted very few seeds and found he often got distracted by some façade. He inquired, “How would I not focus on illusion and then go after some fruitless distraction?” Dingo glanced back at Kyles’ question. “Simple. Just don’t. You choose your focus, just as you choose your distractions.” Dingo turned towards Kyle. “It’s kinda like meditation; maybe your focus is watching your breath. A distraction comes along, like what’s for dinner or paying some bill, but you see it and just return to your focus. The distractions arise almost endlessly, so at first, you may find you have to return to your focus continually, and you may find this truly challenging while you’re talking to someone. Eventually, though, it becomes easy to remain with your focus. If you, however, allow yourself to be perpetually distracted, fruitlessness will always be the result. Staying with your focus is the goal here. Whether the movement is away from some façade or towards some shiny object makes no difference. They’re all distractions and hold power to draw your focus.”

Kyle struggled to understand. “It’s like you’re pointing to some aspect of friendship that I never realized was there, and now I have to learn a whole new way of relating. This all seems extremely complex.”

“It’s not, at all. Looking at friendship in this way just requires a tiny shift in focus. Observe dogs interacting to see how simple it is.” They reached the end of the trail just as the conversation came to a close. Kyle headed toward the café patio. Settling into a chair at an outside table, Dingo found a good spot in the shade to lay down. The waitress spotted him and was soon standing near with a menu. Kyle smiled and reached for the menu but missed. His attention went to the hand that should be holding the menu.

As he had trouble seeing it, he brought the hand a little closer to his face noticing he had another hand in his. The other hand belonged to Sara. He looked around the dim hospital room.

“Sara?” “Yes, I’m here.” Dazedly, Kyle asks, “Where’s Dingo?” Wrinkling her brow in confusion, she says, “She’s fine. She’s at home. Why?”

“Dingo was just here, talking to me.” Sara moves her other hand to his forehead. “Sweetie, you’re in the hospital. Remember? You’ve been asleep for hours.” “I guess that was just a dream then.” Sara reaches for her thermos and says, “Sure it was. Are you thirsty? The nurse said your temperature came down a bit.” “Yeah, I am thirsty. Thanks.” Sara poured a little tea into a cup and placed it in Kyles’ hand. “So, Dingo was talking? What was she saying?” “She was talking about how lots of people maybe have some sort of protective façade, and how not to get lost in the distraction of that façade. I think she may have been referring, also, to those masks that everyone is wearing now. And she was talking about how the skill in meditation is related to not getting distracted by any façade.” “Wow. She sounds super wise. Was it kind of like a bark or a growl?” Kyle shook his head, saying, “Nope. It was just a regular women’s voice, but it sounded like pure insight if that makes any sense.” “It does, and it sounds like you two had a great conversation, but she’s back at home right now. Our neighbor is going to check in on her. She’s probably asleep right now, and maybe you should try to rest some more too. I’ll wake you when they come around with breakfast. I think it’s about midnight now.” Kyle put his cup on the bedside table and, nodding his head, relaxed back into the pillows. “Maybe I have a high fever, but that conversation seemed real.” “I’m sure it did, but you need to sleep for a bit more.” Kyle closed his eyes and coasted back to sleep.

Sara nudged him awake as the nurse came around with breakfast. “How’d you sleep?”


Previous Next Black Lives Matter 2020 Impact Report See how we, as the organization leading the Black Lives Matter (BLM) Movement, responded to the challenges of 2020. Our Movement Is #SoMuchMore February 1, 2021 From the time historian Carter Woodson created Negro History Week in 1926 up through today’s celebration of Black History Month, the goal has always been to recognize Black Americans’ prolific contributions that had been ignored, dismissed or diminished in textbooks and popular culture… Tell Your Rep(s) to Support Rep. Cori Bush’s Resolution February 1, 2021 We’re supporting Rep. Cori Bush’s resolution which would investigate and expel the GOP members of Congress who attempted to overturn the election and incited a white supremacist attack… Tell Congress to Pass the COUP Act January 26, 2021 Rep. Jamaal Bowman’s the COUP Act would require a deep, thorough investigation into the security failures at Capitol Hill during the insurrection. The ties between any Capitol police officer(s) and white supremacy or fascism must come to light… News Black Lives Matter Global Network Responds after Wisconsin District Attorney Won’t Charge Kenosha Police Officer in Jacob Blake Shooting January 5, 2021 Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation (BLMGNF) released the following statement in response to a Wisconsin District Attorney deciding that Kenosha police officer Rusten Sheskey will not be charged for his August 23, 2020 shooting of Jacob Blake… Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation Statement About Violent Conflict in Ethiopia December 17, 2020 Black Lives Matter stands in solidarity with all disenfranchised and displaced people in the Horn of Africa who are affected by violent conflict in Ethiopia… Love, Connection, and Beauty in a Time of Isolation, Tension, and Change November 26, 2020 The attacks the USPS continues to face are not just attacks on the postal service but attacks on Black lives. To defund the USPS would be to deny future generations this opportunity and dishonor the legacy of Black postal workers. Now, we’re taking this matter into our own hands by writing and sending #BlackLoveLetters through USPS… Californians: Help Us Make Calls to Gov. Newsom’s Office Before It’s Too Late November 23, 2020 While we are ecstatic about the historic election of Kamala Harris being elected the first Black woman vice president, it means her Senate seat is currently vacant. This also means that we’re faced with the unfortunate reality that if Gov. Newsom doesn’t appoint a Black woman to this seat, there will be no Black women in the Senate… Tell Gov. Newsom He Must Appoint a Black Woman to the Senate November 16, 2020 Kamala Harris is set to make history as the first Black woman vice president — which means her Senate seat will soon be open. Without Kamala Harris, there are no Black women in the Senate at all. That’s why we’re calling on Governor Gavin Newsom to appoint a Black woman to fill that seat… Join Black Lives Matter in Our Request for a Meeting with President-Elect Biden and Vice President-Elect Harris November 9, 2020 We worked long and hard to ensure we did all we could to vote Donald Trump out of the White House — we succeeded. And in doing so, we even elected a Black woman — the first Black woman — to the vice presidency. But the truth is, getting Trump out of office was not the end all, be all. The work is just beginning. We start by both holding the new president-elect and vice president-elect accountable to their campaign commitments of addressing systemic racism and by emphasizing our willingness to work with them. Black Lives Matter Global Network Statement About Biden-Harris Victory November 7, 2020 Once again, Black people — especially Black women — have saved the United States. Whether in Milwaukee, Detroit, Philadelphia, or Atlanta, Black voters showed up in huge numbers to turn this country around and remove the racist in the White House… Statement by Black Lives Matter Global Network About Election Results November 3, 2020 BLACK LIVES MATTER

I want you to read Black Lives Matter Violence

Most of the proteser were being peaceful

There are people who got shoot

Donald Trump is just having ralleys and doing nothing about the protester and he said that black is the symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate. Shooting

Shooting

Why are they shooting black and color who is protesting The killing of George Floyd Shooting the protester for burning up stores and the police just shoot

Protest

Protester are just trying to have justice

protesters are getting shot

Protest are burning up stores and stuff like that  BLACK LIVES MATTER BLACK LIVES MATTER Racial justice  protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate?

Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in justice. Protesters are getting shot. Protesters are burning up stores and stuff like that because they're mad and angry.

This was an awful  protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate?

Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in

justice. Protesters are getting shot.

Protesters are burning up stores and

stuff like that because they're mad and angry.

This was an awful  protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate?

Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in

justice. Protesters are getting shot.

Protesters are burning up stores and

stuff like that because they're mad and angry.

This was an awful


“OK people, you know the drill. Bigger the risk, bigger the reward.” Big Paul pushed his thin, greasy hair back off one side of his sweaty forehead. The air shimmered as he waved a pudgy hand towards the huge whiteboard on the back wall of the kitchen. Names, dates and the promised payment filled in.

Sheila watched in awe, as every column and row appeared with text. Since starting as a sous chef three years ago, she had never seen a single week where the pledge board at Light Fantastic, the hottest restaurant on the north shore, wasn’t one hundred percent booked. They were the best, the hottest, the most unique dining destination in three states. It was a point of pride for most who worked here. But not for her, or in fact for most of the other chefs. For them, seeing the board full, and the astronomical prices pledged for payment, was a mirepoix of disgust, fear, and desperation.

“You’ll see some big names up there,” the owner continued, “with big pledges right along side. A good cook could make a pretty penny if they bring their A-Game. So don’t be shy, don’t wait too long, and get your name up there before you miss your shot. That’s it for now. Service starts in thirty. Get to work.” Sheila went to her station, where her knives were slowly honing themselves, floating a few inches off the thick cutting board. She glanced up at the board, looked nervously around the kitchen at her fellow staff, and thought hard about what some of those paydays could mean. That top one would pay off her mortgage, her car, her school loan, and go a fair way towards holiday presents for her twins.

She looked around the kitchen again, snapping her eyes down quickly just in time to avoid making eye contact with the ever-confident Margo, who was on fish tonight. Margo regularly signed up for a top-ten dish, inspiring both envy and surprise in the rest of the team.

Light Fantastic had earned its fame quickly after opening. Not only was the food made by hand, a rarity in these days of wish fulfillment, spellchefs and wiztaurants, but by branding its staff with a sygil that guaranteed the recipe would vanish from the chef’s mind forever, within thirty minutes of the service. Cooking a single, treasured dish for a single high-paying client meant losing it forever. So nobody could wrap their heads around how Margo was able to continue turning out so many world-class meals. Sheila dutifully focused on her work, even earning a comment from one of the passing head chefs who was impressed with the uniformity of her rose-flavored onion batons. But she couldn’t help but to glance up each time a small chime alerted the team to a chef claiming one of the dishes on the board. About half way through her shift, she looked up after the familiar ding, to see that Margo had signed up for the third listing. There weren’t many details offered, it just read ‘childhood, truffles, meatloaf’ and the pledge of $150,000.

Who had truffle meatloaf as a child? Sheila thought. Then her eyes drifted up the list to the top item. ‘Homemade, pasta, family + togetherness’ coming in at a whopping $375,000. It was one of the highest checks she had seen. There was one dish a year ago that paid $500,000 for ‘Childhood birthday, homemade, favorite dish’. Sheila remembered the chef, a nice guy named Andy, who took the check. The dish was sublime, the client tipped heavy, probably an additional hundred grand or so. Big Paul was ecstatic. Andy left the restaurant that night, sobbing uncontrollably, vowing to never cook again.

Who pays that much to devour someone’s most special memories? Sheila thought. But she knew who. She had seen the names over the years, movie stars, business moguls, crime lords…even politicians. Anyone who could afford it and who bought into the belief that eating someone else’s memories somehow made you wiser, stronger, more powerful. She didn’t believe it. No one in the kitchen did. She knew when she looked around, when she made eye contact or gathered small talk on the short breaks they sometimes got. Everyone was thinking the same thing, best summed up by a line scribbled anonymously on the wall in the bathroom stall. What do you call a parasite that feeds on another parasite? A chef.

To her surprise, near the end of her shift, she dragged her paring knife across the sygil on her left arm. It was deep enough to see the blood start to trickle out before the symbol flashed bluish-red, the skin sealed itself and her name appeared on the top line next to the half-million payday.

The eyes of her coworkers tried to find hers, but she turned with renewed vigor to her prep work. They were probably thinking about what they would do with that money. But that wasn’t what she was thinking. She was thinking of the vat of sauce bubbling away on the stove, of her siblings gathering around Nonni at the counter, rolling out gnocchi as a family, the platter piled high with the homemade dumplings, meatballs, and sausage after all the hard work. She blinked back tears, knowing it would all be gone soon.

That week, she ate gnocchi every night. She ate until she was ill and couldn’t stomach another bite, then forced one more. She ate until she was sick of them. Until she never wanted to taste them again. Then, she was ready.

All eyes were on her as she took a new spot at one of the featured chef stations that night. Margo was already working on her dish. Sheila watched her for a moment, the smooth, mechanical movements, the grace, the unflinching smile. But then she saw it. Something, quiet and dark, behind Margo’s eyes. Pain. Just a glimmer, but it was there and it was growing.

“What are you looking at, grunt?” Margo said when she caught her looking.

“Nothing. Good…Good luck tonight.” Sheila thought she saw something then, a quick flash of what? Humanity? Regret? No. It was something else. Something like respect, or even sisterhood.

“You too,” grumbled Margo, before turning back to her prep work.

Sheila started her dish, hand crushing the tomatoes, cutting the garlic into paper-thin slivers, adding a handful of spices. Then she made her dough. No potato, like the common recipe, but a mountain of flour and grated cheese. She made the well in the middle and added eggs and salt, carefully mixing it by hand. Over the next hour her sauce thickened, her water boiled, her pasta cooked and drained. Finally, it was time to go to the plate. The mist in her eyes became a glistening, then welling into tears. Now she was full on crying. She covered her face with her towel, heaving sobs and trying to catch her breath.

She wasn’t trained as a chef, she didn’t have a full complement of dishes ready to go. She cooked by feel. This one memory of food was really all she had. But soux chefs don’t make a lot and she and her kids needed a place where the hungry world wouldn’t devour them. She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and tried to focus, but broke down again.

She was just about to give in, when she felt arms around her. She curled into them, feeling a soothing hand on her back. Looking up, she saw Margo there, tears in her eyes as well.

“I know,” she said quietly, “It takes and takes. But this world also gives. You’ll get through this.” They held each other for a few seconds longer, before straightening up, squeezing each others’ shoulders quickly, and going back to work.

Sheila finished placing the pasta on the dish, spooning over a ladle of sauce, grating on fresh parmesan cheese, and carefully placing a single basil leaf, slightly off kilter, at the top. Margo was just finishing her dish as well. It was equally magnificent. Margo slipped something into her apron pocket before making eye contact with Sheila. They nodded, picked up their dishes, and headed to the dining room. Their tables were fairly close. Margo’s had a man in a deep blue, luxurious suit. He smiled in eager recognition. A regular. Margo placed the dish before him, explaining the contents quietly before bowing slightly and stepping back. She looked over at Sheila, who was walking slowly, too slowly , towards her table. The couple that waited there looked displeased.

The man had pointed features, leaning towards the woman next to him and sharply whispering, “It’s about time. That took forever. I’m starving.” The woman glanced at Sheila sympathetically, then looked down at her place setting.

“This better be good,” he said, as Sheila placed the serving platter on the table. As she did, she felt the sygil on her arm blaze with pain. She felt light headed. Straightening up, she started to turn before his hand snaked out and grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait - am I supposed to serve myself here or what?”

“It’s…it’s family style sir. You serve each other.” “For what I’m paying?” he asked. “Are you kid–” “It’s fine, honey,” the woman next to him said, “I don’t mind dishing it out for us.” “Shut up,” he said, glancing at her. “I didn’t come here to have you feed me.” He turned back to Sheila. “Let’s go. Shovel this crap out or you won’t get a penny.” Her knees trembling, Sheila tried to step towards the table but almost stumbled. Suddenly, Margo was there holding her up. “Allow me, sir,” she said, stepping in front of Sheila. “We like to send two chefs out to make sure you get full service.” The man leaned back in his chair, smirking.

“That’s more like it,” he said. Margo lifted the large serving spoon, digging into the perfect pile of bite-size dumplings, then paused. She turned to Sheila, her face angry. “You fool!” she said. “You’ve forgotten the saffron!” Shocked, Sheila looked at her. “What sa–” Margo took a small capsule out of her apron, presenting it to Sheila. “Don’t you remember? You specifically asked me to bring it. Aren’t you going to add it? Or do you want this dish to be eaten as is ?” She shook the small canister, eyeing Sheila hard. “This is your last chance.”

Sheila stood, dumbfounded, for a minute. The man watched her, the woman watched her, the other patrons watched her. She even saw Big Paul, in the far corner of the dining room, stop what he was doing and look at her curiously and not without some malice.

“Oh! The saffron!” she exclaimed, grabbing it out of Margo’s hand. “Of course, how could I be so stupid? I’m so sorry, sir, we’ll get this fixed up for you right away.” She made a flourish of carefully crushing the threads between her fingers, sprinkling the world’s most expensive spice carefully over the mound of pasta. “Here you are, sir. Just a pinch.” As the crumbled bits fell into the rich, red sauce, they made small, orange wells where they landed. And as each piece hit the pasta, Sheila felt her sygil pain decrease. “There you are. Bon appétit.”

The man eyed her, silent for a moment. Recognition flashed across his face, darkening his features. But then he looked around at the other diners. Many of them had glanced at the menu beforehand and saw the price of the dishes, wondering who ordered the homemade pasta. Realizing the trap, he scowled, but grabbed a fork and speared some dumplings from his dish, pushing them into his mouth. What followed was a dramatic moan, exaggerated chewing and a deep, hard swallow. “Delicious,” he muttered. “See that you send the wine steward over.” “Of course sir,” said Margo, shuttling Sheila towards the kitchen, “Right away, sir.” When the doors to the kitchen swung shut, Sheila grabbed Margo in a tight hug. “Oh Margo, thank you so much! That horrible man…my childhood. I don’t know what I would have done.”

“It’s ok,” Margo said, holding her for a beat. “I had to. It’s rare to find a cook that has that kind of passion.” “What’s going to happen now? They’ll know it wasn’t the recipe.” “Don’t worry about it. A guy like that would rather pay and be wrong, then be embarrassed and right. He flashes that kind of money around for a meal, he wants people to notice. And look, both my parents were chefs. I had a lot of good food growing up but my childhood was…well let’s just say it wasn’t much of one. Nothing worth remembering, anyway. Don’t give yours away.” “I won’t. I don’t know what I was thinking.” “One other thing. Tonight’s my last night here. I’ve finally made enough to open my own place.” Sheila’s eyes widened. “Really?” she said, wiping her nose and eyes on the back of her sleeve. “That’s great, but I’m sorry to see you go.”

“Well that’s the thing,” Margo said, taking off her apron. She held up her arm and smiled, watching as the sygil disappeared. “I could really use a chef.” End


The stranger seemed to float down the street. Broad shoulders and a tall physique gave him away as a man who was not born on this side of the continent. He was not from this town. His dark cloak billowed behind him like the night, sweeping its soiled hem along the ground. I watched him through the rain-spattered window, curiously, as did the other patrons in the tavern. When he crossed the street toward the pub, we collectively returned to our drinks or meals. A soft rustling of conversation struck up as the door slammed open in the wind, letting in the gray daylight. He entered the small room with confidence, as if he belonged in this place. I knew better. “I have something for you.” The man said as he approached me from the other end of the rickety pub. His eyes were obscured by the hood of his cloak, one strand of greasy brown hair fell down his chest. I clutched the almost empty beer mug between my hands. “Do I know you?” I could feel the gaze of the locals upon us, waiting for something to gossip about—the new girl and the dark stranger walked into a bar. Or some such nonsense. “No. But I know you.” The man eyed the sword at my hip. I did not take it off, even when sitting, which lead to some uncomfortable positions. But I would rather be uncomfortable than unprepared. “What is it then? What do you have for me?” “Come with me,” he replied. “Like hell I’m going with you.” I relaxed a little in my chair, regaining control of the situation. If he needed me to come with him to give whatever it was to me, then I now held the cards. The man took a step closer. Rain pelted the wooden roof of the small room. There were few other visitors to this remote town, mostly travelers who stopped for a bite to eat and to get dry by the roaring fireplace of the public house. This man, however, was making a scene. “Who are you? It’s rude not to introduce yourself when approaching a maiden.” I said, taking a sip from my mug of beer. “You’re no maiden.” The man replied. “You know me well, then?” I raised my eyebrow in question, although anyone could see by my weapons and armor that I didn’t subscribe to the traditional idea that a woman must be a lady, not a warrior. “I know your son.” I almost choked on my beer. “My son’s dead.” “Your son is very much alive.” I could feel my heart beating in my chest, but I kept my posture relaxed. If this man was a blood-reader, he would surely be able to tell I was faking my calm demeanor. Still, I decided to take that chance. I swallowed, wetting my lips before continuing. “You still haven’t introduced yourself.” “I am a death-dealer. You do not need to know more than that.” “What’s a death-dealer doing bringing me news of my son’s life?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Death-dealers were rare, and what’s more: they were dangerous. Not the type you wanted to make friends with in this world. “I have something for you.” “You said that already.” I snapped back. This was going nowhere. The lantern burned low between us as I stared him down. The death-dealer sighed and slid a piece of paper toward me. The parchment was old, and the handwritten lettering had faded over time, but I recognized it nevertheless. My brow furrowed. “How dare you?” Something caught in the back of my throat as I spoke. “Take it.” The man gestured to the paper. “I don’t want it.” I choked on the words. Before me sat the proof of my greatest regret: Sale of one child, two-pounds, paid-in-full. Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to reach for the record of purchase in front of me. When I looked up, the death-dealer was gone. * * * I didn’t have a choice. When the orchard started to die and the crops withered, we sold the furniture. The next year we sold what was left of the livestock; pigs and cows and chickens that hadn’t perished to disease or famine. The third year we sold the house. My boy’s father left us soon after. My son was barely three years old, and I couldn’t feed him on my own. I was so far away from that life now, it was so long ago. The day seemed to creep on as I stared at the paper in front of me. The barmaid, bless her soul, left me to my drinking. I knew I had a job to do that night. Finally, I grabbed the slip of parchment and folded it haphazardly, stuffing it into my satchel. I stood up and chugged the remainder of my beer, leaving a couple of coins on the wooden table. The gray sky had turned to charcoal. Rainwater ran in channels down the road between cobblestones, creating tiny rivers and pooling in deep murky puddles at the base of the curb. I made my way to the nobleman’s residence, picking the most shadowed alleys and deserted laneways for my path. The price on his head was more than my normal year’s worth of work. The walls surrounding his property were clean and bare, absent of footholds or hiding places. I stalked the outside of the grounds, circling until I found a gated back entrance. The lock was easy to pick, and I found myself in a picturesque garden. The trees were neatly arranged in rows, and a stunning fountain stood in the middle of the yard. Water cascaded down marble horses and dolphins, landing in black pools. The rain blurred edges and deepened shadows, making the whole scene appear haunted. Across from me, a great house stood starkly against the dark sky. There were no lights in the windows, no movement inside. On the second story was the master bedroom balcony. I made my way to the base of the structure, beneath the balcony, and found that the walls of the house were not nearly as modern as the outside fence. How does a death-dealer know my son? My mind wandered as I climbed the wall, hoisting myself vertically up as I had done a million times before. I carried the things I had done to stay alive with me, like a great weight that got heavier every day. I was tired, and getting older. Yet I could still climb these walls, sneak into bedrooms, deal in the darkness. I could still hold my own. Maybe after this job I wouldn’t have to for a while. I could run from this place, as I had done before, but this time not in search of a job—in search of rest. I reached the balcony and silently unlatched the door to the bedroom, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. A soft snore came from the center of the room as I let my eyes adjust. Then I jumped. He was waiting for me. The death-dealer. “What are you doing here?” I hissed, as quietly as I could. My bounty was asleep mere feet away—my ticket out of this life. The death-dealer stood up and moved toward me. “I have come to watch you work,” he said, not bothering to speak softly. “Shh, you’ll wake him.” “Will I?” The death-dealer reached over to the bed with one hand, and tapped the sleeping man on the leg. The room lit up like it was on fire. A bright white star formed in the death-dealer’s hand, pulled from the body of the nobleman. “W—what is that?” My voice shook. “His soul.” “Excuse me?” “I’ve done your job for you.” The death-dealer raised his hand and let the soul drift up to the sky. I lifted my head to follow its path, unable to take my eyes off it as it left through the balcony doorway and flew of its own accord into the clouds above. “You killed him.” I said, staring back at the nobleman. Then something struck me, the man in the bed was familiar to me. I walked over to him, and pulled down the covers. The air escaped my lungs. Thomas. I stared at the dead body of my former husband. “Why else do you think I found you here, of all places?” The death-dealer stepped towards me, and I stumbled backward. “Who are you?” “You do not know? I’ve been watching you. The people you’ve killed, the lives you’ve destroyed—” He removed his hood. His face was strong, chin broad and firm. The death-dealer smiled. “I’m your final reckoning.” The blood in my veins ran cold. I tripped over my own feet trying to back away from him as I stared at the young man’s familiar face. He had Thomas’s eyes. Dying crops, diseased trees, starved livestock—the pieces clicked into place as my son reached out to me, to hold me, one last time.