I’m walking all the way to Florida. I started in the depths of the night. 3a.m in Kankakee, Illinois and just kept walking. I didn’t use a map. I didn’t have money, a phone, or a change of clothes. I had a knapsack with a few secrets in it. It used to be a backpack, when I used it for school, but since I was going off on an adventure, it became a knapsack. I think I was somewhere in Kentucky when I stopped for food at a gas station. I flirted with the guy behind the counter at the gas station subway until he gave me a sandwich, for free. It was a meatball sub, and it was cold outside so it tasted good. I fell asleep on the bench until another employee woke me up and told me I had to buy something or leave. I asked her for money. She said no. So I got up and left. I hitched a ride. It was 2019, but I hitched a ride. A very large and smelly red headed woman stopped in a sedan, and let me get in. The car smelled rancid, like there was something besides body odor going on. I sat in the back seat because she had a bird cage in the front seat (It was empty). She asked me where I was headed and I told her Disney World. She asked why, and I told her I had family there, in the Epcot Ball. Little did she know, that was a lie. We drove for five hours and she didn’t stop to let me pee when I asked her. I thought about just peeing in the seat because the car smelled bad anyway, but I chickened out. She turned off the highway and drove through a town with a gas station and a motel and a Dairy Queen, and I thought that maybe we were going to Dairy Queen, but she kept on driving. She turned onto a dirt road, and we must have driven for twenty minutes. I didn’t see a car or house the whole time, just lots of fields. She pulled into a driveway, and there I saw it, a decrepit, tiny house that looked like it was actually collapsing. She turned back back to me, gave me a wide smile, and said “Thought I’d fix you a meal!” The orange soda was very refreshing, but the meatloaf didn’t taste right. Still, I scarfed it down. She watched me anxiously and talked about gardening. How to grow tulips. It was really boring, but she seemed into it. I remember wandering what her plans were with that bird cage. She had left it in the car. That was my last thought before I passed out. I woke up in a tiny little wood paneled room with no windows. I assumed it was in the house. There was a blow-up mattress but nothing else. It was extremely hot. I tried to walk out but the door was locked from the outside. She brought me two meals a day, and sat on the floor with her massive legs crossed, and talked about her life. She told me very intricate little stories about going to church, and the flowers she was growing in the backyard, and the day her bird Lenny had died. I begged her to let me go, that I needed to go to Disney World, and my parents and sister were waiting for me there. When I brought up Disney World, she got real quiet, and walked out of the room. It was a sad time for me. She didn’t seem to want to talk about ME, or MY life. She only cared about herself. I counted the days. It was on day fifty-four that I exploded at her. Not physically, just verbally. She was in the middle of talking about a handsome man she had met at church (who WASN’T interested in her at ALL ; I could tell.) when I started screaming, “WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME ALL THESE THINGS?! I DON’T CARE, AND I’M TIRED OF PRETENDING TO CARE!! YOU WON’T EVEN GIVE ME ANY BOOKS OR MAGAZINES, AND YOU NEVER GIVE ME ENOUGH SODA!! I’M ALWAYS THIRSTY! YOU’RE SUCH A BITCH!! I HATE BEING KIDNAPPED BY YOU!!” She got up, moved her big hefty body over to me and held her face an inch away from mine. “Listen, you little”, she began. She never finished. I bit her face so hard that I tore her nose off. I know I did because I could feel the whole damn thing in my mouth. I’ll never forget that feeling. Some of her cheek came off as well. Blood spurted out of her face like six squirt guns at once. Where I summoned this force, I still to this day don’t know. She fell to the floor in shock, and I grabbed the key from her dress pocket, made a rush for the door, and locked her inside. I felt bad about taking her car, and plus I didn’t want to smell it again. So I walked to town. When I got to Dairy Queen the next morning , I tried flirting with the guy at the counter, but it didn’t work because I had blood spatter all over my face and I hadn’t showered in fifty-five days. So I drank water from the bathroom faucet and left. I am still making my way to Disney world. I’m walking on the highway and keeping to myself. I’m paying attention to road signs and such so I don’t get lost. I'm really hungry. My thirty-second birthday is in three weeks. Hopefully I’ll make it there before then. I don’t even have my knapsack full of secrets anymore. That dumb lady took it.


“Last call, old timer,” the bartender bellowed. The sad, old man looked up. “Glad to see you’re alive,” the bartender told him. “You don’t look so hot.” “I’m fine,” the old man assured him. “Just been having some troubles lately.” “Well, it’s just you and me now,” the bartender said, topping off the old man. “Tell me your story.” The old man took a sip of his gin and tonic. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Oh, I wouldn’t?” The bartender capped the bottle of gin and set it back up on the shelf for the night. “I do have a life outside this bar, you know.” “I know.” The old man looked down at his drink and fidgeted nervously. The bartender could see he wasn’t going to budge. “Listen,” the bartender said. “If you don’t wanna talk, I’m not gonna make ya.” With that, he took out his rag and started cleaning the glasses. He had thought maybe when all the other patrons had cleared out, the old man would be more at ease, but every passing minute made him more anxious. “Did you call your wife tonight?” the old man asked abruptly. The bartender put down his rag. “I have not,” the bartender said. “Why do you ask?” “You were talking about her earlier. Said you’d gotten in a fight.” “We did, yeah. What makes you so interested now and not earlier when I wasn’t about to close this joint down?” “It’s just getting late,” the man said from behind his glass. “I think you should call her.” The bartender looked at his watch. “It’s nearly one A.M.” he said. “She’s definitely asleep by now.” “She’d wake up if you called her.” The bartender let out a chuckle. “Trust me,” he said. “If I called her now, we’d really get in a fight.” “I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.” The bartender looked over the old man. He had a familiar face, but the bartender couldn’t quite place him. “Do I know you?” the bartender asked him. “I’ve been here before,” he replied. “You got a name?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He was a real elusive drunk, the bartender thought. “When did you say your daughter’s birthday was?” the old man asked. The bartender paused. Clearly the old man had been paying more attention than he’d given him credit for. “It’s on Thursday,” he said. “You don’t talk much, but you sure do listen.” “It comes with age.” the old man said. “When you get as old as me you don’t know how much time you got left to hear someone else’s voice.” The bartender paused. The sad, old man at the end of the bar was turning out to be more than just some depressed drunk. “That’s some sage advice right there,” the bartender said. “You want some more sage advice?” he asked. “Call your wife.” The old man’s eyes were watery. Normally, the bartender saw himself as a comforter of weary souls, but it was about five minutes past close, and all he could think about was getting home. “I think you mighta had one too many gin & tonics, old timer,” the bartender said. “Plus, it’s too late for a heart to heart.” The bartender went to the register and printed out the old man’s tab. “Look, I don’t wanna kick you out on the street, but I’m getting a little anxious to close.” He handed the old man the receipt. He fumbled around his pockets looking for a pen, but the old man pulled one out of his jacket pocket. “Funny, we got those same style pens here,” the bartender joked. “You didn’t swipe it did you?” The old man shook his head and slid the receipt back to the bartender. The bartender went to place the receipt in the drawer with the others but stopped when he read the signature. “Alright, wise guy,” the bartender said turning back to the old man. “How ‘bout you write your real name on here?” “I told you you wouldn’t believe me.” By this point, the bartender had had just about enough of this sad, old man and was going to not be so nice. “Look, we’re closing, old timer,” the bartender said sternly. “So, sign you’re name, and get outta here.” “I’ll sign my name,” he said. “If you call your wife.” The bartender threw his rag on the ground. “For Chrissake, if that’s what’ll get you outta here, I’ll call my wife.” The bartender pulled his phone out and dialed home. The old man sat on pins and needles as the phone rang. “Straight to voicemail,” the bartender said. “I told you she’s asleep.” “Oh no, what time is it?” the old man asked frantically. “It’s about ten minutes past closing.” The old man checked his watch. “Damn, I thought we had more time.” “What the hell are you talking about?” the bartender snapped. The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. He handed it to the bartender whose face turned red with rage as he read it. “What the hell is this?!” he yelled at the man. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way I--” “Get the hell outta my bar. Now!” With that, the old man gathered himself and walked out the door, shaking his head. “Goddamn drunks are getting crazier everyday,” the bartender grumbled to himself. He knew he wasn’t getting out of here anytime soon. Finally, after all the glasses had been polished and receipts counted, the bartender flicked off the lights and began locking up the place. Just as he was fumbling for his keys, his phone rang. He expected it was his wife ready to chew him out for waking her up and being out so late, but the call came from an unknown number. The bartender let it ring as he hopped in his car. ... They were being carried out in body bags when he arrived home. The official investigation says faulty wiring caused the fire that burned down the house. They assured him the firefighters had done all they could, but by the time they’d gotten there, the fire had consumed so much of the structure it was in danger of collapsing. He hasn’t been back to work since. He spends a lot of time in bars these days, but he mostly keeps to himself. Sometimes, in the late hours of the night, he’ll dole out sage advice. And he always makes sure to tell you to call your wife.


Things don’t sound that bad here so far - not like some other places anyway, in the news. But there *have* been cases. Nobody seems to be taking it seriously; the supermarket’s traffic and supply situation seemed normal enough. Well, except for my own two carts filled to the brim. Cashier didn’t say a word, of course, but her eyes clearly said “look at this crazy woman, look how paranoid she is about what’s gonna turn out to be just a whole lot of noise and fuss for nothing”. Well, check-out lady, I can’t afford to take any chances. Not with my lupus. Which is why what you’re seeing is, in fact, only a small portion of my preparations - vegetables, eggs, juice, mostly stuff that goes bad faster, and couldn’t have been bought in bulk when the first wave of deaths started hitting the news. Because, yes, I’m in this for the long haul. Nothing’s closed yet, and the government isn’t really mandating anything other than “wash your hands”, but I’m not waiting for them. And if my job won’t let me home-office, I’m taking all the three months I’ve racked up. Don’t know if that’s enough - I’m set up to go on a lot longer than that - but, if it gets to that, I suspect losing my job will be the least of my problems. **Day 2 of quarantine.** House cleaning is tough work. Gotta do it more often. Used up almost a whole bottle of bleach - it’s alright though, I’ve got six more. Besides, I don’t expect any more contact with the outside until it’s all over; better err on the side of caution early on and make my space safe. It was hell on my skin, of course, which isn’t helped by my condition, but I’ve got several months’ worth of cream, so I should be fine. **Day 3 of quarantine.** If I keep going through my cream at this rate, I’m running out within 9 weeks. Is it really just the bleach? I’d rather avoid corticoids as long as possible, but who knows. There *shouldn’t* be any other allergens or toxins around. What have I forgotten? Wait… do you disinfect groceries? I’ll look it up. *Shit.* **Day 4 of quarantine.** Wow… I *did* buy a whole lot of stuff. Good news is, the guidelines I’ve found about home sanitizing call for a much lower concentration of bleach than I’d been using. Cleaned a lot more than the other day, with barely half a bottle. The bad news, of course, is that it’s all over my food and personal effects. Don’t know whether or not it clears out over time, or what that’s doing to me, but at least I’m not getting the bug. Allergies I can manage, I’ve got a bunch of corticoids. Oh yeah, first local death. With so many places going on lockdown, people are starting to grumble about it here. Who’s the paranoid one now, huh? **Day 5 of quarantine.** Rashes still bad, started on corticoids. Well, that’s life, I guess. Wonder how Mom’s doing. Almost starting to wish we were on speaking terms. *Almost.* Oh, yeah… there’s one problem I hadn’t anticipated. How am I taking out the trash? I mean, I gotta do it, but then the perimeter gets breached. Well, I guess it’s fine if I follow the script when I get back - clothes straight into the washing machine, my own ass straight into the shower, and bleach up everything I’ve touched on the way in. **Day 6 of quarantine.** Went outside to take out the trash. People *really* aren’t getting it, are they? Street’s a little quieter, sure, but there are still *way* too many people around. I’m sweating bullets right now, but I guess that’s just the stress. Even after the whole decontamination routine, I don’t really *feel* clean. Irrational, I know. Thank God for YouTube. Can you imagine, managing just on books and stuff? I’d go nuts in a day. **Day 7 of quarantine.** Do I have a fever? I thought it was just cold, but my shirt’s soaked. I’m not coughing. That means I haven’t caught it, right? No, it’s the lupus. It’s gotta be. Otherwise… no, I’m just being paranoid. Of course that’s it. **Day 8 of quarantine.** Who knew Netflix’s inventory of true-crime shows was so vast? I’m set for *life* here. Fever isn’t letting up. Anti-inflammatories help, but not completely. Trying real hard not to think about it. **Day 9 of quarantine.** I’ve been avoiding the news for the most part, but I can’t help it. Local cases are exploding. Measures are finally being put in place. Too little, too late, and too many selfish economic interests getting in the way. I get that your business takes a hit if you shut down everything non-essential that can’t be done from home, but is that worth risking your life for? Risking everyone *else’s* lives? Do you really wanna go down in history as the guy who sued to keep your factory running, and making auto parts at that, rather than filter masks or patient respirators? Are you sticking a carburetor into your mouth when you come down with it and can’t breathe? Speaking of which, my breathing is thin. It still fits with the lupus, and it’s not like I haven’t been like this before, but it’s also hard to ignore. That’s two symptoms now. Should I get tested? I mean, that means going out again, and we really don’t want that. And they also say hospitals are getting swamped soon, so you shouldn’t bother them until it’s real bad. But how bad is bad? **Day 10 of quarantine.** My God, the floor. I washed it on the first day, but when I took out the trash, I only disinfected what I touched with my *hands*. I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, STUUUUUPID. Spread it all over my house by now too. That’s it. Gotta be, it’s obvious. *Fuck.* **Day 11 of quarantine.** Welp, not getting any cleaner than this. Did the whole house over again, another half bottle of bleach down too. Everything I’ve worn since it all started is washing too, for good measure. And the fever’s subsiding. Dunno if it’s the workout, or if it’s going to relapse, or what. **Day 12 of quarantine.** Fever’s really gone, it seems. Not that it necessarily means anything… several people have relapsed from the disease by now. Probably shouldn’t have looked that up, but, y’know. And since we’re on that topic, things are really serious out there. Roads getting closed, supermarket shelves empty, people being fined for milling about on the streets. Finally. **Day 13 of quarantine.** It’s silly, but I almost didn’t write this. But ah, what the hell, who’s gonna read it? I’m writing this mostly to stay sane. So yeah… the big news today is, I finally managed to masturbate for the first time since I locked myself up. Thinking back on… well, pretty much any day I’ve had to myself before, it’s hard to believe I couldn’t do it up to now, between the stress, fever and everything. That’s a good sign, right? Things are looking up. **Day 14 of quarantine.** Trash’s starting to smell real bad. I think I’m going out again. I know what I have to do now. This is going to be completely air-tight. **Day 15 of quarantine.** THAT FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! How can people be so fucking SELFISH?! I thought 6 am would be completely dead - hell, it is *normally* \- but no, that asshole had to be out jogging. JOGGING! What the FUCK was he thinking? And he SNEEZED! I’m pretty sure I heard that! This is actually fucking *criminal*. I hope the bastard ends up in jail. I’ve done a full, really thorough clean-up, of course, but who knows. And, between the bleach and all the extra scrubbing in the shower, my rashes are killing me. Fuck it, I’m doing corticoids, not gonna wait around on that one. **Day 16 of quarantine.** Finally caved and reached out to Mom. Well… tried to. Turns out all her contacts are out of date. I could start asking around, but with things the way they are, people could take it the wrong way and think there’s something wrong. Last thing I need is them panicking over me again. For all the good they’d do, the useless bastards. Thank God for social media… I could never face this alone. Not *ever*. **Day 17 of quarantine.** Breathing is tough again. I’m getting chills, but like *hell* I’m taking my temperature. I can’t handle this right now. If I’ve got it, what the hell can I do? I’m laying down on the couch, cold pizza on my lap, big bottle of soda by my side, true crime on TV, and I’m not budging my ass from here until tomorrow at the earliest. **Day 18 of quarantine.** I’m cleaning the house again. Aside from the basic hygiene, what if I brought the bug back with me? Not in my clothes or on my skin, but inside me? I’d have contaminated the whole damn house right back. But if that was the case, then what’s the point? If I’ve got it, I’ve got it, and no cleaning is changing that. If I don’t, shouldn’t the clean-up I did be enough? Or did I miss something? What did I miss? Eh, chalk it up to hygiene, if you will. I’m cleaning the *fuck* out of my house. **Day 19 of quarantine.** Just noticed how fat I’ve been getting. Is it the stress-eating? The lack of exercise? The corticoids? Girl, get a grip on yourself. You’ve stocked up on a lot of stuff, but that doesn’t include plus-size clothing. And speaking of corticoids, those rashes ain’t going away. Gotta use up that cream, girl. Also, just noticed I’ve started talking to the mirror. Eh, it’s normal, really. People aren’t built for this sort of lack of human contact, I suppose it’s a perfectly normal coping mechanism. But maybe I should start doing some classes on Zoom or something. I mean, I talk to people, but I don’t *talk* talk to people. What else am I supposed to do, call ‘em on the phone? Who even *does* that anymore? **Day 20 of quarantine.** I’m starting to worry about the trash. It never stops piling up, of course, but I wonder if it’s really a good idea to take it out. Last time was a fucking disaster. What’s worse, run-of-the-mill infection from keeping garbage indoors, or catching that thing out there? And besides, I keep thinking about those hoarders from TV. I could never forgive myself if I got like that. Although… it would be just temporary, of course, just until this all blows over. Well, I guess I still have a couple days before I really need to decide what to do about this. **Day 21 of quarantine.** There’s been looting out there. I’m starting to get really worried. Well, I was before, but this is something else. I mean, they *know* it’s a terrible idea to go outdoors. Took them long enough, but I think people get it by now. So, if they get out there to do that, that means they’re desperate. And who knows what desperate people can do? And, on a globally less bad but personally worse note, my internet’s out. How the hell am I supposed to pass time now? I don’t have regular TV anymore, it’s all Netflix and YouTube. I’ve been calling my provider, of course, but can’t get anyone human on the line. I suppose they’ve got the barest skeleton crew running now, if at all, what with the lockdown measures, but they *have* to have people out there taking calls. Internet’s an essential service - even if it wasn’t for all those people at home right now, the information has to flow, especially at a time like this, right? So I’ll keep trying. **Day 22 of quarantine.** Still no dice with the internet. I’m not back in the Stone Age, of course - I’ve still got cellular data to back me up until I get this figured out. I’m trying to avoid using it up with stuff like videos, which really eat up the bandwidth, if only to save my cell for any emergency, but it’s hard to resist the temptation. I mean, we’re home all day long, what are we supposed to do? Mobile games only get me so far. **Day 23 of quarantine.** Today I’ve yelled at the mirror. It’s not her fault, of course, but I’m feeling really, really frustrated. I think I just needed a human face to yell at, to express my anger and desperation to. Am I desperate? You do look desperate. You’ve got bags under your eyes, your rashes are out of control, your clothes are a mess, your hair’s all over the place. You need to get it together, girl. Get it the fuck together, for our sake. **Day 24 of quarantine.** It’s been a few hours’ work, digging around technical forums and chatting with the nerdiest nerds out there, but I’ve come to a verdict. My modem is officially on the fritz. They’re guessing it was a power surge. Don’t we have, like, surge protectors on everything these days? I didn’t know this kind of thing still even happened. I looked it up, and yeah, there was a storm the day it went out, maybe we got hit by lightning. How the fuck could we not have noticed that? I mean, I’ve been keeping all my windows shut of course, but I should be able to hear a thunderstorm, or at least a fucking thunder strike. Still, I gotta get this shit fixed *stat*. This means someone from the company at least walking in with the replacement, or even doing the install, but it’s getting hard to survive like this. Momma need her Netflix. I’ll just bleach it all the fuck to Hell afterwards. Why doesn’t *anyone* respond? **Day 25 of quarantine.** It was getting impossible to move around in the kitchen from all the trash, so I’ve had to move it to the laundry room. It’s not like I was using it anyway, not for a long time. And my joints hurt like a motherfucker. You look like hell, lady. Just a walking pile of garbage. Why don’t you do something? Do something, damn you! **Day 26 of quarantine.** Between my joints and the fever coming back, I’ve spent all day in bed today. Only remembered to call the internet people a couple times though, been putzing on the internet on my phone all day. Whole world’s going to Hell, it seems. There’s news of rioting. Can you imagine that? Rioting? Getting a bunch of people out there together, with the disease going around? They’re actually getting crazy - like, really, literally insane. **Day 27 of quarantine.** I can’t fucking believe it. No FUCKING way. Now I’ve lost my cell phone too? I mean, not literally lost it, not that I’ve really gone anywhere - it’s been another day in bed. But it not only has got no internet, it can’t even call?! I mean, with the internet, I get it, and I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve always known my data plan wouldn’t last long this way, but I somehow pretended not to see it. But calling? Is it tied to the data plan? How the fuck do they actually get away with that? I’d look my phone contract up, if I had, I don’t know, ANY means of communication to do it with. I mean, I’ve always made fun of those old people who still had landlines, but who’s the idiot now, huh? **Day 28 of quarantine.** I finally made it out of bed. I’m cleaning the house again. It stinks to high heaven. Well, I stink to high heaven too, come to think of it. I really need a shower. A really, really long shower. **Day 29 of quarantine.** I still can’t believe there’s no phone at all. Tried turning it off and back on, battery out and in again, anything I could think of, and still nothing. Is it just my plan, or are phones down, like, in general? I mean, could I call emergency services? You can always do that, right? Without a plan or anything? I’m not sure I wanna try it, though. They’re probably really busy right now, a lot of bad stuff going down, last thing they need is some paranoid girl just making sure she has *some* connection to the rest of the world. Besides… what if I find out I can’t even do that? **Day 30 of quarantine.** Had a really good laugh today, and a really good cry too. Like, really doubled over, doing… either. Don’t even remember when did one stop and the other start. Thing is, the other day, I didn’t want to call around asking about Mom. Now that I can’t… I really, really wish I could. I need her a lot right now. A whole lot. I mean, I guess I need *anyone*, but Mom… even with all the bad blood, I can’t stop thinking about her. **Day 31 of quarantine.** Been looking out the front window a lot lately, wondering what’s out there. Street’s all cleared up… guess people *did* get the hint after all. But it’s not *completely* empty though, and that’s the problem. Right now, there’s an old woman slowly dragging a bag of groceries. Don’t even want to wonder where or how she got that at this point. What’s she doing out? I mean, she looks at the top of the risk spectrum. Isn’t there anyone who can do that for her? She stopped to look at me. You know what… I’m not even mad. It’s gotta be really, really lonely out there. Especially for her, if she’s got nobody to get her those supplies. I can’t even… Oh, my God. She *coughed*. I’m outta here. Bye, lady! **Day 32 of quarantine.** Joints are especially bad today. On the other hand, the fever’s clearing up. I think. I’m not taking my temperature… haven’t done that in a long time, actually. I feel better off not knowing. And the windows are all sealed now. I don’t even care how that looks or what. I’ve got a lot more garbage bags than I need, so I’m using those and tape to seal everything up. Under the doors too, and the mail slot, just to be sure. All my air can come in through the AC, at least that’s got a filter. Not taking any chances here. I really, *really* can’t afford to get infected, not with my condition. **Day 33 of quarantine.** I moved my tall mirror from the bedroom to the living room, by the couch. That’s where I’ve been spending most of my time, and I could really use the company. I mean, I hate the way she looks at me, but that’s better than being alone. Getting real hard to stand the loneliness. **Day 34 of quarantine.** Something just occurred to me… how do I get to know when it’s safe to come out? I keep telling myself - and *her* \- what I’m going to do when it’s over… but when *is* that? If I can’t read or watch any news, if I’m completely cut off from the outside world, if there’s no information… how do I know? Then again, *if* it’s actually still not safe out there… I couldn’t take that risk, could I? There are models that see this pandemic going on for three, four, five months. There are waves, it could come back. Can I afford to take my chances? Do… do I have a choice? I think I’ll just hang tight for as long as I can. I think, if it clears up, people will reach out to me somehow. They’ll, I dunno, come here, do something. I’ll hear something. I don’t know how, but I’ll know. Until I do… I’m stuck here. **Day 35 of quarantine.** Been showering a lot lately… just had my second shower today, and it’s not even noon. Which reminds me… the water’s safe, right? I mean, it’s supposedly an airborne virus, it doesn’t come in the water. Or could it? How long would it survive in a water stream? I’d look it up, if only I could. God, I miss reading about this disease online. It was stressful, yeah, but the information was *there*. Still is, of course, I just can’t get to it. And there you have it - never imagined I’d miss freaking out about it online, but I do. But yeah… water. It’s gotta be safe, right? They kept telling us to wash our hands, they wouldn’t if it made it worse. It’s fluoridated and whatnot. Right? What do you think? Say, something, dammit, don’t just look at me like that! **Day 36 of quarantine.** Getting harder and harder to exercise. Not that I’d done a lot of that, but at least I’ve been trying to keep myself active. But it’s hard to ignore the siren’s call of the couch. And the mirror, of course. **Day 37 of quarantine.** She’s such a good listener. I haven’t opened up like this in *years*. About Mom, my condition, my so-called friends, sex, I dunno, *everything*. Not with therapists, not with anyone. Wish I’d met her sooner. I mean, she was there all the time, just watching in silence, waiting for me to reach out… could’ve done that sooner. She’s been always there for me. **Day 38 of quarantine.** Why do I even have a book about the history of typographics around? This must’ve been Dad’s, he was weird enough for that. Anyway, I’m now officially all out of books. Not that I’ve been able to focus on them, really, I mostly leafed through them. **Day 39 of quarantine.** Heard some people outside today. Seemed really loud too, like they were yelling. Couldn’t make out what they were saying - this house’s soundproofing is really good, I guess. Are they looters? They sounded crazed. You know how people get when they’re desperate… I’m really scared here. **Day 40 of quarantine.** Why won’t she talk back to me? I’m feeling so lost here. So… alone, I wanna say, even though I’m really not. But it does feel that way. Why does she have to be so cold? **Day 41 of quarantine.** I worry about my soap supply. I bought what I thought would be enough to last several months, but I’m not so sure about that now. It’s never clean enough, and these rashes… there’s gotta be something in them, something *bad*. I know, cream, but still. I need to be clean. **Day 42 of quarantine.** Looters outside again. I think they’re getting closer. Triple-checked all my locks, of course, and barred the doors with chairs for good measure. This is really frightening. Girl, I need you. I really do. I really, really, really, *really* need you. **Day 43 of quarantine.** The girl in the mirror started to talk back. This feels a bit weird, but I’m relieved. I *knew* I could count on her. She makes so much sense. How could I not get it? It’s all so clear now. I’m so, *so* glad I have her. **Day 44 of quarantine.** Finished shaving everything off. It was hard to let go of my hair… I’ve always been proud of my full-bodied, leonine mane, but it’s what needed to be done. My arms, legs and armpits, of course, I’d been slacking on that because who the hell’s going to see me? The *disease*, that’s who. Gone. Pubic too, smooth like a baby. And my eyebrows… eyes are a vulnerable entry point for infection, right? And they’re right there! I was so irresponsible… but that’s all better now. Everything gone, all the hair gathered up and burnt. My rashes hurt like hell, and I look like a ghost now from all the cream, but I haven’t felt this clean in my whole life. **Day 45 of quarantine.** Looters are finally at my door. They tried knocking to get my attention, to see if I could be lured out there. And I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. I just wanted this all to be over. Thank God I’ve got her here with me to help me stay strong. She whispered to me about their danger, about the violence they would inflict on me, about the infection they wanted to bring into the house. She whispered for me to stay strong and be absolutely quiet. Now that they’re gone, I feel like I can finally breathe. **Day 46 of quarantine.** She looks at me sadly. I’m still not completely clean, I can feel it, and she agrees. But she won’t tell me what do I need to do to be finally clean. I’m afraid I’m not ready, and she knows that. But I’m getting there. **Day 47 of quarantine.** I asked her about the bleach. She merely smiled. Sometimes, she can say so much with so little! I thanked God for putting her in my life, soaked a washcloth in bleach, and gave myself a thorough cleaning. It stings, sure, a *lot*, and my rashes look like my skin’s been flayed, but I’m clean. Even cleaner than before. Is it enough, though? She just smiles, sadly. **Day 48 of quarantine.** I finally understand it now. Looking back at this log here, I can see I clued in to it a while ago, but it escaped my mind somehow. Thing is, I’m clean on the *outside*. My insides, though? I can feel that *thing* bubbling, writhing in there. It makes me sick to my stomach, now that I notice it. It’s so obvious now… how come I’ve never seen it before? And it’s simple, so simple to solve it. So, I guess I’m prepared. Another full, really close shave for good measure, a long shower to wash it all off, and one more bleach scrubbing to be sure. I feel like I’m literally on fire right now, burning from head to toe. This must’ve been how the witches who were burned at the stake back in the day felt. She assured me it’s good - after all, there’s nothing more cleansing than fire, right? And the fire I feel all over my skin, even though invisible, is still burning all the infection away. On the outside, though. There’s still the inside to clean. With my last scrubbing, there’s little more than half a bottle of bleach left. I checked with her, and she said that’s enough. With it, my cleansing will be complete, and I’ll finally be free. This will all be behind me. A new, pure life awaits. So, I’m ending this journal here. I don’t think I’ll need it anymore. Once I’ve chugged this bottle, I will finally be clean enough to leave the quarantine.


It was during a one-week ski trip to the Alps with my class, that a single goodbye with a smile as Dalena walked out of the door, my heart dropped. Never to remain in the same spot again. We were in the mild winter of 2026 and we all took the high-speed train from Brussels with my senior class, knowing that this is maybe the last time that the whole gang would see each other again. Emotions were high and we loved each moment of it because we all knew where each of us were going, some to University, but Dalena decided to work as a currency expert and freelance writer for a year while she thought about higher education. She was good enough in all of her interests to make a living out any of them. About her, all I could do was ask myself, was it her calm demeanor, her curly hair or the fact that she liked Hi-Riz, my favorite band, but I couldn’t figure out why I was crazy about her. As always, I thought – there was no chance she could like a regular guy like me. Later that day, after all of us were done playing board games on the night of our arrival in the snow-covered town of Obertauern, it was bedtime and the girls who had taken five hotel rooms left, as we completely ignored the bedtime schedule. As I sat on the carpet next to my best friend Max, I waved in a lazy sway motion but to my surprise she waved back and that’s when it happened. The smile that pierced through my heart like a bullet. Never was I to be the same or appreciate someone they way I did at that moment. The next day as we rushed down the slopes and raced each other, some with snowboards, others with snow skates, Dalena was leading the pack. She won, to no-one's surprise. Having led her volleyball team to multiple victories as captain the last two years, she was the sportiest person we knew. With hi-fives to celebrate, we would look back at those moments as some of the best weeks we had all experienced. Marking the end of the trip, Max and I decided to stay up late, and create a plan to confess all our feelings to the girls we liked. For me it was to be a letter, but for him a hologram recording, which I thought was cheesy, but he went on and made one by the pool... great lighting. Upon our return to Brussels, we each decided to go over and give the items over, knowing that if we chickened out, we would each consider the other a wimp for the rest of our lives. It was not until I was in front of Dalena that she immediately pulled out a polaroid picture of three of us winners that she took during the trip. Now was my chance, I thought, and the words came out swiftly and almost inaudibly. I let it all out, telling her that I would like her to marry me and move to Forest City, where I would be attending my University for the next two and a half years. As I walked back to Max, and Dalena walked over to Vanessa, I realized that everyone had left except the four of us. He could tell that I was shaking and wanted to go home immediately. I burst out "what did Vanessa say?" to which he shook his head and showed me the hologram drone he still had, meaning she didn’t take it. I felt his pain and didn't even think to relate to him what happened with my conversation with Dalena. She had said yes. At my University graduation, the only people present in my mind, out of the 5000 in the arena, were Dalena, our daughter Emma and our parents and friends. Such is life, I thought, and knew that as I chased after my higher calling, her smile is what got me here.


It began with the scent of crushed lavender. At that moment there was no recognition of self or other, only the unmistakable feeling of change this wafting fragrance brought to an otherwise still and vacant mind. The scent overwhelmed him but even at its height, the moment was tainted by the subtle realization that it was beginning to fade. In an effort to compensate for the loss his attention shifted to the warmth of the sun on his face; another fleeting but equally intoxicating sensation. Despite his own desire to keep his eyes shut, the light seemed to work its way under, prying them open. A lavender field lined with trees came into view. He surveyed his surroundings. Jacob’s thoughts remain scattered and incoherent but he could at least remember himself. How long had he been standing there for? His inquiry was suddenly interrupted by a red figure to his left. A door. A free-standing door. A free-standing door furnished with a brass knob and matching knocker. Jacob looked behind him for any other signs of activity before venturing further. Now Jacob was certainly no builder, but it was common knowledge that doors should typically be attached to buildings. For this reason he pushed against the red specter, testing its reality and half expecting it to fall over. The door was surprisingly firm. In fact, for a door placed in the middle of a field it appeared remarkably unweathered. The other side of the frame revealed nothing. At this moment a dull but unmistakable ring emanated from the wooden monolith. Jacob’s curiosity piqued. Pressing his ear against the immaculate red wood grain Jacob steadied his breath and listened intently for any sign of life. But not a sound could be heard other than the rhythmic thumping of his own heartbeat. The thumping briefly distracted him from the question of the door but it was soon interrupted by another ring. Jacob’s pulse quickened. The ringing reminded him of the kind of bell one might find at a shop counter. Was someone calling for help? As though in answer and without much thought Jacob’s hand found its way to the door knob and turned it. With his weight still resting firmly against it, the door caved in. Jacob stumbled across the threshold. However, instead of the feeling of loose soil and broken vegetation, his distressed leather oxfords found themselves comforted by the soft padding of a Persian rug. As his head lifted his eyes darted across the floor, following the dark wooden beams to the finely detailed wooden balustrade above. Directly above him hung the most elaborate chandelier he had ever seen. Hundreds of finely cut crystals of varying sizes suspended by gold thread and refracting the light of hidden sources gave the chandelier an ominous sense of both weight and fragility as though it were some illuminated sword of Damocles that would fall at any given moment. Jacob hurriedly moved forward, however, remembering the red door, he looked back to spy what it looked like from the inside. It was gone. Now he was most certainly committed to this path though he did not know where he was going or from where he had come. His field of view widened. Surrounding him on all sides were various doors; some closed however, many were opened. Through the door to his left Jacob could see a man in his early 50s dressed in a vest and tie clutching a black, corded rotary phone and sternly addressing someone on the other end. Jacob quickly shifted his gaze to another room. A woman in her mid-thirties and sporting a black-laced fascinator and red lipstick caught his eye before closing the door. “Excuse me sir.” Jacob shifted his attention to the source of the voice; A uniformed woman occupying a service desk in the centre of the lobby. “Excuse me sir, may I help you?” the lady enquired. “Help me?” “Yes sir. How may I assist you today?” “Can you please tell me where I am” Jacob asked. “Why yes, of course sir; you are in the lobby sir.” “The lobby? Well, yes I… I can see that but where is the lobby? What kind of place is this?” Jacob remarked. “Where would you like to go sir?” “What? How can I possibly know where I want to go if I don’t know where I am?” “Well sir, it seems to me that if you don’t know where you are then you should start with where you would like to be. Then you will know where you are not.” Jacob stared at the woman in complete bewilderment. “Just… just tell me the name of this place. Please.” “Certainly sir. This is the Hilbert hotel. Now, where would you like to go?” Although Jacob felt this answer to be sufficient he had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that it didn’t make any difference. Whether this place was called the Hilbert hotel or perhaps went by some other name, he was still lost. The concierge was right. If he didn’t know where he was going then it didn’t matter where he was. At this point Jacob realized that he didn’t know much of anything. No relations, no friends, no work, no home. Nothing. And so, he began to panic.


On a stark Thursday night, I stared out of the window of the precinct. Then, looked at my watch to check the time. It was 10:30PM and the skies looked like it was about to rain. I couldn’t wait to get out of this humid police station and my sweaty uniform. My thoughts are interrupted by my colleague Chirag. Apparently, he has gotten into the weekend mood a little early and he is forcing me to grab a beer with him at a nearby bar & restaurant. “Come on, Mary gold bar will be empty tonight and it’s owner hasn’t paid his due for this week… it will be a free beer for you. What’s the harm?” While Chirag was trying to convince me, there is tall lanky guy with frameless spectacle coming in all worried and sweaty. It felt like he had lost his car or something. He was in office formal attire and he directly looked at me & said” I had like to press charges for an intruder in my house… my wife is with him… but… but …” His voice breaks down a little “she is ok with it” Chirag’s tough voice breaks in “Look mister, we are not here to record your petty cheating cases of your wife” The victim looks up in rage “You don’t get it, it was all planned!!! First my friends then my money and now my family… this is not fair “ I try to reassure him by saying, “please sit down and let’s take your report formally” Chirag’s get a phone call and he walks out to attend the call. The victim & I walk into the side and sit on the table. He is a bit worried now but he starts narrating his case and his weird experiences from past few days… “… I am Raunak Sharma, working in the ITS, an IT firm. I had client holidays on Tuesday and Wednesday. So I had planned for an evening out with my best friend. When I left my house and drove my car towards the hotel… there was this strange person who was standing in the middle of street. When I honked at him he came to the side and asked politely for helping him to drop him off at a nearby. He informed me how his cab got cancelled and how got late for his seminar. He looked decent with a round face and a white shirt coupled with blue trousers was worn by him. His stop was quite near for me to ask any questions or strike a conversation with him…” “Can you please get to the details of when and where the crime was committed? This feels more like your personal experience… It’s quite late and I don’t think this is relevant to the crime at all…” I interrupted him as I wanted to get done with this as soon as possible. “… officer this person is the one who took my life, my money and my everything…” “Look sir, if you really want, I can arrange a sketch artist to whom you can describe the details of this person and we will try to find him. It would be a robbery case and you can just get to the point about what all he stole please?” He gave a heavy sigh and continued “… I am getting to it, officer please let me complete.” Raunak continued “When I dropped him near the junction, he got down and before he got down he told me something really weird … he told me that friends are like a real gem and often a set of different gems form a wonderful collection of jewellery, it would be a shame to lose any one of gem isn’t it? At first I ignored and rushed to the hotel. To my surprise, my best friend was already there. He is often late but this time he was there. He was looking for someone. When I went and greeted him, he didn’t recognize me and acted like I was a complete stranger and he started asking questions like do I know you? … ” I interrupt him again this time in anger “Sir, if this isn’t even a robbery but a stupid prank. Why are you even reporting this? Please call your friend and get consolidated” “…Exactly my thoughts a prank, a joke. He walked away and so did I. When I returned home and told my wife about this strange event she thought I was also trying to spoof her and prank her as well. I tried calling my best friend’s cell but he didn’t pick up. Next day I had to rush to Office for an important document and use it to fill a form. When I was driving my car to office at the same place I found that creepy guy with the same outfit as last night… He looked at me and emptied his pockets and ran away …” “I wanted to chase him but he ran into nearby lanes or shop’s. It was strange but this task of office was much more critical and I had to get it done within the time frame. So without much though I rush to office. Again to my surprise, when I reach office … I find my pockets missing my wallet… I had my keys, phone and wallet but now it wasn’t there….” Now, I am convinced that this guy is either some creepy lunatic who is out of his mind. I would not interrupt him and ask him how he lost things or how he is able see this other guy he keeps speaking about. “…I was convinced this guy was either some creepy lunatic who was completely out of his mind …” Raunak said in a reassuring manner When he said this I was completely taken aback. How could my exact thoughts be felt by him? I am scared to my bones. Raunak studies the change in my body language and now for the first time he smiles and says “You know what’s crazy? Today when I returned from work I met this guy again but not in middle of street in some strange way. He booked a ride for carpool from my office till my home. When he comes to my car from the office pick up spot. He seems changed, he has spectacles now, formal clothes, he is no more trying to talk to me or trying to take things for me or being mysterious at all. In fact, the whole way back, I keep asking him questions, trying to get thing’s out of him. He even calls me crazy at a point of time. He says he has never met me…” Raunak chuckles for a bit then he continues… “When we reach my building, I am going to basement to park my vehicle but to my surprise there is already some other car in my parking spot. While I park at some other spot and go to my apartment via the elevator thinking about all these strange experiences… I try to unlock the door with my keys but it didn’t work for some strange reason… When the door unlocks from the inside I see the same creepy person yelling at me stalker go away, I’ll call police go away… I could see my wife looking at me like a complete stranger, like someone else…” “I was broken, my head started hurting, I thought about calling the police but I see the notification of the carpool app with my own name giving me 1-star rating but the photo on the profile was that of the creepy guy.” “I couldn’t believe what had transpired, how my life was taken away from me … “ Raunak stops speaking now, I am feeling depressed. What if he is actually speaking the truth, how will he ever get his life back with no alibi’s or no one recognizing him. How is this even possible? Chirag who was once my colleague comes in and questions me “Do I know you?” I have no answers but one hundred more questions on what the hell had just happened.I couldn’t believe what was transpiring, how my life is being taken away from me … He later drags me by my collar and I fall off my chair in complete shock. He says “We shouldn’t entertain these fuckers, these bastards wearing our uniform’s … come on Rajesh lets fucking leave, it was your holiday and yet you came in and tried to help this piece of shit…” My mind hurts, I couldn’t process what had happened to raunak was in fact him doing the same to me… I look at my shirt’s side pocket, I am still in police’s uniform and the name tag reads “RAUNAK”.


PENNY WISE A Harry Bartlett Short Story Northborough, Massachusetts Tuesday morning Hello, Reader. My name is John Watson, and I am a retired British military doctor who served in Afghanistan. I met Sherlock… Dammit, that’s been done before. And it’s not the truth anyway. I’m Steve Malarkey, editor of the Nantucket Observer and Harry Bartlett’s founding partner in the Fraud Detective Group. I’m writing this because Harry and a few others thought I needed a hobby due to 3 new places I find myself in: a wheelchair, a detective job, and a city, Boston. My getting hammered every day may have also contributed to their suggestion. Their idea was to write about our fraud cases and publish them (if it was good enough for Arthur Conan Doyle, it’s good enough for me). It would get the word out about avoiding scams, get us some publicity, and maybe generate a client or two. And maybe I’d be too busy to get sloshed; all commendable results. One thing before getting to this case, and it’s for you literary-type folks. I don’t like writing in the first person. Never did in my newspaper gigs, won’t do it now. Writing “I, I, I” sounds like a sailor obeying an order. Hope you enjoy the story. *** Business had been slow for the Fraud Detective Group since exposing the Nantucket scams. The hope for a steady stream of clients from the publicity and law enforcement referrals had vanished quicker than a casual fan down after the 6th inning with the Red Sox down a few runs. Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie decided a road trip to civic organizations would be a good idea. They’d educate folks about avoiding fraud, maybe generate a new client or two, and find new walls to look at; the ones at 221 B Brookline Avenue were giving them headaches. Today found them heading to Northborough, a suburban town of 14,000 forty miles west of Boston. Steve was cruising in the left passing lane on the Mass Pike; the handicap-enabled van hadn’t slowed his driving following the hit-and-run attack while biking. “Guess who came from Northborough?” Uncle Louie asked from the back seat. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Mark Fidyrch, that pitcher nicknamed The Bird because he looked like Big Bird from Sesame Street.” “Not sure how I can work that into the speech,” Harry said. “How about John Kellette, the guy who wrote, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”? “Strike two.” “I like this one. Daniel B. Wesson, founder of the Smith & Wesson gun company.” “You trading in your .357 Magnum?” Steve asked. “No way,” Uncle Louie said, patting his black suit jacket. “But maybe we can visit his summer home, the White Cliffs house?” “Swing and a miss, strike 3,” Harry said. “Steve, can you stop for throat lozenges? I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Steve turned into a convenience store on Route 20, the main road through town. Harry looked sheepish when he returned. “Do either of you have 2 bucks?” Harry asked. “You’re broke?” Uncle Louie asked. “Sort of, it’s an all-cash business, and I have $0 in my wallet,” Harry said. Uncle Louie rummaged in the pockets of his black suit for his wallet. Steve had fewer pockets in his well-worn jeans and won the race. Harry thanked him and returned to complete his transaction. Ten minutes later, Harry stood at the wooden half-podium placed on a table, a lozenge swirling around in his mouth. Given the Senior Center audience, he decided to focus on avoiding elderly fraud scams using the telephone: the grandson needing money to get out of jail, the call asking to confirm your Social Security number, or the IRS demanding payment. People were settling down from their continental breakfast, so he passed the time by calculating the average age of the 23 attendees; the answer was 73. His calculation would’ve been higher except for one fifty-ish man standing in the back. The man was short, maybe 5’ 5”, a Joe Pesci doppelganger with a jutting jaw and a bulldog scowl. He approached the three of them after the talk. Harry expected to hear “yutes.” “Rick Pound,” he said. “Hey, yuse gize are pretty good.” Harry stifled a laugh. “We try,” Harry said. “You have an elderly parent here?” “Nah, didn’t want the guys seeing me talk with you. I got us a room,” Rick said and started down a hallway. He turned around after a few steps. “You coming or what?” “What,” Harry said. “Fine. You know profits and all that fraud stuff, right?” Rick asked. “I know you do, I looked you up, just being careful.” He violently wrung his hands while he talked. “Profits suck at my new store and I can’t figure out why. Think you can crack it?” “Can’t someone on your staff check it out?” Harry asked. “The wife, Penny, keeps the books. I pay her zilch,” he said and made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “She thinks she’s so smart, change this thing, spend money on that. Bullshit, money don’t grow on trees.” “How about hiring a CPA?” Steve asked. “He rips me off doing my company taxes. Two hundred bucks an hour for Christ’s sake,” Rick said. “But I get him back. Volunteers here do my taxes for free. They kinda don’t want to, but they cave and do them anyway.” “What kind of business do you own?” Uncle Louie asked. “Convenience stores, six of ‘em. Local places, sell Pepsi and pretzels and Playboy,” Rick said. “The new one makes 10% less than the others. Opened it a year ago.” “Rick’s Rest Stop?” Harry asked. “I bought throat lozenges at the Route 20 store this morning. Nice place.” “That’s the new one,” Rick said. “Don’t forget you owe me two bucks,” Steve said. “I won’t,” Harry said. “But that reminds me. Why don’t you accept credit cards?” “And pay them crooked credit card crooks a billion percent? No way. That’s my money, I earned it, I’m keeping it,” Rick said. “So, can you find my missing profits?” “Yes,” Harry said. He sat still. So did Steve and Uncle Louie. Rick got a confused look on his face: eyebrows down, head tilted, lips scrunched together. He looked at each of them in succession. Suddenly, his face changed. Light had dawned on Marblehead. “I get it, you want to get paid. I respect that,” Rick said. “How much?” “First, answer a few questions,” Harry said. “Shoot,” Rick said. Harry asked him a series of questions about the six stores: the items sold, pricing, the store size, the hours. He got machine-gun answers in return; the stores were precisely the same. “Each place has a manager and an assistant manager; they cover the first two shifts with clerks. Other clerks handle the overnight shift,” Rick said. “When are the shift changes?” Rick said 6, 2, and 10. “Excuse me for a second,” Harry said and went to the front desk. He returned with a sheet of paper and an envelope. He wrote something, sealed the sheet in the envelope, wrote “Rick” on the front, and placed it on a table. “The answer is in there. The price is $1,000 today or $5,000 tomorrow, plus a $500 donation to the Senior Center,” Harry said. “You’ve got thirty seconds to decide. Steve, will you time this?” “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight,” Steve said. “Oh, and the $5,000 is a fixed price until we find the answer.” “Twenty-five, twenty-four.” “You bustin’ my balls?” Rick asked. “No, dead serious,” Harry said. Rick rubbed his chin, weighing his options, trying to calculate what he should do. “It’d be stupid to pay you a grand for nothing.” “Eighteen, seventeen.” “If he’s right, you save the lost profits starting today, and it’s $4,000 cheaper,” Uncle Louie said. “But if he’s wrong. I lose the grand and keep losing the profits.” Rick rested his chin on the back of his right knuckles. His right elbow was on his left knee, his head slightly bowed. “The Thinker,” Uncle Louie whispered to Steve. “Eleven, ten.” “Nope, I ain’t paying $1,000 to some guy who looked at nothing. And I like the fixed price thing.” “Your call,” Harry said. “We need a rental car.” Rick called the green logo’d company. “It’ll be here in an hour.” “Give me read-only rights into your accounting system, internet access, and a printer hookup,” Harry said. Rick gave Harry the password and arranged the other items with the Senior Center manager. Harry was active in two minutes. “I need your cell number so your store managers can call to confirm who we are.” Rick produced a business card. “24/7.” Harry typed into his laptop and printed out 2 sheets. “Sign these,” Harry said. The first sheet was a client contract. Rick made his scrawl on it. The second was Rick’s requirement that employees allow Harry to pull their credit report. “I don’t care what their score is,” he said. “Humor me,” Harry said. “Whatever,” Rick said and signed. “See you tomorrow, here, 4 PM,” Harry said and stood up. “And bring the $5,000 and $500 checks.” They shook to seal the deal. “Make them bank checks,” Harry said. Rick waved his okay as he walked down the hall. Harry let him get out of earshot, then asked Uncle Louie to get 4 reliable watchers to Northborough asap. “No, make it 3. And they need to blend in,” Harry said. “Hey, something wrong with my black suit ensemble ?” Uncle Louie asked. “In Boston, no, out here in suburban utopia, yes. I want jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, maybe sandals.” “That stuff ain’t part of their regular haberdashery,” Uncle Louie said. Harry tossed a credit card at Steve. “Go to the Solomon Pond Mall across Route 290. Find some regular store, not some teenage place like the Gap, and buy 3 sizes of everything and 1 set for Uncle Beau Brummell here.” He turned to Uncle Louie. “You’ve got an hour to get those guys out here and dressed.” Uncle Louie was making calls before Harry said, “guys.” Harry made a call. “Megan, how fast can you get to Northborough in jeans and a t-shirt?” “Soon enough, why?” Megan Webster asked. She and Harry had a good thing going after the Nantucket case; she was also the source of Harry’s tv publicity as the fraud and consumer rip-off reporter. Harry explained his plan. “It’ll last 24 hours, and, yes, you get the perp walk if there is one.” “Am I a soccer mom or an office worker on break?” Harry picked the second choice. “I’ll be there in 45 minutes,” she said and hung up. Harry guessed she’d red-line the Mini-Cooper and get there in thirty. “How sure are you that…?” Steve asked. Harry shot him an “are you shitting me?” look. “Okay, okay, just asking. Let’s go shopping, Uncle Louie,” Steve said. Harry started typing on his laptop. He grabbed the completed sheets from the office printer, flashing the bemused, elderly staffers his best altar-boy smile each time he invaded their office sanctuary. Steve, Uncle Louie, and the posse arrived back at the Center on time. Megan was already sitting comfortably. Harry asked Steve to stuff $10 into the donation styrofoam cup; the office ladies had cheerfully delivered the group a tray of hot joe with cookies. “That’s $12,” Steve said. Harry looked over his assembled watch team. They looked slightly uncomfortable in their new outfits of jeans with Nike logoed shirts and New Balance sneakers. He figured that was because their usual jackets covered their firearms. Megan would blend in perfectly. “Thank you all for getting here so quickly. This is a one day job, twenty-four hours. We’re working in teams, finding everything out we can about 6 convenience stores and the employees. Rule number 1: no guns. Stow them in your trunks. This is strictly talk, watch, and record,” Harry said. “Rule number 2: Shifts change at 6, 2, and 10. Sleep between shifts if you have to, but not in the store parking lot. Find some 24-hour place. Rule number 3: do the same thing, ask the same questions at each place. Write the answer or observation down as soon after it happens as you can. This is going to be like spending a day looking at open houses; pretty soon, they blend together. Rule number 4- take pictures and label them by the store number. Any questions?” Harry asked. “The idea is to hit a store, observe things, talk with the workers in regular chatter, then move on. Two at each shift change; one stays, the other follows the employee home, observes, then returns.” Harry handed out sheets with the store location and specific questions and observations. They went through each one in detail. He handed out felt-tip pens from the Senior Centers supply closet; this time, Uncle Louie forked over a $10 bill, and Harry supplied an even bigger smile. “Why me?’ Uncle Louie asked. “I like to distribute my debts,” Harry said. The stores were on main roads in neighboring towns. Harry’s posse descended on the first location like a swarm of locusts. Uncle Louie’s job was determining square footage; he asked for the restroom key and paced off the distance from the front registers area to the back of the store. He noticed that the flooring was one-foot square tiles and counted those on the way back as a double-check. He wrote the numbers on his hand. Steve’s job was inventory evaluation since his chair hid him behind the rows of products. He rolled up and down, snapping pictures with his cell-phone, coughing to hide each click even though it wasn’t deafening. When he finished, he moved his van to the back of the building and observed the food deliveries. Megan was in charge of interrogation; Uncle Louie’s guys spoke in single syllables and she talked for living. She chatted up the employees about their kids, upcoming summer vacations, and cars. She also was the final step: get permission to run credit reports. One of Uncle Louie’s friends had a construction background; he did not need a tape measure to estimate the food shelves’ and refrigerator dimensions. He followed the workers' home and estimated the market value. He checked his estimate with a real estate pricing app. Friend number 2 counted customers, noting age and gender. Friend number 3 was an ex-cop with on-the-job contacts to run the workers' criminal and driving records based on their license plates. He also did a fixed asset inventory of shopping carts, hand-baskets, the registers, the safe and cleaning supplies. Timing was crucial; Harry wanted someone inside to watch the register closeout and reopening. The group exchanged cell phone numbers to coordinate their movements. Harry got a room at a local hotel and downloaded daily revenue and bank deposit information and analyzed it on a shift and store basis. He looked at electricity, trash collection, and delivery fee costs. The data called in by the posse allowed him to calculate revenue per customer, customers per hour, and other ratios. He also pulled a credit report on each employee. One manager didn’t head home; Harry authorized the tracker to get into a minor fender-bender to get the address. He paid $200 on the spot to not report it because it would kill his insurance rates. They were done by noon the next day; they’d witnessed 24 hours of activity and every shift change. Harry paid the 3 watchers $500. Harry had 4 hours to finish the data evaluation. He finished in 3, and they went to nearby Uhlman’s Ice Cream to kill the hour before meeting Rick. Rick walked into the Senior Center. Harry, Steve, Megan, and Uncle Louie were playing pool. “Who’s she?” “A friend,” Harry said. He wasn’t lying. “So, you been to the stores?” Rick asked. “You have the checks?” Harry asked. Rick waived the rectangular paper. “You got my answer?” Harry waved the envelope. “Let’s take a trip. We’ll be back soon.” They returned to the room in forty-five minutes. “What the hell just happened?” Rick asked. “We walked in, bought a beef jerky, then left.” Harry stood at the semi-podium with a laser pointer while Steve operated the laptop’s projection onto the wall. “Your new store manager and assistant manager are ripping you off,” Harry said. “But you could’ve known this before you hired me, and definitely before you hired them.” “No way this is my fault,” Rick said. “It’s absolutely your fault,” Harry said. “Steve, start with the credit scores.” Numbers appeared on the wall, two for each staffer. The first was their credit score a year ago, and the second was yesterday. Most pairs were consistent and over 600. Two were over 800 now, but under 500 a year ago. “Steve, home values next, please.” Only 4 numbers appeared. “Most of your employees rent. 2 own 500k homes. Guess which ones.” “Let’s look behind door #3 for store stats, Steve,” Harry said, and rows and columns of numbers appeared. Store #6, the new store, had lower revenue per customer. The numerator, revenue, was lower for that store. The denominator, number of customers, was the same. Rick was getting anxious, tapping, and fidgeting. “Get to the point.” “One last slide: physical assets inventory,” Harry said. Each store had the same items except one- Store #6. Rick bounded up to the wall and smashed his fist into Store #6’s numbers. “What’s with the 3?” “Your manager and assistant manager installed their own register when they opened the store,” Harry said. “They don’t take every dollar through their register because it would be too suspicious, but they take enough to explain the lower profits.” “I hired them before the store opened; they wanted to learn how to start one from scratch,” Rick said. “They already knew,” Harry said and brought up their resumes. “By the way, I talked with Penny. Wise woman. She had the same ideas I did,” Harry said. “And why is this my fault?” Rick asked. “Because you’re too cheap to hire enough accounting staff,” Steve said. “Or to hire a CPA,” Uncle Louie said. “Or to have registers that track inventory and accept credit cards,” Harry said. “My guess is you’d increase revenue by 15%, way more than the 2% fee. And you’d reduce the security company pick-up fees,” Harry said. “And you’d know if different stores need different items.” “Or to trust an expert who knows what he’s talking about,” Megan said. Harry handed the sealed envelope to Rick. He ripped it open. “Read it out loud,” Uncle Louie said. “Manager and assistant manager.” Jesus H. Christ,” Rick said. He looked at Harry, then at Uncle Louie. They could almost see the gears grinding before he eventually handed over the checks. “Those bastards screwed with the wrong guy.” Rick whipped out his cell phone. “Get me the Police Chief,” he yelled as he ran down the hallway. Megan sprinted after Rick. “I’ve got an arrest to film. Dinner tonight, Harry?” Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie packed up. Harry asked the receptionist for an envelope, then placed Rick’s check in it. On the way to the Mass Pike, they stopped at a Post Office. He addressed the envelope to the Senior Center Director and added a note from Anonymous. *** An empty pizza box joined the empty Sam Adams bottles on the FDG conference table. They’d finished rewatching her tv segment on the arrests. “Do I get to hear how you knew it was the store manager and the assistant?” Megan asked. “Rick’s answers eliminated most of the possibilities. After that, it was a science experiment: all of the variables were constant except the personnel,” Harry said. “What about the locations, different areas might buy different things?” Megan asked. “Maybe that might change things, but not by much,” Harry said. “The only possibilities were Rick was stealing from himself, which has happened- check out Crazy Eddie, or it was the staff. He didn’t seem sharp enough to pull that off, so that left the staff. Clerks likely didn’t have the access, so that left management. I wasn’t sure how they did it until the inventory came back with the extra register. Very clever on their part. They saw an opportunity, made a fast decision, and implemented it. The All-American success story.” “Except for the stealing part,” Megan said. “You have a limerick for this one?” “I worked on it while you all were at the stores,” Harry said. He cleared his throat. A store owner was acting quite devilish His love of profits was nearing a fetish He held every sou So tight it turned blue And Rick was the Pound that was foolish.


The land lady walked into the kitchen chattering away, Myra following right behind her. “Ok, so, the kitchen is pretty much the same as the other apartment. I’m sorry about that, I didn’t realize Freddy had rented that one already.” This was the second apartment Debbie had showed to Myra. As far as Myra could tell, it was basically the same as the other, just kind of backwards- In the other apartment, bedroom was on the right, in this one it was on the left. In the other apartment the kitchen opened up to the left, in this one it opened to the right. There were only two doors- a front door that led to the parking lot and a back door that opened up to a small fenced in yard behind the building. It was a tiny, cramped little place, but it would be perfect for Myra. It was cheap, close to her new job and cleaner than the other places she’d seen. Debbie continued to prattle on about how the apartment was “basically the same” as the other one she had already showed Myra, when her cell phone rang. Debbie paused to look at the screen. “Like I was saying,” she continued, looking at the phone, “There’s just the one difference. Hold on, this is Freddy, I need to take it.” Debbie stepped into the living room to answer the phone while Myra checked out the kitchen. Apartment-sized washer/dryer combo. Fridge. Microwave. Everything was sort of a plain, sterile, eggshell white. Kitchen window that overlooked the parking lot. Back door. Yep, everything’s the same she thought, completing her mental checklist. Myra smiled when Debbie returned to the kitchen. “Sorry about that,” she began, “wanted to make sure Freddy hadn’t rented this one too.” They both chuckled. Debbie never got to finish the tour. A moment later, Myra told her she would take the place, and they started in on the paperwork. That night, Myra drove back to Alabama and returned with her meager belongings two days later. She carried in her few boxes, and her small coffee table by herself, and basked that night in the glory of her first real apartment, lying on her air mattress and texting pictures of her new place to her friends. \*\*\*\*\*\* Myra got home from her first day at work completely exhausted. This would only be her 2nd night in her new apartment, and she kind of wanted to unpack… but she also kind of wanted to crash into her bed and sleep for the next 12 hours till she had to be back at work. She decided unpacking would wait till the weekend. It was already dark and she was hungry, so she shuffled from her bedroom to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the remnants of last night’s pizza and popped it in the microwave, pouring herself a glass of water from the tap as she waited. She was just about to return to her air mattress with her pizza when she heard something at the back door. Setting down her food, she walked to the back door, eyeballing the deadbolt to make sure it was locked. Rising to her tip toes, she looked through the peephole, but it was completely black. She stood still for a long moment, holding her breath, listening. Nothing. She turned back toward her pizza, reaching for a slice, when a sudden pounding came from the door. A frantic, sudden knocking, like someone was in trouble. Myra nearly screamed, the knock came so suddenly. Turning back to the door, she leaned in once again to the peephole. Nothing. Myra leaned her ear toward the door. “Hello?” Silence. She nearly ran to the front door, checking out the window. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe the knock had come at the front door? But no, there was no one there. She could see her doorstep clearly in the lights from the parking lot. But who would be at the back door? It was a fenced in yard, wasn’t it? She hadn’t actually seen HER yard, she had seen the yard connected to the other apartment, the first one she’d seen. But Debbie had told her this apartment was basically the same- Wait. Maybe that was the difference. Maybe her yard *wasn’t* fenced in. Another knock at the back door. This one a louder, dull, booming knock. “Who’s there?” Myra called out, hoping to hide the tremble in her voice. No response came. “Do you need help?” she shouted, closer to the door. Again, no response. She waited another long, tense minute. And the door handle started to move. “Hello?” Myra yelled as loud as she could. She ran to the door, making sure the deadbolt was locked tight. “Who’s there? Do you need help?” she yelled. The door handle wiggled, as someone on the other side attempted to twist it open. Myra ran to her bedroom and snatched up her cell phone. She dialed 911 and ran back to the kitchen. The doorknob continued to wiggle. “I’m calling the police!” Myra yelled, this time sure the fear in her voice was audible. The operator answered. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Yes, there’s someone trying to come into my house, they’re at the back door...” Myra gasped, tears starting to well up in her eyes. “Ok. Is your door locked?” “Yes, of course. Please send someone, my address is …” Myra ran to her front door. “I don’t know, I just moved here, I think I have something in my car-” “Don’t go outside!” the operator warned her. “There could be someone out front waiting for you to run. You have to stay inside the house.” “Oh God. Ok, ok” Myra began to hyperventilate. “Ok, I live in the apartments by the river, um...across the street from the park.” “Ok, is it on Elm? Sycamore? Cherry street?” “Yes! That’s it, Cherry street, they’re on cherry street.” “Ok, someone will be there in just a couple of minutes. Try to stay in the house. Lock yourself in the bedroom if you can. Stay on the line with-” BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Myra jumped at the sound. It was coming from the door. It sounded like someone was trying to kick it open. She could see the door tremble with each kick. “Oh God, he’s trying to kick down the door!” Myra shrieked at the operator. “Does your bedroom door lock? Can you lock yourself in the bedroom?” “I don’t know, I just moved in, I think it does…” Myra ran to her bedroom. Behind her, she heard the booming continue. Just before she slammed the bedroom door she could see the doorframe shuddering, coming loose from the wall. Myra screamed again, an unintelligble cry of horror. She clicked the little lock on the bedroom door in place and scrambled into the closet. She could hear whoever it was pounding at the door now, she was certain they were trying to knock it down. The doorknob rattled so much that she was afraid it would just fall off. She had no idea how long she’d been in the bedroom, but her heart pounded, causing her head to throb as blood shot through her veins. She could feel herself blacking out, black spots began to appear around the edges of her vision. Then, all of a sudden, she realized- she didn’t hear anything. The noise had stopped. Gasping for air, she could hear the 911 operator on the other end of the line asking her what was going on. “I...I don’t know” she stammered. “It… stopped”. Myra strained her ears to hear. She stared at the bedroom door, as though that might help her hear what was happening on the other side of it. Then the doorknob began to rattle. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Two hours later, it was all over. The police had checked all around the apartments, not just Myra’s but for a block all around. Myra was a gibbering mess, still locked in her bedroom when they’d found her. The landlady, Debbie, had let them into the apartment since Myra wouldn’t come out. They’d found her unconscious in the bedroom closet, clutching her phone, still on the line with the 911 operator. The operator told them that she had just kept screaming about someone trying to break down the back door of her apartment, saying she could see it coming off the hinges. After a long while, they’d finally gotten her calmed down. They’d given her a bottle of water and even brought out the paramedics to look her over, but she was fine, physically. Myra hadn’t even tried communicating with them for the first hour, she just sat on her air mattress while Debbie held her hand, assuring her it would be ok. When she finally had talked, the officer in charge had written some notes down on a small notepad, then went into the other room to talk with Debbie, leaving Myra alone for a few minutes. They returned in a few minutes, asking Myra if she felt well enough to come talk to them. Myra came into the kitchen, still very emotional, but she managed to tell them most of the story without sobbing. The officers on scene looked at her sternly, looking back and forth, occasionally asking questions like “This door?” and “From over here?”. When she finished her story, the officers in the room exchanged glances, and two of them left the apartment without a word, leaving her alone with what looked to be the oldest of the officers and Debbie. “So Myra,” the officer began. “You’re absolutely certain this is the door they tried to come in?” he said, nodding at the kitchen door one last time. Myra nodded. “Definitely. I could see the door shaking from him kicking it.” The officer looked at Debbie. Debbie looked from the officer to Myra and took Myra’s hand. “Come here sweetie. Let me show you something.” Debbie led Myra to the door. Myra shuddered, but Debbie pulled her tight. “Shhh. It’s ok. Look.” Debbie put her hand on the doorknob. “Remember, I told you this apartment was a little different than the other one. And I just wanted to show you what I meant.” Debbie let go of Myra’s hand and turned the deadbolt. She twisted the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. Myra’s mouth hung open. Her eyes widened and her heart leapt into her throat. “This is the only thing that’s different about this apartment. There was a little mix-up with the surveyors and the property lines when this place was built and it turned out that we didn’t actually own the land behind this one, so… Well honey, This door doesn’t go outside. It’s a closet.” There, on the other side of the door, was a small, shallow pantry, lined with shelves. Myra shook her head. “There must have… been somebody in there” Debbie shook her head. “No sweetie, there’s just no way. Nobody could fit in here, there’s no room. It’s all shelves. Tears welled up in Myra’s eyes again. “That’s impossible. That’s impossible.” “There there Dear. Come on. Lets go sit down. Do you have anyone I can call?” Debbie led Myra out of the room, her arm over her shoulder. The elder officer contemplated the scene for a few moments after they were gone. Drugs? She didn’t seem like the type. Maybe she heard something else and just panicked? The landlady had told him this was her first time living away from home. He shook his head. They’d probably never know. He took one last look into the closet with his flashlight and thought, just for a second, when the light caught the thin layer of dust on the linoleum floor just right...he might have seen something that could’ve been a footprint. The officer ran his own foot across the dusty floor of the pantry cabinet a few times, just to make sure nobody else thought they saw something that clearly couldn’t have been there.


TW: Eating disorders, Mental illness You’re cool, everyone says you are with your skate board and your CDG Converse and that Pulp Fiction hoodie. You aren’t like every other basic person. You own your style and everyone knows it. You skate into the village, a rout taken nearly daily, keeping to the flat paths and gentle curbs, your cloudy brain is easily ignored. When you arrive you are breathless and heart working over time, but you brush it off as normal. The co-op is busy, full of afternoon shoppers but you’ve got to get them. You nearly ran out. Grabbing a sugar free monster you weave to the checkout – making it to the packs of gum. The life savers that are packs of gum. Taking four packs you go to pay, handing over the money with slightly trembling hands – ugh the black coffee. You make your way out – open the can to ingest more caffeine and wait. Your friends turn the corner and you smile. You hug. Enjoy the feeling of how thin you feel in your friend’s arms. They don’t tend to notice shedding of weight –you’ve always been thin, it’s natural. You get a head rush when you begin to walk, but you’ve perfected of the art of walking it off, making it unnoticeable to the others. ‘chips?’ one asks ‘ate at home’ you reply ‘ but you guys get them, I don’t mind’ They agree to get some chips. You chat about school and people you don’t like, people you find funny and what music is good. You don’t care. All you want is to tell them it. You need to say it. But you can’t. Never has a secret wanted to come out so bad but is held on to so tight. ‘teach me how to skate?’ One asks ‘ it looks cool’ ‘sure’ I said ‘ keeps you fit as well’ That was odd, it slipped out so easy, you need to be more careful – no talk of weight or keeping fit, people might wonder. ‘you can use my old board if you like’ you suggested ‘ I can drop it round tomorrow’ We parted. You began the skate home, you are wobbly – too wobbly. Slipping off on to your feet was no problem, just a bit of a piss take. When you are empty it happen often. You walk the rest of the way home at rapid speed – enough to get your heart rate up. At home, your mum asked if you need dinner. ‘no we got chips’ a simple reply. Mum looks worried. Your clothes are getting baggier and you face is pale, she notices how much water you drink and coffee you consume. You push her concerned looks out of you mind and begin to undress once you make it to your room. Avoid mirrors. Don’t look down. In and out as quick as you can. The rules of showering. Once you’re clean you step on to the scales. A balloon of joy fills you. You’ve lost more than usual. That extra skate did it. You update you weight tracking app and see your BMI fall, another smile creeps along your face. You enter the food you ate today into your diary. Under 500 cals – your daily goal and more happiness. These endorphins consume you for only a small amount of time. You get into bed in pain, feel your stomach yearning for something – you drink to shut it up and take a laxative for good measure to get any food out so you’ll be lighter in the morning. You haven’t relived yourself in days, you’re constantly constipated as you intestines are never used and heavily abused. Sleeping with three blankets is the only way you keep warm. You think of what you’ll have to eat tomorrow as you try and drift off. Planning how you’re able to avoid dinner by dropping that skate board round, planning on what exercise you can do when and thinking of strategies to relive hunger. You cry. This is your life. Pain, hunger, loneliness. All to control that number on the scale, to have the perfect body – when deep down you know that it will never happen. You know this cycle of pain will just make you see yourself in a worse and worse way and you’ll never be satisfied with that number. You wonder what it is like to not think of food 24/7, you wonder what it’s like to be happy, you wonder what it’s like to be full.