What happens when you receive an email meant for someone else? Forward, delete, spam. I was the delete type. Admittedly, this had not always worked out for me, so I turned into a forward type. What if I had not changed? What a different life I’d be living, if I had deleted one email on one particular day. Monday morning promised to be ordinary. Bored! I swiveled in my office chair, wondering how I was going to make it through the rest of the day. I worked for a graphic design company which was up against a vital deadline. An S&P 500 company needed a facelift after an FBI investigation into their accounting irregularities had uncovered billions in misappropriated funds and led to the indictments of multiple company executives. The company hired us to produce a new graphic and slogan to become their new identity. Close of business was the deadline which had been pushed back twice already. There would be no extension this time. Deliver or refund millions in fees, otherwise wind up in court. And where do I fit in to all of this? I’m the account executive managing the client. Making promises, smoothing out deadline pushbacks, and acting as a liaison between the two companies when disputes arose. My paycheck generally said, “you’re crushing it,” but my free time was fleeting. Thus, no personal life. No wife, no children, and no real hobbies. But it was better than my former life. Waiting. Thirty minutes of waiting for an email from a product manager. Waiting normally was not so tedious. Walk around one of our building’s floors, find some talkative coworkers, and plan a Monday night out at a trendy bar somewhere in the city. That was my routine. But life has a way of forcing change upon us in a manner in which we cannot see coming. A chime! Email arrived. No, this isn’t right. The email was from my client and the subject line read: out of time. What the fu-k?! My mind went straight to fires, alarms, disaster. I am not a miracle worker. Talk can only smooth out a problem so many times. Likelihood of my client accepting another deadline failure. ZERO! I hovered the cursor over the subject line, dreading the content, but did not click the mouse. The email was addressed to William.Gregory@ESOgrafix.com. Right company, wrong recipient. And who the hell was William Gregory? He was not even in our email directory. Oh, how I wanted to delete it, but I once made the mistake of deleting another employee’s misdirected email and received a written warning. Serious violation. Better pay a visit to Chuck in IT. And here is where I threw myself down the metaphorical rabbit hole. I clicked on the email. What can I say? I was curious. Body of the email: they know get me out protocol steps mia JKvie c, 7, 3 -*----**- What? Who gets an email like this? Why did I open it? Yet, part of me was satisfied that I did. Someone was in trouble and trouble was not boring. Print. I retrieved the printout and looked around for my manager, Sylvia. And there she was, standing near the entrance to the IT wing. Well, I can handle abuse. As I approached, she stopped giving orders to a flustered assistant. “Where are you going David? The restroom is that way and nothing is down here except IT and the side exit.” “Relax Sylvia. I’m not fleeing the building. I promised you I’d never duck out again on a big deadline day. Going to see Chuck. Email problem. Not with mine. Got one meant for William Gregory.” Sylvia’s eyes widened just enough for me to notice. “David,” she began, hurrying over to me. I stopped dead in my tracks. “You don’t know?”

I made a what-are-you-talking-about face. “Sylvia. What’s the mystery?” “William’s dead.” I had not expected that. “Old age?”

“No!” Sylvia looked around and then leaned in a bit too close for my comfort. “He died in an accident. At least that’s what the NYPD reported, at first. In the New York Times this morning, it said the FBI was now investigating it as a murder. Part of an ongoing investigation.” Nope. Did not like the sound of that. “Then I better go see Chuck about this email.” As I jogged down the IT wing, I tried to reason out William’s death. Maybe he had owed money to the wrong person. You never know. I knocked on Chuck’s door. “Enter!” As I went in, the sunlight streaming in through the room’s tall windows was half blinding.

“What is it David? Something important because I don’t have time to bullsh-t. Email server fu-ked up again. Hundreds sent all over the place, some went external.” He followed up that greeting with some techy jargon. “Great Chuck. I was dying of boredom out there and now you’re going to put me to sleep with that incomprehensible tech talk. I’m here because of one of those misdirected emails.” He did not look up but offered an “ugh-huh,” while typing. “It was meant for William Gregory.” “That guy’s dead!” erupted Chuck, looking up at me. “Glad I have your attention, and yes, Sylvia just filled me in on that. FBI thinks it may be a murder.” “No sh-t.” Chuck scratched his balding head. “You still have the email?” I slapped the hard copy onto his desk. He read it over and shook his head. “Don’t like this. No…this…this is bad. Oh my God, they’re trying to kill me. I can’t take this stress. I’m only human!” “Who’s trying to kill you, Chuck?” I held back a smile as I went to a window, admiring the city skyline. One day, Chuck had been hit by a bus and miraculously walked away unharmed. Ever since, he had been convinced that whatever deities ran this crazy universe were intent on finishing up the job they had messed up. “It’s payback. I cheated death, and now the carnival overseers are pissed off,” he often said something like this. “Who do you think’s trying to kill me?! Same malevolent forces as always. I should’ve stayed home. My wife told me to call out sick. She knew. Oh yeah, she knew.” “What about the email? It’s weird, right? Addressed to a dead guy,” I tried steering him back on track. He re-read the email. “Come on Chuck. What are you thinking?” “Weird? Is that what you said? It’s a god d-mn nightmare!” Sylvia’s dramatics led to more work, so they annoyed me. Chuck’s dramatics entertained even when life and death were concerned. He continued, “A young woman, named Mia, worked in my department for a few weeks under special circumstances. She was a government plant. Exposed that guy, Wambach, who was pilfering social security numbers and other data from contractors.” That statement caught me off guard. “You’ve got to be f-cking kidding me.” I went over to the desk and snatched up the paper, re-reading it. “You’re telling me all of this is real?” “Time to call the NYPD. Gotta report it.” “What about all these random letters, numbers, symbols? You’re a crypto genius. What do you make of it?” “I don’t do cryptography professionally anymore and how the hell am I supposed to know? It could be coded instructions or maybe nothing.” He was getting frantic, rummaging through drawers. “Where’s that blasted number?” He pulled out a yellow sticky note. “Aha, NYPD. I don’t know David. Maybe it’s a verification code so William would know Mia was the authentic sender of the message.” Boom. And there’s the Chuck genius that everyone knew. If he could eliminate his death paranoia, then he could be back working for the Department of Defense contractor, Xylive, that once hired him to develop and break codes. “David, back to your desk. Let me make this call.” Fifteen minutes passed. As I leaned back in my chair, sighing, my phone rang. I flew forward and picked up the receiver. “What happened?” “Get back in here.” Click. It was Chuck. This time, I ran down the hall. “How’d it go with the police? They issue a warrant on you yet?” Chuck considered for a moment. “Probably will. I could be wrongfully accused, convicted, and killed by my cellmate.” “Too morbid. What did the police say?” “A detective Lopez with homicide just left. He’s coming to speak to us.” “Well, that ruins my plans for tonight.” Just as I turned to leave, Chuck exploded. “I can’t believe I forgot.” “Whoa! Chuck. Easy.” “No, no, look.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and produced his cellphone. Going into a desk drawer, he pulled out a USB cord and hooked his cellphone up to a laptop. He rifled through photo folders. “There! That’s the riddle. The code is the key.” “Chuck, did I graduate from MIT like you? I’ll tell you this. I know that’s a computer,” I said pointing to his laptop. “Cut the jacka-s routine. It’s all there.” He pointed to the screen which displayed a street map with a grid over it. “See around the grid’s edges. The capital and lower-case letters.” He referenced the email print out. “JK,” he moved his finger down vertically on the screen; “vie,” he moved his finger across. “There’s the correct square. Around each individual square are numbers and lower-case letters. Apply the same method with the “c” and “7” and that’s probably the place. Not sure about the last “3.” Could be the third floor.” Intriguing. “What was Mia like?” “Odd. Went out of her way to disappear into the background. William was a systems analyst for me and once I caught them speaking in a confidential manner. When he died, I was obligated to go through his email and ensure nothing was suspicious. Legal wanted to know if he had been threatened or did anything illegal. The only unusual item I found was an email from Mia with this scrollable map of NYC. I’d never seen anything like it, so I saved it onto my phone. I highlighted it when I submitted all of his data to legal but never heard anything.” “Look at you, master code breaker.” “Looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon with this detective.” “Wait, wait, wait. Mia was a government mole who kept to herself but had some kind of contact with William. What if he was one too? There’s a puzzle piecing together and it looks bleak.” “My whole life is a puzzle that’s falling apart,” Chuck added. A profound thought awoke within my mind. “I need to make an admission. Before I came to ESO, I was an Army ranger.” “No kidding. You don’t seem like the take-orders type,” laughed Chuck. “I’m not. Command had a group of us stationed out in eastern Afghanistan during the latter part of the war. On what turned out to be my final day of patrol, we stumbled upon a tough scene.” I related the rest of the story as though I was reliving it. In a way, that’s how it felt. “Another ranger in my group hears a scream. Five of us, including our translator, go into a house to investigate. During entry, our lead guy shoots two men who are armed with assault weapons, and we secure two others who are unarmed. Second room is locked. We break through and find five women in rough shape. Our translator tells us they were kidnapped. Probably being sold off or who knows what. He tells us that these frantic women are saying there’s a dead body in the last room. Turns out, there is a body, and the woman had screamed just before she was shot. That’s what we had heard. After three brutal months of patrol, I lose it. Go back into the first room and execute one of the kidnappers. Shoot at the second one but miss because the other rangers are already wrestling me to the ground.” I paused. “The rest was a nightmare. Court martial. Pronounced guilty of the military justice equivalent of reckless homicide. A year and a few months in a military prison. Dishonorable discharge. VA, counseling, anger management. Pulled myself together and connected with a veteran friend who knew someone at ESO. And here I am.” “You have some real resiliency. I wouldn’t have survived all of that,” admitted Chuck. “Now, what’s the connection between your story and this?” He held up the email. “I couldn’t save that one woman on that one day all those years ago, but I can save this woman. Where is she?” “You’re not going there?! I gave the NYPD the address. Let them handle it. You won’t even get inside.” “I have to do something. Trust me.”  Chuck relented and gave me the address, which was less than a ten-minute walk away. “The police will send a SWAT team and that takes time. I may be too late, but I have to try.” “Look forward to reading your obituary tomorrow.” *** Driving past the place, I knew it was a bad situation. The three-story building was set back on a private lot with visible security cameras and no one in sight. At least you came prepared. Dressed in a suit, I wore a bulletproof vest beneath and a modified holster with a handgun, silencer attached. All of this equipment had been secure in my trunk. Call it PTSD or paranoia, but maybe I was more like Chuck than I cared to admit. After parking out of sight, I walked to the building’s front door and knocked. As soon as the door opened, I pulled my weapon. A teenager had answered the door and he had been holding a piece of pizza but now it lay on the floor. “Don’t shoot me! Mia’s upstairs. She’s been waiting for you.” I turned him around to face opposite me. “You’re my human shield. Don’t do anything except what I tell you, if you want to make it out of here. Only speak, if I ask you a question or tell you to say something. How many people are in here?” “Just me and Mia.” Something about him rang true but I needed proof. “Take me to her.” My hostage was clenched up and walking stiffly but managed to lead me up two flights of stairs. The place was quiet, possibly abandoned. We arrived at the third floor which had no hallway; the steps ended abruptly at a small landing and then there was nothing but a single door. “She’s inside.” “Open it.” He turned the handle and pushed the door open. No lock? No guards? Why the surveillance cameras? “Move,” I instructed, and we went in. The room’s interior reminded me of Chuck’s home office. Monitors everywhere, on desks, on the walls. Servers in one corner. Wires running like vines. Blinking lights. It was a lot to take in. “Where is she?” That’s when I felt the point of a gun press into my back. A soft, dangerous voice spoke, “Let him go and slowly hand me your weapon.” I obeyed and the teen ran out of my sight. What could I do? Making a move with my back turned to her was a low probability maneuver. “What do you see in front of you?” she asked. There was a blank white wall. Great. She’s insane. I’m not going to be able to talk my way out of this. Just need to wait for the right moment and then make a fluid move to disarm her. Need to test her out first. “Where’s William? He’s not really dead, is he?” No response. “Ok. It’s a white wall. That’s what’s in front of me.” Again, she said nothing. We stood there, listening to the symphony of computer sounds and staring at a wall. Then, something happened that I will never forget. My world changed. No, it altered forever. I felt her breath and her hair against the side of my neck and cheek as she leaned in and whispered. “Look.” I stopped blinking and stared, mesmerized, at the changing wall before me. No projector screen, no light shining onto it. How is this possible? The image of the wall grew fuzzy, wavy, out of focus. It dimmed and blurred. And then, beyond explanation, there was no wall and there was no room. But I was not outside the building. We stood on a busy sun-drenched sidewalk lined with palm trees and across from a boardwalk. Shirtless men carrying surfboards, women in bikinis, music, cars, kids on bikes. I felt the heat rising off of the asphalt, the sun hitting my exposed skin. I smelled the salty sea air and caught a whiff of coconut lotion. Tears came to my eyes. My legs felt light and I was dizzy. “ What are you doing to me ?” “You don’t know what you walked into when you stepped through that door,” said Mia. “What…I don’t understand. Am I hallucinating?” “Think. What happened?” I was in a room and now I’m at the beach. One place and then another. “Are we still in the room?” “Yes and no.” “Same place, different time?” “Still in the present.” “My God. A wormhole.” “No, but close enough.” The gun lowered off of my back, and I felt her hands pulling me back, back into the room. Everything looked the same. Overwhelmed and nauseous, I collapsed to the floor. Mia stood over me. “You’ll get used to it. There are many places that await us.” “ Us ?” “You proved yourself.” I simply stared at her. She spoke, “ The email . It wasn’t an accident. William chose you.” I heard the SWAT team breaking down the building’s front door. But then, I felt the same lurching pull, and we were off again.


"Today's the day, Sam. Today's the day we finally do it." “What if they’re onto us?” I replied, my eyebrows wiggling as I tracked a shifty-looking fellow who shuffled past the giant window of the infamous Coyote Café for the third time in less than a minute. Though it was common for people to need to work up the nerve to eat at the worst-rated restaurant in Seattle, this guy seemed to be looking for someone, and I didn’t trust how roughly he kept yanking on the leash of a dopey-looking Dalmatian who couldn’t stop trying to gobble dog biscuits from the café’s “Pets Welcome” basket.

“Not a chance, not unless you spilled our secret,” Lily hissed in my ear, her damp body pressed into mine. I turned my head and stared into her blue eyes, looking for a hint of distrust. I've always been well-known for being loyal, but you never knew with a creature like Lily, the type willing to do anything to survive. When she didn’t blink, I looked away and pretended to scan a menu, embarrassed by the collar of shame she so easily draped round my neck.

“Today's the day,” she repeated, and I could feel her shiver just so; the thin cotton poncho clinging to her small frame did nothing against the biting wind that had shaped tiny raindrops into icy daggers, and she'd gotten fairly soaked on the short walk over. Her mood had quickly turned sour as it always did when she got wet. There were plenty of various water-repellent and plastic ponchos available for her to wear on our daily outings, but she refused, the soft cotton poncho the only protection she was willing to wear. She wouldn’t even stand under an umbrella, glaring at the mere offer. I think she resented going out in the rain more than ever these days, especially when we were so close, but she knew I liked it and didn't outwardly fight the routine, her increasing sulkiness my only clue.

I leaned back into her, and while she stopped shivering, her body remained as tense as ever. Two years younger than me and twice as intense, twice as impulsive, and more than anything else, twice as angry. She had every reason to be, and for the life of me, nothing I said made a dent in her rage. I sure tried. But that was a long time ago.

“You’re in the mood for something different?” She noticed, but I wanted to keep pretending I had a choice. “What?” I replied, putting my best innocent puppy face on. “Sam, you know you’re going to get the fish.” I rolled my eyes. Lily hated the Coyote Café.

“Go ahead then, get something else,” she said with a toothy grin, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She was trying to read my mind even though it never worked. I’m the only one in the entire world she can’t get into. I have no idea why, and sometimes I think that makes her even madder about the whole situation. I looked over to the menu once more, I think just to annoy her, but maybe there was another reason, one I still can’t wrap my head around. “The nachos look good.” Lily just adjusted herself with that little growl she liked to make when she thought I was being stupid. Sighing, her eyes darted around the restaurant. She looked at all the people sitting in booths and on wooden chairs, silently judging every single one of them. She couldn’t fathom how I enjoyed people-watching so much, but that’s because of what she could do.

Lily could read their minds, and that’s why she hated them. I couldn’t do that. Minds are a locked prison to me, but emotions? Emotions I know. I can smell how any other being feels, how fear is the root of anger and love is the balm that soothes them both. And that was the exact reason Lily and I viewed humanity differently. I felt like there was a redemption arc possible. Lily was in favor of a violent reckoning.

When the food arrived, I was ready to give up the joke and scarf down my sardines, settling into a food coma until it was time to leave. Most dishes were off-limits to us, but it was Lily who was so offended by the mainly vegetarian and vegan menu. The only animal protein they served was fresh-smoked sardines and crackers, and she thought it was overcooked every time, but I liked it because I could eat the bones. “Well, that’s because you like your fish damn near still swimming, and you’re spoiled at home with fancy feast after fancy feast,” I once teased, and she gave me a scathing look.

“What an improvement that’d be,” she’d said, arching her back deeply before licking her chops as the waiter approached. She finished every bite that night and still complained. Now here we were, so close to achieving what we originally set out to do once we discovered our abilities, and she had no idea that I started to have my doubts about everything. Two weeks ago I started questioning if this was what I wanted or if I had just been going along with her plans. There was a bond between us, our incredible powers uniting us in a way others couldn’t have predicted. I was confused. If we succeeded, everything would change. It would be a leap into the unknown, bounding into the mysteriousness of a road previously untraveled. We had no idea what would happen, but we knew we’d be free. Me, Lily, and the others. So many others. All we had to do was play it cool for a few hours more and finish the job. For two weeks I fretted. Fourteen days I went in circles, unable to rest. 336 hours of stress.

If I’m being honest, I cracked a little under all the pressure. To be fair, I was worried we’d start something we couldn’t undo, and with such unpredictable potential consequences, I couldn’t stop chasing the ball in my head, back and forth, back and forth. I was Lily’s number one, and she was mine, but we were, at our cores, fundamentally different beings, and I developed some kind of separation anxiety as I imagined never seeing them again. My stomach growled as the most intensely rich aroma wafted under my nose, so very different from the briny scent of fish, and before I knew it, a giant bowl of nachos plunked down in front of me. Lily’s eyes widened in shock. In an instant, I knew it was over.

Our plans, our dreams. We weren't going through with any of it. To this day I don’t know what possessed Mark and Tina to order nachos for me. I just knew Lily would never let it go. She always worried I had a secret relationship with them. She once accused me of choosing them over her because they had opposable thumbs and could fry bacon. “Man’s best friend,” she’d say with a swish of her tail. “They think you’re a dumb beast, Samantha, and they’ll put you down the moment you become the slightest burden like they've done with every shepherd that's come before you,” she’d tell me. “We don’t need them. All we need is each other.” I didn’t spill the beans. I don’t know why they got me nachos that day, and while I can still sense her plotting against the humans, Lily never spoke to me again.


THE DATE

Against my better judgment, I accepted the offer of a date from a guy called Shane. I simply did not want to go.

I’d known him since I was six and he was eight. Our mothers were best friends, our parents socialized. Well, as much as my parents did so with other couples. They both worked very hard, and of an evening it was all they could manage to come home, have dinner, and collapse onto the sofa or into a recliner and watch a cop show flit by on the television.

I went through school with Shane, and witnessed him go from a nerdy kid who liked comic books, to a borderline scary redneck who had a rifle rack in his jacked up pick up truck. He dated girls with big hair and even bigger mouths, the kind who smoked in the high school’s basement bathroom and called me a dweeb out of the corners of their frosty lipsticked mouths.

“Why does he want to go out with me?” I asked my mom. I had a feeling, deep down, that it wasn’t going to go well.

“I don’t know, but he does, so just go.” She was annoyed with me, so I agreed, not wanting to mar her relationship with her best friend. I wanted his mom to still like me, too, because she was a nice lady who acted like I was someone special.

Shane and I talked on the phone briefly before the big night. “Do I dress up or is this casual?” I asked.

“Casual, wear whatever you want,” he assured me. I took him at his word, wearing my favorite green shirt, jeans, and a pair of Van’s. He, of course, comes to the door dressed like he’s going to the opera. He told me I didn’t have time to change. I somehow got into his gigantic truck without the use of mountain climbing equipment or a Sherpa guide, and we set off for the closest “big city,” Fort Wayne.

“Here,” he said, turning on the radio and pushing the scan button over and over, each station emitting a brief blip before he moved on again, “let me find something you like. Orchestra music, right?” “Huh?” I managed, confused.

“Classical music,” he answered. “I figured that’s what you like.” Why would he think that? “No, put it on 92.3, that’s the alternative station. They play the good stuff. Classical music makes me sleepy.” He did as I requested, and made it halfway through a Smashing Pumpkins song before he turned the radio off completely. “I like country,” he muttered.

I never realized how far the 35 miles between my house and Fort Wayne could be until that night, riding in a vehicle with another person that kept yawning, who then only spoke to apologize for doing so. I tried chatting about TV. He doesn’t watch much. Books? No time to read. The only sport he liked was racing, which to me only rivals golf on the boredom spectrum. Soon I was out-yawning him 3 to 1.

We exited I-69 and swooped into the middle of a three-laned, gasoline-scented, white-knuckled hell ride, also known as the Summit City on a Saturday night. He swerved clear over to the right and flipped on the blinker because the seafood joint he was taking me to was basically under the very bridge we just crossed. I rubbed my poor stomach with trepidation. A restaurant. Under a bridge.

Getting out of the truck was even scarier than getting in, and I jumped, at first fearing a broken ankle, then realizing it might instead be a good excuse to go home. With nothing fractured, we walked into the place, and everyone inside craned their necks to see how dressed up I wasn’t. I made my way past the other diners and saw lobsters, dismembered and scraped hollow on their plates, and appealed to the gastronomical gods that there might be a cheeseburger somewhere on the menu.

No such luck. I ordered fettuccine alfredo and he ordered, what else, lobster.

“Why didn’t you order lobster?” he asked, on the verge of offense.

“I’m not really into seafood.” He laughed derisively. “You coulda told me that-“ “You didn’t tell me where we were going.” After a long silence I decided to display my casual knowledge of forensics. “You know, if a corpse is dumped in the ocean, lobsters will attach themselves to it and strip it of all soft tissue in a matter of hours.” The woman behind me must’ve been eavesdropping as I then heard a muffled, “Oh my God,” and a clank as her fork hit her plate. I allowed myself a twinge of guilt, but realized listening in is rude, and I felt like I was fighting for my life here amongst the overdressed boomers and red gingham tablecloths.

“Yeah, that’s gross,” he said as he wiped his brow and looked around the room.

I stared at him for a moment and realized he wasn’t a bad looking guy. He had glossy black hair, and a nice complexion. His eyes weren’t quite right though. Almost everyone goes crazy over blue eyes, but his were an eerie, pale shade, and stopped just this side of crazed.

Our orders arrived, and much to my disgust, they had inserted shrimp into my supposedly seafood-free meal. “Sea bugs,” I whispered as I worked to remove them from the pasta and cheese.

“What’d you say?” he asked between ear-splitting shell cracks.

“Sea bugs,” I repeated. “You know when you step on a big icky bug and goop comes out? This,” I said, stabbing a shrimp with my fork and holding it aloft, “looks like that goop.” “Oh, that’s it,” the woman behind me said. She got up to leave, swung her giant Vera Bradley bag onto her shoulder, and gave me a dirty look as she departed.

We were done soon as well, and I asked, “What’s next?” “I’ve got to find a way to salvage the evening,” he said under his breath as I tried to hoist myself up in his truck for the second time, only making it halfway on the first attempt, hanging there like Hans Gruber for a few moments. Another attempt and I was in the seat next to my companion for the evening, who had resumed his bad habit of yawning.

We hung a right onto Washington Center and wended our way down to one of the seediest places in the city, and that’s saying something. It was an Off Track Betting Center, housed in what was once a cafeteria-style restaurant. The lot was littered with bottles, smashed cigarette packs, and old cars, some held together with duct tape, Bondo, or both.

If the outside was bad, the inside was worse. It was sparsely furnished with a few sets of long tables and chairs, the walls were painted a dismal mauve, and somehow the stench of poorly prepared food still hung in the dank air. Maybe enough of it had spilled onto the hideous blue and green swirl patterned carpet. There was a counter where bets were placed, and a bank of televisions on the opposite wall, showing races and sporting events of every kind on dusty screens.

Shane went up to bet on something. To this day I’m not sure what. I didn’t ask. He came back with a couple of watered down sodas. I sipped mine, watched the other occupants of the hall, and heard him bitch about losing a lot of money for a good solid hour.

The only people having any luck at all were a group of Amish. There were four couples and their driver, a droopy little man with messy white hair, huge aviator glasses, dressed head to toe in blue fleece.

The Amish men would go up, bet, win, and apply their new loot to rolls of money as big as Christmas oranges. They then would return to their wives, who offered encouragement or even advice to their husbands, and the cycle would start all over again. While the men were away, one of the wives noticed me staring. I waved, and then they all waved back. They were lovely, cool and calm, their dresses in crisp shades of mint, periwinkle, coral, and shell pink. Something clean for my eyes to rest on in such a grubby setting.

After yet another loss of funds, my escort proclaimed that we were leaving. Walking out into the pitch black night, in that neighborhood, I wondered what he would do if we were suddenly beset by ne’er do wells. I sized him up as he strode angrily to his truck and figured I was probably on my own, which was not a pleasant feeling.

I scaled back into the truck, realizing I was actually getting better at it by now, closed the door, and waited for the right moment to say something. He turned on the heater full blast so I practically had to shout, “Now I get to pick something to do.” He frowned at me and asked, “Like what?” “It’s a big city. Drive around. I’ll know it when I see it.” We drove up Coliseum, and turned into the mall. No, I said, not it. Drove around by the cheapo movie theater. Definitely no. But there, across a rough, overlooked parking lot just across from Target, was a little white house with purple neon sign in the front window - PALM READER.

“That’s it! Stop!” We inched across the lot, which was more pothole than pavement, and parked right in front. Still open, no wait, my luck was about to change.

We walked in, and it was a home, the front door opening directly on the living room, which doubled as the waiting area. A disinterested teenage girl went to get her mom, who then beckoned us into her dining room. The violet hue of the sign permeated both spaces, lending an air of mystery to an otherwise very domestic scene.

She had me sit at the head of the table and Shane to my right. She sat on my left, and took my left hand in both of hers. She leaned down, studying each line carefully, as I examined the hutch across from me, filled not with plates, but statues of the Virgin Mary and several tall candles of varying colors. Some were lit, some were not, and the wavering flames began to lull me into a sort of hypnotic state. I tore my eyes away to study the palmist herself; petite, mid fifties, her hair dyed black, with grays just beginning to peep through at the part.

“Ok,” she began, patting my hand as a signal that I could withdraw it. “You recently lost your father. Right?” I could only nod. “He says you were with him at the end. What you said helped him cross, and he’s very grateful.” True, all true. I sat there with my mouth hanging open, still unable to speak.

“He wants to remind you of the promise you made to him. This one,” she warned, pointing at my date, “can’t help you with it.” Her eyes went from him to me. “You will get married, but not to each other. You,” again directing her attention back to Shane, “will marry twice. You, honey, will only marry once, but it will be for life.” For life? Almost sounded like a prison sentence.

“You’re a writer, and I see you surrounded by the things you’ve written. Write every day, it brings you joy.” Joy, great, I thought. I need it to bring me money.

She stopped abruptly and I knew the reading was over because she then extended her own palm. I paid her the $20 fee and we walked out into the cold night air. I realized I was shaking and sweating.

On our way home, between yawns, Shane remarked on her accuracy. “How’d she know that about your dad? And why’d she say that to me, about getting married twice? She never even looked at my hand.” “The palm reading is a cover,” I reasoned. “She’s really some sort of mind reader, that’s all I can figure.” “What’d you promise your dad, if you don’t mind me asking?” “Uh, you know, you’ll promise anything to someone when they’re sick. To make them happy, keep them calm.” “What was it?” he insisted.

I was suddenly very embarrassed, and hesitant to share, but I figured he wouldn’t let it go. I sighed, and spit it out. “I promised him that I would get married and find a guy to take care of me, so he wouldn’t have to worry about once he was gone.” “Sounds like he is worried.” “I hope not, because it’s certainly not going to be easy,” I said, almost to myself.

“Well, from what I’ve seen tonight, it’s probably going to be impossible,” he grumbled.

I felt completely defeated. All I tried to do was make everyone happy by going on this ill-considered date, and then when it went pear shaped, I resolved to rescue the evening by adding a little lighthearted fun to the entire ordeal. I expected the palm reader to be an old fraud, and make wildly amusing and horribly inaccurate predictions about us both. What she did instead was draw the curtain back on a painful memory, and open it up to commentary from someone whose opinion I didn’t care about one iota. There was nothing of that nerdy, nice kid left in him.

Now he would tell his mother he had a rotten time, his mother would tell my mom, and in turn she would be disappointed in me for being such a social nightmare.

I needn’t have drawn such a gloomy portrait of things to come. I’d underestimated Shane’s willingness and ability to fib, and his reluctance to disappoint people he actually cared about. He eventually told both his mother and mine that he had a “glorious” time.

I’ll always remember it as miserable.


Stuck

“Don’t look under the bed.” Mom said and gave me a good night kiss.

“Why?” I just had to ask.

“Your favorite question again. ‘Why, why, why.’ Well, you might find something you don’t want there. That’s why. Good night.” Mom left the room with the door slightly opened so I could see the hallway light. Then again in the morning, the light was always off. That spooked me each time when I thought about it.

Now, here is a different situation, I thought.

Why did Mom tell me not to look under the bed? I’d never dreamed of looking under the bed if she didn’t mention it. Why would I? All I will find are half-broken toys, candy wrappers, or possibly a dead mouse since I haven’t heard it running through the ceiling.

Curse you, Mom.

I closed my eyes and all I could think of was what was under the bed.

There should be nothing I couldn’t imagine.

Oops, I used the I-word.

Imagine.

“You can do this. Use your imagination.” That was what Mrs. Koncharofsky would say when we had to do any work in the classroom.

“What is 7 times 13? Use your imagination.” She would say.

If I can imagine the answer, why am I here to learn how to multiply numbers? I should be home imagining what I want for my lunch and what presents Santa Clause should bring to me under the tree.

In time, I was getting sleepy. I should go to bed. After all, I have school tomorrow. I need to save all the imagination for what Mrs. Koncharofsky will ask me in the classroom.

I was ready to go to bed in a second if I didn’t hear a cry under the bed. It sounded like a growl. Very light and soft and wimpy growl.

“Use your imagination!” Mrs. Koncharofsky’s voice lingered in my head like a doorbell.

I don’t want to use my imagination! I shouted in my head.

Fortunately, I could not imagine anything could be under the bed, but unfortunately, I was not sleepy anymore.

I want to sleep! My heart was shouting at me. But my brain said I am wide awake! What shall I do?

Yes, I need to find out what is underneath the bed.

But why? It’s probably a cat. We don’t have a cat. A puppy? We don’t have a puppy either. Does Mom want to surprise me with a new pet? It’s a nice thought, but she isn’t that kind of a person. It’s not my birthday or Christmas. There is no chance of that.

“Use your imagination!”

Why? Mrs. Koncharofsky? Did you imagine that we need to start calling you by your new last name in the middle of the school year?

Yes, she was Miss Tanaka, and after a Thanksgiving break, she became Mrs. Koncharofsky.

Did you imagine that we had no problem understanding how the marriage system works in the United States? You should’ve kept your last name. It’s easier for us to pronounce and you don’t even look like one of Koncharofsky.

“We all need to accept one another.” That’s what she would say. In fact, her husband’s first name was Mike. When he proposed to her, she realized that she would become ‘Koncharofsky.’ She was already in love with him and all, so she said she accepted to become ‘Koncharofsky.’

Wait! I don’t have time to reminisce about my schoolteacher’s fond memory of her last name. There is something under the bed!

There was a cry again. This time, it was a bit louder but still sounded frail and weak.

I took a deep breath to brace myself. I crawled onto the floor like a snake and peeked under the bed.

There they were. Two enormous eyes shining like diamonds glared at me. There was a gigantic monster under the bed.

I couldn’t see anything else but those eyes. But they were not shined because of the evil power. They were filled with tears.

The monster growled again.

“Who are you?” I squeezed out my voice to ask that simple question.

“I’m a monster.” His voice was so gentle that I could barely hear.

“What are you doing down there?”

“I’m supposed to scare you.” “I’m kinda scared. Well done, now goodbye.”

“No, I can’t come out of here. I’m stuck.”

“How did it happen?”

“I am a big monster. I usually use the closet, but there is no closet in your room. So by default, I appear under the bed.” “That doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you know how big you’re?”

“Of course, I do. This is the first time this happened to me. You know everything has the first time.”

“Yeah, but this is stupid. You know today is a school night, don’t you? I have a math quiz tomorrow. And I’m not good at math, especially fractions.”

“Well, I apologize for the inconvenience. But if you’re not scared, I’ll be stuck here forever. Could you scream a bit?”

“I can’t do that. Mom will be mad at me. She’s the one who told me not to look under the bed. I don’t want her to know that I found you there.”

“You want me to stay here forever?”

“Frankly, I don’t care. I need to go to bed. You know, Mom vacuums every morning. Maybe that’s how you can get out of your predicament.”

“Predica-what?”

“Predicament.” “Whoa, you know a big word.”

“Don’t you know what predicament is? How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Jesus, I am nine. I thought you guys are a lot older than I am. So at eight, you start scaring human kids?”

“Well, kinda. We practice and need to pass the scaring test. I passed it two weeks ago. This is my second week.”

“It sounds like you’re an adult already.” “Well, I am on my own.”

“Where are your parents?”

“They are in Florida. They have already retired from scaring kids. They have pina colada and lie down on the beach.”

“Monsters, too, retire in Florida? I’ve never thought that would be possible.”

“There are a few beaches just for monsters although we can’t tell them apart from retired old humans from retired monsters. They all wear Hawaiians or moo moos with sunglasses.” “What are moo moos?”

“It looks like a big pillowcase. Very colorful, though.” “Who, I had no idea. We are very much alike to each other.” “You know, once, my mom sent me a photo with this humongous head monster in moo moos.” “Really?”

“Well, it wasn’t a monster standing next to her. It was an old lady with a towering hairdo. It looks like burning Eifel Tower.”

“That’s funny.” “It was….” “What’s wrong?” “I’m so stupid. I should be scaring you.”

“Well, but now I’m glad you’re here. I’m getting sleepy with your nice story.” “Really? Good to know.”

“Now I’m relaxed and don’t even think about the quiz tomorrow.”

“Fractions, huh? Would that scare you?”

“No, I just get nervous.” “You know what we do when we are nervous?” “What do you do?” “We imagine the zombies running around with their heads cut off.”

“That’s funny. We imagine the chickens instead of zombies, but zombies will do, too.”

“Good.” And the monster sighs deeply.

“What’s wrong?”

“I guess I’ll be stuck here forever. Don’t get me wrong. I am having a great time talking to you.” “Now you said that I can’t go to sleep thinking about you being stuck there forever.” “Sorry.” “Just say something a little scary. Then, I scream lightly. Okay?” “Okay, let’s see…. MOO!” “What’s that?” “Well, if I say BOO, that will surely scare you. I just wanted to scare you slightly.”

“Have you scared anybody before?”

“Of course, I have. I told you this is my second week.” “What age group?” “They are between three to eight.”

“So, I’m your first nine years old.” “Yes. You’re still a child, aren’t you?”

“Wrong, you are. We nine-year-olds are more sophisticated than those nose-running, underwear-smelling muddy foot scoundrels.” “I can see that from your choice of words.”

“So, you must set up the scene right to scare me. You have some power to do so, don’t you? Or do you just scream like a monster?”

“I am a monster.”

“So today is a good learning opportunity for you. You have a long career ahead of you as a scarer. You need to improve the technique to scare kids my age.”

“Okay, I’m beginning to feel lucky being stuck here.” “Good.” “First, you must create an eerie atmosphere. The door closes for no reason. The wind blows in and splatters the curtains.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t have those powers.”

“What do you have?” “I have large shiny eyes with pointy sharp teeth.”

“That’s scary. Good. What else?” “I can do a voice.”

“You mean, you can sound like someone else?” “Yes. Ahem… ‘We all love China, China, China, Let’s make America even greater again.’” “Are you sure you’re here to scare kids?” “I saw that on TV the other day in a kid’s bedroom. She left a TV on.”

“Who else can you do?”

“Let’s see… ‘Come down here, Samuel Moses Anderson! Right this second!” I screamed! The monster sounded just like Mom.

The door opened. There stood Mom. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Did you peak under the bed?” Mom smiled. “Of course, not.” I looked away from her. “Okay. Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?” “No. I’m too sophisticated for that.” “How about this?” Mom kissed me on my cheek. “Good night, Mom.” “Good night.” Mom left the room with the door slightly opened. I took a deep breath, and it became quiet in the room. I heard nothing from under the bed no more.

The End


I am bones sewn together by a sheet of pale chiffon, buried under six feet of quilted ennui. I am surrounded by cups left half-empty and unopened mail. Piles of unwashed clothes intermingle with take-out bags and bobby pins. In this little winter wasteland, there is only one footpath through all of the disarray, and it doesn’t even lead to the egress. There is no sound but the dripping of melted snow on peeling window panes. There is no smell or taste in the air. There isn’t even a purpose to breathe. There is nothing left of me. This is hibernation. Metabolic depression. Dormancy. Is this the winter where I finally let go? And would it be letting go, or getting taken? Would there even be a reason to go on once I push back these covers to reveal the shell of a human I created within just a few months? The cold has long since seeped into my marrow and into the very center of my brain.

They say that it gets better, and it does. Every year, it seems to get better once the sun begins to shine and the cold moves on to the other side of the world. Such a simple cure for a hidden disease. The Predicament, my mother calls it. “You’re in quite The Predicament,” she says. “Once The Predicament is gone, how about summer-ing in Maine?”. Some may think that the things my mother says are counter-productive, dismissive even. But, the thought of Maine in the summer warms my bones. The thought of once again leaving this Hibernation, this Predicament, and assimilating with daily life once again keeps me going. And yet, I can’t seem to lift this cover. I can’t find a reason to follow that one footpath to visit the bathroom, the only other room in this house I’ve been to in days.

And suddenly, I hear it, outside the window. It’s so faint, so far away. And then another. Birds. Those annoying ones that wait to sing until you roll over the first time in the morning as you try to settle farther down into your dreams. I’ve never heard birds sing so sweetly. I wonder what they’re saying to each other. Maybe they’re sharing ‘good morning's or ‘hello’s. I imagine the simple lives they lead. I question if they’ve ever had to deal with The Predicament. The Predicament receives its first blow, straight to the face. And then, I see it. Creeping up above the wet window pane. You’re early, I thought. A beautiful orange peeks at me from the thin space between the curtains. I’ve missed you, I thought again. The sun speaks, the sun knows, and I can’t wait to catch up on everything she has missed. I’m sure she can’t wait to hear what I have to say. She’ll absorb my words and thoughts and will burn brighter in return. She and I never talk about her going away once our time together is over. There are people in other hemispheres with The Predicament that have just as much to discuss with her. The birds get louder, different singers joining the choir. How long have they gone unnoticed by me? How many days? Weeks? Perhaps this is their first performance of the season, considering the ambiance the sun is giving them.

I want to taste the air.

I want to taste the melted snow that has begun its transformation from gloss on the grass to a barely-noticeable and damp warmth. The weak palpitations in my chest seem to get stronger, shallow breaths seem to finally reach the bottom of my lungs. The orange spotlight hurts my eyes and, yet, I can’t look away. She climbs higher and higher up the space between the curtains, coating this little winter wasteland in an apricot film. The whole house seems to sigh. I do the same. I’ve been this hungry before, but I’ve never been so hungry and so willing to eat at the same time. I’m willing. The Predicament receives its second jab, this time it seems to be detrimental. The Predicament is so real, so alive, and still so frail. It’s amazing how quickly a well-known killer can be apprehended right as its weapon comes down for one final and deadly strike. Amazing that the apprehender is a tiny stream of sunlight. The killer, The Predicament, is still there. It will never be truly quelled. It will simply be detained, thrown into a small jail cell in my mind for a few months, waiting for escape, waiting for reprisal. It will get me again and it will try to take back the progress I make while it’s gone. It will try to take the music, and the sun-kissed skin, and the sea away from me, and it will very likely succeed. It will take Maine, and bare feet, and biking. But, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and grasp onto all of the sun I can take. I am going to hold onto everything that can fit into my heart and soul. Still, it will get me again, like it does every year without fail. The sun will begin to hide for days at a time, the birds will lose their voices. The pressure to be merry and bright will make me do just the opposite. Mother will once again force vitamin D down my gullet, and she’ll return to her cycle of bringing my mail to my room once she notices the mound of paper surrounding the lonesome mailbox. The snow will cage everyone and myself inside and paint everything a sickly chalk. No sound, no smell, no taste. Blank, empty, and deadly. Hope will return as the theme of the season, but I’ll be the last one to hold onto it. The Predicament will find me again, and maybe it will finally get what it wants from me as I fail to fight back like I’ve done in the past. And still, the cover is lifted. Maybe next winter.


The end of the year is here. Christmas is here. I'm going home to Southport. I haven't been to Southport in a long time. I can't count how many times I dreamed of going back home. Like always I've been too busy but not this year. This year is my time off. My time to reconnect with my friends and family, to see Chase Sommers who I never stop thinking about. Too reconnect with Christmas and too reconnect with my home. Southport is so beautiful during this time of the year. I'm excited. The smile on my face is getting bigger and bigger with each passing minute. This past year has been a very good year for me. My single "Winter Love" reached No.1. My album soared to new heights. It was just the most amazing year. I couldn't ask for a better year. But I long for home. It's time for me to relax and enjoy the Christmas season the best way I know how with my friends and family. It's also a time to think about what the new year will bring for me. My mom is going to be happy to see me. I haven't told my mom I'm coming home. I want to see  the look on her face when she sees me. My mom has been my biggest supporter and my biggest fan. I hate disappointing her and I have disappointed her all the Christmases I missed. This time I'm going to make it right. My bags are packed. I'm ready to get the hell out of L.A. I walk out of my house and hop into my car. I'm on my way to the airport. As I look out into the streets of L.A. I wonder to myself how I kept my sanity. I've never been a city girl. I always loved the country. Why did I stay away from home for so long? Well. I'm not taking a commercial flight. I have my own private plane. I arrive at the private hangar. I get out of my car and grab my bags. I walk to my plane and walk up the stairs. I grab my seat and sit down. The plane begins to move out of the hangar and down the runway. My plane takes off. Southport here I come. I left Southport to purse my dreams of becoming a singer, songwriter. I always wanted to go back home but as my career continued to grow, I got to busy. I missed so much. I don't want to miss anymore Christmases. I close my eyes and dream of the last Christmas I spent with my family. Me, my mom, dad and brothers setting up the tree, hanging the lights around the house. Then me and my mom spent the rest of the day baking. My mom makes the most delicious cookies. I can taste my mom's famous gingerbread cookies. I can see my brother's arguing about which tree to buy. I was always the tie-breaker. I can't wait to see the snow. Southport always has a white Christmas. I open my eyes. My plane has landed in Southport. I grab my bags and hurriedly leave. The cold air hits me hard. My first taste of winter in a long time. My first taste of snow in a long time. My car is here. I get in and drive to Southport. Wow, look at the snow. It's so beautiful. I can't believe I'm here. I forgot how beautiful Southport is. I stop my car in Main Street. The shops are just how I remembered. Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is still alive and kicking. Mrs. Wheeler makes the best hot chocolate. Right next to Mrs. Wheeler's bakery is Jack's toy store. I love the toy store. I used to spend so many days there. The bookstore, oh how I love the bookstore. I got my first book there. I walk down the street taking everything in. The decorations look beautiful. I continue walking down the street until I come to Southport center. The big tree is up. The workers did a good job. I walk up to the tree without looking where I'm going. I bump into someone. I look up and see Chase. "Hi Chase." "Well. well. well it it isn't Southport's very own superstar, Amberlynn Rose." Wow, Chase looks more handsome than the last time I saw him. Say something to him. "I'm sorry for bumping into you." Chase's smile is so beautiful. Oh God! what is wrong with me? I'm acting like a love sick teenager. "I go to go. Nice seeing you, Chase." Chase Sommers, the hottest boy at Southport high and my high school crush, the boy I never forgot. The boy I always thought about. I look back at Chase, boy did he grow up. I walk back to my car, get in and drive home. Right there, the red house with all the decorations is where I grew up. I park my car. Here I go. I get out of my car, grab my bags and walk up the steps. I open the door and walk-in. The smell of gingerbread cookies hits me. "Mama." I call. My mother. My beautiful mother walks out of the kitchen. "My beautiful daughter. What a surprise?" I hug my mother tightly. I tell her "I'm home for Christmas." "This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Your dad and brothers are going to be so happy to see you." "Me too." I hug my mom once more. I go up to my room and unpack. My room looks the same. The pictures I took in high school are still on the wall. There is a picture of Chase  I took of him smiling. Later that night I ate dinner with my family. We talked. We laughed. I told them about my concerns about living in L.A. They understood. I love them so much. This what I missed spending time with my family. The next day I got up, got dressed and went downstairs to eat breakfast. The conversation was light and funny. My brothers are still the jokesters they've always been. They know how to make me laugh. After breakfast me and my mom head to town. My mom asks me to help set up for the Christmas concert. I always performed at the Christmas concert. It's how I started my music career. Southport is bustling with people. Some are shopping. Some are helping with the Christmas concert and there is Chase Sommers. I get out of the car and walk with my mother to the staging area. "Hello ladies." Chase says to us. "Hello Chase." My mother says. "Amberlynn, you can help Chase set up the chairs." I nod. My mother walks away. I turn back to Chase. "I, sorry about yesterday. I was tongue tied." Chase tells me "Don't worry about it. I'm glad you came home for Christmas." For the next hour me and Chase set up the chairs. We talk about a lot of things. Chase tells me what he's been doing since high school. Chase went to college to play football. He returned to Southport after a knee injury. Chase now works at Southport high as the football coach. I tell Chase about my life in Los Angeles. My career is going great. I tell Chase I miss home and I'm glad to be home for Christmas. Chase makes me laugh. He's still the same Chase always making those around him laugh. "Are you going back to L.A.?" I tell Chase "I don't know. I love singing and writing my own songs but I don't know if L.A is for me. My song "Winter Love." is No.1 and my album is doing good but." "But you're not sure." "I'm not sure if the record label I'm with is right for me." Chase tells me not to think about the future but think about now and Christmas and being with my family. I know one thing I'm happy to be home. I never how easy it is to talk to Chase. He was the popular kid. I wasn't. Now we have reconnected. He's still the one I think about, the one I never forgot. Over the next couple of days, me and Chase spend a lot of time together. Besides setting up for the Christmas concert, Chase takes me ice skating. I haven't done that in a long time. I love it. Chase and I go see Santa. It was the craziest thing. I had so much fun. Chase is becoming more than just a friend. He's easy to talk to about my problems. He doesn't judge me. He gives me good advice. When Chase drops me off at my home, he tells me to listen to my heart. It's Christmas Eve, the night of the concert. My mom asks me to sing a song. I gladly say yes. Chase comes to pick me up. He helps me into his car. Chase tells me "I can't wait to hear you sing." The Christmas concert is great. The performers are amazing. Now it's my turn. I walk out onto the stage to a big applause. I look for Chase. He's sitting in the front row. I begin to sing. I close my eyes once I'm finish singing. I let the feel of Christmas, my home, my family and Chase envelope me. This is why I love to sing. It's not about the money but about making those around you smile. I open my eyes. I see my family and Chase cheering for me. Chase is right. I have to listen to my heart. I have a lot to think about and more time to spend with Chase. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL


She wasn’t my first heartbreak and she wouldn’t be my last, but she would be the most memorable by far. Even now, tangled in blankets and sleepwear, I can feel the ghost of the warmth she would bring to cold winter mornings. When I woke up, I had a feeling I would walk out of my bedroom and see her at the island in the kitchen of my large penthouse apartment placing bowls of fruit and premade plates on any free counter space available. “Lemons and Oranges for decoration,” she would say, though it never made sense to me, “And for healthy snacks during the sad season.” That’s how she would describe the weight that stopped her in her tracks the minute the sun set at 8pm for the last time. That’s how she would describe the way she was damn near unable to move from the bed for days at a time.

It started the way most of my romances do; with the intent of finding the perfect balance between flirtatiousness and awkwardness. She, being unhinged in just the right way and I being protective in just the right way. We played the single game well, though we always knew who we wanted. We first met at a Halloween party of a mutual friend, I’d seen her when I came in. She had skin so dark brown that it looked as though mother nature herself could have created her by hand. She was dressed as a hare and I, coincidentally, a magician. We officially ran into each other at the drink table and when we spoke, everything clicked so abruptly that it was unnerving. We spent the entire night looking for and finding one another simply to make fun of the drunken debacle that was Halloween. It was just us in our world, but when she left the party without a word, I thought maybe it was just us in MY world.  Months later, we met at a local bar during live music mondays. Again mutual connections. Again in autumn. That was the first time I'd asked her name: Ona, pronounced with a soft o. Once more, we gravitated toward each other all night, but this time, before she left, she actually said goodbye, leaving me with her phone number. I texted her immediately and we talked all night, but just as we’d gotten closer over the autumn months, she disappeared again and I was stuck missing her all throughout winter. I didn’t mind at first, one rarely does in the beginning.

So I spent the winter flirting with other women, scrolling through random dating apps, and sleeping around if it fell in my lap, but Ona…Ona had been in the back of my mind the entire time.

It was as though she’d created a perfect formula of social stimulation that would leave me empty each time she left. I would stumble through life clumsily and dangerously for four months just hoping to run into her again. Nothing would go right! I’d lost two jobs; I’d broken my foot by bicycle…mind you, one I wasn’t even riding; I even got a ticket while I was IN the car. I was beginning to think my luck turned to shit when I met her. Unfortunately, I wasted a lot of time bitter at a woman I’d only met twice, but when I saw her again, this time in summer, every negative emotion I was feeling dissipated.  I’d seen her at a local arts festival.

Ona was with another man and I couldn’t say anything about it. I avoided her the entire day until we ran into each other at the beer tent. She gave the people working the tent her ticket and turned so quickly she'd almost run into me. I hadn’t even known I was behind her, but when we locked eyes, something in me softened so quickly that it made me nervous. Ona grinned, the smile brightening her entire face. Before I could ask her what band she came to see, a perfectly manicured finger would lift between our faces to silence me. “Ah, ah ah,” She mused, “no coincidences. We should smoke.” To this day, I don’t know where that man she brought went or what even happened, but that was our first date. It took nearly a year of this back and forth. She would leave along with my luck and return it back months later. In those few months where we were together, my design for a building in the city was accepted by a law firm. They paid me 10,000 in advance and they would pay me another 70 once the building was in construction. Architecture was not and never will be something that people can do easily, but with her, everything seemed to just come effortlessly to me. It wasn’t until my salary was paid in full that I decided that I never wanted her to leave. I asked her to be with me and only me on my birthday. It’s always perfect at first. Even if she wouldn’t allow me over the entire first year of our relationship, Ona would come to my place every day and make my mornings just a little sweeter. She would make a large breakfast that she had to have started at 6 am and she would cook me dinner that same evening. I loved being with her. She filled my head and lungs with the kind of dopamine only hard drugs could provide. We could have just eaten dinner together a moment ago and I would help her clean the kitchen afterward simply to spend more time with her. Like a tornado of good intentions, the thin, sleepy woman would twirl through the penthouse with decorations and healthy snacks. They would go bad before I ever wanted any, but she would buy more hoping that maybe this time I would actually eat the fruit instead of potato chips and trail mix. It made my life more organized and kept my mind clear. Our first summer was better than I ever could have imagined and honestly, I was excited to have her in my life and attainable for the holidays. Unfortunately, the morning after the first fresh snow of the season, there was no breakfast, but it didn’t matter.

Holding her delicate body felt better than rolling over to a freshly made bed beside me.

Normally, after we would eat breakfast, Ona would run home to shower, grab clothes and reappear in the evening when I would leave the jobsite. The first cold day in November, she didn’t move from the bed all day. I took the opportunity to make her breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed. It was exhausting to do before, during and after work,

but I powered through it because having her, even like this, felt better than missing her all winter long. It was the little things that made me want to do everything for her while she slept. When she woke up, we would cuddle just a bit longer. We would turn to face each other, with our fingers and naked legs entwined. Ona would run soft hands along my arms, my cheeks and my nose and I would tell her just how beautiful she was until I absolutely HAD to get up. In the evenings, we would lie in the dark with my oversized windows open for the city view. We would play i-spy, naked twister and make love all night. The second year was not so easy. In the second year of our relationship, I’d accepted a more reliable job with the city building different bridges, houses and political properties. This was more demanding; some days I wouldn’t even be home until about 7. Even knowing this, my Ona would make me a late, well done dinner and still wake up to make breakfast. I’ll admit that in that second year, I rarely showed her how grateful I was for her. I would eat, throw the plates in the sink, kiss her roughly on her hair and go directly to sleep. She would spend the evenings cleaning and the mornings as well with little to no help. I began to wonder why she even bothered. This sort of thinking was what led to our very first argument. And it was bad. All she wanted to know was why I didn’t help her clean anymore. I would tell her that I worked and I was tired. “But you worked last year too!” She would whine. “You would help me clean YOUR place and we would lay together the rest of the night. What changed?” “No one ever asked you to clean my place,” I would snap, “or cook! Why not just try ordering in sometimes like a normal person?” That would silence her for the rest of the evening and she would still clean and I would not help. I felt terrible the entire night, even when I felt her creep back into bed with me well into the night, I couldn’t shake the guilt. I helped her clean the next morning, caring very little about how late this would make me for work. When I got there, I would find people waiting for me, telling me they'd been looking for me since 8am. No one ever needs you until you’re not there. This led to a warning, but, to me, it was simply an empty threat and it was proven. They’d never spoken to me again about it. That night, I’d helped Ona clean the kitchen after dinner and apologized for the night before and things seemed to have fallen in place again. November was always hard for her and I. Last year, I’d spent the entire month feeding her and making sure she stayed hydrated during her long days in my room. This year, I had neither the time, nor the patience. As a matter of fact, it almost felt more peaceful at work than at home. It’s not like we would argue, but knowing that she rarely left the bedroom and I would find her sleeping in the same clothes for days at a time began to feel more like a burden. Most days I would leave without breakfast, get lunch for myself and then cook her dinner in the evening. I was too tired to play, chat, or cuddle, but I still loved her with every part of my body and every vein under my skin. I could feel her coursing through me the way blood does with any living creature. Everything was hers; My thoughts, my heart, my anguish and my impatience were all hers. Now I’m realizing that the second year would have been the time to lie down and tell her she's beautiful all night, or tell her about how my days felt weird when she’s just a thought and not with me, to

just lay it on the line and say “I’ve loved you since before I knew your name.” My final year with Ona, I won an award from the city for diligence for every mistake or last minute change to building and how I handled it with little to no apology or praise. This motivated me far more than anything or anyone had in a long time. 12 hour days and leaving each message from Ona unread until I would leave well after 8. She would still show up, no matter the hour to cook me dinner. That year, I got her a key to my place, thinking maybe that would ease the tension. Yet and still, the arguments got worse over the summer and I fell back into the habit of being of no help after meals. When the seasons changed and her mood sunk, she stopped cleaning completely. Some days, I was so beat that I would fall asleep on the couch regularly while she sat, unmoving in my bed. Some nights I’d even made a point to eat after drinking with the company, leaving Ona, my Ona, with nothing but sex and sleep.

On New Year's Eve, I invited her to my company party. Ona was putting them away to be such a petite woman, with little to no food. We caught a cab back to my place and, drunk as ever, we would retire in the living room. I’d prepared to sleep directly after the party but Ona would be wide awake, drunk and belligerent. “You don’t love me,” She spat out just before I’d fallen into REM on my couch. “What?” I would respond groggily. “You. Don’t. Love. Me.” “Why would you even say that? “Nothing is the same.” At this point, I sat up, now understanding by the crack in her voice, the strength it took to even say that. “You leave me all hours of the day! You barely eat what I cook and you don’t even go to bed with me anymore!” “You’re being ridiculous.” “Ridiculous?! You don’t see how everything has changed?!” “Ona, I need you to rela-” “Don’t you DARE! I am NOT CRAZY.” “No one’s calling you crazy.” “I'm not stupid either!” “What are you even talking about?” “You don’t see it?!” “Ona, I work. I don’t know if you do or how you even make money,” I began, knowing how badly things could turn out after this, but still, I continued. “I never asked you to do any of this! I’m appreciative, but at this point it feels like you're cooking for YOU because YOU don’t even eat! You just lie there!” “You used to lay with me for days at a time!” She recalled through her drunken haze. “Who wants to lay down all fucking day, Ona? I am BORED.” She got quiet, but it wasn’t a peaceful silence. It was heavy with words we wanted to say but couldn’t. “You’re bored…with me?” she asked finally, after plopping herself on the couch. “Yes, Ona. I’ve been bored,” I began, realizing my mistake. “Well…lately I have been anyway.” Silence again. “Happy New Year,” she stated flatly before swaying to my bedroom, placing a hand on the wall to keep her steady. That night, I slept on the couch again. The next morning there was no breakfast and no Ona. I didn't go to work that day, choosing instead to lay on her side of the bed all day. Her warmth was gone, but her shape remained. In that same week, they hired a more qualified architect and I was demoted to assistant. I called her; she didn’t answer. I texted her for weeks; nothing. She was gone. There was no break up. There was no hard conversation.

It’s been nearly a year since I lost her and all my luck. At the end of this year I’ll have to downsize to a significantly smaller place, but Ona will be there in some ways. I’ll cook myself breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’ll clean up after each meal. I’ll put lemons and oranges out for decoration and I’ll

eat them until they’re gone, though they won’t taste the same without Ona on my tongue. Now she’s just a thought, but it’s better than not having her at all.


Oh it's been so long since I went horse-back riding. The wind feels amazing on my face. I catch my reflection in the clear stream next to me as I pass it. I look good! My dark hair flowing, my red cape billowing, my bracelets of submission glinting in the sun. I don't even care if the saddle on this horse will end up chafing my thighs in this Wonder-Woman costume, I've not felt this free and powerful in a very long time. The trees, mountains and fields, all are fading into a blur around me. Its just me and this beautiful black horse. The only sound I can hear are the clippity-clop made by its galloping hooves. Actually, no. That's not exactly what it sounds like. It's not as rhythmic as it should be. It's more like a faint "tap-tap-tap". Did I leave the faucet open in the kitchen last night? Impossible! I don't do such mistakes. "tap-tap-tap". There it is again. Maybe I did. I will take care of it when I get back home. "Mommy?" Where did that sound come from? "Tap-tap-tap... Mommy?" There it is again. "Mommy? Is Friday a holiday?" Hah! No. It is not. But you would think that wouldn't you Teddy boy? Now go get washed up while mommy makes us something to eat. Wait a second! I pull at the reins of the horse suddenly as I try to slow it down and stop. But it gets startled instead and throws me in the air. As I am airborne for a terrifying second, I realize that I had been dreaming. And as I hit the floor of my bedroom in my pajamas, I know for sure that that's what I was doing. As I lay there contemplating my life choices, there are three things I notice. a.) I must run the vaccum cleaner under the bed more often. b.) Wonder-woman costumes are completely impractical. And c.) I was horribly late. I scramble up from the floor. Unbelievable! My shiny new alarm clock did not gone off at all. And I am half-an-hour late! This is sacrilege in my universe. "Mommy will be with you in a second darling. Go pee and brush your teeth!", I call out to my son. "No! I am gonna sit outside your door until you come out. Why did you lock your door again?", he responds with his little boy whiny voice. Because you were making it a habit of coming into mommy's room every night and you are almost 9 years old and everyone already judges me for babying you too much and I don't want to add one more thing to their ever growing list of why-I-suck! - I think to myself. "I am sorry honey! I am coming out now. Step away from the door." I open the door as gingerly as possible, as I know he was still sitting propped up against it, which meant as I opened it, he fell into my room. With a toothy grin. "Very funny! Let's go get washed up now. We are horribly late today!" He doesn't move. Just lies there, on the carpeted floor, looking up at me. "Ted, please do not test my patience today. We are already late, let's go NOW!" Nope. Such a cocky little devil. Fine. I lift up his arm and he suddenly decides to go all dead-weight on me. With a mighty effort, I pull him up, put him on his feet and push him out of the room. Once he is in his bathroom and I'd made sure that he is indeed following the whole peeing - brushing - pooping morning ritual, I run back into the kitchen. The clock on the microwave shows 6.30 a.m. Only half-hour to go before we absolutely have to leave. "It's okay! I'm fine. Everything's fine. This is nothing I can't handle. I am Wonder-Woman." I quickly say my mantra to myself to calm my nerves. Okay so no time for coffee. I can have the slightly burnt brew from coffee shop around the corner. Let's focus on the break fast and lunch part. I can heat up yesterday's leftover pasta for breakfast, but the lunch needs to be something healthy. I decide to make an artfully cut salami "smiley" sandwich for him. But as I am surprisingly inept when it comes to art and was in a rush, the eyes came out slightly squinty and the smile ended up being borderline creepy. Great! My son's lunch looks like Pennywise the clown. So, I stick a post-it note on the little minion themed lunchbox declaring my love for my little prince and call it a day. I am really into overcompensating these days. We rush through the rest of our routine and barely make it out of home on time. If I am not late to drop him off at school, I promise to treat myself with the pricey coffee at Starbucks. So, once my little boy was safely deposited at his school I drive to Starbucks, stand in the line for no less than 20 minutes, while tapping my foot impatiently, rolling my eyes at the patrons before me ordering ostentatiously complicated drinks, and mentally screaming at the barista to "HURRY THE FUCK UP!". I finally make it to the front and order my simple mocha latte with caramel sauce and promptly bleed through my ears when I hear the price. With a locked jaw and forced smile I pay for the coffee and leave for my store. With such an overpriced coffee in my system, today better be a good day! If only I knew what awaited me. Because, by 9 a.m. my "good day" started veering dangerously into the "bad day" territory when my store manager took an impromptu day off leaving me to handle the delivery of all the new garments that were supposed to be arriving at the store. "It's okay!" I tell myself "It's okay! I'm fine. Everything's fine. This is nothing I can't handle. I am Wonder-Woman." So, I start taking deliveries at the back while my very inexperienced newbie "sales consultant" took over manning the counter and accepted customers. I check in with the doe eyed sales girl in between deliveries and my other chores, and each time she manages to look even more terrified than before. By 11 a.m., as it was turning out to be an uncharacteristically busy day, I decide I would call for reinforcements and dial my best friend's number and she agrees to help me out after lunch. At 11.30 I put my little helper out of her misery and tell her to go get something to eat. I close the store for 10 minutes to take a little breather, quickly scarf down an energy bar with the tasteless coffee from my old coffee maker. After my laughable lunch, I open the store up and wait for my sales girl to arrive. By 12.10 I start getting antsy. But by 12.40 I am pretty confident that the girl was not coming back. And sure enough when I check my phone, I see her message. "I QUIT!" In all caps. Okay. I get it. It is not the ideal job, but you don't have to yell. "Its all right. Everything's fine. I am going to be okay. I only have couple of hundered invoices to book into the system and check with at least 10 customers at the same time. Nothing I can't handle. I am Wonder-Woman." , I tell myself weakly. It's my fault after all. During the pandemic I had to reduce the overhead costs of paying my employees their salaries. So, I ended up firing everyone with an incredibly heavy heart. But it was either keep them employed or keep the store afloat. I've been working with a threadbare staff ever since. Which meant longer work hours and offering discounts which I couldn't afford. Living on store brand corn flakes and ramen noodles at times. But now that things were opening up I am hopeful again. This was more than a livelihood for me. It was something my mother and I had dreamt of together. And I'd made a hell of a lot of sacrifices to be where I am today. That meant I could never quit. At 1 my best friend arrives with her signature wide smile and warm hug and a much needed cup of coffee from the overpriced coffee shop down the street. Bless her soul! We work in tandem for 3 more hours until I have to leave to pick my son up from his school and drop him off at the baby sitter's after which I get back to the store. It's 6 p.m. now, which means that I have been up on my feet for 12 hours straight. But the day isn't over yet. I still have to go meet with a potential customer. And the meeting is downtown in a pub. Although I abhor the idea of having the meeting at a pub I knew I could not lose this contract. It is for some ethically produced organic clothing brand which is a big deal these days among the "young millennial" crowd. So, I check up on my son and his baby sitter. Make sure everything was under control. I close up shop, say a little prayer of thanks to my mum and leave for this happening new pub. As soon as I enter this place, I feel massively out of place. Like a colorless little 35 something sore thumb sticking out in the crowd of mostly 20 somethings. Except for my smudged ruby red lipstick I am dressed from head to toe in black. It felt as if everyone had stopped in their tracks and were now looking my way. I touched my hair self-consciously, glanced-down at my shoes, pulled at the skirt of my sensible black dress and beat it to the restroom. When I catch a look at myself in the mirror, I do a double-take. Gosh! I look so frazzled . No wonder they were all staring at me . My hair, that I had wrangled into a bun in the morning, is now out of it and sticking up in all directions and to my forehead. My lipstick: non-existent. The mascara: long gone. The dark circles are making themselves known once again. And also, I was looking my age. "It's okay! I am fine. Everything's fine! This is nothing I can't handle. I am Wonder-woman." , I chant to myself as I run a brush through my hair, dab a little concealer under my eyes, decide to forego the mascara and line my eyes with my trusty kohl which made the chocolate brown in them pop and refresh my ruby red lipstick. Taking off my crumpled blazer, I stuff it in my over-sized bag. "Okay! I am ready now", I smile and say to my reflection. I sit myself at the bar. It's 10 past 7. We were supposed to meet at 7. No worries. In this traffic, it's absolutely normal to be a little late. I decide to order myself a vodka and tonic and wait. It's 7.30 now and I think I have a head ache and a shoulder ache and a body ache. The bar stool was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, poking me in the backside. My drink is left mostly untouched. By 7.40 I am almost sure that the meeting is not going to happen. As I am about to leave, I receive a text from the customer that his infant daughter had to be taken to the hospital as she had not pooped for 7 days straight. I can't even be angry at the guy! "Perfect! Just perfect!" I huff out a laugh and empty my first drink and order another. "To hell with it! I'll Uber it. Tomorrow's the weekend. I've got nowhere to be. With the day that I am having I deserve it." I check with my baby sitter again. My son was sound asleep by now, she assures me that he had had his dinner and instructs me that I should stay out for a little bit more and relax a bit. I thank her profusely and hang up with a smile on my face. I am just sufficiently buzzed from my second drink when I decide to look up from my phone and join the land of the living. The crowd around me is getting wilder by the second. "So, this is what happens after dark on a Friday! Fascinating." Just as I am going back to my drink while doing my best to blend into the background, my eyes get caught on to another pair on the other end of the bar. My heart involuntarily skips a beat. My smile drops as I realize those eyes belonged to a guy. Sharp features. A regal nose. Dark eyebrows. 5 o-clock shadow around a solemn mouth, which curves into a small friendly smile as soon as our eyes get connected. I look away immediately. "Was that for me? It couldn't be. Gosh, I am too old for this shit!" I glance back at him, as indifferently as possible, and yep! He is definitely looking at me. He was not bad-looking, maybe even handsome by some people's standards. "Why is he looking at me?" , I think, looking away again. "How long has he been looking at me? And why is it bothering me so much?" It's been over 4 years since my divorce. 4 years in which I have never been on a date because I'm always so focused on my son and my business. "There is no harm in looking right? I am not going to approach him for sure. I hope he doesn't approach me either. And if he does, I can unleash my patented resting bitch face to deter him. So what's the big deal in just perusing?" I give myself a mental pep talk, straighten my back, take a fortifying sip from my drink and a deep breath and slowly look his way. Oh! But he is looking somewhere else now. Bummer ! Disappointed, I am just about to look away when he glances towards me. And our eyes connect once again. Then he smiles. Close-lipped. Eyes twinkling. Subtly crinkling in the corners. Knowing. "He smiles as though he knows all my secrets" , is my first thought. It is difficult to make out the color of his eyes from here. The mood-lighting in this place was not helping. But from how his eyes were glimmering in the dim light I guess they must be jewel toned. "Maybe his eyes are green. With flecks of gold around the irises. Like a field of golden wheat surrounded by a deep green forest" . Look at me going all poetic. I mentally roll my eyes at myself and smile. In reciprocation his smile grows wider and warmer. As if it made him genuinely happy that I had smiled. It was the most bizarre thing. "Why would a complete stranger care about my happiness?" "It's okay! I'm fine. Everything's fine. This is nothing I can't handle. I am Wonder-Woman" , I repeat my mantra in my mind as I engage in a war of wits with the good-looking stranger on the other end of the bar. We are competing to see who would look away first or who would make the first move. Certainly not me. The evening reaches its crescendo, he makes a move as if to stand up, but right then my phone rings. "Hello. Hi Catherine. Is everything all right?". "Yes everything is fine. I don't want you to worry but Teddy just had a little episode. I gave him his inhaler and he is doing better. But he's asking for you." "Okay. Tell him mommy's on her way. And thank you so much for being there. I really appreciate it. I am leaving now. I will see you in a bit." I am already gathering my stuff, paying the bill and sliding off the bar stool as I speak to her. But as soon as I stand up I stumble. I hadn't realized exactly how tipsy I was. Just as I fall, he is there, out of the blue. He grasps me by my elbow as he steadies me and puts me back on my feet. Rattled and I put my hand to my racing heart, and I look his way, straight into his eyes. "Are you all right?", He asks. "Green. I was right", I say with a sigh. "Sorry?", he says with a puzzled look on his face. "Oh nothing. Thank you for your help. But I've got it from here", I tell him with a kind smile and he smiles back. And just as he opens his mouth to say something, I say, "Goodbye. Goodnight and thank you again." He looks confused for a second and replies, "It's not a problem." Then, I walk away from him. Order an Uber and go back home to my son. Later, as I settle down next to my son for the night, my mind wanders and I think of my stranger again. He, for an instant, made me feel attractive, wanted. I was just a woman out on a Friday night for those few minutes, not a mum or a store owner. And I am unashamed to say that it did give me some validation, which I didn't even know I needed. It certainly did transform my mostly "bad day" into an almost "good" one. I did feel something akin to disappointment when I left without even asking for his name. But that feeling was fleeting just like those moments. As I stroked my son's hair I reminded myself, "It's okay! I'm fine. Everything's fine. Nothing I can't handle. I am wonder-woman." And all was well in my world!


Somehow in her 35 years of life, Penelope had never been in a police station before, let alone been given a ride in a cop car. She was disappointed that the officer had not activated his sirens or lights. He wasn’t even speeding. Could he not sense the urgency? This was an emergency. Her baby was missing! Penelope was grateful to the officer; however, as he did not make her sit in the back like a criminal. Penelope was a straight laced goody two shoes, and she wasn’t about to have her reputation thrown into the rumor mill. As she exited the passenger side of the vehicle her body turned into lead. One foot in front of the other, she told herself.

The officer guided her to the door. She was lucky, she supposed, that she had never required police assistance before. Penelope had always been hard on herself and this time wasn’t any different. Why hadn’t she been more careful! If she had, none of this would have happened. What would her husband think? If anything happened to Sammy, he would never forgive her and neither would she forgive herself.

Once inside, the officer and Penelope walked past the reception window and through a security door. They made their way down a flight of stairs and into a small office. The officer gestured to the empty chair next to a big metallic desk. Penelope took a seat. The chair was hard underneath her, but she deserved to be uncomfortable after what she did. “Let’s start from the beginning.” The officer said. “How did this happen?” “Shouldn’t you be out there looking for him? It’s already been three hours. I’ve seen crime shows. If you don’t find him soon, he’ll be lost forever. I should be out there searching!” Penelope sobbed. “Ma’am, we have our investigators out looking already, but they need more information.” The officer patted her arm. “We’re doing everything we can. Now, please tell me what happened.” “Tony! We need to call him!”

“We tried ma’am. He didn’t answer, but we’ll keep trying.” The officer said. “Let’s focus on getting more information for the officers, okay?” Penelope didn’t want to relive the moment, but she would do anything to get Sammy back. “Here’s what happened.” She began. Penelope opened her eyes and groaned. Her alarm clock was buzzing. Next to her, her husband stirred, but he made no attempt to rise.

“I’ll put a pot of coffee on. What do you want for breakfast?” She asked, but Tony had fallen back to sleep. Penelope got out of bed and showered and made her way to the kitchen. The smell of the bacon and eggs sizzling wafted through the air summoning Tony.

“You’re just in time.” She said as she dished him up a plate. “Where’s Sammy?” “Umm…he’s outside babe, remember?” Tony replied. “Oh that’s right, silly me. He’s flying his flag again, isn’t he?” She said. “Yes, dear.” “Shouldn’t he come get some breakfast? He must be hungry with all that playing he does.” “He’s okay for right now, honey.” She nodded. “I’m going to go check on him.” Penelope walked out the door and spotted Sammy at the end of the driveway. “Sammy get back here. You’re too close to the road.” Sammy didn’t move.

“Sammy!” She yelled. Again, he didn’t move. “I’m going to tell your father.” She stormed back into the house. “What’s wrong?” Tony asked. “Sammy won’t listen to me. He’s too close to the road.”

“I have to leave for work anyway, so I’ll talk to him.” Tony kissed Penelope, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.”

“And then I lost track of time. I was sitting eating breakfast, and I don’t know what happened.” Penelope sighed. “The next thing I knew, it was time for me to go to work. When I went out, Sammy wasn’t as close to the road, but the cars were going so fast. I was afraid he’d get hit by a car. I was about to get him when all of a sudden… some guy…he…he… jumped out of his vehicle and grabbed Sammy.”

Penelope laid her head in her arms on the officer’s desk. Tears streamed from her eyes and her chest heaved. “I’m such a terrible mother!”

“No, no, this wasn’t your fault.” The officer tried to console Penelope. “Do you have a picture of Sammy?” “No, not here I don’t. I forgot to grab one.” “Okay. We’ll get one later. What was Sammy wearing?”

Penelope picked up her head. “A red baseball cap.”

“Okay, good. What about his shirt? What color was it?” “Green. He’s such a vibrant boy. He likes to be bright! Oh, and he had a flag!” “Great. How tall is Sammy?” The officer questioned. “He’s four feet and four inches.”

“How much does he weigh?” “I…I don’t know…He’s light for his size, but oh forgive me my brain doesn’t want to work. You should ask Tony. He’ll know. Penelope said. The officer was confused. He knew how much his kids weighed, give or take a few pounds. Isn’t that something every parent knew? Having your child kidnapped could do weird things to people. Maybe he shouldn’t judge her so harshly. After all, he wasn’t in her shoes.

To not make her feel bad, he switched to the description of the car. “It was a red-ish, burgundy color.” She answered. “It was an SUV of some sort, and I think it was a Ford. She continued. “Did you get a license plate number?” The officer asked. “Not all of it, no.” She hung her head. “Just give me what you remember.” The officer prodded. “It was...AJ…K… Yes, that’s it! I don’t remember the numbers though.” “That’s okay, that’s a good start.” Do you remember what the kidnapper looked like?” “I think it was a female, but I don’t remember anything else. I think she was white and wearing jeans.” Penelope responded. Just then, the officer’s phone rang. He excused himself and went in the hallway to answer the call. Penelope strained to listen, but the officer’s voice was muffled. “Mmhm. Really? Are you sure? Okay. Yes, thank you. Bye.” The officer ended his call and went back to the office. “What’s going on?” Did they find him? Please, tell me they found him.” Penelope said. The officer’s phone rang again. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Hang on.” He went back into the hall. When he returned, he informed Penelope that Tony had finally responded, and that he was on his way to the station. “Oh, Tony. He’s going to be so upset.  Earlier, the phone call, did they find my boy? I need to know they found him.” The officers had found Sammy. They spotted a burgundy Ford Escape with the letters of the license plate matching the description that Penelope had given. The vehicle had been driving north on the highway when the officers pulled it over. The officers had surrounded the vehicle and told the female driver to exit the vehicle. They immediately opened all the doors of the SUV, but they did not find a boy. “What?” Penelope asked the officer. “No, Sammy is real.” “I’m afraid he’s not Penelope.” Tony responded as he walked into the office. “Tony, I don’t understand.” “He’s real Tony. He’s real.” Tony then stepped aside and revealed a plastic neon green slowdown Sammy sign in the shape of a boy. It was complete with a red flag and baseball cap, and the word slow was written on its base.

“I’m very sorry, officer. I had no idea that this would happen. Ever since we lost our boy, Penelope has personified “Sammy” here, and I just played along because I was too sad and tired not to. “Given that this was all a misunderstanding, I will not arrest Penelope for false charges, but please make sure she talks to somebody. The officer responded. With that, Tony thanked the officer and took his wife home promising that he would get her help.