Knitting. She was always bloody knitting. Always with a pair of needles in her hand, always with a ball of yarn hiding somewhere on her person, a line of the stuff feeding out from some hidden pocket. It wasn’t time spent with Amelia if there wasn’t the familiar clack clack clack of her needles sliding together seamlessly. It was crazy; you’d see her with a line of loops on her needle (a “cast on”, she’d rather aggressively spat at me one day), and within two hours, she’d have a full scarf ready to go. Honestly, it’s like magic. But, Amelia is Amelia, and without her knitting, she wouldn’t be Amelia. And I won’t complain too much; she asks me every year what colour I’m feeling, and I give her one, and she comes back at Christmas and birthdays with a beautiful piece of knitwear that’s entirely unique to me. “What are you writing, Jen?” Amelia asked, leaning over my shoulder. I was sitting at my desk and she’d let herself in. I paused and waited for her to read it. “Oh! You’re writing about me!” “Yep,” I smiled. I turned, stretching my back out. “All about you and that bloody knitting.” “I honestly think you should try it! Look, you’re writing for a lifestyle magazing. This is a lifestyle!” She brandished her needles at me. A small circular pair that was literally the length of her finger, which instantly began clack-clack-clacking together with a beautiful pale green yarn. “What are you making?” I asked. Honestly, it’s how all of our conversations started. “Tiffany’s having a baby!” Amelia grinned. “So I’m making her a blanket for him, and then I’ll do a beanie hat and a stuffy.” Tiffany was her friend from work. “Right… and she’s due…?” “Oh – er… next month, I think. I didn’t want to risk getting the season wrong. Like it’s for now, and it’s hot, so I wanted something that reflected summer – it’s a light cotton-bamboo mix, it’ll keep him warm but cool.” I nodded sagely. She knew what she was talking about. Buggered if I did. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Not a single bit.” I smiled at her and turned to save my work. “Want a drink? If you can stop your hands for a second, that is.” “Har har,” Amelia mocked. “Have we got any iced tea? I’ve been obsessed with that stuff since I came back from Florida.” “Err… Ams, it’s England. We have tea. Who the fuck ices tea?!” I stared at her. She chuckled. “Worth a try,” she smiled. “Alright, just some apple juice please.” “And how do you know we even have that?” “Because I put a box of it in the fridge yesterday when I came home.” “Touché.” As I walked into the kitchen, I felt it. The familiar tightness in my chest, the way my legs turned to lead for no reason. My breathing felt like an absolute battle. I felt my head start to spin, thoughts racing through my mind at lightning speed, too fast to really pick one out. I let out a huge gasp, trying to regulate myself. What was causing this now?! I’d been fine! I was fine! But I couldn’t convince myself fast enough, and I descended into a panic attack which made me black out. The next thing I remember was Amelia sitting beside me, needles abandoned. It was the only time she ever abandoned them. When I needed her. “Alright?” she asked me gently. It took me a moment to register that I was sitting against her. Her arms were around mine, holding me physically together. Her legs either side of mine. Her chin on my shoulder. “Y-yeah,” I whispered, closing my eyes. My entire body was cold. Her warmth was reassuring. “That was a bad one, Jen,” she murmured. She didn’t say more. She didn’t expect more from me. That was one of the reasons I was writing about her. She completes me in a way that no-one else ever has. A soulmate. I leaned against her for a while longer, until only my hands trembled. “What brought it on?” “I… d-don’t know,” I said quietly. She kissed my temple and helped me up. “Honestly. I don’t know. I was fine all day.” “Well, it’s happened now. Let’s not dwell on it. Although I’m glad I was here, Jen.” She started rifling through cupboards she knew like her own flat, and made us both a pot of tea. She was quiet as she put together some food, too – snack bits, but healthy ones. “I know.” I leaned against the breakfast bar and palmed my face. “I know… maybe… maybe, Ams… I mean…” I thought about how to phrase it. “Maybe you should just move in?” Her hands stilled against the teapot, but for all the world she could have just been waiting for the kettle to finish boiling for the three seconds she was still for. Then, she laughed. “Jen, I’d need the spare room for my wool.” She poured the hot water into the teapot. “I’m not saying no right now, but I’d rather not discuss that while you’re in a state.” “Gotcha.” “Come here. Pick up this plate and take it into the living room.” She followed me through, which was unnerving until I realised she was actually going to get her knitting. Of course she was. A few minutes later, we were settled. Amelia watched me, her hands moving her needles silently as the baby blanket grew and grew outwards. I watched, mesmerised, each stitch so natural – and she didn’t look! “Why do you knit, Ams?” I asked. I hadn’t even realised I’d verbalised the question until she responded. “It helps,” she said simply. “What?” “It helps.” She paused to pull a bit more wool to the side. “I can concentrate better when my hands are moving. I’m calmer. And at the end I get a sense of achievement because I get to create something beautiful.” She smiled at me. “Which is why I keep banging on at you to start knitting. It’ll help you.” “I can’t knit, though. I’m not good at it.” “And you think I was?” Amelia let out a melodic laugh. My heart melted and the world was good again. “I wasn’t born good. I only started properly when I was twenty-one. I was suicidal, Jen. I was pushed to the brink of wanting to die, and I found my knitting group, and the rest is history. I put my efforts into knitting instead of self-harming. I cut yarn ends instead of my skin.” She shrugged. She’d never told me that story before. “Start. Learn. Grow.” “I’m not starting knitting.” “Then I’m not moving in.” She gave me a cheeky grin. I knew her well enough to know that was a joke. We’d been dating for three years at that point. We hadn’t moved in sooner because Amelia had another two years to go on her apartment contract, but that ended in three months. I, on the other hand, had a house with two spare rooms. I’d been lucky to inherit it from my father’s sister, when she’d passed away, and it was in fairly good nick. “But what is it you really like about knitting?” I asked after we’d drank our tea. I knew I needed the info anyway for my article, but I was also genuinely curious, and I’d never really taken interest. I’d never had the chance. We’d usually been distracted by someone else having an opinion on it whenever I’d asked her. “Well…” her needles stilled. “Each thing I make… it becomes part of my history. I can remember every single thing I’ve knitted and it takes me back to a certain point in time. Like when I made everyone hats that year, because I’d taught myself fair-isle. That was the year I’d injured my foot and was required to sit – remember after the half marathon?” I smiled and nodded. We’d run it together. “I watched the entirety of the US Office in three weeks. And those hats remind me of that.” She smiled. “And the Cardigan of Doom reminds me of the lovely Swedish lady I’d met who finished half of it in an hour. She was magic… and the first jumper I made, that was special. I wasn’t in a good place, but that jumper made me so happy…” She smoothed out the blanket she’d already made good progress on. “There’s the scarves I made for the people I no longer speak to… stuffed animals I made from patterns and groups I’ve found… it’s part of me. It’s a lifestyle. It saved my life.” I smiled at her. “Every stitch is part of me. It’s a reminder that with care, and patience, and determination, you can create something beautiful.” She looked at me. “And you can put all of that in your article, too.” “That’s not why I asked you, Ams. It means a lot to me that you put it down when I need you.” I played with my fingers. “I know you didn’t ask for that. I’m serious about you trying it, by the way.” “I didn’t doubt you for a second.” A couple of days later, Amelia arrived at the house again. Her needles didn’t immediately come out, though. I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, and I heard her start to put whatever she’d cooked last night in the oven to heat up for dinner. She was the chef between us; I preferred cleaning up. “Jen?!” she called. “Yeah?!” “Come down!” “Give me a sec!” I dried my hands and fixed my shirt, and then ran down. A quick kiss, and I was told to close my eyes. “Have a present.” She pushed something into my outstretched hands. I opened my eyes. It was obvious what it was. A thick pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool in blue, my favourite colour. “Ta-da!” “Gee, thanks,” I murmured, faking a smile as obviously as I could. Amelia laughed and hit my shoulder lightly. “I love it…” I kissed her cheek and smiled as ungratefully as I could manage. “So thoughtful…” “Well, you’re going to start knitting if I have to hold your hands and force your anxiety-ridden arse to do it.” “Ugh! I don’t want to!” I pulled her close for a hug. “Then I’m not moving in.” “You pulled that card already.” “And there’s more than one joker in a pack.” She looked at me and grinned. “Try it. Please. Before you conclude your article.” “Fine. I will TRY it.” “Good girl.” Well folks, there you have it – one-hundred-and-one reasons to knit or crochet, purely from watching my lovely girlfriend knit every day. She actually bought me a pair of needles and a ball of wool… it’s a nice colour. Blue. Specifically a TARDIS blue, you know like from Doctor Who ? She’s hounded me since the day we met to start knitting, and I keep telling her no. Anyway, I have a really lovely blue scarf now, and it only took me a week to make…


Settling into my seat in the craft room, I make a green patch first. It’s taken from an old cushion that I don’t need anymore. Green like my eyes that people used to tell me were identical to my mother's. As I stitch, my mind drifts 18 years back in time to when she first taught me to sew. “Like this darling, see?” my mother, Lily, asked, and I watched closely as she showed me how to stitch patchwork squares, my eyes lit up with eagerness. I was six years old and she was teaching me how to tailor patchwork quilts. She adored making them to use around the house, to give as gifts, and even sometimes to sell. This wasn’t the first time that she had ushered me into the craft room and locked the door behind us, leaving daddy downstairs in one of his moods, shouting, slurring, and throwing things. The noises were somewhat frightening, but we tried to ignore them and focus on the patchwork. Mum said everything would be ok if we just keep on adding to the quilt. I jumped and shuddered in response to a loud bang from downstairs. Mum took my hand reassuringly. “Let’s make a special quilt just for me and you,” she suggested, "a blanket that will keep you safe." I nodded. I liked the sound of that. “Which colour would you like first?” she asked, and I pointed excitedly to a pink floral fabric on the desk. I still have some of that fabric left. I take a square now and add it to the quilt; a reminder of where it all began. That patchwork quilt that we started to sew together 18 years ago is the same one that I’m working on now. Although I’ve since moved out of that house and I rarely see my father anymore, it grants me a sense of comfort. When I was just a child my mother had told me that this blanket would keep me safe, and I suppose some part of me still believes that even though I know it's silly. And so, whenever I feel scared or alone or anxious, I come here, to my new craft room, I lock the door out of habit, and I keep on adding to the quilt. I go through phases where I don’t feel the need to do it for months, and others where I am adding to it almost daily. Of course, 18 years on, that quilt is getting huge, taking up a large portion of the tiny room. I guess some part of me thinks that if I keep it going for long enough, my mother will come back. I was nine years old when she ran away. I got home from school and she just wasn’t there. Daddy was in one of his awful moods. I could smell the beer on him and hear his yelling the moment I walked through the door. Not that I knew what beer smelt like – I just knew that that odour meant I should hide in the craft room. I sprinted there as quickly as my little legs would allow, relieved to find the door unlocked, and then immediately saddened to see that my mother wasn’t there. I settled into the chair and began adding a blue wool patch made from one of mum’s old jumpers to the quilt, assuming that she would join me soon. I sewed until long after daddy’s noises stopped, until I fell asleep in the chair, shielded by the quilt which was now a full metre longer. I find that blue patch on the quilt now, smoothing the wool with my fingers. I even sniff it to see if it still smells like mum. It doesn’t.  I don’t have any of the original jumper left, but I do have an old navy sweater of my own that I can make a patch from. It’s somewhat threadbare and worn, but I want to use it anyway. I’ve been feeling the need to add to the quilt more often recently, but I’m not sure why. When I first moved to my new house I added to it a lot, until I settled in and realised that my new home is safer than my old one. Whenever I would go past that old house or see or hear from my father, I would come home and add to the quilt. Often, I would think about my mother and feel a sadness that drove me to this room, to the quilt. I can’t sew forever, of course. I have plenty to keep me busy. I work as a legal secretary from 9-5, down at the courthouse. I wouldn’t say I’m passionate about it, but I have friendly co-workers and it allows me to make enough money. Mornings are usually spent at the local bakery where my mother used to take me, with a chai latte, a newspaper, and whatever breakfast treat I fancy that day. In my free time, I sew. Since I began that first patchwork quilt I have made many, but I haven't kept a single one. I used to give them away as gifts like my mother did until I came up with a better idea. Now I sell them and donate the profit to a charity that supports victims of domestic abuse. I struggle to admit it to myself, but there is a part of me that thinks that working with this charity may be what brings my mother back into my life. In any case, it's a good thing to do. However, due to the charity angle, I feel guilty when I'm not making new quilts, so sewing takes up a lot of my weekends and evenings, along with craft stalls and markets. There are charity events, too, where I am sometimes invited to attend and enjoy, or speak about my quilts and the good that they have done. On some level, I suppose I always knew that the reason why we hid from my father was that he could get violent when he was in one of his moods. I only realised later in life that 'in one of his moods' meant drunk. He has never been violent towards me, although I grew more terrified of that possibility after my mother left. When she was there I always sort of felt safe. After she left, all I had to protect myself was the quilt. Some say that she did a terrible thing leaving her daughter in the house with such a violent man, but I don't hold it against her. As a young child, I grew so used to seeing her covered in cuts and bruises that I just didn't question it anymore. Maybe the only time that she could get away was whilst I was at school. Maybe she meant to come back for me. Maybe she still will. Tomorrow is Sunday, which is market day, so I leave the quilt alone after the navy patch and get an early night. I still wake up late, leaving no time to visit the bakery. I pack up a selection of quilts and hit the road. It’s a brisk morning and I regret not leaving time to grab a hot beverage, but fortunately my market neighbour Caitlyn has my back. “Chai latte?” she offers, wandering over and holding out the disposable cup as I dump my bags of quilts on the ground. “You’re the best” I reply, taking it from her gratefully. Caitlyn and I have had neighbouring market stalls for about eight months now and it’s always lovely to catch up with her as we set up and whittle the time away with pointless chatter on quiet days. "I think it's amazing," she tells me, and I peer at her, trying to figure out what she means "it's 6 am, it's freezing cold, and you're still here raising money for charity." I just smile at her. Mine is one of only a few stalls that are not-for-profit. No one knows why I do it, not at the markets or at work, or even at charity events, although the charity often asks. I just tell them it’s an important cause, which is one version of the truth. It’s a busy day and I sell a lot of quilts. Maybe people are drawn to them because of the wintery weather. I always feel good after a successful market day, and I know that I must head home to make more. I don’t need to add to my safety quilt today. It’s been a good day. My good day turns into a wonderful week, and my wonderful week turns into a marvelous month. In fact, my huge patchwork quilt gathers dust on the floor of the craft room for a good six months as I focus on other things. A wonderful winter leads to a splendid spring, which slowly transforms into summer. The sun often puts a smile on my face, so I wake up feeling that it’s going to be a good day. I leave plenty of time to visit the bakery before the markets. It’s a scorcher so no chai latte today – instead I take an iced coffee to sip as I read the newspaper, making a mental note to get one for Caitlyn on my way out. As I flip the black and white pages, brimming with both harrowing and happy news stories, one catches my eye, making my breath catch in my throat. Ex-local resident, Lily Campbell aged 42, drowned in Lake Woodleigh. I try to read the rest, but my brain has become incapacitated. There are only two things I can take away from the article: first, my mother had returned to the area, possibly to find me. Second, my mother is dead. I don’t know what to do. I get up and leave without finishing my coffee. I don’t go to the markets today; instead, I go straight home. I walk directly to the craft room, trying to hold back the tears that are pushing through as the news sinks in. I lock the door behind me, settle into my chair, and pick up my patchwork quilt. My mother told me that this quilt would keep me safe, but she didn’t say how big I must make it first. And so, I keep sewing, and the quilt grows and grows, taking over the floor, the desk, the window ledge. Still, I don’t feel safe, so I keep on adding patchwork squares, until it fills the room around me, smothering me, and still, I keep on stitching.


I adjusted my gray paisley tie one more time in front of my hotel room mirror. All of the wrinkles of my navy suit were ironed out yesterday and my hair was carefully sculpted out of my face. I dreaded hobnobbing and networking - but at least I looked like I did.

Turning to reach for the TV remote on the bed, I reached over and flipped off the news that played in the background. One last check that my shoelaces were actually tied - and yes, they were - and then I grabbed my briefcase to head out the door.

I nodded politely to an elderly couple that walked past me, as I pulled the door noiselessly shut behind me. They looked like they were about to head to the pool. Wouldn’t that be nice? I’d be sweating profusely and shaking hands with all sorts of germy people. So yes, I’d take a chemically treated pool over all of that. But it was my turn to represent our company at the conference this year. The company wasn’t paying me to lounge around in the pool. Yet. The hotel room doors all faced towards the center of the expansive hotel lobby, with two glass elevators on each side. Potted palm trees stretched up to at least the third floor and I wondered whether or not they were fake as I rode the glass elevator down. Once the elevator reached the lobby, I walked out to the sound of a rushing fountain in the middle. This place was really going all-out on the tropical feel.

I followed the crowd of power suited men and women to the convention center, checking my wristwatch every so often to avoid eye contact. I’d need a bit more included-in-conference-fee coffee to get there.

Finally, I made my way to conference room C for my first session of the day. I found a table off to the left in the back that looked uninhabited. I set down my briefcase on a chair and pushed it in, before wandering back to the hallway where the continental breakfast and coffee spread was. I was lucky that I was an “early worm” type of person. None of the pastries had been picked over yet and the coffee bar was pristine.

Quickly selecting a danish and a coffee with just a splash of cream and Splenda, I speed-walked back to my table, silently hoping it would remain uninhabited.

No such luck. I think I did a pretty good job of hiding the disgust on my face and set down my breakfast in front of my briefcase. A tall, slender man with a clean, chestnut crew cut started to unbutton his gray suit jacket and set his briefcase down two chairs to the right of me. “Good morning,” I attempted to greet him, taking my briefcase off of my chair and setting it on the floor between the legs of my chair.

He laughed, and at that moment, I realized I must have come off as sassy to him. “Good morning to you, too.” “Sorry,” I grumbled, setting down the danish my stomach was groaning for. “I’m kind of a bear in the morning.” Well, that was putting it lightly. And hopefully, I wouldn’t run into him later, so he wouldn’t realize I’m a bear all the time.

“Aren’t we all?” He joked, then slid out of his jacket and set it on the back of his chair. “I think I’ll hit the breakfast bar too. Can I interest you in a peace offering?” “I don’t need a peace offering. Thanks, though,” I waved him off. Those kinds of gestures always seem nonchalant, right?

He smirked, then turned to fix his own breakfast. I pulled out my phone to see a few unread emails. One of which was from Nicholas Doyle, a colleague I had been working with and corresponding to via email for the past few months. We were tackling a huge multi-state project - he was the visionary, and me, the detail-man. I guess it was a bounce-back email saying he’d be out of the office for a few days. Hmm, nothing too crazy. “So, I haven’t seen you at one of these before,” my tablemate announced. I looked up to find he’d picked up a bagel and a coffee during those few blissful moments of silence. “First time?” He started munching on the bagel and watching me expectantly. I set down my phone and took a sip of my coffee. “I went a few years ago. I’ve been busy lately, but I was able to make time for this one. Not too far of a commute for the company to send me.” He nodded along as I spoke, continuing to eat his bagel. “Well, I hope it’s worth your trip.” A glob of cream cheese fell onto his plate and he dipped his thumb down to the plate to retrieve it before licking it off his finger. “What company did you say you’re with?” I cleared my throat, setting down my paper coffee cup. “I didn’t.” I fought the urge to raise an eyebrow. Why the interest? “I’m from Beckworth and Associates. You?” “Graystone.” He broke his iron stare on me to take the black lid off of his cup and take a sip. “I’m Nicholas Doyle, pleased to meet you.” The saliva in my mouth dried up instantly. Oh crap.

“Beckworth…” He stroked his chin during the pause. “Do you know a David Levy? I’m working with him on a project.” I better hope I do. Otherwise, I don’t know myself. “Levy’s a solid guy,” I stated, too embarrassed and terrified to fess up that Levy was me. “Hard-working, diligent-” “Detail-oriented. Saved my ass quite a few times. I owe him, big time,” he professed in a quiet tone, holding his coffee cup like it was a precious gem. Looking up to me, he reached over the empty seat between us and patted my back. “Give him my regards, will ya?” I nodded and the crowd’s murmurs dissipated as the speaker took the podium. Nicholas withdrew his hand and we both listened to the speaker while finishing our breakfasts. I was starting to feel paranoid like he was eyeing me up and down. Was I just so out of my game that I didn’t know what it was like to flirt? Wait, did Nicholas freaking Doyle even swing my way? The speaker finished quicker than I anticipated and was rewarded with full applause. I brought my hands together clumsily and groaned inside when I saw Nicholas’s hand shoot up for questions. An attendant with a microphone sprinted over to his side. He took a deep breath before speaking into the microphone. “Great talk, thank you for sharing with us. Say... how do you recommend maximizing teamwork on long-distance or virtual projects?”

I stopped swirling the last bit of coffee that had grown cold in the bottom of my cup. Oh great, he was talking about our project. I thought we were a pretty functional team? The speaker gave some brief answer about really “trying to get to know each other” before getting started and Nicholas thanked him politely. He leaned back into his seat and smiled knowingly at me. I couldn’t tell if he was complimenting me - I mean, my associate - or throwing him under the bus. After that session ended, I got up quickly and lost him in the shuffle on the way to my next room. I attended a few more talks, before deciding to retreat to my hotel room to recharge my introvert energy. I bumped into Nicholas again outside of the conference room.

“Hi, stranger,” he laughed and patted me on the back. He was definitely touchy-feely. “What session are you off to next?” “Oh, uh…” I struggled to come up with an answer as he walked in step with me. “Just going to sit out the next one, gotta charge my laptop’s battery. It’s about to die.” I patted my briefcase for effect. He didn’t have to know I hadn’t cracked it open once today. “That’s too bad,” he replied. “I’ll catch you later then.” He paused to turn back towards the conference rooms. “Wait!” I called after him, stepping out of the stream of people to follow him. Well, here goes nothing. “Yes?” He stopped mid-turn and I caught a good whiff of his cologne. Oh, damn. “Would you… like to grab dinner tonight?” The words tumbled out of my mouth and it was probably all in my head, but my tie felt tighter and tighter around my neck. “Oh.”

Oh. Oh?

Wait -

Ohhhhhh . I backed away, knowing what was going to happen next. It wasn’t my first rodeo. “You know what, don’t worry about it,” I muttered under my breath, speeding away. I wasn’t exactly running , because that isn’t a classy way to exit - but I surely was power walking my way back to that stupid tropical lobby. Back at the glass elevator I took earlier, I pounded the “up” button with my fist, not making eye contact with that elderly couple, back again from the pool.

When the elevator chime dinged, I stepped in, watching the second hand tick by on my wristwatch. I made it through most of the day. I could probably say I got sick and had to cut out of the rest of it. Not too big of a deal.

Getting off on my floor, I took a sharp right out of the elevator and strode up to my room, digging for my room key in my suit jacket pocket. Just as I grasped the glossy plastic card, I was startled to find a long, masculine hand splayed on the door, right in front of my face. I looked up to find Nicholas study me with dark, stormy eyes. He was pissed.

Before I could open my mouth, he leaned into me, looking even angrier. “You have some explaining to do.” He removed his hand from my door and looked at the key card in my hands. Shaking, I slid the key into the reader and twisted the handle when the green light flashed. I stepped inside, not sure what to do when Nicholas followed me. The door clicked shut behind the two of us. “Look, I don’t know what you want-” I couldn’t even finish that sentence. He pushed me into the wall next to the bathroom, silencing my mouth with a furious, passionate kiss. I could swear he was trying to bite me, to draw blood. Kinkier than I was into, but I wouldn’t argue with him right now. I clawed at loosening his tie and he pulled off my jacket, throwing it to the floor. I’d have to iron that again later.

He pulled back from me, our chests heaving in sync. “So, Levy… What do you say to maximizing some teamwork?” Oh hell yes.


You are escorted into a tall dining room lined with windows. The drapes are drawn. A glossy table stretches out to the far end of the room, reflecting the ceiling’s baroque fresco. No one is there except you and the butler. The butler leads you further into the room, passing by rows of chairs, the tabletop gleaming like the surface of a dark river. Neither of you make a sound as you walk, the soft rug padding your steps. Somewhere a little past the midpoint of the room, the butler stops and pulls out a chair.

You sit.

The chair is wooden and carved with ornate detail. You catch your own reflection in the mirror-like tabletop. The seat is cushioned, but in an uncomfortable way. You try a couple different positions, neither makes the situation better. The butler is already at the far end of the room by the time you realize they have left.

You wait. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. You check your watch. 3:27 A.M.

Neither morning nor night. Such a strange request, there had to be some rational explanation. You become aware of your clothing. You don’t know why it took this long to realize how out of place you really are in this lavish mansion. They didn’t say anything about how to dress, so you’re wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Why did you wear sweatpants and a hoodie? You don’t even wear that in your normal life. It had to be some unconscious reaction to the strange hour of this appointment. There is no appropriate attire for three-thirty in the morning. So, therefore, any attire is right.

You want coffee. You realize you want food. You are hungry.

They instructed you to not eat for twelve hours beforehand, so you had gone without supper. Why had they asked you that? This wasn’t a doctor’s appointment. This was a dinner.

Not a dinner.

Breakfast.

Not that either.

But it was a meal.

Did it count as a meal, though?

It was food.

You were there to eat food, so, technically a meal. Anytime you eat food, it’s technically a meal. That sounded right.

At the far end of the dining room, the butler reappears.

Again, they makes no sound, but this time you sense their entrance. You watch them as they walks towards you, a small figure expanding over time. Usually you wouldn’t stare at a person like this. But you do stare. You have a hard time consciously registering the butler as a person, which sounds bad, but they don’t seem to see you as a person either. Mutual absolution by mutual guilt.

The butler is cradling something in the crook of their arm. At first you think it might be a baby. You squint. Possible but unlikely. Whatever the thing is, it’s swaddled in a cocoon of silky white fabric.

When the butler finally arrives, they unfurl the fabric with the precision and flourish of someone pulling a tablecloth out from under a banquet table.

A mint green telephone reveals itself like a miracle or a magic trick. The butler sets it down to your left and disappears behind you. The curly telephone cord is pulled taut, wiggling rigidly, like a fishing line that suddenly caught. There is a slight rustling and a click. A couple moments of silence. You turn to your left and see the butler walking to the far side of the room once more, without a word. This time you watch their retreat. The time it takes to cross the room makes it appear as though the butler is walking slow, but their movements have a sinuous swiftness that proves otherwise. It’s just a really, really big room. Just as the butler exits the room, the phone rings. The sound slices right into your brain and you shake at the impact. A brief interlude of silence and you feel silly for having been startled so dramatically. But no one was there to see it. No one saw it, right? Why does it feel like you’re having to convince yourself of that? And why hasn’t the phone rung again? Did they call and ring once and then just— The phone rings. This time the aggressive sound is somehow comforting. The promise that something will happen. You answer the phone, but don’t say anything.

There is a faint static on the other line, like the receiver is gentling pouring a funnel of fine sand into your ear, something out of a fairy-tale. “Are you ready?” the voice on the other line says into the finely-grained static. You’ve become so accustomed to your passive role in this environment—disconcertingly passive, now that you think of it—that you’re not sure what to say to this at first. You look down at your reflection in the table. Two furrowed brows, four blank eyes. “Yeah,” you say. “Yes,” then add: “Sure.” Behind you, a loud rattling. You spin around, craning your neck around the high back of the chair. A pair of double door swing wide open and the butler enters, holding a silver platter aloft on their white-gloved hand. The butler approaches swiftly places the platter down in front of you, and retreats back out the double doors. The doors clatter shut with the violence of a shipwreck.

“Remove the dome,” the voice says, evenly. You do as you are instructed. A block of red velvet cake sits on a jade green plate.

“You have thirty minutes,” the voice says and the line goes dead. You stare at the cake a moment, then place the phone back in its cradle. You raise your watch to your chest and set a timer. The milliseconds spin from sixty to zero and back to sixty, time chasing it’s tail in a frenzy.

A plastic fork/spoon/knife combo lays in a plastic package to the right side of the plate. You pick it up and pry the package open with a dull pop. You shimmy out the utensils and napkin and dump the salt and pepper packets in the corner of the platter. You take in a deep breath through your nostrils and slowly push it out between your lips. The first bite tastes like any other red velvet cake. The second is the same. But you know that this isn’t any ordinary red velvet cake. You’ve been tasked to decipher what makes it so extra-ordinary. The secret ingredient. Some esoteric element no one else has been able to divine.

You take another bite, this time trying not to focus on the taste. Instead, you focus your attention on the curtains. They are some indefinably dark, rich color. You’d call it purple, but it’s something far more complex. Something you aren’t familiar enough with in your comparatively proletarian life—like rare dog breeds or fine wine.

You catch a hint of something on your tastebuds. You close your eyes and try to grasp the taste. Like trying to snag a fish in dark waters. You take another bite. You look up at the ceiling. This is the first time you’ve really looked and it gives you vertigo. You close your eyes a moment and reopen them, trying to reorient. The distant expanse is covered in an elaborate, almost bombastic, baroque fresco. All flowing robes and bodies twisting in what is either pain or pleasure. You can’t distinguish where one body begins and the other ends. Some shapes seem more animal than human. Shadows obscure much of the detail. All that really stands out are the eyes, a seemingly infinite constellation of eyes, glistening brightly in the vague bedlam.

And, just like that, you know the secret ingredient.

The phone rings. You pick it up. “You know the secret ingredient,” the voice says. It isn’t a question. You nod even though the voice can’t see you.

The voice can see you, you know that now. “Your wish has been granted,” the voice continues. “An exchange. A gift for a gift.” You nod. “But if you ever reveal it to anyone,” the voice pauses—“Your wish will turn to sand. Is this agreeable?” You take one last bite of the cake and nod.


My girlfriend stole my dog “Follow that car,” I yelled in the taxi driver’s window, pointing to the maroon mustang driven by my now ex-girlfriend. I jumped in the back and explained to the driver as we pursued. “That’s my ex-girlfriend, she came to the house to collect some of her things, but she left with my dog.” I pointed to the back window of her car and said to the driver, “See the dog in the back seat? He’s mine.” Nodding, the driver said, “Do you want me to try and cut her off?” The driver was probably hoping for a bigger tip, but anticipating some accident, I said, “No, we’ll just keep her in sight, and when she stops, I’ll grab my dog.” Leaning back into the seat, I pictured myself riding in that yellow Prius as a noble chariot driven by a courageous savior out to rescue my dog. Looking back, though, I see the taxi driver may have simply may have pulled over thinking my arm was on fire because I was waving it so intensely, and I’m sure he didn’t leave the house, thinking, ‘I’m seeking adventure in the form of rescuing some random dog today.’ It was so long ago now; I don’t even remember what that argument was about. It was some minor detail that turned into an immovable mountain that led to her moving out of our home a few days later. Eighteen years ago may not seem very relevant, but so much of my life is a duplicate of that event that going over an event from yesterday or re-living an event from eighteen years ago is the same to me. I remember it was a beautiful sunny day in May, probably around 80 degrees. Every tree was showing lots of green. Green was perhaps the scent in the air because everything was alive in the neighborhood, so all was probably perfect for me too. Looking back, I seemed so happy, but maybe I was just naïve not to expect the natural learning cycle that was to come. I remember getting ready on that day to go to the beach. I can see my pretty girlfriend putting a few towels in my beautiful antique Volkswagen next to my friendly Labrador. Everything pretty or beautiful; I called mine for some reason. I don’t remember doing it consciously. I don’t think anybody would. I loved that antique VW because it proved to the world that I was a magnificent mechanic, and I loved the girl probably because she was pretty, and that proved to the world that I was, in turn, attractive and loveable. My dog was beautiful, soaking up the sun in the back of my VW on that day. I loved that dog, I think, mostly because I thought the dog felt the same way. Now, I’m not saying I can’t LOVE, or my LOVE is insincere; I’m just saying that the most significant part of my loving things in those days was self-absorbed. As we pursued the mustang, I’m sure I was thinking about what I’d lose if my dog weren’t recovered. The lesson of fighting for ownership of that dog may have been discovering the importance of genuinely loving something. The most significant loss would have been the unconditional love that I couldn’t do for myself. If I’d had any wisdom on that day, I would have seen that I was pursuing unconditional love in the form of the dog. “She’s slowing down; I think she’s getting ready to pull over.” “Just pull up behind, and I’ll step out to retrieve my dog,” I said because I’m sure the driver was anxious for this little adventure to be over. The mustang stopped in an apartment complex I hadn’t seen before, and I stepped out of my chariot to the back door of the mustang. Opening the door revealed two things: a surprised dog in the back seat that looked like mine but wasn’t, and a surprised driver that was not my ex-girlfriend. I directed a hurried, “Sorry, thought I knew this dog” over the front seat and shut the door. I’m sure she thought I hired a taxi to stalk her and her dog. Gloomily returning to the Prius, I said, “It wasn’t them. You can take me back.” The notion that, years ago, I was pursuing something that displayed true love but wasn’t true love has always haunted my aspirations of love. When reflecting on a lack of love, I immediately go back to that moment chasing my dog. I’ve contemplated some unconscious piece of me that may be monitoring my best possible potential, telling me that I don’t love enough. Somehow, I mistakenly interpreted that message as if I should fight for ownership of my things. Ownership of love is impossible, so I did the only thing I could comprehend, which was to fight for something that most closely resembles love. The yellow chariot stopped in front of my house, and I got out to walk up the steps. I glanced in the window next to the door as I opened it and noticed what I thought was my dog coming to greet me. I quickly opened the door and dropped to my knees to hug him. Petting him softly, I said, “Hey you! I thought I lost you.” Just then, my ex-girlfriend’s voice came from the nearest room and said, “I just came by to grab some of my stuff.” Maybe not wanting to reveal the weakness I now see as loving her, I told her something casual and utterly obvious, like, “I see. Do you need any help?” “No, I have friends coming over tomorrow to help me move the big stuff.” I know I wanted her to stay, but somehow couldn’t muster the courage to tell her, so I said , “I can lend a hand with the big stuff.” I can see that chasing after my dog was simply pursuing some model of love right in front of me.


WHY BUSINESS PEOPLE WHO DON'T UNITE IN A COMPANY OR BUSINESS FINALLY MAKING THEIR OWN CHOICES. By Laurent Christopher Bilihanyuma_Author_ Tanzania, East Africa. 24/05/2021. Uniting in business is something very potential to meet success in future time in business as basically mean ;come or bring together for a common purpose or action. That is profit. Uniting people into independent functional units serves the needs of business managers.

It fosters order and control. Every business does it. Uniting people into cross-functional, cross-functional, interdependent teams serves the customers. The Winning businesses deploy those cross-functional teams on critical missions like: Strengthen current businesses. Build new businesses or important new additions to current businesses. Capture the dominant share of a class of customers. Understand customers' needs and create significant new-product programs to satisfy the most important of those needs. Win customers from their best competitors. That much causes them to finally making their own choice. Also a business unit is a segment of a company with strategic objectives separate from the parent company but enhances the overall performance of the enterprise.  It is set up to perform a specific business function to a specific market which requires a management specialty that is not within the parent company. One can ensure the business units are successful if he or she consider to; Empower the unit manager: The success of a business unit depends on the leadership provided in the particular unit. As The manager is in charge of the unit but is also under the main organization’s top management.For the manger to perform well, you must empower him and trust his decision-making capabilities. Besides, he is the one on the ground so he is in the best place to suggest changes and strategies that will work well for the unit. Since the success of a unit contributes to the success of the organization, you should empower all unit managers so that the units become successful. Also; Sharing between different units: The business units must be willing to share the available resources. Therefore times when one unit will need more resources that the others, what do you do in such a situation? The managers must be ready to share. When the resources are not enough for all the needs presented, then managers must learn to prioritize their needs. Then After; Flexibility: The organization must allow the business units some flexibility. It is important as the unit is in direct control of their products and market. The organization should be supportive of suggestions brought forth from the units. A good example is a situation when a unit manger identifies an opportunity. If the unit deal with baby diapers and then the manager realizes that mothers who buy diapers want baby wipes also, then the organization should be supportive. The strategy will require more financing, but it will also increase the amount of profits earned. Business people can have these Importance of Business Units if they Uniting and cooperating together; Firstly ,Organization: Business units exist purely as units of specialization. When you create units within the organization, then you maximize on time management. Business units allow you to see the organization more clearly. If you were to have one manager handling more than three products at a go, then he or she will be unable to operate them effectively. Besides, he will not have time for innovation and h will not be able to organize his time well. Secondly, Micro-management: It is easy to manage small units within an organization. Every manager will be able to take care of even the smallest details. Every detail of the unit will, therefore, be attended to. The top management can track progress in the various units. This will lead to better decision making. Thirdly, Profitability: For a product to perform well in the market, then it has to meet the needs of the market. So, the units need to find a way to continuously gather feedback from the market, identify a target market, target the market and position the product accordingly. If one person is assigned product, he or she will be able to give valuable contribution regarding the target market. Unfortunately, if one person is assigned more than two products to handle, the work might be too much, and it might affect his effectiveness. The financial statement for every unit is prepared separately. This enables the top management to keep tabs on the return on investment of every unit. They are also able to have a general overview of the organization’s profitability. Fourthly, Decision making: When it comes to making decisions about in the organization of the units, the top managers can rely on the numbers from the financial statements. When a new unit is about to be set up, then better performing units take charge of the process. When it comes to allocation of resources, the top management uses the financial statements. Lastly but not Leastly: business people who don't unite together will finally make their own choices as; Running out of money is a small business’s biggest risk. Owners often know what funds are needed day to day but are unclear as to how much revenue is being generated, and the disconnect can be disastrous. Inexperience managing a business—or an unwillingness to delegate—can negatively impact small businesses, as can a poorly visualized business plan, which can lead to ongoing problems once the firm is operational. Poorly planned or executed marketing campaigns, or a lack of adequate marketing and publicity, are among the other issues that drag down small businesses. Now: As Main Purpose of a Cooperative;People usually join a cooperative for the benefits – to enjoy such things as the pooling of risk, the ability to make a large purchase in a group, to become empowered and feel like they are part of a meaningful company. As well as the main Goal of a Cooperative : The Cooperative businesses are organized for the purpose of improving the bargaining power of the individual members and the product or service quality provided by the members. They also aim to reduce costs incurred during the production process, to provide competition to larger companies with deeper pockets, to expand opportunities in the market and take advantage of them, and to obtain products and services that would otherwise be unavailable because for-profit companies see them as unprofitable in business.


Part I It was hard to tell if I was awoken by an outside force or the existence of my own anxiety. Nevertheless, my eyes open to a surrounding that only some would be able to dream about. My indistinguishable being was fragile as I attempted to discern the walls around me. I crawled through what I could, but my success was faltered at every turn. I was inches away from my future, but miles away from my past. One of the refractories knelt itself into my hand and I was faced with a choice. I didn’t know what choice I was to make yet, so I allowed my body to feel first: emotions, but with limitations. In my hand, the object shook, but it wasn’t the fault of the object. Hot air wrapped itself around it, providing warmth and the shifting ground below. It was only one of the memories of what seemed like trillions, but the same preservation was shared. All around, the warmth of my surroundings was illuminated by a circumference of light, which was shed for all to share. Rainbows danced in tandem as the protrusions of the object were traced along the crevices of my palm. One short Oh, another the same length Two the same length Oh, another two! A pointy top A solid base. The corners were given the shared color and my hand illuminated with clarity. The object was placed back into its spot, and I grasped for another a few places over and around three above. I was to choose wisely for another. I knew I wanted the same feeling, different perspective. There was one object not illuminated and I reached for it without question. There were cracks in the corners and scratches up and down the base. It hurt to hold it in my hands, but I knew that it was one that needed attention, so I didn’t put it back quite yet. My knees felt sprained, but I did not let it take me away from my goal: I must face my past memories in order to get out of this cave I’ve dug myself into. Setting it beside me, my hands felt free and liberating, but not with good cause. I decided to come back in due time, once I’ve dealt with others that didn’t feel as strong.            I felt the pain in my knees again and it brought a sting to my eyes. The floor below me began to shake and crumble as the memory tumbled around my helpless body. I scooped it up again in attempt to process it, hoping the cracks could be mended and the scratches could be healed. Escaping into the effervescent light, I was able to recall the day. This is the one that brought me here . I held it against my bouncing chest. It must be processed now. Part II A piercing buzz fills my ears and the room around me flashes crimson. I awake to find myself on the ground, the tile below me cold and sharp with broken edges. The flashing stops immediately, and the buzzing is replaced with a clack of heels coming toward my direction. My eyes blur because I lost my glasses long ago, but I am able to make out a ball of white that grows larger until it surrounds my entire being. Once it is near, I am able to make out that it is someone wearing a lab coat. “Take a seat on the couch,” they instruct, their voice surprisingly calm and reassuring. I am able to stand with the help of their hand encased in a rubber glove. My knees wobble, but I make careful strides over to a grey blob that I can make out in the distance that gets clearer the closer I get. I take a seat, but it doesn’t feel like a couch at all. “That’s the coffee table,” I am told. “The couch is behind it.” The person in the lab coat guides me to where the couch is and helps me down. I rest my head on the arm rest and close my eyes because I grow tired of the blur. “Where are my glasses?” My voice is paper thin. “You will get them back when we are through.” Their voice fills the room. It feels like rainbows and unicorns. I press myself deeper into the sofa as I attempt to grant myself comfort. “Tell me about the incident.” A flood of pain washes over me. I know exactly what they are talking about. “I-I can’t” “If you can’t talk about it, let’s process it. You must process this memory in order to venture forth.” The therapist clears their throat and taps their pen against the clipboard in rhythmic time. “As I tap my pen, recall the memory as it occurred and tell me what you see.” Part III            The voice of my therapist becomes null and void as I find myself in yet another room: this time, it’s pitch black. The pen tapping continues as an echoing void, but without diction and without tongue. This is how I am guided through the hole I have found myself in, scrambling for any source of light. In a hall of sensorial deprivation, it can be easy to get lost in the scam of nothingness.            “Find a source of light and you will get your glasses back.” This time, my instructions are comprehendible and by a human. My choice of fight or flight becomes one as my feet escape from under me. I trip, falling against a wall.            “Do the stars I am seeing right now count as a source of light?” I find my glasses back on my face and the room turns into a sharper pitch of darkness.            “That is a great start. It tells me you are trying.” The voice tells me to find another light source, so I feel around this time with more careful consideration. My hands become the vessel to create change as I feel for ways, I am able to help myself heal. On my hands and knees now, I slap the ground with more tenacity than my body was able to shed. Nevertheless, I find another light source.            “I think I’ve found a lighter.” I feel around for the spark wheel and flick it against the rawness of my fingertips. After a few tries with sparks but no fire, I assume the lighter is out of fluid. “Try something else.” The voice calls. “That was not meant for you.” The voice startles me, but I keep venturing forth. Find something meant for me.

My body summons me to walk against the barren ground in hopes something will come up that is meant to be mine. Even though I don’t know how large my surroundings are, I estimate and take chances. I count my steps so that I am not far from home. One Two Three Four— A sharp pain is sent up my foot after stepping on a small, hard object. Quickly, I kneel down to grab it.            “Is it a lightbulb?” I feel around its surface with my seeing hands.            “Try again,” my therapist beckons. In that moment I had realized what a fool I’d been looking for sources of light that were not mine. Of course, it was a prism! A prism is what got me into the hole in the first place.            “It’s a prism”            “Ahhhh” I am back on the couch now. The room I am in is a laboratory dressed in gobs of silver. My therapist is a human, but with no discernable gender.            “Are you ready to process now?” I steady the prism in my hands. The very object that will help me store, process, retrieve, and make my memories.            “Let’s do it.”


The wind howled as Nikolaus opened the door and emerged from the snow. He had returned from hunting and brought back two things: a rabbit and a disappointed look on his face. His kids, Heidi and Rendall jumped with joy; it was finally their turn to eat. When Nikolaus would catch food, the parents would eat. Then the next time he’d catch food, the kids would eat. Their mother, Edlin, told them to calm down and reserve their energy. But they couldn’t get over the fact that they would finally be able to eat something bigger than a rat. While Edlin was preparing the rabbit, Heidi and Rendall bickered about who would have the bigger piece. The squabble escalated into a fistfight that saw Heidi victorious. Rendall said that he let her win in a last attempt to save what was left of his dignity.

At the dinner table, which looked like it could collapse at any second, Rendall surrendered part of his half of the rabbit to Heidi. She was salivating at the sight of the rabbit. Despite having the smaller piece, Rendall was still happy with his piece of the rabbit, but he still had to deal with Heidi’s bragging. By the couch lay Edlin and Nikolaus. Edlin talked to Nikolaus about how they could live a better life if they weren’t so disconnected from society. Nikolaus gave her the same response every time they talked about it; other people aren’t to be trusted and all strangers were evil.

Nikolaus had just fallen asleep. Edlin pulled a bird encyclopedia from under the bed and snuck into the living room. She lit her lantern and sat on the couch. Edlin forgot how to read, but was still entertained by the detailed illustrations of birds. From the hallway, she heard a loud creak coming from the floor. She tried to find a place to hide the book, but it was too late. Nikolaus was horrified by what he had just seen. He couldn’t believe that Edlin was reading a book made by a stranger. He hit and berated Edlin before lighting the book on fire with the lantern and throwing it into the fireplace. Edlin, being powerless, could do nothing but endure the punishment.

The next morning, Heidi played with her new wooden horse toy— a toy that she was supposed to keep secret. But she couldn’t handle having to keep it secret. She wanted to play with it. It was the most beautiful toy she had ever seen. Enchanted by its beauty, she completely forgot that she was supposed to keep it secret and went to brag about it to Rendall. At the time, Rendall was helping Nikolaus make arrows. Nikolaus noticed the horse and instantly began scolding Heidi for playing with a toy made by a stranger. He snatched the horse from her hand and burned it in front of her eyes. She ran away crying to her mother. Rendall sat at the dinner table, admiring his deck of skat cards. When Edlin gave him the cards, he was distracted by them while she was explaining that they were to be kept a secret. Despite not knowing how to play skat, he was fascinated. Just looking at them was amusing to him. Rendall wanted to show his father. Nikolaus was furious when he saw the cards. He chastised Rendall for playing with cards made by a stranger. The cards were ripped and burned before his very eyes. He couldn’t believe what he had seen. He was horrified and confused. Enough was enough. Nikolaus gathered the family to find out how they received the items. While Heidi and Rendall bawled their eyes out, Edlin provided an explanation. She confessed that while Nikolaus was out hunting, a trader visited their house. She was able to buy toys and sweets for the kids and a book for herself. But she never told him that the price was her body. Nikolaus was seething and lectured them for what felt like years. Each insult harsher than the last. Nikolaus woke up the next morning, grumpier than usual. He waited for Edlin to bring him his breakfast as she usually did, but it never came. He stood up and looked around the house. His family was nowhere to be seen. He realized how severe the situation was and he lied down on the floor sobbing, for he had lost everything. His wife and kids had left him. The only people who weren’t strangers to him were now gone. Was it his fault? He was trying to protect them. But that was the reason they left. A few months had passed. Someone was knocking on the door. Nikolaus ignored it, hoping that whoever was knocking would leave. But the knocking persisted. Nikolaus knew that it wouldn’t stop until he opened the door. He grabbed his gun and readied himself. As soon as the door opened, he fired. But what lay in front of him was the most horrifying thing he had ever seen: his wife’s corpse. His kids surrounded and mourned their mother. Nikolaus had just made the greatest mistake in his life. He had killed his wife in front of his kids. He killed one of the only people who wasn’t a stranger to him and traumatized the rest. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He had to be dreaming. But his children’s screams were too real. He couldn’t live knowing what he had done. He pointed the gun towards himself and pulled the trigger. Several years had passed. The kids had just been released from the psychiatric hospital. Every month they visited their old house. Beside it lay their parents’ gravestones. They always gave their mother flowers but spat on their father’s gravestone. They now prosper with society. They don’t know which life was better: the one where they are isolated and controlled but have a family, or the one where they are wealthy but have to live with the death of their parents.


When Good Champagne Goes Bad It was Oscar Night in Hollywood in 1960. Famed up-and-coming Movie Director Jack Jones had received his first ever nomination for his action movie "The Boxer", and was waiting patiently in his "Guests of Honor" seat. The audience clapped as a man walked up to the podium with a letter in hand to speak. "The next Oscar Award Category is "Best Picture of the Year 1960." The nominees in this category are "Herakles Versus the Nemean Lion", "Sapphire of Bombay", "The Boxer", "Clint Buckeye: Texas Lawman", and "The lonely Fisherman". And the Oscar goes to...."The Boxer!!!" declared the announcer. The audience gave a standing ovation as Jack Jones walked up on to the stage to receive his Golden Statuette. "I would like to thank the Academy, and I would like to thank my lead actor, Charles Tanner, without whom, none of this would be possible today. Follow your dreams!!!" Jack said at the podium. The audience clapped. Later that night, Jack and the cast of "The Boxer" had a dinner party at "The Brown Beanie" in Hollywood to celebrate. Jack Jones and his mistress, Actress Alexa Fair, Actors Charles Tanner and Dean Loren, Singer Roxanne Green, and producer Frank Cardella were the guests of honor in attendance. Roxanne chatted casually with western movie star Wesley Boothe, while Charles Tanner flirted with a waitress. Dean Loren talked to a composer about their work on "The Boxer" and other movies. Waiters rushed back and forth to the kitchen and the dining room, pouring Drinks, bussing tables, and so forth.

There were exquisitely decorated Flower Bouquets in Vases placed on all the tables. A Band was playing Jazz Music on a stage. A female voice called out "BASTARD!!" The crowd turned to see Jack Jones's wife, Melissa, stomped up to the crowded table. "Jack, who is this??" Melissa said, pointing at Jack Jones' party date. "Oh, this...this is....um...my wife...Melissa, I'd like you to meet Charlene! She's Singer!" Jack said awkwardly. "Jack....How could you? When you come home, I'll be long gone!" Melissa said, leaving the restaurant in an indignant huff. "Melissa, wait!" Jack called out for her, but she was already outside of the restaurant door. An uncomfortable silence filled the air around the Dining Table until the Wait Staff brought out the Rose Salads and popped the bottles of Champagne. After a few moments of dining and chatting amongst guests. Jack Jones broke the atmosphere by choking and gagging, and then clumsily slumped over forward onto the dining table. "Oh my God, Jack!! Is he okay!?!?!?" Charlene yelled. A Stage Hand ran up to check his pulse. "Oh, dear lord! Jack is DEAD!!" The whole restaurant gasped and froze. The band stopped playing Jazz Music. Charles, Dean, and Roxanne, no longer hungry, set their forks down on the table next to their appetizers. A few minutes later, the police arrived. The Police were asking the Dinner Guests and Kitchen Staff questions like "What was the last thing Mr. Jones ate before he died?" and "What was in the Salad that could've caused Mr. Jones' death?" Dean Loren said "Well, there is ONE person I could think of as a suspect...Jack Jones' Wife, Melissa! Jack brought his Mistress Charlene instead of Melissa, and she was NOT HAPPY about that to say the least!" "Well, there's also Frank Cardella..." Wesley Boothe started. "Frank and Jack had been butting heads off and on for a little while." So the police interviewed Frank Cardella. "So, Frank, I understand that you and Mr. Jones didn't always see eye-to-eye..." started the Police Officer. "Well, Jack Jones was considering putting Charlene in "The Boxer" as the Round Card Gal, but I was skeptical, I felt it wasn't necessary. He said that Charlene wouldn't be interested in being an extra in the stands. I threatened to quit the film altogether if he wrote her into the Movie, and so Jack Jones agreed to leave her out of the movie, but I swear I didn't kill Jack!" Frank said. The Sherriff took note of every detail. "Well, thank you for your Participation. We'll question Mr. Jones' Wife later tonight." said the Sherriff. The Police examined the Kitchen and found no apparent evidence of Poisoning in the kitchen. The Homicide detective carefully examined Jack Jones's food, and found a most peculiar flower petal in the Champagne Flute as part of a glass decoration, still full. Carefully, he removed it with a pair of tweezers and headed to the University of California Botanical Gardens. "Excuse me Professor Delaney, I need you to tell me what kind of plant this flower Petal belongs to..." the Detective said, holding the Petal up for the Botanist. The Botanist gasped in Horror. "That's a ACONITUM Flower! They contain an extremely potent toxin which can cause Heart Failure!" Professor Delaney explained. "Up-and-coming Film Director and Oscar Winner Jack Jones was poisoned to death by this flower, do you know how anyone could have gotten a hold of the Aconitum Flower?" asked the Detective. "Well..." started the Botanist. "We have a small section of the Gardens full of poisonous plants for the sake of Research purposes, so if the flower that killed Jack came from there, someone who has access to the Botanical Gardens, like an employee or a professor must have gotten a hold of it...." The Detective then talked to the Secretary. "I need you to tell me who visited the Botanical Gardens, today." "I'm sorry, sir, but that information is confidential." The Secretary retorted. The Detective bribed her with a bottle of Whiskey and a Pack of Cigarettes. "Here's the records of everyone from the past 48 hours who signed in." The Detective saw Charlene on the list. So he called the Police. The Police raided Charlene's Trailer at the Studio, only to find the Trailer Vacant, except for a note. "By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I killed Jack Jones. Why? Because he promised to cast me in his last movie, and he never did. ~ Love, Charlene <3" Meanwhile, Charlene had crossed the border into Mexico and landed a job singing at a local Cantina in Acapulco.


Jack's one bad habit turned out that he had none. He came from a good family of the unassuming respectable sort. Keith and Margaret Richards had come from a long line of midwestern farmers and had over the last few generations graduated to producing the type of midwestern accountants that were known for their steadfastness. Hard work, diligence, and honesty were the hallmarks of the Richards family and for three generations they had born and bread accountants, lawyers, and clerical staff whose lack of imagination was relied upon in the sort of middle income, white collar world that ran the lower to mid office towers of the unfashionable side of a big mid-western city which, in the interests of our narrative, shall remain nameless. Jack woke up every day, kissed his wife Daisy Richards goodbye, drove his sensible designed in Japan assembled in America with the good gas mileage in to work, and filed taxes for the firm of Peabody, Lionel, and Rotherson. Jack was 34, had ten year old son in the fifth grade, little Johnathan, who was beginning to learn his times tables. Jack and Daisy had married after college and had Johnathan shortly thereafter - it wasn't so much expected as it was the done thing. Daisy herself put on her scrub uniform every morning and drove into work as a nurse. Her locker was adorned with cutesy stickers and animals as it had been all her life. She was, in a word, sweet, and about as unassuming as it was possible to be and still be able to draw blood from her patients. She worked in an orthopedic clinic where there wasn't too much blood and about the most serious ailment that came into the office was a dislocated knee. They both put away from retirement in IRAs that were as sensible as Jack could structure them. They had a small house with a picket fence. Their life path was set in stone - they would work for thirty years or so and then they would retire to a slightly bigger house somewhere warm as their parents had and their parents before them had. It was not so much to call Jack, Daisy, and even maybe little Johnathan, happy as it would be to say that they had no comparison of what life was about. They were happy *enough*. They had enough food to eat and a roof over their heads. They weren't religious per se, Jack liked to mention in casual conversation to anybody that had the misfortune of being in earshot that he came from "good Christian stock", although Jack was more interested in his other, more material, accounts. They had a weekly barbecue every Saturday with the neighbors, Max and Mira Drotherson, who lived next door. Max was the owner of the local car dealership in town and while his house was about as cookie cutter as the Richards, although a pale shade of blue than stark yellow, there would always be some exotic car sitting in his drive way that he "test drove" before selling them to the public. Mira sold art in town. The art was bad, but people bought it out of charity. Mira had either the foresight or the ignorance to pretend otherwise; it was sort of hard to tell with Mira. "Look, Jack," Max gesticulated with his beer one Saturday at the end of July when the heat was becoming scorching. Max and Jack were standing in front of the grill cooking weenies while the girls were in the garden. As per usual they were at Jack's house but Max was grilling and Jack was standing watch. They had fallen into this habit, and neither understood why. Jack didn't drink. "You need to lighten up a little. Get out of town for a while, see the sights. Even up to the Lakes for awhile. I've got just the car that you could rent for a long weekend away for a bit..." And so the conversation went as it almost always did, with Jack nodding along and murmuring, in his meek and polite way, how now was not the best time. There would have to be arrangements made for a baby sitter for Johnathan and his summer schedule. How much work there was at the office these days. In fact, the one problem that Jack seemed to be having in his life is that nobody around him respected his need for a certain amount of boring. For Jack, he enjoyed what he had because he had never had the taste of what he could had if he, in the words of some of his colleagues at work, applied a little creativity. Even in the most boring and staid of offices, his boss Mr. Peabody would politely nod his head during the bi-weekly figure reports with a weariness that spoke volumes. People assumed that Jack was insensitive to their emotions, or as the hippies getting high near the lunch trucks might call them, "vibes", but Jack wasn't. He just was vibe immune somehow. Stephanie, Mr. Peabody's secretary, consoled him more than once when a fellow clerk was promoted ahead of him. He just needed to show a little more - mojo was the term she used. But they were accounts dang it (that was the word he said to himself as he sometimes kept himself awake at night in his little yellow white picket fence house). They weren't supposed to be interesting, and he liked them that way. The latest indignity had pushed him over his proverbial edge. His desk had been moved away from his customary position near a window to let a much younger clerk, a junior, into his spot and he had been banished to the middle of the office where there was much less privacy. Jack valued his privacy, he valued that his day to day life had a certain uniform consistency, and he valued not being humiliated in front of his peers. Damn the window (this time he really meant it), it was the indignity of it all. All his life he had done what others told him to do because they more or less fell in line with his expectations. But for some reason that he couldn't really fathom that wasn't working any more, so he began, for the first time in his life, to become cunning. One Saturday Jack convinced Max to lend him one of his high powered sports cars for the week. Jack, who on principle refused to lie, in keeping with his family tradition, told him that he was just looking for a change. Max jumped at the idea. For him the cars were free rides and he secretly liked the idea of thinking that he knew his neighbors secret, that Jack was having an affair downtown. Max liked to think he knew things and Jack did not go so far as to completely banish the idea from his mind. On that Monday he drove into work in a car that was worth easily ten times what his sensible Asian compact was worth. News around the office spread like wildfire. Stephanie looked at him with new found respect and began playing with her pencils when she talked with him. The junior accounts manager that had taken his chair deferred to him in a completely trivial matter and Mr. Peabody, bald headed paunchy Mr. Peabody practically gushed over figures that hadn't changed significantly over the last week. Jack, to add fuel to the rumors, carefully added a doctored spreadsheet showing exponential growth in some obscure stock. Jack did not lie, but if any of the partners or associates were to happen to walk across his terminal when he was roaming the halls that wasn't exactly his problem either. On a Friday the partners took Jack out to lunch and effused over his performance. Jack carefully noted what they ate (steak and salad) and what beer they drank (an import of a variety that closely matched the pedigree of his loaner vehicle). He ordered a smaller steak and a beer. This seemed to please the partners and they were quick to enjoy him to a more senior role within the firm, one came with an office and a door. At weeks end, Jack returned the car to Max and the following week happily moved his small office belongs, a cactus, lamp and calculator into his new office. No mention was made of the car which had disappeared from his parking space other than a few looks that suggested some slight betrayal. Stephanie stopped twirling her pencil, but also stopped consoling him as an equal - he now became Mr. Richards with a cold brusqueness. Other than this his normal duties more or less resumed. Yet...the hours were longer and the figures involved became both more and less serious. Jack's role became less about accounting and more about having to manage people, which involved learning more about food than he would have cared to admit. Over the next few weeks he began having to learn about the gastro sensibilities of the other managing firms in town and their clientele. The reason for this was simple - the accounts of Peabody, Lionel and Rotherson did not balance and as Jack was beginning to understand most of the accounting books in town, maybe even all the accounts in the world, or at least it seemed to Jack, might not balance. It started with a simple phone call over some tractor supplies to a manufacturing firm that had off balance sheet items that were not listed anywhere in any way. Bounced from one representative to another Jack quickly found that the only way to gain any traction was to call up a sales rep which involved another steak dinner. Chad from Feed Supply Unlimited. An explanation was given over tartar sauce that seemed reasonable enough. Jack submitted his report, Mr. Peabody was pleased and he moved on to other work. That was the beginning. The life that Jack had envisioned - honesty, integrity - started to quickly become mired in the reasonableness of his clients. Jack could not, would not for his own principle sake become involved in a lie, but he was forced, time and again to call up clients to explain their discrepancies in their accounts. From tractor wholesalers to lampshade dealers, Jack would be forced to find ways to excuse the profligacy of the accounts he was handed. And the explanations always made sense at the end of the day, there was no denying that. But Jack was having other problems. His waistline was expanding and he began to have bags under his eyes. The looks that Max gave him that summer were beginning to rub off on Daisy who looked at Jack with a side eye every now and again. The extra money and the promotion sounded too good to be true to her and the extra hours away at the office and the way that Jack came home every day exhausted and smelling of alcohol could only, to her sensibilities, mean one thing - that Jack was cheating on her. Daisy didn't say anything - in fact she was her old normal cheerful self, but she rolled away from him at night and more often than not she "got headaches". Jack had traded away his simple life of honest toil for money. His wife wasn't honest with him, what amounted to his friends thought he was having an affair, his clients were not honest. How could he then live an honest life? And so a hot sweltering night filled with sleeplessness found Jack out in front of his yellow lemon house taking a baseball bat to his sensible asian compact with the good gas mileage.


“This is the hunter's badge of glory - That he protects and tends his quarry, - Hunts with honor, as is due - And through the beast to God is true.” -- Jagergmeister , by Oskar von Riesenthal (taken from the back of a Jagermeister bottle, half-full). * * * I am left to imagine the circumstances of a most unusual case, which has the Grimlace’s handiwork written all over it. The Grimlace has stolen another victim’s visage and memories, leaving her a withered amnesiac. She was wandering ghostlike amid the streets of Frankfurt with no idea how to return or where she called home. “My name is Hildergard Koeppen,” I tell her, “But everyone calls me Hilda.” “Pleased to meet you… I’m…” and she trails off, unable to remember her own name. “It’s ok, my dear, this is all quite normal,” I tell her. I turn on my Dictaphone and make my report: “It is 23:36 in the evening. The patient’s name is Greta Thunderberg. The patient is approximately thirty-two years of age according to confirmed medical records. Greta presents with symptoms of sudden onset retrograde amnesia. She reports no memory of her whereabouts or how she reported to Polizeireiterstaffel HE off the river Main. She complains of persistent tinnitus, disorientation, and a total loss of recent memory, as well as an inability to recall various aspects of her personality—or, apparently, her own name.

When asked if she is a serious person or a fun-loving one, she says, ‘I hardly know myself, at all—I couldn’t say.’ When asked if she enjoys large gatherings and social occasions, she says, ‘I should like to try it and see.’ She is completely flat. When asked, ‘Are you upset about your present condition,’ she says, ‘I feel fine.’ Her face is frozen as if she has had an excessive amount of Botox serum injected. There are neither any signs of physical trauma nor any indication of the use of surgical instruments and the bloodwork is normal. My diagnosis is that there has been a sudden hypoxic event and a hardening of neural connections occasioned by calcification from exposure to chemical antagonists—causing sudden onset retrograde amnesia—all of which is consistent with a Grimlace attack.” I release the patient back to her police escort, who thanks me and is on his way. Brainy. That’s me. Cut it, treat it, study it. I do it all. Neurosurgeon, neurologist, and neuroscientist. Check, check, and check. And you can add dissect it to that list. Did you know that forgetting is actually part of the learning process? I’ll bet you didn’t. But not everyone has brains on their mind like I do. My true calling, however, is the hunt for the Grimlace. I have been stalking this freak of nature for over a decade. But this is the first time that I have ever been able to anticipate catching my quarry and finally seeing what it is made of. We are the Knights of Kadosch, a sect of the Scottish Right. We are closely aligned with our brethren, the Knights of Tavistock in St. Petersburg. We hunt monsters. And my special assignment these many years is to rid the world of the dreaded Grimlace. After all this time, I have finally found a witness to the first Grimlace attack. * * * Just past one o’clock in the morning, Agatha is coming to life. The tea kettle is whistling in the kitchen, and Agatha hums as she pours herself a cup, her hand shaking as she tips the kettle.

Although Agatha was a precise woman and always had her hands perfectly manicured, the ends of her nails are growing out with ragged abrasions, and the nail polish is badly chipped. Our shared apartment is a high-rise at 140 West in Westend-Süd. There is a view of the city skyline and the Taunus mountains beyond. “Where have you been Heidi? I’ve been worried?” Agatha asks. “Interviewing a victim of an attack,” I say with a shrug. “I called you two hours ago, remember mum?” “But what about your dinner with Rene – did you forget?” Agatha asks. “That was last week, mutter.” “Is someone changing your calendar?” she asks, hands on her hips, “You know there are a lot of doctors that want your position in the Faculty of Medicine at Goethe-Universität—who would do anything to get you out of there.” “Oh, mutter. No need to worry about me. Did you watch your show?” “Uhh, is it already eight?” Agatha asked. “Mutter! It is nearly two in the morning,” I tell her, and walk into my study. “I have to finish some work mum, get some sleep.” I can barely stand to look at her—when I can’t do anything about it. My mother was a fine physician and a woman of prominence. She has now been reduced to this dwelling invalid who sulks about being imprisoned by her own mind. I know she won’t turn in until the sun comes down. I have given up trying to get her into a normal sleep schedule—after all, it is not as if I have one myself. She’ll just sit on the balcony now, staring into space, as if the vista of the horizon will give her a chance to remember that she is in the process of forgetting. * * * It has taken nearly a decade, but I am able to locate the stagehand who was present the night of the first Grimlace attack. “The English Theater was playing ‘Saint Joan of the Stockyards,’ and Dearil Verloren had top billing on the Playbill,” Luis recalled. “I’ve heard of that play—he was playing—" “—The meat packing magnate, Pierpont Mauler,” Luis says. “And you were there, watching from behind the curtains, during the entire play?” I ask, jotting notes. “Not the whole time,” Luis says. “Where did you go?” I ask. “At one point, I ended up going out back in the alley to have a cigarette, and found the understudy, Rache, speaking with a strange-looking woman,” Luis says. “We will come back to that,” I tell him, blowing at some hair that has come untucked from my ponytail and is dangling over my left eye. “What did Dearil look like?” “Dearil was a tall man—about 6’4”—just stunning. He had a lean lanky build. His coiled hair hung down in a shag cut. He had large, straight white teeth that gleamed in the stage lighting—he had really bad ADHD—with a cutting manic intellect—he was always gesticulating and animated and always at an eleven out of ten,” Luis says. “Was he under the influence of anything?” I ask. “Other than his own self-importance and fame, you mean—amphetamines—Adderall was pretty standard—breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Luis said. I think that addiction is an impermanent solution to a permanent problem. “How was the performance?” I ask. “He was a star. I remember his voice rising to a crescendo as he said, ‘Oh, everlasting slaughter! Nowadays things are no different from prehistoric times when they bloodied each other’s heads with iron bars!’—it was quite the performance,” Luis said.

The words set off a spark of revelation, as I struggle to understand my prey. I think of the price of fame for a performer. One must corral and direct a revelatory energy. From the crushing terror of the stage—the spotlight that leaves one exposed and vulnerable—an artist must mine this energy for a competence, that once achieved is received, applauded, and becomes the most addictive of drugs. Yet the act is separate from the actor—the skill is separate from the skilled. The applause is not love, but mere recognition. This is not connection. There is a deep spiritual appetite in all of us for true connection. Nothing looks like a better cure for being invisible than fame. And yet fame is the great invisibility cloak—a mask more isolating than a veil of solitude. For it expunges the person altogether, elevating their vocation, and placing all value in the performance of their craft. The person behind the act starves and is strangled and becomes a slave to their role. I think of how similar this is to my mother’s spells of dementia and the forgetfulness brought on by Alzheimer’s. In between those shining moments for her when she has clarity of thought—in between those turns upon the stage—both die and fade into oblivion. Returning from my daydreams, I ask, “Did anyone have any reason to wish him harm?” “Just Rache Eggeman, a little worm of a man—that is what we called him— 'Irm the Worm’ —ever since he played some slithering stock character named Irmin. Name just stuck. Anyway, Rache was next in line for the male lead on one show after another, and he couldn’t get anywhere with his career with Dearil in his way. He had the acting chops. But he wasn’t a star. He was short, unmemorable looking, just average in every way—whereas Dearil was extraordinary all around. It was never a fair contest between the two of them.” “And you say you saw Rache speaking with someone in the alley during the show?” I ask. “Why yes, in fact, we knew her—she was a stage designer—a mystic gypsy from the outskirts named Emil Sioli—a real loner if there ever was one. She was a sharp-featured woman of about seventy, thin as a bird, with a long P-Coat—always wore a blue amethyst Hamsa on her neck. She was smoking a Marlboro cigarette impatiently,” Luis recalls. “Did you overhear what they said?” I ask. “Yes, ‘Did you bring what I asked,’ she said, stamping her foot against the bitter cold. Then he responded, ‘I have it.’ That was it, and then he rushed back inside with something in his hand.” “So what happened next,” I asked. “At some point, toward the end of the play, Dearil collapsed. When he came to, he was like a man possessed. He began pacing the stage and then as he looked out over the audience, he screamed at them as if a wild animal baring its teeth and growling to keep a threat at bay.” “And do you know what caused this transformation?” I ask. “No one does,” Luis says. “Are there any working theories,” I inquire. “There is a rumor that Rache was deeply jealous. Apparently, Rache had originally been cast as Pierpont Mauler. It was all settled. The Playbill was printed. But, then Dearil called the theater director and said he was interested in the part. They couldn’t refuse. So Dearil upstaged Rache, right when he had his big break. Rache could not forgive it. He went off in long tirades. Some believe that Emil Sioli—the gypsy—was part of a group that worshiped the Kroten-düvel—the toad devil. They had tattoos of toads stamped on their eyelids and believed that this deity possessed the ability to erase memory, to turn invisible, and to walk among men as a blind wanderer, spreading the void of loss among the people. Some believe that toads are poor sinners serving a penance of tears and relegated to the dank, dark places and to a life of slime and bugs, in order to purge their souls—wandering spirits in an earthly purgatory. The grips and stagehands who know Rache best said that he has a pearl toad statue, given to him by Emil Sioli. That has the words inscribed on it, which say Beng tasser tute! And they say the toad has a golden choker collar on it and is somehow connected to the affliction poor Dearil suffered. They say that Rache guards the toad statute with his life and if it is ever destroyed, Dearil will be healed.” “This is very helpful Luis. That is a lot to digest. I’ll be in touch if I have further questions,” I tell him. * * * The Grimlace has no shadow. It walks below the streetlights in the alley donning a black cloak. Its hands and face are green. Its face has no contour, just a flat canvas, until it dons the visage of one of its victims. As the Grimlace slinks through the streets of Frankfurt by the train station, the streets are filled with drunks, prostitutes, and panhandlers. An old man sits with a bottle, huddled in a corner by some trash overflowing from a dumpster. He has rags about his shoulders. But his face is thin and handsome below his rugged unkempt beard. The Grimlace turns his green blank face to the man, who looks at him transfixed, and the Grimlace latches on to him. A beam of translucent, opaque jelly forms between them—the bond—and the Grimlace slinks in, bends to his knee, and draws out the man’s visage, the man’s memories, and shrinks within his robes to the height of his victim. Renewed, he stands to his feet, like a performer taking on a new role, and gains comfort in his own skin—lets the memories inhabit him—and he throws off his cloak, strolling into the square. * * * I receive a call from the Detective.

He tells me that there has been a beggar who has gone missing. His daughter has come to the precinct to make the report. He tells me that the incident occurred near the train station. I thank him, and I am off with my hunting bag to find the Grimlace. The cloaked creature with the green hue to his skin is pacing along the entrance to the train station where the beggar used to set up each morning. In my bag is a mirror, a cattle prod, and a Sig Sauer .45 mm pistol. I find a bank of deep shadows by the corner and observe my mark.

The Grimlace does not seem to know that it is adorning the persona of another human being. It seems utterly lost in its contrivance—cursed—as Luis had said. It seems to be in agony every bit as much as the woman Greta who came to my clinic the other day. Does this creature sleep? It lets out a blood-curdling chortle. Oh, my God! The beggar must have been schizophrenic. The creature is hearing voices! I see the creature begin the painful, agonizing pantomime of a schizoid talking to himself and arguing a rationalization audibly, projecting failures to a second personality or a persecutor. This is one of the most common psychotic breaks, where the mind cannot accept its own failures and must personify or anthropomorphize its afflictions. “If you hadn’t told on me, I would’ve kept my job— “—You were drunk… drunk… it was you—” “—You sneaky f**k, you falsely accused me, you went to Lars and made a fuss, and see where I am now, I hope you are proud of yourself. Rat. Rat! Rat!!!—” “—You are the one. You. You. You. A drunk. An ingrate. A lazy, good for nothing, piece of s**t—” “—La LA la LA LA LA. Shut up. Shut up. Get away from me. Police! Police! I am being attacked. Owwww. Ow. Stop, get away!—" “—I didn’t touch you—” “—AHHHHHHHHHHH. Nooo. Stop. Get away. Violator. Violation. Stop hurting me. Stop talking, you dirty snitch.” I watched the Grimlace rummaging back and forth, gesticulating manically, screaming, yelling, and talking to himself in a fierce blame jeopardy, that I know from experience can go on for many hours. The paranoid spell of a tortured mind trying to reconcile an unacceptable fate and a cruel, unforgiving world that hands down curses and bruises with indiscriminate malice. I could find him again soon. I could make a quick detour. He would be going on like this for hours if not days. Until he was arrested, which would just land him down at the precinct. * * * Back at the English Theater, I find Rache Eggeman’s dressing room. He is now playing the part of the lead in every play. He has ascended to the pinnacle of the profession. “Ahh, my adoring fan! What—do you want me to sign the Playbill?” “Yes, yes, can I come in,” I ask. “Here, here—come sit!” he says with glee. But I do not sit. I take out the cattle prod and place it on the carotid artery on his neck and with a small squeeze, he shrieks and falls to the floor. I begin my search. After a few minutes, I find the toad talisman and stow it in my bag. * * * Back by the train station, Dearil is still going on and on. I take out my gun and the toad statute. I place the statute on the ground. I fire a single shot and the talisman shatters into a thousand pieces. I look over at Dearil and see his face suddenly return to its natural state. I walk up to him, cautiously. “I am Hilde,” I say. “I’ve been searching for you a long time.” “Where am I?” Dearil asks. “The train station is just down there. What do you remember?” I ask. “I don’t know,” Dearil says. “You must be disoriented,” I say. “It’s more than that, I don’t even know who I am,” Dearil says. “Quite right. But who among us really does? We all wear a thousand masks and scarcely know where the real person begins, and the artifice ends—don’t you think?” “Who are you?” Dearil asks. “Let’s go back to my clinic and see if we can’t get this sorted out,” I tell him. As we walk together in the eerie alleys of a lovely Frankfurt night, we pass by the English Theater and I watch as Dearil’s eyes sparkle with intrigue. “What are they playing tonight?” Dearil asks.