When I get home, Kayla is sitting on the couch biting her fingernails and staring out into space. I pause at the doorway and watch her. I have only seen her bite her nails twice since I’ve known her. Once when her mother died. The second time was when her father died. I walk into the living room and she turns her head towards me. “Hi,” I say. “Hey,” she responds. She’s looking at me with narrowed eyes. I decide to give her time to tell me what she wants to say and go to the kitchen to start putting the groceries I've bought in the fridge. “You want to go to a party tonight?” she asks. I pause with a carton of eggs in my hand and turn toward her. We were supposed to stay in tonight and watch a movie. It was her idea. She’d had a really rough couple of weeks at work and said all she wanted was to relax. Now, she’s looking at the ground. “Whose party?” I ask. “Melissa,” she says. “Who’s Melissa?” I ask. “A friend,” she says, now looking at the wall behind me. In the ten years we’ve been together, Kayla has never mentioned a Melissa. “How’d you meet?” I ask. “Do you want to go or not?” Kayla snaps. She immediately blushes, “Sorry, I…it’s just…another bad day.” “Oh,” I say. Kayla still isn’t looking at me. She’s biting her nails again. I want to question her and ask her what she’s upset about, but something tells me to just let it go. To just give her what she wants and ask questions later. “Sure,” I say, “Let’s go.” She looks at me and smiles a bit. “Ok,” she says, “…thanks.” An hour later, we’re in an uber, on our way to some party in the Hollywood Hills. I still don’t know who Melissa is and Kayla was very insistent that I ‘dress sexy.’ My clothing usually consists of jeans and t-shirts. That’s it. So now, I’m wearing a strapless dress I haven’t worn in over a decade and heels I’m probably going to take off when we get to this party. I’ve tried engaging Kayla in conversation, but she won’t give me much. Just stares out the window. I watch her, trying to read her mind. She catches me staring and smiles. I smile back and reach for her hand, but she pulls away and looks back at the window. I can feel a tightness forming in the pit of my stomach. I want to ask her why we’re going to this party. I want to ask her why she won’t look at me, why she was biting her nails, why she won’t tell me anything at all. Instead, I turn toward my own window and try to accept the silence. After thirty minutes of winding roads and feeling like we’re making our way to the top of Los Angeles, we pull up in front of a large metal gate. Kayla and I get out of the car. I stumble in my ridiculous heels.  I watch Kayla go to the call box at the side of the gate and press a button. We hear a phone ring. “Hello?” someone answers. In the background I can hear laughter and loud music. “Hi, this is Kayla?” Kayla says, her voice high and squeaky. I look at her with bewilderment on my face. Her voice is unusually pitchy. She avoids my eyes. “Who?” the voice asks. “Kayla?” she repeats, her tone a question, as if she doesn’t know her own name. She is fidgeting with her dress and her hair and her earrings. She is a constant flutter, and I don’t recognize her. We can hear muttering in the background. The voice on the box is passing along Kayla’s name. She continues to fidget, her gaze going from the call box to the gate to the sky. Everywhere but me. “Kayla?” comes a different voice from the box. This voice is deep and sultry and undeniably sexy. Kayla turns beet red and says, “Melissa?” “Kayla! Oh, come in, come in,” says Melissa. The gate opens and we come upon another windy path made of cobblestones with roses and posies lining the side. The house at the end of the path is a mansion made to look like a cottage. Vines are growing along the side, and there are wide windows where we can see the party goers dancing and drinking. I keep stumbling in my heels and Kayla keeps glancing at me and sighing in exasperation. The tightness in my stomach is spreading to my chest, to my shoulders. “Did you bring extra shoes?” Kayla asks the ground. “No,” I say, “I figured I could just take them off at some point.” She stops and looks at me. She looks as if I just told her that we should barbecue some puppies. “What?” I ask. “Take them off?” she says, “We’re not at some hick party, you know. If you can’t tell, this is a nice place. This is a real party. So why don’t you try walking like a normal person. Ok?” She glares at me for another moment and then keeps walking. I stare at her. I want to scream at her. I want to grab her by her shoulders and shake her until her head pops off. I want to attack this body snatcher and ask her what she’s done with Kayla. Instead, I follow behind, clenching my feet and trying not to trip on the hellish cobblestones. We get to the giant, red, front door, and it opens before we can knock. Standing in the doorway is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Tall, curvy, luscious brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes. And she is looking at Kayla like she wants to swallow her whole. And Kayla is glowing, the redness in her cheeks spreading to her neck, to her exposed shoulders. “Hi Melissa,” Kayla whispers. I watch as Melissa embraces Kayla. I watch as Melissa kisses Kayla’s cheek. “It’s been so long,” Melissa says against Kayla’s neck. I can feel my hands ball themselves into fists. I can feel the right side of my head pulsing, pounding. I clear my throat to announce my presence and they both look at me as if I’m a fly that needs to be swatted. “Hello,” Melissa says, “I’m Melissa. And you are?” I start to speak, to introduce myself but Kayla cuts me off. “This is Ingrid,” she says, “A friend.” I stare at her. Friend? Melissa shakes my hand, but my gaze stays on Kayla. “Come in,” Melissa says, “Please come in.” She takes Kayla’s hand and pulls her in. Kayla doesn’t look at me. She only looks at Melissa. It’s as if I’m not there. I want to leave. I know I should leave. I know I don’t deserve to be treated this way. I hesitate at the doorway. I start to back out, following my good instincts. But then Kayla turns. She sees my face. She says something to Melissa and then hurries back to me. “What are you doing?” she asks, her eyes wide. “I…I’m thinking I should just go,” I say. I want to say more. I want to ask her why she’s acting like this. I want to ask her who Melissa is. But I stay quiet, my eyes searching her face for answers instead. “Don’t go,” she croaks, her hand gripping my arm, “Please? Just stay a little longer.” Her grip on my arm is so tight and maybe it’s because I’ve never seen her this way, maybe it’s because of the strangeness of it all, maybe at the end of it, it’s my morbid curiosity. “Ok,” I say. She sighs in relief. We walk down a long hallway and enter a large living room. People who look like movie stars fill the space. They are drinking, dancing, kissing in corners. The music is loud, and I have to fight the urge to cover my ears. Melissa offers us martinis and I shake my head. “Are you sure?” Melissa asks me, “They’re absolutely delicious.” “No, thanks,” I yell, “Just a beer for me.” Kayla scoffs at me as if I’m so low class and says that she’ll have a martini. As Melissa goes to get our drinks, I lean over to Kayla and say, “A martini? Really?” She says nothing. She pretends she can’t hear me, even though I know she can. She hates martinis. Or so she’s told me. Melissa returns with the beverages. “How long has it been?” Melissa asks Kayla. “14 years,” Kayla says. “Wow,” Melissa says, “Well, it’s so nice to see you.” They look deeply into each other’s eyes. “How did you two meet?” I ask. Kayla snaps her eyes my way, and I can almost feel the fire shooting out of them. “College,” Melissa says shortly, “How did you two meet?” she asks with a snide smile. “Oh,” Kayla says quickly, “We met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. So, what have you been doing with yourself? And is this your house? It’s gorgeous!” Melissa catches us up on all her activities for the past 14 years. It’s clear she doesn’t mind monopolizing the conversation. She’s a world traveler, food connoisseur, social media influencer, and clearly independently wealthy. Chris Isaak’s Wicked Game starts to play and it’s like everything slows down. I watch Melissa take Kayla’s hands and pull her into the middle of the floor. I watch Kayla let herself be led, not throwing a single glance my way. I watch as they move together, arms wrapped around each other and again I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Someone bumps into me, and I spill beer all over the front of my dress. I decide it’s a sign that I should finally leave. I go back to the hallway and decide to look for a bathroom before I go. I walk further into the house and spot one on my right. There’s a woman in there crying over the sink. I can’t decide if I should ask her if she’s ok or turn around and pretend like I haven’t seen her. She sees me in the mirror before I can make a decision. “Oh, shit,” she says, wiping away her tears, “Sorry.” “It’s ok,” I tell her, “Please. Take your time.” She smiles at me and mumbles, “Thanks.” She grabs some toilet paper and starts to clean her eye make-up. “Everything, ok?” I ask. She laughs, “You caught me crying in a bathroom. What do you think?” “Right,” I say, “Sorry.” “Relationship drama,” she says. I nod sympathetically. “How do you know Melissa?” she asks. “I don’t,” I say, “My girlfriend does. How do you know Melissa?” “I’m her girlfriend,” she says with a smirk, “Well, more like her flavor of the week. Melissa doesn’t have girlfriends. And right now, she seems to be quite taken up with her ex.” “Her ex?” I ask. “Kayla,” she says, “The one that got away, apparently.” “The one that got away,” I repeat. My body suddenly feels heavy. My feet are screaming. My head is pounding. “Yea,” she says, “They had this on and off thing throughout college. Melissa cheated on her a bunch of times until Kayla finally said screw it and stopped going back. Until now, anyway.” “And Melissa has told you all this?” I ask. “Yea,” she says, “She talks about Kayla all the time.” My throat is dry and I’m finding it hard to swallow. The woman stares at me and understanding comes over her face. “Oh,” she says, “…I’m so sorry.” I shake my head but no words come out. What is there to say? I turn away from her and start to walk back down the hallway. “Didn’t you need to use the restroom?” I hear her ask. I don’t respond. I just keep walking. I go back to the living room. Melissa is dancing with someone else. Another woman who looks like she’s at least a decade younger. Kayla isn’t in sight. “There you are." I turn. “I’ve been looking for you,” Kayla says, “Where’d you go?” “Someone spilled beer on me,” I say. “Oh,” she says, “Well, did you want to go?” I stare at her. “I’m kinda over this party,” she says, “The music is way too loud.” I watch her look behind me toward the living room. I know she’s watching Melissa dance with that young woman. “Well,” she says, finally looking at me, “Do you want to go?” The woman from the bathroom is walking toward us. She sees me and smiles. I smile back automatically. Politely. Kayla follows my gaze and narrows her eyes. “Who’s that?” she asks, her tone tight and sharp and accusatory. The tightness in my body expands, it widens, it overwhelms. My hands start to shake. Kayla must notice the change in me because she quickly says, “Let’s just go, ok? Let’s just go home. Please?” Her eyes are wide and pleading and she’s gripping my arms and I want to ask her a million questions, I want to tell her that the only reason she’s standing with me is because Melissa saw that she could still manipulate her and then dumped her for a younger model. I want to say that in the ten years we’ve been together, I never thought she’d be so careless with me, so dismissive, so ugly. I want to say that she’s ruined my opinion of her. My trust in her. But instead I just nod. “Ok,” I say, “Let’s go home.” Relief floods her face. She leans in and kisses me. “Thank you,” she says. I don’t respond. I just walk back toward the front door. Once outside, I take off my heels. I hear Kayla laugh behind me. “You never should have worn those things,” she says. “You wanted me to,” I say without looking at her, “You wanted me to ‘dress sexy,’ remember?” Silence. I walk barefoot along the cobblestone path. I get to the end, push open the metal gate and pull out my phone to call the uber. I can feel Kayla standing right behind me. “Ingrid?” she asks. “What?” I say, still not looking at her, my gaze laser-focused on my phone. Silence. “Nothing,” she says quietly.


Content warning: Mental illness. How did we get here? We were married, inseparable, and then it all ended. Now I was seeing you again in our empty guest room after one long, stretched out year. The sheets were clean and crisp, but it was the floral patterned, yellow duvet that dressed up the bed the way I had. Lively daisies sat in that glazed-ceramic, chic vase. The room was just how I liked it. It was a preservation of whom I once was. When you looked at me, I grasped the reel of images that ran through your mind. The still captures from your memory were stained by the filter of blackened sorrow. There’s one picture buried under lost thoughts that spoke out. It enounced of the day your mum was coming over. We were in this very room fluffing the pillows, awakening them from their slumped state. The scent of your skin earthed me. Every touch was a static attraction that instantly lured me towards your warm being. A glint in your eyes apprised me of the sheer pride you had. Nothing could bring you down. Not when I was trying to get along with your mum for once. ‘Thanks for getting the room ready. Mum will be quite satisfied.’ You said. ‘Yes, well if only that were possible. Just tell her I did it and avoid mentioning my constant whining.’ You chuckled at the mere thought of your mum having any peace with me even after five years of marriage. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. We were young and it was just you and I. Now, things were different. I was the guest. You didn't appear the same any more. The rugged look that sported an enticing stubble, had distorted into a wild unkept beard that seemed to symbolize the growing hurt. Your eyes, sunken and rimmed by darkness. Your skin, like a faded painting, muted and distant. At least those heavy eyebrows were the same. They hooded handsomely over your eyes, but were weighed down by lines on your forehead. It’s been almost a year, but it didn't seem so did it? It seemed like an eternity. There I was in the guest room staring at your disheveled self. I was obviously there for a reason. You're not okay. You looked at me and shrieked like you've seen a ghost, but it was only me and you soon realized that my presence was worth more than your sanity. You knew. You knew deep within that you were sinking in the mess that existed in your mind, but then again, what's wrong with a little mess? ‘Hi you,’ I said. ‘Hi-i.’ Your confusion was evident, but with every second that shot by, you were easing in. Eventually, in just a few moments, your brown eyes returned with fire. ‘It’s you.’

‘It’s me.’ You staggered over and then halted. A moment of hesitation that was immediately defeated by the pull. The pull for us . When you were close enough, you held out your warm hand to trace my face. The instant touch sent signals and my skin felt the flood of blood pulsing through, allowing me to beam with life. A few seconds later it was all gone. I had to go. * * * A week passed by, and then just when you thought it wasn't going to happen, it did. We met up again. It was like we had converged from different timelines. This time I get to see you in the garden. I was surprised. Very surprised. You detested gardening . I was the one that hurled in the hose everyday and made it gurgle and growl until water gushed out, drowning the soil. It was a passion I had, to see the flash of vibrancy return before branches had no choice but to be bare again. I wasn't any good was I? The daffodils would barely bloom. They would come so close and then just give up because stupid me had done something wrong again. I could never meet up with the demands of the ‘favorable growing conditions’ required. No matter how intently I listened to Gardeners World on BBC, with me being the one in charge, they never stood a chance. I tried. I tried during those spirited summers, when the gaze of the sun hit the color into the world.

I loved summer. I remember dancing in the garden, jumping and spinning around to the sound of the soft breeze.

“Get back inside, the neighbors will think you’re daft. Damn it.' You then laughed at me and imitated my every move. We looked like two insane individuals both dancing to no music, giddy and quite weird. You were right, the neighbors did see. They rolled their eyes to our ‘in you face’ expressions of youthful love, and just turned away.

‘Hi again,’ I said. You smiled when you heard me. The stubble has returned. You looked more like yourself this time. ‘Good, I didn't like the beard. It looked like it ate up your face. What was that for?’ You blushed at my ‘sort of’ compliment and a boyish grin came after. ‘Well, the beard was my face reacting to not seeing you in- how long is it? Ah, a year tomorrow. Your head tilted to the side as you analyzed the dress I wore. ‘I've been anticipating your arrival. I resolutely prayed for it.' You then broke off and gazed at the soft, chiffon I wore. 'That dress. It’s the one I picked out for you isn't it?' ‘That’s why I'm wearing it. Right?’ ‘Right.’ ‘I thought you hated all this.’ I gestured to the well kept garden. 'You said it was an unnecessary bother . Not when you could cover it all with cement and play basketball instead.’

‘Yes, but the flowers remind me of you... I’m actually pretty good. See, they're blooming. Ha ha.’

You then started dancing to no rhythm like that day.

‘Get back inside, the neighbors will think you're daft.’ I mocked. They did. They looked at you, but they didn't roll their eyes. Their faces reflected unneeded doses of pity. I've always known how much you hated to be pitied, so I joined in with the dance and we laughed at ourselves again for a few hours. We talked for a while, flirted like we had first met, but I could feel time catching up. It was time for me to go again. * * * We didn't have to wait long. I was with you just the next day. You must have found your way to meet me huh? We walked through the park and stopped at the great oak. Our favorite spot. You would always say we would end up like it; old, withered and wrinkled, but still holding on to each other. We sat down close to its wired roots and watched the clouds traverse by.

‘Hey mate! Been a long time.’ It was Trevor. ‘Hey, yeah.’ He didn't know what to say. What could he say?

‘You’re looking better than before. You doing alright?’ You glanced my way and said, ‘Never better,’ and concluded your conversation the way you usually do. Quickly. We then watched the pigeons bob their heads as they stumbled their way towards the slice of bread in your hands. I remember you saying they walked like I did the day I tripped over your feet. You tripped me on purpose for sure. You laughed mischievously at their wobbly nature and I knew you had just remembered the same thing. We then held hands until time stood there tapping at its wrist watch, but that’s okay. I would meet you soon, wouldn’t I? * * * The garden again. This time you sat me down in the swing you got me. I had always admired how you coaxed out the child in me. Even those days when I was moody and petulant, you accepted me. Remember how you blind folded my eyes with my scarf and directed me by manhandling my shoulders in the direction of the surprise? When the scarf was peeled off, my body transformed into a five year old. I ran over (almost falling again) to those waving, magical, adrenaline suppliers. You laughed at me ecstatically.

Back to the now. 'Gosh you were crazy,' you bore into my eyes and searched desperately into my soul. 'Still am,' I said. Getting off your seat, you wound around behind and began thrusting me up. I was projected high until I could feel the rush of the warm air cleanse my face with its enthusiasm. You looked so cheerful. Your eyes, like polished marbles, bright and so full of hope. Mr. Henderson next door gaped out his window, his one eyebrow raised up. * * * I was there when your parents arrived. Your dad still looked like Mr. Stevens, my primary school principal. The decrepit old man stood the whole six feet high. After he addressed himself, he passed by me without even looking my way. Man, they hated me. I was never good enough. The middle class would just not do it for the little prince. Now looking at you and knowing who you are, I thought maybe they're right. You are the most amazing person I’ve met. The luxury that surrounded you never fazed you, did it? It's like you existed in another realm where fortune was not worthy of your notice.

‘Michael,’ dad shook his head, ‘What are you doing?’ The last time he asked you that question was the day you announced our engagement. Funny story. Then his shoulders sank, he was very disappointed . He strived earnestly to persuade you another direction, but you knew what you wanted. Now, as he strode over to you, I could see he was perturbed and filled with remorse. His rare expression of concern made you wince at his touch. ‘Son, you need help. The neighbors called. Let me help you. Who were you...’ ‘No,’ you cut him short. ‘I'm' happy, can't you see? I'm smiling.’ ‘No, you're not happy.' It was mum's turn, 'You're sick love. You need help.’ You tried to contest and dissuade the decision , but the couple had their way this time. * * * Utter elation revved through when you chose me to visit the therapist with you. I held your hand all the way. She was expensive alright, her suit fitted so perfectly, you knew it was tailor-made. She wore glasses that framed blue, gentle eyes. They gave you a sense of comfort. Her nonchalant ways and lack of intonation made it seem otherwise. She was obviously desensitized by experience. Her words tore at you bit by bit, until you were there with your insides exposed. She ensured that every smile she gave you, had a witty plan devised to lead you into all the conversations you didn't want to have. ‘Let’s talk about Beth' You rolled your eyes and wore a peevish expression. You knew you were caught there. You hadn't ever mentioned that name. Not since, well, you know- that day. The session droned on, but I must applaud her, she found a way to get through to you. I wanted to implore, to fight, to demolish this impending change, but I knew. As the visits became frequent, I wasn’t anymore. You were growing your beard again. Your eyes translated brewing anxiety. Time was approaching and as they toiled away in your case, you began to grow distant. So I waited. I waited for you to need me again. For you to be with me again. * * * The wind gusted by and the trees rustled in a mournful choir. I stood behind you as you stared at it. We were in an unfamiliar place. You stood there disheveled again. Head drooping down looking at the ground below. A beard, long and unmanaged. You then knelt as your fingers reached out to the grass, stroking at its blades. A tear rolled down your devastated face and then it plopped onto the dirt. Those fingers dug into the soil yearning for the connection needed. Your eyes drifted back to it. It was the gravestone that was meant to represent the part of your life that was so full of joy. Instead it was a mundane and disrespectful rock that did nothing. I knew why you had called now. Your head turned my way. Tears smeared your eyes red. You looked at me. ‘I remember the call. I rushed over to the hospital, but..’ and then you simply sobbed with convulsive gasps. I couldn’t see you this way. I knelt down beside you and made your eyes look into mine. I knew what had to be done. “It’s okay. I know. It's time.’ You stopped weeping and then found the courage. Determined, your mind was made up. Even though your outward appearance looked lost, I was pleased that your mind had accomplished its task. It had found its way through the mess and was not so confused anymore. Today was not about ‘being’ with me. This was closure. ‘‘You're-gone. You are gone ... I have to let you go or I'll never be okay again.’ The crash filled my conscience. I had no control. All I saw was the car that had no choice but to pummel into mine. We both closed our eyes to stop the visions. Today you had a mission and I was going to help you. ‘It’s ok,’ I said. You needed this. ‘Just say it. You need to say it.’ My heart felt the clot in your throat, the solidification of your suffering heart and the anger under your breath. But this time you chose wellness over insanity. ‘I love you, I do. So-so very much. Forgive me. Forgive me.’ You closed your eyes. I knew that was the first step to those final moments. Your eyelids quivered to the agony, the silence pierced through the air, then was that deep inhalation; there was nothing I could do. Nothing, until you did it.

You said it. ‘Goodbye Beth’


LITTLE BULL                                                       Christine Cameron      08/23                                                             infotochris@gmail.com September 1, 1961 Dear Dutch –            I went to see the doctor today so got to go outside. He said I have to stay in bed. I am so tired of being in bed and just watching TV. I want to play outdoors.            My birthday is coming this month on the eighteenth and I will be ten years old. I hope the doctor will let me have a party. I will invite you and your wife to our house if he says it is OK. Very truly yours, Chrissy P.S. My friends played outside my bedroom window today and waved at me. P.S.S. I wish I could go outside and play with them. September 17, 1961 Dear Chrissy -            For your tenth birthday gift, I have decided to give you a new name.  Since you always add P.S.S. to your letters,  it is decided that your new name is Princess Snow Flower. From now on that is what I will call you.            It is a good name for an Indian Princess. You have now been officially adopted into my tribe of Oglala Lakota Sioux.            I know it is hard for you to stay inside while your friends play outside. I’m sad that the doctor will not allow you to go outside and play with your friends. I am sorry you cannot have a birthday party but I’m sure he just wants to make sure you are truly good and well this time.            Be brave and be a good girl so that you can go outside soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull September 23, 1961 Dear Dutch  -            Thank you for the beautiful birthday gift of an Indian Princess name. I told my mom and she smiled. It has been hot outside this week. All of my friends have gone back to school, so no one is coming to play outside my window this week.            I do not go back to the doctor for a while so have to stay in my bed for now. Mom is trying to find a teacher that will come to our house, so I do not fall far behind in my schoolwork.            When you come to visit me again, will you tell me some stories about when you were a kid like me.            Our cat Pizza had six kittens this week. They were born under the covers in my brother’s bed. He was scared and he cried since there was a lot of blood in his bed, but the kittens were all OK and very cute.            Will you be able to visit me again soon? Very truly yours, Chrissy Princess Snow Flower P.S. I asked mom if we can keep one of the kittens. She said she would think about it. P.S.S. Do you want a kitten? October 3, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            Although I would like a kitten my dog would not like it so I cannot take one home.            I think I might be able to visit you again next month. My wife has a doctor’s appointment in Glendale so I will try to come up to La Crescenta and visit you too. In the meantime, I will tell you about my childhood.            When I was a child like you, my family lived at Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Wazi Ahanjhar Ayanjke) in South Dakota. My father’s family was forced to move there in 1890 when he was 11 years old.            In 1889, the US government confiscated 7.7 million acres of Sioux sacred Black Hills. Our reservation occupied more than 11,000 square miles. In the 1800’s when my father was a child, there were only about 10,000 members of our tribe. We were small but mighty and a very proud people.            Our tribe was one of the last to be settled onto a reservation. It was a great loss of dignity to my father and his family.             On December 29, 1890, my grandparents were murdered in the Wounded Knee Massacre.            On that day, hundreds of U.S. troops surrounded a Lakota camp and opened fire, killing more than 300 Lakota women, men, and children in a violent massacre.            My father was adopted by his uncle, Wableeska (White Eagle) and he grew up to be a great hunter and warrior like those before him. His uncle named him Sunka – the dog spirit of companionship and faithfulness.            He and his uncle always made sure our family did not starve on the reservation because food was very scarce.            Be good and get well soon. I will try to see you next month. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull October 18, 1961 Dear Dutch –            I am very excited today. My doctor told my mom the blood test came back good this time. He said he is being careful not to let me leave my room yet but said he is hopeful my health has turned the corner. I’m not sure exactly what that means but Mom hugged me and smiled. She is very happy and so am I.

           Mom said if I get another good report next month, I may be able to eat at the dinner table with the family soon. It has been five months since I have been able to leave my bedroom. Being able to have dinner with my family would make me very happy.            I am so sorry to hear about your family story. It is very sad. I cried.  Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S.  Were you ever sick like me when you were a kid? P.S.S. November 2, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            I am very happy to hear that your blood test went well. My wife did not feel well enough after she saw her doctor for us to come up and visit you this time. So, for now, we shall have to continue to be pen pals.          Yes, I was sick like you as a child. Although your lung disease is called Valley Fever, I had Tuberculosis as a child. It was very similar to what you are suffering with now. I was very sick and almost died. Medicine was not available on the reservation. My grandmother used herbs and sweat lodges to cure me. It was very hard for me to gain my strength back.            Like you, I wanted to play and be with my friends but had to stay inside for many months. You are strong, Chrissy. I know it is hard for you, but I have faith that you will get well soon and play outside again with your friends. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull November 20, 1961 Dear Dutch –            Mom is getting the house fixed up for the holidays. She bought me a big red candle and some things I got to decorate it with. There are tiny little pins and I stick the thing called a sequin onto the pin and push it into the candle. It is very beautiful.            Mom let me sit in the living room today for an hour. I am still very weak, but it was nice to sit on the couch and not be in my bed all day. Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S. Did you celebrate Thanksgiving when you were a kid? December 1, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower:            We did not have a traditional Thanksgiving when I was growing up.            My mother died during childbirth when my little sister was born in 1913. I was 9 years old. My father grew very sad and never married again. He died in 1931, just seven years after Native Americans became U.S. citizens under the Indian Citizenship Act of 1924.            Our revered ancestor, Red Cloud (Mahpiua Luta), was the leader of our tribe when my father was born in the Nebraska territory before it became a state in 1867. He was the first American Indian in the West to win a war against the United States. He was also the last.            Red Cloud continued his work to preserve Indian lands and to maintain the authority of traditional Native American leaders. Several years before his death, he converted to Christianity and changed his name to John. He died on the Pine Ridge reservation in 1909.            I was only 5 years old when he died but my memories of him are strong because our family kept his spirit alive within us for many generations.            Because I had no mother at home, I was forced to attend a Native American boarding school in 1915 when I was 11 years old.  Just a bit older than you are now.             They took away my given name and called me Dutch. We were not allowed to speak our own language and were forced to learn proper English. It was a very harsh existence for a young boy. We were whipped and starved and punished if we spoke our language or practiced our own traditions. I hated it there but had to learn to tolerate it, knowing that one day I would leave and never look back.            More than once, I tried to run away but they told my father that he would be punished and even imprisoned if I did not return. I stayed there for three years. I learned your language they forced me to learn. But I never forgot who I was in my heart.

           In October of 1918 the influenza epidemic reached South Dakota. A student with no sick family at Standing Rock reservation fell ill, quickly followed by the teacher. It infected hundreds and all of us were sent back to the reservations we had been taken from.            My family was very happy to have me back home. There was very little food, and it was deep into winter, but we did celebrate my return as a happy Thanksgiving.            I am very happy that you are getting stronger. Be a good girl and do what the doctor tells you to do so you can go back to school soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala)  Little Bull January 12, 1962 Dear Dutch –            We all had a very happy Christmas. I hope you did too.            Santa brought me a Barbie doll with a shiny black case to carry her in. She is so beautiful. She has blonde hair like me.            I went back to the doctor last week and he told Mom I may be able to go back to school in a month or two. I am holding my fingers crossed for good luck. Please cross yours for me too.            Please come and visit when you can. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Did you and Jennie have a Merry Christmas? February 1, 1962 Dear Princess Snow Flower –            Dutch is not able to write to you this month, but he asked me to send a letter telling you that he is thinking about you and sending his good wishes your way.            He has been very sick, and the doctor says he must rest in bed for a month or more to recover. His lungs are weak as a result of the old TB and malnutrition he had as a child.            Please remember him in your nightly prayers. He is hoping to feel better soon and be able to write to you again. Sincerely, Jennie March 8, 1962 Dear Dutch –            I have been saying my prayers that you get well soon and come to visit me. The doctor told Mom that I can go back to school next month, so I am working on getting stronger.            Mom has let me walk down the hallway in our house twice a day. It is only a few steps, but she says it will help me get ready for school. I’m very excited.            I hope that you are feeling much better too. It would be so nice to see you again once I am stronger and can sit in the living room and not be in bed when you visit. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Does the doctor say you are getting better yet? P.S.S. Please write soon March 12, 1962 Dearest Chrissy –            I am so very sad to have to tell you that Dutch passed away in his sleep last week.            He wanted so much to come to visit with you again, but his energy never returned. His heart was just not strong enough to keep beating.            Up until the very last day he would talk to me about you and tell me how much he hoped you were getting stronger and would be able to return to school and play with your friends.            Please know that he cared for you deeply and wanted only the best for you. He truly loved reading your letters and telling you about his life. He had me read them to him over and over again before he died.            You will always be a special memory to me because you brought so much joy to the only man I ever loved. Thankfully, Jennie White Horse Wife of  Little Bull


Life had a knack for turning on a dime in the quaint, sleepy coastal town of Willow Creek. Sarah, a girl of deep faith and unwavering devotion to her Lord and Savior, found her world turned upside down the day she met Alex. A tall, brooding man with fiery, rebellious eyes, Alex was the antithesis of everything Sarah believed in. Yet, as fate would have it, the moment she first set eyes on him, her heart found something in his stormy gaze it simply couldn't resist. Sarah's faith had wavered before, but this time, it felt different. Her once-steadfast beliefs about love and faith crumbled like Jericho's ancient walls. At that moment, her entire existence seemed to crumble as she questioned the very core of her beliefs. Alex's wild and adventurous spirit had always been one of his defining qualities, which Sarah had initially found alluring and unnerving. He thrived on the thrill of the unknown, relished the feeling of walking on the edge of a precipice, daring fate to take him down. As they spent more time together, Alex became increasingly captivated by Sarah's steadfast devotion to her faith. It was a strange and foreign concept to him, as he had always regarded religion as an antiquated relic of a bygone era. During one of their conversations, Alex discovered Sarah's Sunday ritual of vespers in the park. Her vivid description of the soft, flickering candlelight and the distant echo of hymns intrigued him. At first, he thought it was just another one of her quirky quirks, a strange and somewhat amusing habit that set her apart. As he watched her, her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer, he found himself drawn to her in a way he had never experienced before. Little did Sarah's parents know, Alex's smile concealed a hidden turmoil as he felt the irresistible force of a destiny far beyond his or their daughter's. Attending her church, he felt the weight of his past sins bearing down upon him as if they were physical burdens on his shoulders. Within the hallowed walls of the church, he found solace and a newfound sense of direction, drawn to the spiritual serenity that permeated the space. "Alex, you've changed. My mother told me you sold your motorcycle." He absentmindedly scratched his chin, feeling the rough stubble against his fingertips. "At the hospital, I assist by providing books to patients and conversing with recovery patients. ER is a short distance away from the book storage area. I noticed a man, a bit older than us, who had lost the use of his knees after a tragic accident. I can see why your parents have asked me not to give you rides on it - it's pretty dangerous." When Sarah glanced at him, she noticed the intensity in his eyes. "I enjoy the exhilaration of those rides and the breeze tousling my hair." Alex smiled while pursing his lips. "How do you feel about horses?" Sarah and Alex's journey of discovering their relationship involved making compromises and embracing changes to accommodate their distinct ways of life. Although Sarah had yearned for stability and routine, she wholeheartedly embraced the thrill and unpredictability Alex introduced into her life. At the same time, Alex began to see the value in Sarah's steadfast faith and her unwavering commitment to doing what was right. Observing her purposeful strides through life, he reevaluated his own beliefs and considered the possibility of a deeper meaning to existence. During one of their many weekend excursions, they followed through on his proposal to ride horses instead of the motorcycle. The change seemed to symbolize the transformations that were taking place within them both. Riding through the countryside, Sarah felt the wind rushing through her hair and the sun's warmth on her face, creating a newfound sense of tranquility. Lying on the beach, the seabirds and the horses were the only witnesses to their afternoon. The world was almost perfect. It was nearly as if God led them to the ideal spot. Her gaze shifted towards Alex, his face radiant with pure joy and anticipation, affirming her belief that embracing his wild spirit was the best decision she had ever made. It was as if God, in His infinite wisdom, had sent Sarah to him as a beacon of light, guiding him through the darkness and into the hope of a better tomorrow. Over time, attending church, Alex started to see the potential truth in Sarah's important beliefs. Maybe, just maybe, God was pulling the strings all along. While he pursued his medical education, the years slipped away as they continued to date, their love growing more robust. Sarah took a job with the local realtor. Throughout his internship, Alex worked tirelessly in the local hospital. She, typing in a small office, overheard harsh words from a man who was upset about something. Hal, her boss, left for lunch after the exchange, not realizing the man was not finished. Later that afternoon, the man returned. In the heart of a town that prided itself on civility and order, Sarah found herself ensnared in a grotesque tableau of chaos and violence that would threaten her world. A madman, his soul as dark as the gun he brandished, had claimed her boss's life in a fit of rage. The catalyst? A mere property transaction, a home he professed was his by some twisted right. Sarah's heart pounded in her chest, a wild drumbeat that matched the frenzied thoughts racing through her mind as she hid under her desk. The shots rang out as the harsh words ceased. The echoes of the gunshot still rang in her ears, a macabre symphony that played on an endless loop. The odor of gunpowder lingered, a grim reminder of the life that had been so abruptly extinguished. Hal, a man of integrity and kindness, had been reduced to a lifeless form, a casualty of a dispute that should have been settled in a courtroom, not with a bullet. How could such a thing happen? How could the veneer of civilization be so quickly shattered, revealing the primal savagery that lurked beneath? The world she thought she knew had been irrevocably altered, replaced by a reality where life and death hinged on the sale of a house. As soon as Alex spotted the victim in the ER, his heart sank with worry, already imagining the worst. Leaving the hospital, he was greeted by the dazzling, vibrant lights of the police cars that were still present. Her face was marked by the remnants of mascara, a visible symbol of the heartbreak and terror she had suffered. The madman was on the loose, and Sarah felt unsafe. Saddened by the loss of Hal, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief knowing she was safe. It seemed as if a divine shield protected her. While physically ok, she was not 'ok.' Feeling betrayed and abandoned, she blamed God for not protecting her boss. Her sudden absence from church raised concerns for Alex, who knew she had always been deeply committed to her faith. Alex knew that church formed an integral part of her identity. The devil had used the madman, and he knew it. Turning people away from God was the devil's job. She loved participating in church activities, especially singing in the choir and volunteering at vacation bible school. Alex made a conscious effort to carve time from his hectic schedule to engage in those activities, hoping that discussing them with her would rekindle memories of her pre-shooting self. In their late twenties, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, causing the rest of her life to blur into the background. Hal, the shooting and the odor of gunpowder never vanished, but time seemed to be an integral part of the solution. Sarah's heart filled with fear and excitement, standing in the building that used to be a safe place. The church bells chimed, and she looked up at the once familiar vibrant colors of the stained-glass windows. Mixed feelings of home and betrayal flitted through her mind as she walked the aisle toward her husband-to-be. The white dress hugged her figure perfectly, the radiant flowers in her hair added a touch of whimsy, and the subsequent trip to Spain renewed her vitality. After getting comfortable in their new surroundings, Alex discovered the opportunity to become a deacon in their church. With each passing week, the couple grew more familiar with the feel of their home, settling into the coziness of shared spaces and routines. The nightmares of that fateful day haunted her, the sight and smell of blood jolting her awake on countless nights. With the arrest of the maniac, there seemed to be some closure, but Alex knew it was still on her mind. "Have you considered returning to school or searching for employment?" He inquired. "Why?" "I don't think it's healthy for you to spend the entire day in solitude, with only your thoughts for company." She frowned while glancing at him. "You've been talking with my counselor, haven't you?" "Last I checked, she was our counselor, and I am an integral part of 'us.' Alex could understand her problems without needing the guidance of an expert. The lingering scent of blood on his clothes from surgeries engulfed her senses, causing her to feel immense emotional duress. He was well aware that unraveling the complexities of PTSD would be no simple task. Night after night, Alex would bow down in the dimly lit room, his whispered prayers filling the air. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of divine presence as if the heavens were listening intently to his plea. Just when things seemed to be improving one afternoon, a troubling feeling settled in, signaling that something had gone awry yet again. Alex's heart sank as he observed the distant gaze in Sarah's eyes, which seemed to hold a profound sadness. Something troubled her, but she wasn't prepared to disclose it. He watched her walk away from the kitchen, his heart heavy with concern. His eyes closed, he sought solace in silent prayer, asking for guidance and the strength to be the unwavering support she sought. Unbeknownst to them, their paths were on the verge of intertwining in a manner that would push their faith to its limits and measure the strength of their love. Stepping back into the warm glow of the kitchen, the tantalizing aroma of homemade soup greeted Sarah, instantly making her feel at ease. Yet, as his eyes met Sarah's, he couldn't help but notice the haunting depths beneath her gentle gaze. The slight curve of her lips revealed a hidden battle, and he felt an overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around her and wipe away her sorrow. Sarah sat at the kitchen table, her eyes red and puffy from the tears she held back. To uplift the mood, Alex initiated a lighthearted exchange with her. During his talk, he described the vibrant blossoms that adorned the neighbor's newly landscaped garden, adding a touch of beauty to their surroundings. With every word he spoke, he aimed to relieve her burdens, to paint a smile across her face, and ignite a spark of happiness in her eyes. "Should we put up a white picket fence?" He asked. Sarah smiled. "That seems a little dated. Are you going to convince me it's also fun to paint it, too?" Alex smiled, "Maybe if we did it together, it might be fun to paint." For the moment, the troubles seem to leave as quickly as they surround her. Like morning mist fading away under the gentle touch of the sun's rays, the room's tension dissipated, leaving a sense of calm as they cleaned up the remnants of their evening meal. The sound of dishes clinking and the rhythmic swish of the dishcloth against the countertop filled the room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that seemed to rejuvenate their souls. With a shared understanding born of enduring love, they made their way from the kitchen to the living room, their footsteps echoing with relief. Sarah's usual vivacious spirit seemed to have dimmed, a shadow lingering in the sparkle of her eyes. Alex couldn't help but notice the subtle change in her demeanor as if a veil of gloom had descended upon her previously cheerful disposition. He couldn't ignore the gentle concern that tugged at his heart despite his efforts to brush it off as fleeting emotions. In his quest to unravel the mystery of her subdued countenance, he was reminded of the gentle compassion needed to navigate the intricate tapestry of love, understanding, and faith during life's unforeseen obstacles. As the weeks passed, Sarah's once lively spirit seemed to fade into a calm reserve, her emotions ebbing and flowing like the ever-changing winds. The transformation didn't escape Alex's notice. Once filled with gentle warmth, her laughter was now punctuated by unexpected bouts of silence. In this unfamiliar terrain, Sarah's words, which were once tender and kind, turned harsh, even over leaving his shoes next to the couch instead of neatly tucked in the closet. Amidst the reverberating memories of their shared journey, Alex was immersed in the delicate dance of empathy and forgiveness, each step carrying a reflective sense of weight. Every day, without fail, Alex started with a silent prayer, hoping to find the strength to navigate Sarah's turbulent emotions. Seeking solace in the quiet sanctuary of his heart, he found reassurance in the gentle whispers of love that echoed through his thoughts, reminding him of the unwavering faith they shared. In the intricate web of their intertwined paths, he found solace in the fragrant embrace of their tender moments, like a comforting aroma for their wounded souls. Little did Alex know God had a different path planned, and Sarah, burdened by her inner turmoil, was still unprepared to confront the truth. Their lives resembled a complex tapestry, with mysterious forces silently shaping their paths. Sarah's frustration again reached its boiling point, triggered by the sight of dishes left in the sink. The unspoken truths hung heavily, and Alex could sense their weight. With a quiet resolve born of love and compassion, he knew the time had come to address the unspoken turmoil plaguing their relationship. Surrounded by the rhythmic harmony of their existence, he set out to traverse the delicate terrain of their souls, driven by the unwavering conviction that transparency and empathy would lead them to the profound healing they both longed for. Her once warm eyes now held a cold and distant look as Sarah's gaze bore into him. "I'm late!" she huffed, her words laced with a mixture of fear and anger directed at the person who held her heart. As the stillness settled around them, Alex felt a tingling sensation crawl up his spine, a physical manifestation of the complex emotions swirling within. Surrounded by the tumultuous whirlwind of life, tears streamed down Alex's face. Taken aback by the intensity of Alex's raw emotions, Sarah felt herself being pulled into a vortex of perplexity. Sarah searched his face for any indication of his true feelings. She noticed a slight furrowing of his brow, leaving her uncertain if his sudden vulnerability was a sign of anger or happiness. With a heavy heart, she couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that this unexpected intrusion would somehow create a rift between them. Her fears were instantly forgotten as he wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace. "I am so happy!" he cried, his face beaming with glee. The confusion etched on her face as Sara's eyes met Alex's. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted slightly, and her eyes darted back and forth between Alex's calm demeanor and the positive pregnancy test in her hand. The question lingering in the air was evident. Sara couldn't comprehend why Alex didn't seem upset or worried about her pregnancy. Instead, he was offering her a warm, supportive smile. Sara felt trapped in a whirlwind of emotions. Was he masking his true feelings, or was he genuinely relieved? She hesitated for a moment before finally breaking the silence. Her voice wavered as she sought answers. "Aren't you scared at all? This is a big deal, Alex. We haven't even discussed this, and now we're having a baby." Alex reached out and gently grasped Sara's hand, his touch reassuring and comforting. The sincerity in his voice was evident as he replied, "I know it's a lot to take in, but I'm not scared. We've talked about wanting a family, and now we have the chance. I know we can handle this together." Sara's eyes searched Alex's face for any trace of doubt or uncertainty. Still, she only found love, support, and a steadfast determination to face their new reality as parents. Sarah's guilt overwhelmed her as she couldn't stop thinking about the pamphlet from Planned Parenthood tucked away in her purse. Determined to keep that little secret from him, she would cancel her appointment in the morning after he left for work. Their arms wrapped around each other, and she could feel their love seeping into every fiber of her being, dispelling any lingering hesitations. The child was a gift from God, and there was no doubt in her mind. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, Alex and Sarah shared a passionate embrace, their souls intertwining. Alex's voice, filled with gratitude, resonated through the stillness of the night, offering solace to Sarah's troubled heart. Her silent prayer carried a distinct quiver, reflecting the delicate balance between vulnerability and conviction as she opened her heart while pleading for forgiveness.


Everyone in the class noticed it immediately. Pam was missing. The teacher wore a grave expression that she soon replaced with a rehearsed smile. Something was wrong. “Okay class! Pop quiz.” Every student straightened their backs. There was no time to dwell on their missing peer as sheets of paper made their way onto each desk, excluding that of Pam. “You may turn over your papers on the hour.” A measly thirty seconds until the needle on the clock would meet its mark. The students took the opportunity to dry their sweaty palms, and at the tap of the teacher’s heel, they all flipped over their papers in unison. A singular question graced that pure white canvas. Where did Pam go? They looked up at the teacher. Her eyes spoke a thousand words that no one understood. How were they to know? A student raised his hand. “Yes?” The teacher spoke, her voice a haze, a mere lull in the overbearing silence. “What are the stakes?” The student asked. His classmates were wide-eyed, shaken to the core with a reverberating terror. They each knew well enough that failing one of the teacher’s pop quizzes would have consequences. But Mark was the first one brave enough to ask. The teacher took a few seconds to think. “The window seat.” All the students looked at the girl sitting alone by the window of the classroom. She would never participate in class, nor speak to anyone outside of it. The window seat had claimed her, and it was bliss. To her belonged the sole privilege of witnessing the world beyond those concrete walls. She had no name, and no recollection of herself, but she was more important than she could ever know. The class became filled with the noise of pen on paper as students began scribbling down their answers. Johannes looked around until his eyes landed on the girl by the window. She looked outside, her ears deaf to the goings-on of the classroom, and beheld a lush, green field, lit by rays of light peering through fluffy white clouds. The wind rustled the grass, and the mesmerized girl followed the motions of each blade as it swayed to and fro. A few moments later, her eyes landed on another girl who she didn’t recognize. The girl seemed almost translucent. She walked to the window, and on it wrote a message with a black marker. The girl then left, beyond the window’s field of view. The student by the window stared at the message, wide-eyed. BREAK IT. As if she had said it aloud, every other person in the class turned their head towards her. The girl by the window was panicking. The students began to converge on her, slowly. Johannes shook his head and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out what looked to be a remote and pressed a button labeled “END”. In an instant, the classroom vanished. Johannes looked defeated as he sat in a dimly lit room whirring with machinery, his ears tickled by the gentle hum of a tube light above his head. He raised his head slightly to look at an unresponsive Pam lying on the bed in front of him. Johannes raised an audio recorder to his mouth, hit “RECORD”, and began to speak. “Attempt 88: Failure” Johannes spoke, his voice shaking. He continued in a low, tired voice. “Pam’s still stuck in her Warden Space. She sits by the window and doesn’t know who she is. The artificial construct of Pam that I made escapes, and the teacher begins a quiz to find her. The construct attempts to communicate with the real Pam through the window, but she panics and the space becomes unstable.” With a click, Johannes ended the recording, and let out a deep sigh. He couldn’t say how long he had been at it. Where he was, time tended to blend together, layer upon layer until it became a mass large enough to smother all hope and ambition. When it became too much, and his surroundings began to buckle, Johannes would remind himself of Pam. The girl he loved. For her, he would break himself. Johannes stood up and went outside the shack. The starry sky brought solace, and the calm air caressed his back, running its gentle fingers through his hair. Johannes took out his phone and dialed a ten-digit number. The voice that answered from the other end was his. “Hello?” the voice spoke. The sounds of cutlery and smooth jazz could be heard in the background. “It’s me again” Johannes answered. “Look, you have to listen to me. Pam’s gonna-“ “Oh for f- I thought I blocked this number. Stop-“ “Please, just- “ “ Stop calling me. I can’t help you.” The voice hung up, and as it fizzled away, despair found Johannes again. The sky droned and the ground beneath him began to quake. Elsewhere, in a distant memory, Johannes sat on a dinner table at his favorite restaurant, his brow furrowed in frustration as he put his phone aside. “Scams getting elaborate day by day” he mumbled to himself. “You’re mumbling again”, a girl sitting opposite him spoke. “Huh? Yeah, I know, what about it?” She laughed. He smiled. “So,” she began after a brief pause, “ are those your dad shoes?” “They might be. Enough about me though” Johannes demanded, raising his glass to drink out of it. “You said something about getting tested?” “Oh, yeah. The doctors think I’m a Warden.” “What do those guys do again?” Johannes asked. “Sorry, I get them confused.” “Mhmm, sure you do. Wardens make spaces. Like whoever made this restaurant.” “Oh, right….” Johannes thought about it for a moment, looking around. Every inch of their surroundings was artificially constructed by the wandering thoughts of a mysterious Warden. Was the Warden still in here? Or did they break free? Not every Warden could escape their masterpiece, but the ones that did could profit from their creation forever. A pipeline to success if there ever was one, but with a dear price to pay for a mind lacking resilience. “If you’re a Warden, then” Johannes began, “what’re you gonna make?” The girl paused for a moment. Her face, initially invested in conjuring a genuine response, took on an air of mischief as a joke creeped into her mind. “Remember that rant you posted on the school website eight years ago? Something about-“ “Don’t” Johannes said, knowing where this was going. “-pop quizzes?” “It got me suspended, yeah, I know. I called it flowery; they called it vulgar.” The girl giggled. “Maybe I’ll trap you in a classroom.” Johannes sipped his drink once more. “You’ll probably get carried away and trap yourself in there too.” “Then I guess you’ll have to break me out” she responded in jest. Johannes scoffed, a smirk forming on his face. “I guess I will, Pam.” Another Johannes, sporting gray hair and baggy eyes, entered the shack and returned to the room where Pam lay silently. His eyes lingered on her stagnant body for a few moments as he composed himself. He had to stay calm. He wasn’t a Warden, and yet he had made the space in which he stood, all to save her. He breathed deep, and with half a heart and a tattered mind, he uttered those words that had now lost all meaning. “Let’s go again.”


Excerpts from the journal of Ronald McFarthing. ~ May 13 th  2021 The mess was rather a lot more than I expected it to be. More so than any other party I’d been to, which had recently been quite a lot.

Shelly did not appear too pleased about it all. She kept pacing the length of her long kitchen, running her hands through her hair and muttering about how she was never going to be able to clean it up. “I’ll help you.” I had told her.

She had glared at me. Shelly has a wicked glare. She has these big, almond-shaped ocean eyes that at once appear so innocent and docile, only to quickly slit and pierce into you like the coldest ice. Her glare is all the more powerful because it is so rare. She enjoys parties, revells in them; she is the type of person to smile simply because the moment is good.

But Shelly struck me with that glare then, and spat out, “obviously you’ll help. You

made

this mess.” That was rather hurtful, but she was panicked. It was not entirely my fault that the floor was soaked in spillages, but I understand that I didn’t help. How could I? I felt like a gazelle being swarmed by a herd of lions, there was too many people and too much noise and they were all getting so close and my chest started to constrict and everything became small and shallow and the world slowed and it was me or them and I lashed out and. Well.

I grabbed a mop, trying my best to smile at Shelly. But her shaking head and wild eyes were fixed on the sticky mess on the floor. It mattered not. I got what I came for. ~ January 24 th  2021 Today is a good day. The sun is shining and I managed to fry my eggs this morning without setting off the smoke alarm. Agnes will be happy, she’s complained four times now. I’m planning on going on a walk to the river later today. I thought about bringing some bread to feed the ducks, but I think I recall reading somewhere that you shouldn’t feed the ducks? Which sounds odd to me. It’s one of my most prominent childhood memories, going down to the river with mum. She would sit relaxed on the bench with the novel her book club was reading that week, and I would sit at the river bed, gently gathering my host of duck minions with a steady supply of bread. I suppose we used to do that once a week, for a few years at least, especially after dad left.

Now I’m told we shouldn’t feed the ducks. Rather makes me feel like a rebel child. I was taking risks without even realising it. It would be nice to be able to do that as an adult, but I suppose adulthood comes with the added benefit of knowing exactly what risks are involved. The added crutch. I wish I didn’t have that crutch. ~ February 2 nd  2021 Someone invited me to a party today. Jeff, from work, is having a bash for his 50 th  and has asked me to come and bring crisps. I don’t know much of party etiquette, but I generally thought that the host provided the food. Plus, Jeff is old enough to afford to do so. Even so, I told him I would think about it, and I know you would tell me to go. You’ll probably tell me to go in our next session together, but really, I am only just getting the hang of this journal thing, I’m not sure forcing unnecessary social interactions will help anything. I already have enough stress at work, I do not need more outside of work as well. Caroline called me yesterday. First time I’ve heard from her in months. She sounded good, recently got a promotion to Junior Executive, whatever that means. It’s strange, after all this time I expected myself to miss her, but I don’t believe I do. Her presence always felt like a parasite in the brain: you know something is wrong, but you cannot quite pinpoint what. I still love her of course, I have to. But it is incredibly freeing to know that I don’t have to miss her. She’s gone, and there’s quiet once more. ~ February 20 th  2021 You were right, the party was not the end of the world. I’ll admit, however, that it felt as though it could be when I first got there. There were so many people, do parties usually have 60 people? It was a lot of breathing. Is that a normal thing to notice? I’m not sure. But that’s all I could see for the first half hour. A room of bodies pressed up against one another, the perspiration thick in the air, and chests heaving up and down and up and down and none of them were in time. It was so hot, unbearably hot, and there was just the press of wet air as it puffed from people’s mouths.

After a while I started to withstand the pressure, even talking to a few people I knew. I was not quite sure when to leave though, that is not a skill I seem to have mastered.

Most everyone else seemed to read these invisible signs, picking up on body language and hieroglyphics and whatever they used, and they knew it was their time to leave. I have no such skills in deciphering.

I was the last person there, and since Jeff was passed out drunk on his couch, mumbling about the mess and how hellish his morning will be, I decided to help clean up a bit. That wasn’t right was it? I shouldn’t have done that. You’re going to scold me at our next session, I know. I should have left. Yet, if I’m completely honest with you, and myself since this is a journal after all, I thoroughly enjoyed the peace of it. There’s something blissfully therapeutic in cleaning, in starting small and methodically going through the motions until the entire picture is clear again.

The picture has been foggy for so long. I want to wipe it clean. ~ March 5 th  2021 Today began a good day. I managed to go back to the Little Market. It was exactly as I remember it, down to the environmentalists handing out flyers and yelling about the rising sea levels.

Judith still has her baked potato stall, even after all these years. Mum would drag me there on weekends, insist on ordering two classics – a baked potato with baked beans and cheese – and we would meander through the rest of the stalls.

Mum knew everyone. How did she always know everyone?

We didn’t have a lot of money, but mum used to spend what little we did have at those stalls. I even still have my collection of snow globes with me now. Mum favoured the dreamcatcher stall, but I adored the snow globes. It’s a world encased in a sphere, and if I try hard enough, I still can imagine that there is life within them, just waiting to break out. Or perhaps they enjoy their bubble of safety, maybe breaking them free is the wrong thing to do. I’m thinking too much into this. The Little Market is the same, but I’m not. One look at Judith and I fled. I couldn’t even make it to the snow globe stall. But I managed to get there. Caroline called again. I did not pick up. But I cannot stop thinking about it. It felt wrong to talk to her today, she never liked the Little Market. I might message her tomorrow. Although, I’ve been thinking it might be best to not speak with her. She plagues my thoughts enough as it is, talking to her would be overkill. Right? ~ March 17 th  2021 Penelope Yang hosted a modest party tonight.

There’s really no other way to describe it than that. It was simple, with 17 guests, platters of food spread out on her marble countertop, and smooth jazz playing throughout.

I was getting rather worried that there wouldn’t be much to clean by the end of it, when lo and behold, her reckless husband came home drunk and tripped into the wine rack. Bottles went flying, splashing streams of scarlet across the pristine white floors. It was quite the spectacle. Poor Penelope, she was beside herself, and while she was dragging her husband to bed and the rest of the guests made hasty departures, I readied myself with a mop and got to work. She was so grateful, which I’ve grown to expect now.

You were sceptical but I assure you, I really have gotten better at reading people. I’m now not sure that I was ever bad, more than I did not care enough to notice certain signs. But people tend to be quite grateful when you help them clean up a mess in their homes. It reminds them that people care about them, and helps them forget that there was a low point in their role as a host.

They were successful, and I am able to clean. It’s nearly 4am now, and I can’t seem to sleep. I haven’t felt this excited in a while. Months. Before, the world seemed to come to me in the way of a far-off ship, flaring with a life I would never be able to swim to. Now, I can simply lie back upon the waves, controlling the one thing I can: the motion of myself. Perhaps I’ll float to the ship one day, perhaps not. I’ll let the waves decide. ~ March 25 th  2021 Today was a bad day. Caroline came to visit me.

She looked awful. Her blonde hair was tied up in a tight bun, her make-up subtle and sharp, and she wore a form-fitting navy pantsuit. She just showed up, without warning, demanding to speak with me.

“You haven’t been responding to my messages!” She yelled, hysterical.

“I’ve been busy.” I had calmly told her. She seemed highly unsure, which I suppose I cannot entirely blame her for, so I told her about all the parties I’ve been going to. It seemed to perk her up, which irked me endlessly. Why must I have to go to parties in order to be okay? When did socializing become a necessity for mental stability? I decided not to tell her about the cleaning afterwards. I doubt she would approve or understand. She forced her leech-like presence on me the whole day, hauling me out to a relentless dinner at this snooty restaurant.

She would not stop pestering me for details of my life, as if she is entitled to any of them.

“Ronald, I’ve been worried about you.” She would repeat. “You can’t disappear.” “People disappear, Caroline.” I told her. She had flinched at that, and I remember finding it weirdly exhilarating. That I could make her flinch, that after everything I could still affect her. I thought we were beyond that. “Just…let me know you’re alive once in a while. Okay? I’m sorry I haven’t been here, that I wasn’t there. But I want to help. Call me if you need anything.” I agreed. If only to get her off my case.

I know you think I should talk openly with her, that I should tell her how I feel. But how do you tell someone you don’t care about them when you’re tied to them forever? It’s not good practise.

I had asked if she was going to stay, but even she couldn’t handle that much time together. She left later soon after. ~ April 2 nd  2021 There’s a new girl at my work, Shelly. She’s rather pretty in a chaotic sense, and she’s a young, excitable worker. But where Shelly really shines is in her ability to host a party. At first, I did not care to speak with her, or interact at all, but then she declared to the crew that she was hosting a “ soiree”  at her apartment that weekend, and that we were all invited. I haven’t mentioned her yet because I was not sure what to make of her. But where she is faulted in being a chatty, imposing sort of person, she makes up for in her sheer hopelessness at keeping a party in order. The poor girl decided it was BYOB! Oh, it was a travesty. There was crumbs all over the place, drinks spilt, even a bit of vomit caught the edge of the couch.

I tested something tonight, as well. I have been wondering for a while, and hypothesised myself, whether it would feel just as good to make a mess as it is to clean. It was midway through the party, people were either wasted or dancing, and I picked up a can of beer and carefully poured it onto the floor. I’ll admit it felt akin to riding a motorcycle with no helmet, exhilarating.

I started cleaning at that spot, as if covering up a secret made for only myself.

Shelly did not notice. No, she was only grateful to me for helping her wipe away the mess.

They are always grateful. ~ April 14 th  2021 It’s been a year. Caroline called, as she would. She asked if I needed anything, if I was going to be okay alone. I assured her that I was not alone, even told her of a party I was going to later that week.

She doesn’t understand, and I don’t try to make her. I called the helpline again, but they had no new information. How can a person just

disappear?

How can they have no leads? I went back to the train station, as if I could find something that I hadn’t seen that day. As if anything would be the same a year on. But there’s no trace of mum. I got home and needed to fix something. It felt like I was spinning wildly, as though the world had tipped off its axis and I was in freefall. I grabbed the bat from under the stairs and went to work. The house was in shreds and tatters by the time I was done. It’s been a year since mum disappeared, since she was supposed to meet Caroline, since Caroline bailed on her to see dad, as she always

always

has.

My house is a mess right now. I’m currently sat in the wreckage with this sick kind of excitement. The snow globes lay shattered at my feet. I wonder how much I can destroy until it becomes impossible to clean. I want to find out. ~ April 30 th  2021 Shelly had a party and did not invite me. I’m not sure what I did, I’ve been nothing but a gracious guest; being out of everyone’s way until the party ends and I help clean up. I am practically a free cleaning service. I even tend to keep to corners of the room, watching for messes, ensuring to keep from disturbing anyone from having a good time. But Shelly did not invite me.

It does not make sense. Perhaps I should ask her, question her motives. But I do not want to seem desperate, it is only a party, right? All I want to do is help with the cleaning. I could even offer to come at the end, just to clean. No, that would not do. I’ve come to realise that there is a euphoric high that comes with both making the mess and cleaning it. It is pure control. Unfettered and yet leashed to myself.

I’ll do that tonight instead.

I bought various staining sprays recently. I’m going to see if there’s anything that I cannot clean. ~ May 2 nd  2021 I cut myself making the mess today. Caroline had called. There was a new lead on mum’s case. She called to tell me that it went nowhere. They always go nowhere. The blood was hard to get out of the white sheets. But the hydrogen peroxide took care of it.

~ May 12 th  2021 Shelly finally invited me to a party tomorrow. I was beginning to become rather worried. She seemed hesitant to invite me. Apparently, I made her uneasy, but I assured her I meant no harm, I just found a weird joy in cleaning. She’s told me to bring a cake, it’s Stuart’s birthday after all. I shall bake the cake today. ~ May 13 th  2021 Continued… The blood was thicker than what I practised with. But I tried not to trouble myself with that. It mopped up easily enough. Shelly was beside herself. Really, it was not such a big deal. The majority of the guests had left. It was only three of them left but they came at me so fast and aggressive and I think one of them tried to pry the knife from my hand. I lashed out.

It was foolish, I know, but people make mistakes. Shelly asked why I brought the knife, which I found odd. She requested I bring the cake, why wouldn’t I bring something to cut it with? The trouble came when one of the bodies stirred in the crimson mess. Henry, I think? It was hard to tell. He made a gargled noise and Shelly made a high-pitched squeaking one and I understood enough to know that I couldn’t wipe away this mess. I admitted defeat. I’m sorry. Calling the one person I knew owed me, the one I knew would come at last, I turned to my sister.

“Caroline? I made a mess, and I can’t clean it up.” Then, because I had nothing left to lose, “I need your help.” At last, she came.


 Ele made herself a cup of tea. It was a freezing cold evening in Chicago, the blizzard  created a cover of ice on the roads, the wind was getting through the old windows of her apartment. She could hear the whistling sound the wind created, each more intense than the one before. As she was turning on her gas fireplace, Ele thought that the designers of this fireplace did a good job on making the fake wood logs look real.

  Mmm, linden tea with honey - her favorite, with each inhale of the teas aroma, memories of her grandfather become vivid like everything that happened long time ago was happening in the present. She could see herself  when she was 5 looking up to him standing on a wood ladder and picking linden flowers in his garden. She could see all the trees around, some linden, some acacia, all the trees that the bees would prefer the most. Her grandfather told her that for four families of bees, few linden and acacia trees he had in his garden is not enough food. They fly long distance to forest near by. She remembered her fascination when her grandfather told her that they always know exactly how to fly back home. Their scent leads them to where their home is. She could see him dressed in what looked to her like an astronaut costume and picking honey from the beehive. In those moments Ele and her sister  Nica could only watch from far. They were not scared anymore of one bee’s sting. Anytime, they would get a bee sting, when crying that it hurt, they were told that the sting is actually something good for your immune system. It hurts only because our body is upset too because the bee died after the sting. Interesting thing about believes from the past, even to this moment this explanation still comes to mind first.

  Ele thought that perhaps aromas and scents are the real time machine, the only time machine we need. To go in the future would ruin  the present moment, the present moment would loose its magic. To go in past is not very necessary, there are history books and photos. The only time machine is beneficial sometimes is the one that brings the memory back to life. That is what this tea does, she thought. As she enjoyed the tea, Ele could see herself sitting on one of the small chairs her grandfather made for her and the small wooden table, so anytime they visited him, they had their personal setting. Through the window the snow looked so heavy on the linden trees that 10 years old Ele and her sister 9 years old Nica were betting how much longer before the branch actually dumps the snow and goes back to its straight position. Their grandfather was serving them breakfast, linden tea with bread and feta cheese, no honey this time, their grandfather was getting old and he couldn’t take proper care of the bees. Moving the bees and their house was a difficult process, but he was happy about moving them in good hands. He could remember when  he found the first bee family in the forest near by. It was raining and they were all in their beehive. He brought them home, he built from wood his first bee house just few days before. Since then, honey was always present in the house. In the tea, on bread , sometimes when kids got a cold honey was used as first aid medicine to stop a cough or heal wounds. His grandchildren always got honey for Christmas, but Ele’s favorite was the honey made from linden flowers, her grandfather would bring them a big jar for each grandchild at the end of summer. Kids were not yet in school. She would spread butter and honey on fresh baked bread  and ran outside to play.  Ele went in the kitchen and made herself the same snack.

 The last times her grandfather made Ele and her sisters his specialty linden tea it was without honey or sandwiches. 13 years old Ele was now twice a big sister. Her baby sister Alexandra was 3.  It was a cold winter evening in Moldova, just like the one today in Chicago, Ele thought. The tea boiled on a traditional Moldovan stove built on top of fireplace. It warmed up the room and also it was used to cook food on top of it or boil tea. Her grandfather brought extra wood in the house, the night was expected to be one of the coldest. Ele and her sisters were at his house for the weekend. She could remember that she thought was odd that her grandfather thought her baby sister is actually her middle sister. They were laughing at their grandfather thinking he is being silly not remembering her youngest sister’s name. Later she realized those were the first signs of Alzheimers.

   For the few years that came after that, Ele did not remember much her grandfather. She has brief memories from the nights Ele’s parents were looking for her grandfather and she would be left at home with her sisters. There were attempts to get some kind of treatment, which was almost non existing in Moldova. Everyone that was suffering from any mental illnesses was placed in the same room and clinic and were given the same medication. After seeing that his condition worsened, his kids decided to bring him home. Some days, he would remember them and talk to them like he did not see them in a long time. The kids cherish those moments. Before his death, he had few minutes when his memory was clear, all kids were around him, they each took a moment with him, he was completely present, he couldn’t talk clearly, but in his eyes they could see the love he had for them. That was a magical moment, they felt gratefulness to have the chance to say goodbye.

  Ele thought about what was that brought her grandfather’s memory back in that final moment? Or in the moments he gained his memory back briefly before? Is it possible that it was  a familiar scent? Scent is what made the bees remember their way back home. The aroma of the tea is what brought her memories of him. She almost felt regret that she never thought of that back then, she could have made a linden tea and maybe drink it together with her grandfather, maybe that could bring back his memory.

  The wind was blowing stronger,  the whistling sounded like it was about to take the balcony door away, that brought Ele’s attention back to the present and the blizzard. She thought the wind whistling sounded almost like the boiling tea on her grandfather’s stove. She smiled.


For Old Times’ Sake Lavinia met her old friend María Balteira in a small bar near near the Praza do Toural in Santiago. She had invited her old friend, who was a minstrel, which meant she was paid for her services as a courtesan with King Alphonse the Wise. Balteira was from too long ago for Lavinia to ever locate and archive any artifacts pertaining to her, but they’d still gotten to know and like each other over the years. In fact, they were old friends. They went way back, you could say. Balteira arrived a few minutes late, grumbling. She certainly wasn’t the type to have tea, even with an old friend. “Where’s the drink?” she demanded right off as she let the door to Fervor slam behind her. Lavinia looked around, worried and hoping nobody had noticed the rudeness. They hadn’t. Once ‘the drink’ had been set in front of her and Lavinia’s green tea was in front of her as well, Balteira asked how her companion was. Lavinia used a Galician trick of answering a question with a question “Where have you been?” Everybody knew Balteira, who was admittedly famous, or infamous, but she still answered the query “I’ve been on the Road, of course. You know that’s what I do. Anyway, I’m here now and you can do me a favor.” Lavinia knew Balteira’s history, most of all from the writings of Marica Campo of Lugo. That meant she knew Balteira’s alleged reputation as a ‘loose woman’. She couldn’t imagine how she, a foreigner, could help the courtesan, who was getting up in years but still plying her trade, working to understand the world and be understood on her own terms. Balteira, because of her ‘profession’, had met many people - mostly men, if the truth be told - and had been the subject of many of the verses that had been sung and recited in the courts of the 12th and 13th centuries. Knights and clergy alike had all sung her praises, the ridiculed, vilified her for her low morals, her ‘dancing skirt’. Yes, Balteira was in a real snit, and showed it by scowling darkly. She was also a woman on a mission. “How can I possibly do anything for you?” answered her friend Lavinia, who hoped she didn’t look like she was talking to herself or to a ghost. Her friend was no longer of this earth, but she was her friend nonetheless, so she knew she’d have to try. “You’re still having the time of your life. The highway is your constant companion, along with a good assortment of male pilgrims…”

Maybe she’d gone too far. Balteira was sometimes sensitive about being reminded of her occupation, although she’d practiced it for years. She snorted. “Not so much. Haven’t you noticed? Recently I saw a chaplain in this very city of Santiago de Compostela, and told him I was getting old, vou vella . Actually, I sobbed, a lot, but he didn’t much care, man that he is. Aging is a problem for someone in my position, you know. Hell, for a woman in my position it’s absolutely catastrophic!”

Her companion had to admit it was true. She waited to see what her friend was going to ask her to do. “You’re here in this city whose cathedral is too big for a few weeks, right? So you can help me locate somebody. Everybody and his uncle strolls around the streets of the casco vello , the old sector, and I’m sure you can run into O Estudante sooner or later, if you try.” “What student? Who’s ‘The Student’?” Lavinia asked. “There are lots of them in the university here, thousands upon thousands of students, plus thousands of normal residents. It’d be like looking for a needle…” Balteira scoffed “I don’t know anything about riddles or refrains, but I do know about me. My skirt also knows a lot about them. So do my legs.” Lavinia stifled a snicker, thinking, correctly, that her companion was not trying to be funny. She was just stating a fact. She had no intention of judging her fun-loving friend, though. “So I need you to locate this student and can provide you with a very accurate description of him, right down to his…” Lavinia sipped her tea, thoughtfully, but with a slight squirm. She nevertheless listened attentively to the minute description provided, then agreed to do her friend’s bidding, with some trepidation. “What am I supposed to do once I locate him? After all, he knows you’re no longer on this earth, no longer among the living. He’s mourned your loss deeply even though you were at least twenty years older than he was, plus he won’t know who I am. More than that, I don’t have any of your potions to make a young student fall for me like he did for you. He could easily have been your son, and maybe close to that in my case. He won’t want to talk to me.” “Don’t lecture me!” snapped Balteira. “I don’t think you’re any saint in that sense either. Most women, if they’re smart, aren’t interested in living saintly lives. It’s just too dull.” Lavinia had to agree, but wasn’t about to tell her ghostly friend her story. That would wait until their next meeting. There was a task at hand, a request that friendship made a task she had to satisfy. “You make sure it’s him, gain his confidence any way you like, then give him these.” Balteira had a sheaf of old papers with inked lines, the script far from modern, because it was all handwritten and gorgeously so. “Here are my story, my songs, my words. The Student needs to take them, pretty them up with the editing knowledge he has acquired at University, then publish them. I am not skilled in technology, so he needs to do it. Those cantigas define my life, and as I said in Marica Campo’s play, Uncertainty of María Balteira , they’re my words, not the words of the men who plagiarized me, signed their own names, and ridiculed me as the sleazy broad, the one whose skirt was so easy to approach and explore. Marica left me with this decision to define myself, not be slandered by everybody. At that time I was on the Road to Santiago. Now I’m here, you’re here, and you can help me.” Lavinia looked serious now. O Estudante surely wouldn’t believe her if she did manage to locate him, because many centuries had passed, plus he might be too busy with exams or something to edit them the many pages. “You have to do it, L. I need to have my story out in the open. I need people to know how I really was and especially what I really thought and felt. What I still think and feel.” Lavinia looked doubtful. “If you do this great favor for me, I’ll gladly share some of the herbs and wisdom given me by the meiga Eusenda, the witch of Armea. Once the student has edited my writings and published them under my name with his own in small letters at the bottom of the inside page, I’ll come back for him. That’s the prize he’ll covet. That’ll seduce him into carrying out my request. Oh, and you can always offer to write the foreword, if that will help make him agree.” Lavinia, whose teacup showed only minuscule remnants of dark green, minced leaves, put the parchment pages into a blue portfolio made of heavy paper, with elastic on two corners, and nodded. “I’ll do it,” she replied, hoping she could. Balteira grinned, pleased at this response, and feeling even better after a few cuncas of thick, bloodlike Barrantes wine. She had itching feet and wanted to be on the move again. The two friends hugged the farewell from the 21st century to the 13th. Jeans-clad Lavinia with her ….. and ….., and a Balteira, older but with flowing hair and a swirling skirt. Lavinia set out toward the Obradoiro Square, in front of the Cathedral but also only a few steps from the School of Medicine and Dental Science of the University. If she didn’t find O Estudante there, she surely would be able to spot him near the area around the public market, where the School of Geography and History was located. Eventually, The Student appeared. His seeker knew who he was immediately, thanks to Balteira’s detailed description. (Lavinia didn’t need to compare every single detail to identify him, though.) He was walking along the historic Rúa do Franco, not really next to the market, but it was definitely him nevertheless. Just as he walked past Fonseca Square, off to one side of the Obradoiro, she took a deep breath and grabbed his arm. Lavinia was unsure of herself and just blurted out “These are from Balteira. She wants you to edit and publish them for her. I think she’s explained it all carefully in a note that’s attached.” She felt embarrassed. O Estudante looked at her, pursing his lips in a gesture of aggravation, puzzled at first because this older woman was a stranger and a foreigner, totally unfamiliar. He looked her up and down, decided he liked her in spite of her having just accosted him, because he liked older women, even respected some of them. He agreed to the request. Lavinia, slightly shaky, moved off, hoping she’d successfully completed her mission. The Student was just finishing his editorial comments and trying to decide if he wanted to ask Dr. Rivers to add anything. He was about to forward the manuscript to a potential publisher when Balteira appeared. The young man grinned from ear to ear, overjoyed at the sight of her and desirous of heading toward his lodgings with her in tow, but instead she moved off and he followed her lead toward the fields of meadowsweet, gorse and oregano on the edge of the city facing Pico Sacro mountain. They neared the waters with bindweed and yellow iris, toward the place where women speak, men agree, herbs and grasses have the ultimate power over mind and body, and many are happy. The story starts there.