…rd! This is so weird! This is so weird! This is so weird! This is so weird! I feel like my heart’s going to explode if this doesn’t happen soon. Ooohhh! I should never have agreed to this. What was I thinking? This is so weird! Ok, Jim! Just relax! Relax! This will be over soon! Just hold on, relax and it will be over soon. Breathe! That’s it, breathe. One, two, three, four! Breathe! One, two, three, four! Breeeeatheeee! Remember the exercise that you taught yourself, Jimmy boy! Come on now! Five things you see! Five things I see! What do I see? What do I see? I can’t see shit! It’s so dark! Shit, shit, shit! It’s so dark! I’m going to die! I’m going to die … I’m going to die! Am I dead? You’re not dead, you idiot! You’re in the tank, that’s why you can’t see anything. Relax! RELAX! Ok, ok! Next thing. Four things I can touch. What can I touch? What do I feel! I feel scared! No idiot, with your hands. What do you feel with your hands, with your skin. I feel … liquid. I feel … the mask on my face. I feel the floor under my feet. And … what else?! What else … I feel …my tongue? Yeah … I feel the tongue in my mouth. Great! Now breathe … relax. That’s it? Relax! Good! What’s next? Three things I can hear. What do I hear? Hmmm … bubbles? Ok, that’s one. What else? Are those voices? I think so. Can’t make out what they’re saying, but those are definitely voices. Must be the doctors. Ok, one more, Jimmy! One more! Hah … you hear yourself. Right? Sort of. It’s good enough. Two things you can smell. Plastic, yeah, I can smell plastic. Ok! What else? Something bitter, rancid almost. Ok! Last one. One thing I can taste. What can I taste? Hmmm … that’s weird, what’s this taste? It’s sort of bitter … and cold? That’s it, I taste bitter and cold. Good! Good job there, Jimmy! That’s it! Much better now! What’s taking them so long? I should be under by now. Hmmmm … Is something wrong? Shit … I’m sure something’s wrong. Should I wait? Yeah … I’ll wait. I’m sure there’s nothing serious. Maybe they’re just talking. Yeah … they’re just talking. Any minute now. Any minute... now … Breathe, Jimmy … breathe. That’s it … breathe. Relax, think of it as going to sleep. You love sleeping, don’t you? Yeah! I love sleeping. I’ll dream like crazy. I’ll be free! I’ll finally be free. Ok! How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? Shit! I can’t take this anymore. I need to get out of here and see what’s going on. Shit, shit, shit. " …eeeeyyy!” Shit, why is my voice so horse? “… eeeeyyyy! ..et ..e ouuu…!” Shit! My muscles feel so stiff, and this damn liquid is so dense. I can barely move my arm. Come on Jimmy, punch that panel, punch it like it owes you money, Jimmy. Punch it! “… eeeeeeeyyyyy!” Come on damn it, it’s not like you don’t know I’m here. “Le.. ..e ouuuut!” Yeah! That’s it, I’m screaming in here you idiots. " …s so…ne ‘n he…” Yeah! I’m screaming! Shit! Move, you damn arm! Move! Pound that panel. Pound it! " …lax man!” What did he say? Relax! Shit, that’s the word of the day, isn’t it. Relax, relax! I am relaxed. Come on already, get me out! “… stuc…, it’s stu…” What the hell are they doing?! What’s taking them so long! “Heeeeeeeeyyyyyy!” Crap, if I move my mouth too much the mask moves. I don’t want to swallow any of that stuff. " …eeeeeeyyy.., ..et me ou…t!” “Th.. l..v..r’s stu…, pul.. the on… on yo… end!” What? “Pu.. th… l..v..r!” Pull the what? Pull … think Jimmy, think! Shit! The lever, pull the lever! “Pu.. th… l..v..r!” Pull the lever, where’s the lever? Where is it?! Come on, Jimmy, think, think! Where was it? It should be in reach. Right? If I can pull it, it should be in reach. Relax! Breathe! Breaaathe! That’s it! Come on, Jim. Find that lever! Find it. There! There it is! Pull it, pull it. Pull…. it! Shit! Aaaaaaaaaah! “At a boy!” “Pull him out.” Oh my god, it’s so cold. Why is it so cold?! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! “Alma, hand me that blanket! Let’s wipe this muck off of him before he freezes to death.” Whhooooo arrrrrrre theeeeseeeee ppeeeeoppleeeeee! Brrrrrrrr. Shiiiiiit, it’s coooooooold. “That’s it, you’re alright boy. You’re alright! Open your eyes slowly, slowly! You don’t want to go blind now, do you!? That’s it. That’s it! Let’s have a look at you!” “Is he alright?” That sounded like a girl! Shit, it’s brrrrrright. “Yeah! Just confused. Like we all were. Remember?” Who is this guy? Sounds like my dad. No, older! “Pfffff, not like this.” I don’t like this guy, he sounds like that asshole Jessie from high-school. Why is it so bright? Come on, Jim. Breathe! Get your bearrrings! You’re alright. You’re alright! “Where’s the doctorrr? Who are you guys?” That’s it. Relax! Is this how babies feel? Everything’s so misty! Ok, Jim! Relax and look around. Get your bearings! “Pffft, doctor? Confused my ass, I think this one’s daft, Max.” Jessie 2.0 again. How old is he? Looks to be thirty something, that goatee sure makes him look like an asshole. Yeah, I don’t like this guy at all. “Here you go, Mr. Tennyson. Here’s another blanket.” She’s pretty. A bit old, what is she? Twenty-five? Thirty? Pretty eyes. I really like green eyes. “Thank you, Alma! Let’s get this boy on his feet. How are you son? Are you feeling better?” Old-Dad looks really tired. He doesn’t look anything like Dad, though. He’s fat and he smiles a lot. I like him, I like him a lot. “So, how do you feel? Do you feel better now?” “Mmmhmmm! Thanks! Who are you? Are you doctors?” “No, no! We’re patients, just like you. My name’s, Max. Max Tennyson! Do you know where you are?” Why is everyone starring at me like that? Crap! I’m naked. Shit! And there’s a girl. Is she smiling? Shit! “What’s your name? Do you know where you are?” Mr. Tennyson sure likes to repeat his questions. “You’re wasting your time with him, Max. The frost got to his brain. See how his eyes are darting all over the place? He’s squirrelly.” Nope. Don't like him. “Please leave the boy alone, Mr. Gage. So... do you remember your name?” at least Jessie 2.0 respects Mr. Tennyson. Is he afraid of him? “Jim! My name’s Jim!” “Good! That’s good, Jim! This is Alma and  this is Mr. Gage. Now, do you know where you are?” “At the Cryogenics lab in Houston, Texas?” Where are all the doctors? Who are these people? “That’s right! Do you remember the year?” Again with the questions. “2000… 30?” Or was it 2029, my brain feels slow. Have I gone squirrelly like Jessie 2.0 said? Oh, shit! Oh, shit? “2030?” Alma, she looks scared. “So, he’s one of the newer batches. That explains it!” Jessie 2.0, he looks terrified. “I’m not sure we’re in 2030 anymore, Jim.” They all look like that. “What do you mean? Where’s the doctor? What’s happening?” “We don’t know where the doctor’s are, Jim. We woke up a couple of hours ago, just like you.” Is that worry on Mr. Tennyson’s face? Was he expecting answers from me? What do you mean ‘woke up’? “What do you mean: woke up?” “We were in cryo-sleep, just like you. We woke together at the same time, about two hours ago.” What are you saying, old man? Cryo-sleep? “I wasn’t in cryo-sleep! They were supposed to put me under, but something happened and you guys showed up.” What’s he talking about? “Pfffft, look around you boy! Stop being daft!” I really, really don’t like this dude. If he calls me daft again... Wait! He’s right! The lab wasn’t like when I went in the tank. Oh my God! Where am I? When am I? “It worked?” “Yeah! It worked! Don’t listen to Mr. Gage, Jim. He’s just angry and scared.” At least Mr. Tennyson’s on my side. I think I’m going to need it if this continues. “Pffffftttt.” Heh! Just like that asshole, Jessie. Angry and scared! “What year is it?” “That’s what we’re trying to find out. You’re the latest addition. I went under in 2010, Alma in 2012 and Mr. Gage in 2020…” They do look scared. All of them. Especially Jessie 2.0. I guess that’s why that punk was always behaving like that. Heh! If I see him again I’ll punch him in the face. Settle down, Jim! “Can you stand on your own, Jim? How old are you by the way? You look twenty.” Mr. Tennyson again. “I’m nineteen!” She smiled. Is she shy? She’s looking away a lot. “Poor boy!” What? Why poor? Poor old man maybe? How about that? Just shut up, Jim! Does this mean I’m in the future? Oh my god! “We’re wasting time. Literally every second is precious, or have you forgotten?” Jeez, does this guy ever relax? “Is your name Jessie by any chance?” “What? No!” Heh, could’ve sworn it was. Just smile and wave, Jimmy! Smile and wave! “Come on, let’s get out of here. We need to find out what’s going on, here.” “Finally! Thank you, Max.” The lab looks really strange. Now that I look around, we’re definitely not in 2030. I wonder what year it is. Everything looks different. Are those screens? “Did you check the computers?” “Yes, we did! We couldn’t get any of them to work, I don’t think there’s any power in the facility.” Wow, her voice is so sweet Should I ask how old she is? No, don’t be a creep, Jimmy! That would be really weird. Hi! Welcome to a weird future! How old are you? Just look around, Jimmy. Look at all the pretty walls. Look how pretty hey are. They have a nice white color. Wait! That’s right, everywhere I look there are only walls. “Aaaaah, where’s all this light coming from?” “The ceiling, as far as we can tell.” Mr. Tennyson seems smart. “Didn’t she say there’s no power? How can that be?” “We don’t know. But the ceiling glows. Quite brightly as you can see for yourself. It was even brighter when we woke up. Based on that, I believe the sun is starting to set.” He seems to have taken the leadership mantle of the group. The others don’t seem to mind it at all. Hmmmm. “Why are you saying that?” “Jesus, boy! It’s obvious they’re powered by sunlight or some sort of light since nothing else seems to work and we didn’t touch anything.” Here we go again with this guy. “Relax, Mr. Gage! The boy doesn’t know what we did, or did not do. He’s right, Jim. When we got out of the tanks the lights were already on. As I said before, even brighter then they are now. That’s why we believe them to be powered by photovoltaic cells. Does any of the equipment in the rooms we’ve passed look familiar?” “No, nothing.” “Then I guess it’s safe to assume that we’re not in 2030 anymore.” Pretty smart. “Mr. Tennyson! Do you think the others are waking up as well?” What others? What is she talking about? Idiot. Of course there are others here. Hmmmmm. But why haven’t they woken up yet? “It’s safe to assume that they are, Alma. Mr. Gage, help me with this door please!” Should I help as well? It feels so cold to the touch. Come on. Put your back into it, Jimmy. One, two... three. That’s it. “Great! Let’s see what we have here. Aaaaaah. This appears to he a locker of some sort. Let’s see if we can find something that will fit us, shall we?” This material looks high-tech. It feels so light and yet it’s warm. I definitely like the future. Ok! It looks a little tight on Alma. Right! Stop it, look away. Stop being such a creep. Remember what Dr. Patel taught us. Look for the markers. When you feel like this, when you feel the need to lose yourself in someone else like this, it’s because you’re trying to lose yourself, period. I’m scared and it’s ok to be scared. Remember who you are, Jimmy. You’re scared and lost and alone. Well, except for these weird people. Who are these people? Are they even who they say they are? "We'll go look around some more. You two stay here. We'll be back for you!" Should I talk to her? Now’s my chance while they’re away. Come on, Jim. Relax! You can do this. Just breathe! “Hey, Alma!” “Yes, Jim.” “How did you get out of your tank?” Smooth, Jim. “What do you mean?” Does she look scared? Am I that weird? “I mean: did someone let you out or did you get out the same way I did? What happened?” “No. The tank drained and let me out at the end of the process. It was almost empty when I woke up. The same with Mr. Gage and Mr. Tennyson. I think yours was broken or something.” Ok. That’s great to hear. It seems bad luck transcends both time and space. “Did you look for anyone else?” “There are over fifty tanks back where we were set up. We just figured it wasn’t their time yet. That’s why we came out looking for people.” Hmmmm. Ok! So there’s more of us. Maybe someone has some answers. “Jim!” “Yes?” “What’s wrong with you?” What?! “Excuse me?” “Sorry! I mean, what are you sick of?” “What do you mean?” Am I that weird? What’s gotten into her. Why is shy asking me this? “I mean. That’s why you’re here, right? Because you’re sick and you wanted to wake up sometime when there would be a cure?” Ok. Poor girl! So that’s why Mr. Tennyson made that face when I told him how old I was. That’s right! The first batches of patients where all terminal, this was their last hope. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” Because I’m ashamed of it. Relax, Jimmy! Relax. “Ok!” I wonder what’s hers?! “Jim, Alma! Could you please come with me?” “Sure thing, Mr. Tennyson.” Pfiu! Right on time. “What’s wrong?! Did you find someone?” “Not exactly. But I think I know what’s happening.” It’s not good. He’s trying to mask the tremor in his voice... it’s not working. Is it getting colder? “Through here. We weren’t supposed to wake up like this. I think the coolant slowly heated up and that’s why we all woke up at the same time. Around this corner over here.” Is Jessie 2.0 crying? What the hell? “Is he ok?” Ok! I think she figured it out as well. Something’s definitely not right. “He’ll be fine. He's in shock. Now, I won’t be able to hold the door open for too long. You need to see this with your own eyes, otherwise, you won’t believe me. Ready?” Come on already! What's going on here? “Ok. Now!” What the...? Ice! There’s ice everywhere. Everything’s under ice. What the hell? “Guys! I believe we've woken up at the end of an ice age… I think we’re several millennia into the future!”


An orange pre-dawn glow rims the horizon, slowly banishing the hazy periwinkle twilight. Soon driving this direction will be almost unbearable, the strong clear rays of the rising sun burrowing into my eyes. I choose to beat the sun, and slip a pair of square black sunglasses over my face. Vintage, $5, super cool. They make me feel like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, even though they don’t really look like his sunglasses at all. As my 14 year old brother would say, “Issa Vibe.” It’s a vibe I’m grateful for as the sun’s rays finally bend over the curve of the earth and the eternal glowing ball sits squarely on top of the highway, framed between the trees. I pull the visor down, and try to keep my eyes on the road. It’s difficult. The sun is painful to look at, but it’s also beautiful. The metaphor isn’t lost on me as my eyes are also drawn to a Polaroid shot pinned to the inside of the visor.

One of the best and worst memories. Beautiful and hard to look at. The picture is me and my best friend at the beach, almost two years ago this week. Our first “adult” vacation, taken after a year apart at different schools. We drove 24 hours to California, through desert and mountains, and finally, to water. It was magical, the most perfect summer day in LA. The beach was a dream, the water blue and perfect. We spent the whole day soaking up sun, lamenting our land-locked lives back home. The house we were staying in was further from the beach than we would have liked, but it was all we could afford and still have a place to ourselves. It was up in the hills, hidden by trees and tropical landscaping. Even though we had to fight traffic, it was worth it. The house was lovely, all mid-century lines and pale pinks. It was on the way back there from the beach that I had pinned the Polaroid to the visor. I remember thinking that I would always want to be reminded of how absolutely perfect the day had been. Boy was I wrong. Like, super wrong. We were tired after the beach, but like any self-respecting teenagers on vacation, we ate dinner and then immediately headed out to the pool. That was when things started to get weird. The sun made its way down toward the ocean on the distant horizon, and we relaxed in our flamingo-shaped floaties. It took a while for me to notice that the sun seemed to have stopped setting, and that the fuzzed-out orange glow had been a constant source of light for far too long.

I’ve always wondered if that moment of consciousness is what caused me to remember what came next, while Jess didn’t seem to remember anything. Like the volume turning up on an amp with no guitar plugged in, I suddenly became aware of a buzzing, like a thousand metal bees were swarmed above me. So I looked up.

Big mistake. Filling the whole sky above me was a sleek sheet of curved metal, punctuated by orange lights that pulsed softly. A scream rose in my throat and died almost immediately. A scream wouldn’t help. As I watched and tried to make sense of what I was seeing, a circular piece in the center of whatever-the-heck-this-thing-was seemed to dissolve slowly, like the pixel melting animation of video games from days long past. When it was all gone, a powerful, pure light poured out. Droplets of water began to rise around me, and soon Jess and I were also being lifted up, up, up. The memory cuts off abruptly. That’s all there is to it. I shake my head, and try to refocus on the road. No one believed me, not even Jess. Especially not Jess. We woke up the next morning in our beds safe and sound, no scratch on us, no hair out of place. Jess was sure we had just blacked out or something from drinking too much. But I knew that wasn’t true. We weren’t even old enough yet to buy alcohol, and we didn’t know anyone in LA to buy it for us. And I checked. There was no alcohol in the house. Jess took this as proof we drank it all. That I had just had a super weird dream. But I knew that just couldn’t be true.

I’m not crazy. I know that. I’m not a conspiracy theorist, or a person who gets lost in wild fantasies. I’m about to graduate with a degree in accounting, and a minor in flute. I am precise and delicate and careful. Honestly, I’m kind of a stick in the mud. So I knew, with every fiber of my being, that something really weird happened that night. But it's hard to be certain when everyone thinks you're just making it up. After a few weeks, I stopped trying to tell the story. It started to sound too weird, even when I said it to myself. Maybe something had happened, but maybe it was nothing. Maybe someone had slipped something in our drinks at the beach. In the eyes of my small town parents, anything could have happened to us in a place like LA.

After a year, I didn’t even believe it myself. I put it out of my mind, choosing to focus on the sun and sand and glorious warmth of the rest of that trip. I told myself that I left the picture pinned to the visor to remember those things, not the disaster that may or may not have happened after the beach. And usually, that worked fine. So why is the memory hitting me so hard now? Am I having that weird road-hypnosis thing, but instead of forgetting I’m driving, I’ve gotten lost in a buried memory instead?

I focus on the road again: white lines and reflectors, grey pavement, green trees. The sun is still directly ahead of me, forcing my eyes away from the horizon. The highway is oddly empty, even for this early hour. The Polaroid hovers in my upper periphery like a magnet, drawing me to look. I glance back up at it: two smiling teenagers, the vastness of the ocean behind them, and millions of grains of sand under their feet. Come on brain, back to the road. Except- the road’s not there anymore.

The car is hovering 20 feet above the highway. I almost scream, but it dies once again in my throat. A scream wouldn’t help. I squint past the bright light of the sun. Except- it’s not the sun. Behind the light is a vast, curved metal sphere.


“I’m sorry M’Dear, but I can’t wear these fig leaves anymore.” Adam said to his girl. “I am getting a rash in that area. What made you think we needed to wear fig leaves?” Adam’s girlfriend Evie kind of dropped her gaze, and mindlessly counted her toes. “I don’t know...come, on. I never liked the way that orangutan stared at my private area. He had a suggestive way of licking his lips... I didn’t like it, especially after we ate that smart fruit.” Adam’s head bowed at this news. He felt a little guilty about Eve’s embarrassment, but had tried to stare when she wasn’t looking his way. I will keep my eye on him, give him a smack or two for being so obvious, he said to himself. “Is there any more of that fruit left? I just can’t get that nice taste out of my mind.” Eve looked with sad eyes over where that tree had been. There was just an ugly hole in the ground circled by loose dirt clods. The talking snake was gone too. He was such a refreshing mind here in the garden. The big guy in the sky was all cranky and bossy. The serpent had a whole new set of standards. Progressive stuff. He was teaching us to be free, adventurous. How were we to know He wanted all that fruit for himself? He only said, “Do not eat from the forbidden tree...” but he gave us no reason, just another bossy command.   Adam was depressed, seemed to have a feeling like a chunk of that apple whatever was stuck in his throat. He leaned up against a pine tree, looking this meadow over for the last time. It was so nice here, lawn that stayed the same height, trees that gently swayed in that nice warm breeze, a lot of animal types running around. He thought about his duty as an animal nomenclaturist. He told himself, surely he could have come up with better names after eating the smart fruit. How he came up with orangutan for that monkey thing, he couldn’t fathom. He had been definitely mentally limited. Rusty or Hairy would have been much more concise and descriptive. And ‘elk’. That was another one. It was a sound he made after eating a fig too fast. Elk. He did like ‘turtle’. That thing looked like it turtled along all right. Much better than Mobile Shellback. Adam continued to muse about his career cut short by a Boss that didn’t like to share. They were told to get all their things together, they were being evicted. The only thing Adam could claim was his favorite walking stick, and that fig leaf. That fig leaf I shall leave behind. “Eve, you got your stuff ready to go?” Eve was just wandering around, kicking at acorns and stuff, wiping her eyes. Adam saw that she still wore those silly fig leaves, and was getting a pink rash from them.   “Yeah, I guess. This was the nicest place we’ve ever lived...” That remark startled Adam who was remembering that it was the only place they ever lived. “Look. Let’s go stand by the gate, so He knows we’re trying to cooperate.”   So they waited there by the entrance, exit gate feeling a little impatient. Finally, a winged guy with a pencil moustache and wearing a derby dropped out of the sky. “Sorry folks. My friend Gabriel had stopped by and was telling me some new jokes. I lost track of the time. So, anyway, the Boss said you snitched some of his fruit. Sure you should have known better. There were some of his best angels told Him, 'Don't plant it in Eden if You want it to be safe.' He expected a lot out of you mental midgets...hahahahaha. He won’t even let us have any either. But, here’s the eviction paper. Do you have a pen, we need to sign here...” Adam’s eyes widened, Eve looked confused. “What is... sye ning?” he asked. “Oh, you guys didn’t do the elementary school thing yet? Sorry. Look, lick your finger, touch the ground and then press it under your name...uh, those squiggly lines say ‘Adam’. Good, Eve. Can you do that too, please. Eve frowned and stared at the angel for a second or two. “Ooohhhkay.” She licked her finger and touched the ground, then pressed it under her name.

  The angel pulled a shiny brass key out and unlocked the padlock on the gate. “Okay, get out, get out...out to the great slum of a desert. Hope you guys didn’t leave a mess for me...”   Adam and Eve looked out over this vast wasteland of wind-blown sand hills, and thought, “Where are we supposed to go?” He turned to ask the angel, but it was all gone. Eden had disappeared.   Any observer of the pair might’ve thought they were dancing, but they were turning in a circle, looking for a sensible direction. Adam stopped, leaned forward, and seemed to salute with his right hand over his eyes. “Look way over there, Eve. Are those trees? No, this way. Look ... way ... over ... there. See that, is that a tree?” Adam didn’t know, but Eve was a bit near sighted. “What? I can’t see anything. What do you see?” Adam frowned at his girlfriend. “Never mind. Just follow me.” So they trudged forward in the sandy wind. Whenever they got to the top of a sand hill, Adam saluted again, searching the horizon. After a few hours, it was getting dark. Walking in this soft sand was very tiring. They felt thirsty. Their knees ached. They had to stop to rest every so often as the sun marched across the sky. They watched the sun go dowwn behind the distant hills. The sky was going dark. Unlike the moderate temperature of Eden, it started to get cold. Adam found himself shivering, and longed for the fig leaf he left behind. In the black of the night, he snuggled up next to Eve and finally fell asleep. He found this snuggling business had other benefits.

  So, when the sun made the sky go light the next morning, he felt all smiley. Eve’s eyes fluttered open and was all smiley too. She raised her shoulder up to her cheek and looked all flirty. She kind of giggled, and put her fig leaves back on. Maybe this ain’t so bad, they both decided. There was a new feeling between this guy and his girl. They began to like each other.


“Fu-“ I started to say, staring down at the now large stain of red wine spilling across the crisp white linen of the brand new table cloth I had just purchased. “-dge.” I finished after a moment, deflated. I contemplated the perfect setting of plate, silverware, napkins, and now one poured glass of wine. It had taken a time to set everything up perfectly, and now one rogue elbow had sent the entire evening into disarray.              I briefly considered ripping the tablecloth off of the table, like you see sometimes in the movies. One quick slip and somehow everything remains in place. I quickly dismiss this thought, and I set myself to painstakingly taking pieces off, one at a time, from the table that had been so close to being finished.              Just as I was beginning to take things off, I heard the knock I had been anticipating. I quickly smoothed my skirt, cringing when I saw a spot of red wine had managed to catch the hem of it. I rolled my eyes to myself and quickly flitted to the door to open it. Women my age don’t need to be wearing skirts or setting up fancy dates. Women my age ought to be settled with their husbands of thirty years and celebrating the kids they raised together. But not me. My ex was now honeymooning with his twenty-something bride in Cancun. And I was setting up dates with online strangers and watching our only son get married off at the same time as his dad.              “Evening,” Paul said gruffly, and handed out a half dozen roses still packaged in store plastic.              I took the flowers and smiled. Paul and I had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks. We had exchanged past lives, he had never been married and never had children. Me with an ex and a son. Both of us somehow alone for the upcoming sweethearts’ holiday. We hadn’t had the chance to speak too much in person, but had managed to set boundaries for the evening: no pressure, no physical expectations.              “Thanks so much.” I cooed, ushering him inside and helping him take off his jacket. “I apologize, I had a little spill earlier and it has disrupted the ambiance of the evening.”              Paul took in the scene before him: glasses and plates now haphazardly balancing on chairs, the red wine stain settled largely across the surface of the table. “Didn’t have to go all-out on account of me.” He noted, not making a single move towards the table to help. I continued with my maneuvering.              He took no notice of the framed photos on the walls of the living room, and instead took a look at the television sitting stubbornly on an old entertainment center I ended up with in the divorce. “Haven’t got it mounted, hm?” He remarked, pointing at the old TV. “It can’t be more than, what, 32 inch TV?”              “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool as I was finally able to rip the white cloth from the table. “I don’t really watch TV.”              He said nothing, but began inspecting the television further. I made about setting things back on the table without a tablecloth, and made no attempt to be as precise as before.              “I made roasted chicken with herbed potatoes and green beans.” I muttered, walking in to the kitchen.              “That’s mighty fine of you,” He said, finally directing his attention back to me. Or the food. I softened a bit, but that quickly dissolved when he took a seat at the table. Not that I was asking for help or anything, but an offer would have been nice.              He was facing the kitchen, and looking over the décor, not really focusing on the knickknacks but lost in thought. I began plating up dinner for the both of us, at this point ready for the evening to be over with.              I put on a fake smile as I sat food down in front of Paul, and then seated myself on the opposite side of the table. “Looks mighty fine indeed, Melinda.” He remarked before getting to work tearing his chicken to shreds. I pursed my lips and placed a napkin in my lap before beginning to cut my own.              “So, Paul, was work alright for you today?” I tried making conversation, taking a sip of red wine from my glass.              “It was,” He answered, never looking up from his plate. “Just another day.”              I began rethinking our previous dates. The movies had allowed for no conversation, and restaurants had allowed for little personal talk.              He sucked down his glass of red wine quickly. When he finished, he looked at it, kind of puzzled, before looking at me. “Is there…?” He started, glancing again to the empty glass, as if expecting it to magically fill itself.              “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to refill it for you?” I responded, rather testily.              “Oh, no, no.” He said quickly, and began standing. “I would love some more though. In the fridge?”              “Yes.” I said, not looking up from my chicken. He walked around out of eyesight and I listened to him humming faintly as he opened up the fridge and unstopped the red wine bottle. I listened as he placed the bottle down on the counter, and then no movement followed. No fridge reopening. No footsteps. Nothing.              I finally glanced back and saw that he was staring directly behind me into the living room. Following his gaze, I saw the new portrait that hung of my son and his new bride. I smiled in spite of myself, giddy with happiness for my child.              “Is that…?” He asked, pointing to the picture holding his fascination.              “My son.” I said, nodding. Paul finally unhitched himself from the counter. He left his wine glass and open bottle behind, and simply tramped over closer to the portrait on the wall. “He just got married last month.”              There was quiet for a while. Paul studied the picture hard. “Your son?” He asked, uncertain.              “Yes…” I said slowly, not fully understanding the question. “Well, we adopted him when he was a baby. My ex-husband and I did.” Paul nodded thoughtfully at this, still staring. “He’s not a customer of yours?” I asked quickly, unable to imagine my son in his little shoe shop.              “Oh, no, no.” He said too quickly. He turned to look at me briefly before turning right back to the photograph. “Was he born in ’93?”              “He was. September.” I nodded, frowning.              “27 th his birthday?” Paul asked.              “Yes…” I continued, my meal now completely abandoned as I stared at the back of Paul’s head.              Several more uncomfortable moments passed before Paul seemed to remember himself. He offered no more information other than remarking, “Mighty handsome young man.” He sat back down at the table, but made no attempt to reclaim the chicken that he had torn to pieces. Even then, he kept glancing back to look at the portrait on the wall.              “You said he’s not a customer?” I asked, nudging for more information.              “No, no…” He hesitated, meeting my eyes for the first time. “I…I had a son. I didn’t know about him. By the time I knew he existed his mother had already placed him up for adoption and was long gone. The papers were all closed up. No way for me to…to get him or even…meet him…” He glanced back again at the photo, and now clear tears had welled up in his eyes. “I think…I think that might be…him.”              My fork clattered to the plate as Paul embarrassedly brushed a tear from his eye. “Your…your son ?” I asked finally. “But it…it was a closed adoption. We were told that his biological father was dead and that his mother was too young to care for him. You think that Jonah is…?”              “Well, the last part was true enough. Only 18 at the time. Her family hid him from me up until her passing in ’95. She was bad into drugs, unfortunately. It’s why we didn’t work out in the first place. It was only then, at her funeral, that they waved my son’s birth in front of me. Like her death was all my fault. That…” He abruptly stopped, waved it off. His head hung low and he sniffled. “He looks just like his mother. Just like her. Except for the eyes.” He pointed at his own eyes in demonstration.              “You…?” I was having a hard time processing the information. My ex would be furious to find out this man was walking about the world, longing for the son he never got the chance to raise. The son we raised. “I’m not sure what to say.” I finally sputtered.              “Can you please tell me about him?” The look in his eyes was so deeply wounded, and moving. It hurt to look at him.              “Jonah…our son, he’s an engineer.”              “Jonah?”              “Yes. Jonah Grey. We named him after…the Bible story, you know? And grey is a family name.”              “Right.”              “He was on the football team in high school, but he also loved choir.”              Paul made no effort to conceal his tears now as they flowed from his eyes. “His mom loved to sing.” He whispered.              “He graduated from State a few years back with a Bachelor’s degree and they’ve just bought a house about an hour away from here.”              “That’s wonderful.” Paul sniffled. “Melinda, I am so sorry, but I think my head isn’t in the right place to continue this evening. I know you have worked hard-“              “Oh, no. Please. Don’t be silly.” I countered, standing as he did. My face was flushed with all of this information, and I was flustered beyond logical reasoning. “I can understand this is…well, I know it’s quite a shock for me. So I can’t imagine…”              The big problem with this was…we had never told Jonah the truth about his adoption. And now…? Sure, he was a 28 year old man with a wife. He would need real medical information and history and background, especially if he and his wife planned on having children of their own.              “I’ll be in touch, Melinda, if that’s alright.” He said as he made his way to the door. He grabbed his coat quickly, and I began fighting back my own emotion. No doubt this man wanted to see his son. And yet he had not asked, had not even hinted.              “Of course, Paul. Maybe…maybe we can work something…out.”              Paul met my eyes, glistening and sad. “Does he know?” He asked quietly.              “N-no, he doesn’t.” I stammered. “And I…I’m not sure…”              “I understand.” He answered quickly. He put on his coat and opened the door.              There, on the other side, however, was my son.              “Oh, sorry.” Jonah said, mildly confused. He looked behind Paul to me and halfway waved. “Mom? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”              “Jonah!” I stuttered, bypassing Paul to usher him into the house. “Jonah, what on earth are you doing here?”              “Jamie had to work tonight,” He started, staring at Paul in confusion. “I wanted to surprise you. Stop by and wish a Happy Valentine’s to my first love.” He kissed me on the cheek and handed me a box of chocolates. “I know you said you’re trying to stay away from sugar, but these don’t count because they’re for Valentine’s Day.”              “She told me she was staying away from sugar, too.” Paul commented. He stared at Jonah as if he was the Holy Grail itself.              “Apologies, I’m Jonah. Mom, where are your manners?” Jonah teased as he reached out for Paul’s hand. “And you are…?”              “Paul.” He answered gruffly. Taking the hand in his own and shaking it firmly.              “And is he your…?” Jonah asked, turning to me.              “Friend.” I answered sharply. “We’re just friends, Jonah.”              “I don’t invite friends over on Valentine’s Day, Mom.” He continued to tease. “I wouldn’t have interrupted had I known you already had company today.”              “Paul was just leaving…” I started, but hesitated. “But…?” How could he leave now, when the son whom he’d pondered about and longed for his entire adult life had magically appeared before him?              “I think I’ll stay for another drink, Melinda. Get to know your boy.” Paul said quietly. Jonah accepted this without a second thought and maneuvered past me and through to the kitchen, already spiritedly talking about his upcoming weekend as he poured himself a glass of wine. Paul eyed me, silently asking permission to know the son I raised. After hardly any deliberation, I gave a quick nod. Paul walked back in as if he was on a cloud. He hardly spoke a word all evening, but only listened, enamored by Jonah. Jonah made attempts at polite conversation with Paul, but Paul had no interest in saying a word. He only found himself enraptured by my son. His son. By the end of the evening, when it came time for Jonah to leave, Paul had never gave an inkling as to why he was really there. They shook hands once more, and Jonah mentioned seeing the both of us again real soon, before making his departure. Paul sat, stoned faced, on the couch for a long time to come. I sat in silence with him, feeling a mix of warmth and guilt. Warmth that Paul got to see a glimpse of the sweet son I had raised, guilt that Paul hadn’t received the chance to raise him. “Twenty six years.” He whispered finally. “I have looked for my son…for twenty six years. From the moment I knew of his existence…” He finally stood, having never even removed his coat from his earlier attempted getaway. I had no idea what to say. He made his way to the door, gripped the doorknob firmly and turned. “Thank you, Melinda.” He said quietly. And then he left, quietly shutting the door behind him.


Not many people can say that they met someone they came to love while having their car repaired. Well, I can. It was a minor issue but I was upset as the car was new. New as in less than two months in my garage. The service writer at the dealer was surprised I had arrived so early in the day. I was more than put out and wanted the matter taken care of before I went to work. It was so early that the service department wasn't actually open yet for business. But the mechanic who fixed the sort of problem I presented happened to be at work and ready. I was allowed to drive my car into the service area – instead of waiting in a cold little room. The porter who usually drove cars to the mechanics wasn't clocked in yet. The mechanic was a very pleasant looking man. Perhaps younger than I but I cared only that he could and would take care of my car. He chatted nearly the entire time he was working. Perhaps it was a nervous reaction as the customer usually isn't with their car while he's working on it. Regardless, it was a short time later that he declared the car ready to go. Warranty covered the situation so I could just drive out and go on to work. Which I did. This was a Friday morning. Monday morning, as usual, was a bit hectic at work. I'm a one-girl office for a small ad agency. First thing every Monday is to check the answering machine. I had just recorded the last call when the phone rang. The voice asked for me and sounded familiar but I couldn't place a name or face. Guess I hesitated too long and he said, “I'm sorry. Guess I didn't make as good an impression as I thought. This is George from the dealership. I worked on your car Friday.” Click, click. I knew who it was. Now to not let him know I didn't. “Hi, George. Guess I'm just trying to figure out how you had my office number.” “It's on the work order.” “Of course. What can I do for you?” I was totally intrigued by this time. Guess I made more of an impression on him then I thought I had. 'It's short notice and I expect you're already booked. But would you have dinner with me tonight? I have to be at the courthouse at 7 but it'll take only a few minutes and then we could go to dinner. Maybe the Pepper Mill?” The Pepper Mill is a white linen establishment. Kind of pricey. Elegant. “Courthouse?” “Have to check in at night court but it won't take long. Any chance you can have dinner with me? Forgive the short notice but I figured if I'd asked Friday you'd shine me on.” “Well – “ He is a nice looking guy. Seemed polite enough. And the Pepper Mill? Did I want to chance it? Night court? “I usually don't go out on Mondays. It's a catch-breath night after the weekend.” Good lord, now I sound like I play all weekend. “Well, I figured you would say no but decided to chance it. Anything I can say to change your mind?” “George, I've just met you. Where would I meet you?” “I'll pick you up at 6:30 at your house. If someone goes out with me, it's my job to pick up and take home.” “You don't know where I live.” “Of course I do. It's on the work order.” “6:30?” “Yeah.” “Okay. I'll be ready.” “Thanks. See you then. I have to get back to work.” I hung up. What in hell have I just committed to? I wrote myself a post-it note and put it on my purse. I don't do things this way. I know absolutely nothing about this guy – other than he's a mechanic at the dealership where I bought my car. The day flew by. Fortunately, I had put that note on my purse and at 5, instead of staying over half an hour as I do often, I locked the front door, told the guys they needed to answer the phone, and went home. George was prompt. He parked in a city lot and we went into Night Court. There were a lot of people there. He had gotten a speeding ticket and wanted to see if he could beat it – or at least have it cut down. 125 on the New York Extension. That's a fairly new, four lane road that connects Altadena to Sierra Madre. It's not very long but evidently long enough to drive really fast. The judge decided that the citing officer may have pulled him over too soon and some of the speed resulted from the officer trying to catch up to him. He cut the ticket to 65 in a 45 zone. That reduced the fine by over $200 – George says. He paid the fine in cash; got a receipt and asked, “Ready for dinner?” The Pepper Mill was a bit busy for a Monday. We were seated in a small dining room off the main dining area. That was fine with us – a group of rowdies from CalTech were pretty loud in the main area. We ordered drinks...surprising, both the same. And George started talking. In half an hour I had pretty well heard his entire life story. The waiter had brought menus with our second martini. We ordered the same entre. And during dinner, George talked some more. It was as if a fountain of words had erupted and he had to get them all out in one sitting. Thing is – it didn't seem as though he was trying to make an impression. Though I think he was trying to convince me he was an all right guy. And I believed him. It was after eleven when I finally got home. George walked me to my door, took my key and opened the door. He shook my hand and asked if he could see me again. I nodded. “Give me a call sometime.” I've gone on some wild first dates – usually with someone I've known, or known about, for a while. But this one was really different. I am truly impressed. If anyone had ever said I'm meet the perfect man while having my car repaired, I would have laughed at them. I'm not laughing now. His appearance before the judge about his speeding ticket was flawless. He stood at ease with his hands behind his back as he related his side of the story. “Yes, Your Honor; no, Your Honor; and, I understand there are standards for clocking a speeding vehicle. I believe these standards were not met.“ The Judge and his bailiff poured over a map of the area for several minutes before agreeing. He wasn't arrogant, belligerent or smart ass. Just cool, calm and collected. Thursday morning George called me at work. “I hope that I'm not too late to ask for your time on Saturday evening.” “After your last call, how can you say that? You gave me all of eight hours notice.” “Yeah, I know. I apologize. But I so wanted to get to know you that I took advantage of Night Court to do it. I apologize. Truly. I would very much enjoy seeing you again...Saturday if I'm not too late in asking.” I didn't want to sound like I never have a date and jump at the chance. If I turn him down will he call again or ask for next week? I must have hesitated too long. “You can't make it. That's okay. Maybe another time.” I could tell he was ready to hand up. “No, no. I was trying to decide how to change plans. I would love to see you Saturday night.” I could hear the deep sigh. “When I met you, I knew I had to see you again. I've never been so impressed on a first date before. You were everything I imagined. Poised even in rowdy Night Court. You drink gin martinis. Not many woman drink gin – martinis or otherwise. You eat your steak medium. You chose strawberry over chocolate. You're a good listener and you laugh honestly. It irks me when a woman laughs and makes idiotic cutesy sounds instead of an open honest laugh.” Does one say thank you to such an expansive compliment? Well, I did. “Thank you, George. No one has ever complimented my laugh before.” “It's beautiful. I love it. Now about Saturday; do you dance?”


The choking effect of not being able to move forward has placed me in a state of unrest yet in a state of genuine peace. I would place the unfathomable amnesia as trails of crumbs that seemingly has no end. My hands quiver anytime I'm asked the question, “ Who are you?” , because I do not have an answer to that.

It's 5:30am and I hear the alarm ring. I carefully hoist myself from the bed, trying not to wake anyone. My chest tightens whenever Alex stirs from his sleep. I'm not trying to run away, I just don't want to wake him. Making my way to the bathroom, I strip from my gown, fully exposing my naked body and then I hear a slight whisper echoing from the bathroom.

Your cross, Nonye. Your cross.

Adrenaline floods my system. I swiftly pick up the the scissors from the counter before yelling, “who is there?” My adrenaline surges so fast that I can almost vomit. I kick open the door, yelling again. This time, Alex is already up, panicking and running out of bed with his phone by his side.

Your cross,

I hear it again.

I remember the news yesterday. I had watched it at the office with my colleagues. They told us to be careful not to open our windows or doors. Everyone is paranoid.

“These murders need to be investigated.” Timi said. He's the most sensitive man I've ever known.

“There’s no pattern yet, Timi. We just have to stay watchful.” Jil advised. “If we’re no longer safe in our homes, where else can we be safe?” I mused to myself gaping at the tv in the lodge, staring intently at the newscaster. I was livid with anger at his slight stammer and his fear. He could be next and so could I. Moving from the lodge, I stumbled at the feeling of a hot breath close to my neck. The unseen entity gripped my wrist making me squeal in pain for some seconds before letting go. “Annie, are you okay?” I heard but I just scurried ahead without giving a response.

“You’re doing this again?” He asks angrily after minutes of searching to no avail. “What is up with you?” “I heard someone this time, Alex. I tell you.” I persist, checking the blinds and the wardrobes in our small room.

“Are we heading down that road again? There's no one here!” My hands tremble and so does the rest of my body. I can taste saliva thickening in my throat and my eyes already feel heavy with tears.

“You’re seeing Dr. Moe tomorrow.” He finally says walking back to the bed with his phone placed on his ears after seconds of agonizing silence.

Here I am, naked and terrified, lost, and hurt.

Who is Nonye?

I ask myself glancing at Alex scheduling an appointment with the doctor.

It's Wednesday, 9:00am. I'm sitting on the soft brown cushion in Dr. Moe's office. Alex is not here with me, and I'm grateful for that. My doctor strides in with her smile on her face. She finally perches on the seat opposite me while adjusting her blouse.

“Morning Annie.” She says still beaming. How are you today?” “The same.” I answer.

“Alex told me there wasn't much progress after you suddenly stopped coming.” “We didn't have the money.” I lie. I schemed a perfect pretense of good character. I wanted to stop coming.

“You were very violent during out last encounters. And Alex said you were violent yesterday. What happened?” she asks opening her pad to write into.

My lips quivered. “I heard someone in the bathroom. It was like a whisper but Alex doesn't believe me.” “What did you hear?” “It said your cross, Nonye. Your cross.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I can see dense haze in the air.

“Do you know what it means? Do you have an idea who the person is?” she relaxes on her chair, sucking her teeth. “No.” I scratch my wrist. “You once told me about some dreams you had about a friend. Do you think what you heard correlates to the dreams you've been having?” “I never told you the contents of my dreams.” I declared, angry and uncomfortable.

“I know, but what if the voice you heard is a hint to your dreams? Think about it Annie. What did you see?” “They’re either about the future or about someone who seems so dear to me, yet unrecognizable.” “Hmmm.” She mumbles. “What about the future do you see?” “About murder, death, and panic. I fear for the people if something is not done.” “You mean about the killings going on?” She is now sitting upright scribbling with speed. “What about it, Annie?” “I have dreamt of the killer’s next victim.” She suddenly stops writing and looks me in the eye with an impenetrable expression on her face. “I saw him.” “Where?” she asks, but my my lips don’t move. I feel the same hot breath at the lodge again. She could be the next victim and so could I. I stand, bolting towards the door and I run as fast as my legs can carry me. I'm at the old house Alex found me the first time I met. It has become my abode whenever I run away from him. The house still looks the same I left it two days ago. My empty plate is on the table with the books and papers I left there.

My solitude. I heave a relieving sigh before turning on the tv and sitting on the floor.

It's 10am. A different newscaster is reading the news about the death of his colleague. How exact, how sad.

I open one of the books on the table, searching for the name of the deceased, Tade Johnson. I read on, death by strangling. A slight giggle escapes my lips because this list had been compiled by me but I can't seem to remember when. I pick up the paper and glance through the content written on it. Your cross Moe. Your cross . I panic and exclaim. There has been a change in name. In fact, there are a list of names written on it. I try to think, I try to remember. Why are their names in my book? It's just been eight months since I met Alex and started leaving with him. What have I been doing all this while?

I scramble around the house looking for clues. I marvel at the rude awakening. Turning my room inside out, I open the the small safe in my drawer, with NONYE, boldly written on it. It's 7pm. I'm home now with Alex giving me the lecture of my life but it doesn't make me miserable for I did earlier, it only piqued my interest about him.

“Are you even listening Annie?” He stops to ask. “I’m sorry I annoyed you. I panicked.” I say, avoiding his eyes. “Did you hear the news today?”

“You mean about the dead newscaster? I did.” “Do you know who is doing it?”

He stares at me with a shocked look on his face. A countenance of terror “How’s that any of your concern? I'm keeping you safe aren’t I?” “From who?” I question. “From Nonye?” “You’re still talking about the mysterious name of this morning? Nobody bears that name, Annie!” I throw the lamp on the floor. I move the table and cut myself. I hit him on the chest hard, and continuously but he doesn't stop me. “Dr Moe is going to die tomorrow, Alex. She’s going to die.” I finally say.

“I know.” He responds. “It took you long enough to know that.”

I’m livid with his response and the teardrops race down my cheeks in anger. Alex cleans me up and sits me on the bed. I stare at him in awe on how well he was able to handle me. . I had checked the name after Moe, I had checked the name after Moe. My name was next. Death by poison. I was the last on the list.

If I was to die, why question any longer. I don't care to know who I am. I just don't want to keep feeling miserable with every breath. It's soothing to know that my troubles end tomorrow. “Tomorrow, I’ll prepare your favorite dinner.” Alex smiles and so do I.


Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. It’s a hot day, you can feel the sweat bubble up under your collar. Despite the heat, you feel the rush of cold fear overwhelm you. It’s hot out. You’ll start to stink and people will notice. Not just the occasional whiff of body odor, but something much worse. The smell will conglomerate in people’s noses. They’ll alert others. Not many people are unaware of the smell of rotting flesh. Even though you wrapped the suitcase up tightly with garbage bags to keep the leakage at a minimum, you couldn’t guarantee it would be completely fool-proof. You glance at the normal-looking black case rolling along beside you. Most people’s suitcases contain clothes, toiletries, maybe even the occasional leftover Indian food from lunch. Not yours. You ache remembering how long it took you to fit her inside that small space. So much bending and hacking just to zip it up. Of course, it was much easier when she stopped twitching. You even had to hang parts of her up for a while to let most of the blood drip out. You didn’t want that spilling all over your shoes as you stroll to your seat. People would really start to notice then. You didn’t really want to have to do this, but what else could you do? You only had reservations for 3 nights. Once she finally died, it wasn’t like you could just head downstairs and through the lobby to dispose of her in the dumpster. Maybe if they weren’t so booked up for the week you could’ve had time to melt her in the bathtub with acid. That would’ve been much more relaxing. You could’ve just kicked your feet up and watched reruns on TV while the acid did most of the work. You would’ve had to wash yourself in the sink of course, but that’s a small price to pay for a night gone horribly wrong. See, she wasn’t supposed to die. You always did have a hard time talking to women. All your life they’ve shied away from you, never really wanting much more than the occasional hello. You just wanted some company for the night. You picked her up from the street, promising a wad of money for just one night. She didn’t even have to stay the whole time, just get the fun part out of the way and she could just go. You didn’t think she’d notice the money was fake. What a problem she caused after that. Threatening to call Paul, whoever that was. You guessed it was probably her pimp, but didn’t really care. All you cared about was just staying under the radar, and with all the noise she was making that definitely wasn’t going to happen. One little smack across the head and guess what? You killed her. You didn’t mean to, but maybe you shouldn’t have swung that hard. After all, it was the metal lamp they had sitting on the side table. The only good thing about that night was that the lamp didn’t break so you didn’t have to pay for a new one. So far, so good. At least, no one was staring at you in horror so that had to mean that no one figured you were carrying something other than clothes. Just make it through the train ride and it’s smooth sailing, you thought. As soon as you get back home you can just throw her into a lake or something. The wheels of the suitcase clicked as you walked past throngs of people. It was as if the suitcase was trying to rat you out. Just get to your seat, you thought. Calm down. Were there cameras here? If not, you could just leave the suitcase under a seat when the ride ended. How long would it take for someone to notice? Or better yet, how long would it take before the smell became too strong to ignore? Better not risk it. Just take her everywhere you go. Until you didn’t have to, of course. The seats were that cheap plush material that clearly hadn’t been cleaned since they were first put on. They held your sweat against you, reminding you of how nervous you were. Please don’t let anyone sit near me, you thought. Maybe if you faked being ill. Or said something about your wife being in the restroom. No one would know that you had to pay a woman to be near you, much less convince one to actually marry you. You sat there, eyes blankly staring ahead. How long will it take for the train to start moving? The ride was only a couple of hours long, but in this heat it would be better to get home sooner rather than later. Finally, the train croaked and gave a half-hearted lunge. Thank God. You didn’t even make eye contact with anyone. In fact, you actually made an effort not to do so. You didn’t want anyone thinking you may be friendly and start up a conversation. You could just see the scenario play out in your head. You politely respond and they continue to make conversation, not getting the hint. They move closer and closer until they are sitting beside you. A few inches away from your case. Finally, the heat makes the smell so putrid that the person idiotically sitting right next to it can’t help but notice. You can hear the screams of the passengers. The handcuffs. You screw your eyes shut tightly. That won’t happen, calm down. If only you had a laptop with you, you could make it look like you were working really hard on something. Something for work with a really close deadline. At least, you could say that. You haven’t had a steady job ever, much less a reason to work on a computer. You breathe deeply. No smell yet. Just a couple more hours. The train lulls to a stop. The rustle of the people around you alerts you that you’ve finally arrived home. You feel a lightness in your chest you haven’t felt since before you killed her. You’re so close. Just this one last thing: getting off the train and back under the sun. You let the others drift past you. You won’t draw attention to yourself. When the last few people were packing up, that’s when you made the move. It wasn’t anything exciting, just getting up and walking off. Suitcase in tow. The sun glared upon you as you stepped off. Hurry and get to the car, you thought. You trotted along at a fast pace. Not running, that would be weird. This would seem like you were excited to get home, or maybe ate something disagreeable. You can see your car. Oh, thank God. You throw the suitcase in the back and sit alone for a few minutes. The heat stifles you. You cranked the AC as high as it would go. You catch a few tendrils of her smell. Just enough to remind you that you weren’t done yet. You put your car in reverse and back out. As you head out of the parking lot you ponder over where her final resting place should be. It would easiest just to leave her in the suitcase, after all: it was a pain getting her in there. Just dump her in a lake, you thought. Or maybe even dig a hole somewhere and bury the case. The sun was finally beginning to set. You didn’t want to throw a suitcase into a river in broad daylight, even an amateur knows better. You sit in your car at the bank watching to sun go lower and lower. You feel a pang of guilt at the thought of hiding her forever, you aren’t a completely horrible person. You wonder how many people have accidentally killed someone in their past and just never talk about it. It has to be more than you would think. You start to feel better. Even better was that she was just some random hooker. It wasn’t like you killed a doctor trying to find a cure for cancer, right? The sun was now completely gone. Just a dull overcast in the sky so you could still see without a light. You step out and gather some rocks, trying to find the biggest ones. Once she’s all bones there won’t be anything to keep her anchored at the bottom and she’ll be discovered for sure. You stuff as many in as you can and walk the case along the pier. Fishermen use this dock a lot to fish. You heard somewhere that this was the best place to catch catfish, but you’ve never found out for yourself. With one final look around to make sure you were alone, you shove the case into the water and with a satisfying gulp the river swallowed her up. You stand there for a minute longer to make sure the case didn’t float back up, and once satisfied that you weighed it down enough you head back to the car. With a slight smile, you head home.


Sunsets were shorter on this moon than on Gaína. Everything had moved too fast since he'd woken up, healed but weaker. Since he had told Jaya she would be better off without him. Jaya had crossed the doorway of his hospital room and left him alone on a planet he did not know the name of. He had made it to the Intergalactic Academy after three months of... three months of work. It had gone by like a blink, like a nightmare. He has no rights beyond the basic right to life. No right to the money in his pack, no right to the passage he bought to the Academy, no right to demand money for his work and no right to refuse anyone who asks for it. But now he was here. This moon was considerably larger than the one that housed the Mond. Its atmosphere and attributes, along with the technology developed in the Academy, allowed for the growing of flora and assimilation of fauna from various planets. Aside from his home, it was the most colorful place Ono had ever seen. He’d finally made it here, to the Intergalactic Academy, the place of all his ambition. And yet he felt the strongest desire to go home to Gaína, his enslaved planet. No. Not enslaved. Indebted, because of his ancestors’ cruelty during the war. Indebted with an entire galaxy. Indebted. He squeezed himself onto the wide window ledge and counted his own breaths. Living quarters, such as this one, were conditioned to each race that inabited them. The classrooms and halls were commons, artificially suited to all races, but living spaces were cut into sections and modeled with the inhabitants' comfort in mind. There were, of course, no quarters prepared for one such as Ono. He had wanted to sleep outside, under cover of the stars...besides, he had no money to pay for lodging. But his new superior, a gentle Karaktar named Professor Ácimo, refused to let him sleep outside. He had an inversed sort of strength, that wise, fluffy, cowering creature. "If you are to sleep outside," Professor Ácimo had murmured. "I will sleep outside as well." Illogical, but effective. Ono accepted the professor's hospitality, reassured by his promise to make him work harder than any other intern in the Academy. He would pay him back. He could pay him back, because the professor gave value to his work. The tesseract worker took his passage ticket and ripped it in two. Then he made Ono work to supply the energy necessary for the vehicle to work. Ono had worked for the tesseract for three months, until an inspector caught him at it and sent him on his way. Ono had never dealt with windows before. Or low ceilings. But he liked the warmth and clutter of the professor's home. Another professor, who had doctorates in intergalactic law and diplomacy, had told him that he was not permitted to kneel before anyone here. That he stood on the same ground as any other creature, on Academy ground. It didn’t matter if the rest of the five galaxies demanded he greet other creatures with this display of submission. It was a strange feeling. Ono had been dealing with so many feelings lately. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. Down to the sunset. Ono lost count of his breathing. The colors were glorious, red and purple and blue and the barest hint of green on the edges. Nothing on this moon reminded him of home, but its sunsets were still beautiful. Ono ached all over. Inside, beneath his skeleton, bruises bit at him like parasites. Ono knew that, in the morning, he would have to deal with more of them. The diplomacy professor might have told Ono he was an equal to the other students, but the professor was far outnumbered. Outnumbered by his fellow colleagues and by many, many students, including those who had taken their fear and anger out on Ono today. Ono wishes he were not so big compared to them. He wishes he were not a target, despite how useless it is to wish you were not what you are in your essence. I grew like this to serve you, Ono had wanted to say to them. But who would listen? The sun sunk below the horizon. Ono realized his room was dark, pitch black, and he could not see. The door to his bedroom creaked open. "Who is it?" Ono asked. Professor Ácimo always carried a light. He had freely confessed to Ono that the dark terrified him. "That's why I'm among my books, and leave the field to my colleagues." He had chuckled. Ono wondered if the creature in his room had a weapon. He would not have wondered such a thing, at home on Gaína. He had not known creatures were capable of attacking without proactive provocation, but after the Earth woman had stabbed him in the Mond market, he was no longer so sure. "Your roomate." A voice answered cautiously. "My name is Ava." "I was not aware Professor Ácimo had...other tenants." "I'm new, such as you are." Said the voice. "Say...close the window. It's cold out." Ono treaded his fingers up in search of the latch and closed the window. "Are you not afraid of me, Ava?" Ono asks. "Maybe I am." The voice chuckled. "But my curiosity gets the better of me. What's your name?" "Ono." "Ono?" The room smelled strange. The creature's scent reminded Ono of water, of rainy earth. He breathed in quietly; he did not know what was better, more unusual, if this scent or being spoken to with politeness. "Say, Ono. You give off electrons, no?" Ono nodded. "I do." He wondered if the creature was playing a trick on him. The door clicked shut behind it. Ono could not hear any other breaths or heartbeats in the room, excepting Ava's and his. It seemed she was female, small-too small. Small enough to fit inside Ono's two hands. "I'm here." Ava whispered. She did fit into his hands. She floated and placed herself there, just as Ono stretched his hand out to greet her. "I can feel the charge on you... woah." Ono blinked. It was a strange sensation, touching Ava. It almost reminded him of... Her rainy-earth scent was so at odds with how her skin felt. The first reminded him of home, made him feel nostalgic and vulnerable- he had been having to deal with so many feelings, too many feelings, lately. He should have been asleep already, he was tired and he ached. But he had wanted to watch the sunset. Irrational. Unwise. He needed all his energy to prepare for tomorrow. Instead he was here, letting his feelings command him. Ava's skin, by contrast, made him feel awake. Strange. "May I?" Ava said. Ono had no idea what she meant by that question. But she was one of the three creatures who had addressed him kindly these past three months. And it was late. Ono was almost too tired to care whether she meant to harm him or not. He did not want her to leave. His insides did not feel so hollow in her presence. "Yes." Ono said. The sound she made then was like music. It reminded him of something. The feeling in his hands increased, and now he could identify it, as warm and soft, almost ethereal, and... Something in his chest seemed to rush out of him, all at once-he felt exhilarated. He gasped- Ava was no longer in his hands, she had slipped through his defenses, his skeleton, she was- The coiled energy in Ono rushed into Ava, snapping the tension in him, allowing him to breathe. He felt overwhelmed and lost and full of hot, bright light. She was- She was gone. "Earth below." She whispered, from halfway across the room. “That was…” Electric. That word hit Ono like a whip. Only his Jaya made him feel that way, with her kisses, with her touch, and this creature was a stranger , and the room was dark, the night starless, this moon was cold and foreign. What he felt with Jaya, it didn’t belong here. Ono shuddered. He wrapped both arms instinctively around himself. He should not have let her breach his defenses. He felt the need to hold Ava in his hands, he needed her to make sense of what just happened. “Please leave.” He said instead. “Hey, don’t be-“ Ava said. “Please.” Ono’s body hurt. “But I’m-“ “Go away.” Ono stood. His footsteps were too loud on the floor. Ava made another frantic, musical sound and dashed out, taking her rainy-earth smell with her. Ono moved himself back to the window ledge. He sat there, opened the window and looked into the depthless dark. He knew it would be difficult to find sleep tonight. He wrapped both arms around himself and made himself hum a familiar song. Just to feel a vibration in his chest. He felt emptier than ever.


Father sat with his legs outstretched in front of the gas fire, his feet so close to the heat that the steam rose in a continual haze. He was still wearing his gardening clothes and the bottoms of his threadbare jeans were circled with mud which would eventually set solid and flake on to the carpet as he moved about the house.                As he dozed his head flopped to one side, the light from the standard lamp emphasising the weathered skin of his face and the dark circles of tiredness under his eyes. Even in this restless sleep it was as if he was fighting off some yawning slumber that had grown from a life of hard physical labour, poverty and drink.                Within the narrow limitations of our world I imagined we were never a particularly unhappy family, we were mostly respectful of each other unless father was suffering one of his tantrums. It often worried me that there were too many long periods of silence between us, but I think those were the times when the bonds were given space to heal. We lived in a sombre world, as efficient as it could be given how poor we were, but it was a solemn, colourless existence. I was very close to my mother and remained that way for the whole of my childhood, I would happily share with her the few secrets I could muster. I think she valued those little moments more than she ever let on.                I sat at the dining table reading a book about aeroplanes, every now and again looking towards my father to see if his head had dropped low enough to cause him to wake up, which he would do with a grunt and a sigh. But tonight, maybe because the room was sauna-hot, he remained motionless, snoring steadily and deeply.                I could hear mother in the kitchen putting dinner plates back into the cupboard and laying the cutlery back into a drawer, actions timed perfectly with the six o'clock chimes of Big Ben on the radio. She came back into the room and sat next to me at the table so as not to wake her husband but accidentally knocked her knee against the chair leg and he woke with a splutter.                "That was a meal that was!" he grunted, thinking we hadn't noticed him sleeping.                Then, in one move he lifted himself slightly out of his chair and grabbed a thick wedge of seed catalogues from the table.                "Best get those dahlia stakes in tomorrow young fella' m'lad."                It was almost as if he felt guilty about the time he'd wasted sleeping, I suspected it wouldn't be more than a few minutes before he started another little job somewhere about the house until tiredness claimed him again just after nightfall.                Father's garden was both sanctuary and triumph, two decades of tilling, composting and mulching had turned the soil from a heavy, sodden clay into a friable seed bed capable of providing the three of us with sufficient salads and vegetables for much of the year. It was a testament not only to his toil, but also to his expertise and experience. As well as a bounty of food, the garden supplied the house with an adornment of cut flowers of every variety. Depending on the month our kitchen window sill would be filled with pots and vases of daffodils, dahlias, chrysanthemums and gladioli. The mantlepiece and shelves of the living room and hallway were festooned with arrays of brilliant flowers that filled the dank air with their gentle bouquets and sweet perfumes.                At the weekend, when the weather allowed I would be encouraged to help father in the garden, a task I would perform dutifully, but with a feigned enthusiasm. Since he'd retired, the garden had become more of an obsession than a salutary pastime, his life depending on the rhythm of the seasons and the quirks of the English weather. He'd always been a man whose whole existence was founded on the principal of work, without it he was a dithering confusion. Mother and I knew that when the three of us went away on our summer holiday he became a little boy lost in his own foreign land where nothing was familiar and there was little to fulfil his innate need for purpose.                His dahlia beds were well known among the horticultural community of our village. The regimented rows of plants filled nearly half the garden, resplendent in late summer with masses of red, yellow and orange blooms supported by bamboo canes and twine to stop the wind from damaging their weighty heads. Father would carefully select a small number of blooms for the village flower show, covering the individual plants with fleece to prevent them from scorching under the summer sun. The show was the pinnacle of his gardening year but despite never having won a first prize with his dahlia blooms, he'd gained numerous thirds and a sprinkling of seconds. I struggled to see the difference between the prize winning flowers, to me they all looked pretty much the same. Father would tell me about how the lower petals of a winning bloom should never curl in a different direction to the main petals, or how the colour should be completely uniform across the whole bloom. But the whole thing left me cold.                 When he'd finished reading his seed catalogues, father raised himself slightly off his chair again, pulled the flower show schedule from his back pocket and waved it at us.                "One week to go, and then we'll see who wins," he announced.                We both glanced at him and then smiled at each other, briefly linked in a little conspiracy of comradeship which, we thought, had excluded him. I suspect mother's undying loyalty to both of us was a constant source of worry to her, although securing allegiance and indifference was a juggling act she'd perfected over the years.                "Let's go and see which flowers are going to win young fella' m'lad," he said as he buttoned up his jacket.                I followed him out to the garden where he forced his feet into his boots without opening them and then stamped on the ground to make them fit. I slid on my wellingtons and looked over to where my bicycle leant against the shed, wishing I was somewhere else.                I followed him along a narrow gravelled path that wound its way among the flower beds. Little clumps of lobelia and alyssum spilled over the shuttering that kept the gravel from being kicked onto the soil, small patches of self-seeded forget-me-nots sprouted from muddy slopes where the timber edging had rotted. The sun had long since disappeared behind a bank of thick cloud and fat, oily drops of grey rain had started to wet the ground. My mood lightened with the thought that the afternoon's chores might be postponed, I looked up to the sky and willed the rain to pour down. Father saw me and smiled.                "Little rain won't stop us eh lad?"                I smiled and pulled the collar of my coat up tightly around my neck.                There was a purpose to his stride now, defiant of the weather and its potential to scupper the buoyancy of his mood. I followed close behind, hands in pockets and one eye on the horizon where a disheartening shaft of sunlight had broken through the dark blanket of cloud.                "Just a light shower, bright skies ahead," he said with a wry smile. "Let's get these flowers tied in against the wind."                But away from the restrictive influence of mother's authority, father's humour turned sour. His attitude to me changed from a cool acceptance of my apathy, to an impatient anger that I feared would develop into something more sinister. Past experience had taught me to be cautious of his fragile mood. Away from the house he became an irritable and intolerant version of himself. There was a deep vein of arrogance in him which generated an obstinate conviction that nobody else could do things as well as he could. Certainly not his son.                Father had a temper that simmered just below the surface of his usually affable temperament, one that could erupt without notice, brutal and furious. I had learned to respect his rages, to absorb the intensity of them rather than react to his cruel accusations. I would endure the spontaneous tirades by remembering the warm comforting words of my mother who accepted his anger with understanding and love. It was only when I feared for her wellbeing that I became scared for mine.                Father stood at one end of a row of dahlias and tied a piece of twine to the top of one of the timber stakes that he'd driven into the ground. He threw the ball of string at me so that I could tie it off on to a stake at my end of the dahlia bed but I fumbled the catch and it fell to the ground, rolling away down the sloping path.                "Come on butterfingers, this has got to be done before the wind gets up!" he shouted.                There was no mistaking the beginnings of one of his tantrums. I was sure he'd thrown the ball of string too hard and that there was little chance of me being able to catch it, a technique he'd perfected to make sure I understood my place in our partnership. I'd learned from experience, and from the chats with my mother, that the best way to keep from suffering the full wrath of his  outburst would be to admit my incompetence and remain calm. Which I did.                I tied my end of the string to the top of a post at the edge of the flower bed and pulled it firmly so that father could tie the biggest and most prized dahlias to it with strips of cloth. He'd explained many times how important it was to use pieces of cloth so that the plant stems didn't get damaged by the thin string.                I watched him move slowly along the path, tying in each of the biggest blooms to the taut line. A gentle gust of wind blew a little cloud of dust across the flower beds, the plant stems bent over and the leaves rustled in the breeze. Father looked to the sky and then to me, which I suspected was his way of inferring the oncoming storm was somehow my fault and that we should hurry along with the job before the dahlia flowers got damaged.                There was an unnatural intensity to his movements now, he flicked his gaze from the plants to me, and then back to the sky in an exaggerated and agitated way, almost as if he had become possessed by some devilish spirit. The wind picked up and the dahlias bent further over.                "Well don't just stand there boy, come and help!" he shouted again.                I let go of the stake and stepped back up on to the path, but as my foot rose it caught on a section of the timber edging, I stumbled forwards and grabbed on to the string to steady myself. It stretched tightly with the force of my fall, one of the stakes snapped and I fell headlong into the flower bed snapping the whole swathe of dahlia stems as I collapsed on to the ground.                I lay still, stuck in a moment of time between disbelief and terror. I looked along the soil where little mounds rose and fell away to the end of the shortened horizon. I imagined being extremely small so that I could hide within the hills and valleys of the miniature landscape.                I got to my feet and held one of the broken stems with one hand, cradling the large flower head with my other. I knew father would be looking at me but I didn't yet have the courage to look back, and so, feeling utterly incompetent, I put the dahlia down and picked up another.                "JUST LEAVE IT!" he shouted as he ripped the string from the post.                I stood completely still and stared down at the ground, trying to avoid the view of the carnage that lay around us. A dozen once beautiful dahlia flowers lay by the path, some had lost most of their petals, others lay crumpled and stained like sad faces in the mud. The sun finally peeked from behind a cloud. Every plant apart from one had snapped off at ground level, their leaves already beginning to wilt in the warmth of the day, thick green stems lay at odd angles, tangles of string and strips of cloth lay coiled and knotted along the path.                I waited for the shouting to begin, I imagined I deserved everything that was coming to me. But father stood rooted to the spot saying nothing. I heard the sound of a radio from next door's garden and a seagull swooped down low, squawking like a baby. I could feel father looking at me and for a moment I considered running away, it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into tears. I desperately wanted to be told off so that I could have an excuse to cry, but his silence left me struggling to understand why I wasn't being punished, which was a sentence in itself.                We sat next to each other in the warm glow of the fire. Mother with her hand on my knee, my head resting lightly on her shoulder. I'd told her what had happened, as had father earlier in the afternoon before he'd started his drinking. A little chink of light from a streetlamp seeped between the curtains and lit up a family photograph  that stood on the mantlepiece. I felt the comforting blanket of mother's warm love and I closed my eyes against the world.                Father stumbled through the door and leant shakily against the table, mother stood up and put her hand on the top of my head. He wiped the corner of his wet mouth with the back of his hand and tried to pour another drink from the bottle he knew was empty, then threw it on the carpet. I watched it roll away underneath his armchair until it clunked against the wall. For a moment the room was silent again as they faced each other in the flickering dim light.                "The boy's a wrong 'un, he'll never come to anything."                The words felt so much like a punch, that I actually put my hands up in front of my face. Mother's mouth opened and closed again, starting to form some kind of a reply, but she gave in to his temper, as she had always done.                Father passed away the day before the flower show, his heart finally giving in to a lifetime of resentment and drink. Mother and I were the only two that stood at the side of his grave on the hot afternoon of his funeral.                A week after the flower show we lifted the dahlia corms that he'd left abandoned in the garden. We pruned off the dying foliage and replanted them in amongst a neglected border of wild flowers and grasses where they grew young, fresh shoots of bright green leaves. A few of the sturdiest plants produced flowers, although they were slightly smaller than they would normally  have been. But to me, the small blooms looked perfectly placed among the haphazard collection of native flowers that sprawled through the border and across the little path that led around the garden.                Mother and I visited father every day, and as the soft summer breeze blew the dahlia petals  across his grave, I looked up to the sky and I hoped that he'd found a place where he could be happy.


First Day Hazel stood outside Danny’s Diner, running her hands down the pretty pale pink uniform and white apron to smooth out the creases. Of course, there were no creases. It was her nerves she was trying to smooth out. She had lived in this small town all her life and she loved it. She always felt safe. Everyone looked out for her, not just her three brothers. But that was also the problem. Everything she did was under scrutiny from everyone, and today was her first day at work. She took a deep breath when a voice came from behind. ‘Everything will be fine once you step inside. We are all happy to have you on board. We definitely need the extra hand now that Joanna has left to be with her family.’ Hazel looked up into the eyes of the man she had called dad for the last eighteen years and smiled. ‘I know, it is just I know nothing about the other side of the counter.’ She knew everything about the food and the people working there, and even the customers. But she knew nothing about serving or running a till or keeping the salt and pepper and paper napkins and sauces filled. ‘What if I make a mistake?’ ‘Honey, we all make mistakes. Julie will be by your side for the complete day and tomorrow if need be. You pick everything up so quickly. I doubt you will need help after the lunch rush, but it will be there, anyway.’ Danny smiled down at his only daughter and opened the door. Julie walked up and greeted Hazel, and nodded her hello to Danny. Cookie was behind the kitchen hutch getting everything ready for breakfast. Donna walked in behind them and walked out into the kitchen to help there. Hazel was worried that they would think she only got the job because Danny was her father, but no-one said a word regarding why she was here. They all greeted her like they did every other morning. It didn’t take long for Julie to walk her through the daily routines and get her started getting the tables and counter ready. And then came the morning diners. ‘Mornin’ Hazel, good to see you. Bring me breakfast, would ya?’ Matt Donavon said as he sat at the counter. He came in at the same time every morning and had the same meal. Cookie and Donna already had it cooking, and it was ready as he sat down. Julie just had to hand across the plate and fill his coffee cup. Hmmm , she thought to herself, this is easy . But then George and Brenda entered. George was another diner who had the same thing every day, but Brenda could never make her mind up and it could be very exasperating. Now Hazel was finding out just how bad it was when you were waiting to take the order, while watching the place filling up with people. Julie raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Julie nodded to Hazel and then went off to take some more orders. Hazel waited patiently. ‘How about today’s special? Lamb’s fry with eggs, tomato and mushrooms. Fresh from Mr Halorans butchers.’ Hazel said to Brenda. ‘Well, I’m not sure. That might be a little too much.’ Hazel sighed. ‘I’m sure Cookie can do a slightly smaller plate for you dear.’ Said George, smiling at his wife. ‘Well, if you think so dear,’ and Hazel wrote it down and raced off before she could change her mind again. She came back with the coffee pot and the salt and pepper. The place was buzzing now as it filled up with the morning crowd, and there was no time to think about anything but her job. Then the door burst open and a stranger walked into the diner. He was tall and wore dark clothing, boots, and a Stetson hat, but what Julie saw next made her heart skip a beat. He was wearing a bandana over his nose and mouth, not around his neck. Then they all saw it. A gun. You could hear a pin drop. But then Mavis piped up and her voice seemed to echo around the entire diner. Almost like a whip cracking, everyone else in the place jumped. ‘What is it Harold?’ Mavis had her back to the door, and she was as deaf as a post. Harold took his wife’s hands in his and just motioned to her to hush. ‘Don’t hush me, Harold. I want to know what is happening.’ Mavis would not be silenced this morning. That was, until the gunman walked up beside her and put the gun where she could see it. ‘Oh!’ That was it. Silence. ‘Now that I have your attention,’ the gunman said, ‘I want you to carry on as usual, while I go sit in the back booth. I’ll have some bacon and eggs and a black coffee and I will sit with that couple.’ He pointed to George and Brenda, who were in the very last booth. ‘I expect you all to act normal when the police get here. I will just be another customer, got it?’ Everyone nodded. Hazel walked him back to George and Brenda. ‘I’ll sit beside the lovely lady. Thank you, on the inside next to the wall.’ He looked at George. ‘And don’t forget I have this. She will be the first to get shot if any of you say or do anything untoward.’ Brenda was so taken aback she was frozen in her seat, but he took her by the arm and brought her out of the seat as he slid in and then pulled her in after himself. ‘I believe there was more conversation going on when I walked in. That would be expected.’ He lowered his bandana to his neck, but also lowered the brim of his hat at the same time. His face was still hidden. ‘Talk people.’ He almost shouted at everyone. Hazel walked on wobbly legs as she put his plate down in front of him and poured coffee. She was grateful that Cookie was not fazed by any of it and made the food quick smart. Luckily, George and Brenda’s breakfasts were also ready, and she brought them over next. She heard him say quietly as she walked away from the booth, ‘Eat.’ The conversation level was just ramping up to normal when the door swung open again and a state trooper walked in the door. Hazel had seen him come through this way a few times, so he was not a total stranger. The conversations became hushed as he sat down at the counter. ‘Well, on the other side of the counter now are you?’ he said to Hazel as she asked him what he would like. ‘Yes,’ she answered meekly. He smiled, ‘First day I’m guessing.’ ‘Yes,’ Hazel was too nervous about the stranger to be talkative. ‘So, did Joanna have her baby yet?’ he asked. ‘No.’ ‘Wow. You really are green. Oh Well, I guess you will get a little better at conversation, once you have settled in.’ and with that, he picked up his knife and fork and cut into the eggs on toast. Then, he stopped eating as he realised the place was quieter than the last time he was here, and it was packed with people. He twisted in his seat to look everything over as the noise level lifted again. Oh well , he thought to himself, maybe it was just because I’m not a regular . He nodded to a couple of people who just turned away and went back to their food or coffee. He shrugged his shoulders and did the same. ‘Hi Dan, how are you? You haven’t been passed in a while.’ Julie walked up beside the trooper. ‘Want a refill on your coffee, honey?’ ‘Yes, thanks. Glad to see a smiling face. Everyone is a bit sour today.’ And he laughed at his own joke. ‘Yeah, we are waiting on some rain. We are farmers, you know. Can’t grow if the rain don’t come. My Wally is tryin’ to get extra water rations from the council. Not a lot to be happy about right now.’ He instantly knew something was wrong. This town was filled with ranchers, not farmers, and Julie wasn’t married. He had tried asking her out a few times. So he finished up his meal and coffee. Paid the bill and left. But, he didn’t go far. He pulled the car out of sight and called for backup. Then he waited. Sure enough, about thirty minutes later, a man fitting the description of a wanted bank bandit walked out into the car park. The trooper quietly came up behind him and put his gun between the bandit’s shoulder blades. ‘You’re under arrest,’ and the bandit groaned. He didn’t resist and backup had arrived only minutes before. They were all glad they did not end up with a hostage situation. ‘How did you know?’ when he was handcuffed and in the car. ‘Well, you’re not a local and so the waitress told me you were there.’ ‘I never heard her say anything like that.’ He frowned at the trooper. ‘Buddy, this town is home to ranchers, not farmers, and Julie doesn’t have a husband, so you were the “Wally” she was telling me about. And we’ve just had torrential rain for the last week, this is the first fine day there has been. So you were trying to get something that was not yours.’ ‘You got all that from what she said?’ ‘You have to know the people and the area. They will not go quietly, ever.’ Trooper Dan smiled at the comment. He really did like everyone from this little haven. He might even move here once he retired. The roadside diner was only one of the many delights the little town offered.