Did you remember the time we whispered wishes into bubbles as we sent them into the sky? We hoped they would pop in China, so that someone across the world with the same desires could feel our hope, too. Did you remember? Or had it been so long that you’d forgotten? I almost forgot, too, so that’s okay. After years of barely speaking, waving to each other in the hallway, and texting one or two words, it’s okay if you’d forgotten. Because I almost forgot the sound of your voice. Did you forget the sound of my voice, too? “I like you,” you had whispered through the line of trees connecting your house to mine. “I like like you. More than friends. Will you be my girlfriend?” I shifted softly on my feet, feeling the wind whip through my long, blonde hair as fluffy clouds formed in the blue sky above us. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. “I’d rather be friends,” I replied. “Sorry.” We were just kids. I didn’t know what I was turning down. I watched the smile fade from your face. “Oh, that’s okay. We can still be friends. Always still be friends,” he mumbled. The discomfort was evident on his face. Awkwardness loomed in the air around us as we each took deep breaths. Years went by. You understood me more than anyone. We lay in the front yard, the sun beating down on our faces as your little siblings, Riley and Mackenzie, sketched outlines of us on the pavement. To me, you were the little neighbor boy who had a crush on me. To you, I think I was more. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. Love wasn’t a word I understood then, but I think I did love you at that moment. I loved you as my best friend, someone I could count on no matter the circumstances. You stood by me. I liked that about you. Would I do the same? “Tara!” Mackenzie shouted, too young to know an appropriate volume to talk at. “What?” I asked. "Wanna go inside and play Barbies?” You had looked at me with that face, that goofy smile. “Go on, I’ll stay out here with Riley. Lord knows she needs watching,” you laughed, as Riley made a threatening face in your direction. “Mackenzie, don’t you dare break anything.” Kenzie rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand and leading us inside. I looked at you behind my shoulder, beaming. Those were the happiest days of my life. We were running together after the ice cream truck, pushing your little sisters around in that red wagon, and playing with dolls in the cool basements. You were home to me. I never should have doubted that. Over time we grew farther and farther apart. School swamped me. I wanted female friends. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who hung out with only the boy next door. I was wrong about that. You got popular, but that didn’t change you. You were humble, smart, athletic, and kind. I should have reached out. Maybe you should have reached out, too. I guess we both could have done things differently. I see that now. I saw you once. Years after we’d last talked. “So, uh, you’re dating Jakey, right?” you’d asked. I looked down, the same awkwardness filling the air as the day we talked between trees. “Yeah. He’s good, you know?” I replied. “He treats me well.” “Seems like it,” you had laughed. “He talks about you nonstop. He’s right to brag.” Jakey was fine, but when I looked at you, I regretted it all. Your blue eyes, the curly hair, that goofy smile. It took me back to a time when I was happy. It took me back home. Jakey would end up breaking up with me. It was a long time coming. We weren’t happy. You died a month later. Car crash. Your drunk friend was driving and you were blacked out in the backseat. You weren’t strapped in. You died. I’ve never been the same. I see you in bubbles. I see you in ice cream trucks and red wagons. I see you in the tree line of my childhood home. I see you in sidewalk chalk and Barbies. I guess we were always star-crossed. The realization just struck me at the wrong time. We were just kids. I just didn’t know what I was turning down.


Adult Content The clock is ticking, just a few minutes til 5. Andrea taps her foot impatiently as she waits for it to be time for her to leave this hellhole she calls work. The longest part of her day is always these last ten minutes of her shift at the diner, and she can hear her bed calling her name from all the way across town. She longs for the day where she doesn’t have to worry about getting table 22 their fourth round of refills, or forgetting that one rude lady with the orange hair’s ranch. As she’s counting her tips, Andrea looks down at her phone to check the time when she sees a message on her phone. “Still on for 6 o’clock? Can’t wait to see you in that pretty little red dress, dear. ;)” She rushes, finishing up counting the rest of her tips that provide nothing but humility in this very moment. “Fuck, I forgot about this guy,” she whispers to herself as she places her cash in her bag. Her french tip acrylic nails make a loud tapping sound as she frantically clocks out to leave. She hurries to her car and makes her way home. When she gets home, she immediately peels her clothes off and starts looking for her crimson, tight nightgown. She puts on some mascara and some brown eyeshadow to give herself a seductive look, finishing off the look with some lip gloss. She takes another look at the time. 6pm on the dot. “Any minute now,” she whispers to herself. All of a sudden, Andrea gets a Facetime call from her macbook. Andrea’s heart starts pumping so much blood you would’ve thought she just competed in the Olympics. “Fuck.” Andrea pauses and takes a deep breath before getting into character. She clicks the green button to pick up. To her surprise, the man on the other side of the screen is strikingly attractive. A man with deep green eyes and tan skin starts to speak. “Hello princess. Oh my God you’re even more gorgeous than I thought.” Andrea blushes, but does her best to remain focused on the task at hand. “Thank you, love.” She leans in closer to the camera, making sure to show just enough cleavage to keep the man enticed. “Wow, I can’t wait to see what’s underneath that little red dress you got on. Why don’t you take it off for me?” Andrea lets out a slight chuckle. “Not so fast, babe. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.” Men are the lamest and easiest creatures on the planet to her. So eager to do anything just to calm their sexual urges. Take this man, for example. He stumbled across her ad and immediately purchased a session within only twenty seconds of viewing her profile. No wife, no kids, young, rich. He had everything a man would need to find a date, or so Andrea thought. But that’s not important, she reminds herself. What’s important now is to give this guy the show he wants so that her ratings and reviews don’t plummet. “I’ve been so excited to see you, and from the looks of your pants I think you’re even more excited.” The man looks down at his groin where you can see a visible imprint of the boner he can’t conceal. After some flirtatious banter with the man, Andrea finally starts to give him what he wants. She slowly starts to peel the straps from her nightgown off the sides of her shoulders, lowering the top part just enough to get a slight glimpse of her nipples before she pulls it back up to hide them. She loves a good teasing moment. It keeps the clients on the edge of their seats, among other things they’re already on the edge of. After doing this two more times, she fully slips the gown to the floor, leaving her in just a little red thong. “Ohhhh my Godddddd,” moans the man, who at this point is starting to unbuckle his work pants. Andrea rubs on her boobs and nipples as she watches him pull out his throbbing dick. She tries to keep her eyes as seductive as possible while noticing that it’s so big she would probably need a wheelchair after a night with him. Her hands move to the sides of her boobs where she pushes them together and gives them a little jiggle. This makes the man start moaning every cuss word imaginable. When it’s a hot customer like this, Andrea usually keeps her cool, but this man. This man is so attractive that even she is starting to get hot. She turns around and moves her hips, bending over just enough for the man to see the outline of her pussy. “Fuck baby, look how wet you’re getting. I wish I was there to clean it all up with my tongue.” Just the thought of this has Andrea over the edge now. Normally she doesn’t meet up with her clients, however if given the opportunity, Andrea would let him do things to her that she never let her good-for-nothing ex boyfriend of 4 years do. She moves her camera from her desk to her bed, where she gets down on all fours and starts to arch her back, making sure the angle makes her ass look good. The more this man speaks, the more she wants to do things she’s never done for clients. She begins slipping off her underwear as her legs are in the air, making sure her vagina is in view of the camera. This makes the man start stroking his dick a little bit faster and his moans start to get louder and louder. The way his moans echo in her head make her lose control. She pulls out her dildo and starts teasing him with it. She kisses the dildo, making sure to kiss and lick every inch of it. She gets the dildo and starts to slowly inch it down her throat. Once she has all of it in her mouth, the man lets out a grunt she hadn’t yet heard before during this session. The grunt didn’t sound like a moan, and at this point Andrea was just having fun hearing the man moan, she wasn’t really focused on giving him the show he wanted anymore. However this grunt took her by surprise so she sat up and looked at the screen. Andrea dropped the dildo she was holding and let out a scream. On the other side of the screen, was a different man wearing a mask, stabbing her client with a knife. She watched in horror as the killer approached the camera and took his mask off. “Luis what the fuck?!” Her ex boyfriend sets the mask down, taking a seat where the man he just killed was once seated. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. That guy was a fucking loser anyway. And why the fuck have you never showed me your pussy on camera?! All those times I stayed in Jersey you never once let me see!” Andrea rolled her eyes “well that’s because I don’t show pussy for free dumbass.” Luis scoffed, “oh whatever. Here.” He picks up the man’s phone and Andrea gets a Cashapp notification on her phone for $1,000 from Theo Martin. “Now can I see?” Andrea lets out a sigh. “Get help.” She hangs up the phone and proceeds to order her Amazon wishlist. “I guess he’s good for something sometimes, ugh but that guy was cute though.” She sighs to herself and clicks “order.


In a quiet workshop, bathed in the soft light of a setting sun, there stood an old machine, once the pride of its operator. Bradley, the man who had relied on this machine for decades, was known for his precision and skill, producing work with an accuracy that was the envy of his colleagues. But lately, things had started to change. Bradley looked at his hands with a mix of frustration and sorrow. He remembered the days when every movement, every action, was carried out with perfect coordination. His body responded to his mind like an extension of his will. Together, they had crafted countless pieces, each one a testament to their shared precision. But now, his body stuttered and groaned. The once smooth movements had become rough and unpredictable. Bradley’s mind, still sharp and experienced, was no longer met with the body's former reliability. A slight tremor in his hands, a delay in his reflexes, and the tasks that used to be seamless now required rework and adjustment. Bradley sighed as he fumbled a small tool. It wasn't that his skills had diminished, he was certain of that. He had spent hours meticulously practicing his techniques, only to find them as sound as they had ever been. The issue lay within his body itself, aged and worn from years of faithful service. Each day, Bradley's frustration grew. He knew his body like an old friend, and watching it falter was painful. He tried everything he could think of—exercise, rest, even medical advice—but nothing restored it to its former glory. The once-proud body now seemed to resist his efforts, like an old machine whose joints no longer moved as they once did. "It's not your fault," Bradley whispered to himself, almost as if his body could hear him. "You've given me your best for so many years. It's just... time catching up with us." Despite his understanding, the frustration lingered. He wanted to produce the same quality of work he always had, but the body's inconsistencies made that impossible. The mind’s sharpness hadn't changed; the body had. Bradley’s friends noticed his struggle. They offered advice and assistance, but no one knew his body like Bradley did. They didn’t understand the bond he shared with it, the respect he had for the precision they once achieved together. One day, as Bradley sat in quiet reflection during a rare moment of peace, he realized something profound. It wasn’t just his body that had aged—it was their partnership. The body, in its prime, had magnified his skills, making him appear almost superhuman in his precision. Now, as it aged, it highlighted his own human limitations. Bradley decided that, instead of fighting his body's age, he would adapt to it. He began to move more slowly, with even greater care, understanding that his body needed more patience now. He listened to its aches and hesitations, learning to anticipate its quirks and compensate for them. In time, Bradley and his body found a new rhythm. The tasks they performed weren't as perfect as before, but they bore a different kind of beauty—one of resilience and adaptation. Bradley learned to accept that aging wasn’t about becoming clumsy or imprecise; it was about learning to work with the changes that time brings. The body, though old and worn, still had much to offer. And so did Bradley. Together, they continued their work, proving that precision wasn’t just about perfect actions, but about the perfect partnership between mind and body, no matter the age.


A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony – so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive – defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around – a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them – for anyone, really – to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.


What is a “miracle? A quick “googling” of the words

“miracle definition” on your mobile device’s web browser might elicit the following: 1- a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency. "the miracle of rising from the grave" Similar: supernatural phenomenon mystery prodigy sign 2- a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences. "it was a miracle that more people hadn't been killed or injured" 3- an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something. "a machine which was a miracle of design" I work in the Emergency Room of a city hospital. A city-run hospital is far from the best in terms of the healthcare offered. Not a day passes without some reminder of how underfunded and, therefore, under-resourced we truly are. Dangerously scant staffing is quite common here no matter the shift. Doctors, PA’s, and nurses all seem to lose a little something of the passion they started with, the glimmer of hope in their eyes fading into the fug of the Devil’s breath.

The patients never stop coming. EMTALA laws see to that, though it seems private hospitals always find a loophole, a fucked up legal reason to refuse the drunkies, the meth heads and the heroin addicts that we see on the daily . These are the kinds of patients who come in dancing and singing off key to the symphonic masterpieces blasting in their altered brains. Some of them mistake the people in the mirror for the unforgivable abusers in their sordid lives, and they seek bloody recompense. Others reenact love scenes from a lost past, and expose more of themselves, physically and emotionally, then they ever would in an unaltered state.

Still others seem to come to us whenever they crave attention, and they don’t always care what kind of scrutiny they elicit. A wiry, older woman with stringy, silver hair comes to our ER simply to pick up the phone and scream at the person on the other end, accusing them of all sorts of chicanery and abuse. I’ve seen her come in and out of my damn ER for years, but a Patient Care Associate finally told me recently that there “aint anyone on the other side of that line.”

I’m unsurprised, and I lack the mental bandwidth for more than a brief guffaw at that bit of news. There are still filthy stretchers to clean, and patients are coming in hot in the ambulance or “amb” bay as we all call it. All the patient care associates are stuck on one to one assignments, and I’ve silently been helping them with some of their other tasks while technically hovering within the bounds of my sordid job description.

Neither union rules, nor the expectations of an unqualified and inexperienced supervisor from some dumbass private company stop me from helping out in whatever way I feel I can. I’m no superhero. Nobody who works here is. But those of us who beat the fuck out of ourselves to keep suiting up and showing up to this mess of a hospital know that we make neither money nor a name for ourselves here. Even when exhaustion and despair threaten to overwhelm us, we persist because nobody else will.

Does that qualify as a miracle? Do we, as “salt of the earth” people get to hear anything other than the hypocritical applause of the ignorant who betrayed and sacrificed us during the first Citywide Covid surge?

There are days, I can assure you, when I tell anyone who will listen that it’s a damn miracle I even showed up to work; that my bosses are lucky that I haven’t either quit or set fire to this puss-filled den of iniquity.

I digress, of course. I know that’s not what people want to hear about in a story that chronicles healthcare work. But there are certain realities to a city based healthcare institution, and these truths need to be understood for the next part of this narrative to make any sense.

Some miracles might fall within the second, aforementioned definition of such. The staff here all know the frequent flyer alcoholic patients who seem to live despite themselves.

One such patient of my acquaintance once stormed out of his room for the express un written purpose of screaming at his already beleaguered and exhausted medical team. If one were Marvin the Martian, they would decry the “earth-shattering kaboom” that ensued when a giant ball of excrement fell to the floor between the patient’s legs hard enough to cause rippling in cups of water set on the nearby nurse’s station. That man lived for decades with alcohol and drug addiction.

Another such alcoholic has become something of a local celebrity around my ER. Anyone who’s ever run into him seems to be able to do a semi-accurate impression of his famous “Ah shay, ah shay” speech, wherein he says,

“Ah shay I wanna room widda tee vee so i can sshleep heyah, ya dig?” We staff can all imitate his stumbling shuffle, his glassy, red-eyed stare, and the speeches he makes about his “poor sister” and his “lost daughter.” He is almost a living caricature of humanity’s “stubbing-your-toe while-swearing-at-the-damn-tree-you-stubbed-it-on” existence.

But twenty something years of his addiction has finally started to take its toll. One day, this patient stumbles to a stretcher set aside just for him in a hallway just outside a patient bathroom. When he wakes and shuffles out the door hours later, we all notice the small tributary of thick blood at the head of the bed, and we can tell it came from his open, halitosis-ridden mouth. I glove up and toss his sheets in a plastic bag, shuddering when they land with a wet thud against the bag’s bottom.

Nobody wants to see him die, though we all acknowledge it might be a miracle he’s lived this long.

Perhaps that is the only sort of miracle one might find if they spent but a few days and nights here. Veteran healthcare workers like me, however, have learned the daily, the weekly, the seasonal patterns of this place. Such insight inures one to the most horrific tragedy. Three years on the frontline during the pandemic, for example, have shown me much of humanity’s darkness. Yet I remain here, somehow determined to sifon, through “stubborn-asshole-osmosis,” what little compassion and common sense remains among a burnt out crew.

But the occurrences that shock even the most battle hardened veterans adhere to no conventional explanation. These events are so bizarre and improbable that they defy all sense and reason, redefining cause and consequence. Two years ago, for instance, a seasonal construction worker sans safety equipment fell, according to an EMT’s report, backwards down a nine foot pit. At the bottom of this pit stood sharp shards of twisted metal and splintered wood, lethal tips and peaks jutting toward the sky like scattered stalagmites. According to the EMT, there was “literally no room” for the unprotected victim to fall without getting impaled.

At least, that was how the scene appeared.

Yet this man survived the fall with barely a scratch on him, having landed at the bottom of the pit “like a human hieroglyph.” I had the pleasure of saying goodbye to this man as he walked away from our ER breathing a shaky sigh of relief. Other tales of brushes with death seem to me to be the stuff of future legend. Another one of our patients succumbed to momentary vertigo and fell, backwards, onto the train tracks, landing on his back. An inbound train came barreling along the same tracks toward the victim. As onlookers and good samaritans attempting a daring rescue stared in horror, the train rolled straight over the barely conscious man.

That man also survived with minimal injury, having somehow landed in just the right position for the train to pass safely over him. His extraction from the extraordinary ordeal took quite some time. Yet he was able to leave our hospital alive, relatively intact and singing his praises to the powers that be.

These incidents may certainly be construed as miracles. However, for every one of these incredibly rare occurrences, so many other similar situations end tragically. To this day, I can think of nothing so devastating and demoralising as the keening of a mother who has just lost her child in our ER, or the wide-eyed shock on a husband’s face who loses his wife in childbirth.

Though I feel I’m nobody to intrude upon such private agony, I’ve still held silent space for such tormented individuals. Even listening with empathy to such despair leaves psychic scars that run deeper than I can bear to describe, even to my own wife.

I leave my job at the ER in one piece everyday desiring nothing more than to be with my family.

My family is both the love of my life whom I was lucky enough to marry three years ago, and the son she bore a year ago. I’m grounded when I’m with them, and I endeavour to strive for them even when exhaustion threatens both my body and my spirit. Upon my return home from work, my son greets me with a smile and laugh that melts my heart and makes me giggle every single time I see it.

I live for that moment, and despite the many challenges of raising him, I begin to comprehend just what a miracle my boy’s very existence is to me.

How do you define a miracle?


I know how. The sheets stinks. Its me. Its my life. My urine, and the damned sweat. The bed's drenched with it. My feet reek of dead corpses, they're... not mine! My toes are cold. On the left, on the right, at the rear of this goddamned bed they're gathered. Sad, distant people. Some relatives with blank faces I don't care a bit about. Another three or four disappointed persons I used to call friends. We've got a company! And who the hell asked the priest to come over?

All right, Boss. It is time for da confession. You've busted me. Not one - two cancers. Both terminal. Hey, hey, listen up! - that's not the end. My right foot gangrenes, but the doctor is happy: he ain't gonna chop it off. No point digging in. There's a tumor in my throat and another one, smaller – in the first mother fucker. Is it lurid? Hell no! A logic symbiosis. Day after day I'd hammer myself with tobacco fumes, cold beverages in empty rooms, useless promises. I'll change. Oh, but I will! On a sunny day like this surely I gonna do it.

I didn't have to. God got sick and tired of waiting. Too bad. Detective Chinasky crushed a fly on the table and moved on. I did the same to the ant who had the audacity to crawl onto the laptop while I typed my story. These patient creatures have visited our house three summers. My Mother believed their crusade had something to do with the icebergs down South.

Willie's got cancer, and he still... hates Her. The good old blast, weed, coke WITH speed, promiscuous broads, drinking till you forget what hour of the day, the damned day itself – it doesn't matter was it on Monday morning or Saturday evening you've started rolling down the hill... The saddest part is – I don't have books. I don't need them. I don't read for three years. At all. Those few authors did push me further. I've lost the only desire I had. And here I am strapped into the rag of death like some stupidly fallen angel. Pathetically poetic. Dear Bukowski – damn you were right! There are too many of us: the over-drunk poets, those poor never ever published poets. Some of them are good, really good, but the lame writers, the dull writers I hate in my bones. You Starbuck miscreants, you obedient serfs! Please! Stop, cease to exist. Die today horribly and terribly. I'm begging you! I should add – hallucinated editors, de-caffeinated agents, oh, you! Your Twitter feeds... I hate chu all!!! Too bad? Visit Amazon's bestseller list. You know what you are. Those faces carry the burden of a man I've once been. They don't have to. Told them many a time. What can I do? Even if you could teach a monkey to wash potatoes, still - she'd be a monkey. Not a sous-chef, right? On the neck of our eldest-one coils that stupid know-all snake. Yin and Yang? Fuck me. Nadia likes to smoke. On her left arm, or shoulder, or both, hangs-on her partner. I donno, man. Damn tired of making everyone happy. Named Cindy. That name alone... Stop punishing me, God! I'm dying. The internet personalities care for a bunch of dogs and a team of cats. Both species get along better than the citizens. Cindy's mother did loose a bet against breast cancer, and her daddy went down due to domestic drinking. These zoomers, well, they're happy. They should be! Cindy's father last will wasn't modest as mine. A castle on the hill, a bag of gold and a responsible daily routine. Among those replete animals they keep three or four maids. Rich fellas, huh? To hoover the corners and nurture foster-kids. Geez, they have adopted four of them. Brad Pitt must be proud... Fight, goddamn it! What – have you lost your balls??? Unchain your demons as I didn't mine. Too bad. Cindy donates to charities for Africa, my stepdaughter's donated her life to Cindy. Or sacrificed. Cindy likes to inhale deep, Nadia likes Cindy. The lover of my stepdaughter shreds her tears harder than my blood and kin... ¬ They live somewhere in Palm Springs. Yep, we're close. My little brother, the infamous wino's here. All right! Married the second time. Could chu believe that? He's brought out into the daylight a 5-year-old son with his mommy. Their snot – from the first verbal marriage. The biological-one pulled-off an act of bravery, the cunt. She had left Ted for good, she decamped Los Angeles also, so my brother didn't have a chance to think things through. Ted doesn't slap Bobby. He's still moved by discounted liquids as our daddy, and nobody could deny... Fucking hell, man! His wife's name is Cheryl. Okay. Both of you - do your thing. I wish you luck.

Dear Gretchen's left the stock player. She did catch the stock player with someone. He did drag that someone home. Whooo-hoo! In the shadow my sister hides her son. Down syndrome. And tears on her face.

Our middle one's taller than her mother. She's a dancer. Her moans I'm afraid of the most. Diva had managed to unchain Snapchat afterall. She rents a studio, makes good money, gets thousands of propositions for a deep-throat. Nothing serious. Her last hubby did find someone taller something. That name, I know. That name suits perfectly perfect for her studio. 'Diva's Street Dance'. Should you expect more, be my guest. Too bad.

My Little-One's sleeping in the stroller. I'm trying not to think about Her. Well, yeah. I've been a shitty father. Here's the thing. This one's been adopted. I've managed to convince my wife there are better things in life than being sucked into IKEAian discount vouchers. She believed me. She did it three years ago, just before the Great Fall. Why, why? Weren't there three enough???

What about Amanda, my biological daughter, my own kid? She's here, She's five and a half... Could I've made things worse? Why are you here? Those weary palms, those tired eyes, exhausted presence. They say mother's love is the strongest thing in the world. My birth-giver, my dream-crasher is sitting all shoulders, a small, crumbled creature. Throughout those years She's changed, changed completely unrecognizable, gotten old, the life has abandoned Her. But I see something else. I sense guilt mixed with hatred. She's screaming at me, praying. My Mother's soul got grey surpassing the hair. She blames me, my Mother blames Her son for he didn't manage to become the person She had believed he would.

Mother, its not your fault.

PLEASE, FORGIVE ME. Your glance is tearing me apart. I know I'll go soon, I feel dandy: the sight of Yours makes me cower. Donno what it means. All kind of folks crouch down in fear, in cold. Your eyes, that glance. An immeasurably bottomless abyss. An invisible wall overwhelmed between us. The wall we have built ourselves.

My entire life I honoured You with my lips, but my heart were far from You.

The One and Only, my Magnificent Little Woman, my sweet Wife, the Mother of our daughter, my Warmth, my Shelter, my Rage. There's this lonely despair in Your eyes, a way worse than my Mother's. She had stopped fighting Herself years ago, that's true, but You – You're just getting there. I have lost You for ever. Please, have mercy on me.

Is it the right time to ask for it – both of them! - when one deteriorates into a half-dead? Stupid idiot.

Henry pours me a decent amount of it. As if I cared. Nadia and her mother helps to sit the daddy up. Your eyes are dry. Nadia's face overclouds due the stench. A green mucus I cough out on her sleeve. Cindy's about to throw up. Yeaaaah! Welcome to the SkidRow, bitch! I hit the glass. Damn, my last booze. Can't believe what I've become. But? No but! Look at me, Ma - I'm dying. Leave those regrets for me. I don't need your permission. Father, I've never been the same since you died. Is it a good thing? You tell me. If we meet. Red Label melts down smoothly. Red Label! What a taste. Hell, why can't chu bring with cha the treasures of this world downstairs? Oh, Holy Cat, take me to Your cradle: cuddle me, murk for me, kiss me. Kiss my eyes, lick my nose, and moan, moan! Let's moan together for those who had lost their toes in the Crusade. Pray for me! Beware of sharp bends, my pervert companions, my freaks and accomplices, my filthy devils. I love some of you, I do, though I hate pretty much everybody. Yet, follow me through if there's no way out.

But! But beware of sharp edges here and there. Keep an eye on them day and night. Don't forget your closets. Don't clean your closets. Long for the time with your closets.

Love your closets! It is easy to drown in the Jordan river, so damn easy to dive in and never come back. Are you with me? Do you hear the birds chirping? The torn birds. Morning already It is the morning. Its 4:53 AM, again. Fucking great.

Shit! Almost forgot: Shave me. Shave my face, my legs, my armpits also. Don't touch my beer-tits. Put on a black Armani suit, a grey tie, a white shirt, no sleeves. Fuck sleeves! Shoes – black only. Cover down my face with a yellow fedora. Arrange expensive oils - I donnno what for - ignite candles, but don't pray. Keep rolling the best beat of THE WU TANG CLAN, "It's Yourz."

My last wish goes like this: “Throw my body on the curb. Leave it on the curb. Summon up the ravens. Scatter out the remains in TikTok.” Engrave on the tombstone these: “The faster it comes...” Now I'm ready to die.


"Miss..." The new worker paused trying to figure out how to say Danny's last name. "Gator....Hunt....were?" "Gatourhuntswere." She corrected the teen. "Gay.... Tour... hunthswere." He tried again and handed Danny her blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurt. She took the frozen yogurt from him, and got a small whiff of the treat, which sent her flying into the past. "Fro Yo at death dow!" Twenty employees sang together while they tried to clean up the mess the last group party made. Danny was only here right now because she promised her father they'd come here right after the funeral. She even booked the place for her family for three hours, though she was pretty sure they were not going to make it ten minutes. She cleared her throat loudly hoping to get the attention of the workers. A few turned her way and smiled cheerfully. "What can we get you?" Three of them asked at the same time. Danny pulled out the piece of paper her father left her family. It included the orders he wanted them to get. "Four berry tarts," That was for Aunt Trisha, Uncle Dave, and their two kids; Tate and Dill. "Eight candy canes one with extra mint." Those were for Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Liliette, Uncle George, and their kids; Hannah, Anna, Rhena, and Phil. "Three cake batters," Those were for her sister, Jill and her husband, Tom, and her mother. There was one last one, "And one umm... blueberry pomegranate." That one was for Danny. The one that seemed most in charge shrugged and went to go make the frozen yogurts for her. The rest of the workers went back to singing their odd song, "Fro Yo at death dow! Of course that's after the ice cream, and cheese we stole! Then we'll go get a troll!" They continued to sing while Danny stood their awkwardly. "Here's your frozen yogurt." The guy handed her the sixteen small cups with yogurt. Danny started to grab my wallet out of purse when the man stopped her, "On the house, for Waldo." Danny froze when he mentioned her father's name. "You look just like him." He explained when he saw her shocked look. Danny smiled trying to hold back her tears. She put down the rest of the frozen yogurts while she waited for her family. The temptation came to much and she carefully took her frozen yogurt and took a small bite, but got a good whiff of the treat to remember what it smelled like for the next twenty years. She even started to sing the Fro Yo song under her breath. "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Of course that's after the ice cream and cheese we stole!" "Then we'll go get a troll!" "Because the ice cream song is lame," "We'll get great fame." "Hey!" "While we don't scream for ice cream...." "Everyone will gleam as we hand out our double cream Fro Yo's....." "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow!" "Oh, the Fro Yo at death dow!" "Hey!" "Hey!" "Dough!" "Hey!" "Fro Yo at death dow." Danny closed her eyes trying to hold back her tears. Her father loved to sing that song around the house. Though her mother claimed to hate it, deep down she loved it as much as her father because it made him happy. "It was your father who made it." On of the workers interrupted her thinking. "Yeah?" She said. "Yeah," The worker put his arm on his shoulder. "You helped too, but you were so young you probably don't remember. You would go around the place singing anything that rhymed together." The worker stopped to laugh. "It was very impressive!" He paused for a second. "I'm sorry for your loss, Waldo was my best friend. He was all of ours..." "Yeah," The youngest employee ran up to her and started singing something very familiar. "I love my dad because he ain't bad." "I love my dad because knows how to make ice cream. "I love my dad because he screams for me." "I love my dad because his him." Everyone started to join in the song, singing softly. They put down their brooms and towels to sit around her to sing my dad's part. "I love Danny, she's the cutest." "I love Danny because she's great." "I love Danny because she loves me." "I love Danny because she's her." Danny wiped the tears off her cheek, getting ready to hear the next verse her and her father wrote together. "I love Fro Yo because Danny made the song." "I love Fro Yo because Daddy made the treat." "We love Fro Yo because it's means you and me." "We love Fro Yo so don't try to be mean." Danny knew this next verse it was a like a broken record in her head, it was the part she loved to sing." "Bean likes Fro Yo though he can't eat it." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Dad does." "Bean likes Fro Yo because Danny does too." "Bean likes Fro Yo because he eats off the table when we aren't looking." Bean was Her childhood dog. Why she had only this part memorized she had absolutely no idea. Maybe because she was only a child when she sung this song with her father and she loved Bean? Danny really didn't know, but it doesn't matter now because she knows the full song and will always sing it. "Ma'am! Ma'am!" The young worker screamed at me bringing me back to the present. "Huh?" Danny mumbled. "You okay? You were dazing off?" "I'm fine," She smiled and walked away eating her favorite Fro Yo flavor, blueberry pomegranate and humming to her favorite song she wrote with her father as a child. Except she changed a few things, "Danny loved Dad because he cared," was added on to the song. Danny also kept on singing her father's second favorite song, Fro Yo at Death Dow. She visited him every other day bringing him new frozen yogurts to try because even though he's dead, Danny knew somewhere he was scarfing down blueberry pomegranate frozen yogurts.


This story contains depictions of violence, self-harm, suicide, and psychosis. — Verity Castillo was hers.

She knew where he worked—Westlake Recording Studios in LA, or at one of his home studios in Manhattan or The Hamptons.

She knew what he smelled like—Gucci’s The Alchemist’s Garden, cinnamon and Patchouli oil with rustic accents.

She knew his favorite color—mauve—and his blood type—O-negative, the same as hers (what intimacy!) —and his date of birth down to the second —September 21st, 1998, at 8:13 PM London time.

She was familiar with every facet of Verity’s being, understood him intricately, as a neurosurgeon does the human brain. She had a tattoo of his name below her breast and the outline of Verity’s birthmark—a spotty, amorphous thing—on her heart. They were more than acquaintances, she and Verity. Certainly, she was more than a fan.

God, “fan.” Just the mention of such an inconclusive and understated label chilled her to the bone. It stripped her of her efforts, robbed her of the countless hours she’d spent slaving over Verity’s discography, his interviews, his social media, unreleased songs and leaked photos. To call her a “fan” was laughable. It was infantilizing. Verity was her entire reason for being, her heart and soul, the ache in her stomach and the bounce in her step. During his now-infamous drug scandal and subsequent decline from the spotlight, she’d gone mad with want. Verity’s absence in her life had been an addict’s withdrawal, caused her to spasm and scream, sob until her throat ached with the same agony her wrists did, tortured her in a hellish inferno she thought only death could remedy.

I’m bleeding for you , she remembered thinking one gruesome night, gripping the blade that had pierced too deeply. This is all for you, my love.

But Verity returned, so she decided to live.

Since “Heroin-Gate,” as Verity’s fans often called it, he’d skyrocketed to A-lister status. She didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, a larger fanbase meant more screaming teenagers to appease with music, but on the other, the thought that more people so much less devoted to Verity— fans without true comprehension of his personhood, his depth— believed themselves to be on her level made her sick. Only she knew what it felt like to be saved, like an atheist converted, by Verity’s music. His eponymous debut album had dragged her out of hell, and his second and third records had kept her there.

Friends had come and gone, and there was Verity. Years had passed, and there was Verity. She greeted the sun, and there was Verity, a constant, always. Verity deserved his success; she knew that. She should be thrilled for him. She shouldn’t care about his other devotees, and right there in line, shivering from an early-night chill, she decided she didn’t. These fans could have their delusions. She knew what was real: she and Verity. They were subliminally entwined, stepped to the same romantic rhythm, saw the world the same way. Verity was hers. Who cared about everyone else? She’d been in line since 8 AM yesterday, the second to arrive (though she’d bribed the girl in front of her to switch with $100 and her portable charger). And now, it was finally happening. She was entering the arena. Where Verity was.

The idea that she and Verity were in such close proximity to one another sent a euphoric tremor down her spine, one only the frigid metal barricade could subdue. She curled her fingers around the barrier and wept. Soon, this fence would be the sole separation between them.

United at last, she thought, and dried her damp cheeks with her palm.

She wondered what Verity would wear tonight. Usually, he donned black skinny jeans and one of his various oversized t-shirts, but on rare occasions—in his favorite cities, she thought—Verity draped a white button-down around his broad, muscular shoulders and unbuttoned it throughout the evening, revealing the slick skin above his happy trail, the V of his hipbones… If I see his abs up close, I’m going to combust.

She squeezed the barricade tighter, if possible, and prayed for time to speed up and then slow down, stop, at just the right moment. “I love your shirt! Where did you get it?” A girl with short blonde hair and craterous dimples beamed at her, pointing to the colorful needlepoint blouse hanging loosely from her torso.

“I made it. It’s supposed to look like Verity’s mesh vest from the ‘If I Love You Now’ music video, but I messed up the sleeves a bit.” “No, it looks good! And I should know.” The blonde placed her hand over her heart and giggled. “I’m probably half the views on that video.” Suddenly, uncontrollably, she felt a rush of white-hot anger bubble through her stomach and up her throat, heating her skin in its ascent. The fury climaxed at her lips and poured out, a biting arctic chill and an eruption of crisping magma all at once.

“Fine, then. What’s the drummer’s name? In the video.” She prodded the blonde’s chest with her pointer finger. “Verity hired him as a replacement for Florian since he was out sick with pneumonia. What’s his name?” The blonde’s lips curled downward as her eyes narrowed. “What?” “Gregory. The drummer’s name is Gregory.” She was shouting now. She knew she had an audience, but what did it matter? This was important. Who cared if people knew how loyal she was to her Paramore? In fact, the idea of new eyes aroused her. She felt her confidence grow as each phantom gaze kissed her flesh. “If you really were half the views on ‘If I Love You Now,’ you’d fucking know that.” The blonde made a curt noise at the back of her throat.

“Jesus. I was just making conversation.” And then, under her breath, “Freak.” No, not a freak. Devoted. Enamored. Love, his love.

She contemplated continuing their argument, but it was useless. She’d never be able to convince this girl that she wasn’t a freak but the love of Verity’s glorious life. “All those girls he’s dated, the tall models with big lips—they’re not his. Verity’s supposed to be a serial dater, but he’s not. It’s fake! It’s all for show. He’s waiting for me.” She’d only laugh louder, glare with more intensity, and who needed that? No, it was alright. This blonde could think whatever she wanted; Verity knew what was real.

The opening act was alright. She felt nothing toward them, no excitement, no longing or lust. She’d return home that night and remember nothing, not their songs or how they looked or which gaunt and ghostly boy played bass. They were only there to introduce Verity, to sing flat notes every so often and dance awkwardly around their mics so that when he did mount the stage, Verity was even better than she’d remembered.

She cheered when they finished, not because she’d enjoyed their performance, but because it was over.

On the other side of the stage’s curtain stood Verity, and soon, she’d see him up close. His high cheekbones, his tanned skin, those ebony lashes and pink, pink lips. Lips she wanted to kiss the life out of. Lips she would soon touch.

It wasn’t a matter of if but when.

Minutes ticked by, and she felt the air around her become molasses. Waiting was a slow, painful death. She felt nausea pool in her stomach and prayed the floor wouldn’t crumble before Verity appeared. She’d be alright with death, would welcome it, even, if only she got to see him in the flesh, golden in the light of the arena.

The lights dimmed, shone purple and blue; she held her breath until her face matched and released ice and magma from the confines of her throat, a shrill squeal, an anticipatory battle cry.

A single spotlight showered Verity’s microphone stand in glitter and fire.

And then, as if an apparition, an angel, a god, there he was, just for her, only for her. Verity.

Tears streaked down her face. The first few chords of “Tonight, Baby” rang out like a church hymn, and she placed both hands on her chest, wheezing as if her heart was failing, and maybe it was. In this moment, she did feel like she was passing on, floating above the crowd to the heavens, sprouting wings as she rose. Every inch of her skin tingled, every hair on her body shot up straight, and as Verity sang his first lyric, she knew her life was complete.

“We’re here. All of us. The chosen ones, the few.”

But it was just her. The arena was empty, and they were alone, she and Verity. He’s looking right at me, she thought, and a wave of bliss washed over her. He’s singing to me. Right to me, to me, to me, to me… Her vision blurred, and she gave in to fate. — She woke, disappointed. She felt light and dizzy in a way only a living person could, and that meant she’d see a sunrise without Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her, without hearing his silky voice croon the words to her gospel. Wait. Verity’s piercing eyes staring down at her… The last things she remembered were those eyes, those gemstones glistening in gold glitter, and now she was here, she was…

She sat up. Canary yellow walls imprisoned her in a barren and unfamiliar space. There was a brown leather couch, headache-inducing LEDs overhead, and no sign of Verity’s gemstone eyes.

To her right, a manual clock read “10:10.”

Two hours after the concert started. She’d missed it. It was over.

Death would have been far too kind now, she thought. Put me out of my misery, she thought. Life is pointless now, she thought. I’ve been looking forward to this my entire life, and now it’s over; I may never see my love again. I should die, I should die, I should die… Across the room from the cot where she lay sat a foldable table with an array of food for crewmembers. There were cups of fruit, pretzels, and chocolate chip muffins, but she only cared about the vanilla cake at the end. And the knife beside it.

She stood, entranced by the metal blade, and walked toward it, her sneakers dragging on the coarse carpet. She’d bought these shoes for the show, the perfect combination of stylish and comfortable—great for waiting in the queue—but now they meant nothing. What use did they have, what purpose, other than slowing her down?

She removed the shoes. She kept walking.

Her fingers curled around the base of the knife, as it had all those months ago, and she stared at the warped reflection of her mouth in stainless steel. That mouth, what use did it have now? She’d missed her chance to sing along with Verity, to intertwine their voices until they were one. Maybe she’d start with her mouth and kill the rest of herself afterward. Her mouth, and then her eyes, and then, and then, and then. The fire in her body had dulled. Hot embers remained, glowing in her fingertips, seducing her. Fade, fade, just like the fire. Let it all go away.

The door creaked open just as she brought the tip of the blade to her face. “Hey, hon. We’re sorry you missed the concert. There’s someone here to see you—” The door slammed. She dropped her arm—and the knife—to her side and saw a graying woman with a lanyard draped around her neck. And beside her, him.

Verity. He had come to see her. He had come to be with her.

“It’s you,” she said, and stepped closer, one, two, three times. His eyes were even more beautiful in person. “I knew you’d come for me.” “Honey, put that knife down,” said the graying woman, but the words met her ears hollowly, as if they hadn’t truly been spoken. A wisp, a memory of speech. “Please, just…” He’s shorter in person. He wanted to meet me halfway. Four, five, six. When our lips meet, I won’t have to stand on tiptoe.

He spoke.

“I… hi. I was just— I saw you faint. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He’s stuttering, he’s frozen. Nervous to meet me. Nervous to meet the love of his life.

Seven, eight, nine. “Finally,” she said. Her voice was not her own, not anymore. Soon, Verity would suck it out of her body and make it his. “We meet.” I worship you. “Please,” Verity croaked. He wants you. He wants you. He wants you. “Please.” “Say my name,” she uttered. “I want to hear you say my name.” He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t speaking. Why was he standing like that, with his hands out in front of him like a shield, with his eyes wide and unblinking, with his lips taut, with his shoulders shaking? Why weren’t they one yet? Why could she still tell where her body ended and his began?

Why wouldn’t he say her name? “Say it!” She screamed. She was something inhumane, but he could fix her. He could make her human again, bring her back down to earth. All he had to do was say… “I don’t know it!” He cried. He was trembling, all of him, and she realized with a sudden, horrible clarity that it wasn’t in awe. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your name.” “Yes, you do,” she groaned, and she felt her eyes bursting from their sockets, her limbs crumbling, falling away from her. She felt the ceiling come crashing down, and her knife burning in her grip. “You do, Verity. See? I know your name. Verity. Verity Castillo. You love me. I love you. Say my name.”

The graying woman had gone. Where? No matter. They should be alone for this.

“I don’t know it,” he repeated, tears streaking his cheeks, staining them red. “Just tell me your name, and I’ll say it, I’ll say it. Put the knife down, please. Don’t hurt me.”

Liar. Liar, liar, you’re lying, why are you being like this, Verity?

Stop being like this, Verity. I love you; you love me. Say my name. You know my name.

You know me. Every song you write, every lyric you pen is for me.

You’ve described me in every way. I have brown hair, blonde hair, blue eyes, green eyes, a black dress, a white ballgown, a band tee, skinny jeans— say my name.

You know me. You created me. You are my creator, my god.

I’ll be blonde for you. I’ll be European. I am your songs.

I know where you work. I know how you take your coffee. I know who styles your hair and what it smells like. Your birthmark is on my heart and your name is on my chest. I know you.

Attention, that’s love. I pay attention. I love you. Say my name. Say it. Say it. Say it.

Ten.

The knife crunches on impact. She’d never heard the sound of piercing bones and muscle. It was melodic, almost. Like the haunting last notes of a ballad. Like a song, a song, a song. Verity’s mouth fell open, and she watched his eyes dim. What color were they again? Gray, the color of corpses, maybe. They hadn’t been gray before. They were now. Gray. Ten. Ten steps, ten, ten, ten. Say my name.

“Please,” Verity breathed, gasping around the knife. She drew in his words, took his voice. It was hers now.

“I would never hurt you,” she labored, maybe a bit belatedly. “Never. I’m the love of your life, Verity. We own each other.” His blood was slick on her hands. She touched two fingers to his chest wound and smeared it onto her cheeks. Metallic and red. That was Verity. They were one.

Where did his body end? Where did hers begin? This was euphoria. This was heaven.

“I would never hurt you.”

The knife left his body in a sickly suction, and she admired her work. Hot, alive, metallic, and red. That was Verity. Verity was on her dagger, on her skin. This was her dream.

She could die happy.

And she would.

“I love you. I would never hurt you, my Verity.” And as the door flung open, she plunged the knife into her heart, relishing that same crunch of muscle and bone—music. They had made music together, in their final breaths. She smelled like him, like Patchouli oil and cinnamon and O-negative. What a way to go. What a way to exist, to be remembered, to be loved.

Where did her blood end? Where did his begin?

Her eyes shut. She imagined skating in their pools of O-negative. The same. They were the same, she and Verity. It would have been perfect. If only he had known her name.


I didn't see that one coming. My name is Gino Conti. One morning last summer, I sat on my front veranda in January before it got too hot. It was a serene summer morning, and I enjoyed the tranquility. The last slice of toast from my breakfast was a lovely end to the meal. As I sipped my tea, I gazed at my farm, admiring the progress of this season's sugar cane crop. I was anticipating reading the newspaper leisurely, something I rarely got to do when I was farming. I had retired a few years back. My son Gino Junior now farms my land next to his own, and I get a share of the profit. Although it gets hot and humid here in the summer, it would be another beautiful day. It was a moment that caught me entirely off guard. Out of nowhere, I saw Gino's ute tearing down my driveway. He screeched to a halt, spreading dust and gravel in all directions. He jumped out of his ute and slammed the door, his face a mix of urgency and concern, his eyes searching for mine. He was on my veranda in two strides. He threw his hat in the chair and started pacing the veranda. I could see that he was agitated, so I said "Hi, Gino, what's up?" Gino Junior said, his voice trembling with shock and disbelief as he spoke. "I'll tell you what's up, Dad. I just received a phone call from a woman who thinks she might be your daughter." "What?" That completely blindsided me.  I said to him "I am seventy-two years old. It's a bit late for me to get another daughter suddenly." "I haven't dated since your mother, God rest her soul, died four years ago. I never had an affair; I wouldn't have had the time; I was working all the daylight hours that God sent me." "Who is she? I have only ever dated three women. The last of them was your mother." Gino Junior said "Her name is Jean Jacobs, and she said you knew her mother during the war." Gino said "Well, that narrows it down a little. I dated Suzie Connors briefly during the war, but then I met and married your mother in June 1946. Suzie lived in town, and she was the Librarian. She Married Bob Johnson in 1949 after the war.                                                                        1 I would have known if she were pregnant.

The other girl I dated was Alicia Adams, a land army girl I had worked with during the war.

That ended abruptly when the Government decided to release us internees in 1943. I had no time or way to let her know what had happened. We just got up and ready for work one morning when a truck was waiting to take us back to Cowra. She would have thought that we had been moved onto another farm. We were busy getting the hell out of Cowra before they changed their minds. It took me a month to get back here, walking, working where I could, and hitchhiking while generally heading north." "How old was this woman?" I asked. Gino said "He hadn't seen her, but on the phone, she sounded like she was a few years older than him".

"He wanted to break it to me gently, and he had asked her to ring at 9 am tomorrow to arrange a meeting and to bring all her paperwork and photos." I had to prepare with the anticipation and uncertainty of tomorrow's meeting looming over me. I needed a haircut, a freshly aired suit that didn't smell of mothballs, and a clear mind to face this unexpected turn of events. Gino said, "It's OK, Dad. I will drive you into town to get a haircut today. I will pick you up at 9:15 tomorrow, and we will sort this out. I told her to bring all her paperwork and photos with her. All I need at forty-four is another sister to contend with. I already have two of them." Gino took me to town for a haircut and bought cake and biscuits to entertain her. The further into my day I got, the more nervous I became and the more bad-tempered Gino became. He started muttering that she would want a share of my money. I told him to "Settle down. I haven't even met the woman yet." After an anxious night, Gino rang me just after 9 am and said he would pick me up. I told him I was ready and had my glasses with me. The moment had arrived, and we pulled into Gino's front yard simultaneously. Gino bustled us into his kitchen too quickly for me to notice anything about her. However, I could look at her when we faced each other while Gino boiled the kettle. She seemed so familiar to me.                                                                        2 I could see myself in her eyes, the same eyes all my children had, creating an instant bond between us. At that moment, I knew she was my daughter. When Gino finally sat down and looked at her, I could see that he noticed it as well, and he accepted that he had a sister. All his anger suddenly deflated, which went a long way to calming the atmosphere. Then Jean introduced herself and pulled three photos and letters from her handbag. Jean explained that her mother, who had been Alicia Adams before she married, had recently died. Jean had found these photos and letters amongst her effects. She had only discovered that her dad was not her father, and she thought I was. I gasped when I saw the young photos of my beautiful Alicia and me. I was fixated on them for a minute; then, I handed them over to Gino to see. Jean handed me the letters in the order they had been written for me to read, fifty years too late to have done anything about them. I could hardly read them as tears streamed down my face, and I was busy wiping my eyes and holding Jean's hand. As I read the letters, I was saying "My daughter, My daughter." I had no idea I had left my beautiful Alicia in such a predicament. I loved her; I would have married her if I had known. It was cruel of the Government not to let her know we had been released. I am so sorry that Alicia had to go through all that alone. She sounds terrified in her letters. I said "Alicia was courageous to keep you in that time." With the photo of Alicia and me in my hand, I gazed at my newest daughter. I could see how beautifully Alicia's and my features combined to make this grown woman. After the hundred-and-one questions we had between ourselves, I was getting to know my surprise daughter a little bit. I was sorry that Alicia had died. I loved that woman and deeply regretted being pulled away from her so suddenly. However, we would have been moved to another harvest sooner or later. Internees had no say in the matter. We talked all day until five p.m. when Gino introduced Jean to his family as they came home from school and work. Gino's wife Maria suggested they have a party tomorrow Saturday for Gino's sisters and their families to meet my daughter Jean. When Gino took me home that night, I turned to him and I said "I didn't see that one coming."                                                                                3


Jasmine barely opened the door to the small Italian trattoria and the silver bell mounted on top pealed, announcing her arrival to the handful of tables inside. She slipped through sideways, snagging the hem of her gingham blue dress as the door shut. The waning evening sun and glimmering Manhattan lights blotted out of existence, the black painted windows creating an artificial twilight with an illusion of candles flickering across Venice. The aroma of garlic, oil, and creamy sauces hung thick in the air, the way sea salt clung to her skin the first night of her honeymoon with Bobby. She couldn’t escape the other patron’s dinners, a savory force-feeding of memories from their trysts between Milan and Rome, Bobby’s star on the rise as changing fads relegated her to decoration. The taste of chloroform masked with red sauce. The hostess smiled, a bland professional veneer that masked any scrutiny about whether Jasmine deserved one of the exclusive tables at Il Postino . She reminded herself she ate here before, already passed their test, even if the reservation had belonged to Bobby and not her. Her watering mouth turned to cardboard when she noticed the minimalist eating area, couples paired up at a half-dozen tables next to an empty bar. The open concept guaranteed her date couldn’t be tucked away out of sight. “I’m supposed to meet someone, Christian Jarez.” She took two steps closer to the hostess so no one would overhear her inevitable humiliation. This was a terrible place for a first date, fresh with memories of Bobby, but she couldn’t think of a reason to ask Christian to choose a different restaurant. She couldn’t bring up a past relationship so early in a new one. The hostess’ mouth twisted in concentration as she studied an oversized ledger, an awkward expression that accentuated her beauty that came so naturally with youth. Only a thin podium stood between the two women, nowhere for Jasmine to hide. Jasmine didn’t wait, ready with an excuse to leave, when the bell above the door chimed again. Two sets of footsteps, clipped and assured, echoed amid the hostess’ silence. A sultry woman in a red dress, features dark as night with piercing blue eyes, walked in trailing the hand of her date. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. Bobby didn’t recognize her, his gaze focused solely on the woman in front of him. Jasmine took a step back, desperate for the moment to pass unnoticed. The woman in the red dress sashayed, her full hips swinging in time to Jasmine’s heartbeat. She dropped his hand and left Bobby behind, confidant that all eyes followed her as she walked away. She leaned on the hostess’ podium while the young girl rushed to accommodate their reservation. “Are you Jasmine Varez? I saw your exhibition at the Anastasia last month. You’re an amazing photographer,” Bobby gushed, something in his tone less grave than she remembered.

Swatting at her eyes to hold back the threatening well of tears, Jasmine confronted Bobby. His dark hair no longer had the sprinkle of salt coloring at his temples, fuller and wavier than it had been when he walked out. The corner of his gray eyes, the eyes that had probed her with both desire and scorn in equal measures, were smooth, missing the care lines a decade of marriage had brought. He studied her with interest, but without history. He was young, the man she fell in love with before abandonment twisted their feelings into an aberration. “The Anastasia? I haven’t shown there since before your debut,” the memory washed her away, a temporary respite of happier days, when they were the darlings of art society. A pairing talked about and adored. Bobby blushed, a stainless shade of pink, too innocent for their tortured souls. “I’m flattered if you’ve even heard of me, but I can only aspire to your skill. The Anastasia is above my level.”

A traitorous tear escaped, leaving a wet trail down her cheek. Jasmine ducked her head, too scared to wipe it away and leave a black trail with her makeup as visible proof of how much this hurt.

“I’m sorry, I must have caught you at a bad time. That was inconsiderate of me,” he rifled through his pockets for a moment and pulled out a wallet and handkerchief.

Bobby’s date cleared her throat loudly, impatient to see him talking to another woman. Upset the spotlight diverted from her rightful place, she clenched her jaw and bared her teeth as any predator in the jungle. Bobby produced a business card and handed it to her, along with the handkerchief. She carefully blotted her eyes, mascara and eyeliner bleeding into the crisp white fabric. “If you ever have time to discuss your photographs with a neophyte like myself,” he flashed the vibrant smile that made her fall in love with him, “Please call me.” Without another word, Bobby descended into the cloud of rich dinners, happy couples, and infinite futures, no apology or recompense. Jasmine unfolded the handkerchief, the smeared makeup creating a Rorschach test with an image that perfectly resembled a dove. The same dove Bobbie had framed once they started dating, to commemorate the first time they met in an Italian restaurant, and he gave her a handkerchief to dry her tears. The handkerchief that became part of his first art exhibit, his first big success. The dove on which Bobby soared. She looked between the card and the dove, sudden revelation that she wasn’t remembering the past, but granted a view of the future. Their future, the start of everything they were going to be and eventually destroy. The dove in her hand represented their love, his career, and her demise. Would she trade the means to enjoy a better end? Or would she arrive at the same place again for the experience at one glorious summer in Italy, the center of their shared world? The hostess opened her mouth, probably to apologize that there was no reservation, no record of her post-breakup blind date. Jasmine didn’t wait for the explanation.

The silver bell above the door tinkled again as Jasmine left, a second chance in her hands. History was immutable, the two of them inevitably draw together like fish upstream to a waiting bear. He was the black hole that would consume her. One small difference existed between the future she remembered and this Italian restaurant. The dove in her hand, a change in fortunes. Jasmine had an art exhibit to create and a phone call to make.


Thirty-nine was the first year that age showed up on Ellen’s face. It had visited intermittently, before. After a sleepless night, an evening with an extra glass or two of wine. It showed up after a long day in the sun.  Then it left as subtly as it had appeared. However, thirty-nine was the year that it settled in. It settled in between her eyebrows. It made itself known on her neck. It was fickle and etched on the left side of her mouth while not even visiting the right side. Standing in front of the mirror, Ellen saw that she no longer looked as young as she had once felt.

She cleared her throat. A feeling of foolishness flashed in her stomach. “Hi. My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I’ve…” Her voice faltered. Talking to herself. The mirror. The lines. The bad lighting in the hotel bathroom made her look like a ghoul when she had left the house in the morning feeling quite pretty and fresh. Why didn’t life come with a filter like her cell phone? “Hi. My name is Ellen,” she started again. “I’m a lactation consultant with fifteen years of experience. I… I…” Well, she couldn’t really say that, could she? She’d had fifteen years of thinking about being a lactation consultant but in actuality had spent the last fifteen years lactating herself, or weaning, or waking up in the middle of the night for babies, and now teenagers. Fifteen years of wanting not to work so she could focus on family. Now she was approaching middle age with no experience, no Botox, and the inability to form a professional-sounding introduction.

“Hi. My name is Ellen,” she stated clearly. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years honing my expertise as a mother and lactation consultant. My goal…” Goals, what about goals? She had no goals. After college, before kids, before and after marriage, maybe somewhere in that decade, there had been some goals. Somewhere in the parenting years, she had had goals. No, she thought bitterly, not goals, just daily targets. A whole running list in her head of targets, a target for bedtime, food for the family, what errands to run. Ellen took a deep breath. The small business meet-up was convening in the conference room down the hall. Signing up had seemed to be an opportunity. Now it just felt like pressure. Pressure to sound professional, to fake it until she made it. She had been doing that all these years without even realizing it. Then one day, she woke up and felt the faking, the heaviness of doing the same stress day in and day out with a smile. The burden of motherhood was the only thing she was offered without any strings attached.

“Hi everyone. My name is Ellen, and I am so excited to be here.” Ech. That sounded wretched. Ellen hated unnecessary hyperboles. She hated flowery adjectives and trite, overused expressions. Her brain was overworked and under-stimulated. All that small talk she had to make day after day. She spent her days making small talk with the teenagers in her son’s carpool. Small talk with the grocer. Small talk with the twenty-something with a blue streak in her hair who made her morning coffee. Small talk at the gym. The small talk was exhausting. Keeping herself small was exhausting.  Her therapist had asked her why she kept herself small. Small was safe. Small was manageable. Small was the opposite size of all her big feelings. Big feelings had been the theme of thirty-seven and thirty-eight, which is how she ended up at thirty-nine in front of a hotel bathroom mirror talking to herself so that she could make a small introduction to a medium-sized group of people who had bigger ideas than her. And bigger resumes and bigger opportunities. “What is the story you are telling yourself, Ellen?” She asked herself in a serious voice, a nod to her even-toned therapist with who she had spent years thirty-seven and thirty-eight excavating the past decade with. Another deep breath. She felt tears come to her eyes. “Get a hold of yourself, Ellen. A crummy introduction and streaky mascara, and everyone will see you for the middle-aged mother you are trying not to be.” “Hi! My name is Ellen, and I am a lactation consultant. I work with mothers of all types of backgrounds. I am fluent in French and…” What a useless fact.  Who in the world would need a French-speaking lactation consultant in Ohio? Who in Ohio even spoke French? French was not a small language. It was not the language of her thirty-nine-year-old face with fickle wrinkles and streaky mascara. It was the language of her fifteen-year-old self who had had not just goals, but more importantly, a vision. The vision certainly hadn’t included this bathroom or the bad lighting.

There was no way to do this, the transition to middle-age and working, as opposed to middle-age and bored, as gracefully as she would like. She was simply too rusty to be graceful. Too resentful to be graceful. French women were never rusty or resentful. She should have moved to France. Where was she in this mess of feelings and thoughts? Perhaps, it would be better to wing it. Whatever came out of her mouth would be better than this rehearsed monologue. Sixty seconds to introduce herself. Sixty seconds to sell herself, promote herself. Sixty seconds to sum up her skills and get noticed. At thirty-nine, it was all she was being offered. Her teenagers hardly gave her sixty seconds. Her husband only gave her sixty seconds.

At least this sixty seconds was new and fresh. It wasn’t part of the routine on repeat in her life. It wasn’t part of the emotional monologue in her head that she couldn’t escape even with over one hundred sessions of therapy. It was sixty seconds to do something different. Sixty seconds to be someone different. Not someone who resented all that she had settled for. Sixty seconds to flash a smile, make some not-so-meaningful eye contact, and sound more energetic than she felt.

“Hi, my name is Ellen,” she said more to herself than her imaginary audience. She cocked her head to one side. Even with thirty-nine years settled upon her face, she knew her best angle. She raised her eyebrows, threw on a smile, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Sixty seconds to fake it as a professional certainly felt like a better form of faking than all the other faking she was used to doing.  Thirty-nine and stepping out of her comfort zone, Ellen exited the bathroom and went to talk to someone other than herself.


As soon as Melany stepped into the restaurant, her heart pounded. She felt the burn of people’s hostile, disgusted stares. She didn’t belong there. It was a beautiful restaurant, with beautiful people, beautiful candlesticks, and beautiful tablecloths you shouldn’t drop wine on.            The hostess greeted them behind her desk. There was that glass candy bowl with fun little white mints with colored lines. Melany stopped herself from taking one. A green one and a red one. Maybe they had the ones with blue lines too. So rare. She definitely had to take one of those. But people were watching. She could anticipate the look the hostess would give her, the comments people would make from their table. She has to stuff her face, can’t even wait for the meal .            Melany followed her parents who followed the hostess. She looked down, the atom-shaped medal bouncing on her fat chest, careful not to knock over something with her fat thighs or her fat arms or her fat ass, carrying the large wooden fountain with uneven angles, unsmoothed curves, a dolphin that looked more like a kidney with eyes, and little panels posing as flower petals at the top. She had cut herself so much while making it that she had to add two layers of blue amd green paint to cover the bloodstains.            At the table, she set the fountain on the empty chair next to her, and sat facing her mother.            “Why did we have to bring it in?” she said. “People are looking at me weird.”            “Because I don’t want people to break the car window thinking it’s a nuclear missile they could sell to Russia,” her father said.            Melany glanced around. No one was looking. They were probably too busy thinking horrible things about her.            “Can you order for me?” Melany told her mom.            “No. You’ll have to do it by yourself at some point.”            The waiter arrived like a lightning bolt through Melany’s head. With his square goatee, his black and red suit, his tie, his tall, in shape frame. All of that at once.            He put the bread basket in the center of the table and filled their glasses with water. He talked to her parents, they talked to him, but Melany didn’t hear a thing. Then he turned to her, his kissable lips moved up and down, and she realized abruptly that she wasn’t invisible.            “Huh?” she said.            “What’s the story with that?” he said, pointing at the fountain.            Melany cleared her throat.            “It’s a fountain that runs on solar power.” She had to justify herself. “For a science fair. At school.”            “That’s cool.”            That’s cool. He said it was cool. Was that a compliment?            “Thanks,” Melany mumbled.            He left the table, left her in shock. Next time, she’d look him in the eyes.            “A toast to our little genius,” her father said, raising his glass.            Melany glanced back—the waiter wasn’t looking—and went for the bread.            When she had won first place, she had forgotten to smile. When they gave her the medal, she was looking at a boy who wasn’t looking at her. When they took the picture, the boy was talking to some pretty girl who made a cheerleader skirt with napkins.            It wasn’t like it was all that mattered, but kinda. You could be broke, sick, have a job you hate, but if someone loves you, you’re fine. The Beatles said it.            There was a tradition in their family of women making the first move. Her grandmother loved the man who lived across the street. At night, she’d sneak in his place to leave little paper doves by his window until his brother tackled her to the floor, and as he was about to punch the lights out of her, the lights turned on, and confused grandpa, in his pajamas, said “Abby?” They spent the rest of their lives together. Her mother threw herself down the stairs so she could break her leg and spend time with a charming physiotherapist, Melany’s father.            Would she fail at being the successor in this chain of determined women? Would romance die with her, alone in a dark apartment, of a cholesterol-induced heart attack, surrounded by cats?            The waiter came back and Melany pulled her shirt down, tried to straighten up.            He took their orders.            “Blablaboo babadadou kranitchidu,” Melany babbled.            The waiter nodded and wrote it down elegantly, charmingly, sexily. He smiled at her. Her blood froze.            Was he flirting? Couldn’t be. She was fat. But maybe he liked that. Somehow. Why would he bring more bread? Why fatten his future wife if he wasn’t into thickness?            It wasn’t like looks were all that mattered, but kinda. You could have the personality of Mother Teresa dipped in honey, no one would know if they didn’t even look at you, let alone talk to you.            “Melany?” her mother said.            “Huh?”            “I said what’s next for you? Did you decide what you wanted to do for college?”            “Sure.”            Her gaze drifted to the waiter filling people’s glasses with his pitcher. Such a strong, helpful man. She downed her glass of water, and pushed it to the side of the table, in a very visible spot.            “Melany?” her mother said.            “College doesn’t matter mom,” Melany said. “The Beatles.”            Her parents looked at each other.            When the heavenly waiter came back with the plates, poured the wine, and filled the water glasses, Melany didn’t look up. She wanted to compliment him on his great job, but it would have sounded dumb.            She downed the water in one big gulp. Her mom and dad made small conversation, rambled about aunt Susan’s mischievous Labrador, talked about politics and renovations and whether they should have a pool or a garden.            The waiter appeared in the corner of Melany’s eye. She jumped, brought a hand to her mouth, threw the half bread back in the basket, and hid the pasta under the salad. Chew faster, chew faster.

“Everything alright here?” the waiter said. He said it to her. He looked straight at her.            She nodded, mouth full of bread. The temperature rose in her cheeks. He poured water with the grace of an angel. Before Melany’s mouth was free to say thank you, he was gone.            She downed the water. Her bladder was filling up. She watched him walk away, stop at tables with better-looking women, smiling women, confident women, on-top-of-the-world women.            “Are you dehydrated?” her mother asked.            Melany turned to her father.            “What do you find in her?” she said, pointing to her mother.            “That’s not… nice,” her mom said.            “It’s not insulting,” Melany said. “It’s investigating.”            “Well,” her father said, unsure how to go about it. “She’s beautiful. She’s fun. She’s nice.”            “Give me some substance, dad. You just described a cat.”            “She… She knows what she wants. She’s loving and smart. What exactly do you want me to say?”            “How did you know she was all that? Mom, how did you let him know you were all that?”            Her mother took a sip of wine.            “Huh… I was just… myself. And I guess we connected.”            “Careful, there’s modesty falling out your mouth.”            “Do you have someone in mind, Melany?”            “No.”            “Sounds like you do.”            “You got something on you.”            Melany reached across the table to wipe sauce on her mother’s shirt and knocked over the glass of wine in the process.            “What’s going on with you?” her mom said.            And then came the waiter, like a fireman through fire, to clean up the mess. Melany’s red face reflected in the wine glass.            “Sorry,” she said.            “Hey, no problem,” the waiter said. “You just added some excitement in my day. I feel like in a Bruce Willis movie.”            Melany laughed, a weird and too loud laugh, the shriek of a fat pterodactyl. It squeezed her bladder. As time passed, as their plates emptied, as she looked at her empty glass of water wondering when he’d come back, the pressure was getting unbearable. But she couldn’t go to the restroom. What if she missed him? What if he wanted to talk to her again?            But at some point, she had to go.           She hurried to the bathroom, ignoring people’s stares, and relieved her bladder. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could flush away all the things that accumulated inside you over the years? The shame, the self-loathing, the regrets. There was no mechanism to evacuate the toxic waste produced in our brains.            If she didn’t ask him out, she’d regret it for the rest of her life. If there was even the shadow of a chance he liked her, she had to do something. Honor the succession of proactive women in the family. Make a move. He couldn’t do it, he was at work. But she could. She would.            She grimaced in the mirror. In what universe was it possible that a waiter would like something like this? Her hair was kinda nice. Kinda. That was something.            Back at the table, she realized, in horror, that she had missed him. Her mother was putting the credit card back in her wallet. The bill lay face down on the table. Her father was getting ready to put on his coat.            Melany looked at the tip they had left.            “Really mom? Fifteen dollars? What does a man have to do to be respected in this world?”            She dug in her pocket, pulled out her worn-out purple wallet, and took the five-dollar bill she was saving to buy batteries for the card-shuffling robot she was building. She placed it on the bill next to the little mint candies. The blue ones.            “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.            “Again?” her mom said.            “Wait for me in the car.”            Melany looked back at her parents putting their coats on and heading for the door. Her dad had the fountain in his hands. The waiter was leaning on the bar, chatting with the barmaid. The hot, thin barmaid.            Melany stopped, then pushed forward again. One step at a time. He would admire her courage, her knowing what she wanted, like her dad found in her mom. The pressure in her chest grew as she approached the bar. She passed a hand through her hair, straightened her back.            She put a hand on the bar. They didn’t notice her.            “What was that… thing about?” the barmaid said. “Who brings a machine to a restaurant?”            “Probably a butter fountain,” the waiter said.            They both laughed. Then turned toward her. Gave another suppressed little laugh.            Melany was frozen there, at the end of the bar.            “Did you enjoy your meal?” the waiter said.            Melany unstuck herself from the counter and dragged her feet away. Truth kills. It was just a façade, a routine trick to charm customers. For her, it was hope shattering. A slap back to reality. A memory that would burn her for years to come. Tears tried to slip out, but she held them back.            He was too good for her. Her fat self. He was good-looking, he was charming, he was… kind of shitty. Fake. Mean. What would she do with a guy like that?            Melany stood in the middle of the restaurant. People were turning their heads. The waiter and barmaid were probably looking too. Let them look.            Let them laugh. Let’s see if his cute barmaid could build a solar-powered fountain.            On her way out, Melany grabbed a handful of mints in the glass bowl, and shoved them in her mouth one after the other. She turned to the waiter, opened her mouth wide, revealing the chewing candies. Then walked out with a mouthful of love.


Life at that moment seemed to stop. How could she do such a thing? Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought my sister was capable of hurting me in such a way. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. I walked into the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my sister. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it held all the necessitates. There is a bedroom for each of us, a bathroom, kitchen, and small living room just big enough for a couch and t.v. Our parents were never around much growing up, so my sister and I looked out for each other. We are very close, and I’d like there are no secrets between us, but I know that’s not true because I keep one big secret from her. Our parents died shortly after I turned eighteen, so I got a job, rented this apartment, and Sue came to live with me. We’ve been on our own ever since. Life’s been rough. We almost got evicted a few months ago, but I came up with the money just in time. A few weeks ago, our grocery bill had to stay under twenty dollars. That was a tough week. I had to change things. I had to make things better, not just for her, but for myself too. I got a new job last week with twice the pay of my last one. I decided not to tell Sue. I don’t want her to worry. My job is a little dangerous, and she has enough stress just trying to finish her last year of high school and applying for scholarships. I get paid every two days instead of once a week. It’s the best job ever! I don’t even work regular work hours, so I can be home to help Sue around the house and stuff more. She seems to like that I’m around more, and I enjoy spending time with her again, like when we were kids. We started planning family nights. Her idea, not mine, but it’s kind of nice. Mondays are game night, and Thursdays are dinner together night. I always make sure I’m home on those nights. There’s a boy at school Sue likes, and she wants to bring him over for our dinner night on Thursday so we can meet. I’m a little nervous cause I’m not really sure what Sue expects from me. I’m just her brother, not her dad. Would it be awkward if I grilled the guy for information to make sure he’s a good guy? I guess I’ll just wait and see what happens that night. Sue likes him, so I have to believe he's at least decent. I have a feeling, no matter who she brings home, I’ll never think they are good enough for my little sister. The boss gave me a big job to do tonight. He says I’m ready for the big leagues, whatever that means. I’ll be working late, and Sue looked disappointed when I told her it would be after midnight when I got home. I don’t think she likes being alone in the house after dark. I guess if I were a girl, I’d get scared of being alone too. I told her not to worry and to call me if she needed anything. I handed her a piece of paper with my cell phone number on it. “When did you get a cell phone?” She looked at the paper in her hand then back up at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “My boss gave it to me. He said he needed to be able to get ahold of me at all times.” We said our goodbyes, and I headed out the door. Twenty minutes later, I walked up to the back door of a run down apartment complex. Jimmy, the boss's right-hand man, let me in. A big shipment of goods was coming in tonight, and I was going with them to pick it up. Normally I was just a runner, and the idea of working my up higher in the business was exciting, and a little scary. The plan was laid out, and we hopped into the truck and took off down the road. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. These guys used a lot of abandoned places. It was strange because I knew they had enough money to buy or rent a place, but instead, they chose to use places no one wanted anymore. We pulled inside the warehouse and waited. Moments later, another van pulled in behind us. Jimmy got out and walked to the back of our van, and I followed his lead. I had no idea what I was doing. I leaned against the back doors of the van so the other guys would think this was no big deal to me. But my insides were churning with each second that passed. Jimmy was fidgeting, and I knew something wasn’t right. I stood straight up and looked at him. His attention was on the van in front of us, and the men inside. “Get back in the van, now!” The urgency in his voice had me running for the front passenger side door, but before I could even reach the handle, men stormed the building. They came from everywhere, the front door, the back door, the office off to the left, and the white van parked behind ours. They barked out orders and pointed guns. I froze with my heart pounding away inside my chest so hard I thought it would burst. “Get down on the ground. Hands where I can see them.” The tall man pointed his gun at me while he yelled orders. I wasn’t the smartest person, but I wasn’t stupid enough to ignore someone with a gun pointed at me. I lay down on the cold cement floor and held my arms out to the side. Seconds later, a knee jabbed into my back, and my hands were cuffed behind me. The tall man pulled me to my feet. With his hand firmly on my elbow, we walked out the front door. My eyes went wide when I saw my sister standing there. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at me. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let you keep doing this. I couldn’t let you keep heading down this path.” I stared open mouth at her. How could she betray me like this? I was doing this for her. I turned my head to avoid her penetrating gaze. Even though she was the one who betrayed me, I was the one who felt ashamed of my actions as the police officer helped me into the back of his squad car.