“Well, we’re all agreed.” “That’s fine by  me.” “And you C?” “The morra night?” “Yes. Have you a problem with that?”  “Aye! A dinna think, A can dae it the morra.” “Hmmm! Why not, this time?” “Well, a’ve got ma art class the morra night.” “Art class C.? “ “Aye! It’s virtual - online ye know.” “Of course! You couldn’t miss it, could you?” “Naw, C. That art class of yours is second to none!” “A’m glad youse understand. Ah really don’t want tae miss it. Besides Dorrie wad think somethin’ wis up and be roon here at the toot.” “Well, she’d be right then, C. Something would be up. You’d be with us – B and I! Safe as houses.” “Aye but..... .” “For God’s sake! Will ye’ no listen tae yersel! Whit dis it matter if she comes roon.” “You don’t know Dorrie. She aye likes to get her tuppence worth in. Can we no leave it tae Saturday night? She’s got her online yoga then an’ meetin’ wi’ her pals. A wee drink online.” “Ok. Saturday night then.” “Aye! That wad be fine.” “Hey, you two – A., C..  Have youse forgotten a’m here? Forgotten that B. is after A. and before C.! ” “No of course not,” “Naw. How could A forget ma best friend, B!” “Best friend? Well, ye’ could’a fooled me. It sounded tae me like that was Dorrie.” “Oh, don’t be silly, B! Ye’ know fine well Dorrie’s ma carer.” “Well, ye’ could’a fooled me, the way ye’ve been goin’ on. Last week it was ‘ DORRIE ’s comin’ round wi ma shoppin’. The week before it wis ‘ DORRIE ’s gettin’ me fish and chips.” An’ noo’ it’s ‘ DORRIE would be round here at the toot.’” “Awwww! Don’t be like that. Ye’ know that’s not true. A’ want this tae work, just much as you. It’s jis’....” “...Dorrie’s coming round. I don’t think YOU want to do this at all!” “Ach, B. That’s no’ true.” “Is!” “Is not!” “Is!” “Will you two just listen to yourselfs. B.? C.? Stop it now.” “Well A., I’m thinkin’ of doin’ it masel and fuck you two tae hell. A’m fed up waitin’.” “NO!” “NAW!” “We agreed B. We do this together or not at all. No leaving anybody behind.” “Aye! We agreed. All for one and one for all. Dinnae be so selfish.” “All for one and one for all. Don’t make me laugh! An’ anyway, me selfish? I’m no the one dragging this oot! IT’S YOU Two! C CANNOT MAKE His MIND UP and A., YOU JUS’ PLAY ALONG!!!” “Stop shoutin’. Will ye? Yer doin ma heid in,B. A canna tak this ony mair.” “Aw right a’m sorry. Wee C his had enough. Oh, poor wee C.! Will ye’ get yersel the gither man! This is no aw aboot you! There’s us to be considered. Me and A.” “We agreed! We agreed! We’d choose a time when we were ready and a’m no ready yit. There ye are, A’v said it.  A’m no ready. Are ye happy noo!” “Don’t cry C. I know how you feel. I think about it all the time. What will happen after when its done. I wonder sometimes if its the right thing to do or if we should leave it. Leave things as they are. Continue as we are.” “Jesus Christ! No you too! ‘Leave things as they are.’ ‘Continue as we are.’ ‘A’m no ready.’ Listen tae yersels! Are youse no a selfish pair a scunners!”  “B, please! I know how you feel. I was only........” “ NO YOU DON’T! Don’t make me laugh. Your no sittiın’ on yer own day efter day. I havnae got a Dorrie to bring me fish an’ chips. I havnae got your stoicism A. A’v had it up to here. Ane day runs intae anither. The boy frae the Grocer’s comes once a week. Somebody from yon resiliance group drops ma prescription by the door every month. It’s always somebody different, waving at me through ma door. So, ye see I canna wait. A’m doing it now.” “Naw, A’m away.” “B. Don’t you dare. We promised. I’m away before you break your promise.” “Huh! Look what I’m left with now! A bloody blank screen and nae sound. Well, I’ll teach that pair o’ scunners. I think I’ll have a wee dram on my own.” **************** “Oh,C! Look,here comes B. I told you C.. He’d come back. Hello there B!” “Hello!” “Where’ve ye been? We were kinda feart for ye? Thought ye’d joined anither group an’ done it.” “Naw. Ah jist sat here moapin’ drinkin’ Gin an got tae thinkin’ youse are no bad. So, a’m back.” “Well, we’re glad you are,” said A. “Yes we are an’ we hivnae done nothin’. We’ve been waitin’ fur ye an’ we’ve bee talkin’. We kent ye’d be back.” “Naw ye didnae. Tell the truth.” “Well, we hoped ye’d be back. That’s the truth. That’s why we waited.” “Yes we did, but first I’ve a confession to make……” “No, no! Youse don’t need to say anythin’. Ah had a chance tae dae a load a thinkin, when I wis dry when ma last bottle of gin finished last week. So, I had a lot a time ye ken. Youse two are ma best friends. An when I hear C. talkin’ aboot Dorrie, A’m just jealous. A know a shouldnot be. Youse’ve got a life outside of me. An’ A know A. your like me, yer on yer own. A find it hard tae say A’m sorry, but ye’ll know A am. Sorry that is.” “Well, just stop right there. Don’t say any more. Let me finish what I started. I have a confession. You see, I’m not really on my own. My wife is in the next room every time we talk.” “Oh.” “A knaw. A got a big surprise tae. A. hid that right weel.” “Mmm.” “Are you there B.? Please, say you are? I am sorry.” “Mmm.” “B.talk tae us will ye.?” “Mmm.” “B.? Please! Allow me to explain, will you?” “Aye!” said C. “It’s an awfy sad story. Ye’ll want tae greet. Ye will.” “Think I need another drink. Damn! A’ve no got any. Och an empty glass will do for you. Well, A., here’s to you. Ye done it again.” “What have I done again? For god’s sake man! What have I done again.” “If you don’t know, A’m no tellin’!” “Oooof! How ur we spposed tae ken if ye dinnae tell us.” “Sssh! Sssh,C. It’s me. I wasn’t straight.” “Bingo!” “See, A knew ye knew.” “I really am sorry B. but she’s not easy to talk about. She’s got dementia.” “Oh, aye, A knew that  but you said she wis in a care home. Rose Manor park, you said.” “I know what I said B. But with all the pandemic stuff I took her home. I wanted her here. I wanted to be sure...be sure that she was safe. But it didn’t work quite like that.....” “Oh, aye an’ why wis that?” “She...she..she’s been as safe as me. We’ve been shielding. No going out. No meeting family or freinds. Shopping left at the door. Prescriptions too. But..... but .........” “Well, whit went wrong?” “She.. she... took it hard not being in her routine. Not being in her familiar surroundings. They warned me but I didn’t listen. I just wanted her here with me. But she’s got worse. Not long now I don’t think. She’s stopped speaking. She doesn’t even know me now. She did before on good days that is , but now she doesn’t have any good days.” “An, that’s it?”  “I’m sorry, B.. I really am.”

“For God’s sake B.. Huv ye no been listnin’! A.jis telt ye, she was really bad.” “But ye could’a telt me sooner. A’m no that bloody bad. A’d’ have understood.” “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. These calls are the only time I can really get away. Pretend nothing’s wrong. For an hour or two or how ever long we talk for, I am me. No problems. No Mary. Only me.” “Is that ‘er name? Mary, I mean?” “Yes. Mary. Such a lovely girl, when we met so long ago.” “Ah know. It’s like that. June was a wee daffodil when we met. Warm, fresh and....” “Daffodil?” “Aye, she was dressed like wan. It was a fancy dress party. We were ten.” “Aw A see.” “Aye, she was pretty. A pulled ‘er pigtails and she chased me. Could ay gi’ as good as she got, could ma June.” “A thought ye’ were on yer own B..” “Hmm… well…I am that. Just me. June’s no been here for a while noo” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “Me too.” “Don’t be! Packed ‘er bags, and left 10 years gone. Best thing she ever did. Good riddance I say. Better aff without. No naggin’. No comments aboot ma gin. No complaints aboot ma snorin’.”

“Still. I’m sorry. It’s not easy being on your own. Especially at the moment.” “Ye get used tae it.” “Dae ye hear from her?” “Naw, C. A’v no seen er since the day she walked oot the door.” “Did youse have weans?” “Your awfy nosey, aren’t ye?” “A’m only askin for the sake of conversation.” “Aye, right! Ye nosey bugger. But aye we had a daughter.” “Dae ye no see her?” “Naw! She’s doon in London. Married now. I’d no seen hide nor hair of her since her mother left, but she’s taen tae phoning me this wee while back.” “An ye like that?” “Whit is this? A bloody interrogation?” “A wis only askin’,” “YOU aye are! But yes A do. It breaks up ma week an’ she sends me wee parcels frae time to time.” “Ooh, that’s nice? Whit kinda stuff? Clothes an’ stuff like that?” “Naw. Wee sweetmeats. Hampers frae that Fortnum an’ Mason.” “Oooh! Ya lucky bugger! That sounds nice.There’s nuthin’ like family. Ma Dorrie’s great.” “Dorrie!” “Dorrie, what ever do you mean?” “Aye, Dorrie.” “I thought she was your carer.” “Aye, so she is, sort of, but she’s ma dochter too.” “A thought ye weren’t married.” “A’m no. Me an’ Jeannie never married. We were just really good friends an’ when Dorrie came alang..... weel we jis continued on the same. But we went on holiday the ‘gither an’ we ay spent Christmas the gither - the three of us you see.” “So, noo it’s ma turn. Do you still see Jeannie?” “Naw! Jeannie died last year. The covis.” “Oh, A’m sorry tae hear that.” “Me too. But at least you’ve got Dorrie and she does look after you.” “Aye that she daes. A cannae complain. Daed you an’ Mary have weans?” Eehh! Hmm.” “A’m sorry. A didnae mean tae pry.” “No, No. Your not prying. Your only asking. And no, we didn’t have children. We weren’t blessed.” “So,it’s jist you an’ Mary. That must be awful hard. Dae ye no hiv any help?” “We did before Mary went into the home. But now...nothing regular. Mary’s got a nephew  and  he and his wife help out. Then,I’ve got a right good neighbour who looks in from time to time.” “THEY CAN DO THAT DURING LOCKDOON? We cannae dae that up here. Nicola  wad hiv wir guts for gatters!” “Well, we formed a bubble with Joe and Etta. They live just a drive away. Then the neighbour’s really careful: she says she’s providing essential care. She’s a nurse you know.” “At least ye’v got somebody tae help. It cannae be easy.” “Well, that’s the only reason they let me take my Mary home. They tried to tell me she’d be safer with them than me.” “Ye’re jokin’,” “Naw! He’s no. Ma Rina, that’s ma daughter, she wis’ tellin’ me that her husband’s friend wanted tae take his mother home and they wouldna let him. They said she wis better off inside.” “That’s crazy! Aw they old folk died in they hames! Whit happened to the old lady? Did he get her hame” “Oh aye, he did that. In a box three months later!” “Good God!” “That’s why I wanted Mary home.” “Ye were quite right. A’m glad ye stuck tae yer guns.” “Yes…..well……I’ll never know what would have been best for her. This ruddy virus. All these ruddy lockdowns have been hell.” “Someone’s phone is ringing.” “Oh, that’s me. Jist a minute. Aye? Hullo. Oh, Dorrie, it’s you. Aye ye can come roon. No, a’v no had ma supper. Aye a wee cuppa tea an a slice a toast woud be nice. Okay. A’ll see ye. Bye. Guys a’ll need tae go ‘cos……” “Dorrie’s coming roon!”


A small lizard sluggishly scurried from a dead bush to beneath the floorboards of the stairs of an old rusted saloon. The heavy footsteps sounded like booming quakes to the reptile's ears. Its sand-colored body sank in with the ground around it acting as a makeshift shield against the eyes of the large predator. The lizard began to slow in its march to the stairs. Finally, its overheated body stopped completely, and the predator closed in. The lizard desperately tried to carry itself away, but the harsh sting of the sand beneath it and the boiling glow of the sun overhead stopped it in its tracks. The predator towered over the feeble reptile and crouched down, no doubt preparing to lap up its prey. A soft trickle of water droplets splattered on the reptile's back and spread across its body. It lifted itself up and gave a quick curious glance to its savior before retreating beneath the stairs. The man watched it hideaway through the eyeholes of a polished brown wooden mask. The cloaked figure of the man strode into the pub with a large blade in a glossy black sheath adorned with gold letters spelling Zephyr at his side. Some of the people in the bar gave a satisfied look to the blade, while others were too caught up in their stupor to give him a thought. The bartender studied the man with a mournful look. He took a seat in front of the bartender and pulled out his now-empty flask. "If you wouldn't mind," he said in a dry velvety voice. The bartender simply nodded and pulled out a large dusty container of water and began to pour. "Care to share your business here?" The bartender asked as the flask was nearly full. The man looked up at the bartender preparing to answer. The light of the pub shone through revealing the man's hazel eyes for a split second. "Ahh come on Brax, ain't it obvious? he's killed a Zephyra and put him in that blade, and now he's here to kill more," A large man said forcing his way into the conversation. "There are Zephyra here?" The cloaked man asked, a hint of worry muffled by the dominating tone of apathy in the man's voice. "Not here, but further in the Madlands there's a whole gang of 'em," The large man said with a devious grin. The cloaked man quietly considered the new information, looking down at the crusted wood. "Can I ask how you killed 'em?" The large man asked in a hushed tone leaning forward to the cloaked man. The cloaked figure let out a disappointed sigh, and in one motion he raised his back up, and in another, turned his head over to the large man as if to say, did you really just ask me that? "Ok sensitive subject, I get it," The large man continued. "So how's about you tell us how you got his soul in that there sword instead," He said with a grin that was a beating away from toothless. The cloaked man's concentrated gaze on him fell slowly into an almost shameful look at the floor. He snatched up his flask and stood up, heading for the door. "You can just never take a hint huh Groll," Brax the bartender spoke. As the cloaked man passed the bottom step and began his trek further into the Madlands, he heard the sturdy doors burst open quickly behind him and turned his head to look. "Hold up now!" The bartender pleaded racing to catch up to the man. "Listen, I know they're mutants but the Zephyras out there are good people," Brax cried. The cloaked man gave no response, staring at him with an expressionless wooden glare. "Just don't kill 'em, not all of 'em deserve to become a Zephyr like that," He begged, eyeing the black sheath on the cloaked man's waist. He stood with his robes gently fluttering at the whims of the wind, the light badge color perfectly reflecting the tone of the sand around him. "You asked about my business here," the robed man said. The bartender's eyes narrowed in confusion. The cloaked man unsheathed his zephyr blade revealing a long, thin silver blade with a slight reddish hue to it. "This used to be a good friend of mine," he said softly and sorrowfully, holding up the blade's hilt to the bartender. "He said he wanted to be buried in his homeland, so now I'm here," The man finished. Brax reached out and held the hilt of the blade for a moment. "So you ain't gonna kill none of 'em?" Brax asked. "As long as they don't try to kill me," He retorted. The bartender's eyes softened. He handed the blade back to its owner who promptly sheathed it. "May I ask your name?" The bartender beckoned. "Call me Shepherd," the man said with a smile in his voice. He turned away towards the Madlands readying himself for the journey ahead. The Madlands were just as described, endless deserts of quicksand that threatened to swallow up any who stood in one spot for too long. Towering dunes would rise up and crash into themselves as the roaring winds would throw gargantuan tufts of sand and plunge them back down. Truly you would have to be mad to want to be mad to reside here; either mad or a Zephyra. The man who called himself Shepherd wafted through the sandy blizzard that was the Madlands, needing to extremely careful not to leave his feet in one place for too long. Every now and then when a particularly powerful gust of wind would shoot out at him he would have to unsheathe his zephyr blade and counter with a lashing flurry of wind himself. He looked down to his wrist holding the hilt of the blade and chose to leave it unsheathed, using its elemental power to condense to sand beneath him and make fit to traverse. He knew it wouldn't be long now, he was already deep in the Madlands and soon they would sense his blade and come for him if they weren't already. He had survived endless battles with his friend but now, looking down at what was left of him Shepherd's hands loosened. "I don't know if you can hear me," his voice dryer than ever before spoke. "You died for me, if it takes my life to see your final wish fulfilled," he paused for a few moments before exhaling heavily. "I'll see it done," he finished. The blade in his rattled against the leather coating his gloves as if in protest. He looked down at it wondering for a second if the blade really could hear him. It shot out of his hands and into the sandy fog ahead. "Damn," Shepherd said to himself. All around the world rumbled as herculean bolts of wind crashed into him from every direction and squeezed his body. Swirling tendrils of dust became clear around Shepherd's body, slithering and constricting him like snakes. As the storm began to settle the silhouettes of several people became clear. The most prominent of which stepped out in front of him raising his foot high in the air and coming to rest it on Shepherd's chest. "Gotcha," the man said with a gleeful smile. He had a mad wide open look in his eyes and sharp jagged teeth. Half of his face had a red faded burn mark and his blond hair was rippled in the wind that vaguely resembled the embers of a flame. "Now, I don't usually talk to you mongrels," he continued. "But, quite frankly, you don't seem like all that great of a Zephyra hunter," "I'm not a hunter," Shepherd said calmly. "I'd almost believe you considering how bad you are at it," the man snickered. "But then there's this little fella," he said holding up the zephyr sword for Shepherd to see. "Tell me, what brings a man kill another and make a weapon out of him," he asked his mad eyes narrowing with contempt. Shepherd looked down at the ground watching the sand crept up his leg threatening to drag him under. "I didn't kill him," Shepherd protested. The man's mad grin faded into a distasteful snarl. "Convincing," he retorted before using the foot on Shepherd's chest to push him to the ground. "Can we kill him yet," a crazed voice hissed from behind the man. "Go nuts," He said waving his back as if to call off an order. The dust around him condensed and squeezed his body further as the sand consumed more and more of his body. He felt his bones beginning to splinter under the pressure and his eyes felt like they would pop out. Just as he was beginning to accept his end the force lifted. He fell to his knees and felt something metallic brush up against his boots. He opened his eyes to find his zephyr blade sliding to him through the sand. He shot up blade in hand and prepared to blast a powerful force of wind at his assailants before the man's words rang in his head. Turning a man into a weapon. He looked down at his friend. "That won't be your legacy," he said softly.


It was a Tuesday afternoon when Lila, our new Pilates instructor, walked into the gym with a ghost from my past behind her. I stood behind the gym’s counter, wiping sweat from my forehead after my afternoon strength training, and flashed my most dazzling smile. My face froze when I noticed the girl with brown skin and thick-rimmed glasses behind her.

Nina Suárez.

Lila waved and the corners of Nina’s mouth quirked upward in a polite acknowledgement of my presence, but her eyes did not light up, her smile did not widen. She followed behind Lila to the wood floor classroom, tossing her thick hair over her shoulder.

She didn’t recognize me. But no one from high school would recognize me now, unless they were my friend on social media. The scrawny class president with glasses and terrible haircut was long gone.

I busied myself with wiping down the gym equipment, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my chest as the bass of cheerful pop music leaked through the doors. Eventually, the class ended, and the two women approached the desk. I strode over, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “Good class?”

“Hi, Archie. Yeah, lots of good energy today,” said Lila. “Can you log my timesheet?” “No problem.” I stepped behind the desk and clicked around the computer, shooting a glance past Lila’s shoulder.

“Hey, Nina Suárez. Long time no see.” I had always called her by her first and last name in high school, ever since we were partners for a project in AP history class our sophomore year. She pushed her glasses up her sweaty nose as her eyes grew wide. “Archibald Greene?”

I placed my forearms on the counter, adopting a pose of ease even as my heartbeat increased. “The one and only. You’re back in town?”

She adjusted her gym bag, giving me time to admire her post-workout glow. “Yeah. Lila’s my roommate. She convinced me to try her class. What she did

not  tell me was that I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs after. Or arms.” She glowered at Lila, who shrugged.

“You’ll thank me later!” Lila waved and headed out the door, her blonde ponytail swinging with every step.

The gym was quiet, so I kept the conversation rolling. “What are you up to nowadays?”

“I just bought the sweetest little bookstore. I’m opening in a few weeks.”

“I’ll have to stop by.”

She grinned. “And you? You’re working here?”

“Yeah. My buddy Nate owns the place. I teach bootcamp classes.”

Her eyes flicked to the black and white photos behind the counter, a collection of the staff and their fitness accolades. “Hang on, is that you?” She stared at the photo of me in board shorts, flexing on a stage and wearing a medal.

“Men’s physique champ of 2019.”

“What’s that?”

“A bodybuilding competition. It’s for guys who don’t want to go full Arnold in their training.” “Wow.”

“It’s good exercise.” She ran her eyes over my arms, the fabric of my T-shirt pulled tightly against my biceps. “Clearly.” Then she blushed and pulled out her phone. Before I could ask if she wanted to grab dinner this weekend, she was leaving. “Sorry, I’m running late. I’m meeting my contractor soon. I’ll see you later.”

I watched her walk out into the sunny parking lot, passing under palm trees, and wondered why my limbs felt so tingly.

# If there was one thing that I learned in college, it was that girls didn’t like nerds. They liked guys with big muscles who could toss them around the bedroom, even if I still felt like the quiet, studious kid from high school. I also learned that with the right tricks and confidence, I could pull any girl I wanted.

The next time I saw Nina’s name pop up on the pre-registrations for Pilates, I made sure I was in position. I did my warmup, stretching thoroughly. I was going for a new personal best on my Olympic lift today, a classic ploy to impress. I waited until 3:50, knowing that Nina and Lila would be the last two to leave class, then called Nate over to be my spotter. A bunch of people paused their workouts to watch. With the small crowd at my back, I concentrated on my form. I envisioned my success as my hands wrapped around the metal bar. I lifted, clenching my core. The weights soared, my quads screamed as I held the bar over my head in my squat position, then forced myself to stand upright, completing the clean. Grunting with effort, I let the 270-pound barbell fall to the ground where it hit the rubber turf with a clang.

Nate whooped, and the rest of my audience cheered. I looked past them and saw Nina at the counter. She smiled as she shook her head, then walked out of the gym.

Since she was unmoved by my performance, I tried other tactics. I brought Nina protein shakes, gave her a free class pass (which she politely refused), and finally resorted to asking Lila about her. She was single, but other than that I didn’t get more than “she’s really busy getting ready to open her store.” I begged Lila to ask Nina about me. She rolled her eyes. “You know her better than I do. Maybe try doing something she likes.” Then she waltzed into the classroom, leaving me to spiral behind the desk.

# Two weeks went by, and when Nina still hadn’t accepted my friend request on Instagram, I knew I had to do something drastic. So, when I saw her name on the list for Pilates, I clicked my name into the roster and sealed my fate, taking Lila’s advice. I spread one of the gym’s yoga mats next to Nina and sat down. She raised an eyebrow at me. “Trying something new today, Archibald Greene?”

“Thought I would give it a whirl.”

She smirked. “Too bad all those muscles can’t save you from the pain you’re about to endure.”

I could handle a few mat exercises. At Lila’s instruction, I grabbed a pair of measly eight-pound dumbbells and strapped on some ankle weights, loading them up fully and ignoring her recommendation to go lighter for my first class.

To my chagrin, it turned out that Pilates is really fucking hard. Fifteen minutes into class, I was sweating so much I had to keep wiping down my mat. I made a mental note to make Nate buy the nice, grippy kind that Nina had brought with her. She didn’t slide around hers at all. We also didn’t drop our weights once, and soon those eight-pound weights felt like sixty.

After our warm-up, we moved to the reformers, machines that looked suspiciously like medieval torture racks. I lay down on my sliding platform and grabbed the straps. Halfway through class, we held our feet in the hair in a boat pose, pulsing our arms up and down at our sides. The amount of shaking that was happening throughout my torso could have registered on the Richter scale. I dared to look at Nina, who was perfectly at ease in her pose, though her hair was plastered adorably to her forehead with sweat. She caught my eye and pinched her lips together, stifling a laugh.

“We’re coming into our final set here, folks,” chirped Lila with eight minutes left of class. “Remember, breath to movement!” She took her place on her own reformer. “If you would like to level up, I invite you to join me in some advanced technique.” She placed her hands behind her head and stuck one foot onto the sliding platform, bracing the other against the wooden structure. “Who’s ready to burn their legs?”

The class chuckled.

Some did not opt for the advanced forms, but I was no quitter. I stuck my foot onto the slider and braced my hands behind my head, noting that Nina did the same. With the strength of her legs, Lila demonstrated how to glide the platform out a few inches until she was doing a sort of split, then slid in again.

Every inch of me was slick with sweat. I inhaled deeply, trying to focus. If I could get through this class, then Nina

had  to talk to me again. This time I would ask her out. I inched the slider forward ever so slightly, but my foot shot forward off the platform, greased up from my own perspiration, and I blacked out as pain ripped through my quad. # Back out in the lobby, Nina sat with me as I clutched an ice pack to my thigh. The triumph of talking to her again was buried under waves of pain and embarrassment. Nate clapped me on the shoulder as he walked by with his car keys. We were headed straight for the walk-in clinic.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” asked Nina, placing a water bottle on the table in front of me and tucking a book back into her gym bag.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” I winced.

“I thought power lifters knew ego is the enemy.”

“You’re confusing me with a smart power lifter. I am a dumb bodybuilder. One who is desperately trying to impress a girl he likes.” Jesus. What was I saying? The pain was making my tongue loose. My thoughts were hazy. I gulped from the icy-cold water bottle, hoping it would help clear my head.

Nina smiled sadly. “Maybe next time you could try talking to Lila like a sane person instead of showing off in her class.”

“Wait, what?” A numbness that had nothing to do with the cold water settled in my gut.

“If you just asked her out, you’d save yourself all this trouble.”

“Did you say ‘Lila’?”

“And good for you, she’s always liked the brawny ones. I still prefer more intellectual types, but it’s obvious you’re obsessed with her.”

I scrubbed my free hand over my face. “Nina Suárez.”

“Archibald Greene,” she deadpanned, like she hadn’t said the craziest thing I’d heard in my life.

“I don’t like Lila.” Suddenly my face was hot, and I felt sixteen again, full of self-conscious nerves.

Nina squinted at me, then her mouth fell open. “Oh.”

At that moment, Nate hollered at me to get a move on. Nina held the door open for me as I limped outside, embarrassment turning my insides to acid. # In the walk-in clinic, Nate asked me what the hell I’d been thinking, and I told him the whole story. How I had always had a crush on Nina, and almost asked her to prom then chickened out. How this was my last chance at dating her, and I was completely fucking it up. My mood did not improve when I heard I’d be on crutches for a month.

I took a week off, stewing in what Nina had said about preferring the more intellectual types. I had shoved that part of my identity away, burying it under whey and weights. It had worked so far. Hadn’t it?

Laying on the couch and feeling sorry for myself, I flipped through Instagram. I saw a post from Nina, who’d finally accepted my request. Tonight was the grand opening of her romance-themed bookstore. With a burst of resolve, I dragged myself off the couch to make myself presentable. The bookstore swarmed with people. I maneuvered through them clumsily and grabbed a book off the shelf before limping over to where she stood behind the register, glowing with pride. She raised an eyebrow at me as her face split into a grin. “Interesting choice.”

I glanced at the cover: a buff hockey player and a petite figure skater on an ice rink. “Is it any good?” “Yes, once the guy stops posturing and asks the girl of his dreams out.” I smiled as warmth spread through me. “Nina Suárez. Will you go out with me?”


Words Lucinda Heck Sloan She stood for what seemed hours before the mirror without doing a thing. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All she could see what the uvula at the back of her mouth. She thought hers was too big and immediately closed her mouth. Trying some vocal warmups that she had learned in a theatre class, she hummed, buzzed, and did some tongue twisters. She took deep breaths as she raised her hands above her head and exhaled slowly as she lowered them. These did help her relax, but the tension in her shoulders was like a vise. She did some stretching exercises she had learned at the Y. Feeling better she went back to the mirror. She closed her eyes and tried to talk. Only gibberish came out. “Come on, grow up, you’re an adult. This is easy.” She sighed and wondered if there was something psychologically wrong with her. “No! Don’t be ridiculous. You said ‘yes’ to this, and now people are depending on you.” “I’ll get dressed and take my time putting on makeup,” she told herself firmly.  Applying makeup was a kind of ritual for her. As a professional singer, she took her time doing this knowing that the lights could show every flaw. Also, audiences could be brutal. You had to meet their expectations for a classical singer, especially one they considered a diva.  Not too much though you want people to recognize you.” So many women overdo the makeup and then look like a mortician had done it. She went to the bathroom, sat down in the makeup chair, pulled back her hair and started. After washing her face and putting on her daily routine of serum and lotion, she smoothed on the foundation and messaged her face. It felt good, the muscles around her lips seemed to relax, a smile appeared. Then touch of color on the cheeks, eyeliner but no shadow, some highlighting on the below the eyebrow and below her eyes, and a damask-rose gloss lipstick. Satisfied with the understated look, she went to the closet to get the dress. It was ivory with navy-blue lace trim around the neckline, the cuffs of the sleeves, and the hem of the dress. The lace also had small yellow flowers attached to it. She really loved the dress and was willing to pay the exorbitant price. She then returned to the mirror in her living room to take a careful look of herself and the image she projected. Immediately she put her fingers over her lips. The action, she knew, was an attempt to stop saying something or letting the words out. But she had to say them. “I won’t cry,” she demanded of herself. Getting a drink of water and sitting in a chair did not help. The water ‘went down the wrong tract’ and she coughed expelling all the water in a single blast. “I’m glad it was only water. What a horrible stain this would have made on new dress.” She got up and patted the dress with a towel from the bathroom. She sighed deeply, “I do look good, and that should help when in front of the people. I get nerves like this when I perform and after the first note things go fine.” Pacing around her room, she stopped and tried on her shoes. Her feat had swollen, and they hurt. “I will have to endure it; I don’t have another pair.” She kept them on hoping she would get used to the pain. It was already 1 pm and she had to leave by 2. She became nauseated and laid down on the bed. “I can do this. I must do this.” Being this nervous was something she had not counted on. She had spoken in front of people many times. “I’ve travelled all over giving lectures, performances  and workshops. My reputation was on the line with those, and I didn’t even break out on a sweat.” With this thought she lifted her right arm checked for perspiration and any odor. No she was fine, but then immediately noticed that her face was moist and her makeup was running. She folded a piece of paper and started to fan herself. “I will put on some jewelry. My grandmother’s pearls should be great; they are long and elegant.” As she worked to close the clasp the chain broke, and the pearls spilled onto the floor. At this point she began to cry. There was a light knock on the door. “Is everything okay? Do you need any help?” “No, I am fine. I am forty and should be able to get myself ready. I need to fix my makeup. The eyeliner is too dark, and I put it on too thickly. Be ready in ten.” She suddenly felt too old to be doing this. “It is time to have love in your life beyond the music.” For the longest time music provided her with all the emotions she needed to feel. Every emotion that can possibly be experienced is embedded in music. But this was a false life and there was no risk involved. They had met backstage after a rehearsal. He was a man’s man; unlike anyone she had ever thought of dating. Putting her hand on his shoulder she asked him if he could turn on some lights so she could find an earing she had dropped. “Of course. And by the way you sound great today. You know I listen every day, so I have a good sense of your voice. You are in fine voice today, fresh and relaxed.” Taken back by his remark she realized he was right. It was a good day for her. She had sung through the scene effortlessly and with a deep understanding of the text she was singing. She was not just going through the steps. “Thank you! You are very perceptive.” “I studied music in college. I tried my hand a being an accompanist, but I never found a singer I really liked as a musician or a person. I was too picky my friends told me. I had such strong ideas on how the music should go that I never gave the singer room for their own ideas.” “So now you work in the nuts-and-bolts area of opera. Do you miss playing?” “Actually no, I find watching and listening, and of course criticizing, amply fulfilling. The guys back here say I should write a column for a magazine or newspaper. ‘A View from the Rear’ or something like that. I may try my hand at that.” They talked for a few more minutes and they found her earing. “Would you like to go for coffee or something after the rehearsal and I finish back here?” Without thinking she said yes. From there it went from a mutual love of music to friendship, and then to love. She answered ‘yes’ immediately when he asked her to move in with him and ‘yes’ to the marriage proposal. So why were these two words ‘I do’ so impossible to say? Like an answer that comes to you in the middle of the night she knew why. This was not an opera where she could walk off stage and leave him on the set. He was a real person with a deep love for her and she was afraid she would not live up to his love. She had watched so many marriages fall apart because they put other things first, were gone from home too much, disagreed on having children, and even jealousy. At this age so much of this was in the past and now she had the opportunity to look forward and focus on all the things she had wished for when on stage. This was real life with risks and of course love. In the bathroom, with a washcloth, she dabbed her face and reapplied the foundation and rouge. She walked to the mirror but still could not say the words. Opening the door, she saw her family waiting with smiles on their faces. Walking towards them she could hear them saying: “Well its about time!” “You look so beautiful.” “Remember to smile.” “Here are your flowers.” Her father took her arm and led her to the back of the church. “Ready?” “Yes.” And then the words “I do,” came with love and confidence from deep within her.


She hadn’t even looked at the man who’d grabbed her hand, twirling her away from her last partner. The bar on the south side of Staten Island wasn’t a place she wanted to be. But her shy, dear brother had begged her to come home for the weekend and go bar hopping with him, and she’d reluctantly agreed, to arrive Saturday, explaining she had some work to do for her Middle English seminar.

She'd assumed they’d just sit around and watch the action. When he picked her up and the ferry terminal, she’d tried to get Tony to tell her why he wanted to come to this place, but the best she could get out of him was a mumbled sentence about needing to get out of the house—their parents’ small cape cod in a row of similar little houses.

He'd asked why she was wearing such a casual outfit, and puzzled, she'd explained that casual was normal at bars. She'd asked, "What did you think I'd be wearing?" "I thought a fancy dress, something cute...pretty. I put on a jacket, and you know how I hate ties?" Impatient with losing a night when she should be studying, she'd reached over and untied his tie, saying, "Trust me, kiddo. I've been to these places and now we look okay, unless Staten Island is so far behind the times." A few years ago, when her parents decided to move from the South Bronx because the small inheritance from her grandmother made it finally possible for them to buy a house, she’d been in her last year at Hunter College in Manhattan and had no choice but to move with them. Just turned eighteen, she was too young to do anything else. However, the moment she’d graduated, and won a small stipend to enter the graduate program and be a research assistant to a professor, she’d moved to Manhattan, to a hotel of choice for her fellow grad students. It was a short subway ride to the school, and even better easy to walk from there to the main branch of the New York Public Library, where they could research and write in peace and quiet. Her family was appalled at her decision. But they really had no choice. She’d always done things her way, and her being skipped ahead twice, her academic bent and strong arguments always won them over. They’d relaxed because she did spend many a weekend in her old attic room, especially late in the month when her money ran too low for any fun or, sometimes, food. The choice of Staten Island had made some kind of sense for her family. Her dad, a printer, worked down on Varick Street in Manhattan and it would be an easier commute for him than Long Island, the only other option in their price range. It also would be a way to get her much younger, surprise change of life twin brothers into a safer area and a better school given how the Bronx had changed, with the Italians and Jews moving to the suburbs thanks to the GI Bill, only to be replaced by new immigrants in the now decrepit tenements of the South Bronx. So here she was doing some kind of dance in a bar on Staten Island. As the dance ended, the man she’d been dancing with asked for her name and phone number. She smiled, saying that her boyfriend wouldn’t like that and quickly went back to the table where Tony sat, nursing a beer. "Tony, we're leaving. Now.” Tony said, “Are you sure…you’ve had a lot of guys ask you to dance, Barb.” She gave him a dirty look and started walking toward the door, knowing he’d follow. He did and quickly opened the car door for her then came around and got in, looking very unhappy. She grabbed the keys as he reached to turn on the engine, and said, in her most steely voice, “Okay, kiddo. What was this all about? We’re not moving till you look me in the eyes and tell me.” He slumped down, breathing hard, and said, “It’s Mom.” “And what does that mean?”

"She wants you to meet somebody and stop with this—and it’s her word— “nonsense.” You know, moving out, spending time in grad school when she thinks you need to become a schoolteacher and find someone, and again her words— “settle down.” I was so furious I commanded Tony, “Drive me back to my place now. If I see her, I’ll explode.” “No, it’s late and you need to talk to her. I’m tired Barb, tired of everything, especially my job. I can’t deal with all this,” and the tears running down his cheeks undid me. I’d always been protective of him, the baby brother I’d originally told mom to bring back to the hospital because I had asked for a sister. But someone whose smile and dimples, and hugs I’d come to adore. “Okay, I’ll stick with her plans for the night, but not this place. There are all sorts of these places out here.” He looked at me, almost frightened, and asked what I was going to do. I said, through gritted teeth,“ I’m going to get mom off this insane notion. Come on. Trust me.” “Barb, please, whenever you say that, it’s trouble in the making.” “Onward, Tony.” He started the car as I studied the places we were cruising past. I finally saw a place that looked promising and told Tony to pull in but to park at the far edge of the parking lot, and then to stand outside the car for a few minutes. I quickly got to work, adding enough makeup to have cat’s eyes and pouty lips, then I proceeded to squirm out of my bra, tear the back of the tee shirt I was wearing so I could knot it in back, exposing a lot of midriff in front. The final touch was to ruthlessly tear a few inches off the bottom of my denim skirt. Not too much because my thighs were a bit chunky. But my boobs were a solid double D and firm enough to scream sexy when going braless. I was ready, but when I emerged Tony blinked a few times, then muttered, “Who are...?” then moaning, “Barb, what the hell???” “We’re going in, now,” I said. I’d seen the sign saying, “Dancers needed.” Tony, concentrating on driving, hadn’t noticed it. When we walked in, I quickly found a table and left Tony there explaining I needed the lady's room. Instead, I walked over to the bar and asked where the manager was. What I thought was a bartender looked me over and said, “You saw the sign. Looking for a job?” I said, “Dancer.” He looked me over, then asked, “Floor or cage.” One of my friends at grad school was a go-go girl in a cage in Manhattan to earn money. I’d gone with a group of my pals to see her, and it looked like fun, which was what gave me the idea to do this.

“Cage,” I said, and he looked me over and said, “Those boobs make you worth a try. No promises, though.” “A try-out? I keep what they give me?” “Sure,” he said, leading me backstage.

I got in the gilded cage, and tried not to throw-up as he raised it, swung it around, and turned it to hover a few feet above the dance floor. Then the music started, and a colored light was shining on me.

I wasn’t a great dancer but could wiggle and wave my arms around to the music—boobs bouncing and, as Maria had done when we went to see her gig, leaning over every few minutes to let the boobs jiggle. Having hands reach in and touch me as money came in—into my shirt, panties, and sometimes landing on the floor of the cage interested me at first, then boredom set in, and I let my mind drift to the paper I was writing on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. I must have zoned out and didn’t even realize how long I’d been going, when the lights went out and the cage rose up and took me backstage. The manager was standing there, grinning, then said, “Time to see what you raked in.” I plucked money from my clothes and picked up what was on the floor of the cage. I was sore all over, so I asked him how long I’d danced. He gave me a chair and laughing said, “An hour. Time to count. If it’s enough for you after the house gets fifteen percent, you’ve got the job.” I’d earned sixty-nine dollars. But it absolutely was not what I wanted to do with my life, or even a couple of times a week—but it would be useful for the coming argument with my mother. “Not bad,” I said to the manager, saying I’d let him know in a day or two. He gave me his card and said I'd be on three times an evening, if I wanted it. I smiled and thanked him and went out to find Tony.

He was at the table where I’d left him, in deep conversation with some guy, a pretty good looking one. Interrupting, I said, “Hey there brother mine, I’m exhausted. Can we go now or? The man handed him a card and said, “Call me.” As I got in the car, I asked what that was about. He lit up, and to my utter surprise, said, “He’s a Marine recruiter.” “Tell me you aren’t thinking about…” “I am. I hate running a press. Hate it so much. Dad got me into the union, so he'll be disappointed, but not as upset as when I refused to go to college. Somehow, sister mine, I feel strong enough to push out of the nest. Watching you all these years doing what you believed in, protest marches, sit-ins must have rubbed off on me. I don’t know how you plan to handle Mom, but knowing you, when she blows up, I can jump in and distract her.” I reached over and kissed his cheek, so pleased and proud. When we arrived at the house, late as it was, the living room lights were on. And, of course, Mom was at the door to welcome us. She took one look at me and quickly backed away. Shaking her head, she shrieked, “What the hell are you wearing.” “Oh, I found a job. Pays well.” “What, as a hooker?” “No, as a go-go dancer.” “What did you just say?”, she demanded. “Dancer in a bar, in a cage. The men loved it, and it pays a lot.”

“Tony, she’s just kidding, right?” “No Mom. She’s good. Made quite a lot.” “I don’t care, no daughter of mine…” Mom’s voice had woken Dad who came out demanding to know what was going on. By the time Mom finished, Dad, who knew me far better than she did, had winked at me and was trying not to laugh. He coughed to get her attention, and said, “Look, Barb, I can help you out a bit with money, but you’re not going to do this. It’s back to school. And don’t say a word.” Mom seemed to be relieved, asking if we’d had fun,” looking at Tony. Tony, exhibiting an unusual for him amount of bravery, said, “I met this guy, he’s really interesting…” I jumped in and said, to stir the waters a bit, “And awfully cute. You two seemed to really hit it off.” The looks my parents shared almost cracked me up. I winked at Tony and ran up the stairs to my room. I figured that Tony finally had the courage to handle them.

The noise from downstairs was loud, but I was so tired from all the dancing, I fell asleep. Progress had been made. The poor dears had no idea how the boredom I had always felt when with them had turned me into an adventurous soul. After all, to me, the right way to raise kids is to teach them, like our feathered friends did with their offspring, to fly free. It makes me wonder what the two little birds still in their nest will do. Well, maybe, being raised in Staten Island, staying in the nest won't trouble them. Sad.


The man had been on my list for quite some time. The perfect candidate, a story of sadness, pain, and regret. Since birth, he had been marked by tragedy and it hung on his back. Its arms wrapped tightly around him, weighing him down. Did I pull some strings? Of course. In the beginning, I always do. It is much easier to guide somebody to inevitability if they have no hope. They no longer care about their choices afforded to them by free will. And if they were open to the choice, I was certainly going to take the opportunity to guide them to my end.

    He had summoned me many times before, but this time I obliged. It had been in the evening that I had received the call. At the time, I had been in my study reading. My favorite chair, a crimson red with a high-back and ornate dark woodwork along the edge, was positioned by the fire. The carvings on the wood held the faces of men and women with visages of torment and despair. It was while I was reading An Essay on Man that I heard the unmistakable sound of a deal, a quid pro quo, as it were. My interests piqued, I set out immediately towards the source.

    A man, blood-covered and sulking, sat in a damp and dirty jail cell. The green rotted stone walls perspired and throbbed, drawing in closer with each pulse. Slowly, he walked towards me from the back of the cell and placed his hands on the bars. His head was lowered slightly, but his eyes were fixed intensely on me behind his sweat-soaked hair. I stepped forward out of the darkness.   "You have summoned me. What do you want?" I said as I leaned against the keeper who was drunk and sleeping heavily, leaned back in his chair. An empty bottle of whiskey sat overturned on his desk.

    “Are you supposed to be The Devil?” he asked unphased at the thought.

    “If that is what you wish to call me,” I said and gave a slight bow. “And you are the infamous cattle-rustler and murderer John Ringgold.”    “You don’t know nothin' about me,” he said, spitting.

   “Ah, but I do. I have been watching you for a long time,” I said as I paced, clicking my cane against the rusted bars. “I know you. I know that gimpy walk you try to pass off as a cowboy gait because that man ran you over with the wagon. Was that?- Yes, it was, right before you saw your first murder. Dear old dad was there to set it right, wasn’t he? That man just had to pay.”   “Get to the fucking point,” he said.

I jumped up onto the desk, kicking the old man square in the jaw.

   “Oh! And then your daddy shot off his own head. Man, that was something. Couldn’t have been no more than fourteen from what I recall. Hell of a thing for a boy to see.” I said, pouting my lip in sympathy. “What a summer!” I laughed.

He scowled and curled his lip like an angry mutt.

  “You did that-”   “Oh no. I can’t take credit for that. That was the way his story was supposed to end. I didn’t write it. He did. Every choice he made led him to that point. Just like your choices have led you here.” I said opening my arms. “If you want to blame somebody, blame that guy,” I said pointing up. "We merely set the traps. You can go around them or go through them. Like I said it's all about choice."   “So the cards are stacked against me. What’s the point in even making the choice?” he grumbled.

    “Believe me I have sympathized over your lot in life. You’ve been dealt a most unfortunate hand. Despite what you might think, I am here to help. What do you want most of all, John?”

    “Power,” he said with certainty. As if he had always known exactly what he needed. "Power over those who stand in my way. I want them to fear me." The lantern flame flickered. The walls began to tremble as a rumbling from below arose and grew louder. Johnny held on to the bars. Legion answered through my voice.

    “Est virtus in tenebris,” they said in unison. It was quite entertaining, his lack of fear in my presence. Most were too afraid to speak until coaxed. I enjoyed this fear immensely, but he was numb to it.

   “You know the price of this then?” I asked as I stepped back.    “You can have it. I have no use for it,” he said.

In an instant I was on him, pulling him towards me against the bars. With my fingernail, I carved my ancient name into his chest. The signature glowed red as it burned his flesh and disappeared inside of him. He gritted his teeth but did not scream.

    “It is done.” I unhooked the keys from the keeper’s belt loop and tossed them to him.

    “Enjoy your ride. I’ll be seeing you soon.” I smirked and retreated back inside the darkness as quickly as I had entered.

    Johnny Ringo was the fastest gunslinger in the west. His skill with a pistol was rivaled by no man, not even by that hypocritical liar Wyatt Earp whose vendetta ride had taken the lives of those few Johnny had called friends. His reputation preceded him. With each town he visited, men and women looked upon him warily. His unpredictable nature was volatile, his temper short. And with each life he took, his debt to me grew equally larger. Trouble seemed to find him, or maybe he searched for it, feeling his invincibility as a result of our deal. But he found no solace in taking life, only the desire to fill that anger festering in him. His desire to inflict pain would not be sated. He could feel my presence looming and so he lived as ferociously as he wanted. Taking vengeance on those that had slighted him.

    Unfortunately, a man cannot thrive on vengeance alone and for my part, this would be a waste if his soul had been completely covered in black Stygian tar that quickly. There is no fun when it is this easy. It was at Skeleton Canyon that the seeds of regret sprouted within him. It was an ambush, payback for the massacre of a group of Mexican smugglers who had crossed the border.

    As his friend, Old Man Clanton, lay dying in his arms, a .44 caliber slug in his chest, he uttered his last words, “and for what? ” and slipped from that unforgiving world. And for what? $4000 in bullion and some cattle. That is what nine lives were worth.

    Months later he made his way west to San Jose in a pitiful attempt at reconciliation with his family, trying to find that last chance at forgiveness. His attempts were met with coldness as they had known what kind of man he had become. It was then, he realized there was no hope for redemption. Inevitability drew near, and nolens volens, he was bound to accept it.

    On the banks of Turkey Creek, I found him. It had been thirteen years since the jail in Mason County. I appeared out from behind one of the blackjack oaks that encircled, each growing from the same root. He aimed the gun straight at my face and pulled the trigger. This annoyed me slightly. I liked that face. With melodramatic effect, I flew backward.

    "Ohh oh you got me, you bastard!" I howled, exaggerating my reaction. My moans of anguish turned into a sinister chuckle that grew louder as I popped up from the dirt. The gaping hole in my head pouring blood over my face.

    “What a great shot! Just like your daddy,” I said as the hole closed itself. Of my many abilities, sarcasm was the one I enjoyed using the most. It took effect immediately and his face twisted, at first to bewilderment and then into rage. I laughed.

    "It ain't time to collect yet. This wasn't what we talked about," he said. The wind blew and whipped the dust up against his face. He moved back, shielding his eyes.

    “And what more would you do? What would you do with more time? You already made your choices. You can’t go back.” I yelled against the wind. “You feel that murky nothingness moving through your veins eating you alive from the inside out? That will never go away.” With a flick of my hand, I threw him against the forked tree. His gun fell to the ground. I picked it up and handed it to him.

    “You deserve this. I think deep down you know you do. You wished for power, but you’ve really been a coward hiding behind your bitterness. This is your chance to do the right thing.”

 I left him there and as I walked past those blackjack trees I heard a single gunshot. I smiled my most debonair smile at Johnny who was ahead and waiting. We walked forward together into oblivion. In darkness there is power.


Year of 2088

“Daniel, you’ve barely touched your plate. We have all this food yet you haven’t even glanced at the desserts,” Mother says. She waved over Sam, one of the maids that worked at my house, and asked her to start clearing the entrees.

“I’m not hungry,” I replied, clutching my stomach to keep the growling locked inside my empty stomach. The dining room, where these dinners were hosted, echoed the noises of unbridled rants regarding the business industry. I absolutely hated Friday dinners. Around 20 businesspersons, all dressed in suits and garnished with the most expensive and dazzling jewelry I’ve ever seen, all gather to discuss deals, partnerships, profit strategy– all concepts that my 11 year old mind cannot grasp. “Well you have to try something Daniel,” Mother said.

“If you only try one thing tonight, make it the pudding,” Michael, one of the businessmen sitting next to Mother, suggested. I slouched in my chair and sighed; Mother and Father only ever paid attention to me when other people were around.

I watched as my Mother dug the gold serving spoon into the dessert and plopped it down smack in the middle of the gold plate. Raising my spoon I took a bite. Except, there was no sweetness. I took another bite; the world faded as a separate force took over me. A rain of the most fervent emotions I’ve ever felt poured down, flooding every inch of my mind; the rush of unfamiliar, yet vivid, familiar feelings pounded my head. I tasted sadness. I tasted suffering. I tasted desperation and everything that a sweet dessert should never taste like. Multiple memories of mourning over someone. A sort of nostalgia, or a yearning desire. I’ve never felt this before, although, Déjà Vu spiraled eliminating my doubts, and I reached an epiphany that I’ve lived through this state of mind before; just not in this lifetime. There was a flash in my mind, followed by the quick image of a small kitchen. The background blurred, although a figure standing in the middle appeared in meticulous detail. I saw a young, lanky boy, his brown hair swooping just below his hazel eyes. It looked as if he cried for hours and never slept as his eye bags practically fell as low as his hair. His facial expression fully captivated the exact feelings I had just experienced, as if his life had been in a permanent turmoil. I’ve never seen this kid in my life, yet, I knew exactly who he was. It was me.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

The following morning I begged Father to have Sam gather the ingredients used in bread pudding. Father was on his way to an international convention and gave me the approval without even acknowledging my question.

“Here you go Daniel. Everything you need is laid on the counter and if you need anything I’d be happy to help,” Sam assured me as she ruffled my hair. Sam had always been there for me whenever I needed her.

I dragged over a stool from the closet and positioned myself in a methodical manner; the ingredients, all labeled, lined up in order next to the glass pan and spoon I was given to work with. In my mind, I had no clue what to do first. All I sensed was an array of unfamiliar bottles and scents. I have never made bread pudding before.

Daniel has never made bread pudding before, although the person he was decades ago made it a million times. Daniel was able to subconsciously make his way around the kitchen and didn’t request any recipe. He got started.

2 cups of milk Year of 2003

I had asked Tanner to go to the grocery store to restock on milk. Tanner was my older brother, the one I looked up to since Dad wasn’t around. My family wasn’t always poor. I mean- we were never exactly “comfortable”, but we managed to get around.

There I was– in the kitchen, the place that I can actually call home. We didn’t live in a safe neighborhood, and my mom always had Tanner go out and help our family stay on our feet. However Mom didn’t even have to encourage him to; Tanner enrolled in our city college and started his own small business to give my family a better life.

When I heard the devastating words that had come through our semi-broken home phone, my head spun. I felt like fainting.

“Hello? Is this the Watson residence?” the authoritative voice spoke.

“Yes..this is Marty. Who is this?” I answered.

“I’ve got bad news. Tanner Watson has been found dead at the scene of a terrible car incident on the 510 highway. I am so sorry for your loss and we’ll continue keeping in contact with his immediate family. My number is..” The phone dropped and the long, high-pitched beep followed the sound of it smacking the cold floor. Then came silence. Then fear. I’m trembling. Chills turned to a shock, banning my body from moving. Silence. Deep breath turns to a cry. My brother. The person who got me. There’s no faith anymore.

½ loaf sweet bread

That very night of Tanner’s incident I couldn’t keep myself together. Mom wasn’t even home and Grandma didn’t say a single word. Dad was unreachable and stressing him out would only hurt his condition even more. I grabbed Tanner’s coat hanging from the chair and ran out the door, slamming it behind me as tears flowed down my face; my eyes were puffy and swollen, more than they’ve ever been.

It was night out. Mom would never let me roam the alleys past 7. I turned into Garfield Alley, the place that me and Tanner went together whenever we needed a break from home. The two crumbling brick buildings seemed to cave in the windy path as I kneeled there in the middle. The moon was nowhere to be seen; an array of dark storm clouds captured the full moon and blocked the light. I felt trapped.

An old man, about 80 years old, approached me as his cane wobbled on the cobbled cement. His white beard extended about a foot, his bright blue eyes pierced through the air, and his teeth were as crooked as this alleyway.

“Are you lost?” he asked with a scratchy voice. I brought my gaze up to meet his eyes and shook my head. He placed his hand on my shoulder and with his other hand gave me a loaf of bread. It was the kind that Tanner would always pick up at the grocery store.

“What’s this?” I asked, confused as to why a homeless guy was offering me food. The man smiled and crouched down as best as he could, his back curving and knees struggling to bring him to my eye level.

“You know son, I may be struggling to feed myself every day and am devoid of a home, but I was once a kid like you. In fact, the very night I ran away from my house, I came to this very spot,” he explained looking up as if he was recalling tumultuous events through his life. “Just because I’m in need doesn’t mean I don’t need to help others. Everyone is in need of something. Now I just came back from the market ‘round the corner and a gut feeling told me someone would be in need of my help today.” I wiped the snot coming from my nose and stared at the bread.

“Thank you sir, but you should keep it. You need it more than I do.” That’s when he got up, his light body depending on only the cane to keep it from collapsing.

“Trust me. Promise me you’ll pass the faith and help others whenever you can, no matter what position you may be in,” he said looking straight into my eyes, still red and swollen from crying. I nodded as he turned and disappeared in the dark. That’s what Tanner would’ve wanted.

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

I had spent all afternoon in the kitchen and only my Mom was home. Standing on top of the tiled counter, I was careful to not bump my head on the low, popcorn textured ceiling. My grandma had requested me to make bread pudding that day and whatever she wants I’ll give her. She never really spoke to anyone– never engaging in conversations and choosing to sit in the same chair Dad had found on the streets years ago. The only time she ever talked was with me, and it was always in the kitchen. She taught me how to cook; the bread pudding recipe was originally her own, and she tells me she feels safe from the outside world cooking with me.

As I poured in the milk and reached for the vanilla extract, the whole bottle tipped over as my elbow swung carelessly. It crashed all over the floor, the light brown liquid seeping through the cracks in the lopsided tile. The aroma of vanilla ate the empty void around me. Everytime I’m baking in the kitchen, my grandma and I make sure to smell it once before adding it into the mixture; it’s only when we both recognize the scent of vanilla extract that our moods illuminate.

I bent down, crouching as I leaned on one hand, and began to clean up this mess. Looking up, I noticed the door to my mom’s office was a crack open. I continued to absorb the extract and overheard my mom’s phone conversation with my dad.

“Ben, I don’t know what to do. In fact- telling the poor kid is going to be the hardest of all. Now that Tanner is gone we have no more hope,” my mom spoke as her voice trembled. “Pat fired me. No one in the family is making any money anymore, and our accounts are only plummeting. I miss you.”

The sweetness of the vanilla didn’t smell so sweet anymore. As I was absorbing this hopeless news, my nose was absorbing the extract. All I could smell was bitterness. Sweet turned to sour real quick and the tips of my fingers slightly touched the leftover vanilla I had yet to soak up. It was almost as if I could feel the helpless emotions I felt flowing through my body, fusing into the liquid.

Now whenever I open the bottle of vanilla, I try not to allow the scent to reach my nose, but the moment I catch a whiff of it, it reminds me of the day that my family fell apart.

2 eggs, beaten

My dad found out he had lung cancer when I was around 15 years old. It was a surprise, although my dad spent the majority of his life doing work with a cigarette planted in his mouth. Tanner tried to get him to quit, but it was hopeless at the point Dad was in his life. He’s been getting treatment for awhile, but as his condition got worse, he landed himself in the hospital.

Dad not being around was hard for all of us, but mostly grandma. I prayed every night, hoping that everything could turn back to normal.

I remember sitting on his broad shoulders wondering how on earth he was able to hold me. As I swung my arms wildly watching him bring two eggs out of the fridge, he explained that cracking eggs was a skill it took years to master. Placing one egg in between his fingers, he pushed his thumb into it, cracking the sides and creating a messy hole, and he poured out the eggs as if the shell were a pitcher.

“And that, my friend, is my special party trick, Marty,” Dad said as I giggled. He scooped me up and ran around the house with his hands under my arms. I guess my dad was a bit irresponsible at times, since he hadn’t been watching the stove. Even a bit burnt, they were the best eggs I’ve ever tasted.

⅓ cup sugar and a pinch of salt

 “Now we need the salt.” Grandma and I had been at work all day making her bread pudding. I walked over to the top shelf as I eyed two containers, both filled with fine white granules of either salt, or sugar. Grabbing both I spoke, “I don’t know which one is the salt or sugar; no one ever labels anything in this house.” I set down the two. Grandma turned around, leaving the perfectly clean mixing bowl by the stove.

“Sometimes, you’re not gonna know which one is which, cause honey, salt and sugar look the same,” she told me. I didn’t know where this was going. “You might not know who you can trust– looks can be deceiving. One might give you a whole plate of salt while another a plate of sugar. Everyone always has a little bit of sugar and salt in their lives.” She had a glimmer in her eye, but not a happy one. It was as if she was remembering something in her past that related to what she was telling me.

“So how do you know who to trust?” I asked.

“Be cautious. Be alert, but never be afraid to try.” She stuck one finger in one of the containers and licked it. She scrunched her nose and shook her tongue out. “Yup, that one’s definitely the salt.” I laughed as I placed labels on both.

2088

I finished the final touches of the bread pudding. All those moments that revised my memory as I added each ingredient still trailed the back of my mind. The life I lived before was so different from my life now. I pushed the button on the new oven my parents just bought the other day; it was the newest model released last week and of course they were the first ones to purchase it.

After 30 minutes, I pulled it out and left it on the cooling tray. Mother just came back from work as she entered the kitchen in her suit and set her briefcase down.

“Wow Daniel, have you been cooking?” she asked, collapsing down on the couch. I nodded and smiled. “Smells great. Also, your father’s convention got canceled, he should be heading back home. I’m going to drive and meet him at the airport, and we might go eat out with some business friends. Ask Sam to cook you something. ” My smile dropped. I glanced over at the bread pudding, reminding myself of the tragic events I had once faced. Truth is, in these two lifetimes I faced similar problems. I always had issues with being with my family. I couldn’t give this up, not right now at least, and I knew I had to find a way to get my family back together.

“Hey Mom, I made this bread pudding today and was wondering if you and Father would want to eat together with me?” I nervously asked as I fiddled my hands. Mother looked up at me and gave Father a call.

Later that night, we decided to eat on the coffee table in the living room instead of the dining room. Father had gotten a call from work, but the moment he picked it up to answer, Mother tilted her head in my direction, almost as if she were hinting to him to focus on me rather than work. He set it down.

“Shall we give this pudding a try?” Father asked as he smiled for the first time in ages, revealing his shiny white teeth. I dug my spoon in. Raising the spoon, I took a bite. I didn’t taste sadness. There was no desperation embedded into the treat anymore. I tasted the sweet bread flavor, coated with the vanilla and sugar paste. I tasted the first time in years my family was all together, laughing– just the three of us. I felt the love and bond grow between us as we slowly finished the pudding bite by bite.

Food creates memories. Friday dinners even accumulate in my mind now. It shows how important spending time with your family is. It showed my boredom and longing for attention from my parents. Now, as we sit around the coffee table, laughing and their work not even being mentioned in any conversation, this bread pudding holds an entirely new memory for me. It’s replacing, but not forgetting, the suffering and the events I faced in my old life, and now collecting the essence of everything around me at this very moment.

Food holds memories. I might have left my old life and come back as a totally different person, with a new lifestyle with no memory of anything, but food has the capacity to hold every aspect of what happened while it witnessed key moments in my past life. Every smell, every texture, every color, and every object will work together and create a sealed package of my emotions I felt while I interacted with them, and only opened up, releasing this memory, when you put yourself back into its presence.

Sam walked up to me and tapped my shoulder. Whipping my head around, she smiled at me; she had this glimmer in her eye.

“Maybe before you thought your parents ignored you. You felt they didn’t care. They might have been your salt in your life,” Sam started. I gasped. “But maybe you had to try. You had to try something different– taking a different approach through baking.” She winked at me.

“I guess they were my sugar after all.”


People like me are more likely to die from suicide than in the line of duty. With Stella moving out things have gotten insufferable. The more friends and colleagues who “Exit Stage Left,” the more it seems like an option. It seems odd that those of us who answer the call to save lives at all costs, somehow can’t find a reason big enough to save our own. The emergency tones had beeped loudly from a dozen places in my apartment, startling me out of a whiskey-induced coma. Just after ten in the morning, on my day off, no less. “THIS IS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. IF YOU ARE HEARING THIS…” Then the message broke off. Our cell phones went silent. The TV died. It all happened without any warning. Much like Stella deciding to leave without saying a word of goodbye. When Stella left, I could have started exercising, got fit, started going back to church gatherings, engrossed myself in my Ambo duties and angled for a promotion, or tried coping in any one of the dozens of other ways they urged at HERO—my First Responders Support Group. The ways I had after my past breakups. Not this time. I hunkered down with my Johnnie Walker Red, ate greasy takeout, stopped showering, and degenerated like a putrid limb cut off from circulation by a tourniquet after a gunshot wound. The real death knell for all of us is being disconnected. In times of crisis, isolation is death. Was it an EMP? A solar storm? A result of the megaquake on the West Coast? Collateral damage from the Gulf of Mexico being poured over Galveston like a mother pouring a bowl full of soapy bathwater over a child’s head? Causing the child to furiously wipe his eyes off with his knuckles as if soap water in the eye could kill you. I couldn’t tell you what it was. There was a blinding light. I wasn’t looking at it, but I could feel it on my face through the window, as it woke me. It felt like being by a campfire with the heat on your skin on just the side closest to the flame. Curls of dark smoke from various places dispersed and muddied the sky over Galveston. That bright Texas sun took a knee. And the world seemed just a little colder and darker. Maybe it was the shock of it all. Whatever it was, the lines are all dead. The towers too. No electric. No cell phones. No landlines. No radio transmission. The grid is down. I turn the tuner on my radio and get the consistent tone of static on every channel, even the satellite stations. The hurt and helpless are crying out all around Galveston. But I can’t find them. My Ford F-350 Super Duty Ambulance hurtles down I-45 scouting for areas where people may be in distress, pulling off of one exit after another onto flooded local roads, littered with stranded sedans and crossovers without sufficient ground clearance. The thought of wishing for a catastrophe that takes me out of the game persists. I can’t shake it from my mind. A part of me wants a way out. That part is loud. Ever present. Goading me. Reminding me of the numbness that has become my world. Reminding me of the wall I’ve put it up which makes it impossible to take one more injury. Leaves me with floosies and drifters like Stella, until they pass along, like shadows. Those shadows are evidence of a personal connection. But the evidence disappears instantly when the darkness descends and the shadow diffuses and merges with all the other lost things that cannot be seen, but which you can bump into in the dark times. At least I don’t have to grieve the relationship. The relationship was never for real to start with. Like showing up for AA meetings when you have no intention of getting clean. The disease laughs at the subterfuge. It isn’t going anywhere. The dulling of the pain outlasts the pain and replaces it. A companion that sucks all the air out of the room. It is there in the way we talk about our patients, referring to them by their ailments. “Broke my heart telling the family of that ‘A&E’ that he was DOA… that ‘bag and collar’ was going for an Emmy… my last call was a 'frequent flyer' Deb, I wish I could’ve just thrown that one back.” Our ability to feel human emotions is drowned out by the constant motion. At the end of the day, you show up. It doesn’t matter how you feel. If you feel anything. It’s their emergency. I’ve got to act now. Stay in it. Before the time is up to do some good. The freeway lights are all out and it is going to be hard to see anything on the island after dark. The window is closing. This is my chance to save a few souls. I pull down the visor and look at the notches I’ve made with my straight edge over the last two years since I’ve been doing this job. Seventy-eight. Twenty-five tallies of five. Three lonely straight-line stragglers. These are the souls saved that I’ve got to my credit so far. But what about all the ones I didn’t get to? The ones I failed to save? How do you account for those? A frequent anecdote at HERO is the Drunk Superman Syndrome. Jesus in Gethsemane weeping blood is another one. Who is there to save the savior? Where does the comforter find comfort? It is kind of like that bar scene in Superman II, where the beleaguered drunk superhero, swilling Johnnie Walker Red for good measure, descends into petty bullying and self-loathing, breaking liquor bottles, before touching down in a scrap yard a few miles away and having a full-on meltdown. Or the tantrum in Man of Steel where Supes skewers the 18-wheeler the rude grab-ass trucker from the bar owns. I mean, I get it, I do, the dude—literally—has the weight of the world on his shoulders. We have that in common. The only difference is that I wouldn’t be caught dead in those tights. Margot, the support group leader, calls it the “Martyr Complex.” Whenever someone starts going on about their first responder burden like it is a form of slavery rather than a privilege, she plays the martyr violin over her shoulder. Margot is a real pisser. In the natural world, there’s no one coming to save you. They are probably coming to eat you. The first line of defense for humans is that we can call for help. We’ve got that going for us. That there are helpers on the other end of the line. That somehow two-legged meat popsicles see each other as more than a meal. But what happens when the line goes dead? I guess there’s nothing to do but go on patrol. * * * Carl Belafore is doggone lucky. I am just passing the boat rental on the 342 huffing down a Marlboro Red cigarette before the fun starts and I see a crowd out in the Hooters parking lot. I flick the stogie and go to work. I swallow hard and brace myself. This is going to be a bad shift. Without my day partner, Debbie, riding with me, I’m all alone out here, doing a two-man job. Even if Deb is a real shit magnet—she’s my shit magnet. Drunks, vomiters, and urine patients. Bar fights. And 300-pound men that you have to carry down 7 flights of stairs. Those are Deb’s specialties. I pull up and jump out, carrying my Defibtech Lifeline Auto AED, battery-operated, out to the patient. Carl’s wife Angel is there screaming. Saying Carl just had heart surgery on Tuesday, three days earlier, and he went down in the parking lot after a healthy helping of onion rings and a few pitchers of Bud. Don’t get me started on Carl’s bad life choices. But who am I to preach that the body is a temple? Angel’s jawboning is jarring and shrill. She is just talking out her nerves like a kid filibustering a parent the kid thinks is mad at him. I tune it out like I have on imaginary earmuffs and focus all my attention on Carl. I check his breathing, skin tone, blood pressure, eye alertness, and skin. His skin is cold. Carl is down on the hot Texas pavement gasping for air and looking up at the clear blue skies, through a haze of ashen fog, as his whole body ironically starves. The layers of fat clogging his arteries prevent all those nutrients and all that oxygen from getting where it needs to go. Alright, Carl. You aren’t checking out tonight. Not on my shift. My two-way to the emergency room is the only means of communication. But I thank God it is still operational. “UTMB Emergency. This is Ben in ALS Ambulance 33. On the scene with a Code Blue. Please have a bed ready. Forty-eight-year-old male, conscious, disoriented. Skin pale and cold. Recent heart surgery. Administering CPR. Will defibrillate if he codes. I will bag and bed and head to you. I’m on my own. I’ve got no one in the cab.” “Oh my God,” Angel screams. She acts like this is her first rodeo with an ALS event and like she’s not an enabler. I want to strangle her for running up his blood pressure with beer, salt, and grease, when he’s not even a week out from discharge. I’d ask her if he took his prescribed meds, but I already know he hasn’t. As I perform some light chest compressions, I look up at Angel and say, “I can feel a pulse. There it is. Very weak. We are going to get him up on the bed and take a closer look at his vitals before we scoot.” Some blood starts making a triangle on Carl’s camo Bass Pro Shops T-shirt. The damn steri-strips are getting ripped open from the wound. I’m not going to be able to do compressions without hurting him. I place him on the stretcher, elevate it, and wheel him into the cab, breaking down the stretcher as I lift it inside the metal tomb. Angel comes in with me, crying distractedly as I continue to care for Carl. I want to throw something at her, but I just meet her gaze and say, “Maam. It’s okay. Carl’s going to be alright. We’ve got him now.” Once I have Carl in the cabin, I cut his shirt off and start placing the 12-lead ECG. First, I get the precordial leads in place, measuring the intercostal spaces to get the right orientation, and then attaching the other leads to his limbs. And we wait about thirty seconds for the monitor to pick up the signal, during which time I bag and intubate Carl, getting him some oxygen. The blips start running down the monitor and we are getting tombstones. A ton of them. Those patterns show the heart stalling like the motor of a car that won’t turn over properly. A sure sign of a heart attack. Angel is hyperventilating. She is heaving out small wet sobs. Her cinnamon-colored hair is matted on her forehead and her mascara is running off her long press-on lashes down the sides of her eyes. To be honest, her reaction is evidence that Carl has something worth living for. This devotion is touching. Lower-case t. “Is he going to make it,” she says. “Sir, please, please take care of my Carl. He’s all I have.” “I’ve got to drive,” I say. “Stay put and let me know if he flatlines.” * * * Margot is in the Emergency Bay, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds like it’s her job. As the rigs pull in and out, she barks orders and runs triage. She is in mass-casualty mode. “Get out of my emergency room,” she yells at a newbie EMS lingering in the triage area with a CTD (circling the drain) patient while the poor bastard goes downhill. The internists gather like fleas—the last to jump off a dying dog. “What’s the story with this hit?” Margot asks as I jump off the rig. And I give her the rundown. “So, what is the deal with this blackout?” I ask her. “Couldn’t tell you. Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a Hazard Response Team down at Pleasure Pier, pulling dead bodies out from under the rides. The Tilt-a-Whirl and the Ferris Wheel are in the chop. Roller coasters too. The seawall didn’t cut it. We are about to get slammed.” “Jesus. I guess it’s going to be a long night.” “You aren’t kidding. Hey. How are you holding up since Stella left?” “Par for the course,” I say, with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “You better get back out there," Margot says. "Head down by Pleasure Pier.” “Roger that,” I say, and jump back in the rig. “Radio me about Carl, let me know if he is out of the woods, so I can mark it down.” I look at my straight edge sitting in the dash organizer. What the hell. I believe in you, Carl. I cut a hash mark into the visor. We’re going to count it. I have faith. * * * The rig pulls out. I take Seawell Boulevard toward the pier. As I drive down by the churning sea, looking over at the yellowed dust sailing across the horizon, I can’t help thinking that it is just another day at the office. Margot always says at the support group that every day counts. Every patient counts. And most importantly, you count. The Hazard Response Team are all wearing yellow jackets. They buzz back and forth like foraging bees. There are body bags lined up on the pier. Everything is black and yellow. Rigs are pulling out with patients on stretchers. There must be three dozen dead lined up so far. They will rot in the Texas heat until all of the injured are taken. Then the dead will be hauled back to the Medical Examiner for processing. Under normal circumstances, the family would be alerted in a couple of days. But now? Who knows. I watch the emergency workers carrying more bodies out from under the rubble. A black man with a proper beard is standing at the boardwalk staging the patients. Two men on the team are coming up the staircase onto the pier with a blonde-haired woman, late twenties, totally unconscious, a gash in her torso, and her jeans stained with red blood. It is Stella. I’d recognize her anywhere. I know right away that she is dead. I walk over to the guy and ask, “You have anyone that needs transport.” “Not yet, pal. All DOA so far.” “Gotcha. Let me know.” I pull out a Marlboro Red and stand on the pier looking out over the rubble while I smoke. I feel nothing. Even the heaviness of the smoke in my chest. My heart beating faster. It is academic. Action, reaction. What was Stella doing down here? I wonder what she was doing when she lost her life. What were her last thoughts? Was she happy? It is so unfair. Every day is a trauma exercise. The only unknown is the degree. Every day it is the same thing. Will today’s victim be experiencing the merely life-threatening, the real-life horror episode, or the apocalyptic nightmare? We never know when we clock in. Routine calls. The severity ranges from life-altering to society-ending. But they all matter. It could be a lone gunman. A theater shooting. Another Sandy Hook or Columbine. A fire with people’s skin peeling off like overcooked hotdogs that bulge, fry, and crinkle, with that screaming steam of nitrates flowing out from the spoiling flesh. Or it could be toppling buildings. A chemical plant explosion. Mad cow hysteria. Garden-variety flooding due to climate change. A gang of marauding cartel enforcers recklessly searching for a lost score. Today it is this. Pleasure Pier caving in. It is as if there is a divine agent with a thirst for vengeance and an infinite imagination for hatred and bloodshed—constantly inventing new implements for human torture. And today, Stella punched her ticket. But I got a free pass. I sit back in the rig and wait, pulling out the hip flask from the glove compartment. I have a long nip of whiskey. My chest burns and my eyes itch. Something tells me there are no survivors. There never are in things like this. Through the yellow haze along the horizon, I see the sun setting. Ribbons of pink blaze out from the sun’s vicious gaze. And a splinter of feeling pierces my heart. I know for a fact that this job is going to kill me. Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming instinct to get away. To get away from danger. To get away from the poison that is polluting my soul. You can’t save anyone else if you don’t keep yourself safe. There’s no one to call. The lines are all dead. It is up to me. Maybe Margot will visit once I get situated. Maybe I’ll start my own group out in Colorado, in the mountains, in the cool mornings, with that dark roast. I pull down the visor and reach for my knife. I draw the diagonal and complete the tally. Ben is marked safe. Eighty lives. That’s enough. Enough is enough. I rev the engine, pull out on I-45, and head west. Tears roll down both cheeks. And I begin to grieve. Margot’s voice comes over the two-way. “Benji. Good news. Carl Belafore is gonna make it.” Doggone lucky, that guy. Maybe we all are.