like girlfriends do, but I feel awkward. “We’re more than that now.” I shrug, look down at the rocks, my lips curling up. “I’m happy for you.” She’s smiling, but her eyes look troubled. Maybe concerned. Maybe envious. But her voice is bright as she turns to go. “See you tomorrow. I’ll make rhubarb muffins.” 18 “WHAT’S GOT INTO YOU?” IT’S Randy, his tone cold and accusatory. Although… he always sounds like that. Default mode: asshole. “What?” I ask, filling a glass with Coke from the fountain. “What am I doing?” “You’re cheerful,” he says, pulling a toothpick from the dish near the cash register and peeling off the paper. “And nice. It’s not like you at all.” I snort and roll my eyes, hurrying away with the glass of soda. Randy’s not wrong. I’m happier than I’ve been since I came to Seattle. My prospects are slowly but surely improving. Hazel is getting me new identification. When I sell the netsuke, I’ll have a thousand bucks. And I have a spa day to look forward to. More importantly, I have a friend. And a boyfriend. Or a lover. Whatever Jesse is. He hasn’t come to see me since I spent the night with him, but I’m not concerned. It’s only been a few days. And I didn’t imagine our connection, the closeness between us. This sense of vulnerability is new to me, though. I’m used to having the power, holding the strings. I’ve never felt this way—not with André, my boyfriend of four years, not even in high school. I’m raw and needy. Is it because I’ve been stripped of my identity and everything I valued? Has my downfall opened me up, torn down my emotional walls? It is an odd feeling: heady, exciting, and terrifying. After my shift, I eat a burger in the kitchen, toying with my flip phone. It has been virtually useless to me. I’ve only made a handful of calls to auto glass repair shops. The phone has never rung. Not even once. Flicking through the contacts, I find Hazel’s number. And Teresa’s. I added it a couple of weeks ago, afraid I might forget it. But I’ll never call her. I know that now. I don’t have Jesse’s digits, but I know where he lives. I could show up at his apartment. It’s late, but he might appreciate the booty call. Or he might think it’s creepy. That I’m creepy. Because a call implies using a phone, not showing up in person. The old Lee would have gone to him, wouldn’t have worried about rejection, but I am different now. Softer. More fragile. The next time I see Jesse, I’ll ask him for his number. With a wave to the kitchen staff, I shuffle out the back door. The alley is dark, and quiet. A single bulb in a metal cage burns over the parking area. I am tired tonight, and the drive to the beach stretches long ahead of me. As I reach my car, I become aware of a figure in the shadows.


thrall. A beat of silence passed, and I gritted my teeth. Another instance of information he deemed privileged to himself only. He preferred to spin me where he aimed, ground me in half-truths and suspicion. “You were fate’s choice, not mine. While I hunt the Jasadis who have slaughtered a legion of innocents from Orban to Lukub, they hunt you.” After Arin left, the guards blindfolded and led me from the room. I strained my ears for the babble of the river or the rumble of carriages, any marker of our location. The crunch of leaves underfoot did not leave plenty for me to work with. Fresh air replaced the foul odor of decay, and I wondered who would be left with the miserable task of burying the deteriorated soldier. “Will we be much longer?” I complained. Walking blind at the mercy of Nizahl guards wrought havoc on my nerves. One of them exhaled. “Not much.” “Do not indulge her,” came the other’s retort. The bald one? “Log.” They nudged me to the left. “You saw him, Wes,” Jeru said, defensive. “I have never seen our liege in such a state.” I tried to diminish my presence. They were speaking as though they had forgotten I stood between them. I was curious to hear what they had to say in the absence of their master. A pregnant pause, then, “I have. Seen him in a similar state, I mean. I was appointed to his guard when he was sixteen.” Apparently, this meant something to Jeru, because he bumped into me. “I thought only Vaun was present for that.” “Vaun has been by his side since they were both old enough to carry a sword. They were friends long before Vaun became his guardsman. I was there when it happened, too. “You should believe better of our Heir,” Wes continued, stern. “To think him capable of such a thing…” Baffled as I was trying to parse out what could have happened to Arin at sixteen, it took me a second to catch up. “Oh dear, did you think lust overcame your Heir?” The very notion of the icy Nizahl Heir allowing a physical urge to overcome his ruthless control made me cackle. “He was on top of you. The mistake could’ve been made by anyone,” Jeru snapped. “Wes is right. I should have known better.” I couldn’t help myself. Angering Nizahlan men was just too diverting. “Are you calling your Commander frigid?” I winced at the resulting clench on my arm. “You trespass your bounds,” Wes spat. The events of the last two days had driven me into delirium. “Then redraw your maps, soldier. Haven’t you heard? I’m your Champion. The rules changed. No, they disappeared.” They lifted me again. The heels of my borrowed calfskin shoes brushed the prickly tops of a bush. The rustling signs of nature faded into eerie silence. Our footfalls changed, taking on an echo. “If it brings you relief, Jeru, Wes is right,” I said. Distracted, I dragged my heels, bewildered when the calfskin slid without catching


me.’ Looking up at the welfare officers, he asked: ‘Can I take him down to the chambers?’ ‘No dog has ever made it past the first few steps. Including plenty tougher than that old softie.’ Yotam whispered: ‘From one softie to another, there’s nothing to be afraid of.’ Arriving at the entrance, he checked on Copper. The dog was pressed tight against him, his fur raised, his ears pricked up. Yotam took the first steps slowly, waiting for Copper to howl or pull on his lead. But he followed by his side, descending to the halfway point with not even so much as a growl. Yotam glanced over his shoulder, back up the stairs, observing the line of Russian security officers watching, no doubt having taken bets on how far he’d get. Reaching the last step, Copper sniffed the air. The breeze carried pungent smells which even an ordinary-born person with limited senses found startling, from a fetid carrion stench to an intoxicating pheromone perfume. Yet still Copper didn’t try to run back to the surface, and Yotam wondered if all the other dogs had taken their cue not from the presence of ice-adapted species but from their owners’ emotions. Perhaps he was the only ordinary-born person not afraid of these Cold People, the only person who believed their integration would be a success. For a long time, he’d been convinced that many of the teams not only harboured doubts about the viability of integrating these radically adapted species, but on some deeper level they despised them. Heading into the tunnels, Yotam positioned Copper tight against the ice wall away from the chambers. He wanted Eitan to be the first cold creature that he experienced. And somehow, without any planning or deliberation, Copper had become Eitan’s next test. THE ROSS ICE SHELF FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS EITAN’S ENCLOSURE SAME DAY ALL THE SCIENTISTS AND SUPPORT staff were lined up at the window, at the observation level, including the security officers, who were convinced that the dog would be eaten and equally convinced that Yotam was in the slow process of losing his mind, suffering from the onset of Antarctic insanity. Determined to prove them wrong, Yotam unlocked the outer cage, entering the enclosure, keeping one hand on Copper’s collar as a way of signalling that the husky wasn’t intended as food. Almost immediately Copper lay flat on the ice, ears down, eyes straight ahead, making a sound Yotam had never heard any dog make, neither a growl nor a whine, but something almost musical. Revealing himself, Eitan appeared on the wall of the cave, his claws securing him to the ice. He moved with his characteristic blend of precision, strength and elegance, effortlessly approaching their position, coming to a stop with his body at ninety degrees to his guests. He looked down at Copper, still flat on the ice. Yotam realized he was in the minority, the only species with two legs present in this meeting. Eitan said: ‘This is a dog.’ ‘A husky dog. Called Copper.’ ‘I’ve never smelt him on you


was fond of quite a bit more, having struggled with both alcohol and drug addiction during his lifetime. I often wondered if Hindley Earnshaw’s chaotic descent into gambling and addiction in Wuthering Heights was based on Branwell, who often suffered delirium tremens while attempting to sober up. ‘Two pounds and it’s yours,’ she said. In any other situation, I would have required proof of the provenance of such an item, but I decided to take it on faith. Besides, I thought how amusing it would be if in fact she were a swindler, selling me her own sewing box and passing it off as a Brontë collectable! I handed her the money, which she said would go towards her retirement pot, and I set out on my journey back home to the anonymity of Dublin. Perhaps it was hypervigilance on my part, but in London, I could not shake the sickening sense of being watched. It had been three months since my trip to England and even though I had not expected to hear from Armand, having my thoughts confirmed by the postman every morning was a little stinging. Still, I found a sense of fulfilment in my achievements and the success of my wonderful little shop, which, despite the growing number of books I stocked it with, seemed to find room to accommodate them. I had long suspected that something just beyond my comprehension was afoot, as though Mr Fitzpatrick had put a spell over the place. At night, when sleep stole away from me like a vanishing point, I would make some cocoa and sit on the floor of the shop, wrapped in a blanket. I was immediately soothed by that breathing sound I had heard since I was a child: the stories settling between the pages. Only now I could hear another sound. I shuffled over to one of the walls and, feeling a little foolish, put my ear to it. A soft creaking, like the boughs of a tree bending slightly in the breeze. I smiled to myself and often fell asleep like that, cradled in the corner of the dark green walls, wooden shelves with fluttering book leaves shimmering overhead. When I awoke, it was still dawn and a peach light filtered through the windows. I’d had the most vivid dream, the kind that leaves you drenched in a feeling you can’t quite grasp the meaning behind. My father was listening to the books and smiling. Telling me to listen. I held one to my ear and heard a heartbeat. Then two; the second one lighter, quicker. And like an apple falling to the ground, understanding came to me all at once. I placed my hand on my stomach and felt a kick. I had not had my monthly courses since my return home and had put it down to travelling, or anything other than what it truly was. Now I felt the curve of my belly, it was real. A tear rolled down my cheek. ‘This will not be easy,’ I whispered, to myself or the


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

mirror...been keeping busy...excellent..." Snape spat bitterly on the ground. *** Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn't ever remember feeling happier. He'd really done something to be proud of now -- no one could say he was just a famous name any more. The evening air had never smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed. Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in the lead. He'd done it, he'd shown Snape... And speaking of Snape... A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest. Harry's victory faded from his mind as he watched. He recognized the figure's prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at dinner -- what was going on? Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed. The trees were so thick he couldn't see where Snape had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees until he heard voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech tree. He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves. Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn't alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying. "...d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus..." "Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after all." Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted him. "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?" "B-b-but Severus, I -- " "You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him. "I-I don't know what you -- " "You know perfectly well what I mean." An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, " -- your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting." "B-but I d-d-don't -- " "Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie." He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though he


"Aye, she thinks she would. She knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage." "If I went I should see your mother as well as Dickon," said Mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much. "She doesn't seem to be like the mothers in India." Her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little. But just before Martha went downstairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question. "Martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had the toothache again today?" Martha certainly started slightly. "What makes thee ask that?" she said. "Because when I waited so long for you to come back I opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming. And I heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night. There isn't a wind today, so you see it couldn't have been the wind." "Eh!" said Martha restlessly. "Tha' mustn't go walkin' about in corridors an' listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do." "I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waiting for you--and I heard it. That's three times." "My word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell," said Martha, and she almost ran out of the room. "It's the strangest house any one ever lived in," said Mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her. Fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep. CHAPTER X DICKON The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished. Such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could


the keep, Fairel was my undisputed favorite. So much so that when she reached for my hand, I let her hold it all the way to the bottom of the hill before gently pulling away. “Why do you always pull away?” Fairel clasped her arms around her middle. Mimicking me from earlier. Kapastra’s scaly throne, I couldn’t imagine a more disastrous scenario than Fairel modeling her behavior after me. We ducked into a narrow alley, allowing the darkness to swallow us. Neither of us needed help navigating the uneven path. A shower of pebbles rained into our hair. I shepherded her away from the deteriorating wall, wishing I could as easily guide her from this question. I could have lied. I would have, had it been anyone other than Fairel and her hurt tone. “I do not have fond memories of being touched. My body recognizes it as a threat.” It hadn’t always, but Fairel didn’t need to know how I’d loved being swung up in Dawoud’s arms as a child. I would spend hours hanging on to Usr Jasad’s chief advisor while he conducted his business in the palace. Dawoud would walk into meetings with me dangling from his neck and carry on his conversation without batting an eye, as though the other person would be in the wrong for noticing the hyperactive seven-year-old clinging to him. Hanim had bled those memories from me. She left them gray, so everything to follow could be a dark, dripping red. Whips tearing against my back and shoulders. Nights of hanging by my feet from a sturdy tree branch, not unlike a slab of meat from the butcher’s hooks, with a dagger placed in my hand to fight any curious animals. On those nights, I could have easily bent in half and sawed at the ropes lashed around my feet. Another layer of Hanim’s punishment—knowing I had the ability to free myself, but not the bravery. “I would never threaten you,” Fairel said, horrified. Oh, but only this child could make me laugh in the temper I was in. “I know you wouldn’t. But my body interprets the sensation the same, no matter who it is coming from.” A clatter echoed from the other end of the alley. I put a hand in front of Fairel and listened. A rat scurried next to my foot, overturning a pile of pebbles in its path. Just a rat. I ushered Fairel forward, my arm hovering protectively a few inches behind her back. The alley opened to the flickering illumination of lamplight. Fairel’s head swiveled, taking in the uncharacteristic stillness of the main road. A muddy dog loped to the front of the butcher’s shop, sniffing at the discarded bones. Preparations for the waleema were almost complete. Lanterns connected by silver twine hung from the balconies lining the plaza road, creating a roof of light over the village. Shop owners had laid out lovingly braided reed rugs, dyed in muted shades of Omal’s blue and white. Incense burned in almost every balcony, warding away the evil eye


them,--made themselves ready, in their faded bettermost, to go to church. They descended the staircase together,--gaunt, sallow Hepzibah, and pale, emaciated, age-stricken Clifford! They pulled open the front door, and stepped across the threshold, and felt, both of them, as if they were standing in the presence of the whole world, and with mankind's great and terrible eye on them alone. The eye of their Father seemed to be withdrawn, and gave them no encouragement. The warm sunny air of the street made them shiver. Their hearts quaked within them at the idea of taking one step farther. "It cannot be, Hepzibah!--it is too late," said Clifford with deep sadness. "We are ghosts! We have no right among human beings,--no right anywhere but in this old house, which has a curse on it, and which, therefore, we are doomed to haunt! And, besides," he continued, with a fastidious sensibility, inalienably characteristic of the man," it would not be fit nor beautiful to go! It is an ugly thought that I should be frightful to my fellow-beings, and that children would cling to their mothers' gowns at sight of me!" They shrank back into the dusky passage-way, and closed the door. But, going up the staircase again, they found the whole interior of the house tenfold, more dismal, and the air closer and heavier, for the glimpse and breath of freedom which they had just snatched. They could not flee; their jailer had but left the door ajar in mockery, and stood behind it to watch them stealing out. At the threshold, they felt his pitiless gripe upon them. For, what other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one's self! But it would be no fair picture of Clifford's state of mind were we to represent him as continually or prevailingly wretched. On the contrary, there was no other man in the city, we are bold to affirm, of so much as half his years, who enjoyed so many lightsome and griefless moments as himself. He had no burden of care upon him; there were none of those questions and contingencies with the future to be settled which wear away all other lives, and render them not worth having by the very process of providing for their support. In this respect he was a child, --a child for the whole term of his existence, be it long or short. Indeed, his life seemed to be standing still at a period little in advance of childhood, and to cluster all his reminiscences about that epoch; just as, after the torpor of a heavy blow, the sufferer's reviving consciousness goes back to a moment considerably behind the accident that stupefied him. He sometimes told Phoebe and Hepzibah his dreams, in which he invariably played the part of a child, or a very young man. So vivid were they, in his relation of them, that he once held a dispute with his sister as to the particular figure or print of a chintz morning-dress which he had seen their


could have found Joe’s floppy hair and hipster glasses and steered him off to feed me that meal he’d promised. But he was lost in the faceless crowd, too—and all attempts to search for him got intercepted by faceless people hugging me, until I wound up making way-too-friendly chitchat with my ex-boyfriend for five solid minutes before realizing who he was. All to say, the situation snowballed. Before I even really saw it coming, I was having a panic attack out behind the utility room. At least I think it was a panic attack. Is it a panic attack when your entire body is utterly hijacked by … panic? And you get dizzy? And you sweat and have the chills at the same time? And your heart pounds and your chest hurts and your hands go cold? And you can’t catch your breath? And you feel like you’re dying? And you collapse to your knees in a dark corner and press your forehead to the concrete to try to make the world stop spinning? Is that a panic attack? ’Cause that was me. And I sure as hell wasn’t celebrating. I have no idea how long I’d been there, trying not to pass out, when I heard a voice say, “Are you having a panic attack?” So of course I said, “No.” “You look like you’re … not okay.” Not okay? That was just insulting. Okay was my whole thing. “I am always okay,” I said, to set the record straight. And then, when the person didn’t accept that and leave, I said, “I’m fine.” Then, my voice muffled against the concrete, I added, “I’m good.” “You don’t look good.” This wasn’t Parker, was it? She never missed a chance for an insult. But no—of course not. It was a man’s voice. One, as usual, I couldn’t recognize. “Identify yourself, please,” I said into the roof. A rustling beside me as whoever it was sat down. “It’s your pal, Joe,” the voice said, closer and softer now. “Hi, Joe.” For a second, knowing it was him made me feel palpably better. But then it occurred to me to wonder if he might be filming this moment for later blackmail, and I felt worse again. “I’m no psychiatrist,” Joe said then, “but I’ve seen a lot of panic attacks. And this kind of looks like that.” “I’m fine,” I insisted. I was always fine—whether I was fine or not. “Okay,” Joe said. “A friend of mine—who clearly had a totally different thing from you—used to find it helpful for me to pat her back in moments that were nothing at all like this.” “I’m not having a panic attack,” I said. “Great,” Joe said. “Neither am I.” “So I don’t need you to pat my back.” “Cool. You don’t need it.” A long pause while he let that settle. “But we could just do it for fun.” “Fine,” I said, too busy dying to fight. And then he really did it. I felt a hand settle between my shoulders, and then I felt


brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "Harry!" "My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that we can't stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes. They feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court, their indignation was quite magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly." "I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, Harry, I don't believe you do either." Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. "How English you are, Basil! If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman,-- always a rash thing to do,--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one's self. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it [9] will not be colored by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons better than principles. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?" "Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. Of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal." "But you don't really worship him?" "I do." "How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,--your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn't it?" "He is all my art to me now. I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinos was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from him, model from him. Of course I have done all that. He has stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar- spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile.


wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want him in there...I need that room...make him get out..." Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it. *** Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly. When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -- ' " With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go." Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. *** The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the


as the lights came on and everyone scuttled into the street like roaches, he pulled out his phone to get my number, and my stomach fell out of my butt because I’d forgotten until that exact moment that my phone was shut off because my friend’s dad had kicked me off their family plan, and I had forgotten to pay my grossly overdue phone bill myself, i.e., I’d just drank all of Sprint’s money. Luckily for me at the time I had a roommate who’d insisted on keeping a house phone, but unluckily for me I had to stammer, “Uhh, my number is 773-743-XXXX, but please don’t call after ten p.m. or leave any lewd messages on the machine if that’s your thing because that’s not only my number” under the punishing glare of an emergency floodlight in the middle of a silent disco. I know how that looks and how humiliating it feels but what I don’t know is the technologically appropriate equivalent today. A prepaid phone? A prepaid phone with no money on it? A prepaid phone with a busted screen that freezes every time you try to watch a TikTok??? In the show, the next morning, Sam guides Hot Babe through the hallways of her house, which is loosely modeled after this squalid dump I lived in when I was an orphaned teen and where everyone had to use a communal kitchen and bathrooms. One time, after payday, I was alone in the kitchen carefully labeling my bounty of recently purchased Aldi cereals, and one of my housemates walked in and rolled his eyes like “Yeah, don’t worry about that getting stolen.” But it was cheap and didn’t require a credit check, and that was my single requirement. Fictional Sam leads this beautiful woman, who just went down on her before spending the night in sheets that, frankly, probably could use a washing, through this near-condemnation rooming house from hell. They pass a sleeping bum sprawled across the hallway floor and a list of handwritten rules tacked to the wall (“no ferrets or rap music”) and make their way to the kitchen, where they encounter another one of Sam’s housemates, a disheveled weirdo named KATHLEEN, who informs Sam that the building was ruled uninhabitable, again, and they have to evacuate for at least two days while black mold is cleaned out. INT. CTA BUS—LATER THAT MORNING Sam’s on the bus on the way to her job at the bakery, still sticky from wasted Hot Babe sex the night before. Now is probably a good time to loudly and proudly declare myself a Bus Person. I know that logically there is a stronger case to be made for the elevated train in terms of efficiency and ease of use, but there’s also something to be said for riding in a vehicle that the person driving can hear you being stabbed on. Sam sits crammed near the front, half-asleep. Her phone continues to buzz, and she rolls her eyes at it. An OLD MAN (description: OLD) across from her is eating


came in great billowing clouds from Rotten Row. It was desolate, a dreadful place. I’m not equal to this, she thought. “Yes, here,” she said to the driver, and he got out to deliver her card. Her own self vanished. She sank into her silks and ruffles, and became the Duchess of Montagu. * * * The head footman ushered Hephzibah through the hall. Servants paused in their duties and huddled behind pillars. The staircase was still tremendously ugly. She’d forgotten its recesses, those blocks of black and blood-red marble. They looked like gravestones, signposts on the way to hell. How many times had she cleaned the banisters, rubbed them with blacking, cracked her nails on their grooves and whorls? The footman gave Hephzibah a wide and courteous berth. “No more visitors,” he murmured to the under-footmen, and they closed the doors. He was enormously good-looking. Stony faced, dark haired, terrific eyes. He was something to focus on, to occupy the mind. “This way,” he said, extending a gloved finger. “Oh, I can guess the way,” said Hephzibah. She needed to warm up, to test the voice. “People only move in one direction when they build a house like this.” She held out her parasol, and he took it. “Up.” His eyes flashed, a single golden gleam. Amused. Good, Hephzibah told herself, that was a clever line. Well judged. Nice and rude. She wondered, Would a duchess speak to a footman? Perhaps there were no rules for duchesses. She tried to quiet her mind. It was too easy to lose a character, just by listening to all the chatter in one’s head. She eyed the footman’s calf muscles, the hard curve of his arse underneath his tails. Lovely, she said to herself, trying to cheer herself up. She could smell beeswax: there was parquet upstairs. It made her dizzy, the memory of all those tiny pieces of wood. It took hours and hours to polish every block. The saloon doors slid open—slowly, slowly. She spied a small figure on a couch, far away in the center of the room. Great slanting shafts of light came through the windows facing the park. Hephzibah shaded her eyes with her hand. She had tried to cast her mind back to the old days, to remember the child who’d lived in the nursery. A snowball creature, with yellow-gold hair done up in ringlets. More like a pet than a person, a fluffy thing fed and watered by the senior servants. Hephzibah had hardly thought about her, had hardly imagined her living or breathing or existing at all. This woman—straight, thin, upright, alert—was different altogether. “Don’t let her hook you,” Mrs. King had warned her. “Whatever you do.” Hephzibah paused at the threshold. She could leave, right now. Claim another appointment, feign illness, call the whole thing off. Slowly, Miss de Vries rose to her feet. “Your Grace,” she said, in a voice that startled Hephzibah. It was low and calm. Hephzibah longed for a voice like that herself. She studied Miss de Vries. Something was working


to the phone in his hand. “I just got a text from Jonah. The prosecutor has called a meeting about our hit-and-run case. There’s been some new evidence. I’m so sorry, Sloane.” “What new evidence? You said Jonah was covering for you.” Ethan shakes his head. “He was. But I can’t miss this meeting.” He takes a step toward her. “I need to go.” Her jaw falls open as Ethan kisses her forehead. Unbelievable. He is already making for their bedroom door by the time words reach her mouth. “Wait! You promised me! There has to be someone else. Tell them you can’t.” He turns when he reaches the doorway. He does look pained, she’ll give him that. But it’s not enough to quell the anger forming inside her. “Don’t wait up. I’ll be home late.” Sloane feels her chest heave. She’s tempted to remind him what an important night this is for her. And that he owes her one. What her coworkers will say when she attends the ceremony alone. Could he not just give me this one night? Looking into his eyes, she decides it’s not worth it. She knows him well enough. She won’t change his mind. She used to respect that he gave his all to his work...before he slept with his partner. She clenches her hands into fists as he disappears down the hall. “Ethan!” she hears herself shout. “I’m sorry. I can’t miss this meeting,” he calls from the stairs. Sloane stands still as she hears the front door open. “I’m proud of you, Sloane. I know you’ll be great.” She stares at the roses on her bed as the front door closes, wanting to throw them across the room. Instead, she paces back and forth on the plush carpet. Being awarded Doctor of the Year by the largest trauma center in the Pacific Northwest was a huge achievement, even for Sloane. How dare he back out on me tonight? Why had she gone to the trouble of forgiving him if he wasn’t even going to try? She stops pacing and swears, realizing she now has no one to zip up her dress. With shaking hands, she reaches behind her back. After five minutes of sucking in and bending backwards at awkward angles, she manages to pull the zipper to the top. Her breathing has calmed when she heads back to her closet to retrieve her phone and shoes. On her way out, she catches her reflection in the mirror and sighs. When Ethan overheard her bathroom phone call with Brody, she expected him to give a damn. Not to abandon her on the most important night of her career without even putting up a fight. Sloane downs her second glass of Chardonnay, now that her acceptance speech is over. Beside her, Evelyn giggles at something her doting stay-at-home husband whispers into her ear. “I hope he knows what he’s missing,” Evelyn said when Sloane arrived at the gala alone. “You could do so much better, Sloane. If you ever decide to leave him, Ming’s best


and successful. And he loved me. I knew he did. And maybe that was good enough. Daphne AN IMPOSSIBLY LONG TIME I HAD HEARD THE PHRASE “Rock bottom” plenty of times in my life. But, that night after the wreck, it was the only thought I was capable of having. Rock bottom. I was there. And, honest to goodness, I hadn’t even realized I was that bad off. That night, I was so consumed with the panic that I had almost killed the two people I loved most in the world that I couldn’t think about anything else. I couldn’t speak. The intense pain in my face didn’t even really register. I didn’t sleep that night, but I knew I had to get up. I had to face Lanier. The morning after the accident was the first time in a long time I realized, as I dry-swallowed an Adderall to wake myself up, that it was not appropriate to drink every night or smoke pot every afternoon or sneak a line in the bathroom between classes. I certainly shouldn’t have to pop Adderall all day to stay awake, especially when that meant I couldn’t possibly ever sleep without an Ambien—or three—to bring me back down. I splashed water on my face, cringing as it hit my bruised, swollen eye, looking at my sunken cheeks. I knew, somewhere deep down, that I was constantly looking for something to dull the fear of what was next for me—the pressure of school, the anxiety I wouldn’t make it, and, yes, the terror that, just like my mother, I would screw things up with the only man I’d ever loved. I’d lost tons of weight from the Adderall, and it was only now occurring to me how it had flattened my face. I had been unhappy in Baltimore, and maybe that’s where it had started. I was taking two prerequisite classes I needed to get into law school and working at a local restaurant as much as humanly possible to pay for my classes and save up for future ones. And in between, I had to study for the LSAT and work on applications. My top choice was UNC—I figured Huff and I could handle long-distance—but I had to make sure I applied for backups too. No matter where I got in, though, law school would be a pipe dream without some scholarship money and financial aid. I was working all the time and never sleeping. And between my schedule and his, I never saw Huff. I loved him, and I loved our relationship. But I wasn’t happy here; I hadn’t found my place. And it wasn’t fair for Huff to have to be everything to me. Coming here had been a huge mistake. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I finally faced the truth: I was out of control. I was twenty-three, and while yes, some of what I did was normal, I had also figured out how to get Adderall prescriptions from three different doctors and three different small pharmacies, all of


lessons with grim determination, despite sundry wistful glances at the clock shelf, where lay a new book that Jane Andrews had lent her that day. Jane had assured her that it was warranted to produce any number of thrills, or words to that effect, and Anne's fingers tingled to reach out for it. But that would mean Gilbert Blythe's triumph on the morrow. Anne turned her back on the clock shelf and tried to imagine it wasn't there. "Matthew, did you ever study geometry when you went to school?" "Well now, no, I didn't," said Matthew, coming out of his doze with a start. "I wish you had," sighed Anne, "because then you'd be able to sympathize with me. You can't sympathize properly if you've never studied it. It is casting a cloud over my whole life. I'm such a dunce at it, Matthew." "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew soothingly. "I guess you're all right at anything. Mr. Phillips told me last week in Blair's store at Carmody that you was the smartest scholar in school and was making rapid progress. `Rapid progress' was his very words. There's them as runs down Teddy Phillips and says he ain't much of a teacher, but I guess he's all right." Matthew would have thought anyone who praised Anne was "all right." "I'm sure I'd get on better with geometry if only he wouldn't change the letters," complained Anne. "I learn the proposition off by heart and then he draws it on the blackboard and puts different letters from what are in the book and I get all mixed up. I don't think a teacher should take such a mean advantage, do you? We're studying agriculture now and I've found out at last what makes the roads red. It's a great comfort. I wonder how Marilla and Mrs. Lynde are enjoying themselves. Mrs. Lynde says Canada is going to the dogs the way things are being run at Ottawa and that it's an awful warning to the electors. She says if women were allowed to vote we would soon see a blessed change. What way do you vote, Matthew?" "Conservative," said Matthew promptly. To vote Conservative was part of Matthew's religion. "Then I'm Conservative too," said Anne decidedly. "I'm glad because Gil-because some of the boys in school are Grits. I guess Mr. Phillips is a Grit too because Prissy Andrews's father is one, and Ruby Gillis says that when a man is courting he always has to agree with the girl's mother in religion and her father in politics. Is that true, Matthew?" "Well now, I dunno," said Matthew. "Did you ever go courting, Matthew?" "Well now, no, I dunno's I ever did," said Matthew, who had certainly never thought of such a thing in his whole existence. Anne reflected with her chin in her hands. "It must be rather interesting, don't you think, Matthew? Ruby Gillis says when she grows up she's going to have ever so many beaus on the string and have them all crazy about her; but I think


told me. He died anyway, of bone cancer, about five years back, and for a while Lacarte’s looked like going with him. The nephew who took it on fitted it out nice in pursuit of one of those property booms that’s always just about to happen in Tappeny Bridge, and when it didn’t come he took the operating account and moved on, leaving nothing but some stained nubuck seat covers and an unpaid staff. Then one of those things happened that they write about later in local history books. A sullen long-hair named Marto Costanza who worked as a washer-up and daytime cook was in the kitchen when a bunch of construction guys came by for eggs. One of these guys, it turns out, was Marto’s brother Matias. Marto made them eggs and told his tale of woe, whereupon a conversation between the brothers took place about fucking landlords and fucking bosses generally. Marto and Matias’s friends got pissed and righteous that the Lacarte was going to close, like that was the line. This crappy, gentrified, failed little day drinking spot was the Rubicon that capitalism was no way going to cross. They just flat out occupied the place. First it was a protest, then an illegal squat for a hundred days, and then a bunch of families got together and bought the nephew out. Marto Costanza got his hair cut and put a red bandanna around each arm, and now he runs the Lacarte Free House and Working People’s Hostel. The smoke comes out the door and down the road, and on Saturday nights they sing the “Internationale” at closing time. More dirty communist sex is had in the upstairs rooms of the Lacarte than anywhere else within three thousand miles, and that includes the university. I know the downstairs scene a little. I don’t even hate it. I’m an investigator. You can’t do the job without occasionally thinking the whole world is a crime scene. Plus there was one time I had a divorce case—I do have to make money between when some Titan steps in burning shit—and the guy told me after I followed him around half the city that, yeah, he’d been to bed with a woman who lived there on and off, but only that one time, because as they were doing the deed he realised she had a tattoo of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and it was winking at him every time she moved. But if you’re looking for the Marx Brothers on the shores of Othrys, you could do worse than try the place where Marto and Matias’s picture hangs over the bar, and the beer runs red. I stand across the street for a minute. There’s a tricker kid practicing flips under a streetlight, her boyfriend filming. Three steps, kick off the wall, land solid. Go again. Sometimes she does a twist instead, rolling along the chicken wire and coming down like a dancer. I realise I’m in their shot. I’ve always watched them, like birds flying. Now I wonder how many of them scout


one knew exactly how the miracle was accomplished. She was indolent, passive, the caustic even called her dull; but dressed like an idol, hung with pearls, growing younger and blonder and more beautiful each year, she throned in Mr. Beaufort's heavy brown-stone palace, and drew all the world there without lifting her jewelled little finger. The knowing people said it was Beaufort himself who trained the servants, taught the chef new dishes, told the gardeners what hot-house flowers to grow for the dinner-table and the drawing-rooms, selected the guests, brewed the after-dinner punch and dictated the little notes his wife wrote to her friends. If he did, these domestic activities were privately performed, and he presented to the world the appearance of a careless and hospitable millionaire strolling into his own drawing-room with the detachment of an invited guest, and saying: "My wife's gloxinias are a marvel, aren't they? I believe she gets them out from Kew." Mr. Beaufort's secret, people were agreed, was the way he carried things off. It was all very well to whisper that he had been "helped" to leave England by the international banking-house in which he had been employed; he carried off that rumour as easily as the rest--though New York's business conscience was no less sensitive than its moral standard--he carried everything before him, and all New York into his drawing- rooms, and for over twenty years now people had said they were "going to the Beauforts'" with the same tone of security as if they had said they were going to Mrs. Manson Mingott's, and with the added satisfaction of knowing they would get hot canvas-back ducks and vintage wines, instead of tepid Veuve Clicquot without a year and warmed-up croquettes from Philadelphia. Mrs. Beaufort, then, had as usual appeared in her box just before the Jewel Song; and when, again as usual, she rose at the end of the third act, drew her opera cloak about her lovely shoulders, and disappeared, New York knew that meant that half an hour later the ball would begin. The Beaufort house was one that New Yorkers were proud to show to foreigners, especially on the night of the annual ball. The Beauforts had been among the first people in New York to own their own red velvet carpet and have it rolled down the steps by their own footmen, under their own awning, instead of hiring it with the supper and the ball-room chairs. They had also inaugurated the custom of letting the ladies take their cloaks off in the hall, instead of shuffling up to the hostess's bedroom and recurling their hair with the aid of the gas-burner; Beaufort was understood to have said that he supposed all his wife's friends had maids who saw to it that they were properly coiffees when they left home. Then the house had been boldly planned with a ball-room, so that, instead of squeezing through a narrow passage to get to it (as at the Chiverses') one marched solemnly down a vista of enfiladed drawing- rooms (the sea-green,


sinister. A few days later, I went to an event with a mix of national security officials. The outdoor bar near the White House was the same one where I’d persuaded a reporter the month before that there was an “Axis of Adults” inside the Trump administration. Incidentally, one of those Adults—Tom Bossert—rang my phone while I was sipping a cocktail. The homeland security advisor wanted to give me a heads-up. When President Trump met with the Russians in the Oval Office days earlier, he apparently had chatted them up about the “great intelligence” he was getting and shared sensitive details with them about an ISIS terror plot. The news was about to be in the headlines everywhere, Tom warned. Before I could tell the secretary, The Washington Post broke the story. The president had given “code-word information” to the Russians, a top official familiar with the episode told the paper. Trump “revealed more information to the Russian ambassador than we have shared with our own allies.” In one meeting, the president had broken the trust of our international partners, possibly tipped off our adversaries, and put U.S. lives in danger. I needed to get back to the office. “I may last a day…” With the arrival of summer, whatever cautious optimism there had been inside the Trump administration burned off like water on hot asphalt. Every few days, John Kelly and I descended into a secure room in the basement of DHS headquarters for virtual meetings. We spent a lot of time in these “SCIFs” (secure compartmented information facilities), on the phone with Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis, CIA Director Mike Pompeo, Secretary of State Rex Tillerson, and others, notionally to talk about threats to the country. By midyear, I had begun to dread the meetings. We spent less time talking about international developments and more time figuring out how to fix crises of President Trump’s own making. One day, he might insist that America pull out of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), the defense alliance that is the backbone of U.S. security. Another day, it might be an errant demand to cancel a free trade agreement with a top ally Trump was mad at for a perceived slight, regardless of whether it might hurt the economy or create diplomatic upheaval. After his first meeting with Russian president Vladimir Putin, for instance, Trump tweeted that he had made a deal with the Kremlin leader to jointly form an “impenetrable cyber unit” to protect elections. Let me clarify: Trump wanted to cooperate on anti-hacking with the very same man who’d just hacked the 2016 vote in the United States. It was like agreeing to host an anger management class with a serial murderer. I showed Kelly the tweet. The Secretary fumed. “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about,” he said. Our cybersecurity chief, Chris Krebs, was beside himself. Secretary Kelly’s mood began to change. I watched him at Trump’s first cabinet meeting in June. One by one, the president went around the room to his deputies for an update,


has only a few lines; we see him in the library, because what surer way to establish that he’s a nerd, falling asleep in the middle of a book. When he wakes up after the library’s closed, he’s hit with a sudden chill. A sense of unease. Nothing around him appears to be wrong, though . . . until he heads out into the night and the audience sees paw prints tracking him down the library’s dusty hallway. Roll credits. The Finn on my phone seems to be going out of his way to be professional. Which, in theory, I shouldn’t mind—it’s just so clearly a concerted effort. I decided last night, in the middle of not being able to sleep because of airplane anxiety and not being able to sleep because of new-job anxiety, that this trip doesn’t need to be uncomfortable. This is a rare, frankly incredible opportunity I’ve been given. And I’m going to do everything I can to enjoy it in all the ways I couldn’t with Maddy’s book. That mood lasts about until I check into my hotel and open the door to my room. It’s not that I was expecting lush digs or anything, but there’s barely any space to walk around the bed, there’s no shower curtain in the bathroom, and the room’s single electrical outlet is, inexplicably, located inside the closet. Stay positive, I urge myself, unplugging a lamp so I can charge my phone. I’ll be here only a couple nights, so I unpack my carry-on but leave my larger suitcase untouched. Then I put on a vintage Harley Quinn T-shirt I found in a thrift shop years ago and have only ever worn to sleep in because it’s a little big, but today it seems perfect. I tuck it into high-waisted jeans and add a cotton blazer, which I swap for an oversize flannel, which I swap for the blazer again before lying down on the bed and forcing myself to breathe. At these cons, I’m meant to essentially become Finn’s shadow, tailing him from panel to signing and back again. Watching how he interacts with fans. Getting to know him—not just his personality, but his voice, his mannerisms and quirks and favorite turns of phrase, all of which will help me embody him when I start writing. He had a fan meet and greet earlier today, so I won’t see him until his panel this afternoon. In theory, today is supposed to be low stress. While I have a few pages full of research and links I compiled over the week, I’m not starting an outline of the book until we get a chance to discuss what he has in mind. Some of my authors have had clear ideas of format and narrative structure, or they’ll have already worked with an editor on an outline, which Finn has not. This book is important to him, he assured me. I have to believe he’ll have some sense of direction. Even though I have enough per diem for an Uber and I’ve been


tongue by asking how she would like him to speak ill of her father. Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the master's reputation home to himself, and was attached by ties stronger than reason could break---chains forged by habit, which it would be cruel to attempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in avoiding both complaints and expres- sions of antipathy concerning Heathcliff, and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to raise a bad spirit between him and Hareton. Indeed, I don't believe she has ever breathed a syllable, in the latter's hearing, against her oppressor since. When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I came in to sit with them after I had done my work, and I felt so soothed and comforted to watch them that I did not notice how time got on. You know they both appeared in a meas- nre my children. I had long been proud of one, and now I was sure the other would be a source of equal satisfac- tion. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off rapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been bred, and Catherine's sincere com- mendations acted as a spur to his industry. His bright- ening mind brightened his features, and added spirit and nobility to their aspect. I could hardly fancy it the same individual I had beheld on the day I discov- ered my little lady at Wuthering Heights, after her ex- pedition to the Crags. While I admired and they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it returned the mas- ter. He came upon us quite unexpectedly, entering by the front way, and had a full view of the whole three ere we could raise our heads to glance at him. Well, I reflected, there was never a pleasanter or more harm- less sight, and it will be a burning shame to scold them. The red firelight glowed on their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with the eager interest of children; for though he was twenty-three and she eighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn that neither experienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober, disenchanted maturity. They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff. Perhaps you have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they are those of Cath- erine Earnshaw. The present Catherine has no other likeness to her, except a breadth of forehead and a cer- tain arch of the nostril that makes her appear rather haughty, whether she will or not. With Hareton the resemblance is carried further. It is singular at all times; then it was particularly striking, because his senses were alert, and his mental faculties wakened to un- wonted activity. I suppose this resemblance disarmed Mr. Heathcliff. He walked to the hearth in evident agitation, but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young man---or, I should say, altered its character, for


Inside, I found the bathroom, peed voluminously and washed my hands vigorously, then set my toiletry kit on the (germy? or recently cleaned?) counter by the sink. I removed my mask, brushed my teeth approximately three times more thoroughly than I normally did, rinsed my mouth with mouthwash from a travel-sized bottle I’d bought at a drugstore in Kansas City two days before, applied lip balm, and put my mask back on. Holding my travel-sized deodorant, my hand shook so intensely that I almost missed my armpit on the first try. I reminded myself of someone, and then I realized it was Sugar during a thunderstorm. I had decided ahead of time that I’d change every article of clothing, even my underwear and bra, or especially my underwear and bra. I did so inside a stall, standing on top of my sneakers while trying to avoid setting my socked feet against the bare floor. After I was wearing my favorite and most flattering black T-shirt and cropped jeans, as my last act of transformation, I bent to peel off my socks and stepped into black sandals. My feet weren’t horrifically sweaty, nor were they daisy fresh. I’d cleanse them with disinfectant wipes in the car, I decided, and wished that being aware of my own ridiculousness could somehow decrease my ridiculousness. There was nothing left to do except go see Noah. I regarded myself once more in the gas station mirror and thought, as I hadn’t for years, of what my mother had said after I’d repeated Elliot’s line about confusing the romance of comedy with the romance of romance. First she’d said, “What a pretentious turd.” Then she’d said, “I promise that someday you’ll find the love you deserve, but it might not be when or how you’re expecting it.” As I left the bathroom and passed the refrigerators of soda and iced tea and bottled water behind their clear glass doors, I squinted in uncertainty—could it be?—and then, under my mask, I couldn’t help laughing. It wasn’t that loud, but it was unmistakable: Through the store’s sound system, a Muzak version of “Making Love in July” was playing. * * * — It was true that as I entered Topanga Canyon, I quickly felt as if I were in the middle of nowhere, in a way that was beautiful and might, under other circumstances, have been calming. The winding two-lane road appeared far more rural than a place less than an hour from downtown L.A. had any right to. It led me past the craggy Santa Monica mountains on one side and steeply sloping descents on the other, past thickets of chaparral and sandstone outcroppings and the occasional house built into the tree-filled hillsides. Turning south, I caught my first glimpse of the hazy turquoise of the Pacific Ocean. It disappeared and reappeared as the road curved. After fifteen minutes, I made a sharp right. I was by this point not sure my heart could beat any faster without it qualifying as a medical event. There was then the stone


rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession. The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty-five years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, 1984. He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two. For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (7 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless. For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and


astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it. 'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult to steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious of life.' 'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.' 'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site a set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.' 'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.' 'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M. Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now be endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.' 'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert. 'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole


Firefly, they said. Bright yellow, fixed wing,

single prop.

Simple machine, according to my first flight instructor, Sergeant Major

Booley.

I got in and thought: Really? Didn’t look simple to me.

I turned to Booley, studied him. He wasn’t simple either. Short, solid,

tough, he’d fought in Iraq and the Balkans and should’ve been a hard case,

given all he’d seen and been through, but in fact he seemed to suffer no ill-

effects from his tours of combat. On the contrary, he was all gentleness.

He needed to be. With so much on my mind, I entered our sessions wildly

distracted, and it showed. I kept expecting Booley to lose patience, to begin

shouting at me, but he never did. In fact, after one session, he invited me for

a motorbike ride in the country. Lets go and clear our heads, Lieutenant

Wales.

174

https://m.facebook.com/groups/182281287 1297698 https://t.:me/Afghansalarlibrary

It worked. Like a charm. And the motorbike, a gorgeous Triumph 675,

was a timely reminder of what I was after in these flight lessons. Speed and

power.

And freedom.

Then we discovered we weren’t free: the press had followed us the whole

way and papped us outside Booley’s house.

After a period of acclimatizing to the Firefly’s cockpit, becoming familiar

with the control panel, we finally took her up. On one of our first flights

together, with no warning, Booley threw the aircraft into a stall. I felt the left

wing dip, a sickening feeling of disorder, of entropy, and then, after several

seconds that felt like decades, he recovered the aircraft and leveled the

wings.

I stared at him. What in the absolute—?

Was this an aborted suicide attempt?

No, he said gently. This was the next stage in my training. Countless

things can go wrong in the air, he explained, and he needed to show me

what to do—but also how to do it.

Stay. Cool.

Our next flight, he pulled


men and the woman. They had no inkling of such a patience. They were stiff and in pain; their muscles ached, their bones ached, their very hearts ached; and because of this they became sharp of speech, and hard words were first on their lips in the morning and last at night. Charles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was the cherished belief of each that he did more than his share of the work, and neither forbore to speak this belief at every opportunity. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her brother. The result was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a dispute as to which should chop a few sticks for the fire (a dispute which concerned only Charles and Hal), presently would be lugged in the rest of the family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands of miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal's views on art, or the sort of society plays his mother's brother wrote, should have anything to do with the chopping of a few sticks of firewood, passes comprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely to tend in that direction as in the direction of Charles's political prejudices. And that Charles's sister's tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the building of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to Mercedes, who disburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and incidentally upon a few other traits unpleasantly peculiar to her husband's family. In the meantime the fire remained unbuilt, the camp half pitched, and the dogs unfed. Mercedes nursed a special grievance--the grievance of sex. She was pretty and soft, and had been chivalrously treated all her days. But the present treatment by her husband and brother was everything save chivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They complained. Upon which impeachment of what to her was her most essential sex-prerogative, she made their lives unendurable. She no longer considered the dogs, and because she was sore and tired, she persisted in riding on the sled. She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one hundred and twenty pounds--a lusty last straw to the load dragged by the weak and starving animals. She rode for days, till they fell in the traces and the sled stood still. Charles and Hal begged her to get off and walk, pleaded with her, entreated, the while she wept and importuned Heaven with a recital of their brutality. On one occasion they took her off the sled by main strength. They never did it again. She let her legs go limp like a spoiled child, and sat down on the trail. They went on their way, but she did not move. After they had travelled three miles they unloaded the sled, came back for her, and by main strength put her on the sled again. In the excess of their own misery they were callous to the suffering of their animals. Hal's theory, which he practised on others, was that one must get hardened. He had started out preaching


on the dark slope; presently the mountain was deserted, save for the three abandoned sticks and the thing that bowed. CHAPTER EIGHT Gift for the Darkness Piggy looked up miserably from the dawn-pale beach to the dark mountain. "Are you sure? Really sure, I mean?" I told you a dozen times now," said Ralph, "we saw it." "D'you think we're safe down here?" "How the hell should I know?" Ralph jerked away from him and walked a few paces along the beach. Jack was kneeling and drawing a circular pattern in the sand with his forefinger. Piggy's voice came to them, hushed. "Are you sure? Really?" "Go up and see," said Jack contemptuously, "and good riddance." "No fear." "The beast had teeth," said Ralph, "and big black eyes." He shuddered violently. Piggy took off his one round of glass and polished the surface. "What we going to do?" Ralph turned toward the platform. The conch glimmered among the trees, a white blob against the place where the sun would rise. He pushed back his mop. "I don't know." He remembered the panic flight down the mountainside. "I don't think we'd ever fight a thing that size, honestly, you know. We'd talk but we wouldn't fight a tiger. We'd hide. Even Jack 'ud hide." Jack still looked at the sand. "What about my hunters?" Simon came stealing out of the shadows by the shelters. Ralph ignored Jack's question. He pointed to the touch of yellow above the sea. "As long as there's light we're brave enough. But then? And now that thing squats by the fire as though it didn't want us to be rescued--" He was twisting his hands now, unconsciously. His voice rose. "So we can't have a signal fire. . . . We're beaten." A point of gold appeared above the sea and at once all the sky lightened. "What about my hunters?" "Boys armed with sticks." Jack got to his feet. His face was red as he marched away. Piggy put on his one glass and looked at Ralph. "Now you done it. You been rude about his hunters." "Oh shut up!" The sound of the inexpertly blown conch interrupted them. As though he were serenading the rising sun, Jack went on blowing till the shelters were astir and the hunters crept to the platform and the littluns whimpered as now they so frequently did. Ralph rose obediently, and Piggy, and they went to the platform. "Talk," said Ralph bitterly, "talk, talk, talk." He took the conch from Jack. "This meeting--" Jack interrupted him. "I called it." "If you hadn't called it I should have. You just blew the conch." "Well, isn't that calling it?" "Oh, take it! Go on--talk!" Ralph thrust the conch into Jack's arms and sat down on the trunk. "I've called an assembly," said Jack, "because of a lot of things. First, you know now, we've seen the beast. We crawled up. We were only a few feet away. The beast sat up and looked at us. I don't know what it does. We don't


had time to build more, so there’d be no climbing today. Maybe they’d still be salvageable. It’d be a pain to find them, but if they hadn’t been crushed, their batteries should have drained enough for them to beep in warning. “We’re going back?” Rambo asked, sounding incredulous. “But we almost died!” “No risk, no reward,” Vic told him as he spooled thick and fibrous rope, storing it inside Nurse Ratched. “The reward is staying functional.” He paused. “Do robots go to heaven?” Vic blinked, thrown off-kilter by the conversational whiplash. “What? Where did you—” He stopped. “Top Hat.” A film that Rambo was enamored with, even though the disc was degraded so much that the screen skipped and jumped more than it stood still. A man and woman danced cheek to cheek, singing about how they were in heaven. “I don’t know, Rambo. I don’t even know if heaven exists.” “Oh. Why not?” “Because it’s just a story.” “So what happens when we stop functioning?” “I don’t know that either.” “I could assist you in that regard,” Nurse Ratched said. “There would be minimal screaming involved.” “We’re not killing anyone today,” Vic told her. “Tell that to the squirrel,” Nurse Ratched said. “Oh. Wait. You cannot. Because it is dead.” “Oh no,” Rambo whispered. “What happened to the farm?” “I lied,” Nurse Ratched said. “I killed it by rolling over it again and again. I only left enough for stew for Vic. Is that not fun? I am having fun.” Vic led them to a different entry point to the Scrap Yards in case the Old Ones were still stalking about the area they’d been in last. The Scrap Yards stretched miles in every direction. Vic hadn’t explored every bit of it, but he and his father had mapped as much as they could. He stopped on the edge of the forest where grass yielded to dirt and metal. The nearest Old One looked to be a quarter of a mile away. They were in luck. “Nurse Ratched,” Vic said. “Pull up the grid. Focus on 3B.” Her screen filled with green lines overlaying a rudimentary map of the Scrap Yards. It’d taken years to get as much of the map filled as they had, divided up into quadrants. The far corner of the map was dark. They’d never gotten that far, though not for lack of trying. The camming devices they’d had to abandon the week before were in quadrant 6A. The Old Ones had seemed to be dumping new material around 3B. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t need camming devices as the piles wouldn’t be too high yet, so they could start there and then swing down to 6A on their way home to check and see if anything could be salvaged. He studied the map as Nurse Ratched enhanced 3B and made a plan. Absentmindedly nudging his foot against Rambo, Vic said, “All right. What are the rules?” “Stick together!” Rambo said. “Run if we have to,” Nurse Ratched said as the map disappeared. “No dallying!” “No


the elder brother, she would have ended up with a cotton-headed baron who tripped over his own feet as he followed her out the door. Perhaps her choice of husband was for the best. “Besides,” he added since things couldn’t get any worse, “Olivia hates walking, so she would hardly want to be your companion.” Lucy gave him a smile that nearly made him stumble again, but she didn’t say anything until they’d stepped outside into the sun. “From what I’ve heard, Lord Calloway, you travel quite often. Where has been your favorite place?” Simon was so busy concentrating on where he put his feet—he feared he might somehow slip and land face-first in the dirt—that he didn’t immediately realize that she was trying to make conversation. And when he deciphered her question, he had no idea how to answer it. “I have been to many great places,” he said, gesturing in the direction they should go to find the pond. “I am not sure I could choose a favorite.” He doubted she would think highly of him if he told her he would rather stay home in the country for the rest of his life, particularly this country, considering Calloway Park had always been wilder than most estates. Much of the grounds had remained a refuge for the creatures who had made it their homes. Simon always hated to leave, and having to spend the Season in London because of Parliament was bad enough without adding all of Father’s ventures on top of that. Lucy had agreed to marry William, though, which meant she would be getting herself into a life of hopping from place to place. It sounded exhausting. Unless she was content to remain at home while William did his traveling. Simon couldn’t imagine her being content to be left anywhere. He had not been around her long, but she seemed lonely with William being unconscious. Perhaps that was why he had suggested this walk. She needed the companionship, and he needed a distraction from his failures. “London is rather fine,” Lucy said. She kept at a slow pace as she followed the narrow trail, her eyes taking in the fields and hills that surrounded Calloway Park, and Simon found it easier than he would have guessed to stay at her side. Usually, when he made the trek to the pond, he walked as quickly as he could so he could put some space between him and his responsibilities. Today, he was perfectly content to hold his arms behind his back and let Lucy take the lead. Though, perhaps he would do well not to let her take the lead in conversation. “I have never much liked London,” he said. “No?” Simon couldn’t tell if she was simply curious or if there was more to her question. She barely spared him a glance, which rather bothered him. How could he guess her thoughts if he couldn’t see her expression? Blast it all, why should he even care what she thought? It wasn’t like he could pursue her. He simply


Bartleby the Scrivener A Story of Wall Street.txt

what Nippers has to say. What do you think of it, Nippers? Would I not be justified in immediately dismissing Bartleby?” “Excuse me, that is for you to decide, sir. I think his conduct quite unusual, and indeed unjust, as regards Turkey and myself. But it may only be a passing whim.” “Ah,” exclaimed I, “you have strangely changed your mind then—you speak very gently of him now.” “All beer,” cried Turkey; “gentleness is effects of beer—Nippers and I dined together to-day. You see how gentle I am, sir. Shall I go and black his eyes?” “You refer to Bartleby, I suppose. No, not to-day, Turkey,” I replied; “pray, put up your fists.” I closed the doors, and again advanced towards Bartleby. I felt additional incentives tempting me to my fate. I burned to be rebelled against again. I remembered that Bartleby never left the office. “Bartleby,” said I, “Ginger Nut is away; just step round to the Post Office, won’t you? (it was but a three minute walk,) and see if there is any thing for me.” “I would prefer not to.” “You will not?” “I prefer not.” I staggered to my desk, and sat there in a deep study. My blind inveteracy returned. Was there any other thing in which I could procure myself to be ignominiously repulsed by this lean, penniless wight?—my hired clerk? What added thing is there, perfectly reasonable, that he will be sure to refuse to do? “Bartleby!” No answer. “Bartleby,” in a louder tone. No answer. “Bartleby,” I roared. Like a very ghost, agreeably to the laws of magical invocation, at the third summons, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage. “Go to the next room, and tell Nippers to come to me.” “I prefer not to,” he respectfully and slowly said, and mildly disappeared. “Very good, Bartleby,” said I, in a quiet sort of serenely severe self-possessed tone, intimating the unalterable purpose of some terrible retribution very close at hand. At the moment I half intended something of the kind. But upon the whole, as it was drawing towards my dinner-hour, I thought it best to put on my hat and walk home for the day, suffering much from perplexity and distress of mind. Shall I acknowledge it? The conclusion of this whole business was, that it soon became a fixed fact of my chambers, that a pale young scrivener, by the name of Bartleby, and a desk there; that he copied for me at the usual rate of four cents a folio (one hundred words); but he was permanently exempt from examining the work done by him, that duty being transferred to Turkey and Nippers, one of compliment doubtless to their superior acuteness; moreover, said Bartleby was never on any account to be dispatched on the most trivial errand of any sort; and that even if entreated to take upon him such a matter, it was generally understood that he would prefer not to—in other words, that he would refuse pointblank. As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His


gripped the waning jewel. The water stirred, heaved, fell out of her grip. She almost fell with it, shuddering. Dedalugun rounded on her with a roar. Just when she thought the lake would never move, something drew her gaze up. Flecks of silver rained through the sky, weeping and darting from a broad streak of light – a bearded star with a split tail, longer and brighter than any she had ever seen. In her hand, the stone turned brilliant white, so cold she almost dropped it in agony. A cold that hurt her fire. Dedalugun had looked skyward as well, but now its fiery gaze returned to her. Tunuva tried to weave a warding, only to find her magic frozen. In all her life, it had never failed to answer her call. Fear stoppered her throat. Her hand ached and shook around the stone. Suddenly it weighed as much as a boulder. Before she could so much as reach for a weapon, Siyu was there, wrenching at the spear in its breast. She kept hold of it as Dedalugun reared, lifting her from the ground. Siyu braced her boot on its scales and pulled, and when she fell, the spear came with her. She landed in a crouch. Dedalugun made a sound like the earth grinding. In freeing the spear, Siyu had opened a hole in its armour. The wyrm struck her away, and she lay still on the sand. ‘Siyu,’ Esbar screamed. Her cry sliced into Tunuva, even as she echoed it, agony clenching her chest. Siyu did not move. Dedalugun turned back to Tunuva, blood leaking from its eye. It sizzled where it hit the ground. Tunuva backed away. All around her, the world smelled different, like metal. Her own magic was shrinking in her veins, cowed by the comet, but the stone was shining bright enough to come near blinding her. This time, the need to pull was overwhelming. Lake Jodigo shivered in anticipation of her touch. She looked at Siyu, then the comet. Smell of iron. Smell of blood. She remembered pushing, bearing down, as Armul emerged from her, the bricks underfoot, her body toiling. All the while, Esbar had stood at her side, never once letting her go. Tunuva remembered that feeling with her whole heart, allowing it to fill and wake her every sinew, and turned it on itself. She drew, as if to drag a twisting fish from the Minara. As if to take her child back into her womb, where he could never have been lost. She drew, and with one mighty pull, Tunuva Melim lifted the lake. At once, her body ached to its joints, and she would have given anything to sleep. Instead, she imagined the water as the fire she could no longer touch, drawing and gathering it to her will. At first, it was like lifting a weapon too heavy for arms. And then, as the stars fell, it was as easy as breathing. The lake had too much salt in it to sustain any life. She swept it


through, with Dave and Buck, and they were half-frozen and all but drowned by the time they were dragged out. The usual fire was necessary to save them. They were coated solidly with ice, and the two men kept them on the run around the fire, sweating and thawing, so close that they were singed by the flames. At another time Spitz went through, dragging the whole team after him up to Buck, who strained backward with all his strength, his fore paws on the slippery edge and the ice quivering and snapping all around. But behind him was Dave, likewise straining backward, and behind the sled was Francois, pulling till his tendons cracked. Again, the rim ice broke away before and behind, and there was no escape except up the cliff. Perrault scaled it by a miracle, while Francois prayed for just that miracle; and with every thong and sled lashing and the last bit of harness rove into a long rope, the dogs were hoisted, one by one, to the cliff crest. Francois came up last, after the sled and load. Then came the search for a place to descend, which descent was ultimately made by the aid of the rope, and night found them back on the river with a quarter of a mile to the day's credit. By the time they made the Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was played out. The rest of the dogs were in like condition; but Perrault, to make up lost time, pushed them late and early. The first day they covered thirty-five miles to the Big Salmon; the next day thirty-five more to the Little Salmon; the third day forty miles, which brought them well up toward the Five Fingers. Buck's feet were not so compact and hard as the feet of the huskies. His had softened during the many generations since the day his last wild ancestor was tamed by a cave-dweller or river man. All day long he limped in agony, and camp once made, lay down like a dead dog. Hungry as he was, he would not move to receive his ration of fish, which Francois had to bring to him. Also, the dog-driver rubbed Buck's feet for half an hour each night after supper, and sacrificed the tops of his own moccasins to make four moccasins for Buck. This was a great relief, and Buck caused even the weazened face of Perrault to twist itself into a grin one morning, when Francois forgot the moccasins and Buck lay on his back, his four feet waving appealingly in the air, and refused to budge without them. Later his feet grew hard to the trail, and the worn-out foot-gear was thrown away. At the Pelly one morning, as they were harnessing up, Dolly, who had never been conspicuous for anything, went suddenly mad. She announced her condition by a long, heartbreaking wolf howl that sent every dog bristling with fear, then sprang straight for Buck. He had never seen a dog go mad, nor did he have any reason to


the tide was low, looking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on at the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out to sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss Havisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off, upon a cloud or sail or green hill-side or water-line, it was just the same. - Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange life appeared to have something to do with everything that was picturesque. One Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself on being "most awful dull," that I had given him up for the day, I lay on the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying traces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky and in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought concerning them that had been much in my head. "Joe," said I; "don't you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit?" "Well, Pip," returned Joe, slowly considering. "What for?" "What for, Joe? What is any visit made for?" "There is some wisits, p'r'aps," said Joe, "as for ever remains open to the question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might think you wanted something - expected something of her." "Don't you think I might say that I did not, Joe?" "You might, old chap," said Joe. "And she might credit it. Similarly she mightn't." Joe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard at his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition. "You see, Pip," Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger, "Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were all." "Yes, Joe. I heard her." "ALL," Joe repeated, very emphatically. "Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her." "Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were - Make a end on it! - As you was! - Me to the North, and you to the South! - Keep in sunders!" I had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to find that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more probable. "But, Joe." "Yes, old chap." "Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day of my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after her, or shown that I remember her." "That's true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes all four round - and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four round might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of hoofs--" "I don't mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don't mean a present." But Joe


same route. The man appeared to be tailing me. I punched it, trying to lose him on unfamiliar streets. I pulled off onto the shoulder near the edge of town and the car whizzed past indifferently. I drove to a parking garage. No one followed. I thought I was being stalked at first, but it was more likely I was being an alarmist. Then a friend in the Secret Service told me to get a protective detail—immediately. Based on the online chatter, he didn’t think I was safe and suggested changing locations. I followed his advice, packed up my bags, and headed for Charlotte, booking a hotel there under a different name. On the drive, a lawyer I knew connected me with a well-known Silicon Valley billionaire. The man offered to supply a bodyguard for however long it was needed. I refused at first, but his team insisted on helping however they could. I was on the phone with a security firm before I got to my next stop. “Hang tight, my friend,” an executive protection coordinator said. “We’ll have you covered soon.” Running out of money, I made sure my accommodations were cheap. The hotel room smelled like a spilled milkshake dried out on concrete. Settling in for the night, I picked up the rubber doorstop holding the bathroom entrance open and jammed it under the front door. Then I wedged an angled chair under the handle to be safe. I loaded my gun and placed it under the pillow next to me. There’s a difference between being “pursued” and being “hunted.” For months I’d dealt with pursuers. People looked me up to send mocking messages or smears, and I got used to it. Hunting is different. That’s when someone wants you dead. And in the eyes of some rabid supporters, Donald Trump had turned me into a hunting trophy. Still, I thought a bodyguard sounded like overkill. As I lay in the hotel, I was confident I could defend myself and that the threats would subside eventually, although the words were still on a loop in my head. Bad things are going to happen to him.… It turned out that Trump was right. Bad things were about to happen. PART II In the early days of the pandemic, the President of the United States tweeted, “LIBERATE MICHIGAN!” Trump was responding to the controversy over stay-at-home orders. He was at odds with Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer, who enforced strict policies while health officials scrambled to develop a vaccine. Eerily, he tied his rallying cry to gun rights. “Save your great 2nd Amendment. It is under siege!” he added in a series of messages urging voters to “liberate” other states, too. His supporters listened. In the weeks and months that followed, a dozen men in the Midwest started talking about a kinetic plan of action. They chatted on encrypted messaging apps and gathered in discreet locations in rural Michigan and Wisconsin throughout 2020 to develop their plot, including organizing several live-fire exercises. Meeting on the edge of a lush green farm one


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

and I press on. “It isn’t like I woke up one day and thought, Wow, love is a lie.” I stab the olive in my drink, then use the toothpick to point in her direction. “Obviously you’re proof that it’s not. But at what point do I acknowledge that maybe my love life isn’t going to be what I think it is?” “Fizz—” “I think I might have aged out of the majors.” “What? That is—” She blinks, her argument dying on her tongue. “Well, that is actually a very good metaphor.” “It’s the classic chicken-and-egg dilemma: Has the writer’s block killed my romance boner, or has losing my romance boner killed my actual boner?” “There are a lot of boners in this situation.” “If only! And once you’re single for so long, you aren’t even sure whether you’re suitable for a relationship anymore.” “It’s not like you’ve wanted to be in one,” she reminds me. “I don’t know who Felicity Chen is if she’s not treating dating like it’s an extreme sport.” I point at her again, energized. “Exactly! That’s another fear I have! What if I’ve depleted the local resources?” “Local… resources?” “I joke that I’ve dated every single man in San Diego County—and inadvertently some of the married ones—but I don’t really think it’s that far off from the truth.” Jess scoffs into her wine. “Come on.” “Remember Leon? The guy I met when he spilled a huge tray of Greek salad on my foot in the Whole Foods parking lot?” She nods, swallowing a sip. “The guy from Santa Fe?” “And remember Nathan, who I met on a blind date?” She squints. “I think I remember hearing that name.” “They’re brothers. Twins. Moved out here together to be closer to family. I went out with them two weeks apart.” Jess claps a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “When Nathan walked into the restaurant and approached the table, I said, ‘Oh my God, what are you doing here?’ ” Her laugh breaks free. “I’m sure he and Leon get that all the time, though.” “Sure, but then I went out with a guy last month named Hector.” I pause to underscore the weight of what I’m going to say next. “He’s the cousin the twins moved here to be closer to.” To her credit, this laugh is more of a groan. This shit used to be funny. It used to crack us both up—and dating like this was a blast. The Adventures of Fizzy used to give me unending inspiration—even if a date went terribly, I could still play it for comedy or even just a tiny spark of an idea for dialogue. But at this point, I have six books partially written that get just past the meet-cute and then… nothing. There’s a roadblock on the way to the “I love you” now, a NO ACCESS sign in my brain. I’m starting to understand why. Because when I see Jess light up every time River walks into the room, I must admit that I’ve never shared