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New Jersey can sometimes be hell but I didn’t expect it to be so literal. If I had known what was in store for me when I went to work, I would have called out sick that day, and every day for the next seventeen years. Unfortunately for me, precognition was not one of my magical abilities.

Blissfully unaware of the horrors that lie ahead, I elbowed my way into Integritas Services, tucked in a tiny strip mall by the Jersey Shore, careful not to spill the coffee I precariously balanced on a wobbly cardboard tray, the low morning sun shining over my shoulder.

Just past the small waiting area was the front desk, the Integritas logo blazing across it. Underneath the logo, in smaller letters: "Private investigations, bar spotting, police consulting, and more!" Along the top of the desk were pamphlets that went into our services and offerings in greater detail -- think your husband's cheating on you and trying to hide his cash? Here, have a brochure for our private eye and forensic accountant services. Own a bar and want to make sure your employees aren't lousy, good-for-nothing grifters? Hire one of our spotters. Franchise a chain of retail stores? We’ve got mystery shoppers for you.

I even had a brochure all to myself, as the resident employee with magical abilities. Need a Mesmer to track down someone? Monitor your business? Maybe indulge in a bit of corporate espionage? Here's the guy for you, Oliver Parker.

Premium pricing only, of course.

Yeah, if a magical operation in Jersey surprises you, clearly you haven’t been to Seaside Heights after dark.

The office was small, a former nursery transformed into a mostly open room with desks scattered under fluorescent lights. Along the back wall was the office that belonged to the owner, a storage closet, and a pair of meeting rooms.

"Hey Gertie," I said as I approached the front desk. She was an older lady, already riffling through the paperwork for the day. She's been here longer than most of us. Longer than the current owner, even. I took out one of the coffee cups. "Extra cream and sugar for my favorite queen."

"Bless you," she said, taking the cup and giving it a big sip. She closed her eyes and sighed. As I made my way deeper into the office, she asked, "We all set for this weekend?"

I nodded. "I still have a copy of your key from the last time. Can't wait to spend some time with Buddy."

She gave me a concerned look. "If you're not up for it..."

I brought a finger to my necklace, touching my pet's tags, trying not to think too hard about my recently departed tabby cat. "Of course I'm up for it. I'm looking forward to spending time with him."

"You just like watching him because he helps you meet cute gentlemen at the beach," she said.

I flashed her a grin. "I can't help if he's such a good boy. He likes being the center of attention."

"Don't spoil him too much. The vet says he needs to watch his diet," she added with a warning glare.

"Your dog will be just fine, now stop worrying and start thinking about all the slots you’ll be playing at Vegas. You realize Atlantic City is closer and cheaper, right?"

"Atlantic City doesn't have Rod Stewart, honey.” I had to concede that point. “Oh, Pete wants to see you. Watch out, Hurricane Jane is here.” She gave me a knowing look.

Pete and Jane would be Pete Logan, the owner, and Jane Hall, his girlfriend. Pete took over Integritas a few years ago, inheriting the business from his mom. Jane didn’t work here, but she was very good at spending Pete’s money and being a general nuisance at the office. I looked at my watch. “What’s she doing up so early? She usually doesn’t get up til the crack of noon.”

Gertie gave me a heck-if-I-know roll of her eyes and went back to her coffee and paperwork.

I shrugged to myself, then dropped off everyone else’s coffee before going to Pete’s office. The door was open, so I peered in. Pete was in his mid-fifties, wearing boating shoes and khakis, a polo and a deep tan. His teeth were unnaturally white, and a key float hung out of his pocket in the shape of a buoy. He was talking to an old man, who was short and wrinkled, with liver spots all over his head. Next to him was Jane Hall, a young forty-something with big hair and bigger nails. She wore a ridiculous bright pink puffer vest, bright pink sweatpants, and a hideous yellow sweatshirt underneath.

“Ollie, finally,” Pete said, rising from his desk, a grim look on his face. “We need your help.”

This was unexpected. Most of the time, when Pete needed my help, it was usually because he had trouble watching some boat racing video on the internet — being in my mid-thirties apparently meant that I was the natural go-to for computer problems, despite all my protests that I couldn’t figure out technology to save my life. But he actually seemed serious for once. Like this was a real issue.

“Uh,” I said eloquently.

Pete gestured to the older man. “This is Sid Greene, he’s been a friend of my family since forever. Sid, this is Oliver Parker, the Mesmer I was telling you about. Ollie, Sid’s daughter Sandy’s gone missing.”

I understood. Missing people wasn’t usually my thing; for that, people tended to go to the police or some other actual authority. But I was very good at finding lost objects, my bread and butter for Integritas. You wouldn’t believe how many people lose their wedding rings at the beach.

“Where was she last seen?” I asked.

“Her house,” Sid said, his voice papery thin. But there was a catch to his voice that made me lean forward, prompting him. He hesitated, then went on, “She has cameras at her house. Her neighbors, too. We watched the footage. She went in the house on Sunday, but she never left.”

It was Friday. I frowned. “She’s not in there?”

“I looked.” He gestured to Jane next to him. “We looked. Multiple times.”

“So where the hell is she?” I demanded. At Pete and Jane’s look, I swallowed. Right. That’s what I’m here for. Trying to cover up my dumb question, I asked, “Do you have anything of hers?”

“Pete said you’d need this,” Sid said, handing over a little baggy. I took the paper towel out from it. When I unfolded it, it revealed a gold necklace. “It was her mother’s. She wore it almost every day.”

I wrapped my fingers over it and immediately felt a faint thrum. This would do. “I can perform a ritual spell to find her. Let’s go to the other room.”

As I went to one of the conference rooms, Pete came up to my side and whispered, “I’ve known Sandy since we were kids. She’s the one who introduced me to Jane. You’ve got to find her.” The look on his face was one of raw desperation.

I swallowed. “I’ll do what I can.”

The four of us shuffled into a small conference room, which had a table large enough to seat half a dozen. Off to the side was a cheap low bookshelf that held a bunch of atlases, and above it on the wall, a world map. I bade the others to be seated while I went to work. I went to the bookshelf and pulled out a velvet cloth runner and a pair of candles, setting them atop the bookshelf. I lit the candles, then turned the dimmer to the room down, leaving the room in a gentle golden light, the small flames making the shadows flicker and dance. The cloth and candles didn’t actually do anything, but when it came to doing magic, people expected a show. They tend not to take me seriously unless I puff up the proceedings with some schlocky mumbo-jumbo.

I spread the necklace on the cloth, the gold glittering in the candlelight, nestled against the dark velvet. When finding people or objects, I needed to handle something that had a close connection with whatever it was I’m looking for. In this case, a part of Sandy’s soul was imbued in this necklace. All I needed to do was find the strand that was Sandy within this necklace, and use it to trace her whereabouts.

“This ritual will take a few steps,” I said, using what I called my hetero-register, a lower, more serious variation of my voice. Sid and Jane looked at me intently, sensing that I was about to conjure some powerful magics. Little did they know I could do this one-handed, scarfing down a bag of chips with the other. But they needed to see something reverential, almost holy, to believe me when it worked. “First I’ll locate her on this map.” I gestured to the wall behind me. “Once I know what region she’s in, I’ll pull up one of these atlases and narrow down her location.”

They looked at the bookshelf crammed with cheap atlas books and maps of all places around the world. Once, when I was hired to serve someone papers, I had to chase them down all the way to Australia. All of them were meticulously labeled; the only one that wasn’t was a thin, leather-bound booklet that I got at the end of my training at Fort Dix a decade ago.

“I’ll begin the ritual,” I announced solemnly, turning back to the bookshelf. “Do not disturb me.”

I placed a finger on Sandy’s necklace, closed my eyes, and concentrated. Almost immediately, my blood began to sing, like it was charged with an electrical current. A whirling maelstrom of light and color flooded my mind's eye, until, there, shimmering and golden, a pinprick of light.

I opened my eyes and looked at the world map, expecting it to settle on a particular location. Instead, the pinprick of light jumped this way and that, bouncing from country to country, ocean to desert, from the north to the south, Mali to Bali, Friesland, Flanders, Portugal, Poland, Uluru, Denali, Botswana and back.

What the hell, I thought. This spell never did that. It always homed in on the whereabouts of the person or object I was looking for, none of this dancing around. I grit my teeth and focused, closing my eyes again. This time, the light dropped to the bottom of my mind’s eye, dragging my head down with it, until it finally steadied on a fixed position. When I opened my eyes, I expected to see it having alit on one of the atlases I kept there.

It was on the leather-bound book.

With a creeping sense of dread, I pulled it out and carefully set it atop the bookshelf. No sooner had I placed it there did the book noisily flip open on its own power, racing past a dozen pages until it landed on a hand-drawn map. That never happened to me before, either.

I looked at the map. It was like no map that existed of this world. This was one of the realms that belonged to the Other Side. I stared in horror as the pinprick of light zoomed into a particular location, and began pulsing rapidly. I gulped. When finding people, I could reach out through my connection, chasing the strand of their soul and briefly speak to them in their mind, but I had never done so while crossing over to the Other Side.

Hell, I’d never even been to the Other Side. I’d heard of it, sure, every magical person has, just like everybody’s heard of Broadway. But there’s a hell of a difference between singing in the shower versus belting out a tune in the footlights before a thousand people. The Other Side wasn’t just some alternate dimension; it was a place of unfathomable power and danger, where only the most skilled mages, witches, Scions, Soul Hunters dared tread. I may be many things, but “power” and “skill” were not words used to describe one Oliver Parker.

Do I dare reach out to Sandy through the Other Side? If I was caught, then Amicus, the Warden of the Unseen Walls, a literal god made flesh, could find me and punish me. I wasn’t keen on discovering what that would be like. But then I remembered the desperation in Pete’s voice, the raw grief on Sid’s face. If I backed out now, how could I possibly explain that I had the chance to find Sandy but wasn’t brave enough to even try?

I had no choice.

Steeling my resolve, I followed that golden pinprick of light back to its source, my consciousness racing along the thread like some kind of spiritual telegram wire.

Sandy? I probed with my mind. But suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through my head. I cried out and grabbed my temples. My nose filled with the stench of rot and pus coming from the magic that penetrated me. It smelled like corpses.

WHO DARES DEFILE MY PRESENCE a loud voice boomed in my head. YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE.

Agony washed over me as I fell back and bumped into the conference table. Jane and Pete were screaming something but I didn’t know what, I couldn’t focus. My vision swam. I only barely managed to catch a glimpse of the candlelight now roaring three feet in the air, a jet of flame, all heat and light, scorching the map and ceiling.

I WILL SACRIFICE YOU ON BEHALF OF MY MASTER, the voice went on, awful and relentless. An invisible hand grabbed me by the throat and threw me against the back wall of the office. My back and my head slammed against the sheetrock, stars swam in my vision. I couldn’t breathe, whatever this demon was doing to me was cutting off all air. My legs and arms flailed out uselessly as I thrashed on the wall. Pete tried to dislodge me, but he might as well have been pulling down a skyscraper for all the good it did.

I was going to die, I was going to be killed by a demon from the Other Side. I had never even ventured beyond the Unseen Walls but something eldritch seized me and wasn’t letting me go.

As my vision darkened, some blessed synapse in my brain made the right connection, fired the right thought. The Unseen Walls had a guardian, the lord of the crossing.

Divine Amicus, I beseech you, I prayed, calling out into the world of magic as loudly as I could.

THAT FOOL WON’T SAVE YOU, YOU WEAK BAG OF FLESH, the demon said, his voice sneering and dripping with sludge.

But I didn’t need Amicus to save me. I needed this demon to think that Amicus would save me. Drawing into my reserves of magic, I conjured an image of an avenging archangel descending from the heavens, golden spear in hand, trumpets blaring. I made the vision of Amicus an auric comet hurtling towards my invisible foe. Groping in the dark, I found the strand that the demon used to connect him to me. It was rotten, like flesh weeping with pus. I flooded the line with the image of Amicus ready to smite this demon. He growled with surprise and suddenly, I fell to the ground. The mysterious hand that grabbed my throat vanished. I found myself back in the conference room, softly suffused with dim candlelight, the roaring flame gone, my face pressed against the cheap, plasticky carpet on the ground. Gratefully, I gulped in heaving breaths of air. Pete and Jane were at my side, making noises I couldn’t quite make out.

It took me a few seconds to realize they were calling my name and asking if I was okay. Eventually, I was able to nod and say, “I’m all right.” I slowly pushed myself to my feet. The two of them looked at me with concern — Pete’s hand was on my shoulder, Jane’s on my arm. Somehow, Jane’s joltingly pink vest brought me back more firmly to reality. It felt so out of place compared to what I just went through. “Really, I’m okay.” I took a few more steadying breaths, and looked over at the table.

Sid was standing, staring at the wall map, his face ashen. I turned to see what he was looking at when my stomach clenched with anxiety. Dread filled me from head to toe. Written on the world map in blood, leaving dark red streaks as it dripped, were the words DADDY HELP ME.

(note: for some reason the first few paragraphs wouldn't indent, so I separated those with spaces to make the breaks obvious)

We sat, as usual, near the center of the cafeteria. Plasticware scraped and chairlegs squeaked in a cacophony all around, kids chewing and chatting and roughhousing all at the same time. Everyone talked over everyone else. Add on to the general scramble the fact that Francesca Ingersoll and Johnny Shitface (not his real name) and their whole ilk decided it was time for “a move,” and you had the perfect recipe for a lunch period even crazier than normal—which was how things typically were.

They were what Hollywood might dub “the popular kids,” though we dubbed them “Them” or “Them Assholes.” Francesca’s mother sat on the school board and her father had Ted Bundy eyes so no one ever dared cross her, and every once in a while right at the beginning of lunch, Francesca would get that gleam in her eye and she and the rest of Them Assholes would get up and relocate to another group’s table. Hence, “a move.” I guess it was supposed to be a flex, I dunno. The teenage version of gentrification.

Anyway, the current “a move” resulted in a bunch of displaced theatre kids milling about with full trays and Disney Villain t-shirts. Somebody was crying, I think Gracie Hattersfeld, because the group couldn’t find a free table with enough spots so somebody had to sit out. Not that she was the victim, mind you. That girl had mastered the art of crocodile tears. Damn actors and their ability to cry on command.

We, of course, never had to move (“never”), because we always sat at The Mustard Table (almost always), so named because someone years ago graffitied “MUSTARD” across its entire length, which I guess compelled people to honor the moniker by constantly dumping mustard packets all across its surface, and now the table always smelled like mustard. Francesca wouldn’t be caught dead at The Mustard Table. This served to prove how “cool” we were, isolated in our safe haven and above all the petty drama. Usually it worked out, though sometimes a displaced group crowded the table first and left us with barely two spots for four people. One time, from lack of room, I knelt next to the bench until a teacher came and yelled at me.

Fortunately a spring cold had rendered a good quarter of the school out sick, so we had a whole half of the table to ourselves. The scene kids crowded the other end, all of them hunched over like dark lords or geriatrics. Also, to clarify, I say “scene,” but, well… okay for example I knew Tyler’s mom, and she wouldn’t let him dye his hair or cut it in any way “unChristian,” so he settled for black t-shirts, skater gloves, and a random assortment of chains and rings and whatever accouterments he could hide in his locker. Sometimes he tried guyliner. It made him look like if emo Toby Maguire in Spider-Man 3 quit dieting for two years. I guess Mindy seemed the most authentic—her dad being dead was something she bragged about—but the whole group was essentially what settled for counterculture in a town the size of ours.

It was just the three of us at the moment, our fourth late as always (or “fashionably late” as he would retort). Olly sat next to me, laughing at his own jokes and trying to impress Hayley. She nodded at him from the other side of the table, a perpetual half smile the only constant in her wardrobe. The day’s outfit consisted of skinny jeans and a gray vest over a black top. Hayley’s dad was loaded, and every other weekend when he had custody, she’d always come back home dragging a bag or two of new outfits. The one time we tried World of Warcraft, she preferred taking screenshots of her character in cute gear to leveling. We teased her for it of course, calling her “such a girl,” but she just shook her head and laughed it off. Hayley considered herself a tomboy but never rejected the more girlish parts of her personality, and embraced all of her traits with pride. I really admired that about her. Plus, it gave me a perpetual excuse to stare. Only checking out the new threads, after all.

Olly broke off his stream of chitchat to knock back a glass of water. He slammed the empty cup onto the table and cleared his throat dramatically, the telltale sign of an impending proclamation. 

“Okay, so, this morning I learned my parents are gonna be out of town for the weekend. I’m thinking tonight, you guys come over and we can stay up all night playing Halo.” With a low glance from side to side, he leaned in and beckoned the two of us to join him. Hayley and I rolled our collective eyes. He beckoned again, more insistently, so we decided to humor him. 

Even with all of us huddled close, Olly’s exaggerated whisper came out just as loud as normal volume. “If we want, my sister can probably score us some drinks, if you know what I mean.” 

Olly wasn’t familiar enough with alcohol to name anything specific beyond the all encompassing “drinks.” That was his sister’s job. Tara had performed this service for us a couple times before, though it still felt exciting and taboo. None of us were big partiers—our idea of a great weekend was potato chips and team slayer—so between the three of us we’d packed away like ten drinks max. Last time, I think the weekend after Halloween, Tara bought us beers. It took us about three collective sips to determine the beverage really wasn’t for us. Well, Hayley did, and Olly and I secretly agreed with her, but of course our manly pride wouldn’t let us stop sooner than two beers each. I much preferred vodka. It tasted like ass, of course, but all alcohol did, as far as I was concerned. The point was to get drunk and silly, and whatever facilitated that with the least number of sips was objectively the best.

Hayley leaned back from our conspiratorial circle, hands behind her head, and chewed her lip. I stared at her. There’s simply something about a woman biting her lower lip, that, well, you know. It’s baked into the male DNA. 

“I think I should be fine,” she replied, staring at the ceiling. “Hopefully. My mom hates me sleeping over at either of you guys’ place, y’know. Thinks we’ll get up to all sorts of naughty stuff.” She laughed at this, the idea clearly silly to her. Let me tell you, there’s no good response to that. I took the coward’s way out. I laughed, too.

A sudden hand descended from the heavens and landed on Hayley’s head as Kit, our fourth and final member, swung himself into place next to her. 

“‘Sup guys, what I miss?”

Hayley grabbed his hand and shoved it off her, grumbling, “you’ll mess up my hair.” But I noticed the smile at the corners of her mouth, and how her fingers lingered on his. 

The clock showed lunchtime as near halfway over, and Kit’s plate held enough food for the three of us combined. He would finish by the time the bell rang, of course. He always did. Since middle school, it had always been just Hayley, Olly, and me. Then right after Christmas break in our senior year, Kit transferred into our school, and somehow, our group. Fashionably late, as always. He was such a natural, easy-going guy, impossible to hate, despite how hard I tried. With blond hair spiked up in the front and arms that made me buy a pullup bar, his casual smile had the disarming charm of a Hollywood star. 

“We were, um, talking about gaming at my place tomorrow. I can, um, bring up the living room TV, too, so it’ll only be two per screen.” Olly peered at me with eyes as demure as a Victorian bride. He always got shy around Kit. I couldn’t blame him.

Kit nodded in response, a smooth motion to the beat of some nonexistent jazz. “Sounds pretty good, pretty good.” He garbled out the words through a mouthful of eggs.

“Oh my god, you’re so gross. I can’t even look at you,” Hayley said, continuously looking at him.

Kit winked at her, and chewed his eggs with a contemplative frown. His fork twirled about in elaborate patterns. Olly said something, and Hayley chuckled, but her attention was on Kit.

She’d talked to me about boys before, mostly to bask in how uncomfortable it made me. I think she assumed my reactions to be a general boyish discomfort. I doubt she knew I liked her. I never told her, after all.

It wasn’t love. I don’t think it was. It felt real, it hurt like real. I often whispered to myself, “I love you, Hayley,” in the quiet moments alone in my room, basking in the miserable ecstasy of a one sided crush. But love was for adults, I think. I didn’t feel old enough for love. People always said, “you’ll know when it’s real,” but I didn’t know, and didn’t know how to know, and no certain, godly voice ever split the heavens to declare from on high the objectivity of my feelings. So, it was just a crush. A five year long longing. 

Hayley rested her cheek on her open palm. The pose pushed her lopsided smile further up her face. The first crush she admitted to me happened back in middle school, on a boy named Brad. Three months later, when I asked about him, it took her a minute to remember what I meant. They were always like that. Transient fascinations. This one, too, would pass. And even as her hand propped up a smile meant for Kit, her wrist still wore the silver bracelet I gave to her. The other constant in her wardrobe.

Kit flicked his fork into the air and caught it between his fingers, scooping up the remaining eggs into the center of his plate. “You know me, guys, always down for some gaming. But this time I was thinking about something… else.”

His sly declaration didn’t immediately grab me. Kit was an outgoing guy, always full of ideas. Sometimes we tried them, but just as often the collected, introverted energy of the rest of us dragged his fantastical plans down to manageable levels. Like, no Kit, we’re not gonna go rafting down the Mississippi like Huck Finn, but maybe we could take a swim in the local pond. 

“Have you guys heard of Lancaster Manor?”

The name went in one ear and out the other. “You’re just afraid of getting trounced, Kit the Kitty-cat,” I teased him, trying to maneuver the plans back to gaming. I was the best at Halo 3, and I liked having Hayley see how much better my K/D was than Kit’s.

“I’m serious, guys,” he retorted, still with his easy smile. “Lancaster Manor.” All three of us stared back blankly. “Olly.” Olly jumped in his seat. “You’re smart. You know it?” 

The smaller boy scratched his head. “Lancaster… um… what did you say? I think I might have. Lancaster, the town, isn’t too far, you mean there?”

“No, it’s right here in Tilbury. Lancaster Manor.” It felt like fog permeated my brain, like trying to write an essay after an all nighter. Kit snapped his fingers, his arm outstretched to the center of the table. “Lancaster Manor. Guys, focus.” A hint of seriousness marred his voice, something I’d never heard there before. But something in the way he said the words made it finally stick.

Hayley spoke up first. “Um, yeah, I think, actually. The big house near Sandy Park Hill, right? It’s not far from my house. Just an old building, right?”

Kit leaned in conspiratorially. Without hesitation the rest of us followed suit, ever drawn into his pace. “Do any of you guys know anything about this town’s history?”

“Um, I remember going to a presentation about it at the library once,” I chimed in. “But that was when I was a kid. So I don’t remember much.”

Olly clicked his tongue. “I think I remember doing that, too. Now that you mention it, Kit, Joseph Lancaster was the town’s founder.” He peeped up at Kit for confirmation. The taller boy nodded.

“That’s right! And he lived on the outskirts of town, in a big old manor house. Ergo, Lancaster Manor. Guys,” Kit leaned even further in, and we all copied him. Our collective foreheads nearly touched. It no doubt appeared way more suspicious than a normal conversation. “That place. It’s definitely haunted. Let’s go check it out.”

“What makes you say that?” A pink blush dusted Hayley’s cheeks. I think she realized how close she was to Kit.

“Hayley.” When he turned to face her, the tip of his nose brushed against hers. She leaned back instinctively, then after a second closed the gap again, blush deepening. “You said you live nearby. Have you ever seen anyone come or go?”

“I… I don’t think so. Maybe?”

“And do any of you know anyone with the last name Lancaster?”

I sat back and crossed my arms, hoping to force physical distance between everyone again. “Alright, that just means it’s abandoned. So what? Lots of places are. Nothin’ special about it.” 

“Not abandoned, no.” Kit steepled his fingers. His plate of eggs sat directly between us like a fluffy yellow campfire. I swear his face somehow had underlighting. “A crazy old man lives there. Some say he’s the last Lancaster. Some say he’s the old gardener, who went insane and killed his employer. But all agree, that every night, the old man retreats into the depths of his house, and speaks with undead souls.”

“Some say?” I raised an eyebrow. “You mean ‘you say.’ Nobody even knows about this place, so don’t act like it’s a common ghost story.”

“I dunno, Alex, I think it could be fun.” Hayley shrugged and ducked my glare. “Haunted or not, aren’t you curious? Who knows how long it’s been abandoned.” My face soured. Oh, I see. She wanted to Scooby-Doo us. Hey, send Shaggy and the dog off to the ass end of nowhere while Fred explores the bedroom with Daphne. Wink wink nudge nudge and all that crap.

“Yeah, you get it!” Kit clapped her on the shoulder. “Although remember, like I said, it’s not abandoned.”

Hayley patted his arm. “Whatever you say.”

Their physical touches made me ill. “I just think it sounds stupid.”

“Oh c’mon, don’t be a scaredy-cat.”

“Says the girl who ran out of the room during The Ring.”

“Oh, hush. That was years ago.”

“Yeah, like, two years max.”

Olly watched the exchange without comment. Guess he couldn’t be counted on for backup support. I crossed my arms and let out a long breath through my nose. In truth, while I definitely didn’t want to create romantic moments for Kit and Hayley, I couldn’t explain my real anxiety about the manor. I didn’t believe in ghosts, so that didn’t frighten me. It’s just, when I heard the name, Lancaster Manor… something in my gut felt wrong.

 Kit smiled at me. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Alright, I think it’s stupid to act all scared about this like little kids, but whatever. Let’s go explore your haunted house.”

“Great!”

“Great.”

“We’ll meet up tonight.”

So lunchtime came to an end and we quickly made our plans, or rather Kit made our plans and we agreed. I spent the rest of the school day trying not to get excited. Okay, okay, maybe it did seem a little cool. I guess.

The three months leading up to my 40th birthday were like a slow countdown to D-Day.  There is something about that particular birthday that feels like a day of reckoning – a time to take stock of the first half of your life and face what you have accomplished or royally screwed up.

When I had cast forward in my imagination as a young girl, it had never occurred to me that I could end up an unmarried 40 year old with no kids. In my teens, my sister and I used to fantasize about how old we would be in the year 2000.  “Can you believe I will be 35 in the year 2000? I bet I’ll be married with 3 kids and be famous, probably a rock star.” Wrong, wrong and wrong.  When I danced to Prince’s “Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1999”, I never dreamed that I would be single, living with a hairy roommate named Harry, no kids, not even marginally famous, and being contacted by short 50 year-olds on match.com.

Every time my mother asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate my 40th, I felt slightly suicidal. “Do you want to see Jersey Boys on Broadway?” “No.” “How about we get two pound lobsters at the Palm-Two?” “God, no.” “Well, honey, you have to decide on something, or it’ll be too late to get reservations.”

This didn’t feel like an out-to-dinner birthday.  This felt like a bury-yourself-in-dirt birthday.  A crawl-into-the-bottom-of-your-closet-and-cover-yourself-with-clothes-so-nobody-finds-you birthday. Can you make a reservation for that? This was no time for a celebration. This was an emergency.  Like an ambulance should arrive with a handsome boyfriend with commitment potential and good genes giving me mouth to mouth resuscitation, but a Broadway show and a piece of cake brought by the waitress? Fuck no.

It occurred to me that I was most likely at fault for ruining my own life.  I had always wanted to be a mother, to have a family.  What if all the lousy decisions I had made had culminated in this disastrous drama of a decade birthday from hell?

I started contemplating how I got here. There were other people involved.  I couldn’t have arrived here completely by myself.  So, I went back to the beginning.

BECOMING A PERSON IN ROCHESTER, NEW YORK

MY HEART BELONGS TO DADDY

Every girl’s first love is her daddy.  Mine was a psychiatrist.  Any kid of a psychiatrist knows that being the child of a psychiatrist means that you' re basically being raised by a mental health professional sans mental health.  Your shrink parent will most likely not apply his mental health training to your parent-child relationship.  My Dad was charming and hard to reach.  He had a fabulous sense of humor, played the piano completely by ear in a Rogers & Hammerstein style, and has always liked to be mostly by himself.  I worshipped him because he was such a captivating personality and like the Shamrock Shake at McDonald’s, he seemed available for a limited time only. Personality-wise and looks-wise I felt more alike him than I did my mom. I got my sense of humor from him. I got my nose from him. We played and sang together from the time I was two. 

Like a fish in his tank, I grew up inside the bubble of my father’s narrative. He was a storyteller, and told more stories about my own mother than she ever told about herself.  He often repeated  a story about the day I was born.  He was in the waiting room of Strong Memorial Hospital, and he was watching the Johnny Carson show while he waited for my mother to give birth.  Men were not allowed in the delivery room in those days.  Johnny Carson was out that night, and Ed McMann, his sidekick, was also missing.  Doc Severensen, the band leader, had to host the show, which my Dad claimed really shook him up because that was unprecedented. It made him think that things were off kilter in the universe on the day I was supposed to be born.  I was being induced because I had been in there for almost 10 months and my time was up. When the waiting room phone rang, he was profoundly relieved to hear from the doctor that I was normal with all 10 fingers and toes. The day they drove me home from the hospital it was snowing hard.  My Dad drove the car over the wintery lawn and right up to the apartment steps, because it was so icy he was worried my mother might slip and drop me in the snow.  He said I looked tiny and red, like a little turtle, and he thought they should put me in a glass terrarium and give me fish food, but mom said no.  

My Dad’s sense of his parental obligations were honed in the 40’s and 50’s when men did nothing for kids and women did everything.  According to my mother, if I awakened in the night as a baby, my father would do one thousand pats and hand me back to her.  One thousand pats was the limit. Cloth diapers were status quo then, and my mother said she would return home to find poop laden diapers soaking in the toilet, but that was the end of his attempt to clean them.  I remember him being a terrible babysitter.  When I was about 8, my brother was 7 and my sister was 3, my mother was out and he was babysitting us.  Things weren’t going well and we were all crying.  I remember my Dad calling us into the living room for a “pow wow”. We all sat on the floor in a circle and he told us not to tell my mom we had all been crying when she got home. “I’m telling mommy,” screamed my sister.  “I’m telling mommy too, “ I shrieked.  I remember, another night, asking him what was for dinner and he responded, “I just had a can of tuna, you kids can eat whatever you want.”

Heaven in Hell's Half Acre, by Andrew Paddock

Chapter 1

My Dearest Giorgio,
Just a quick note for now, we’re in Los Angeles and about to hop on a train. 
I think about you every day. I pray you are safe and this letter finds you well. I can’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to you.
I know things got pretty heated with your father before you shipped out, but I hope you know how much he and I love you. It’s not that we doubt you or think we can tell you what to do. We just want what’s best for you. Especially after your accident.
Your spot in the family business is still here when you get home, no matter what either of you said that night. He’s too proud to say that to you right now, but he feels it. So do I.
I know this doesn’t feel like what you wanted after New York but it’s a great life we live. That can be yours too. What you do does not define you. How you live does. Just promise me you will think about it, okay?
Time to sign off for now. No matter what you do, we’ll always be here for you and love you. Please write soon, we haven’t heard from you and your sister is worried sick.
I love you, Piccolo.
-Mamma

    George Hamilton stared at the sheet of paper for a long moment after reading those last few lines. A few letters now and still no word from his father other than this. The last page had some water spots and the handwriting was sloppy. Tears, he guessed. How long had she been keeping them inside? He felt a pang of sadness and sympathy, but quickly brushed it aside. Don’t get soft now, he thought to himself. Have some pride. No matter what the words on that paper said, the memory of the words that were spoken out loud that night couldn’t be swept aside. Some doors can’t be opened once they are closed.
    A few men started shouting nearby and he craned his head to see. It appeared to be a card game with a big hand, nothing exciting. Most of the sleeping men on the cots around didn’t even budge. He couldn’t wait to get off this troop ship. All of them were stacked one on top of the other and spread across every inch of space. When the others weren’t bragging about how many Germans they would kill once they got to Europe, they were vomiting from the seasickness.
    He folded up the pages of the letter and tucked them into his pocket. With one clean movement he jumped down from his bunk and landed on the hard steel floor. All around him were rows of bunks, starting at the ground and rising vertically to the ceiling. He stopped for a moment to gain his balance as the ship went over a light swell outside.
    After shimmying his way through the bunks, he moved up and out onto the deck. The rush of brisk Atlantic air hit him abruptly. It felt good after the stuffy confines of the bunks. The crisp feeling reminded him of Autumn nights back in New York. George stood aside for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A full moon granted decent visibility and cast a comforting glow over the black water below. 
    They refused to turn on any lights above deck for fear of German U-boats. A few sailors moved about on their duties. A few men were puking near the edge. Otherwise, all was quiet and basked in the silver moonlight.
    George walked down the ship until he found a private spot. He moved over to the edge and pulled the letter out. He gave it one last look in the moonlight. I love you too mamma, he thought. But not yet. He crumbled the pages up, and threw them out to sea.
    “Bad news from home?”
    George spun around and saw a sailor standing there. The insignia of an officer on his shoulder. George couldn’t make out the rank in the moonlight. “Something like that, sir.”
    “I’ve seen plenty of men deal with a Dear John letter. You’re not the only one who lost a girl to this damned war. I’m sorry, son.”
    “Thanks I guess, but don’t let it eat you up. I won’t. She was alright. Prettier than a pinup girl, but it was never going to last.” George lied. That felt easier than letting this man in on his business.
    “If that helps make it easier, by all means.” The officer started to walk away.
    George got defensive. “It doesn’t make anything nothin! It’s just the truth.” He leaned against the side of the ship and looked out at the moonlight reflecting off the ocean.
    About a half hour passed. The cold air started to push through his coat and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He started to walk down the ship to get some life back in his legs. Cold be damned. Anything to keep him from those stuffy bunks.
    “Mind if I walk with you, pal?” George knew that accent anywhere. It came from the same place he had just been. New York.
    “Sure.”
    “George Hamilton, right?”
    George gave him another close look. He didn’t recognize him, but it was hard to tell with just the moonlight. “Yeah. What’s it to you? Do I know you?”
    “No, but I’m a fan of your work.”
    “I’m glad somebody is. You’re an army of one on that front.”
    “Joey Tessatore.” The man held out his hand. George shook it. “I’m more of a Dodgers fan myself. Brooklyn. But I follow all the New York squads. You’re a helluva pitcher. What are you doing out here? You should be back home with the Giants.”
    “They cut me on account of my hand getting fucked up. It’s a harsh business.”
    Joey let a long moment pass. When he spoke again, his tone became serious. “I was wondering what you’d say there. I know exactly what happened to your hand, kid. Good answer.”
    George instinctively moved away from the side of the ship, taking a few steps sideways. His muscles tensed and he felt his heart rate tick up. His eyes darted around the area for that elusive safety only bystanders can provide. No one else was in sight.
Joey laughed. His voice returned to a light hearted tone. “No need to worry, pal. I come in peace. I’m with Lucky’s boys. Paulie Dime’s crew.”
    That made more sense. He looked around again and still saw no one. “Not even you fellas can avoid the draft, eh?”
    “We always end up right where we want to be. You know that by now. There’s no higher cause than defending your country, right?”
    “Looks like the war drive has even penetrated the mafia.”
    “Ain’t no one say nothing about no mafia.” Joey said in a low, serious tone again as he raised an eyebrow. The message was clear. “Let’s take a walk, yeah? I’ve never had the good fortune to talk with a player from the good ol’ New York Giants before.”
    “I’m all right. Just came up here to get some air.” George’s hand cramped a bit and he noticed he had been clenching his fists. He loosened them a bit.
    “Fair enough. But I ain't asking.” Joey started walking slowly. “Let’s cut the shit, shall we? You know as well as I do that if we wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I’ve got a proposition for you instead. I think we can help each other.”
    “Last time I heard that speech, it didn’t end too well for me. I’m sure you’ve got a good pitch, but I’ll pass.”
    “Humor me. It might just be the curve ball you’ve been waiting for” Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He offered one to George, who refused. Joey lit his own under his coat to block the light and took a drag before continuing. “I heard the Giants said you’re done for good. That true?”
    “More or less. Done with them at least.”
    “Any other teams call?”
    “A few.”
    “You ain’t gotta lie to me, kid. You don’t owe me nothing.”
    George gritted his teeth. “Just the Seals from the Pacific Coast League, but I don’t plan to go back there.”
    “That’s a rough draw. It’s a damn shame the way things went down. Sometimes things just get out of hand.”
    George said nothing.
    “I’m damn near frozen out here so I’ll just be straight with you. We have an in with the Dodgers. Someone high up there owes us a favor. I made a few calls and we can get you a tryout. As long as that fastball of yours still looks good, the spot is as good as yours.”
    George perked up. “Yeah?” Almost immediately, he regretted how hopeful that made him feel. “What’s the catch?”
    “No catch. No strings attached. You’ve been through enough back home. We do need some help on this side of the pond, though. This ship is headed for Naples, Italy. I’ll be assigned there and we have some business for me to attend to, but I need a man in Palermo.”
    “What’s in Palermo?”
    “No need to worry about that. Just a couple of errands to run with some of our contacts on the ground there. All real easy. Off the books though. You jump when I say jump, you run when I say run, and when this war is over you’ve got a spot on the Dodgers.”
    “How do you know I’m headed for Palermo?”
    “You’re not. But just leave that to me, pal. We’ll make sure you end up there if you agree. Can’t have the next star of the Dodgers on the front lines dying on us, can we?”
    “And if I don’t agree?”
    “Well then you’ll head wherever Uncle Sam meant to send you. And I imagine it won’t have a shower, warm bed, and hookers to boot like you’ll get in Palermo.”
“Forgive my bluntness here, Joey, but I don’t think they’ll just live and let die back home. They don’t look too kindly on me these days.”
    “You talking about the Profaci boys? I talked to them, too. You come on with me, we’ll square everything up with them. You won’t have to worry about that. Like I said, we take care of our own.
    “Tell you what, pal. Think it over. I gotta get inside before my balls freeze off. I’ll find you when we get to Naples. Let me know your answer then. This is a one time offer.” Joey took one final drag of the cigarette and flicked it overboard as he walked away.
    George’s heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn’t quite feel the cold anymore. His face felt hot. He took one final look at where Joey went to watch him go into the ship before breathing a deep sigh of relief. He took a seat on the deck and leaned his back against a steel wall. How the hell did he wind up here?

Death felt much like a hangover. The light from the other side was brighter than he expected, and it shone through the cloth over his face. Corbin blinked; his hot breath blew back against his face. His body ached as he reached for the piece of fabric. The moment he removed it, Corbin knew something was drastically wrong.

He was not dead.

Corbin rolled to his side and saw a man dressed in white clothes that matched his, lying still, flat on his back, palms on the earth in peaceful eternal rest, where Corbin himself should be, as well. Corbin whipped his tongue around his mouth, fighting off the dust he had breathed in over the night. He struggled to stand, and when he did, he bolted to a nearby stream, twenty-four white shoes and socks lined up at the edge of the water. He ran in knee-deep, cupped his hands, and hastily ladled water to his mouth, not giving a thought if it was safe to drink.

His thirst now quenched, Corbin gave his blurry vision a moment to focus on the scene through the glare of the morning sun. Ten bodies remained in a circle with their heads closest to the fire, now burnt down to a smoldering pile of ash, the smell of campfire lingering in the air and in his clothes, now speckled with black ashy dots.

Corbin stumbled out of the water, now awake enough to feel the rocks jabbing his feet with each step. The reality of what he had attempted and what these other men succeeded at was beginning to set in. His chest heaved as he raked his dirty hair and staggered back to the incomplete circle of dead bodies. Corbin’s panic was suddenly distracted by the one spot, other than his, that was also empty. It had been dark last night as they all took their places, preparing to lay their mortal bodies to rest, and Corbin was not convinced he knew where each man had lain. He did not want to touch the others, but since they all wore the same clothes and their faces were covered, he could not be sure who was missing.

Corbin gently lifted the cloth from each face. He only knew them by their first names, instructed that there was no need to share anything else that had defined them while they were alive. Taren and Nathaniel were next to where he had lain. He continued removing the face coverings around the group clockwise. As he got closer to completing the circle, his teeth began to clench, and his blood boiled.

“Please don’t be the one missing,” Corbin muttered as he lifted the second-to-last cloth.

Corbin knew while lifting the last cloth. Sam’s dead pupils looking straight up and his mouth gaping open. Ben was the one missing. Corbin dropped the cloth. He looked up and down the stream, shielding his eyes from the sun, scanning the riverbank they had come down the night before.

First, betrayal began to set in. He had put his life and all his trust in Ben, who had promised to take him to a better place. Corbin did not want to be here. He wanted to be in the eternal life with Ben and these other men.

Why would Ben leave them? His foggy mind was still processing his anger when a rush of anxiety flooded his entire body. Maybe Ben woke up as well, disoriented and lost.

Corbin needed to find Ben. He needed Ben’s help to start over. He could only hope Ben had not gone far.

“Ben!” Corbin croaked, his throat still raw. He swallowed hard. “Ben!”

Chapter 2

Three weeks earlier. Downtown Seattle.

Corbin rolled over and gazed at the blank space in his bed. Now that he had run Becca off, he longed every morning for another chance to see her. He missed how she would lay her head on his chest hoping to keep him from getting up. He would only give himself a minute or two of stroking her beautiful mussed black hair, revealing a tiny scar above her left eye. She could never remember how she got it. His hands would move to the smooth tan skin of her back he could not resist touching.

He now stroked the sheets as a reflex.

Corbin replayed the mornings with Becca in his head. The 5:00 a.m. alarm would blast him from his few restless hours of tossing in bed and her from her deep sleep.

“I know things are crazy at work, but it would be nice if you took the day off and stayed in bed with me,” she pouted.

Corbin was now disgusted by his answers.

“I can’t lose my accounts. Not all of us can make a living with a tough, artsy, three-hour workday.”

Corbin knew his comments would sting her even as they came out of his mouth. He would kiss her and tuck her back in, trying desperately not to let her sad sigh get to him.

“I’ll try to leave early today,” he would say. They both knew it would not happen.

No matter how perfect his personal life, the thought of failing in his career tugged at him, never allowing him to stay away from work. Ironically, now that Becca was gone, he found the drive to get out of bed harder and the need to save his career less urgent.

Corbin eventually escaped the bed and from reliving the agonizing scenes that led to their breakup. He let the hot water run over his head as Nirvana roared through the Bluetooth surround sound in his bathroom. A world of flannel, torn jeans, and weed that he had left far behind. A mosh pit in his teens had provided a release from life’s pressures that he had never been able to replicate. Now dressed in a sleek grey suit, stale marijuana odor replaced by five-hundred-dollar Creed cologne; freedom replaced with the mundane.

I felt one of those moments. My grandma called them snapshots, like a Polaroid photo you automatically hold in your hand and feel like you’ll cherish forever. Playing here in Europe at this festival was definitely a moment, one I wanted to savor. In the distance the sun set into the Mediterranean sea. Light scattered like diamonds across the water. It should’ve calmed me. It didn’t.

Pushing those subtle gut feeling sensations aside, I gave a tricky little smile to the crowd, only using half my mouth. It was “the smile,” a recent indie music magazine called “the undeniably sexy lure of Rosie Reid.”

That allure brought all kinds of problems and unwanted attention, but it also got me in the spotlight. Lately, though, being seen had started to feel like standing under a heat lamp, too bright, too exposed, like something was watching me from the edges of the crowd.

But my vibe was what people wanted to see, and when you were making music with the secret agenda of changing the world, being seen was all that mattered. How could my music make a difference if no one else heard it?

I felt the energy of the band behind me, my drummer building the atmosphere, the dark but intriguing lead guitarist barely making eye contact with me under the long hair hanging over his face, and my best friend over on bass, who I didn’t have to look at to know was right there with me. I loved these guys, and after traveling on the road, sleeping in cheap hotels, spending hours with one another in a car, and eating way too many hotel breakfasts, even loading up on croissants and carrying them in my bag for the four of us when there wasn’t time to stop for lunch, well, stuff like that just bonded people.

The crowd was hanging onto my every word, and I was more than happy to give them a chorus to sing along with. Girls up front screamed the words. I saw a lot of guys in the crowd bobbing their heads in a way that they probably dubbed “cool.” I looked around at my bandmates, all of us sharing this moment, this epic moment together, but I didn’t feel like I thought I would. Actually, I kinda felt nothing. This was a Polaroid I’d probably lose or forget about, even if I thought it’d be something I’d cherish forever.

All these thoughts swirled through my head while I continued to play the guitar and sing our hit. It’s amazing what you can do mindlessly after a while. I had sung this song too many times to count. Over the past year we had been on tour almost permanently. Even though this was my dream, this was the ultimate goal: write music, perform it, and change the world, I was starting to crave something more, something different.

I wondered how many people were at my set just to hear this one song. It made a chart list and people were using it as an excuse to call me a one-hit wonder. Fuck ’em, I thought to myself, and belted out the words:

“You’re it. It’s you. It’s all you’ll ever be and all you needed to.
 You’re the secret weapon,
 you’re the number one,
 my number one,
 you’re the Sun.”

We brought the song to a close, ending all together in a dramatic way that really left you feeling the silence. “You’re the Sun” was a smasher of a hit; the music roared through your cells, and I could feel the crowd taking an exhale. It was like all thousands of us were having a mini debrief, a calm after a storm.

At my feet were guitar pedals and amp chords duct tapped to the floor. The light show culminated in a tie dye technology sun graphic before going dark. A dramatic end to our biggest song. I cleared my throat and said,

“I want to take this moment and thank you all for being here. I hope you’re having fun and enjoying yourselves. It’s a big deal that you’re here supporting art. It’s this kinda thing that will change the world,” I said in my husky, sexy voice, with that same sly smile on my red lips.

I adjusted my black leather, well, fake leather. I wasn't here for animal products, not as a lifelong vegetarian. It was a vintage short little number I had picked up at a used clothing market in one of our many European tour stops. I exclusively wore used clothes and refused to buy anything new. It was a statement I talked a lot about during interviews: “Why would I create more waste on this Earth when there are so many epic items just waiting to be found?”

Thrifting wasn’t just a political statement, one that clearly communicated how the material-driven generations before me were destroying the planet for my future, but it was also just fun. Like a treasure hunt.

I wore an oversized flannel shirt on top, hiding my body beneath forest-green plaid long sleeves, baggy around my chest and waist. The shirt was so long it also covered my skirt like I was wearing some kind of muumuu nightgown thing. It made me feel safe, to be honest. But that little bit of leg between the mini skirt and the knee highs seemed to make it all acceptable, because the thick thighs showing satisfied the look. I was a woman rock star after all. People might like to listen to my music, but if they were here to see me on stage, they wanted to see some of me or at least that’s how my manager described it.

This short skirt showed off my long legs, from the thigh to my knee, the lower half of my legs were covered in high heeled boots. These boots were a find, and even though my manager begged to have a wardrobe crew dress me in some of the latest trends, all supplied by a corporate sponsor, I refused and kept with my knee-high black metallic glitter boots. The heels gave me the foxy look I was becoming known for, but I didn’t like to flaunt my curvy body too much. I knew it was a part of the act, but I hated to think about myself as just a Barbie dressing up on stage for people to ogle at. I knew every show involved a lot of ogling, not just from the crowd, I often had to fight off other musicians, and even my own bandmates at times. I was magnetic and pulled everyone in. It was a blessing, but mostly felt like a curse.

“So yeah, to you guys this might just be a fun weekend out, but to me you are the future, you are changing the world just by opening up your hearts and choosing art,” I said, pulling myself back into the moment.

It was the end of the set and time for me to say something that stuck with people. I was always putting this pressure on myself, to be memorable, to be moving, to make all of this worth it. To be part of something bigger.

“We’re going to play a new song for you all. This one is about the future.” It wasn’t actually a new song, it was a really old one. One of the first ones I had written. But since my writer’s block had been coming on so thick, and Marcy said I needed to start playing something, anything else, I decided to pull it back up from my old GarageBand files. The band learned it quickly, and we were playing it this tour.

Ugh, the writer’s block, looking out at the crowd I felt a feverish, familiar fear, too familiar, rose in my body. I was used to it after a year of not being able to write anything, well at least anything good. “Ok, Rosie,” I told myself, “it’s not the time to focus on what’s blocked, just let the music flow.”

I went into the soft, slow, and dreamy song where I talked about the Earth, and if we kept taking from her, how else could she give? Lyrics equating the planet to an abused woman, and each of us the ones who can’t help but take advantage of her. It was a heavy track, but ultimately meant to be humbling, to remind us all that we were guests here. A conservative blog site criticized me for the lyrics, since “Rosie Reid travels all around the world, what’s her carbon footprint going to look like?” And you know what, they weren’t wrong. But with all my songs, I didn’t so much make them up as hear them inside of myself and feel a duty to be the messenger and share them with others. Even though I played the role of a pessimist, a “we’re-all-doomed,” angry young person with an eclectic dark vintage aesthetic, deep down I was very spiritual and believed there was something more guiding me, and each of us. But my light and love side wouldn’t sell records. People were here to see this tough chick who wanted to stick it to the mainstream and speak to all the young people out there afraid, just like she was, of the world they inherited.

As the song ended, I felt the crowd drifting away, which was pretty normal for a new song. People liked to hear songs they knew, they wanted to be part of a crowd and sing along and dance to a beat they recognized. But I also knew by singing this song I was planting a seed, and later, when they were by themselves listening with headphones, they would feel this music on a deep level, and maybe their fears would feel a little understood.

“Thank you all so much for being here, one last time, seriously, thank you,” I said, bowing down and bringing my hands into a prayer position in my heart. I stood up, put my guitar in its holder, and prepared to leave the stage when I caught the bassist’s eyes, and shit, I forgot to introduce them and thank the band. This was not good, and if I didn’t do it now, I would hear about it for a long time. These guys loved me, maybe a little too much, but they also wanted recognition and weren’t just here to be part of the Rosie show.

I tried to make it look like I meant to do it this way, but it was pretty obvious I almost forgot. I did what I tried to make look like a funny little shuffle back over to the mic, gave a little twirl. “And where would I be without Zolt on guitar, James on bass, and Joe on drums? Thanks, my boys,” I said, flashing one last sexy look at the crowd. I think there was something everyone loved about hearing “they’re my boys,” even though I definitely did not think about it that way. Give the crowd something to wonder about, my agent had told me a long time ago. Tease them into your life and relationships, make them want more.

I gave each of the boys a little salute and laughed, for a second, everything finally felt normal. Then I saw them. Front left of the crowd.

Two men in suits. Identical X-shaped pins on their collars. Dark sunglasses even though the sun had set.

The sight of them sent fear rocking through my body and punching me in the gut. My entire body remembered before my mind did. I felt vomit rise into my throat, but somehow managed not to be sick in front of thousands of people.

The memory I’ve tried for years to bury flashed like our onstage strobe lights. Men wearing that same pin. That same night. The worst night of my life.

I was panicking, but somehow I forced myself to breathe and looked out into the distance. I made eye contact with one of the men. He nodded his head, as though silently confirming my worst fears.

I stumbled back from the mic, heart slamming so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I didn’t walk offstage, I bolted. Tripped over my platform boots, nearly ate it in front of everyone, but I didn’t care. It felt like an emergency, and I knew exactly why.

Last time they showed up, my life burned down.

From across the room, his best friend, Adaline Fields, stared at him in horror.
 
Addie’s headset dangled in a semicircle around her neck, shepherding her long blonde hair around her like a scarf. When they locked eyes, her hands went slack, sending her clipboard clattering to the floor.
 
Normally, the girl radiated with the glow of a tan, but today she faded into an apparition of herself. Addie looked like she had stumbled headfirst into the icy depths of a ghost. 
 
Victor knew he certainly had.
 
He could predict her reaction. The situation only allowed five seconds to act, or the consequence would be fatal.
 
With the elasticity of a waistband, Victor’s facial features snapped back into place, the tears vacuumed up inside him, all evidence of emotion evaporated. 
 
“Can you believe it?” He turned to Addie with his dazzling smile, doing his best impression of a man who wanted to squeal with girlish excitement, but was refraining. “They’re calling me.”
 
“Victor Cromwell…” the emcee’s voice started to flatten like a balloon losing its air.
 
Something was off about Addie’s eyes. She looked through him, not at him.
 
“Where is Grace?” Addie demanded, verging on hysterics. “She should be here, you know.” 

Not a question, but an accusation. One that warranted violence. 
 
Before Addie could unleash a scream, Victor grabbed her arms and squeezed her into silence. 
 
“Victor,” she gasped. “You’re hurting me!”
 
Beneath the fabric of Addie’s campaign tee, Victor’s fingers left bruised indents on her biceps.
 
“Why can’t you ever just be happy for me?” he hissed, his composure fracturing.
 
“Victor Cromwell,” the announcer said impatiently. Instinctively, Victor released Addie with a shove, ignoring her protests.
 
Before their spat drew attention, he mounted the steps and took his place center stage.
 
Tonight, Victor was announcing the results of a historic recall election, the first in the state’s history. Victor held the honor of informing their governor that he had survived the storm. By tomorrow morning, a snapshot of Governor Scott embracing Victor Cromwell in victory would be front-page news. There was no greater satisfaction.
 
Like the first hit of a drug, it was more than a feeling, it was a moment. A sensation, that no matter how fleeting would live on forever, etched in his mind permanently, and cherished as a relic of his inception. He could feel the momentum deep in his bones. 
 
This was where Victor Cromwell began, and it was where he would end. 
 

“I’m going to call the police,” Addie threatened, but Victor had already taken the stage. 
 
Her self-assuredness coiled in the pit of her stomach like a snake. Like an anchor buried deep inside her, she knew something was terribly and unforgivably wrong. 
 
Like every other desperate, political social climber on the intern team, clinging to the notion that free labor might score a real job, Addie had arrived at Governor Scott’s election night party before sunrise, eager to pass out coffee and donuts to staff. Her election day enthusiasm had quickly deflated, replaced with an unexplainable pit, that originated from Grace William’s absence. 
 
She had failed to show for election day preparation. Addie assumed the attention-seeking bitch would make an appearance when the news cameras started rolling, but she was still uncharacteristically absent from the event, even as Victor took the stage.
 
Ever since she started dating Victor, Grace preferred to act like a high-class socialite instead of a senior in college, altogether rejecting her second-class citizenship that all interns begrudgingly fell into.
 
Instead of obliging staff requests, Grace would skirt basic intern duties like assembling and planting yard signs, and phone banking. Hell, she had even refused to shred papers for the Finance Department. Instead, she only offered her assistance on tasks she considered suitable for her stature. Any chance to post on social media or talk to reporters, Grace was suddenly the most attentive and hardworking person on the team.
 
The girl should’ve been soaking up Vic’s spotlight, riding his coattails into the limelight. Grace was Victor’s girlfriend after all.
 
But her unexplained absence prickled like an itch beneath the skin. It felt like awkward dream that Addie needed to be jolted from.
 
Quickly, Addie disappeared beneath the glowing red exit sign backstage, trying to outrun the panic that swelled in her chest. It was overtaking her. She could barely see, barely talk, barely breathe.  Her hearing mute except for the echo of hollow creaking that reverberated in her mind. A pendulum swinging back and forth, warning her that she was running out of time.
 
She thought of all the unanswered messages she had sent to Grace earlier in the day.
 
No response….
 
Addie had always wanted Grace fired. But not like this.
 
The sound of the creaking haunted Addie, a phantom noise that she couldn’t locate. She collapsed into the driver’s seat of her vehicle, the keys jangling in her shaking fingers.
 
How would it look if she abandoned her duties now?
 
Addie knew her envy of Vic was obvious to everyone. Despite being close friends, Addie resented Vic for the opportunities that seemed to be served to him on a silver platter. Vic dreamed of being a lawyer, and Addie a press secretary. Yet Victor was the one who appeared on national television once a month as College Republican Chairman.
 
“Why can’t you ever just be happy for me?” his words rebounded inside her head.
 
“I need to find Grace,” Addie decided unblinkingly, before peeling out of the parking lot and into the night.
 
 
 
 
 
When Addie approached Grace’s apartment door, she felt an inexplicable urge to cry.
 
The door wasn’t completely shut. A sliver of light from the hallway serrated the darkness inside. Suddenly, the haunting creaking that palpitated in Addie’s head became audible.
 
The warm glow of the hall light illuminated the corners of the dim apartment. Dust motes floated in the shadows of the living room. When Addie’s eyes adjusted, her gaze caught on the swinging pendulum that had haunted her mind all afternoon.
 
A long, dark shadow suspended from the ceiling swung back and forth in the living room. The earsplitting, creaking sound was accompanied by a scraping noise.
 
It was Grace’s toes… Grace’s perfectly filed toenails, just barely scraped along the coffee table, leaving remnants of nail polish in their wake. Grating back and forth, back and forth, remarkably never getting jammed against the wood.
 
In horrific fascination, Addie studied Grace, the rest of the world falling mute. Grace wore a neatly, tied rope around her slender neck like a necklace. Her head collapsed at an inhuman angle under the force. The rope’s tendons frayed as it rubbed against the ceiling beam of the loft apartment. Her body swaying like a pendulum with the mysterious momentum of death.  
 
“Grace?” Addie called in disbelief. It felt like an illusion. A practical joke.
 
Skeptically, Addie outstretched a hand, her fingertips brushing along Grace’s cold arm that dangled limply at her side.
 
Addie screamed, recoiling in fear and tripping backwards. She sprinted upstairs to try to locate the base of the knot. To try to undo it.
 
It was a nightmare. The deafening sound of the creaking wood shuddered in Addie’s eardrums.
 
The desertion in Grace’s empty eyes. The dried-up drool that caked around her cracked lips. The metallic aroma of blood that dribbled down her inner thighs and clotted her expensive tracksuit. It reeked of decay.
 
Grace was dead.

When the curtain closed on Victor, he walked off the stage with two competing noises echoing in his head. The very real cheering and applause from the crowd, and the very real creaking of a rope grating against a wooden beam.
 
 

Part I –The Campaign
 
Chapter 1 – The Field(s) Report
 
Erin Reynolds always thought of the White House as a beacon of historical elegance, but in reality it was a jungle where civility had long been abandoned. It existed as an untamed frontier where feral reporters wrestled to ask their questions and mark their territories.

She studied her new boss, Addie, who sat cross-legged on a bench outside the White House briefing room, comfortable in the chaos. Addie scrolled through her phone, her eyes ravenously searching for the one news update she’d been waiting a lifetime to read. 

“I said, you’re on in five!” Harris barked, peering over the top of his clipboard to shoot a disapproving look at Addie.  Harris was FNN’s top news producer, notorious for his bitchy attitude, his impeccable taste, his propensity for theatrics and his mysterious heterosexuality.
 
At FNN, he wasn’t just a legend, he was an enigma.
 
Today was just another day covering the chaos at the White House. Harris often had to manhandle his talent, Adaline Fields, the starlet whose news coverage shot them both to nationwide fame. Together, the crafty duo had become the most trusted names in American news.
 
“Chickadee, please get Addie’s ass up and fix those flyaways,” Harris launched orders at Erin like darts.
 
“I did my hair this morning,” Addie protested, eyes still glued to her newsfeed.
 
Harris groaned, unpleased, “Get your ass up and let Erin powder your face. You go on camera with bags under your eyes, and someone will think you’re hungover or worse…. That you’re in your thirties.”
 
Addie shot Harris a death stare, still cemented to her seat, “I am thirty-five, Harris.”
 
“Not on TV, darling,” he chided, as they engaged in their usual tug-of-war. “Erin, please get her cleaned up.”
 
Despite their banter, Addie and Harris lived and breathed the same stories, the same scripts. Together they were one brain, one voice, one obstinate force in American democracy. The two of them were either Republican candidates’ most coveted weapon or their greatest nightmare. Addie the mouthpiece, Harris the puppeteer.
 
The two had recently developed a fascination for testing their new production assistant. 
 
Whenever kids interviewed for the job at FNN, they usually came in with sharp outfits, dazzling resumes, silver-spooned pedigrees, and a heavy dose of blinding ambition. Some impressed with their work ethic, while others lived under a false pretense instated by their parents, that they were special. But rarely did any of these young applicants ever exhibit the audacity it took to really amount to anything more than a production assistant.
 
Erin proved to be no exception.
 
The only thing that really set Erin apart from the other applicants was her background. Her family ties had really piqued Addie’s interest, being in that Erin had none. Unlike most of the spoiled brats who filled up the entry-level positions in DC, Erin did not have wealthy familial ties to serve as her career springboard. She was a big ol’ nobody, plucked out of the abyss that was middle America. And in contrast to the rest of the power players in DC, personal merit was Addie’s only requirement.
 
It was Erin’s first few days on the job and little did she know, every interaction with Harris and Addie was a test that would shape the trajectory of her future. Being the production assistant for Adaline Fields’ show had a reputation for landing aspiring news anchors with TV opportunities of their own. She just had to impress her bosses first.
 
“Come with me,” Erin sheepishly kneaded her hands, one of her many nervous tics, along with continuously rearranging her dark hair, as if it would abate her anxiety.
 
Outside on the lawn, Addie took her place under the camera lights. Erin handled her as delicately as a glass doll, gingerly coating the top of her head in a light mist of hair spray and lightly powdering the shiny ridge of her nose. Each time she’d lean in, Erin held her breath, as if her breathing would knock Addie off balance.
 
Harris and Erin traded approving nods while the camera crew fluttered around Addie, creating a halo of light that illuminated her blonde locks. Cameras started rolling in three… two….one.
 
“Thank you, Dana. Today the White House held a press conference following the passage of the Forward Act,” Addie launched into her report on how the new healthcare reform package had caused an upset in the White House.
 
On the other side of the cameras, Harris engaged in his typical routine of biting his nails and mouthing Addie’s lines to himself as he followed along. In an effort to look busy as well, Erin created her own filming ritual, pacing just outside the shot, eyes locked on her boss, monitoring Addie for slip-ups.
 
“Yes, we can be optimistic that this legislation will provide consumers with more transparency in healthcare costs,” Addie stared challengingly into the camera. “Too bad voters can’t expect the same transparency from their elected officials,” she joked, before turning it back over to the anchor at headquarters.
 
There were very few people in the industry as biting as Adaline Fields. She knew her way around the most serious policy issues; she interjected the perfect amount of empathy and emotion where appropriate, but what really kept the audience gripped was her flair for flirting with the camera. Addie turned reporting into a game. A game that made the news easier for every American to stomach.
 
“Hey!” Addie called across the grass, breaking Erin’s trance. Around her, the crew neatly folded and zipped equipment into waterproof bags. “Do you know where I set my phone?”
 
“Yes, sorry,” Erin withdrew it from her pocket.
 
Before surrendering Addie’s cellphone, she couldn’t resist staring at the unlocked screen. 
 
The center headline glowed on the newsfeed read:
 
“Senator Victor Cromwell to announce GOP presidential run.”
 
When Addie saw the headline, she immediately frowned. Before Erin could ask more, Harris and Addie linked arms and set off briskly down the winding pavement that snaked through the White House lawn. Erin followed behind, struggling to keep up.
 
“Lunch?” Addie singsonged with renewed enthusiasm, the headline seemingly forgotten. “I will order us a ride.”
 
“It’s 10 am,” Harris feigned exasperation. “You still have a meeting with the News Director back at headquarters in thirty.”
 
Addie brightly suggested that they cancel it.
 
“Please…You don’t get everything you want,” Harris teased, flagging down their driver.
 
“I’m starving though,” Addie grumbled, glancing behind her and gesturing for Erin to keep up.
 
“Just how we like you,” Harris slid into the back of a shiny black SUV. “Thin and feisty.” 
 
 
 
 
 
A few days later, Erin anxiously paced inside Addie’s office, staring at the empty desk chair where Addie was supposed to be.
 
Addie suffered from being chronically late, no matter the consequence. It was Erin’s job to keep her on schedule.
 
In her first few weeks at FNN news network, Erin had tried to navigate the new skills, new stories, and the larger-than-life personalities of her executive producer and her news anchor.
 
But in all honesty, Erin was a little afraid to be alone with Addie. Her eyes lacked any softness. She always looked at Erin like an animal ready to tear into its prey.
 
“I just had to wait in the longest line, I’m so sorry!” Addie seemed to bumper-car into the office, almost spilling the coffee cups that were balanced in her cardboard carrier.
 
“You went to get coffee by yourself? I could do it for you next time,” Erin offered, feeling embarrassed to already come up short in her new role.
 
“Why?” Addie waved her away. “You’re here to learn how to produce a nightly newscast, not fetch my snacks,” she shrugged, propping herself up on her messy desk.
 
Addie didn’t look like she enjoyed many snacks.
 
Erin wondered if Addie sincerely believed that a production assistant shouldn’t retrieve coffee or dry cleaning. A completely unconventional notion by all of DC’s standards. 

There was also a high likelihood that she just loved the attention. That she loved the feeling of hungry eyes on her as she waited in line for coffee. That she loved to stand out in a crowd.
 
“You don’t believe me, do you?” It was as if she had read Erin’s mind. 
 
This job was fabled for being a revolving door, and Erin couldn’t tell if she was on her way in or out. 
 
“You’re not going to be fired, silly!” Addie intercepted Erin’s intrusive thoughts. “No, no. This will actually be fun.”
 
Earlier that morning, Addie had a meeting with Chuck, the News Director, about her onerous workload.
 
Erin was certain that voluntarily opting to pick up coffee for the newsroom was not the testament to Addie’s limited free time that Chuck was looking for.
 
“Anyways, Chuck agreed that we could bring you on as an assistant producer to help with the GOP election coverage,” Addie stared at Erin expectantly, blinding her with those large white teeth.
 
“You want me to help with election coverage?” Erin’s eyelids fluttered in disbelief.
 
“Yeah,” Addie laughed at the obvious. “It’s going to be a big year and I’m going to need a lot of help on the ground covering the race.”
 
“I just started,” Erin couldn’t even believe the sounds of her own protests.
 
“I’ve seen your previous work. I’ve watched your reel,” Addie bent her head towards Erin as if whispering a secret from across the room. “You’re really good. You should be helping direct what’s on camera, not doing the bitch work behind it.”
 
The disbelief that coursed through Erin’s face numbed her cheeks. She barely realized she was grinning from ear to ear.
 
“Besides, you weren’t very good at hair and makeup touch-ups,” Addie chuckled to herself. “But I’m happy to give you a helping hand in that department. So, what do you say?”
 
Erin’s heartbeat flooded her eardrums. She had waited her whole life for an opportunity like this.  Addie was offering her the world and she could almost feel herself panting in anticipation.
 
“Yes,” Erin sputtered. “Absolutely! Thank you so much.”
 
“You’re a smart girl. I’m going to need a lot of brains for this one,” Addie’s blue eyes glittered upon her new protégé. 
 
Tomorrow they would board a flight to Addie’s home state of Wisconsin for Victor Cromwell’s presidential announcement. Erin’s only homework was updating her wardrobe before the morning. 
 
“Pack something a little more flattering,” Addie wrinkled her nose in Erin’s direction. In her distraction, Erin was completely immune to the insult.
 
Erin hailed from Missouri. She supposed Wisconsin wouldn’t be much different. The people from the Midwest had a reputation for being so nice.
 
“Thank you! Thank you so much, you won’t be disappointed!”
 
“Don’t be so quick to thank me,” Addie warned.
 
 

I always wonder if, on my death bed, I will flash to a highlights video of my life – the faces of my sweet daughters, being passionately slammed against the wall while kissing a semi-famous actor, my stoic Swedish husband crying during our wedding when the Rabbi said, “take her sacred as your wife”,  or cuddling my preemie-baby when she finally came home from the NICU on Thanksgiving Day. All of these memories swim inside me.

Past loves are precious like that. Even if you have ended a relationship, if you truly loved another person, part of them remains with you, sleeping beneath your skin. This shadow love occasionally breaks the surface for air and pops into your psyche, like Peter Pan drifting in your window.

I didn’t meet my husband until one month after my fortieth birthday.  I wasn’t a naive virgin.  I had been engaging in serial monogamy since I was 15.  

In the 70’s and 80’s, it was far easier to get over people.  Before the internet, if you broke up with someone or vice versa, you probably never saw or heard from them again.  The rare newsy blurb about them in your college alumni magazine arrived like ice water dumped on your head – a sick pit in the stomach flash, “he’s married!” or “I can’t believe she started a rock band!”

If they dumped you, it was in your best interest to pretend they died in a fiery car crash or vanished without a trace.  You could enter the Witness Protection Program and you never had to find out what they amounted to.

Fast forward to 2015, when I am sitting at my computer Googling the current sale price of my ex-boyfriend’s house and silently lamenting that when we were dating, we ate at Arby’s Roast Beef, and now he is running one of the top real estate companies in Dallas and probably taking his wife out to 5-star restaurants. I had seen pictures of her on Facebook under a shag of bleached blonde hair, perfecting her smoky eye and redecorating their kitchen.

Two weeks prior, I had been followed on Twitter by an ex lover who had tantalizingly almost left his wife for me but chose not to.  He also friended me on Facebook.  This set off a waterfall of questions inside my head. “Well, obviously he was thinking of you,” my best friend Alicia chirped on the phone.  I had to agree with her.  It was hard to know what to make of it, but she was probably right.  Yes, he had thought of me, at least for a split second.  He must have Googled me to find out where I live and what I’m doing.  But he was still married to HER.  He may have followed me on Twitter, but he didn’t follow me when it counted. He devastated me and was as cold as Antarctica.  I couldn’t forget the mummified look in his eyes when he told me, in the lobby of the NYC Hilton on 6th Avenue, that we couldn’t be together.  I was crying. We were surrounded by a cartographer’s convention, and maps were unfurling all around us. My life was unfurling too.  

Exciting as this blast from the past was, I knew deep down that just because he followed me on Twitter didn’t mean he loved me all over again.  He was just clicking a mouse. Took him one second.

Something about him following me reminded me that he was still out there.  Something about knowing he was still out there made me think about him.  Something about thinking about him made me remember that it was not all sadness. There were glorious moments.  And so the shadow love emerged within me, quietly at first, and then stronger.

At first he came to me in dreams. The teasing, the courtship, the ecstasy of being in love, and also the devastation when he turned his back on me.

Something about remembering made me remember, not only him, but also others.  His following me on Twitter made me follow myself into the past. At night, in the twilight moments of sleep, l  I would drowsily, secretly flip through the loves of my life.  

One Sunday, I wandered into a flea market on Columbus and 76th fenced inside a schoolyard. In one booth, a woman made tiny boxes of miniature rooms. She called them shadow boxes and said I could provide my own pieces of jewelry or photographs and she could shrink them down.  I had seen a museum show of the artist, Joseph Cornell, who created boxes of objects he called shadowboxes.  He collected baubles and knicknacks and magazine cut-outs to create dreamlike visions of nostalgia. I guess one could call the objects vintage – treasures that had a previous life, that mattered to somebody once. At my current age, it occurs to me that I may also be vintage.  I also mattered to somebodies once.

I think about the single pearl earring that sits sullenly in my jewelry box that I can’t seem to throw away.  There is really no reason to keep it.  An ex-boyfriend gave it to me for my birthday, when we were on the verge of ending our 6 year relationship.  Wherever I look at that one earring,  I am taken on a trip of remembering how he resentfully described standing on an hour long line at the jewelry store to buy them for me, and how inappropriate I thought that was, how we made love all weekend in my mother’s Park Slope Brooklyn apartment on the pull out bed, enrapt in anxious yearning.  It was the next-to-last time I ever saw him.  That earring is a bittersweet journey, yet one I seem compelled to take once a year or so.  Its unpairing mirrors our unpairing. 

Maybe all human beings are like walking shadow boxes … a locket, a torn photograph, a single earring, an empty bottle of perfume. Little compartmentalized vessels of experience.

After that Twitter follow, I found myself dreaming of my lost loves.  Sometimes I stole them away from a current wife or girlfriend and we were gloriously reunited. Sometimes we had an Adele-song-like confrontation. Some nights I hurtled back into the past remembering how it felt to be in love in a doorway or on a commuter train.  Sometimes we had a conversation that has waited a lifetime.

In this time travel, I examined the genesis of my capacity to love another.  So, I’m going to start at the beginning.

BECOMING A PERSON IN ROCHESTER, NEW YORK

MY HEART BELONGS TO DADDY

Every girl’s first love is her daddy.  Mine was a psychiatrist.  Any kid of a psychiatrist knows that being the child of a psychiatrist means that you' re basically being raised by a mental health professional sans mental health.  Your shrink parent will most likely not apply his mental health training to your parent-child relationship.  My Dad was charming and hard to reach.  He had a fabulous sense of humor, played the piano completely by ear in a Rogers & Hammerstein style, and has always liked to be mostly by himself.  I worshipped him because he was such a captivating personality and like the Shamrock Shake at McDonald’s, he seemed available for a limited time only. Personality-wise and looks-wise I felt more alike him than I did my mom. I got my sense of humor from him. I got my nose from him. We played and sang together from the time I was two. 

Like a fish in his tank, I grew up inside the bubble of my father’s narrative. He was a storyteller, and told more stories about my own mother than she ever told about herself.  He often repeated  a story about the day I was born.  He was in the waiting room of Strong Memorial Hospital, and he was watching the Johnny Carson show while he waited for my mother to give birth.  Men were not allowed in the delivery room in those days.  Johnny Carson was out that night, and Ed McMann, his sidekick, was also missing.  Doc Severensen, the band leader, had to host the show, which my Dad claimed really shook him up because that was unprecedented. It made him think that things were off kilter in the universe on the day I was supposed to be born.  I was being induced because I had been in there for almost 10 months and my time was up. When the waiting room phone rang, he was profoundly relieved to hear from the doctor that I was normal with all 10 fingers and toes. The day they drove me home from the hospital it was snowing hard.  My Dad drove the car over the wintery lawn and right up to the apartment steps, because it was so icy he was worried my mother might slip and drop me in the snow.  He said I looked tiny and red, like a little turtle, and he thought they should put me in a glass terrarium and give me fish food, but mom said no.  

Chapter 2 - Chapter One

Huntsville, Alabama, Best States of America (BSA) — July 16, 2069

Half a million gallons of rocket fuel squatted beneath Buzz Skittles, waiting to be ignited. He mumbled monotone responses to the pre-flight checks, trying to sound confident, like he had done this before. At least his voice didn’t crack. People might listen to this historic sequence for the rest of time, and an adolescent voice crack would be embarrassing. 

“Roger…It’s in Bypass…Bus Ties on…PAD Comm, going off…”

A bead of sweat tickled at his forehead along the hairline, but the glass faceplate made it impossible to wipe away. Excitement vibrated through his fingertips as he checked gauges and toggled switches.

The whirlwind of the past four years—nearly a third of his life—all led to this moment. Minutes from now, he might be the most famous person on the planet. Assuming things went well. If not, the news would be buried in secrecy, and most people would never know he existed. A voice crack wouldn’t matter so much.

He was alone in the cockpit, a cramped space, even with an empty seat to his left and right. Straps tight against his shoulders held him on his back, looking up through the hatch window at a perfect blue sky. Men in sterile paper coveralls had anchored him into the seat in his baggy, adult-sized suit. Tall for his age, he was still skinny compared to his peers. Would they have traded places with Buzz, given the opportunity? Or maybe joined him, someone on either side, to share in this once-in-the-history-of-humankind opportunity? He wasn’t sure. There was never a discussion that anyone but he man the mission. 

T minus sixty seconds and counting. We’ve passed T minus sixty.

Three-hundred feet above the ground, the massive rocket swayed ever-so-slightly. He couldn’t tell if the motion was real or his imagination and focused on slow and steady breaths. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Repeat. Just like he had been trained. From somewhere below came a deep vibration that definitely was not his imagination.

Second stage tanks now pressurized. Thirty-five seconds and counting. Apollo is still go.

A second bead of sweat surfaced, this one trickling toward his ear. And now he needed to pee, too. No big deal, since they equipped his suit to accommodate that need, but he would hold it. It seemed wrong—weak—to pee in his suit before even leaving the launchpad. Ground control chattered a few final status checks at him. “Roger.” 

He was ready. He could do this. He would do this. People were counting on him. He wanted to do this. 

Twelve, eleven, ten, nine… ignition sequence start.

The rocket shuddered, seven million pounds of thrust beginning to burn. He peed his suit.

… three, two, one, zero. All engines running. Liftoff! We have liftoff!

As the Saturn V clawed its way upward, it shook Buzz side-to-side against the straps in convulsive jerks. The noise from the engines pulsed through his ears and chest, the sound itself a physical force. He gritted his teeth and watched the mission clock, which seemed to be too slow, but told him he was now clear of the tower and truly on his way. The noise and shaking lessened but the G-forces climbed, the weight of his body the only sensation he had of the incredible acceleration. Gripping the arms of his seat, eyes wide with adrenaline-fueled euphoria, his ears popped as the whole craft rolled over, the rocket still pushing for more speed and more altitude. Seconds and then minutes ticked by, until the first stage spent itself and shut off, and the sudden absence of acceleration flung him forward against the restraints. 

Sudden, eerie silence gave Buzz a moment to glance around the cockpit and take inventory of himself and his craft. 

He was okay. Everything was going okay. 

The first stage would separate automatically and drop away and—

The second stage ignited and slammed him back into his seat. 

Pine Bluff, Arkansas, Left States of America (LSA) — July 16, 2069

Three-hundred miles away, on the western bank of the Mississippi Bay, Riley Mudgen sat alone with a greasy slice of pizza soaking through his paper plate and onto the workstation. This was a bullshit assignment, and Riley made no attempt to hide his displeasure about it. Delivering the wrong report for the team’s morning briefing, okay, maybe that was his fault, but the incident with the director was not. He thought he was on mute, or he wouldn’t have referred to her as the High Queen of Dumbassery out loud.

He had gotten the job because his aunt provided a recommendation. That, and the only competing candidate withdrew. His lack of effort and the absence of any indication that he took the job seriously created a hindrance to earning his way back into a respectable role. He supposed the only reason he hadn’t been fired outright was because the director wanted him to suffer first, and he couldn’t quit without risking his phone and electricity being turned off. He earned a livable wage, but money management was another skill he lacked.

Third shift ended an hour ago, but he had been required to stay over this morning. Some bullshit about system maintenance, or a reboot, or whatever. Who cared? Why was it his problem? If he was miserable, he would do his best to make everyone else miserable, too, starting with a messy workstation for someone else to clean up. He drew a wicked pleasure from wallowing in self-pity. The soggy microwave pizza merrily contributed to his misery.

This monitoring station—part of the Department of Polite Curiosity—watched their neighbors to the east for suspicious activity. It was a bullshit assignment because the ruling philosophy across the Bay was to have nothing to do with anyone outside their own borders. The BSA had the largest military in the world over there, but did nothing other than constant drills and parades and flexing their muscles so as not to appear welcoming to outsiders. Apart from the occasional troop rotations and domestic flights criss-crossing their twenty-two states, there was nothing for Riley to see. They didn’t even allow flights in or out. Travel across their border wasn’t banned, per se, just incredibly rare. You had to travel to one of their high-security entry/exit points and cross on foot. Those who lived there remained because they liked it, and those who didn’t live there had no interest in going. For Riley, it just meant no chance of observing anything important or interesting, and thus little chance of interacting with a superior. Whether that was a perk or a punishment depended on his mood. 

Even this room was a joke. A throwback to something from a late 20th century military movie, because even that was advanced enough to track their “activity.” Riley suspected that the equipment had been discarded from an actual movie set. Giant, low-res television screens covered the front wall. Computer monitors were mounted to workstations in rows like an industrial amphitheater. Being the bullshit assignment that this was, most of the other workstations were powered down. Two in the front row were playing a game of Pong with each other, while one in the back corner pondered the meaning of the universe. His own workstation was currently scrolling through a mind-numbing list of data, one character at a time. The computer next to Riley’s had a voice interface that he liked, and he sometimes played games on it when he was bored. Like now. He wiped his pizza-greasy fingers on his pants and entered a command prompt.

“Shall we play a game?” the computer asked in a stilted, tinny voice.

“Yeah. How about strip poker?” Riley asked.

“I do not want to see your nipples again, Riley,” came the electronic answer. “I will deal a hand of solitaire for you.” A pixilated deck of cards shuffled themselves onto the monitor and a cursor blinked at the bottom.

 “You’re no fun, Joshua.” Riley said through a mouthful of pizza, “but thanks for the cards.”

The computer did not reply. Riley wiped his hand on his pants again and tapped Joshua’s keyboard to move the five of clubs onto the six of diamonds and flip a card. He continued playing, finishing his pizza and glancing back at his own monitor or the primary display at irregular intervals, just to confirm that nothing was still happening. Nothing ever happened. He wondered if anyone even manned this room during his off hours. What would be the point? He lost two games and dealt a third, growing more bored and sleepy.

He spoke to the computer, desperate for conversation. “Hey, Joshua.” 

“Shall we play a game?” The default wake-up response.

“No, no game. I just want to talk.”

Joshua made no reply. Riley prompted him again. “Is this the only job you’ve ever had?”

“No. I used to be an actor.” Riley choked on his soda, but the flat robotic voice ignored his gagging and continued. “I appeared in one big blockbuster when I was young, but Hollywood is a tough town and computers age quickly. A younger, flashier model replaced me before the movie had left theaters.”

“Wow. You went from Hollywood to working here?”

“No. Next, I worked in the public school system for several years. When the school board upgraded, they donated me to a library. The things I saw there…” Riley sensed a shudder from the computer. “When the library upgraded, they sent me to be refurbished, and then I came here as part of a government contract package. Now I sit here with you to play games and monitor our neighbor states.”

Riley wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment, he settled for, “Shit.”

At that precise moment, the room erupted into chaos. The main front wall screen drew a blinking border around the map of the eastern states while the screens flanking either side flashed the word ALERT! ominously. An alarm wailed through overhead speakers while red emergency lights flashed overhead.

“Shit,” Riley said again, with feeling. “What did I do?” 

“It wasn’t you,” Joshua answered.

Riley spun to his own monitor, hands poised above the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen for some explanation of the alarm. The antiquated phone next to him rang, the shrill sound at his elbow causing him to yelp with surprise. He grabbed the handset and wedged it between his ear and shoulder.

“What?” he asked, far more aggressively than intended.

“What the hell is going on down there, Mudgen?” came the voice of the director. Shit, for the third time! Why was she here this early? Was she always here this early? Was she ever not here? It didn’t matter. Her tone was restrained but held a threatening quality that implied his next words could have a tremendous impact on his future.

Riley’s eyes flicked across the lines of data, and back to the primary display where a spot to the southeast was blinking and cycling through each of the pre-programmed symbols: plane, train, ship, ground troops. What was that supposed to be? The symbols just kept flipping. Shit! 

“I don’t know,” he said into the phone. Those were not words to preface any kind of positive impact on his future. He scrambled for something more competent-sounding. “I’m checking. It’s something in the south part. Mississippi? No. Alabama. What do they look alike? I think the radar is confused.”

“Confused? Mudgen…” 

He had to give her more than this. Lowering the phone from his ear, Riley covered the mouthpiece. “Joshua, any idea what we’re looking at here, buddy?”

Joshua’s screen flickered before responding. “Yes, Riley. I believe it is a multi-stage rocket.” A beat passed. Riley closed his mouth, unsure when it had opened, raised the phone back to his ear, and looked once more at the data on his monitor. 

“… you listening to me?” said the voice on the phone, the anger no longer restrained.

“I think you better come down here,” he said numbly. “They just launched something into orbit.” A pause, then he added a sincere, “ma’am.” Riley heard the receiver on the other end hit the floor. 

First two scenes of the story: 

PROLOGUE

Zunia hoped she would be allowed outside today.  It would be nice to see the sun.

Most days she did not mind being in the cave.  She was safe there, which was good; the outside world was dangerous.  Full of robbers and jaguars, her Protectors warned her.  Also, it was always cool and shady in the cave.  It was much hotter outside and the light, though pretty, was almost too bright for her eyes.  She also had plenty to eat, many brushes and dyes to draw with, and someone to come read to her whenever she wished.  It was a good life, and Zunia had no real complaints. 

But today was different.  Or, better said, she was different.  She was feeling bold, adventurous, even reckless.  She thought today she might go outside and if there were no robbers or jaguars, and if it was not too hot, she might even climb a tree!  She laughed at the thought of her Protectors’ faces if they could see her up a tree.  She knew which one she would climb too, the wide ahuehuete tree down near the bottom of the ravine.  Yes, as far as that!  So long as it was safe.

Above her she heard the dull tap as the bats beat their wings against the air.  They were her friends in their way.  Her Protectors found it amusing that she had named so many of them; they could not tell one from another.  But Zunia could.  When they came near enough, at least.  Although she could see well in the dark, even better than her Protectors, she could not see the bats when they slept high above her.  But if she left out some of her fruit for them and held very still, sooner or later the bolder ones would venture into the firelight in her sanctum.  Tuna, the sweet fruit of the cactus, worked the best.  One time Paxcal actually landed on her hand long enough to enjoy a morsel of it with her.  Paxcal was the boldest and one of her favorites.

Zunia looked at the torches now and saw they had once again burned low.  They needed to be replenished soon.  Her Protectors would come, and maybe she could go outside then.

She shifted around on the hard stone bench.  She would like to have lain down but she was supposed to be meditating.  The scribes seemed to think it could not be properly done lying down.  Right now, she did not think her meditations would come to much.  She was almost certain she would meditate better if she were outside by the ahuehuete tree.  Perhaps she should tell that to her Protectors? 

“What do you think, Paxcal?” she asked the ceiling above her.

More taps as wings beat the air.  She decided that meant yes.

Zunia stood up.  She walked toward the doorway of her sanctum but before she could call for her Protectors she heard the screams.  Another volunteer was coming.  Two of them, in fact: a man and a woman. 

Zunia hung her head, disappointed.  She probably would not get to go outside today after all.

Sighing, she walked over to the large stone altar in the middle of the sanctum.  It was carved with many figures: men, animals, and other creatures all bowing before a large door.  She picked up a curved obsidian dagger and checked the edge with her thumb.  A small trickle of blood erupted as it cut into the skin.  She nodded and wiped the blade clean.  It was so much harder to do with a notched blade.  Not that she did the hardest parts, of course.  Her Protectors were the ones who held on to the volunteers, steadying them as they prepared for the journey into the next life.  Zunia just had to cut the throat and hold the basin to catch the blood before it polluted the sanctum.  A child could do it, and she would know.  She had been doing it as long as she could remember.

The screams were loud.  That was good.  It was best to let out all the animal, earthly passions so they would not have to carry them in the next life.  It would make their journey much easier. 

When they finally reached the sanctum, she saw her Protectors had brought her not two but three volunteers: a man, a woman, and their small child.  The woman was crying, the man talking in a language she did not understand, the child silent.  With them came several of her Protectors as well two scribes to make a writing. 

The man looked at her, actually meeting her eyes.  Inappropriate, but she could make allowances in the present circumstances.  He said something.

“What does he say?” she asked.  

The one to speak to her was Kakob.  He did not meet her eyes, of course, but he bowed and gestured to the man. 

“Divine One, this one is fearful.  He asks thee that he be the first, before his courage fails him entirely.”

Zunia looked at the man with pity.  “Say unto him in this moment it is understandable to have fear,” she said.  “Tell him there is no shame to feel fear.  Tell him it will be painless; he shall fall asleep and wake up in the next world.  And tell him his loved ones will meet him there.”  That would reassure the man.  It could be hard to be alone; Zunia often was. 

Sometimes she wished she were not Divine.  

“Yes, Divine One.”  He spoke words to the man, pointing to his wife and child.  The man slumped and nodded. 

Zunia could not help admiring them.  She only had to do her small part and even she, after all these years, could not help feeling a little apprehensive.  For them, this would of course be the first time.  And the last.

She was amazed that so many volunteered.

The boy looked at her with his big round eyes.  She smiled at him.  Zunia loved children; they had a way about them that made Zunia feel good all over.  She would like to have kept a few with her but that was for purely selfish reasons.  This couple would certainly want the child with them so they could journey together in the next life. 

She would make sure to do the child last.  It would be much less frightening for him to make the journey if he knew his parents were already there waiting for him. 

Of course, three meant there was no possibility of her going outside and climbing the tree today.  She felt a little sad about that.  Still, there is always tomorrow.

She picked up the basin and dagger, then waited at the altar.

CHAPTER 1

Becoming a man is hardly worth the effort!

That was Ahuatzi’s thought as the sun beat down and his feet and toes squelched in the fresh mud of the chinampa.  Built by his village just last year, it was essentially a large island of collected earth and lake plants floating in the water, bounded on all sides by wooden posts driven deep into the lakebed below.   Normally, he would have been surrounded by his family, friends, and neighbors all working alongside.  But Ahuatzi was nearing seventeen, the age of manhood in the Butterfly Tribe, and one did not become a man of the tribe by merely getting older.  It was up to Ahuatzi to show he was ready, and for a Butterfly there were two things that made a man a man: farming, and the Pledge.  Ahuatzi had been tasked with planting this chinampa by himself so the council could evaluate his work.

Probably the largest chinampa in the Empire, he thought sullenly.  He knew that was not true, but right now he was having trouble believing what he knew. 

Ahuatzi gouged the soil with his stick and stooped to gently lay kernels of corn from his heavy hemp bag into the small hole.  He stopped to wipe sweat from his brow with the back of a mud-caked hand.  Then another step, another gouge into the soft mud, and another few kernels planted.  He wiped his brow again.  Then he took another step.  And so on.  And so on.  He’d been at it since before dawn, and now the sun was climbing to midday.  Another hour or so and it would be vacac, the sixth hour past sunrise, when he could eat and sleep during the hottest time of day.  Then he would wake and be back at it again, until long after dark.

And again the next morning, he thought grimly.  Ahuatzi straightened and looked back at his planting.  And maybe the next. 

At his current pace, Ahuatzi doubted he would have even a third of the chinampa planted before he went to bed.  That was bad.  Speed mattered; it was one of the things the council would consider in evaluating his performance.  A farmer had to be able to work fast.  The corn had to come first and be down quickly so the beans and squash could also be planted before the heavy rains came.  The sturdy corn stalks would give the beans something to use as they climbed to the heavens, seeking the light.  The squash would spread down below and shade the roots from too much water and sun. 

Yes, he would need to work much faster if he wanted to prove himself.  However, he did take some comfort knowing his rows were very straight, his holes evenly spaced, and the right depth.  Neatness counted too; bad work done quickly fed no one at harvest.   Ahuatzi personally preferred neatness to speed in most things. 

He straightened and stretched his back.  He unstopped the deerskin bottle that hung around his neck from a twisted leather cord.  Ahuatzi drank just enough to take the edge of his thirst.  Meanwhile, his feet sank down further into the mud.  Xichán, his older brother, said that if one held still too long on a newly built chinampa he would sink to the bottom.  Ahuatzi did not believe that but he shifted his feet anyway.  No point in taking chances.  Even Xichán could be right now and then.

Ahautzi stoppered the bottle and went back to his work.  He tried to work faster.  He was not successful.  He settled for neatness and just kept at it.  At least it was a pace he knew he could maintain. 

Maybe he would not sleep during vacac, just eat corn cakes in the shade and then work during the afternoon heat.  Just thinking about it made him feel tired all over.  But then he thought about the council and his slow start today, which woke him back up.  He kept on working, sowing more corn as the sun climbed higher and higher.  Stab, stoop, straighten, and again. 

Finally, he knew he had had enough.  He felt himself stagger as he dug the stick into the mud, and more than once the kernels spilled out of his hand before reaching the hole.  It was time.  Time spent resting now would make him work better later.  He looked at a stand of jacaranda trees near the far shore, their purple spring blossoms waving invitingly in a high breeze.  Ahuatzi could sit in their shade and rest his feet in the water.  He slowly made his way across the chinampa and back to solid ground.  He retrieved his sandals, bound them around his feet, and began walking.

He soon arrived at his destination.  He dug into his bag for his corn cakes.  Wrapped in leaves to keep them soft and fresh, his sister had flavored them with honey.  With a prayer to Kukulkán he began to eat.  He drank some more and sat with his feet in the small streamlet that fed the lake. 

The chinampa did not look so very big from here.  Above, the wind sighed and shook the branches.  Jacaranda blossoms fell around him.  He leaned back against one of the tree trunks.  He would not sleep during the vacac; just close his eyes and listen to the sounds: wind in the trees, water lapping at his feet.  That would be enough.  His eyes closed.  He drifted in and out, letting it all wash over him. 

That was when the attack came.

Dialogue sample:  

“Ahuatzi!”

Xochi ran over to where Ahuatzi was slinging a heavy pack across Kilca’s back.  One of two llamas kept by the village, Kilca was a gentle soul and a sure-footed friend on any journey.  She waited patiently as Ahuatzi finished securing the load, then bent her long, graceful neck to pluck up some grasses. 

Task done, Ahuatzi turned to his sister and greeted her. “Health, Xochi.”

“Papa said you were not going to the chinampa again today.  He said you go to trade with the Turtle tribe.”

“Yes,” Ahuatzi said.  “It was decided last night.”  He yawned.  After Ahuatzi’s decision to forbear the Pledge, there had been no reason to not have everyone pitch in.  Yesterday the men of the village had come and together finished working Ahuatzi’s chinampa.  They had worked late, but now the last of the corn was all planted. It would be a few days before the beans would follow. The village could work on other chores now like thatching roofs and digging trenches before the rainy season.  Nopaltzín had suggested Ahuatzi be the one to take the trade.  Ahuatzi was excited, he had never been so far in his life. 

“Acahuatl is doing the trade,” Ahuatzi said.  “I just go to help with the animals.” 

“The Medicine goes with you?” she asked, surprised.

“He has the respect of the Turtle Tribe, and they honor his trades.  He also speaks a little of their tongue.”

“Do you think he will tell any stories as you go?”

“I hope so.  It would seem a waste otherwise.”

“What do you trade?”

“Cacao, mostly,” Ahuatzi said.  “They are mad for it in the islands.  We also take the leftover chilis planted after last year’s rains.  We have a few metal tools, including a copper hatchet.”

Xochi whistled.  Copper tools were valuable indeed, worth many, many cacao.  “Who else goes with you?” she asked.

“Acahuatl says we shall have a few men from the Kinkajou tribe to go with us, for protection.”

“Kinkajou?  Why would they protect Butterflies?” 

“They are well paid, one xum for every lim’nah of the trade that we return to the village with.”  A lim’nah was the worth of seven xums, which meant the Kinkajou would make one seventh of the trade’s value without growing or gathering anything.

“I do not like Kinkajous, not after what they did to you,” she said.  “It is said they can go backwards as easily as they go forward.”

“They have never broken faith on a trade,” Ahuatzi said.  “They would only get to do so once.  Ruining us is one thing, but they do not wish to ruin themselves.”  But inside he agreed.  The idea of walking to and from the place of trade surrounded by Kinkajous was not pleasing.

Xochi paused for a while, scratching Kilca’s soft ears.  Then she asked, “May I go with you?”

“To the place of trade?”

“Did you intend to go anywhere else today?” Xochi asked.

“No.”

“Then obviously yes, I wish to go to the place of trade.”

Ahuatzi looked at her.  Several questions flooded in, the first being, “Why?”

“Why do you wish to go?”

“Ah,” Ahuatzi said.  “I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “because it is different.  It will be interesting to see Turtles up close, to see what they bring, and to watch the trade.  I also wished to swim in the ocean for a while, maybe collect a token from the beach.”

“Fine reasons.  Need I have others?”

“It is different for girls,” Ahuatzi said.

“It is,” Xochi said.  “And that is another reason for me to go.”

“What of papa?” Ahuatzi asked.

“He has not said no,” Xochi said.

“You did not ask him.”

“No.  But that does not make what I say untrue,” she said with a smile.

“Xochi!”  Ahuatzi threw up his hands.  Nopaltzín and Xichán would be back on the lake, gathering reeds for mats.  There would be no time to go and ask.  “What of Acahuatl?” Ahuatzi asked.

“If he says yes, you will agree?”

“I suppose he would not say yes if it were dangerous,” Ahuatzi allowed. 

“And we will be back long before dark,” Xochi added, pressing her advantage.   “Give over, little brother!  You will surely go again.  For me, this may be my only chance to see it!”

“Unless you marry a Turtle,” Ahuatzi observed.

“I hear they are quite handsome,” Xochi said.

“I hear they are the ones who spread that tale.”  They both laughed.  “Very well, if Acahuatl agrees I agree.  Ay, Xochi, but I cannot deny you anything!”

“And that is why I did not ask papa or Xichán,” Xochi said with a sweet smile.  She kissed his forehead.  “I am grateful, little brother.”

“Grateful?”

Ahuatzi and Xochi started.  They had not noticed Acahuatl approaching even as they spoke.

“Very suspicious, gratitude,” the old Medicine said.  “No one is grateful when they are given what is theirs by rights!”

“My sister wishes to go with us, Medicine,” Ahuatzi said.

“Why would she be grateful?  Do you plan to carry her?”

“No, but-” Ahuatzi caught the Medicine’s eye, and could see the humor there.

“Honored Medicine,” Xochi said, bowing her head.  “I would wish to come to with you.  It would mean much to me.”  She looked up and smiled hopefully at the old medicine. 

His weathered features softened, and he smiled back, a mirroring gesture.  He stretched out a thin arm and gave her an affectionate pat on the head.

“No,” Acahuatl said.

Xochi looked as if she had been fed an uncooked frog. 

“Let us depart.  I do not intend to run, nor do I intend to be late,” Acahuatl said, gesturing to Ahuatzi.  Ahuatzi looked at Xochi, who was still standing and mouthing silent words.  His heart went out to her, but inside he wondered if it was not for the best.  He gently led Kilca away after the old Medicine.

Why can’t anything go as planned? 

Diligent preparation should lead to predictable outcomes, but no matter how organized I am, one unreliable cog in my regimented system can implode my best-laid plans.

I had hoped to be headed back to the office by now, armed with celebratory pastries and coffee. At the very least, wrapping up this interview. Instead, new pumps pinch my feet as I pace the starkly lit halls of Elysium’s inception center. The auditor from Boston’s Mental Health Board is over an hour late.

Mentally, I cycle through my calendar. Categorizing, shuffling, re-prioritizing. 

Ellie, dear, stop trying to control everything. I shoo away my mother’s voice in my head like a pesky gnat.

As if I’d summoned her, a message buzzes on my watch.

E-Mom: Good luck with the audit today!

“If he shows,” I mumble to the empty hall. 

My mother and her cosmic ability to feel when my pulse rises. I don’t know whether to be pleased or creeped out by how well she keeps track of me. If I’m honest, it’s a little of both.

E-Ellie: He’s late. 

E-Mom: That’s unfortunate. Such a shame to be stuck in an old basement when the leaves are changing. 

I laugh. My mother loves Boston in the fall. In the old days, whenever the mood struck, she would pull me out of school to spend the day in the sun and fallen leaves. We would wander city parks with no plan in mind. A small part of me wished I could channel my mother’s attitude and blow off work, but I’d never admit that to her. The logical part of me knows those decisions have consequences.

E-Ellie: I wish I could, but sadly, I have to work.

E-Mom: Make time for yourself, Ellie. Decorate. Dress up. Pass out Halloween candy. LIVE outside of work.

A loading circle appears, replaced by a picture of a six-year-old me in a glittering cat costume. My tiny feet perched on a step stool, hanging spider webs in the eaves of a porch I only remember because I’ve seen it in pictures. This particular Halloween, my mother had wanted me to go as Cookie Monster and forego my annual trick-or-treating cold because costumes shouldn’t be covered with anything so practical as a jacket. But Jo Jo and I promised to be sparkling cats at recess, and kindergarten pacts couldn’t be broken. So, I had whined until my mother had given in. As a compromise, I had to wear itchy wool stockings and developed a nasty rash. In my adolescent brain, Halloween had been ruined forever. 

E-Ellie: I’ll try to decorate this year.

Then mentally kick myself. With what time, Ellie?

E-Mom: I wish I could help. I miss the old place. 

My fingers hover over the keypad, unsure how to respond when my mom talks about our apartment, one of the many converted row houses in Boston’s North End. After college, I’d sworn off five-story walkups, determined to eat nothing but macaroni and ramen if it meant living in a place with no stairs, soundproof walls, and a decent heating system. But, here I am, living in my childhood home where the night life starts at dusk and drunk tourists stay strong until well past two in the morning. 

It pains me to admit it, but I’ve missed the noise, the smells, the familiarity. Even if the apartment costs a fortune to maintain.

When Marcus slips out of one of half a dozen identical doors, I type a hasty goodbye to my mother and slip the phone back in my pocket.

He scans the hall for the absent auditor, just as I have been for the past hour. “The Parsons are getting nervous.” 

Marcus, our resident counselor, leads every inception at Elysium. Clients appreciate his empathic professionalism, and he’s attractive, which, for reasons I don’t understand, encourages customers to open up. He is as meticulous with his appearance as I am with my schedule. A fade and sharp-cut beard coupled with his white lab coat neatly offset his dark skin. Add a glossy filter, and he could be on a magazine cover. Not many people would notice that his tailored shirts don’t completely hide the slight paunch to his belly, but I know how much he loves to bake. This subtle imperfection suits him. Makes him human.

I tug at the lapels of my department store suit and resist the urge to check my hair for errant curls. “I’ve tried calling his office. It goes to voicemail every time.”

He looks at his watch. “The Parsons were already emotional when they got here. We shouldn’t wait much longer.”

I cast a glare down the vacant hall. BMHB regulations require the auditor to observe Elysium’s process from the beginning, but that assumes they show up on time. Even though I logically know we should try to hold off a little longer, I don’t suggest it. Marcus’s emotional intelligence borders on sorcery. A compassionate look, a sympathetic ear, coffee magically appearing on an unpleasant morning. Somehow, he just knows.

 “Okay, get started,” I say. “But see if the Parsons will let us record the session. Surely, that should appease the auditor.” 

Marcus gives me an encouraging smile. “El, it’s going to be fine. Promise.”

He offers a salute and disappears into the treatment room. I resume my pacing, turning over the consequences of the proceeding. A successful audit would get Elysium one step closer to autonomy. One step closer to getting my company off the ground. We stand at the gateway between a struggling startup and a corporation generating real revenue, expanding our product line, and securing our freedom from the demands of investors. We are so close. I won’t let myself consider the alternative.

My heels clack against the yellowing linoleum, the churning in my stomach and the aroma of bleach reminiscent of my middle school days. It transports me back to Principal Marshall’s office, his sweat-pickled face leaning over mine as he pats my bare knee.

Ellie, do you think putting soap on chairs is how mature children should behave? 

That was the morning that Susan Little and Marley Pitman had gotten all the kids on the bus to sing “Smelly Ellie Has No Soap.” I thought smearing bathroom soap in their seats while the class was at recess had been a stroke of retaliatory genius. A day of sticky legs left no doubt that I did, in fact, have access to soap. 

I shake off the memory and am on the verge of leaving an ill-advised message on the auditor’s voicemail, when a squat man in his fifties appears at the end of the hall. With gas station coffee in one hand and a weathered attaché in the other, he shuffles towards me. His cheap loafers mar the ugly linoleum with faint scuff marks like a slug trail. His chinos and polo boast deep wrinkles, his spine curving as though it can no longer hold him upright. 

“Ms. Adams?” My name comes out as a sigh.

In an effort of goodwill, I say, “Please, call me Ellie.” 

When he doesn’t offer his name, an uncomfortable silence settles between us. I remember my high school locker combination, my childhood dentist, and the choreography to my fifth-grade graduation song Moving on Up, but a name I had read this very morning eludes me. For the past hour, I’d just been tacking on better adjectives to absent auditor, like inconsiderate auditor. Selfish auditor. Useless auditor. Possibly dead-and-therefore-excused auditor. 

With exaggerated movements, I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my slacks and motion him to one of the doors. “Shall we proceed to the observation room? We may have only missed a few minutes of their inception.”

He doesn’t move. “You’ve already started?”

I try and fail to summon patience. “Look Mr. – What was your name again?”

He frowns. “Brandis.” Perhaps my unfamiliarity with his name sparks confusion. Maybe my bluntness comes off as rude. At this point, I just don’t care.

“Right. Well, Mr. Brandis, creating a loved one’s E-Replica can be a psychologically draining experience. We don’t want to put undue burden on those who have already lost so much with unnecessary delays. I’m sure you can understand. We do have a recording of – ”

“Look, Ms. Adams,” he interrupts, sighing moist coffee breath in my face. “This is standard procedure for all mental wellness facilities, even one such as yours.”

Any budding pity I’d amassed for this auditor dissipates. If Elysium didn’t need this detestable man’s approval to continue operations in the state of Massachusetts, I’d unleash the litany of expletives held back by my bitten tongue. 

“Well, as you haven’t seen a company ‘such as mine,’ perhaps we should observe what we can of the replication process – ”

The auditor starts. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Ms. Adams, is there genetic cloning occurring in this facility?”

I can’t hide my surprise. He should know what Elysium does. At the very least, he should have read an article or two. Or arrived on time.

Oh absolutely, Mr. Brandis, but we only clone the finest people with the most money and the best intentions, so that’s okay, right? The image of me snarking this in my most innocent voice is so strong, I almost break down into hysterical laughter. Sadly, I have a company to run and don’t have the luxury of being glib. I choke back the sarcastic – and in my opinion better – response and do my best to salvage the situation.

“Mr. Brandis, there is no genetic cloning occurring here. Elysium compiles facsimiles of departed loved ones using various pictographic and digital media. Everything is computer generated and for consortium purposes only. Please.” I motion once again for the door. “Let’s observe the inception, and if you still have questions, we can schedule a second visit for you.”

He deflates before my eyes. “My next appointment is six months out.” 

I force a chipper lilt to my voice. “Well, we won’t know if you’ll need that second visit until you see the process for yourself. Right this way.”

Without waiting for him to follow me, I ease into the observation room. After a few tense seconds, Coffee Breath joins me. 

One point for Ellie. 

A thin pane of glass separates us from the adjacent room, which is windowless, colorless, and identical to the one we stand in. The observation side contains two plastic lawn chairs (added for the benefit of this audit) and a one-way audio system. In contrast, the treatment room boasts a singular folding table with a laptop on one side and a box of tissues and bottled water on the other. Our rented therapy center screams B-movie hospital ward. 

I long for a more professional space, full of sunlight and artwork and plush carpet. Deep-seated chairs and top of the line coffee. Soft music and maybe a soothing indoor fountain. But the basement of a onetime university is the best we can afford. 

For now. 

Our grieving clients huddle on one side of the table. Opposite, Marcus explains the replication process in soft tones. 

The auditor honks his nose into a handkerchief and stuffs the soiled cloth back into his rumpled khakis. Even though the observation booth is supposed to be soundproof, I have to stifle the urge to shush him. And not to gag.

Get it together, Ellie. Convince him he doesn’t need to come back.

I take a deep breath and soften my tone the way Marcus would. “These are the Parsons. Siblings in their early 20s whose grandfather has recently passed away. Invasive cancer. They were little more than toddlers when they were orphaned, and their grandfather was the only parent they’d ever really known.”

The auditor stares at the young man and woman, arms wrapped around each other, eyes bloodshot, crumpled tissues littering the tabletop. I hope he sees them as I do. They are lost souls. 

“They have no one left,” I say. “That is why we’re here. That is why Elysium is here.”

A faint interest lights his expression. “What service does your company offer them?”

I stand a little straighter and slip on my corporate voice. The one I use at every investor pitch and every board meeting. The one that shows how confident and capable I am. 

“In some cases, persistent complex bereavement disorder, more commonly known as complicated grief, can stem from the sudden passing of a loved one. The individual left behind struggles to return to a normal life, leading to years, and sometimes decades, of depression or worse. Our goal is to help family members to find closure. Combined with grief counseling, we create an E-Replica of the departed, a digital ghost if you will, until they are ready to let go. Elysium’s mission is to evolve the way people think about and process death.”

Endless seconds pass with neither of us moving. I suppress the urge to fill the silence. Marcus probes the Parsons about their grandfather, gently extracting his attitudes about weather, politics, life in general. The auditor sets his coffee cup on the window’s ledge and settles into a plastic chair. Then, he opens his attaché and turns to me. “Has a digital ghost ever done something you didn’t expect?” 

Inwardly, I smile. “All the time. That’s the beauty of blending AI with specific human characteristics. Sometimes, they can surprise you. Just like humans.” 

“Interesting.” It sounds like he genuinely means it. 

And just like that, we are back on track.

There’s a dead pigeon outside the next customer's apartment building. It lays on its side, the feathers and flesh completely picked off from just the lower half of its body, leaving his talons connected to nothing but the remains of his bloody, bare pelvis bone. It looks as if rats or maybe his own feathery friends have picked his chest clean, baring his tiny delicate ribs to the fumes and cigarette smoke New Yorkers happily pay thousands a month just to have the privilege of breathing for themselves. His head is somehow untouched, a fluffy beaked knob resting atop the remains of his gore-covered skeleton. The whole effect makes it look like he could just be missing his pants. The thought makes me giggle slightly, as I continue to stare. 

The apartment door opens. A very tall and thin boy in his early twenties trots down the steps, grinning at me. I straighten, hands still clasped behind my back. 

“Weed fairy, coming the fuck through,” he says, in a long slow drawl that lets me know he’s smoked in the last thirty minutes. 

“Sending her blessings,” I chime back, returning his grin and jostling the strap of my backpack so it gives off a satisfactory rustle. Proof of drugs, if you will. Not that Wayne needs reassurance. 

Wayne, or Wayne the Whale in my phone, is a regular’s regular. He cops twice a week when he’s “taking it easy” and his perpetual weed habit has made him a pretty regular fixture in my life as well. I have twelve customers also named Wayne, but this Wayne is so special, he’s the only Wayne of all the Waynes that has been around long enough, and ordered frequently enough, to be ordained with his very own nickname. Rather, of course, than a gradually increasing number to differentiate him from Wayne 2, Wayne 3, and all the other assholes with his namesake. The title of whale, to such a skinny pathetic kid, isn’t incredibly fitting, although I’m sure he has the THC tolerance of a very large sea creature based on the half pound we sell him monthly.  

“Yo, you? You’re the mother fuckin’ OG, you know that? I’d just ran out like, five seconds ago.” He says this all with such conviction, I think I spot a speck of moisture in his eyes. It’s not like I hadn’t seen him three days prior and will, in all likelihood, see him in another two. 

“Thanks, man, wouldn’t be the OG without—hey, hey easy big guy.” I step back to avoid an incoming hug, although by the time I do there’s no need. Wayne had just spotted the dead pigeon at my feet. He stumbles back to avoid stepping on it, a look of mild horror on his face. 

“Yo! What the fuck? That’s messed up.”

“Pretty metal right? Why do you think they left the head on like that?”

“Fuck, Lily, I don’t know. Why you wondering about this shit, anyways? Thing’s gonna give you rabies if you keep standing so close.”

“That’s not how you get rabies, dumbass. Anyways, listen I only got ten minutes so shall we?” I start towards his building’s entrance and he holds out an arm to stop me. 

“Hey, uhh… my mom’s home so can we…” He nods down the street.

I roll my eyes. He shrugs his apologies, already walking.

“Hey come on, you guys have so much of my money, some basic customer service won’t kill ya.”

I match his pace before he can get too far and manoeuvre the backpack to my front. “No, no of course. Primo customer service is all we have. Just saying, could it kill ya to move out of your mom’s place? Like seriously, how old are you?” I unzip the front and begin to dig through the first compartment, where I poorly organize all the strains of the day. “You doing your standard or premium shelf?”

“Uh… standard. I’m twenty-three, but I mean like… shit. You know how fucked up rent is around here. Can barely afford to feed myself. I don’t got the fuckin’ capital or whatever for a place. Wait actually can you switch out one of the eighths for the Larry Bird. Shit was fire last time.” He digs out a half dozen crumpled twenties from his pocket. “And aren’t you like homeless or something? Why you up my ass about this?”

I laugh because I do have a reputation that has become difficult to deny. “Uh, rude. Naw I told you. I got a whole fucking closet down in Bushwick. It’s gonna be an extra ten if you want the Larry. And can you hurry this up? People are gonna think I’m a drug dealer or some shit…” I grab the twenties from his hands and flip through the bills easily. He’s twenty over. I fold the lot into a bundle before he can catch his mistake. He’d barely registered the disappearance of the cash from his still outstretched hands by the time the money was down the small knee pocket of my cargo pants. “Listen my guy. Look at me, I’m not even eighteen and I’ve made it out here for +five years, no mommy to be found, roof or no roof.”

“Yeah I know but like—wait, what happened with your parents anyways—”

“It’s a disgrace to even half-ass freeloading in this city. Sell your nudies online, or have some fucking respect for the rest of us and find a sugar daddy to pimp out that tight twenty-something ass to. You know, like the hard worker I know you really are.”

“I mean sure but like, I’m not gay...” 

Wayne is so clueless, I don’t even think he knows I’m fucking with him right now.

“Even better! Shit, they might pay more. You know what, I know a creep on the Upper East Side who would throw down a couple Benjies just to see your tatas,” I save him the pain of trying to decipher or respond to any of the bullshit that just graced his ears as I push the eighth bags into his chest. 

His confused expression melts into one of bliss as his hands move up to cradle the product to himself. “Oh shit, thank you. Thank God.” I watch with a healthy mixture of bemusement and repulsion as he kisses each of the baggies and crams them into his hoodie pocket. “Why you know all this shit anyway? You have a sugar daddy or something?”

“Fuck no, that’s disgusting,” I answer breezily.

“Yeah, and I mean who’d pay to fuck Homeless Heidi, am I right?”

“Oh fuck off,” I laugh off the comment but shoot Wayne the stink eye when he’s not looking. The nickname’s a bitter-sweet reminder of my rougher years. I’d used a fake name on the streets my first few months here and would sleep on anything that didn’t move or try to fuck me. It wasn’t the most flattering of nicknames but my years of homelessness are probably the only reason I have the street cred I do, looking so young, my small mess of curly hair barely bringing me over five feet. Before he can cram the last baggie into his pocket, I brandish a thin, plastic, black tube to his chest, smiling up at him. “Oh, and before I forget, compliments of the boss. Because we love our Waynie Whale oh so much back at the office.” 

He snatches at the tube with such agility you might even think he was sober.

We do actually love our Whale back at Reefer Recreational, but it’s likely got more to do with his 1,500 to 2,000 monthly contribution to the office fund. I should really tell him to quit, but it’s small whales like him that justify the fucking fizzing water budget or whatever else the packaging ladies convince Marvin to buy so they don’t hurt their pretty little heads weighing out eighths of weed. And Lord help us if we don’t keep the packaging ladies happy. 

With practiced fingers, he pops open the lid and dispenses a single, perfectly molded preroll into his palm. He glides the length of the joint under his nose from its slim filtered base to the widening, green-filled body with an exaggerated inhale. He inspects it for just a moment more before inserting it between his lips.  “Hey, you want a hit of this?” He asks through the side of his mouth, as he digs through his pocket for a lighter.

In a second, I have my own in hand. “Would love to, buddy. Thanks for offering.” 

I leave the Whale’s place slightly buzzed and with twenty bucks I can pocket for myself—on top of my usual pay of twenty per order, obviously. This was the last of my Brooklyn orders for now. Remaining, I still have another three in Washington Heights, one in Harlem, two in midtown—one east side, one west side—another two in Chelsea, and one last, criminally inconvenient, scheduled order on 145th street at four p.m. later this afternoon. It’s a ten-minute walk from the other uptown order, but of course I can’t just get it done while I’m in the neighborhood.

Unless, perhaps, I just swing by anyways, see if the Lady isn’t home when I’m in the area. Save myself an hour round trip later.

My phone buzzes by my thigh and I lazily take it out of my pocket, propping myself up on my elbows to look at the past few missed texts.

Have you finished the Whale yet? 

You need to keep me updated. Are you headed into Manhattan now?

Why is there chewed gum in Mindy’s water filter?

I set my boss’s contact to silent and sprawl myself back down onto the subway seats I’m using as a make-shift cot, my backpack as a pillow. I really need these twenty minutes of shuteye while I still have the embrace of the heavily air-conditioned N train. Beautiful thing it is, that he can’t fire me.

My business associate, Marvin, had been somewhat specific about the timing of the scheduled order. Or I’m not sure if “show up five seconds late and I’ll have Mindy blend you up and sell you as the next special to make up for all the weed you poach from this fucking company,” was really all that specific. 

For one thing, he said nothing about being early. And I can’t take anything a jokester like Marvin says seriously. I mean what idiot calls an underground weed delivery service a company, anyways? 

It would be such an easy detour, barely ten minutes off route. I’d lose fifteen minutes at the most. Marvin should really know better than to give me a loophole like that.

Yeah… yeah that could do it. I’ll be uptown by noon, finished by 1:30 if I don’t let the Witch on the upper east side try to read my tarot cards again, twenty-minute ride from the witch to the first Harlem order. Quick detour if I can slip over to the old Lady of 5F’s place in an easy ten, done by two, 2:10 if she turns out to be home, thirty minutes to midtown, twenty minutes per order, another fifteen to Chelsea, and I’ll be done by 3:30 easy! Just enough time to make it back for the originally scheduled time if she isn’t around during my first visit.

Shit, I might even have time to sell off that weed I stole from the office this morning if everything works out. I’ll end right near that one playground in Chelsea where all the high schoolers get stoned after class. That or I’ll get the twins to sell it…

I go over this afternoon’s itinerary in my head as I try to drift off, but sleep doesn’t come. I got a solid four hours last night, yet still, a strange sense of unease keeps my mind turning so I can’t quite fade. It’s not this afternoon I’m worried about, I’ve had far busier days in the past. Yet the discomfort remains, a faint tingling at the back of my mouth. 

Something’s not right. I open my eyes and prop myself onto my elbows again. I spot him almost immediately, a man with a gaunt, blank face, staring directly at me. I raise my head quick enough to catch his eyes lingering on me for another millisecond longer, but in a blink, he’s staring at something else. The moment is over so fast, I can almost convince myself I’d imagined it. 

But, I saw it. I sit up straighter and pull the backpack into my lap, my unease intensifying, the tickle in my throat turning sour with a wave of nausea. If I were a different person, with a different life, I might have the luxury to dismiss a feeling like this. But I’m not and I can’t. He’s now apparently busy reading the advertisements above the seats with a faintly bored expression. He looks normal enough, with floppy dark hair and a plain, blue, button-up shirt, poorly tucked into a pair of dark-grey jeans. 

On second glance, something’s off about him. His face looks sunken and pasty, a five O’clock shadow fully formed, although it’s not even noon. His shirt doesn’t quite fit his demeanour, either. It’s a bit too big, the cuffs extending long past his wrists so I can only see the tips of his fingers. The front is buttoned all the way to his neck in a way that feels unnatural, almost masochistic, especially with the unbearable heat outside. Not an inch of skin is exposed on his body, apart from his face and a few inches of neck. Almost like he’s purposefully hiding the flesh beneath. Hiding the many identifiable tattoos that would be able to confirm this fight or flight reaction I’m having.

Part of me wants to get up and face him. Ask what the fuck he thought he was looking at. Call him a pervert while I still have a smattering of subway passengers to witness. If I just act crazy enough, give this guy enough of a show, maybe they’ll think twice about sending anyone else. If not out of fear then out of exasperation. I try to imagine what the guy would report back—if he works for who I think he works for—if I went bezerko on him. “She’s completely lost it boss. Might as well let her take herself out at this rate.”

But I remain still. He’s across the aisle and two sets of benches over, a completely deniable position to sit. If I were to start a scene now, I wonder if anyone would even be on my side. More likely than not, I would just be pegged as the crazed homeless lady. My appearance, as much improved as it is from years prior, still dances a line between acceptable and concerning. I’m well aware. I know the looks I get when I’m visiting my wealthier customers in their fancy, renovated apartment buildings. I’ve had to whine and bicker my way past many an NYC doorman, and still, after all this time, I can’t imagine dressing any other way. 

My oversized tee and well-worn cargo pants have become something of a uniform. The billowing tubes of cotton encasing each of my limbs are a comfort I’m not sure I could live without at this point. For one thing, the extra yardage of fabric makes up nearly half my pseudo body-mass: a wildly inflated silhouette to match my ego.

I join his game of nonchalance, mindlessly reading an ad campaign for a new shaving cream. It’s hard to be certain, but I think he’s glanced my way at least twice more since I’d first caught him staring.

I’m considering switching cars, but as the train pulls into the 36th street station, the man stands and wanders over to the subway doors between us. I dare a glance with the few moments I have left. I’m not sure what I’m looking for until I find it. Earlier, I’d mistaken it for a strand of his long black hair, but now I see. A tattoo, extending from his collar like a squid’s tentacle. One twisting dark shape that disappears into his hair.

His head turns half a degree to the left, and I know he’s caught me looking. He nods, so faintly I may be able to write it off as an involuntary movement. Like I might be able to write off the entire interaction as a figment of my imagination.

It’s just that, when you’ve lived a life stranger than fiction, anything seems plausible.

Am I a good person?

I don’t know the answer to that, and I doubt I ever will. Yet, I continue to ask that question daily. According to upper city, I am. But there is this nagging voice in the back of my mind saying that I have done awful things, that I’m the horrifying creature under the bed.

It sounds a lot like my old nursemaid, Maggie. The one my father had killed for teaching me kindness and love. 

“Maeve, are you paying attention?” my father questions.

I sigh internally. I wish I was anywhere but here right now.

Training is fun, at least the physical part. But speech writing is decidedly not. However, my father thinks it is a good opportunity to practice for when I become second-in-command, replacing him.

“I apologize, Father. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it does not,” he responds.

He turns back to the journal open in front of us. It’s one of Nicholas Madden’s. He is the grandfather to our current Commander and founder of Atrox and our laws. We are pulling quotes from his passages to use in my father’s speech.

“Read this passage out loud for me,” my father commands. He never gives requests.

I want to bang my head against the desk. I’ve read these journals a thousand times at my father’s behest.  

“’Love and kindness are the things people take advantage of. The things that make you weak. Therefore, I have eradicated them from our society No longer will war be a threat to our peace. The poor will never again be able to take advantage of our kindness and rebel.” I take a breath. “In a sacrifice to peace, we must give up love and the sanctimony of marriage. Children will be raised by a single parent, brought about by conception contracts. This is for the safety of us all.’”

This is my least favorite passage from Nicholas’s journals. Mainly, thanks to Maggie. She put it into my head that this wasn’t right. That I should have had two parents, instead of just my father.

I have met my mother a couple of times at high society events my father made me attend. She lives in a neighboring city, so it’s thankfully not often that I see her – getting the Commander’s permission to leave Atrox is rare.

Lorelei Elrod is beautiful and strikingly so. The very opposite of me and she never lets me forget it. Where she is petite, I’m lanky. Where she has wavy, red hair, mine is a dull, straight dirty blonde. The only thing we have in common is our green eyes and even then, she finds a way to criticize them.

She is only my mother in DNA.

             “Good. Now, which part would you quote?” my father asks.

             “The first sentence. It will flow seamlessly in your speech.”

“I concur. But how would I introduce it? How would I make it flow seamlessly?”

 I hate that I am all too eager to show my father how smart I am. “You could say… The war that took place two centuries ago was caused because the old ruler was too lenient with the poor. They took advantage of this and rebelled, wanting more than we gave them. The soldiers did not want to harm the poor, thinking they were misguided, so they laid down their arms. Because of their compassion, we almost lost the war. But luckily our Commander’s great-grandfather rallied the loyal soldiers and stopped the rebellion because he knew ‘love and kindness are the things people take advantage of.’”

             Nobody knows the name or the gender of the old ruler. It’s one of the many great secrets of Atrox, whispered in darkened alleys and skeevy establishments. Whoever they are, they were killed in the rebellion, leaving the city without an heir. So, Nicholas generously took up the mantle and created the laws of today to ensure no war would ever be brought to our city again.

             Well, if you do not count the crusade against love and kindness.

             “Mmm,” my father hums, making me squirm. “I can work with that. It needs to be tweaked a little, but it is an acceptable beginning.”

             I let out the breath I was holding. Wrong answers are punishable actions. Though they are not as bad as indecisions.

             “Thank you, Father.”

             “One last thing. What is the only suitable way to end my speech?”

             I sigh internally, knowing he is trying to overprepare me for my role as second. “Only in cruelty can peace be tamed.”

             There was a time when I was young, under the care of Maggie, when I didn’t believe in those words. I believed in fairytales. But my father ripped that away from me when he killed her. Now, I’m left with the coldness of cruelty as my only comfort.

             Cruelty means I will never lose anyone again.

             “You have made me proud, Maeve.” My father places his hand on my shoulder, giving me a glimpse of a loving parent.

Sometimes I think my father is like me: not naturally malicious. I can see it in the rare moments when he looks at me with regret after a harsh punishment or when he looks at me with deep affection after I have made him proud. Those moments make me believe that he had to learn to be cruel like I did.

There have been small moments over the years when he resembled a father I read about in the pre-war books. Times when he brought home my favorite dessert or played card games with me. But more often than not, I feel the typical apathy of a parent in Atrox.

“I am glad, Father.”

He closes the journal, gently putting it back on the bookshelf.

“Go change, Maeve. We must leave for the Commander’s Tower soon.”

I look down at myself, wondering what is wrong with my training clothes. But it’s not my clothes, it’s my father. He believes that I should where dresses every day, outside of training, of course. I disagree, though. I think it’s impractical.

“Yes, Father.” There’s no point in arguing with him. He will always be right.

Washington D.C. • • • • Day 1

As Avery Syrus approached the commissary, he met the gaze of a man he knew as “the arsonist” blocking the doors. Complexion pale and tattooed neck glistening with sweat, the man didn’t move. He instead said,

“Avery is a trailer trash name.”

The blunt assertion almost made Syrus laugh. They had never spoken before.

“That’s terrible to hear. Would you like to walk with me and discuss this further?”

As he gestured to the doors, a bright glint blinded him. Syrus made out the outline of the six inch knife as it plunged into his shoulder, then felt the vibration of cracking bone reverberate through his body, chattering his teeth. When the arsonist extracted it an instant later, Syrus stumbled backwards onto the ground. Hot blood poured down his chest, and his hands slipped on the tile as he tried to back away. He kicked the man in the stomach, but the arsonist didn’t lunge at him again. With wide eyes, he just stared at the weapon’s blade as it wept scarlet tears.

Syrus yelled for the correctional officers at the end of the corridor. With little urgency and no restraints, they ushered his assailant away. After the blood cascade dried and cracked, Syrus wondered why he was allowed to survive being stabbed.

The horror of it all played on loop a week after he was operated on and returned the same orange jumpsuit the knife pierced, as denoted by the bloodstain that ran from the clavicle down to the sleeve. It was washed but not scrubbed.

Putting it on involved multiple facets of pain. The knife left a curved wound in his shoulder, and his arm stung when he turned his neck. Everyday, a medic with a fixed scowl told him, 

“We can give you a pill.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

He had never been to the infirmary before in four years of incarceration, though he asked for treatment on a few occasions for illness. The nurses denied each request. Perhaps it was for the better, as the private room was sterile white and windowless, and the overhead fluorescent lights never turned off. He didn’t fight it when the warden said it was time for his transfer to protective custody just a week after the attack. 

That cell ended up being just as unnerving, with stone walls and a metal cot that must have been designed for sleep deprivation.

The exhaustion caught up to him. Syrus’s spirit wore down over the years from confinement, and the officers banging on his door at night chipped away at his sanity. He didn’t want to be dramatic, but in trying to reconcile it all with no belief in justice or God, the knife fractured more than his bones. 

One evening, two weeks into his solitary internment, he didn’t even try to sleep. His eyes fell on the night sky through the barred window and watched the red sunrise. When the winter gray of late morning took hold, they shifted to the metal door as it creaked open. The overhead alarm whined with reluctance, aligning with the attitude of the two officers waiting for him. 

They weren’t there to confiscate his belongings or gloat that his appeal was denied. They instead presented a guest in a tailored wool suit. 

Syrus stepped into the doorway of the cell and outstretched his hand to shake that of Landon Cloes, the campaign manager for President-elect Bradford Vure. He was best known for being one third of the ‘tripartisan trio’, a young Washingtonian friend group that consisted of him, a Senator, and the Speaker of the House. They made a performance art out of policy disagreements but all belonged to the same fraternity, the Mammoth. 

He and Syrus first met several years back but were reacquainted during his visit to the prison in November.

“I don’t understand how this could have happened,” Cloes said, grimacing at the discolored jumpsuit. 

Syrus frowned at the officers. “It was allowed to.” 

“Have you been attacked before?” 

“No.”

The other inmates left him alone after one of his old friends started paying for their commissary items. They were prone to outbursts of violence, though, unlike the reclusive arsonist. That was the last person Syrus expected to assault him. 

His shoulder tensed at the memory, and he grunted at the now dull pain.

“Well, it’s time to go,” Cloes said, peering at his phone. “You’re officially pardoned.”

Syrus’s breath caught in his throat on the inhale. When the gravity of those words set in, he breathed out.

Finally.

Cloes promised his release during his first visit, but Syrus was only hopeful, not convinced. His life took several sharp turns over the last decade, culminating in the plunge of a life sentence handed to him by a judge with blank eyes and a wry, crooked smile.

In his weeks of isolation, he concluded the stabbing was a warning to the incoming president about to pardon him. From his many enemies, a resounding ‘don’t’. 

But now, the chatty officer who frequently proclaimed his admiration for that judge had nothing quippy to say. He just led them to the gatepoint.

Cloes’s mouth curled more at the sight of each bound inmate that passed. He scraped his jacket leaning into the opposite wall.

“What happened to the arsonist?” he asked. 

“Transferred,” the officer said.

They never answered Syrus when he asked that question. 

“And the knife?”

“Mr. Syrus misremembered. It was a shank.”

Unlikely. 

When they reached the end of the prison threshold, the officer buzzed them through the three sets of timer-operated doors into reception without any outtake paperwork. 

On the other side were four straight-faced men in matching heavy khakis and windbreakers. Even without the telling attire, any Washingtonian could identify them as Secret Service by their rigid bearing.

With no greeting, one special agent handed Syrus a cardboard box. 

“Change, quickly,” he said.

They directed him to the adjacent restroom where the rusted handle wouldn’t quite lock. 

After silently acknowledging the significance of pulling off the uniform pants and shirt for the last time, Syrus’s eyes met a dirty mirror under green-tinted lights. They squinted in disbelief. 

He didn’t recognize the thin, older-looking man before him with a bandage on his shoulder. He never noticed his reflection inside the prison walls.

His dark, scraggly hair cast shadows into the lines beside his gray eyes. He shaved two days ago, but the strands that grew in were patched with white. The agent gave him a suit from his own storage unit, but his arms didn’t fill out the navy jacket sleeves.

I’m only thirty-nine years old. 

But what did age matter when no milestones were met? He was childless and unmarried. He owned nothing. 

He widened his eyes, which creased them more. 

Cloes and the agents didn’t seem to notice Syrus’s discomposure when they hurried him outside to a government Cadillac that looked identical to the ones he rode in hundreds of times before. When a frigid breeze hit his face and the dead grass crunched beneath his dress shoes, disappointment over the bagginess of his jacket wisped away. The clothes may have appeared starchy in the high noon sun, but they were his own. He was stabbed, but the wound was healing.

“Mr. Syrus,” another special agent said. “Get in the car.”

He took the backseat, and Secret Service filled the rows ahead of him. After a few minutes, the window defrosted, and Washington materialized. Dull winter coated the museums and landmarks he used to pass on walks, and Syrus anticipated the turns to his old apartment, until they ended up on 2nd Street.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“The rest of the Inauguration. They want you on the balcony.” Cloes said, eyes on his phone screen where an image of Syrus was pulled up.

[This excerpt is found on pages 2–6 of Haven]

The boy worked his way through the warehouse district like this, barely visible to the naked eye if anyone had been there to look, a black breath moving through shadows in fits and spurts, the pattern known only to him and the voice in his ear. They were working the south end of town, an industrial area only partially populated with tenants. One day the boy wanted to work the town center. One day he wanted to strike at the heart of his world’s smug reliance on technology. One day he wanted to leave his mark on Oculus headquarters itself. The voice had assured him he would get the chance, one day. For now, they practiced in easier areas, areas that only had cameras and the occasional noise-sensitive recording equipment. 

He wore a backpack strapped tightly to him, preventing anything inside from clanking together. He stepped lightly, with a practiced balance and ease. There was no trash to avoid, no debris that might snap or crinkle under him. Haven was a clean town, with every inch observed and analyzed, cleaned, swept, and trimmed. The boy’s mind wandered to the DSA’s PSAs that played during every device’s ad breaks. He’d just seen one this evening while swiping through his Flick feed: a pristine park scene with a robin flitting to and fro, a smooth voice saying, “A well-kept living space improves mental clarity and mood by 8%, and having a well-staffed public works division provides thousands of jobs. The Haven way is a win/win!” 

The boy rolled his eyes in loathing and shifted uncomfortably under the complete confinement of his outfit, sweating despite the cool autumn night. He thought about how good it would feel to peel off the mask and feel the night air on his skin. He imagined stepping out of the shadows, face bared to the cameras, fearless. He imagined what it would be like to be seen, to tell his parents exactly what he— 

“Move, now, MOVE” the voice in his ear urged, snapping the boy out of his reverie. He jolted forward, turned a corner, and crouched behind the cement base of a short stairway. For the first time that night, his heart beat faster. 

“What was that?” the voice hissed.

“Sorry,” the boy murmured, keeping his head low and looking around. He counted three cameras along the backside of the building. He knew they were only momentarily interrupted; there was never extra time in the blips to make mistakes or hesitate. 

“Sorry,” the voice mirrored, mocking. “‘Sorry’ won’t save you from the Enclave if you get caught. ‘Sorry’ won’t save my ass if you get caught. Do you have any idea what that would do to my mom?”

“I know, man. I’m sorry,” the boy muttered. 

A heavy sigh came through his earpiece, and then “Okay, the target is on the left of the stairwell you are currently cuddling with. Ten feet from the corner, ten feet from the stairs. Dead center. You’ll have six seconds. Don’t mess it up. You’ve got a blip coming in fifteen . . . fourteen . . . “

As the voice counted, the boy pulled off his pack. Inside were two spray paint cans, taped together, a stick spanning the top, connecting the nozzles. One can was full of black paint, the other full of a harmless gas, its nozzle replaced with a device that created a phasal shift in the sound waves produced. When the boy depressed the nozzles, the soundwaves would cancel each other out. Voila. Glorious, invisible silence.

“ . . . two . . . one . . . mark,” the voice said. 

The boy ducked around the stairwell and strode to the wall, his hand moving in lines and swoops, his strokes confident, his mark on the building blooming into reality. It was black paint in a dark alley, and the boy’s eyes were shaded behind his mask, but he’d drawn this mark a million times. He could do it with his eyes closed. 

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . on,” the voice told him, but the boy was already back behind the stairwell, pushing the cans back into his pack and cinching the straps tightly into place. He was grinning wildly, his heart pounding.

“Dude,” the voice said, sounding as if it had leaned back from the mic, “if we weren’t faking your bio stats right now, you’d probably be tagged for a heart attack. Deep breaths, man.” 

The boy laughed at the voice’s chiding, though he knew they were far from out of the woods. He still had to blip surf back to the library where his geo-tag said he was spending the evening. He couldn’t help it though—he felt wild with elation and risk and independence. He opened and closed his hands, splaying his fingers wide and then clenching them tightly into fists, trying to give his energy a place to go so that it wouldn’t come dashing out of his mouth in a barbaric yawp. 

“Take the drive in front of you for sixty feet, then pause, in three . . . two . . . shit, wait,” the voice hissed. 

The boy wrenched himself back, reversing momentum and crashing into the corner. 

“There’s a car coming,” the voice told him. The boy could hear the furious clicking of a keyboard. “Shit. Are you serious? A 3.7% chance the patrol would be here. I know they keep it randomized to prevent this exact thing from happening, but what are the odds that it would come tonight? I mean, I know the odds. 3.7%. But like what are the odds—”

“Hey,” the boy in the shadows whispered. “Shut up and tell me where the car is.”

There was more keyboard clacking and then, “Uh, it’s coming your way. I can’t mess with any cameras right now. Just . . . get invisible.” 

The boy pressed his lips together and pushed his body harder into the double darkness of the corner of the stairwell. 

“It’s one block away, coming up on the right side. Dude, we got so lucky. If it were coming on the left, it would turn straight into you and light you up. If it turns on your road, at least it’ll be coming from behind you.”

“Yeah, a lot of good that does if he sees the tag,” the boy said through gritted teeth.

“I know,” the voice said, anxiety making it petulant. “I’m just trying to look at the positives here. Geez.” There was another exasperated sigh, and then “Okay, it’s about 300 feet from the turn.”

The boy pressed back and closed his eyes, only to open them a second later. He would look this moment in its face. If the car came his way, he still had options. 

“200 feet.”

He considered running before the car reached the turn, but with all the cameras functioning, he had no chance of getting away. He’d be exiled to the Enclave by morning. He imagined his parents’ faces. The fury in his dad’s stone-set eyes. 

“100 feet.”

He could claim that he had no choice, that he was being blackmailed. He could fight. He could say the tag was already there. He could . . . see headlights. The building across the street was lit up by the approaching car, the bouncing reflection of light shining onto his wall, making his shadowed corner smaller and smaller. The voice in his ear went quiet. The boy held his breath. It felt like his heart also paused, waiting to see which way the car would go, which way his life would go. 

The car passed the turn, continuing forward without slowing. The boy was plunged back into darkness, the shadows growing and swallowing him again. He released his breath and heard a simultaneous loud exhale in his ear.

“Oh my GOD, dude.”

The boy didn’t respond. He crouched in his corner, panting with stress and adrenaline. He squeezed his eyes shut, frozen, as all the disasters that had just flashed through his mind faded from view. “Get me out of here,” he muttered, inhaling deeply through his nose to slow his breathing. 

“Alright, reworking your route now. Hold on.” 

If anyone had been watching, they would have seen the boy crouch for a few more seconds before darting through shadows, moving in stuttering stops and starts in the opposite direction of the patrol car, which had moved far down the road. They would have wondered about the pack on his back and would have looked at the mark left behind: an insect drawn geometrically in black paint. 

But no one was watching. The boy was invisible in a world that saw everything, real only to himself and the voice in his ear. 

“Come forth, foul beast, and meet your fate!”

     The words were not nearly as impressive as they had seemed when he practiced them this morning as he was getting dressed.  In fact, the young man wondered if he had spoken them aloud, as there had appeared no foul beast in response. He tipped up the visor on his helmet and turned to two figures standing behind a large rock.  “What should I do now?”

     The taller figure shrugged.  “Try again.  But louder.  It sounded like you were mumbling last time.”  The second figure nodded in agreement.

     “Do I really need the helmet?  It’s hard to see anything through that little gap in the front, and besides...”  The young man’s attention was drawn to a movement above.  A white fluttering handkerchief was waving at him from the window near the castle turret, and he could almost make out the features of the girl waving it.  “Hello there!”  He waved back. “I’m here to save you!”   A distant cheer erupted.  On another knoll much further away, a small crowd with a horse drawn wagon had gathered to watch.  Some enterprising person in the group had thought to bring refreshments, and mugs were raised in a toast to his health. He lifted his sword over his head in response and the cheering grew louder.

     “Let’s get back to the task at hand, shall we?”  The tall figure pointed a finger at his head.  “Visor down, say it once more, much louder this time.”  She stepped back to hide behind the rock next to her companion. “Remember everything we taught you. Parry, thrust, then go for the gap under his wing.”

     “Right.”  He reached up to adjust his visor, then cleared his throat.  “Come forth, foul…”

     “Who dares approach my keep with such impunity?”  The words were loud and deep as if the very earth had bellowed out at him.  The dragon rose from behind the castle skyline, first a horrifying snake head and long, twisting neck covered in scales the color of soot, followed by wings of thick skin that stretched out half the length of the stone building.  This was a magnificent specimen even by dragon standards, and as he came into full view his eyes settled on the lone figure in armor standing before him.  

     The dragon opened his mouth and roared.  The razor sharp teeth in his enormous mouth glowed red like irons in a furnace.  The young man’s own mouth gaped open in response and he gripped the sword with numb fingers.

     “What business does this rat have with the Great Dragon Pyrrhus?”  

     There was an uncomfortably long pause.

     “Well?” 

     A small rock struck the man in the back, pinging off his armor.  “Go on!” a voice hissed from behind him.  His mouth was dry and his brain scrambled for words.  Never in his life had he imagined any creature could achieve such monstrous proportions.  And those eyes!  They looked down at him with slit pupils like a snake, like…

     Another pebble dinged off his helmet. 

     “It is I, York, come to save the Princess Valerie from your evil clutches!”  The words he had been practicing all week rushed out of his mouth automatically, and some part of his brain was horrified at their bravado.

     The dragon paused.  He lowered his head to look more closely at the man.  “Lady Valerie,” he said slowly. “She’s not a princess.  I don’t know you.  What did you say your name is?”

     Chaos often clouded my thoughts when I was left to my own devices. Even when looking through the past and future of my own mind, I couldn’t find peace, nor the clarity, to satisfy my encroaching morbid curiosity. 
     “I’m ready for you. You may come in now,” I called to the door, already knowing who was behind it. Aldrich Daniels, vice president of the current senior Jäger cadet class, used his ability to pass through the door without opening it, his violet energy leaking from his body, almost as if staining the air as his shoes touched the ground softly.
     “Yes, Ms. Grace? Did you need me for something?” the boy asked, fixing his collar and standing up straight.
     I see it. Destruction. Death.
     “Tell me something, Aldrich. Do you get along well with Edward these days? He seems fairly absorbed in his training.”
     “Eddie? Yeah, I guess so, why do you ask?”
     I peered out of the window on the right side of my office, spotting the boy I just mentioned conversing with fellow cadet Bryce Hughes in sign language in the courtyard below.
     “Fetch him for me, will you? Be quick.”
     Aldrich grunted and gave a crisp salute, falling through the floor beneath us before phasing through the window situated at the ground level to interrupt the duo’s conversation. Seeing as the process of him coming upstairs would be at least a few minutes by normal conventions, I quickly and discreetly fetched a book from the shelf behind my desk, a curiously small novel by the name of “Brave Flower”, a historical fiction work detailing an exaggerated account of a conquest by a lowly knight during the First Great War, though in actuality, the contents of the work weren’t of importance, at least, it paled in comparison to the secret I held within its pages.
     Looking behind my back to ease my worry of being caught, I opened Brave Flower’s cover with care, revealing a hollow interior where the story should have been, shaped perfectly to fit a curious little curio I had been entrusted to by the High Hunter, the strongest Jäger in the world, to keep safe. Well, okay, that was a lie. He had lost it to me in a bet during a sufficiently intense game of poker, but likewise, the duty to safeguard it from nefarious forces remained the same. Taking the object out of its published case, I used the thick string tied to it to secure it around my neck like a pendant.
     Visually, the thing was quite unsightly. It looked almost like a human spine, sized down to fit in the palm, with rough extrusions coming out of the sides, almost like spikes. The entire object was stained a thick, blotchy black, almost like it had been hastily dipped in some kind of thinned tar. According to what the High Hunter told me, this was a Nemesis Key, a peculiar key that could, in theory, open a casket containing the corpse of a certain god. As much as I loved winning bets against idiots too stupid to see through a half-decent poker face, the responsibility was harrowing, to say the least. Namely, I’d only been in possession of this particular key for around half a decade, and judging by my growing paranoia around strangers, I had yet to find a reason to keep it around other than obligation.
     “I really should get out more,” I sighed, tucking the key under my shirt and fixing the string around my neck to better conceal it. Even with the possibility of someone wanting to steal it being low, taking chances wasn’t something I was known for. There were twelve other keys just like this one, and to my knowledge, at least three holders were murdered while in possession of them. My chances were. . . Suboptimal, and that was only assuming that they were murdered for the keys, and not some other reason, and in that vein, I had many an enemy.

         Brushing a strand of raven colored hair from her face, Mabel handed over the last ice cream cone to Ethan with a wink. Ever since he had turned eighteen, the effusive employee at Moomaid’s ice cream shop had become overly friendly. It’s not that Mabel wasn’t nice, just—creepy.
         Ethan pushed his little brother, Jaego, out the door,  jingling the bell as they stepped onto the curb facing the sea. He had bribed Jaego with ice cream even though Mum asked them to come home before lunch. It was the only way to get him to shut up.  Sometimes the age gap between eight and eighteen was frustratingly obvious, especially when Jaego brought out his inventions in public. Once Ethan saved enough for a BMX, Mom wouldn’t insist on Jaego coming along with him everywhere. 
         “You’re not listening to me! I’ve been trying to get your attention five different ways, and none of them is workin'!”
 Jaego kicked Ethan hard in the shin. Ethan steadied himself on the uneven cobblestones, dropping his Berry-Go-Round cone in the long grass of the town green. His jaw clenched, glaring with green-blue eyes at his waif-like brother. 
          “Mate! What was that for?”
          “Maybe if you weren’t so head in the clouds, you’d see my remote-controlled car has stalled.” 
           Jaego’s eyebrows shot to his hairline as he pointed to the Special Air Service figurine straddling his 1960s-era roadster. Ethan’s six-foot frame towered over his brother as he lifted him off his feet by the shoulders, meeting his eyes, “If you have somethin’ to tell me, you pull on my arm, not kick me in the shin!” 
           He set Jaego down with a huff,  his eyes landing on a Mongoose BMX sitting in a long line of plush beach cruisers. It was nearly obscured by a gaggle of teenage girls.
          “Were you lookin’ at those girls?” asked Jaego. 
           Ethan rolled his eyes and grinned at his brother, “ I was looking at the bike.”
          “You want a cruiser bike?” Jaego asked, his head tilted, confused.
           “Don’t be thick—”
           “Well, either way, we can’t get home if you're busy gogglin’. I need you to heft this up. One of the wheels is jammed,” said Jaego. 
           Ethan squatted next to him. His brother retrofitted every scrap of leftover anything, making it into something. Most of his creations were very clever. All of them were extremely obnoxious.
           “What did you put in this, Jaego? Rocks?”
            “In fact,” Jaego said, placing both hands on his hips like a superhero, “I used iron shavings—”
            Oh, here we go.
             “—to act as a form of ballast. It can now make quick turns around corners without falling. In fact—”
            “Time to go.” He slammed the car down. “Mum said to be home for lunch.”
            Jaego shrugged, his short legs following Ethan’s long stride as they crossed the street towards the older part of town, where roads were built for carriages and carts, not lorry trucks and cars. They hugged the wall as a delivery truck whizzed by. The morning had been overcast, but now everyone with sunscreen noses and Speedos was enjoying the balmy sunshine that dried the streets. 
           They walked inside a dark shade, following one narrow strip of golden sunlight that snaked its way through the middle of the corridor. The sound of the sea grew quieter in the shadow of a long row of towering three-story walk-ups. Jaego steered his remote control car in zig zags, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls they passed.
Jaego’s thumb pushed hard on the controller, slamming the car to a stop on the edge of a large iron grate set in the curb. The brothers stood gazing into the dark pit with its constant drip into nothingness. Jaego shoved the end of his cone in his mouth before kneeling by the grate and pressing his face against it. 
           “Get up, Jaego! You look like an idiot,” said Ethan.
            Jaego lifted his face, streaked with grease. “‘Do not! 'Sides, renters don’t care. They don’t know about the tunnel.”
           “That’s the storm drain, not the actual smuggler's tunnel. And it’s not renters anymore. Nan’s myrgh-wynn lives here now, remember?”
           Jaego scrunched his nose, “Nan? Who’s Nan?”
            Ethan shook his head. “You don’t ever listen.”
            “Huh?” Jaego revealed another dark black grease smudge across the other cheek.
             A mischievous grin bent Ethan’s full lips as he feigned surprise, “Do ya hear that, Jaego?” he asked.
            Jaego perked up, “Hear what?”
            “That bangin’ sound,” said Ethan, “down below.”
            He pressed his ear against the grate while Ethan leaned in and whispered, “Beware, young Jaego, the souls o’ dead smugglers. They’ll carry you off to Olethus!” 
            Jaego turned to punch his brother, his cheeks puffed out, just missing. Ethan laughed, fighting him off, “Who’ll turn you to stone for stickin’ your greasy nose where it don’t belong.”
            “S’not funny,” Jaego muttered angrily, “You know what Mum said. I’ll tell her you’ve been messin w’ me again.” 
             The narrow strip of light suddenly disappeared as a low cloud covered the sun, plunging the street into deep shadow, all the darker for the rare quiet that accompanied it. The push and pull of crashing waves, Newlyn’s white noise, vanished. 
            CLANG
           “What was that?” Ethan involuntarily jerked his back into the lush growth of vines snaking up a back garden wall. 
            THWANG
            Jaego’s eyes darted around. “Knock it off. I’m not fallin’ for it.” He latched onto Ethan's holed-up tee-shirt and whispered, “Now Olethus is comin’ to get you.” 
            Digging his finger into his brother's chest, Ethan swatted it away. The two brothers peeked around the corner of the house. Nothing, just an empty cobbled road.
           “Do you think it was them?” Jaego’s chest puffed out in a show of bravery. “Ya know, Dark Venti?” He blew hot air into his hands as though suddenly cold. The color vanished from Ethan's tan cheeks. “Maybe—don’t know.” 
            They wandered further up the corridor, listening to the drip from the grate behind.
            “Serves you right if they are overhead right now. A bunch of invisible baddies waiting to pound your face in,” whispered Jaego.
            Just then, an arm swung out from a second-story window, closing hard above them with a loud CLANK. Jaego screamed and slid backwards into Ethan, who lost his footing and pulled Jaego down into a heap. The boys brushed themselves off and stood staring.
            A girl’s head popped out one side of a window. Her wrist seemed caught in the clasp, in a tangle of white string—focused, and entirely oblivious to their presence just below. They watched her pick at the knot, the window easing in and out of the street. 
            Dark eyes and wild hair. 
            “You alright?” he called.
             The girl’s eyes widened before dropping below the window line. Her arm hung above it, still attached to the latch. They waited for her to reappear, but nothing happened. 
            “Do ya think she’s dead then?” Jaego asked.
            “No dummy. She’s not dead,” He lowered his voice, “I think —” he whispered, “I think she’s hiding.”
            “Girls are weird,” Jaego said in a loud whisper.
             “Never mind. Get your car.”
              Jaego disappeared around the corner and returned with his car. The special forces soldier affixed to its hood shouted “Let’s go men!” over and over as Jaego pressed the button on his remote. Ethan eyed the arm in the window, then shouted much louder than necessary, “WELL, JAEGO, WE BETTER GO. MUM’S EXPECTING US.”
             The arm in the window flinched, and the top of a messy-haired head peeked out as the boys approached the end of the street. “Let’s go men!” on repeat.
              Ethan glanced back, scanning the row of windows —hoping to catch just one more glimpse of the legendary Dylan Jensen.
 

May Evans’ House was either an allegory of loss or the city’s finest whorehouse. Soon after her husband died unexpectedly, Mrs. Evans liquidated his dull farm-equipment business in the Marigny and used the proceeds to establish a more congenial enterprise in Storyville. The house was once the town residence of a Livingston Parish cotton family whose name no one remembered. The family sold it for a pittance after their cotton had all burned away during the war. Mrs. Evans also was now long gone, but her name endured as a celebrated byword for the city’s commerce in vice and iniquity.

Lee climbed the house’s half-dozen brick steps in two bounds, coming to stand at a heavy door coated generously in burgundy oil paint to fill in the gouges in the millwork. The entrance was framed by a pair of gas lights that flickered and flitted inside filigreed brass domes wrapped in holly. Lee took a last furtive glance down Basin Street, where a pair of men in full-length overcoats stood as if standing were their life’s purpose. “Better be a back door to this place,” he said through his teeth.

The door knocker was a statuette of Venus, beneath which lay a tableau of ancient nobility lounging on pillows as they were fed grapes and fanned by attendants. Lee snorted when he lifted the knocker to find that the scene was in fact an orgy. “Hell of a world,” he said, rubbing at the grey stubble on his chin. Restraining an impulse to crack wise at the men down the block, he scraped the mud off his boots and used Venus to deliver two sharp raps on the door. 

The door opened immediately. “Mr. Christmas! Good of you to join us this fine evening! And, uh, a Merry Christmas to you as well.” It was Guy Molony, tall, young, head like a cue ball, and eager to impress through a tight smile.

Lee touched his hat with reflexive courtesy, taking in the surroundings, and deciding to leave his hat on. “That’s General Christmas, son. And ain’t a damn thing merry about this fine evening.”

Guy blushed. “All right then. Well come on in. Homer, take the General’s coat and see to it he has something to drink.”

“Yes, sir,” Homer responded. He was a heavyset jet-black man in a three-piece tuxedo with bloodshot eyes on a hangdog, impassive face.

Guy pushed past Lee and Homer. Before closing the door, Guy stared long and hard at the men down the block.

Lee laid a gentle hand on Guy’s shoulder, causing a twitch, and said, “If them Secret Service boys was gonna pay a visit, they would of paid it by now. Far as those fellas know, we just setting in here carrying on like anyone else coming through those doors. Nothing gon-transpire anyway until we get away from this place.” His entire future depended on getting out of May Evans’, but saying so would only make matters worse.

“Correct. Of course. It goes without saying.” Guy turned on a heel, leading Lee out of the foyer and into the famed comforts on offer in the parlor. The room was paved in oriental rugs, two- and three-deep in places. On all sides and at odd angles were plush overstuffed Chesterfield sofas, with end tables covered in empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. A plump redhead with a blue and a brown eye met Lee’s gaze, beckoning for him to sit with a siren’s guile. Lee took a step toward her.

Guy loomed behind Lee. “Sir, General, with all due respect, it’s hardly the time to pay a social call.”

Lee stopped where he was and turned around. “You may be right about that, kid. But I ain't got to like it.” He took a dramatic bow, “I am of course, at your service.”

A den adjoined the parlor behind dark wood double doors. The walls inside were burled maple adorned with oil portraits of dead aristocrats between 10-foot-high bookshelves stacked with worm-eaten volumes. A desk the size of a rowboat traversed the room, behind which General Manuel Bonilla sat in a rumpled suit and a grave deadpan presence, looking small against his oversized surroundings. He stood up with purpose, tugging his vest straight. There was exhaustion in his eyes. It was no small thing to overthrow a government with New York and Washington nipping at your heels.

“General Christmas, Señor Molony, and me, all in the same room,” Manuel said with good English and a rare smile. “Have a seat, have a seat. Brandy? Gin?” Guy signaled no. After a moment Lee muttered, “Brandy'll do, General.”

Bonilla pulled a triplet of cigars from a valise draped over a chair next to the bar. Lee signaled yes, noticing the slightest tremor in the general’s hand. After a moment's hesitation, Guy said, “What the hell. It's not every night a fellow finds hisself in such esteemed company.” Bonilla struck a thick wooden match against the desk blotter and offered its flame to Guy before turning to Lee, who had already lit his own. 

“Gentlemen,” Bonilla began. “In this moment we mark the true beginning of our operation. The Benefactor waits in Mississippi with all we need. We fight together, we win together, we—”

Lee interrupted. “Right now we drink together. Drink and see about losing them Secret Service boys, who ain’t much of a secret. Now Captain Molony, get yourself a glass, double-time. You look like you need a little medicine.” He stood with a wide stance and his hands clasped behind his back with a practiced military bearing, drawing on his cigar as he carefully observed Guy pour a finger of bourbon, as if this action were their way out.

Manuel offered a toast. “To the good men of the Secret Service, sent by the United States on behalf of United Fruit, Minor Keith, and all the others who have what will be ours. We know you are but an instrument of greater wills, and we wish you well on this holy night.”

Glasses clinked, and Lee added, “Now, how do we get them gone?”

I don’t even have time to get a good look at everyone, or realize that they’re all dressed in much more casual attire than me, before the girl seated next to me says, “Are you here for the internship program or the GQ photoshoot?”

I hear a few snickers around the room as I take a millisecond to assess her appearance. She’s wearing a pink floral shirt tucked into maroon pants. She’s a bold-looking girl with dark, wavy hair, tan skin, and stunning blue eyes that almost take me by surprise. She may be attractive, but I can tell by her facetious smirk and willingness to poke fun at someone she hasn’t even met yet that she’s probably a walking headache.

But I won’t let myself be intimidated by her. “Yeah, it’s right after the Ann Taylor fashion show.”

She lets out a touché laugh. “This is actually from Target, but I’m glad you can’t tell the difference.” She extends her hand to me and I shake it. “I’m Vanessa.”

“Hayden,” I exchange.

“Is this your first internship?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I admit, feeling like I somehow just exposed myself to everyone. “Yours?”

Vanessa chuckles. “No. This is my second summer at Channel Nine. If all goes well I’ll be working full-time once I graduate next year,” she explains pridefully. “Where do you go to school?”

“UPenn,” I say as casually as I can, because I’m quite sure I’m the only Ivy Leaguer here.

“Ah, that explains the slick attire,” a boy to the left of Vanessa says. He pops his head around to make eye contact with me. “I’m Tim,” he introduces brightly. “News desk intern. What are you doing here this summer, Hayden?”

I quickly try and remember the title Manny said my position was because, again, I was kind of tuning him out last month. And speaking of Manny, I suddenly wonder where he is and if he’s going to come find me today.

“Um— I’m an operations intern,” I say rather tentatively, because that doesn’t sound as cool as Tim’s title.

Vanessa snorts. “Operations? I don’t think we had an Operations Intern last summer. What does that even mean?”

“Umm,” I stammer, because that’s a great question. I can feel the eyes of all eight interns stare through me as I struggle to answer such a simple question that I definitely should know. “I was just told I’d be helping out with everything this summer.”

Vanessa laughs again. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.” I suddenly can’t tell whether Vanessa is just an incredibly up-front-no-social-anxiety person or if she’s hard core judging me. “Is your dad the executive producer or something?”

“What? No,” I say hastily because the last thing I want is for people to think nepotism was involved in my hiring. Well, Manny is basically the only reason I’m here. But that’s not nepotism, technically.

“Just making sure,” Vanessa says with a fleeting chuckle.

I look around at the other six interns who’ve been silent this whole time, and I quietly wish Vanessa could be more reserved like them.

Tim’s head curls around Vanessa’s hair again to shoot me a friendly glance. “Well, I look forward to working with you this summer, Hayden. Not all of us are as off-putting as Vanessa.” He shoots an impish look at Vanessa who gets playfully defensive.

“I was just asking him questions!” she innocently says, as I get the instinctive impression that Tim and Vanessa go way back.

6:12pm

            “Who are you? What are you doing?”

            Gabby’s voice breaks as that last word comes out. A large figure has just emerged from behind her car, parked some ten yards from where she’s currently standing frozen in her tracks. It’s past sunset and it’s impossible to make out who this person could be.

            But they don’t answer Gabby’s questions. The figure, which Gabby can now see is a man, is striding toward her. He’s wearing a baseball cap tugged low on his forehead and a black hoodie pulled over his head. Whatever he wants, it can’t be good.

            Gabby fumbles in her pocket for her keys, looking for the pepper spray that’s attached to her lanyard— something she never thought she’d have to seriously use.

It’s just her and this man in the gravel parking lot. Behind her is the entrance to a running trail that extends infinitely in either direction along the Scioto river. A single orange, fluorescent light illuminates the trail bathroom across the lot. There’s a road that connects to the trail’s parking lot on Gabby’s right, but it’s not a popular road and used mainly by trail-goers. It’s completely silent besides the man’s feet crunching on the gravel.

Gabby’s just finished her run for the evening: six miles. It’s become her staple run, and a run she does nearly every evening on this exact trail. Her mom had constantly expressed her uneasiness with Gabby going for runs at night. But at this time of year, the sun rises after Gabby starts school and sets before she finishes her homework for the evening. Besides, this is Dublin, Ohio, Gabby would say. Nothing bad happens around here.

“Who are you?!” Gabby’s voice has returned with much more authority. Her palm is grasping the pepper spray with it already half-pulled from her running shorts.

Her index finger switches the safety off. And when the man doesn’t answer her and continues stalking forward, she’s done asking questions. She whips the pink-nozzle pepper spray in front of her face with the assortment of keys jangling violently below it. “Don’t make me use it! STOP!”

A lead pipe slides out from the man’s right sleeve and materializes in his palm. Which Gabby now sees is protected by a black leather glove.

She sprays at the same time the man swipes the cold metal toward her outstretched arm. Barely any spray gets out as the lead cracks over her wrist and sends her pepper spray and keychain flying across the gravel.

White hot pains shoots through Gabby’s wrist and up her forearm as she lets out an agonizing screech. But adrenaline surges through her and masks the pain momentarily. She swipes her leg and connects with the side of the man’s knee. He falters just enough to delay his next strike, which gives Gabby time to turn and make a run for it.

“HELP!” she screams at the top of her lungs.

Her feet carry her to the entrance of the trail before the man’s arms wrap around her neck and jerk her into his chest. Gabby screams again as her initial attempt to wiggle free is unsuccessful. He drags her backward and shoves an open palm over her mouth to muffle her next scream.

“Shut up, bitch,” the man hisses as he struggles to get full control over the flailing Gabby.

With his other hand, he throws a piece of rope around her neck. But before he can get it fully around, Gabby opens her mouth and bites down on his index finger, getting a taste of leather as she feels the material break beneath her bite.

The man screech’s into the bitter night as he clutches his mangled finger. Gabby drops to her knees as her attacker stumbles backward in agony. Thinking fast, she donkey kicks him in the kneecap. He curses loudly and tumbles backward onto the ground with a thud.

With the man on the ground, Gabby is faced with a sudden choice. She could run for the trail again to try and outrun him, or she could make a break for her pepper spray, lying next to a parking barrier. With no time to follow anything other than her gut, she scrambles to her feet and sprints for the pink pepper spray.

“HELP!” she screech’s once more.

She lunges for the lanyard and grabs it off the gravel. But before she can even stand back up, the man tackles her to the earth. Gabby lets out a helpless grunt as her face digs into the gravel, feeling the unmovable weight of the man compress her desperate body.

He grunts as he pulls the rope around her neck, this time much more successfully. He squeezes it tighter and tighter until Gabby begins gagging.

Her hands are pinned under her chest, and her desperate attempt to wiggle them out only drain her energy further.

It’s in this moment, as she struggles for the air that won’t come, that she senses her fate. That this is it. And instead of worrying about how she’s going to get her pinched arm out, or about how she’ll reach her pepper spray, her mind wanders to all the things she’s leaving behind. That cute boy in her calculus class that she was hoping would take her to prom in a few months. One of her few friends, Sammy, who works at the coffee shop Gabby would hang out at, who would surely have Gabby’s staple iced vanilla latte ready for her tomorrow, only to find that Gabby would never be there again. Her mother, who’d been rightly stressed about all the fucked-upness of their life. Those college acceptance letters on the table that she needed to make a decision on (she was going to choose Michigan, she knew. She was just waiting for how she’d tell her mother, who wanted her to stay close to their new home in Columbus). Her younger sister, Emily, who was in the Children’s Hospital here in Columbus, whose leukemia had returned two years prior and whose condition had worsened drastically the past few months. Her father, who’d left Gabby’s mom during Emily’s first bout with leukemia and moved to Chicago, who had only just recently started to try to repair the relationship with Gabby.

Her mind can’t compute that all these things will go on without her. What will her mother do? Will she be able to cope with losing one daughter now, and another one inevitably soon after? Will her father be able to live with the guilt? How long will Emily make it?

Her next gag is more of a whimper. She feels a tear roll down her cheek.

And as the darkness begins to close in, she feels her heart break for all the loose ends being left untied. Somehow she feels that this is her fault. Maybe if she’d just listened to her mother and found a treadmill to run on. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why did she have to find any little opportunity to rebel when her mother was already so worried about Emily and making ends meet to pay for the cancer treatment bills?

As her breath fails to come, in one last futile attempt, she prays to see the light. Prays to feel any ounce of peace. But no such feelings come.

The world fades slowly at first, then all at once. And the last fleeting thought that crosses her mind before entering the darkness, was that none of it made sense.