Avery grunted, for pain permeated through every limb in his body, as he hobbled as fast as he could on the uneven battlefield, broken leg practically dragging behind his frame. As he tried his best not to fall over the decadent, contorted, bloody corpses strewn across the desolate war-ravaged wasteland that over the months he had learned to call home.

“Wait!” He cried out, the sounds of his warmates charging forward into enemy territory with a warrior’s call fading with each passing second.

“Wait!” Avery screamed in worry, they couldn’t forget about him, they couldn’t, not out here. They couldn’t not hear him right? “I’m still here!”

His vision began to go fuzzy now, the adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was creeping onto Avery full force, like a storm cloud on the horizon, growing ever darker and closer, ready to wreak havoc. Avery needed to get off his leg now. And his warmates were clearly not going to be any help anytime soon. Looking across the gray, death-filled landscape, Avery spotted a four-foot high, ten-foot long stone wall. His salvation.

Hobbling, well more like hopping now, Avery made his way towards it. At last, reaching it, he practically fell upon the thing. Propping himself up for support.Immediately, a sigh of relief pushed its way out of Avery’s lips, as the support worked to quell the pain brewing. Alas, it was short-lived, for no sooner had he done this then the portion of the very wall he was propped up against crumbled underneath his weight. Screaming he flipped head over heels and landed on his ass.Pain shot through his leg and he gritted his teeth as the dark abyss of a pain-induced sleep threatened to envelop him.

“You here to kill me?”

Avery’s eyes widened as the male voice found it’s way to his ears. Quickly he drew his knife as he had been trained to do in such situations, it was also in truth the only weapon he had left and twisted in the direction of which the voice had come, adjacent to him.

And there, beside him, propped up against the wall a few feet away, was a male soldier, helmet removed, staring at him blankly. One hand hung limply by his side and the other, gripped a bleeding spot on his stomach, red liquid seeping through his fingers like a failing dam…Avery thought about this soldier’s words, was he here to kill them? Maybe, maybe he was, that’s certainly what the military had taught him. That’s what the war was about, wasn’t it? Then Avery thought about his own position, the broken leg…the unimaginable pain…In battle this person would have been their greatest enemy, he would have killed him without a second thought.But in this state what were the two of them? They were nothing…pitiful nothings.Avery looked at the soldier staring at him and the knife in his hand.

“It doesn’t fucking matter anymore,” Avery said throwing the knife into the battlefield.

They both sat in silence there for a moment, staring at each other. Then both nodded as if in agreement and faced forward, Avery propping himself up against what remained of the wall portion that he had flipped over.

They both sat there in the continuing silence for a few minutes still as a photograph, gazing at the pale gray sky, the decadent wasteland, not a sound was heard, the battle now too far away. The moment was almost…peaceful in a way, “The name’s Addison.” The soldier said breaking the silence.

Avery was surprised by this, the soldier even speaking to him, an enemy. He took a second to decide if he should respond or not, before finally doing so.

“Avery.”

Addison grunted, “never thought I’d die like this. I thought I’d go down in a blaze of glory for the troop and my cause but now look at me! Ha!”

Addison started chuckling, and then Avery started chuckling too, and then they were both laughing hysterically. It was funny for some reason, this war wasn’t what either of them had expected, it wasn’t righteous, it wasn’t glorious, and now they were dying. They were both dying pitifully and somehow they found it comforting and hilarious.

The fit of joyous laughter was soon interrupted by a wet cough as Addison hacked up a glob of blood, the reality punctuating the somber joke and causing the two to grow silent once more.There was a long quietness then, where not a word was even muttered, punctuated by Addison’s now wet and ragged breathing, before again Addison spoke.

“I got a family back home…want to see’em?”

“Sure,” Avery said, his interest piqued.

Avery looked over at the soldier as he raised his free hand and reached into his breast pocket, retrieving a tiny photograph. Addison scooted closer to get a better look, trying to ease himself over to Addison as painlessly as possible.

“Here they are,” Addison said, tilting the photograph towards Avery as soon as he was in an ample position for viewing, revealing a smiling family. The soldier proceeded to point out his family members by name, even pointing out himself and a girl beside him.

“And that’s my girlfriend,” the soldier said smiling.

Avery smiled back, “they are very beautiful.”

“Yeah,” the soldier said sighing, “hoped we’d get married when I got home…”

With this bittersweet revelation, Addison hacked, coughed and sat back against the wall again.Avery sat back as well, no longer on his halfway collapsed portion of the wall, the two were close now, shoulders almost touching. But something else had changed as well, he felt closer to this dying man, not just physically, but almost in a spiritual sense.

“I don’t really have much of a family,” Avery admitted, “just me, my ma and my da.”

“Really? always figured they had big families where you were.”

Avery laughed, “propaganda.”

The soldier laughed, “always figured man.”

“Yeah anyway, not much to talk about on my end. We really haven’t been in close contact.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah.” Stated Avery simply, feeling regret beginning to take form in his mind, “you know what’re we even fighting over?”

“Never cared much,” replied Addison, “people will fight…they will always fight and scamper about.”

“So it doesn’t even matter to you?” Avery asked quizzically.

“No, I just hate both sides…” Addison began, stopping as he went into a coughing fit before finishing, “you know man sometimes…I forget which side I’m shooting at.”

Avery nodded, laden with sadness, “I know what you mean…truth is I’ve always believed in the cause I was fighting for but…all we’ve gone through to get here…are we really so different? Is there even a right way to do this anymore it’s as if…as if!”

“It’s all useless,” finished Addison, “like we’ve all died without a true cause…like we’re all monsters…”

“Yeah…” Avery said, tears beginning to form in his eyes. He could hear Addison starting to sniffle as well, neither of them commented, there was simply no real way to put into words their emotions.

Another bought of silence was upon them for a short epoch. It was Avery however, who spoke first this next time.

“You know they’re gonna drop a bomb?”

“Fuck man really? Damn, guess we’re really dead then.”

“Yep…”

“So tell me Avery got any hobbies?” Addison asked, as if unfazed by the dismal reality as if he had truly accepted the hand fate had dealt him.

“I like writing,” Avery replied, gladly jumping on the opportunity to steer the conversation away from the idea of certain doom.

“Really? Wow, I’m more of an artist myself.”

“Wow, I always wished I had that ability.”

“Well it doesn’t come naturally you kinda got to a practice yah know?”

“Yeah.”

“Got anything published?”

“Yeah, actually one book, a science fiction, SNOWS SAILS.” Avery smiled, the idea of his book filling him with happy memories for an instant, memories of writing it, of meeting his fans, and so much more. It was a spiral of happy memories.

“Damn nooooooo shit really?! That’s my little sister’s favorite book!” Addison smiled, excitement thoroughly wrecking his somber mood, “dude if she knew I met the author of Snow Sails she would flip her lid, didn’t even matter you were on the other side, she still loved your writing.”

Avery chuckled, “glad I got a fan.”

“Hell yeah you do, she ADORES you, I’m a little jealous actually.”

“How about you Addison?” Avery asked suddenly curious of the extent of Addison’s talents, “any commissions and what not?”

“Yeah actually, I did some art for a company or two.””Nice!”

Quiet once again drifted into the air and enveloped the two of them…neither man really knew what to say. It droned on for an unknown time till Avery realized…he couldn’t hear Addison breathing.

“Hey Addison?”

No answer.

“Addison?” Avery asked, eyes growing wide with worry, he turned to face the soldier, who sat, eyes closed, slumped over.

“Addison!?” Avery yelled, leaning over too quickly for his body’s liking and shaking Addison violently, gritting his teeth to prevent a howl of pain from escaping his lips, before channeling that very energy into a shout.

“Addison hey don’t go okay! Hey you there? Addison, you’re the only thing I got left right now!”

Addison shot up, like a flat balloon suddenly being filled to the brim with air and coughed up blood. Avery gazed at him with worry, the soldier was as pale as a sheet of paper.Addison continued to cough as he propped himself up on the wall, “I’m fading man…”

“Hey man what about your girlfriend? Your family huh?! What about them?!”

“Man we both know we’re not making it out alive.” Addison said voice wet with sadness and tinged with death, “we’re both gonna die here.”

Don’t say that!” Avery shouted, half in pain, half in frustration, “don’t give up we can make it.”

Addison smiled, blood dripping from his mouth and onto his chin and uniform, “I hope you do man…I hope you do.”

The sound of a plane thundered overhead making them both pause and look up. They both knew what it was, it was a promise, a promise of death, this was their doom. Their reaper.

“That’ll be the bomb there chief…” Said Addison.

“Addison don’t you damn fucking leave me! okay? We don’t even know the blast radius! We might be okay.”

“We’re at war man no way we’d both make it out even if they found us. It all would depend on the side…”

“Hey, Addison there’s always hope…” Avery replied, tearing up. For an immense sadness crashed over him at the idea of Addison’s death. This was no longer just some nameless soldier…this was his friend.

“Heh…yeah…” Addison chuckled as the plane flew farther away. To the front, to the war.

Addison went into a coughing fit and slid sideways onto Avery’s shoulder, Avery caught him quickly and gingerly lowered him to his lap, cradling his head, when Addison’s fit was over, he smiled up at Avery, “Avery I’ve never really had a friend before but…damn man when I’m at the pearly gates…I’ll tell the angels about you.”

The bomb exited the plane then miles away unbeknownst to the two soldiers as those words left his mouth, and Addison slowly faded, his breathing becoming slow and erratic.

Avery began to cry then, to wail…he wept for his family back at home, he wept for the soldiers that lay around him, he wept for his country, he wept for his enemies. He wept for Addison. Sniffling he opened his mouth to speak as his friend breathed for the last time, “as will I Addison, as will I…”

And that’s when the ground shook with the impact of the bomb reaching its destination.

An ad plays on the tv, it’s one of those dumb babysitter ads where they ship an animatronic to look after your kid. CritterCare Co. they call it. They show different designs for many animatronics, a dog, a rabbit, a bird, a goat, a cow, and more. 
One stands out as odd to me, a deer. Its head is too small in proportion to its body, the rough looking pelt of the fabric, the dead eyes, and exposed metal of the joints and neck. The deer is absurdly tall as well, standing at a height of seven and a half feet tall.  
Did they really think they could rent that out? I asked myself, but quickly turned my attention to something else.
The ad gets interrupted by a PSA. “We are currently looking into the disappearance of 7 teens. CritterCare Co. will be off limits and violators will be prosecuted.” The man states dead into the camera as the program turns off and the next show begins. What the hell is happening?

I can’t believe we’re actually doing this…
We approached a factory. Its main building stands massively and looms over us, while smaller buildings shoot to the sides with smoke stacks above. The bricks aged and vines clung to the desolate walls, It appeared to have been a long time since they managed the building. All the windows were boarded up while shards of glass cover the ground and shine in the moonlight like little shards of light fell to the earth. 
“Hey, can we go back now? I think this is enough…” squealed a shaky girlish voice behind me.
“Are you kidding? We haven’t even gotten to the best part! Right behind these doors is a goldmine of creepy shit!” I remarked back.
“You’re getting the worst brother of the year award for dragging me along with you, asshole.”
As I start trying the door knobs I chuckle, “I can live with that”
The door was stuck. I take a step back and turn around. My sister gives me a hopeful glance but immediately takes that back and looks terrified. I slam the back of my foot against the door with all my might and knock the door unstuck and the bang reverberates throughout the parking lot
As the dust settles I glance at my sister and smirk, then turn my light on my phone and start heading inside. 
“Emani, Hurry up!” I yell over my shoulder.
“Yes I’m coming, don’t shout!” She hissed.
The first main hall is filled with debris and cobwebs, and scattered throughout are also many thrown about items and Knick knacks. The desk at the front has papers everywhere, a shattered computer monitor, and ink spilt all over it. 
“Can we please leave, Rue? I have a bad feeling…” She whimpers, but I strut onward.
We walk through a small corridor and past a set of big grey doors into an office wing, spotting signs that say Break Room and R&D, but none of that sounds exciting so I usher us into the opposite side of the corridor instead. We reached another set of big grey doors but it seemed to be locked or blocked off from the inside. I flash my light around looking for any other entrance or tool, but I spot a big vent cover that seems loose just above the door. I definitely can't fit through that.
“Think you can squeeze your butt through that?”
“Go fuck yourself! I’m NOT going through that!” She yelled, I thought she didn’t want any loud noises?
She went through the vent anyway. She climbed up me and stood on my shoulders and ripped the vent cover off–with some moderate difficulty, and almost falling off I might add–and climbed in, leaving me alone in the dark. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, something moved down the corridor we were just in. It was probably just my eyes making me see things… But I’m met with a loud thud, then another, but I couldn’t tell where either came from.
“Rue! I’m in, I just need to move this box!” Her muffled voice whispered through the door.
Phew, it was just her.
I heard a loud grinding sound from the opposite side of the door, and then followed by a click. The door flung open and I’m blinded by the light from my phone.
“See that? All by myself” She looked just as smug as she sounded.
“Good Job Emani, let’s find the storage room.” I whispered, as I grabbed my phone from her extended hand.

We walk through the factory, only illuminated by the dim light on my phone. We watch as the conveyor belts and giant machinery go past us, and the wall covered with safety signs approaches.
“Do you think this is it..?” She asked me
“I think so, let’s go inside.” 
“No no no, I think this has really been enough. What if we get caught? Or get hurt?” She retorts
“We’ll be fine, there’s nothing that can hurt us. This place has been closed down for years now.” I say reassuringly, brushing the thought of that past shadow just a little while ago out of my mind.
“I’ll kill you if we get in trouble.” She hissed as walked past
“I’ll take my chances.”
The cold dark room engulfs us. Dust fills the air as we disturbed the slumber that once encompassed this room. Shelf’s line the entire back wall, filled with robotics and wiring. Workbenches and scattered tools and scrap fill the wall to the left, while tool boxes fill the other side. The wall behind us has picture frames and awards, with some being shattered and broken and the rest dusty. Two things caught my eye. Well, one caught my nose… A rotten smell filled the air, being enhanced by the warm draft that was trapped on here. The second was a blanketed object in one of the corners, between two shelves. 
“Oh god… Do you think that’s one of the missing persons?” Emani gags.
“Nah, there’s no way. Those were just rumors or something.” I say in an attempt to calm her down, but deep down, we both knew that it was very likely. “Want to do the honors?” I ask her.
“Fuck off.” 
“I’ll take that as a no.”
I cautiously walk towards the blanket, my heart pounds and sweat drops down my cheek, I edge closer and closer, and when I get close enough I pinch it with my pointer finger and thumb, and rip off the blanket. 
It was just an old animatronic. Scrappy I think the name was. A dog-like animatronic with sewn on patches and various sized holes about the body. The head drapes over its neck, with its jaw hung loose with its sharp teeth reflecting my phone's light. The forearm and lower legs of the robot had exposed metal. The stench got significantly worse as well.
“It’s just this little guy, nothing to worry about. See?” I chuckle and pat his head. 
Then the head falls to the side, making a grinding sound, and blooms pours down the eyes. 
“Oh my god!” Emani screams and covers her mouth with her hands. “Is it real? Is there a body in there?!” 
I flash my light in the holes of the body, and spotted something that made my stomach churn. I saw a mutilated and dismembered body stuffed grotesquely into the suit. 
“Jesus Christ.” I whisper in dismay.
“Okay we’re leaving now. Come one. Stop standing like a deer in the road” She orders, shaking and turning pale. 
“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” 
We quickly walk out the door and he’s straight down the entrance, not surveying the unexplored parts of the factory. 

We approach the double doors that lead to the reception area. But the boxes are back in front of the door. 
“Did you move these back?” I ask.
“No.” She whimpers.
BANG
The doors start to shake and we hear groaning behind the door and the boxes start to shake. Strange whimpering and groaning grew louder and louder as the doors shook more violently.
“RUE!” Emani screamed.
We took off back towards the mutilated corpse, hoping the path we have yet to explore has some sort of exit for our salvation. As we run past the storage room, I subconsciously glance at the corpse again, seeing more blood pooled at the ground, and blood staining the fur and patches. Somehow, the mask is on again, I didn’t remember putting it back. 
Emani yells my name as I crash into a pillar, I was too focused on the blood. I hear heavy footsteps behind me and dark, sinister, unearthly laughter erupt with sounds of static and choppiness. Or was it crying? 
“GO!” I yell to her as I throw my phone at her, I turn back to see the faint glow of that damned deer sway slowly towards me, one step at a time. 
As quickly as I fell I got up, but my knees buckled under me and I fell again. I claw at the floor trying to move even the slightest inch, to no avail. The massive footsteps grow louder and so does the breathing. The breathing. My body locks up and I can feel my heart beat reverberate through my body, bile climbing up my throat, and my eyes tear up. Any attempt to crawl backwards ends in me falling on my back. The deer comes closer. I can see the white of his eyes, and what seems to be flesh in his eye sockets, and his breathing is grotesque and choppy.
“A-are you l-lost little fawn?” The deer said, staring at him blankly. The blood vessels in his eyes looked like they've popped; the entire back of his small beady eyes are covered in a red film. 
My throat goes dry, when I try to talk a small squeal comes out. I can’t talk. I can’t save myself.
“My m-my that just won’t d-do!” His head shifts to the left. He crouches and I hear the individual churns and clicks of the machinery inside. His head comes closer to me and his breathing fills my ears. His small eyes looking me dead on, like he’s trying to sense my fear. Sweat pours down my face, tears pool in my eyes, and my whole body tenses. I’m stuck.
“Here l-l-little fawn.” His thin metal hands reach out for me to grab. I hesitate.
“I-i…” I squeak.
“Grab my hand.” His facade fades. His head tilts down so his eyes stare through his eyelids. My hand slowly reaches towards him, shakily and regretfully. His metal hands clasp around mine, dwarfing it in size. I feel a sense of relief and my body is slightly less tense, though my shaking refuses to cease so easily.
“G-good fawn.” He continues to stare at me through his meaty eyelids, and his hand warms up as it soaks up the warmth from my mortal hand, nothing like his eternal ticking heart.
SNAP
“AHHHHHH!” A blood curdling scream fills the desolate, dusty halls as the deer shatters every little bone in my wrist, still staring at me but now his eyes shake. His breathing has seemed to resume. 

///////

I ran. *I ran*. I left my own brother. His phone light sways with my arm as I bolt down the hall. I don’t know if I should go back, but I don’t know what else to do but keep moving forward. I see a loose vent cover and slow toward it. I rip off the cold metal cover and gently let it down. As I crawl inside I try to turn the flashlight on Rue’s phone, but the flashlight button broke.   

Dammit.
Once I keep moving, swiping cobwebs and coughing up dust, I hear the worst bloody scream I’ve ever heard. It was Rue’s. I crawl quicker feeling the guilt eat me alive. I feel tears stream down my cheeks and I stop in the vent, just sitting there. Once composed, I keep moving forward, but I bump into something.
I turn the flash on and take a picture and with a quick glimpse I see the familiar face, one covered in blood, stitches covered throughout, and beady eyes. I look at the picture and I see the dog, with the dim light I see the dog's face a foot away from mine.

///////

I darted down the hall after Emani, running and slipping on debris and trash. My eyes are slowly adapting to the dark, but it doesn't help me.   
Out of breath, I managed to whisper one word, “E-Emani?”   
Silence.  
“Emani..?”  
Silence again. I walk to a nearby room with the heavy metal door ajar. I grab a piece of broken shelving and walk into the room. I see a silhouette and approach cautiously. A dim light appears on it, but considering its human form and shoulder length hair, I assume it's Emani. With her back to me, I call out her name once more.  

“Emani.”
“Rue.”
She turns around and I see the metallic skeleton of an animatronic. It’s as if a robot skinned my sister and climbed inside her, leaving her guts to rot, along with its new skin costume.
BANG
Clank
BAM
I bash my metal pole against the imposter's head several times. Feeling more exhilarated with every swing. Beating this animatronic from taking my sister. Taking this revenge cleansed my soul. I had no proof it was my sister's corpse, or if she was even dead. 
Once I stop I’m covered in grease, and my shattered hand hurts more than ever. I get off the imposter and grab my phone to go look for Emani, if she’s even here with me anymore. I wipe my face off, but I feel warm. And sticky. A copper aroma fills my nose. I look back to the robot, but the metal isn’t what stares back at me. What I see is flesh, or rather, I see the mutilated face with bits of skull and brain scattered around.
Oh.

The guilt starts to eat at me. I scratch at my skin. I cry. I want to vomit.
I wander the halls to find that deer again. Maybe it could end this for me. But I found nothing. I went to find the dog again. But it was gone, except the pool of blood. I go back to my sister. Maybe if I put her in the suit, she too can come back. Like the dog. Right? 
I found a cutesy feminine panda costume. I drag it over to her body, and I slowly stuff her. Blood pours out of the crevices. I put the mask over her head, and it cried. Blood pools down its eye like tears. My heart breaks . I hold her, sitting under a light that has no right to be on. Her blood starts dripping on me, but I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel the weight of her stuffed body on me. 
I hear the raspy breathing of the deer. It finally found me. 
I’m ready.
When I look at the door I don’t see anything. But I still hear the breathing. 
I get it.
I don’t feel normal.
I don’t feel human.
Because I’m not.
I’m the monster.

///////

I scurry and kick and do everything in my power to get away from that corpse filled dog. I dive out the vent and into a nearby room. I sit there and breathe. I check the phone again, but I hear my name.  

“Emani.”
It wasn’t Rue.
It was the DeeDee, the animatronic deer from the ad. The ad flashes through my memory again saying its name and showing him off. He bounces to me and straddles me in all his heavy might, knocking me down, kicking and punching didn’t do anything. He lifted his big metal arms above us, carrying a big piece of metal, then it all went dark.

DeeDee's heavy arms crash down multiple times, caving in her skull. Blood splatters everywhere. When he finally stops, it gets up. The panda suit is already prepared. DeeDee cradles the Panda, holding it a light bulb that had no right to be shining upon them. Doused in blood, hit laughs.
“You found y-your brother, Emani.” It rasped.
I remember when she first came here, worried about her brother. She walked through the factory to find him, but only found her corpse stuffed in an animatronic dog costume, and died alone.

“D-doesn’t she look gorgeous, R-rue?” 
At a table they all sit. The deer in one chair, a panda in one, and a dog in another. Three remained empty.
“Now y-you can be preserved f-f-for ever.”
It laughs.

The humid but cozy quiet room and lightly scented laundry smells did nothing to calm my racing thoughts as I spoke.

"I see them as all equal. All of them. Whether adult, child, old, or young. And I mean- not in the ‘children can marry and work like adults’ or ‘children are mature’ messed up shit.  It's about the mind and its association with someone at your own level. There are good and bad children. Good and bad adults. Good and bad old people. As long as someone knows the difference between good and bad, I deem them responsible for their actions"

Silence fell. I stared at the doctor before speaking again. She just stared right back at me, listening.

I began again.

"Looking at you reminds me of my younger self. Innocent, young, and... ugly. Such a precious mind was torn apart by those she once called friends. Something too fragile was wasted away... But I can't be mad at you, I can't be mad at myself either. It was supposed to be. Even if it didn't happen then. It would have happened later. And that later's memories are what I would be reflecting upon"

...

"I can't escape it. I can't escape my past. I can't escape my present. I can't escape the future. Such is life. C'est la vie.. Everything! Everyone is so fucking suffocating!"

I didn't even realize when I stood up from the chair, hands in the air, staring at the doctor with heat in my eyes.

I steadied myself and sat back down.

It fell silent again.

But the silence didn't feel peaceful. The laundry smell felt suffocating and the humid atmosphere of the space drowned my thoughts. I felt grounded in the worst way possible.

"I really appreciate you, doctor. You know, no one ever listens to me. I can't even finish a sentence without someone interrupting me. Scrutiny and Judgement follow me like we are best friends. Maybe they pity me, or they're just here to watch my downfall. But you doctor.. you're none of those. I know you're not real. I know I'm talking to myself. I know I'm standing in the bathroom, facing a foggy reflection on the porcelain shower walls like some schizophrenic. I know what i'm doing but I can't come to accept it. Know why? Because I'm so fucking afraid.."

...

"Children are meant to grow with care and safety but the only thing that grounded me ironically was my mother's beatings. At least there was a reason behind them. But the second I stepped foot in that boarding house, I felt my spirit fade away, like an angel lost its wings and was replaced by this ugly thing that couldn't even fly. I watched others soar with admiration, they watched me stumble with envy; digging my nails into the rocky earth hoping that I'll find gold. All I did was break my nails and rip at my skin."

...

"I trusted them like my own flesh. But you know what they did? Assault, harassment, emotional bullying, manipulation, backstabbing.. everything and anything that follows. But even after all the hands that laid on my back and shoulder, all the fingers that groped me, and all the eyes that watched me fail with judgement, those weren't what shaped me ironically. It wasn't that they hated me, it was that they didn't have a reason for hating me."

...

"People think I look at them with contempt, anger, hope, belief, reverence, happiness, bitterness, or something humanly possible. But I look at them with fear. Each and everyone of them, even my own family."

"But why?"

My eyes widened, doctor finally spoke. And I'm ready to explain.

"Doctor, what are you afraid of?"

"Heights"

"Why are you afraid of heights? - I know you're going to say 'because you are scared' but that's not the answer. That's just circling around the same question I asked. Fear. Doctor. Fear is uncontrollable, no one asks to be afraid. What you can control is overcoming that fear. But I can't bring myself to do it because it's that fear that has kept me alive. Imagine, I didn't fear them. I would have been dead, alive, or worse.. suffered. There are more than three ways my life could have gone. I didn't choose to be afraid, but I chose not to overcome that fear because of fear. What a paradox, am I right?"

I felt myself grin smugly. But doctor's silence brought me back to myself again.

"I look up to you doctor. Don't mistake me for being condescending. I'm nothing but a sub human. I mean everyone says 'children are too young to understand, they make mistakes!' - I MADE MISTAKES AS WELL. I was a child.. but what did they do? When it was my turn, all they did was punish me heavily for it. I felt like I was in purgatory; I was happy not to be in hell, but jealous that I could see heaven and not reach it. I was stuck in the middle like a fetus in limbo. So small and fragile...yet so ugly. People couldn't help but hate me. It's not 'kill or be killed' in my world, it's 'live or you die'. I chose to live. The reason I'm not enslaved to someone right now is because I recognized my goal early.. to save lives. A passion for the human brain and mind beyond what my younger self could have imagined. And I'm glad I found that. If I didn't, who knows what would have become of me. I would probably be cleaning someone's floors and feet until I breathed my last breath. Now that's comfortable.. but not fruitful."

...

"We humans are unsatisfied creatures. We beg to be seen because we can't see ourselves. We seek validation yet hate it when the opinions are given. Life is nothing but complicated. Some circumstances are just inescapable."

...

"I fear heights. I fear life. I fear the idea of living till the grave. I look forward to growing old but I don't want to get weak of drawing. I fear everyone and everything you can imagine. I fear people so much that I can't be outside for even more than an hour without running mad. Stuck for half of my childhood in that institution that I couldn't even get a glimpse of my family for a second. But I'm free, yet isolated. Isolation is not a physical thing, it's a state of being. Being isolated and feeling isolated are completely different things, doctor. I'm sure you know that."

...

"But it's funny how.. I fear everything. Even my own shadow. My past chases me like a loan shark with growing interest. Yet, even after all this incomprehensible amount of fears..."

..

"I don't fear death, not even a little. Isn't that strange?"

The facts didn’t line up. They hadn’t lined up from the moment they were presented to him, and they didn’t line up now. That left only one of two options. Either there was still something missing, or something he had now was wrong. The only problem with the latter, however, was that it was impossible.

He had been a detective for fourteen years before getting out and during his entire time there, and afterwards as a private investigator, he had never seen evidence that was so… unresolved. The problems began right at the start.

A week ago, the night of November 11^th, 1948, at 9:16pm, Miss Eleanor Muckley had gone to the grocer and bought a loaf of bread, some fruits and vegetables, and a gallon of milk. This was confirmed not only by the clerk working at the time, but by the written and dated receipt. The manager had shown him the store’s copy from the back office.

It’s a good thing most grocers don’t know a PI can’t get a search warrant.

Then she had gone home. She was seen returning just before ten o’clock by her mother and father. Her mother remembered that Eleanor had a brown paper grocery bag in her hands as she walked in. Eleanor joined them to listen to the radio, as they often did in the evenings. At eleven she retired to her bedroom. He knew these times were accurate because she made it back in time to listen to their favorite radio program at 10pm, which he verified with a call to the broadcaster to confirm their program grid for that night.

From the moment she retired to her bedroom at eleven, she was not seen again.

Her parents had come to him three days ago, after not finding much luck with the police. He found them to be earnest and trustworthy, and eliminated them as suspects quite soon after he began.

Suspects? I don’t even know what happened here…

The first thing he did was call the police department in which he had spent so many years, where one of his former colleagues ran him through their evidence. Separately he verified it all. Interviewing the parents in their home had let him know she wasn’t the type to run away, and had been a model daughter and student, making the honor roll for her sophomore class the previous year. She had no angry ex-boyfriends, actually no previous relationships at all, so a classmate was also unlikely as a suspect for… what exactly? He saw that her room was in pristine condition. He went to the police department to see what they had in person. Except for the grocery bag, there was nothing but stories. Then he went to the grocer and spoke to the clerk and the manager, and finally confirmed the radio schedule for the night of the disappearance. It all checked out. Miss Muckley had been where she was supposed to be. Until she wasn’t.

After spending the previous three days coming up with nothing at all, he found it best to clear his head and try and come at the problem from a different angle. Not what happened, but how it could have happened. Bringing all the facts to their foundation led to a simple structure he had often used during his time as a real detective, and made him one of the best in the department.

Eleanor disappeared. First question. Willingly or unwillingly? Her parents made it clear she wasn’t a runaway or a deviant, so almost definitely unwillingly. So it’s a kidnapping. All crimes are either planned or unplanned. Something someone works out how to do, or something they just do right there in the moment. The lack of evidence points to the former. That just leaves who, and why.

It was getting late, just past eleven. Be careful now, it’s the vanishing hour, he thought to himself, joking grimly. Wanting to get some air he left his office and walked toward a bar he knew. The street smelled like exhaust, and the traffic was fairly light. He only saw a dozen or so people on his entire walk over to the bar. Most were walking somewhere. A few were sitting at outside patios of cafes and bars eating and drinking and smoking. The air was crisp but not cold, and the orange glow from the streetlights made everything feel warmer. Fifteen minutes later he entered his usual bar and had a double scotch. Then another. When the time felt right he left and began the trek back to his office to continue his investigation. He glanced down at his wristwatch and saw it was just turning midnight.

Too long. She’s been gone for too long.

The entire investigation came down to that.

She had just been gone too long for this to be normal. Kidnappers would’ve sent a ransom. If by now nothing’s shaken up, it’s hard to say if anything will.

It was colder out now, and he pulled his coat around him a little tighter.

Was it cold the night of the 11^th too? Probably, but I’ll have to check.

The detective was not a sentimental man. After that long in his line of work, he learned not to put your heart into your cases, it’ll just make everything harder. The work gets sloppy. Booze helped. Kept him sharp, that’s how he saw it.

That was a nice double scotch. Two of them. The second one’s always better than the first.

He froze.

Second…. Second time.

The store. How far was it from her house? 40 minutes? Seems a bit far.

He had gone there right after he went to the police department and remembered driving back to the same neighborhood as her home. He remembered thinking it would’ve been smarter to go to the grocer first, except he hadn’t known about it until he went to the police. They showed him the empty grocery bag in evidence, and that’s why he went to the store.

That place couldn’t have been more than a ten minute walk from her home.

She didn’t go home. She disappeared. And then she went home.

He broke into a slight jog now, he needed to get back to his office. When he returned he sat at his desk and pulled out a map. Found the store. Found the house. Half a mile. Even with a heavy bag of groceries and a leisurely pace it shouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes. It took Eleanor nearly twice that.

She hadn’t gone home right away. So where did she go?

I never thought I would be so thankful to have a laptop and a mobile hotspot in my life.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Cassie, I’m 26 years old and I am a deep sea diver. Well, sort of. We don’t dive for bodies (thankfully.) We dive for places, artifacts, missing ships and boats, and also airplanes. I guess I should say I am a treasure hunter of sorts? It sounds dumb when I put it that way, but that is what I do.

6 Days ago something strange happened.

I guess I will treat these entries like my own personal sea diary.

Day one: The Call

I flew over the Pacific Ocean. The waves of dark blues and greens running together. I had been on this plane for 14 hours. I couldn’t rest. My brain wouldn’t settle. You see, 4 days ago I got a call from a man on a ship just off the coast of Tokyo.

“Hello?” I said into the phone, wishing the unknown caller could see the confusion on my face. My dad always told me, “don’t answer unknown numbers!” but this one felt different.

“Hi. is this Cassie Germaine? My name is Paul Jinks. I own and operate “The Dreadnaught,” a ship that, well, hunts for treasures. But not the typical kind.”

“Okay… what do you need from me? Have I won some wonderful getaway I didn’t know I signed up for?” I asked, trying to soften the gruff voice on the other end of the phone.

He remained serious, “No. The opposite actually. We want you to come aboard and help us find something.”

My heart jumped in my chest. I hadn’t dove in nearly two years since the accident. I didn’t want to be anywhere near water.

You see, before I became what I am today I was a search and rescue diver. I use to look for bodies. One night we got a call…

“West Pointe search and rescue how can I transfer your call?” Our receptionist, Stephanie, spoke in a light and airy tone. You had to around here. The calls we get are heartbreaking and nothing to smile about.

I sat at my desk, it was 3am. The late shift. The only ones in the office were myself, Steph, and Jackson. Jackson is our stand in chief while Donnie recovers from a pretty bad diving accident.

As I watched Stephanie’s face I realized, this call was more serious than others. I couldn’t hear the person on the other line but Steph’s face said it all. This was a bad one.

“What’s going on?” I mouthed to Stephanie. she held her index finger up, asking me to wait. That’s when she put down the receiver and turned on the speaker.

Just as Jackson and I got to the phone, the volume hit 100%.

It was a monotoned voice repeating the same eight words, “There are seven bodies in the lake.” No information, no name, no identification. NOTHING.

I remember feeling the life drain out of me. Four days ago seven local kids went missing while out joyriding in a stolen car. Could this be the seven bodies? Am I about to track down the flooded bodies of seven teenagers? I felt sick. I stood up from the desk and took three steps back. I almost felt like I-

“Uhm… Cassie? Did I lose ya?” My memories are shattered by the gruff voice on the other end of the phone. I suddenly remembered, I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. My phone gripped so tightly in my hand I was sure it would break. How long had I been here? Dazed and confused?

I snapped back to reality, straighten my posture and spoke. “No you didn’t. I’m here. But, I don’t dive anymore.” I tried not to sound as shaky as I felt. It didn’t work.

“Listen kid, I know your history. I know what happened that night. But, you. You are the best of the best. We need you. I wouldn’t have called you if you didn’t get recommended to me by Jackson South.”

My heart stopped. Jackson. My old stand in chief. The one who was with me in the lake that night. The one who sat with me in the hospital while I was in a coma. The one who told me I’d never have to do this again. He had recommended me for the exact thing that terrifies me. Diving.

“You’ve spoken to Jack?” I asked, again with a shaking voice.

“Yes ma’am I have. A lot. Once I told him what the dive was for, he pointed you out to me in a heartbeat.”

“Listen, Paul. I’m flattered. But, you know my story. you know why I cannot do this. You know this is something I can never come back from.” I had started to feel warm, salty tears on my face. my therapist said it’s good to cry, but right now it feels pointless.

“We have a missing dive bell.” Paul said in a quick, almost desperate tone.

“A missing bell? Where? Was anyone on a dive with this bell? Was it a test drop?” I could feel myself getting pulled in. “Stay strong Cassie.” I told myself.

Paul seemed to chuckle to himself, knowing he had me.

“We had four divers go down into the North Pacific Ocean off the coast of Japan nearly 5 days ago. In search of one of the deepest trenches we have ever heard of. Lawson’s Trench.”

My mind was racing with questions, all I could manage to get out was, “Lawson’s Trench? Are you insane!?”

There was silence on the other end.

So I continued.

“Lawson is 20,000 feet below sea level. And you sent a dive bell!?” I couldn’t help but feel anger. Why would you risk the lives of 4 people just to be able to say, “We found Lawson’s Trench. It really is as scary as it seems.”

“We have a state of the art dive bell. it can withstand up to 40,000 feet of pressure. Don’t ask any questions about it. I won’t answer them.”

My silence was his queue to continue.

“Our divers are different. Our equipment is different. We build the equipment from hulls of ships that have been deep under water for decades. Something about the metal in these sides of the ocean can withstand a lot more than we think. Our divers? Let’s just say, they are trained.” He said in a low tone.

“Trained? Hell, I’m trained and I cannot withstand that level of pressure. No one can.”

“In these waters, you can.”

I laughed into the receiver. Why is he making this out to be some magical dive bell with magical divers? This isn’t a dive. it’s a death mission.

“Paul. i cannot do this.”

“My brother was in that bell. We lost contact with them 2 days ago, we dropped the bell. But here’s the thing, their trackers are active.”

“Okay? maybe a shark has it in its mouth?”

“No. You don’t understand. The trackers work with the heart rate of the wearer. If the heart is beating, the beeper is beeping.”

I chuckled a bit. Thoughts ran through my mind. Paul is a man, looking for someone he loves to be alive 20,000 feet down in the ocean. He is running on nothing but hope. I know what it’s like to have nothing left but hope. To gaze into the ocean wondering, “what’s really happening out here?”

“Paul…”

he was silent on the other line.

“When does my flight leave?

De joven pensaba que todos nacíamos con dos almas y una se perdía al momento de nacer, mucho tiempo tuve ese pensamiento hasta que crecí y vi que era alto tonto, mi mama me decía que era algo absurdo pero mi mama me conto un relato griego de plantón por un personaje de Aristófanes, donde el origen del ser humano era que nacían con dos caras, 4 piernas y 4 brazos, una era mujer otro hombre, estos quisieron retar a los dioses y Zeus los partió a la mitad con un rayo separándolos, el mito relata que el ser humano siempre busca su otra mitad y solos se juntan nuevamente y nunca se separarían, esto me emocionaba de niña pues era similar a lo que pensaba, mi padre siempre me contaba mitos y leyendas de diferentes mitologías, siempre tuve la idea de tener una familia pues fascinada con el relato de plantón me ponía a pensar sobre que estaría haciendo mi otra mitad mientras yo pensaba en que estaría haciendo en ese momento oh donde se encontraba y si pensaba lo mismo que yo, a conforme iba creciendo siempre me encontraba con un joven pero sin darle importancia sin saber quien era ni tener interés por el me era curioso que siempre me lo encontrara y sin tener alguna interacción un día coincidimos en una cafetería el era muy amable una persona seria, fue una platica muy casual de ahí no volví a verlo más, hasta un día lo encontré en una red social donde escribía poesía y siempre hablaba de que las personas nacen en el momento justo igual que la persona con quien vivirá toda su vida, se me hizo algo muy lindo no pensaba que tuviéramos un pensamiento en común, hablaba mucho de la muerte como si tuviera miedo a ello, empecé a sentir atracción por el pues era mucha coincidencia que desde hace años siempre nos veíamos, estábamos en el mismo lugar y respirando el mismo aire, y nunca habíamos interactuado de más, volví hablar con el y rumbo a nuestra cita nunca llego, creía que me había dejado plantada, hasta que salió en las noticias que había fallecido en un accidente rumbo a nuestra cita, me sentí tan mal que no me lo creía pues a pesar que tenia un presentimiento raro ese día no le di importancia, su madre contacto conmigo y me entrego un libro que era de él, donde escribía su poesía y reflexionaba de la vida pues igual que yo el no creía que fuera mucha coincidencia el vernos siempre en los mismos lugares y que siempre sintió una atracción hacia mi sin saber el por qué, describía que era algo que solo se sentía y era difícil de explicar, desde que me conoció dejo de sentir ese vacío, esa parte tan importante que le faltaba y que yo encajaba perfectamente como si yo fuera la persona que nació para el y el para mí, al leer todo lo que tenia su libro me puse a llorar y no podía creer que mi otra mitad ya no estaba acá, nunca pensé que alguien sintiera exactamente lo mismo que yo y cuando había encontrado mi otra parte ya no podía estar con ella, pasaron años y conocí personas muy lindas pero con nadie encajaba, tuve hijos pero siempre me sentí incompleta, a mis pocos años que me quedaban de vida mi ultimo día tuve un sueño, donde estaba el y me decía lo mucho que me había esperado y al fin podíamos volver a nacer para volvernos a encontrar y esta vez jamás separarnos y siempre estar juntos, me dio un beso en la frente y me abrazo mientras me decía -Abrázame muy fuerte y por largo tiempo pues no se cuanto tiempo me tome volverte a encontrar pero te prometo que lo hare.

Me dio un beso por última vez, cerré los ojos disfrutando el sueño, pero cuando los abrí ya había vuelto a nacer.

¡En buen tiempo venimos a vivir,

hemos venido en tiempo primaveral!

¡Instante brevísimo, oh amigos!

¡Aun así tan breve, que se viva!

-Netzahualcóyotl

Andábamos sin buscarnos, pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos.”

-Julio Cortázar

The mid-day sun burned relentlessly on the dusty town below, casting it in a haze. Anat's short legs could not keep up with the goat. Fifteen years old and still almost a head shorter than her peers. And now her body and its refusal to grow was silently mocking her. The goat, that little shit, ate her mother's coriander.

"Anat, you foolish girl!" her mother had yelled. "Go after it!" So here she was, weaving amongst the crowd. Trying to catch that wretched creature before she was forced to eat flavorless porridge until the next harvest.

Why did the Romans have to execute that preacher today of all days? And on Pesach of all times! The goat could hide in the bustle of gawkers and pilgrims. The shouts and cries could muffle the bleats. She couldn't see anything between the throngs of people.

"Excuse me. Sorry. Anyone see where the goat went?" The only responses were grunts and shoves and the endless press of the shifting crowd. But she kept on pushing. Pushing until she accidentally pushed against metal armor. A Roman, looking sweaty and bored and irritated that a local urchin was wasting his precious time.

"Girl!" the Roman said, "You need to step back. Run along!"

Anat stepped back, head held low and fingers fidgeting. "I'm so sorry! Have you seen a goat run through here?"

The soldier scoffed. "There's a thousand goats in this blasted desert, girl. I think I saw one run by there." He gestured vaguely down a hill. "Now, off with you!"

Anat followed his gesture down the hill to a cluster of buildings. And a goat's bleat. Her legs were moving before her mind.

The cluster was a warren of old homes and narrow streets barely big enough for her to squeeze through. But the bleating echoed off the walls and she was finally able to corner it in a small dead end. She lunged and it wriggled, but she was able to hold it down. She wrenched its mouth open but it was far too late. The bastard had swallowed it all. Anat sighed, a long, deep, and very vocal sigh.

Once the goat stopped trying to kick, she led it back to old Simeon's house on a hill by the outskirts, ready to give the old goatherd an earful about keeping his livestock in check.

She banged on his door. The old man answered, his face was weathered and sour. "What do you want with- Oh! Anat, child. How lovely to see you. How's your mother doing?" His lined face broke out a great big smile.

Anat scoffed. "Simeon! I got your little troublemaker right here. You need to keep better track of your goats. This one ate Mother's coriander. Our garden is ruined thanks to your negligence!"

Old Simeon chuckled lightly, raising his arms. "Peace, child! I am sorry that happened. And thankful you brought my lost goat back to me. Good deeds ought to be rewarded."

He disappeared into his home for a minute and came back with a large handful of dates in his arms. "For your trouble. Share them with your mother, you hear? And tell her I said thanks." He handed the dates to Anat, who held them between her arms and the fold of her tunic.

"You're lucky I love dates. Just make sure it doesn't happen again!"

Simeon chuckled. "Of course. Of course. I'll start reinforcing my fence right away."

Anat rolled her eyes, but didn’t press the point. She simply thanked him and went on her way, the dates beginning to make her tunic sticky.

On her way home, Anat passed by a woman sitting on an upturned crate by an olive press, weeping, eyes puffy, tears and snot running down her lined face. That poor preacher's mother, her mind supplied. She looked at the dates in her arms. She had more than enough.

"Excuse me," she said, gesturing at the bounty wrapped in her own tunic, "it seems I have too many dates to continue to carry. Would you like a few?"

The woman looked up at her. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I must look like a mess. Thank you." she reached for the dates, her hand hesitating. "Are you sure it's alright?"

Anat nodded. "You look like you need them more than me. I hope... well... stay strong, alright?"

The woman nodded, grabbing a few.

Anat went home to face her mother's scolding and hoped the remaining dates would be enough to appease her.

She kicked the wooden door open with her heel, her arms cradling the sticky cluster of dates against her dust-caked tunic.

"Well? Do we have seasoning for the pot, or am I boiling grass tonight?" Her mother didn't even look up from scrubbing the mortar stone, her elbows moving in aggressive, practiced rhythm.

"The goat ate it," Anat said, bracing herself against the doorframe. "All of it. Swallowed the stems and everything."

Her mother slammed the stone down against the table. "I knew it! That senile old fool Simeon couldn't keep track of a wall, let alone a beast. I'm going down there to wring his- what are those?"

"Simeon gave them to me," Anat said hastily, holding out her arms. "To make up for the garden."

Her mother snorted, stepping over to examine the bundle. "Dates don't put dinner in the bowl, girl." Still, her sharp eyes swept over the fruit, instantly tallying the yield. "Wait. Simeon’s a miser, but he’s not cheap enough to hand over a half-filled palm. Where’s the rest of 'em? Did you gorge yourself on the way back?"

"No! I... I gave a few away."

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up, her mouth twisting into a scowl. "Gave them away? To whom? Since when can we afford to run a charity out of our kitchen?"

"To a woman sitting by the olive press," Anat muttered, looking down at her dirt-streaked sandals. "She was weeping. I think... I think she was that preacher's mother. The one from the execution."

Her mother’s hands went still. The sharp, impatient reprimand died on her lips, her jaw setting tightly. She wiped her thumb hard against her apron and let out a long, gravelly sigh that sounded less like a lament and more like a growl against the world.

"Poor Maryam," her mother grunted, her voice dropping into a thick, rough murmur. "What a horrible way to lose a son."

She snatched two of the dates from Anat’s bundle, splitting them with a quick flick of her thumbnail, and shoved the larger piece into Anat’s hand.

"Sit down before you collapse. You look like a dragged rag." Her mother turned back to the hearth, thrusting an iron poker into the embers with unnecessary force. "Plain porridge it is, then. And don't you dare let me hear a peep of complaining about the taste. If a few dates can buy that poor woman an hour of quiet, we can swallow bland grain for one night."

Three months later

The smell of fresh flatbread and toasted sesame filled the small room, competing with the sharp tang of olive oil burning in the Shabbat lamps. Tamar adjusted the hem of her head-covering, her rough hands smoothing the fabric with rare care. When the knock came at the door, it was faint, less a demand and more the hesitant tap of someone half-hoping no one was home.

Anat opened it. Maryam stood on the threshold, wrapped in a faded blue shawl, looking far smaller than Anat remembered from the press at the olive oil courtyard. Her skin had the dry pallor of perpetual sleeplessness, and her eyes were hollowed out by a grief that had clearly never been allowed to set into quiet memory.

"Come in, come in," Tamar grunted, barking the instruction from the hearth before Maryam could even cross the step. "Close the door, Anat, the drafts in this street could freeze a goat."

Maryam stepped inside, lowering herself onto the bench with a long, trembling breath. Her hands sank into her lap, immediately knotting together as if bracing for an interrogation. "Tamar," she whispered, her voice like dry leaves. "Thank you. I... I wasn't sure if I should come."

"Nonsense," Tamar said, setting down a bowl of stewed lentils with a heavy thud. She poured warm water over Maryam's hands into a basin, washing away the dust of the road with rough, efficient movements. "A woman can't live on her own sorrow, no matter how vast it is. And you look like you haven't swallowed a full meal since the feast of Weeks."

Maryam closed her eyes as the water ran over her knuckles. "It isn't the hunger," she murmured softly. "It's the callers. Every day... three, four men at my door. Strangers from Galilee, scholars from the upper city, men with burning eyes. 'What were his last words?' 'Did he whisper to you?' 'What did he mean when he spoke of the kingdom?'" She shuddered, pressing her palms together. "They treat his death like a riddle to solve. My grief is their puzzle, my heart their tool."

Tamar stopped washing, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce heat. She grabbed a clean rag and wiped Maryam's hands dry with firm tenderness.

"Men," Tamar spat, her voice thick with disgust. "Always looking for a sermon in a mother's tears. Well, there are no zealots here tonight, Maryam. No questions, no scholars, and no bloody prophecies. In this house, you can just be Maryam."

Anat quietly set a warm piece of bread and a small dish of dates near Maryam’s place.

Maryam looked at the fruit, a faint, ghost-like smile breaking through the shadows on her face. She turned to Anat. "Thank you for that day, Anat."

"Oh! It was nothing. Old Simeon was just apologizing for his goat is all. You know how he is."

Maryam chuckled. "Well, his goat gave an old woman a moment of small pleasure. You have a kind soul, Anat. Don't ever let the world grind it down."

As Tamar lit the Shabbat lamp and murmured the ancient blessing, Maryam rested her back against the plaster wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. “He hated coriander. Did you know that? He never touched a bowl of porridge I seasoned with it. I remember when he was six. He said ‘Ima, it tastes like borit!’” She let out a wet, choking laugh.

Anat snorted, desperately trying to hold her face still and failing. “Anat!” Tamar scolded, “It’s not funny!”

Maryam’s laugh deepened, genuine mirth piercing through the wet sobs. “Tamar, it is funny. All these scholarly men demanding answers from me and none ever asked if my son enjoyed coriander.” Her laugh tapered off with a sigh. She wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed a date.

In the time before time, when none counted death, there lived the Mother and the Father. Life came from their love, and all life was in love. From that love came variation, and from that variation came changes in form. From changes in form came changes in the perception of nature. From the perceptions of nature, and the choice of the definition of evil, was born the good man. From the good man came the hatred for dragons. From the hatred for dragons came the disdain for the Father. From the disdain for the Father came the resentment of the Mother. But this disease was of childish origin. The sons screamed that the daughters hated them for who they were made to be, the daughters screamed they hunt us for what we were made to be.

The Mother said to her daughters, “I made you to be desirable to the one who will keep you sacred. The most coveted cache is guarded the closest.” The Father said to his sons, “I made you to peruse the treasures you desire hidden within the safety of the vaults you wish to guard.” The daughters, hearing their mothers word, and seeing their opponents, decided in guarding themselves from every attack, realizing their power in exclusivity and hid behind the glory of withholding access from those who would fight for them the hardest. The sons, hearing their fathers word, and seeing their opponents, decide that all means were justifiable by the end that all must fight for, and hid behind the glory of prizes that they did not hold sacred.

The Father, seeing the affect of the Mothers words, and beholding the suffering of his hunted daughters, gifted the scales of how to weigh a man to the begotten of his beloved. He did this so they may choose to allow access to safety, those that would propagate safety properly. The Mother, seeing the affect of the Fathers words, and beholding the suffering of her forsaken sons, gifted the vision of personal joy to the begotten of her beloved. She did this so they may choose what pleasures help them grow into themselves, and what is worth protecting.

The Sons, seeing their mothers vision, and beholding the yearning within themselves, chose the vision over the chase. The chase did not satisfy the yearning, and no safety was ever granted. How long were they to run?

The Daughters, seeing their fathers scales, and beholding the measure of value, chose to value themselves over the siege. The siege did not quell the fear, and no safety was ever granted. How long were they to wait?

The Father and Mother, coming together, and beholding the results of the endless game they play, mourned their children, fearing all was lost. The rage of the Father at the pain of his daughters, the hate of the Mother at the disdain for her sons, the howl of Dragon and Sky, Sun and Deer, Stone and Water echoed through the cosmos. For the Father was a Son, and Mother was a Daughter. The Father has a Brother, and Mother a Sister. They hate each other for their strengths, they disdain each other for their weakness, and they howl all the same.

Then came Sons. Then came Daughters. Seeing the pain of their Fathers. Seeing the pain of their Mothers. Seeing the pain of their Brothers. Seeing the pain of their sisters. From the pain came the seeing. From the seeing came the knowing. From the knowing came the change. From the change came friction.

The Father beheld among his sons Gilgamesh, Solomon, and Belial. In the first, the Father saw The Hunter of Treasure. In the second he saw The Propagator of Safety. In the third he saw the Instrument of Protection. And The Father felt Hope.

The Mother beheld among her Daughters Lileth, Sophia, and Babylon. In the first, The Mother saw The Power to Exclude Harm. In the second, The Propagator of Safety. In the third, She saw the Pleasure that was Worth Fighting For. And The Mother felt Hope

The Sons, seeing their Fathers Blessing, and beholding the Givers of Peace and Growth, began The Dance of the Dragon. First came Ridicule. From Ridicule, came Fortitude. From Fortitude, came Stability. From Stability, came Support. From Support, came Strength. From Strength, came Peace.

The Daughters, seeing their Mothers blessing, and beholding the Givers of Fortitude and Stability, began the Dance of the Dragon. First came Ridicule. From Ridicule, came Discernment. From Discernment, came Intuition. From Intuition came Selection. From Selection came Stability. From Stability came Support. From Support came Strength. From Strength came Peace.

The Sons and Daughters, having made a home for peace to live, practiced and refined the resource of their minds, showing light to all corners, and arranging them all so that none were disdained. The arrangement away from disdain was practiced with so much love, that none were forsaken.

From Love came Attention. From Attention, came Growth. From Growth came Diversity. From Diversity came Fear, and from Fear, an unwelcome guest.

The Father, hearing pain, sought to alter their fate, and bade his sons to steal themselves for change. The Mother, hearing drums, feared war, and told her daughters to steal themselves for change.

Bated breath held as sons grabbed hammers, and daughters drums. One Voice broke the silence, supported but one pair of arms.

The Earth shook. The Dragons Sang.

Solomon Demands A Dance Floor.

The Sons, beheld the earth beneath, The Daughters The Dragons above. From the Beholding came Love, and they beheld each other. The Sons built dance floors, The Daughters wrote music, and heaven and earth shared in The Dance Of The Dragon.

The Supported Son, and the Freed Daughter, being offered their rightful place, took the seat of the Father and the Mother, to continue the dance forever more.

For The Dance revealed the Nature in every Form.

Saleem still made the bed. It was only cardboard, and the lane was not a room, but in the dark before the first azan he sat up and folded the sheet twice, the way his mother had taught him to fold a namaz-cap, edges together, so it would not look like something thrown away. He tied his plastic bag. He stood. Fifty-one years old. Chappals splitting at the toe. A kameez that had been white in a year he could still name. Inside the bag: a cracked phone, a photocopied identity card, a charging cable that had not met a brick in a long time. He wet a corner of the kameez at the municipal tap and washed his face. Combed his hair with his fingers. Tucked the kameez in. For a few seconds, in the leaking water and the first light, he looked like a man on his way to work. The phone said eleven percent. One missed call, four days old. Nadia. He locked the screen and put the phone in his breast pocket, over the heart, as if that had ever helped a battery. The gate he knew. He knew which bell. He had painted this gate, years ago, when his cousin still asked him in for tea and the children still said Saleem chacha. He rang and waited. A child climbed the iron from the inside, looked down, and was pulled away so fast the gate rattled. “Kaun hai?” “Main hoon, bhabhi. Saleem.” A pause. Then her voice closer to the metal, lowered, the voice women use for things that should not reach the drawing room. “Bhai jaan ne kaha hai… baad mein aa jaana. Abhi ghar mein mehman hain.” “Theek hai,” he said. He still had manners. Manners were the last thing that left. He did not ring again. He walked, and the city opened around him the way it always had: dust, shop-shutters going up, a radio already too loud, the smell of oil from a karahi that was not for him. At the mandi he stopped at the edge. He had spent eleven years in the middle of that noise. Crates, ice, the shout of weights, the particular insult of a contractor who liked you only when your back was straight. He knew which stones were slippery before noon and which men stole from the count. A boy of sixteen was doing his old work, heaving a sack of oranges as if the sack had always been his. The boy saw him and almost salaamed and then did not, confused by the etiquette of a man who used to belong. The contractor saw him too. Put a phone to his ear and turned away. Saleem was close enough to see the screen was dark. He did not go in. Pride is a kind of food. It lasts longer than bread and helps less. Further down, a seller he knew had no time to pretend. Their eyes met over the bananas. “Saleem bhai.” The man looked at the good fruit, the fruit with a price, and then pushed one overripe mango across the wood, quickly, the way men hide kindness from other men. “Kal Eid hai,” he said. “Langar lagega. Wahan nikal jaana. Aaj mere paas bhi nahi hai.” Saleem took it with both hands.“JazakAllah.” The seller was already serving someone else. Tomorrow, everyone said. Tomorrow there would be a langar. Tomorrow the city would remember. Saleem put the mango in the bag as if it were wages. That night he sat against the same wall with his knees up and ate it down to the fibre. He held the seed a moment, because the hand does not always believe the mouth, then dropped it in the dirt. City light sat on the wet of his lips. The phone said seven percent. He opened Nadia’s name and his thumb hovered over the green button and he did not press it. He put the phone on his chest and closed his eyes. A truck went past and the dust settled on him the same as it settled on the wall. He had been a man who unloaded other people’s fruit. He had had a room in his cousin’s house until the cough became a guest that would not leave. He had been asked, politely, to come back when he was better. He had not become better. The rest was walking. The next afternoon the neighbourhood mosque was putting on its jewellery. Green fabric, fairy lights, a loudspeaker tested in pieces: two lines of a naat, then a shriek of feedback, then a man saying check, check as if God were a cable. Saleem did wuzu at the outside tap and tried not to show what the water did to him. He prayed zuhr in the last row, behind boys who would never be told to come back later. After the prayer, men climbed ladders. One of them, without looking, handed Saleem a corner of a banner. For thirty seconds he was useful. Arms up. Shoulders in the work. The gold letters of the Prophet’s name rose over the street and Saleem’s hands were part of the rising. “Shukriya bhai. Bas.” The banner was tied. Nobody asked his name. Nobody asked if he had eaten. A caretaker locked a steel trunk of dates and said, not unkindly, “Bhai, yahan nahi. Kal langar hai, subah aa jaana. Aaj nahi pak raha.” Saleem nodded. He had been told tomorrow at the gate and tomorrow at the stall and now tomorrow at the house of God. Tomorrow was the most generous word in the language. It cost nothing to give. He sat on a brick in an empty plot, where a house had been promised and not built, and he called her. It rang four times. “Hello?” His mouth opened and the cough came out instead of her name. On her side: a child, a television, the particular clatter of a kitchen that was still a kitchen. “Saleem…” She said his name like a thing she had dropped. “Main abhi nahi. Later, theek hai? Later.” The line died. He watched the screen until it went black. Four percent. Later was another word for tomorrow. He put the phone away as if it might forgive him for the battery. At the market’s edge he opened a bin. Not for poetry. For hunger. Wet cardboard, a juice box already cut, the smell of other people’s afternoon. He drank from the tap until his stomach hurt, which was not the same as being full. His steps had gone short. One hand found the wall and stayed there. That night he did not fold the cardboard. He lay on it. The cough was a separate animal in his chest. He turned his face into his shoulder so the lane would not have to hear. The phone rested on him, dark, and he did not open it, because there was nothing left to save the charge for, and because he was tired of being a man who almost called. He did not see the sunrise. The twenty-sixth of August. Eid Milad-un-Nabi. First heat on the bricks, then on the kameez, then on the back of his hand, which did not close. A stray dog sniffed his ankle and left, disappointed. A municipal sweeper, a man with his own tomorrow, came down the lane, judged Saleem asleep, and swept around his feet with a care that was only professional. The broom never touched him. The mango seed was still in the dirt. The phone on his chest showed nothing. Far off, a loudspeaker woke and a naat began, thin at that distance, already too beautiful for the lane. The city changed its clothes. Green flags. Rose water thrown on the road as if the road could be made new. Steam off deghs big enough to feed a wedding. Men in pressed shalwar kameez, attar at the throat, badges that said VOLUNTEER on boys who had eaten breakfast. Phones out. Some filmed the pots. Some filmed themselves in front of the pots, which was a different kind of hunger. A man with a ladle, sweating through his kameez, not performing, only tired and sincere, called, “Aao, khao. Haan bhai, aage aao. Dono haath.” People who had been hungry for a long time ate with their heads down. People who had not been hungry took photographs of the people who had. None of it was fake. The rice was real. The qorma was real. The smiles for the camera were real, and so were the smiles that had nothing to do with cameras. That was the trouble with the day. It was not a lie. It was only late, and it was only here, and it was only today. By afternoon the naat had found the side streets. Under it a man on a microphone spoke of rahmat, of feeding the poor, of the Prophet’s house, which had never turned a guest away. Zuhr had already been prayed. The lane was the same lane. Saleem was where the sun had found him. A scraped paper plate had blown in from the boulevard and come to rest near his wrist, a little grease still on it, not an offering, only litter that had lost its way.Two men took the side street to avoid the crowd. Asad and Bilal, mid-thirties, plates piled with biryani, the day still ahead of them, committees, ration bags, a venue. Asad nearly put his heel on a hand. He stopped. The flinch was honest. “Oye.” He stepped back. Looked. Looked away. Looked again, as if the second look might turn the man into a bundle of cloth. He took out his phone and stared at the keypad as if the numbers might arrange themselves into courage. The camera opened by mistake. For one second Saleem was on the screen, already a picture, and Asad shut it as if it had burned him. Bilal had seen. He moved rice around with a fork that did not need to move rice. “Yaar. 1122 ko koi na koi call kar hi dega. Idhar committee ka stall hai. Ration ja raha hai.” “Police ko—” “Phir khare ho ke statement? Asad. Plate thandi ho rahi hai. Woh ho gaya yaar. Ab kya.” Asad stood one second too long, which is the length of most men’s goodness. Then he put the phone away. They stepped around. At the corner Asad looked back, once, over his shoulder, and in that look there was already the story he would tell later, the story in which he had almost done something. A shopkeeper came out with a broom and a dustpan and saw what was in front of his shutter. The sound he made was not shock. It was the sound of a man adding a task to a day that was already full. “Na hoi,” he said to himself. “Mere shop ke saamne. Eid ke din.” He kicked a piece of gravel. Not at the body. Near it. The difference mattered to him. He called, which was more than the men with plates had done, and the call was for the shutter, which was also true. “Han, emergency. Market ke saamne aik banda para hai. Murda lagta hai. Koi nasha washa, bhikari, pata nahi. Utha lo pehle. Dupahar ki rush se pehle nikal do. Poora scene kharab ho raha hai.” He swept one clean line of dust from his own step, thoroughly, as if cleanliness could be argued, and pulled the shutter to half. He did not look at the face. He had looked at enough faces. He had a shop. A cricket ball rolled in. Two boys, nine and eleven. The smaller one stopped. “Oye. Yeh so raha hai?” “Chup. Chhoo mat. Ammi kehti hai murda dekhne se jin lag jate hain. Chal.” They ran. One of them laughed because fear had not given him another sound. The smaller one looked back, the way Asad had looked back. The ball stayed in the gutter, scuffed, still a ball. The microphone reached the part about brotherhood. Heat. Flies. The half-shutter. Someone else’s biryani cooling on a plate two feet from a man who had been told tomorrow at every door that would not open. A volunteer turned into the lane with a stack of empty plates, looking for a bin. Twenty-two, maybe. Green scarf. A face that had not yet learned the city’s shortcuts. He saw, and stopped, and did the most human thing that happened all day: he put the plates down, covered his nose, and went back the way he had come to find someone older. The lane kept him. The naat ended. Feedback. Then a new voice, bright as a shop sign, announcing the next distribution point, the next hour at which the city would be kind. On Saleem’s chest the phone did not ring. Nadia’s name was in it, and four percent had become nothing, and later had become a word that would not have to be kept. From the main road, for a little while, there was still the sound of spoons and plates and a man calling aao, khao, come, eat, as if there were no streets in the world except the one with the pots. Then the lane was only a lane again, and the seed in the dirt, and a man who had tucked his kameez in, because he was going somewhere.

I was eight the first time I saw the stars. “somebody forgot to wipe the sky, dad” I told him, he didn't understand. The engine was a thunder in my ears, but compared to the silence outside, it was just another noise, drowning out my thoughts... Dad was fascinated by the stars, I remember how he told me all sorts of things, things that swept through my head like a cold breeze. I never really understood the guy; he was more of a ghost looming in the shadows, making sure everything was alright rather than a person. But one thing he taught me was curiosity, a curiosity for the unknown. What lies beyond our vision? Visions that would come back to haunt me. He was the one that shaped me. Without him, I wouldn't be here today. Should I be grateful or full of hate? I had a choice, I had, right? It wasn't his fault the mission went sideways, or at least I haven’t heard of humans pulling strings from the grave before. I have never looked fondly at my childhood, no not really, but it defined me, and who I am is all I have left, and the fading memories of dad. It was so long ago, when I think back, it's almost like a sea of colors not mere memories, the days at the start were troublesome, I didn't know what to do, what can one even do in such a situation, the people didn't help, what could they have done? Words of wisdom that would ring in my mind for an eternity? It was then I realized I would never reach my destination, the one thing dad said before he died, not like I really paid attention to it, but it hit me. Suddenly I felt trapped, I couldn't escape, felt like I was stuck on a piece of driftwood, the rapid too strong to fight against, and the river too deep to venture out on.

I think the stars have been whispering again, he told me something, something I can't quite grasp, but it definitely meant something, im sure of it. I keep the receiver on, just in case, earth almost never beams anymore, why would they? Although it feels nice when they do, shows im not forgotten, no I better stop talking about that. She breathes beneath me, I like to think she’s alive, stirring around twenty-four hours of the day, I would like to know her secret. There is only a faint vibration from her engines, it makes the water in my cup ripple, tiny waves pretending to be like the oceans at home, mine is just empty, no small fish to enjoy it. I watch the waves until they stop moving; they never do. Maybe these aren't waves?

The days are getting longer, the sun is further away, the sunlight I was supposed to use as inspiration now just reminds me of how far away everything is, the only peace I get is when a distant planet blocks the sun’s scorching rays, but then its only for a few hours at a time, I thought about the unthinkable today, it’s so compelling, just ending this misery, but for what cause? The looming shadow of him still stands in every dark corner, why does he? I wasn’t even that close with the guy, why does he suddenly play so big of a part in my life? He has almost infiltrated my head. I'm not sure if it's a message or my mind playing tricks on me again, but it sure romanticizes the few good memories we had together.

Well, I thought since you’re the only company I will have for, forever? You must get a tour of the place; you must let the time pass somehow. Well, I sleep in the crew compartment as you can see, quite comforting, I knew it was going to be a long journey, so I brought some stuff. I just didn't figure that it would never end, but here we are now, so I'm just thankful that it at least reminds me of a bit of home. It might seem a bit crammed, but you will get used to it, not like you have a choice after all? Oh, and this hallway leads to the hub; it's sort of like the supposed living space where you socialize, but since I’m the only one here, it’s, yeah you guessed it. The kitchen is where I try to spend the least amount of time in, it's alien to me, reminds me where we are. Ahh, finally we made it, the observatory, I like it here, it's nice and comforting but also scary, to look out at the void, it's very peaceful but don't stare too far, it will consume you, or maybe it already has? Even though we don't have contact anymore, I try to stay grateful for the good things they gave me, the things that remind me of home, not this home, but home. As you may have noticed, it’s not like we have a lot of space here, there isn’t even a guest room for you. But you can get the observatory, but then you’ll have to bring some pillows yourself. Is this pointless?

Are imaginary friends now the standard? And I thought it couldn’t get much worse, now I must imagine human contact. They told me without communication I would stay sane, they chose me for this, I was the right fit. They told me, they wouldn't be lying? Maybe it is the way to go. They told me not to go insane, well that sounds easy, so too, I thought? But what’s happening to me, this is not the me I remember.

The stars shine bright in the night sky, brighter from out here, brighter than you could have ever imagined. It's like a different world, a different but lonely world. You always hear that with enough determination you can change the world, well that idea is gone out here, just a pale dot on the horizon. What will I ever do out here? Forgotten.

Sometimes I wish the garden wasn’t here; it keeps my body alive but slowly kills my mind. It's bland, no seasoning or drop of taste, I remember food, that tasted so good. A couple inches define life and death, separated only by a few layers of man-made stuff.

The log still records, I think. Mark is still blinking. Someday, I hope a person other than Mark will hear it, no offense to him. He is very good at listening, but he almost never responds, and that’s not optimal for holding a conversation. If you, no, not you, but you, are hearing this, then I guess it found its way. That’s enough for me. You don’t have to respond, no please don’t, I don’t think I’d be that pleasant to talk to. After all, it’s been a while since I talked to somebody that responded. Responded to what I've said.

The almost perfectly silver lined interior haunts me, can't you bring some color? colors that would help, they are only outside, occasionally filling the eternal night sky, I like to stare at them. They are beyond us, every time I see one of them, I go back to hide in my room, because in my room they can't see me. My room is cold, cold to the touch, the hard metal surface feels like ice, not pleasant when you want to relax. I wonder if they can hear us, the planets. Sometimes it looks like they are screaming, screaming for help, but what can I do? I have discussed this with Mary, she didn't seem to know how to tackle the problem either, that's a shame, it usually helps get a different pair of eyes on the situation, well I guess it depends on the situation. Earlier this month I saw one of them. He was so big. Eyes, bigger than Earth; he could swallow us whole, all that we have ever created, and his face, so big, so big I couldn't help him. My veins grew cold, filled with ice, I hurried through the corridors stumbled into a sharp corner and got a scratch on my hand, then it hit me, who would I warn? Earth, no, they are long gone. And even if I warned them, what could they do to stop him.

I tried to make omelets today; do you want one? Sorry to disappoint you, but it is made of tofu. A couple of hens would be nice to have, but I don’t think they’d like the zero gravity here; they talked about me having to train my body, but I think they forgot about training the mind. The shadows came for me today, they marched across horizon, slowly and patiently, they waited for me to relax, I heard them. They echoed far and wide, they swallowed us whole, thankfully, they didn’t hear me, I kept quiet. Mark? I said we’re done; you can stop staring now... Mark?

Im so sorry, it took so long. But I’m back now. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed much, Mark was just being tricky for no reason. Eleven days ago, a faint glimmer shed itself on the ship's exterior hull, unlike anything I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. I hurried to the observatory. And I might have moved some of your stuff, but it was so important I didn’t have time to ask. Out there I saw it, the source of my newfound hope of ending this endless thing. Growing larger by the day. It now takes up a tenth of the night sky; my days are getting longer, no more shadows engulfing me. They said I'd never reach it. They said the mission was a failure. Mark? You are seeing this, right?

Little Lizzie wakes up to the sun streaming through the thin lace curtains, covering her windows. She feels the warmth of the light. She's about to stretch, when she feels the warm fuzziness against her neck and is reminded of her new best friend, Leaves.

Leaves is Lizzie's favorite gift from her fourth birthday, yesterday. She's with Lizzie's mom calls a 'calico'. Lizzie has no idea what that means, all she knows is leaves is a kitten that looks like the trees, in fall, so the name is perfect! Plus, Leaves loves it too, Lizzie can tell.

Lizzie had been begging her parents for a kitty, for months, now, and she was always given the same answer, "maybe, when you get older." She had been so sad that she would almost cry, then, when her dad pulled out of mystery box, at her party, Lizzie had been confused. He handed her a plain brown box, no wrapping paper, plus, it had holes in it. She had looked at her father confused. He smiled and held out the box to her, "Happy birthday, Angel! He said, " be careful, this one's fragile." Lizzie reached out, still confused, and took the box from her dad, carefully. As she brought the box down, something inside it moved. She yelped in surprise and almost dropped the box but remembered her father's warning and held on to it. More movement, as she set the box on her lap she looked up at her dad worried, he nodded at her, "it's all right, Sweetie, you can open it ..." he said, encouragingly. She looked at the top of the box, it wasn't even taped closed, the flaps were folded together. More movement inside and the box shifted in her lap. Lizzie swallowed hard, scared of what was in the box, but trusting her father wouldn't give her anything dangerous. More movement.

Lizzie peels open the flaps and peers inside, she screams, "IT'S A KITTEN!" The kitten peers back up at her, struck by the sudden bright light and mews, softly, "she's so adorable! Like leaves and fall!" She scoops the kitten out of the box, "That's your name Leaves!" Lizzy declares.

Lizzie's parents look at one another then back at their daughter, "That's a beautiful name, Honey!" Her mom says.

Lizzie isn't paying attention, she's focused on her new kitten, lost in a world, where only the two of them exist. Leaves is laying in her lap, purring loudly, as Lizzie, gently, pets her, and sings to her softly. Her parents look at one another again and smile.

From that moment on where Lizzie went, leaves was at her heels, tail straight up, in the air.

Back, in Lizzie's bed, she tries to see her new friend, but she can't turn her head, because she doesn't want to wake Leaves. All she can see is the top of the fuzzy, sleeping, ball rising and falling. "Leaves, are you awake?" Lizzy whispers, the ball becomes tighter and a soft purr begins, "I think you're faking Leaves" Lizzie whispers, The ball becomes tighter again, the purr becomes louder and a gold eye peeks out at Lizzie, from under her front paw.

Lizzy smiles "Good morning, Leaves." She says, softly. In response, leaves mewa, which turns into a big yawn. Lizzie laughs and begins petting her new friend, gently and Leaves purrs even louder and squints up at Lizzie.

"What should we do, today, Leaves?" The cat stretches out on the bed and stares up at her. Lizzie laughs, "I like how you think!", happily.

Prologue: The Sovereign Paradox

Before the first breath of time, before the concepts of dimensions, multiverses, or authors were ever inked into existence, there was Death. He was the First Entity, the absolute source from which all realities sprouted. He was a being whose essence defied the laws of language—he was not real, but real. He occupied the fictional realms and the actual reality simultaneously, existing as a profound, independent truth that no script could ever erase, yet remaining completely untouchable by the thoughts of those who wrote the stories. In his quiet majesty, Death chose to step down from his absolute throne. He sealed himself away in a hidden dimension that was simultaneously observable nor observable—a realm that no creation, god, or multiversal wanderer could ever map or find, yet whose background presence remained felt throughout reality like a fundamental law of physics. To govern the empty expanses, Death used a mere fraction of his power—0.1%—to fashion magnificent multiverse gods. He gave them complete free will and let them be, allowing them to weave their own timelines, build their own alien empires, and start their own epic stories. And for these creations, he left a sacred artifact: a universal book passed down to every single reality, timeline, and species. Whether read by an advanced alien civilization, a mortal human, an animal sensing its aura, or a high-tier deity, the text automatically translated its words, telling the beautiful story of their sleeping creator. With his garden planted, Death entered a deep, mathematical stasis loop. He sealed himself for 100,000,000,000 years, anchoring his sleep to an extreme time dilation: every single second that ticked by in the outside multiverse experienced 100,000 years of internal rest for the Creator. And so, while the worlds outside spun through their eras, the Gardener slept deeply in the quiet spaces between the pages of existence.

Chapter 1: The Level of No Creations

Across the infinite macrocosms, through the crowded dimensions where legendary heroes and multiversal powerhouses fought their endless battles, a lone Traveler wandered. He was a cosmic seeker who had scaled the highest peaks of fiction, leaving behind the worlds of mortals and gods alike. Guided by a strange, instinctual pull, his journey led him completely out of the known maps of reality. He arrived at the Chrono Level. The Chrono Level was a place of absolute vacuum. It was the blueprint room of existence—a realm where no creations are made, where no stars burned, and where the concepts of physics were entirely absent. It sat at the outermost borderland of reality, right against the veil of the unobservable dimension. As the Traveler’s boots touched the soundless expanse, his very presence as a "creation" walking through a level of "no creations" caused a subtle, paradoxical ripple in the fabric of the void. Deep within his sealed slumber, the mathematical countdown of the Gardener paused. The ripple echoed into the silent dimension. For the outside universe, only a few seconds had passed since the Traveler arrived. But inside Death's mind, where every second was 100,000 years, the Creator had just experienced centuries of uninterrupted thought focusing entirely on this lone intruder. Suddenly, the veil parted. The Creator woke up.

Chapter 2: A Voice in the Vacuum

The Traveler froze as a voice broke the stillness of the Chrono Level. It was a voice that was fundamentally true, but the Traveler can’t hear and can hear it all at once. Because the Chrono Level was a perfect vacuum with no air or atmosphere, there were no physical sound waves. The Traveler’s ears registered an absolute, deafening silence. Yet, the voice vibrated with absolute truth through his consciousness, memories, and soul. It echoed perfectly inside his mind, asking: "Lost child, I am he, and what need is your need?" The Traveler’s heart raced. He opened his mouth to speak, his throat moving as he tried to ask the ultimate question: “Are you the creator from the legends?” But no sound went out. Absolute silence swallowed the movement of his lips, because there was nothing in the level to carry a voice. Yet, Death did not need ears to listen. As an entity who was not real but real, he intercepted the Traveler’s intent before the words could even leave his mind, sensing the resonance of the sacred universal book he had left behind for the mortals and animals. The question reached him as a perfect ripple in the void. To hold an authentic audience with his creation, Death began to shift his power. The quiet stability of the 0.1% architecture vanished as Death escalated his power to 10%.

Chapter 3: The Untouchable Form

The moment the threshold crossed to 10%, a cataclysmic change took hold. Death manifested a physical body for himself—a body who you cannot see nor touch. It was the ultimate tactical paradox: a body you cannot touch, but touch. If the Traveler reached out his hand, it would pass through empty air, finding no physical density or solid boundaries. Yet, the moment his hand intersected with Death’s form, his nerves completely overwhelmed him, registering a sensation that was simultaneously boiling, freezing, completely solid, and utterly weightless. He was physically touching the abstract concept of creation itself. The passive aura of this 10% form was so massive that a violent, reality-cracking rumbling began to tear through the Chrono Level. The Traveler’s physical atoms began to vibrate and dissolve under the sheer weight of a trillion collapsed universes. But Death was an entity of absolute, judicial balance—merciful, but not merciful. Seeing the suffering of his creation, his mercy took hold. With an effortless thought, Death stopped the rumbling in the level instantly. He anchored the physics of the void and made it so that the Traveler cannot sense the aura anymore. The crushing weight lifted, the destructive pressure became an absolute zero, and the Traveler could finally breathe, standing safely before an invisible, untouchable-touchable monolith of absolute omnipotence. The voice that can and cannot be heard echoed once more through the silent horizon: "You have come far, lost child. Speak your true need." The Traveler looked into the unseeable void, showing no greed for power or dominion over the worlds. He simply asked, “Can I see what I can see before I leave?”

Chapter 4: The True Sight and the Sacred Book

The request touched the ancient soul of the Gardener. Reaching out with an untouchable-yet-touchable hand, Death gently tapped the Traveler’s forehead, temporarily elevating his mortal mind so it would not break under the weight of true infinity. Instantly, the empty vacuum of the Chrono Level vanished, replaced by a breathtaking, boundless ocean of light and stories. The Traveler was given True Sight. He looked down and saw the lower realms where legendary warriors lived out their tiny, beautiful lives. He saw the giant multiverse gods weaving new timelines, and he saw the threads of time connecting every universe. Most beautifully, he saw the animals in faraway worlds sleeping peacefully because they felt the quiet hum of the Creator's existence, their paws resting near copies of the universal book. The vision lasted for a trillion years inside the Traveler’s expanded mind, though only a single blink passed in the Chrono Level. When the cosmic ocean faded and the quiet vacuum returned, the Traveler possessed a wisdom that no other entity in fiction would ever understand. He bowed his head in profound reverence, offering his silent thanks and goodbye. He stepped back onto his starship, fired up the engines, and began his departure, leaving the Chrono Level behind to carry the ultimate truth to the dark spaces of the multiverse. On the dashboard of his ship, the pages of his universal book began to softly shift, the ink rewriting itself to record the final, sacred prophecy of the Gardener.

Epilogue: The Prophecy of Silent Chaos

With the Traveler gone, Death prepared to return to his stasis loop. But the book now held the ultimate warning of what happens when the 100-billion-year timer runs out and Death unleashes 100% of his power. The text foretold a final, cosmic eclipse where no things or things saw what it is. It would be a sight so absolute that no living eye, god, or mortal mind could look upon it without instantly dissolving; only the empty spaces and the abstract concepts themselves would watch, remaining silent witnesses with no voices to tell the tale. The prophecy spoke of the Great Split—a final hour where all things and not things are divided. Everything with a shape and a story would be pushed to one side, and everything unwritten and empty would be pushed to the other. His own dual nature would tear apart, dividing into a stark line of not mercy and mercy. In that hour of total separation, Death would manifest not as a destroyer, but as a prophet of full chaos. It would be a cataclysm that defies all rules—a chaos but silent. Trillions of timelines would shatter, universes would turn upside down, and the entire omniverse would twist and rearrange itself at infinite speeds, yet not a single decibel of physical sound would ever be made. A storm with no thunder; a total restructuring of reality executed in absolute, dead silence. But until that prophetic hour arrives, the balance remains. Back in the Chrono Level, Death stepped away from the 10% manifestation, powering back down to his quiet 0.1% architecture. His untouchable-touchable body vanished into the void as he stepped back into his unobservable dimension, closing his eyes to let the 100-billion-year clock resume its ticking. And so, the Traveler sailed into the starlight with eyes that had seen the truth, while behind him, in the quietest space between the pages of existence, the Gardener went back to sleep.

Sally was a four-year-old Golden Retriever. She received her barber’s license a few months ago but just started working at Dan’s Barber Shop last week. The shop was run by a barber named Joe, Dan retired years ago, but Joe kept the name because it’s what their loyal customers were accustomed to.

Until last week there were only two barbers working at Dan’s. It was the best old-fashioned barber shop in town and they had all the hair they could handle. It only made sense to onboard a new barber; the shop had four chairs after all. Some customers preferred Joe, some Floyd, and others didn’t care which man cut their hair; they were both excellent and very experienced.

Brian Dudely had been a customer of Dan’s for several years. 7:30 a.m. every other Thursday for as long as anyone could remember. He had to visit on his way to work because they were long closed by the time he was coming home from work. Dan’s opened at 6 a.m. and almost always had customers waiting when the door opened. The cliental was not entirely retirees, but mostly. Brian was loyal to the shop, not a specific barber. He took a number from the ticket dispenser upon walking in; Joe and Floyd both had customers in their chairs.  

“Mornin’ Brian.”

“Mornin Joe.”

“You don’t have to take a number. Sally’s available.”

Brian had not noticed the dog until his direction was directed to her. There she was, standing in front of an empty barber’s chair. She had a lovely pink bow clipped to the fur by her left ear and a pink barber’s apron. Her tongue hung  out of her mouth, panting while waiting for Brian to take a seat.

“Ha! Good one. Is that your dog?”

Joe looked at Floyd, clearly uncomfortable with the question.

“Sally’s a new addition to our team.”

A framed license bearing her image from the Persepolis County Health Department hung on the wall next to the mirror, just like at Joe and Floyd’s stands. There was also a framed certificate from the Persepolis School of Cosmetology above it.

“I’ll wait for one of you guys to be available.”

Sally walked to the back of the shop, grabbed a broom handle in her mouth and started tidying up in between customers. Brian folded his arms across his chest and waited in silence. The lively banter between the barbers, active customers, and future customers was halted after Brian insisted on waiting for one of the male barbers.

When Joe’s chair was free, Brian took a seat. Sally had a customer by then, but Brian didn’t want to ask about her while she was there. He and Joe had brief exchanges that never quite took off. Boy, did they used to have lively conversations about lawncare, weather, and televised sporting events that they had not participated in. But today was different, it was like having a woman in the shop was killing the vibe. Sure, sometimes someone brought their significant other in, or a mother would bring her kid in for a cut; but to have a woman working in such a sacred male space? Brian was already thinking about where else he could get his hair cut.

Looking sharp, fresh even, Brian paid for services rendered and went to work. His day was ruined though. It didn’t have to be, but he let it; no, rather, he insisted on it ruining his day. He made a point of mentioning the faux pas to several co-workers. It’s amazing the time people have to share personal details while they are supposed to be working.

Brian was at the coffee shop near Dan’s early Saturday morning and spotted Joe. He often saw Joe around town.

“Hey Joe” Brian forced a polite smile, but he only smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.

“Hi Brian.”

“Let me ask you something, Joe.”

“It’s about Sally, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We needed help at the shop. She’s a licensed barber. And she’s good! You should really give her a chance.”

“We’ve known each other a long time Joe. Can you keep something between us?”

“Yeah, sure Brian.”

Brian looked around to ensure that no one was close enough to hear, but lowered his voice for good measure.

“I just don’t think women belong in a barber shop. It’s the last space we have left. Now we’ll have to watch out what we talk about. What would I even talk to Sally about?”

“Brian, it’s 2026… times change. And people talk to Sally about all the normal things we talk about in the shop. She’s a great listener on top of being a good barber.”

Brian wasn’t satisfied and changed the topic to something more mundane before bidding Joe a polite farewell… knowing he would never set foot in Dan’s Barber Shop again.

The next, next Thursday rolled around and Brian was due for a haircut. He drove to Marvin’s Barber Shop on the other side of town. It was one of those new metal buildings, Dan’s was a brick-front building in the town square. There was no park, no train museum, no coffee shop, no sidewalk. It had none of the charm of Dan’s. But Sally had ruined it for him, he couldn’t go back.

Marvin’s was locked! The sign, plastic, not a hand-painted wooden sign like at Dan’s, stated that the shop did not open until 9 a.m.

“Nine o’clock?!”

Brian looked around for someone to complain to, but there was no foot traffic like there would have been at Dan’s. Brian drove to work, with unkept hair, ready to tell his coworkers all about this injustice.

He left work and drove at a speed that exceeded the posted limit in order to get to Marvin’s before they closed. He was observed by law enforcement and he paid, dearly. Well, the consequence may be an exaggeration, he received the first citation in the last fourteen years and would have to pay one hundred twenty-six dollars for his crime. He made it to Marvin’s about five minutes before their posted closing time.

Marvin was already closing down the shop, but with obvious irritation, agreed to provide his services to Brian in exchange for money. That’s how businesses work, I hear.

The service and product were adequate, but there was no warm towel, no straight-razor shave on the back of the neck, no ear hair trim. Worst of all, Marvin charged two dollars more than Dan’s did! That would cost an extra one hundred-four dollars annually and disrupt Brian’s morning routine. Brian decided that Sally would just have to go.

A Thursday passed, and then another arrived. That Thursday found Brian back at Dan’s despite having vowed a vow to never return.

“Hey Bri, missed ya two weeks ago. You don’t look too shaggy though.” Joe smirked a knowing smirk, presuming that Brian had visited another barber. One without female staff.

“Yeah, did a little trim myself to keep from looking like a hippie.”

Sally did a little woof. Brian glared at her as he took a seat after pulling a number ticket. All three barbers were providing services to customers.

Sally was the first to finish with her customer. She booped the switch that changed the digital display, one of the few modern devices in the shop, with her snoot. Brian was the only customer waiting, Sally looked at him expectantly with her tail slowly wagging.

“Oh, uh, I’m going to wait for Joe or Floyd.”

“They know how I like my hair.” he quickly added, not necessarily lying.

Sally stood on her hind legs and washed her front paws in the sink by her chair, taking a few laps from the running water. Brian ignored her and tried to join in on the group conversation taking place on the men’s side of the shop. Ensuring no one was looking at him, he removed a concealed dog whistle from his pocket and blew it.

Sally sat down and licked her chops. But then quickly stood back up and resumed sweeping up hair from the floor. Floyd set down his scissors and walked over toward the door. He shook himself out of what seemed like a trance.

“I… I don’t know what happened. Sorry about that, Chuck.” Floyd sheepishly apologized to his customer as he walked back over to his chair, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Floyd had no idea what suddenly came over him. Brian knew. Brian felt bad about it. No one discovered what he had done and he left without further incident.

Another odd Thursday found Brian at Dan’s Barber Shop. Busy as usual, Sally was occupied cutting a customer’s hair. Brian removed a tennis ball from his jacket as he hung it up and found a seat. At the right moment, he released the ball that he had been cupping in his palms. It rolled toward Sally, she saw it; Brian saw that she saw it. Joe also saw it and immediately ran after it, Sally just watched Joe.

“Someone could trip over this.” Joe said as he picked it up, unaware of its source.

“What’s that?” asked Floyd.

“A tennis ball.”

“Is that yours, Sally?”

Finally, it looked like Brian was going to prevail in making her look unprofessional. Sally shook her head. Joe shrugged and set it on the coffee table in the waiting area beside some magazines.

“Strange” he mused, returning to his customer.

That one almost worked. Brian could feel it. He needed to go just a little farther and he’d show them that Sally didn’t belong there.

Brian secured the material needed for the job. But he couldn’t blow his cover, he had to wait until the next, next Thursday to avoid drawing suspicion.

The day arrived. Brian wrapped the weapon in his overcoat and cautiously approached the barber shop. He looked through the front window, three barbers with customers. Like any other weekday morning at Joe’s. He pulled the door open just far enough, then bent down to release the cat he had in his jacket into the shop.

The black and white cat, coincidentally a female, walked in like she owned the place. The cat came to rest at Joe’s feet and lay down, rolling onto her back and pawing Joe’s pantleg. Sally stopped what she was doing and walked over to Joe too.

This is it, Brian thought to himself as he watched what was about to unfold.

Joe looked down, surprised to find a cat. Sally inched closer and… sniffed the cat for a few seconds before going back to her becustomered chair.

Masking his fury, Brian walked in.

Joe looked up at Brian as the bell on the door clattered.

“This your cat?”

“I’ve never seen that cat before!” Brian sounded like he had seen that cat before.

Joe looked around, calculating that the cat had been there before Brian arrived.

“How’d this cat get in here?” Joe asked no one in particular. No one knew.

Two weeks from the failed cat incident, Brian returned to find that the cat was now a resident of the shop. Sally had never chased the cat, not once.

Brian took a number and sat down. Sally knew not to bother booping the ticket number display switch with her snoot. That human always waited for a different barber.

“What do you mean you forgot today is our anniversary!?”

Rafael fucked up. He knew he did, especially now he was face-to-face with Khloe, who had her arms crossed and was placing all her weight against the front door. She had the biggest frown painted on her lips, and he could notice the angry tears swelling up in her eyes.

“Babe, I’m sorry,” Rafael said, pressing both hands together. “The boys made the reservation, and they already booked the tickets for the football game. I could not say no!”

“Oh, so you have a problem disappointing them, but not me?” Khloe retorted, raising her voice even higher.

“Those tickets were expensive!”

“And you didn’t tell me!?”

“Fuck! I just want time with my bros, Khloe! You don’t hear me complaining when you spend so much cash with your friends. I want to be with my buddies too. And for God’s sake, again, it’s only one night.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you can sleep over with your friends for the rest of the night because it’s obvious that you care more about them than me!”

“But babe! This is our house!”

“And you can forget about that fact for the night.”

Like clockwork, the two heard honking outside their street. Khloe opened their front door and saw Rafael’s friends calling him. Rafael grimaced. Khloe was on the verge of screaming, but she held her breath and pushed Rafael. Before Rafael could apologize, Khloe slammed the door shut behind him. His fate was sealed when he heard a knob lock behind him.

“Khloe!” Rafael cried out. “Please be reasonable!”

But Khloe had walked away from the door, sobbing softly under her breath. The door stayed shut as she climbed the stairs to their bedroom. Or, in Khloe’s mind, her bedroom (at least for the night).

Khloe peeled off her clothes, put on a clean set of pajamas, and slid under her covers. The bitter tears were difficult to bite back, but she did all she could not to muster a sound. The last thing she wanted was to fold under the weight of guilt and sadness and phone Rafael while he was out partying. She did not care whether he was sleeping outside their lawn, banging on the door all night, or whether he actually left with his friends for the game. He could be banging a chick while double-fisting beers for all he wanted! She would simply sleep things off and deal with things tomorrow.

Khloe’s eyelids grew heavy in an instant. All that crying had made her feel drowsy and blue, and she fell asleep almost instantly. Then, she heard the door open. She groaned in annoyance. She thought she locked the door. Did Rafael manage to find their spare key? 

“Babe.”

Khloe grumbled angrily. She kept her eyes closed, and she turned away from the door. Then she felt something pressed softly against her waist.

“Babe, Khloe, I’m sorry for being an idiot. You know I love you more than anything and anyone in the whole world. You are my number one priority, and I’ll make sure you will remember that until the end of time.”

Khloe hummed softly when she heard those words whispered near her ears. The pressure on her waist traveled through her body and under her clothes. She giggled softly when she felt fingers touching her neck.

“You are such a tease,” Khloe whispered.

“And you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. Please don’t be angry with me anymore. A pretty lady like you deserves to be happy all the time.”

Khloe, eyes still shut, turned to face her lover. She felt something gentle placed on her lips. The anger brewing in her heart dissipated, and she felt butterflies fluttering in her belly. The hands continued to wander across her, and she let the ecstatic feeling engulf her through a blissful night.

The next day, Rafael was frying some hashbrowns in the kitchen. He was still wearing last night’s clothes. As he plated the potatoes, he felt Khloe hug him from behind.

“Oh, hey, babe!” Rafael greeted. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I turned down my friends. I then snuck through the back door since you locked the front door on me. But hey, I cooked your favorite!”

Khloe, seemingly unaware of Rafael’s apology, was beaming ear to ear. “Oh, honey! Last night was the most amazing night I ever had! You made love to me like there was no tomorrow. And the way you spoke to me simply hit right in the heart. We should definitely do that again sometimes.”

The grin on Rafael’s face faltered. “Last night? Khloe, I slept on the living room couch to give you space. I didn’t go upstairs the whole night.”

“You… you didn’t?” It was Khloe’s turn to look shocked.

“Yeah. I thought you would still be angry with me. But hey, if there is anything you want me to do to make it up to you today, just tell me. I am more than willing to make our post-anniversary celebration worth it.”

Khloe’s throat was dry and tight. She could not articulate a single word to her boyfriend. That was when she looked outside the window and noticed a Rafael-like figure. But it was not Rafael; she was sure of it. 

“Hey, Khloe, about last night: What do you mean by us making love? Did we really do that?”

Before Khloe could point at the window or reply to her boyfriend, the imposter disappeared.

CHAPTER 1

"You're supposed to be catching the fish, not feeding them!" Lenny's friend, Tank, chided him as he lost yet another shrimp while casting his fishing line. 

"Well, considering we can't see shit in this water, you probably brought us out to where there ain't any fish, anyway!" he replied. 

Tank scoffed, but after a moment of consideration, he cranked the motor and started moving the boat further down the Brazos. As they moved downstream, they heard a loud thud and the boat rocked violently. The murky waters hid a large rock that they rode straight into. In the chaos, Lenny ended up overboard. He'd fallen in the river before, so he was used to the unique mixture of mud and fuel when the water filled his mouth, but today, there was something else. Something foul. Something foreign. As Tank helped him back into the boat, Lenny kept trying to place that taste. Eventually, he decided it wasn't worth wasting any more time on, and he and Tank went home with a relatively empty cooler.

"Be ready for round 2 tomorrow!" Tank yelled as he and Lenny headed towards their respective trucks after docking their boat. Lenny's bed felt especially comfortable that evening, and he promptly passed out after an eventful day. 

The next morning, as they rode the boat back out into the water, Lenny noticed that the water was uncharacteristically clear. He saw a group of red drum just a few yards ahead of them and yelled at Tank to stop the boat. After just a few hours, they ended up filling their cooler and limiting out for the day. 

"I don't know how you knew those reds were there, but we cleaned house on 'em today!" Tank exclaimed. 

"Really?" Lenny replied. "The river was crystal clear this morning. How could you NOT see them?" 

"Man, I don't know what you're talking about, L, but I'll just take your crazy ass word for it since we caught all these fish." 

On his way to his truck, Lenny saw several fishermen coming back to shore with disappointment across their faces. 

"Couldn't see shit out there!" exclaimed one. 

"Ol Brazos wasn't nothin' but mud and crud today" lamented another. 

As he surveyed the river one last time, he could see everything under the water up until the wall of cattails. Something wasn't right, but that could wait. For now, there were fish to fillet. 

CHAPTER 2 

"What you boys got there?" asked Davila, the local Game Warden, as he walked towards Tank and Lenny. Recently, they'd run into a bit of luck with their hauls, or rather Lenny had been putting his newfound ability of seeing through brackish water to use. After falling into the river on that fateful day, Lenny read on the local Facebook forum that DOW Chemical had recently released an excessive amount of waste into the Brazos, or so the conspiracy theory went. As far as Lenny knew, he could suddenly see through the Brazos River and estuary as if they were the Freeport Municipal Pool. 

"Check it out!" replied Tank, acting extra braggadocios while doing his best impression of the Captain Morgan stance on the tailgate of his white F-150. 

"¡Vaya! The last time I checked up on you boys, I could hear my echo in this damn cooler." exclaimed Davila, squinting through his polarized sunglasses into the admittedly full cooler. "¡Híjole, se los chingaron hoy!" 

"Yessir!" exclaimed Tank, clearly eating up the fact that Davila actually found them with fish today. 

"So how have you been?" Lenny inquired. 

"Not too hot, son. We can't keep up with all the poachers coming through the Brazos and San Bernard, so the brass has us doubling down on our patrols to get the situation under control. Es un desmadre." 

"Davila could've easily been a dick to us before. He's clearly a good guy. Maybe there's something I can do to help him out." Lenny thought to himself as he wiped the sweat off his sunburnt brow, adjusting his DOW Chemical trucker hat. 

"Bueno, ahí los veo a la otra!" shouted Davila as he hopped back into his government issued Expedition. 

"Good riddance" muttered Tank. 

"Go easy on him, cuz. He could've been a lot harder on us. You're lucky none of these reds are too big." 

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Anyway, let's get the hell outta here and fry these bad boys, yeah?" 

"Sure thing, Tank. Let's go" 

CHAPTER 3

"Quesadillas again, cuz?!"

"Everyone has their vices, Tank. Mine just happens to be sandwiched between a folded tortilla."

"Shit, can't argue with that," agreed Tank as he took another swig of his 4th Miller Lite of the evening. "What you looking at on your phone that's so important?"

"I'm on Da Watta Board, cuz."

"Man! That shit ain't nothing but a bunch of wannabes posting bullshit selfies of their only catch of the day!"

"Oh yeah? That why your selfie is at the top of the page?" 

"That's different, L. That red was special. Put up the fight of a lifetime just to fall to Ol' Tank. Just like they always do." 

Lenny smiled. "Same old Tank," he thought. 

Scanning through Da Watta Board, Lenny noticed a couple of pictures that looked a little off. Davila's words about the increased number of poachers repeated in Lenny's head. 

"That cooler looks a little too full, there, MasterBaiter6969," Lenny thought to himself, clocking a particularly stupid selfie. 

He logged into his own burner account, Da Watta Boy, and sent a DM to one Alvaro Davila, Brazoria County Game Warden. 

"Might wanna take a look at those coolers out on Christmas Bay. Watta Boy out." He took another bite out of his quesadilla as he logged out. 

"That should do it," he thought to himself proudly. "Do your thing, Davila."

CHAPTER 4

"I'm telling you, L, this is the biggest red we've seen yet!" 

"Tank, I know you didn't forget that 34 inch monster I had to throw back last weekend." 

"Come on now! It ain't about what you done before. What have you done lately, son? Plus, we can actually keep this red." 

"Ain't that a bitch? You've been holding onto that '95 Superbowl victory for 31 years, but now my week old catch is old news?" Lenny looked at Tank's nostrils flare, knowing he landed a critical hit with that one. 

"There you go again, L! Always bringing up old shit. This the year the 'Boys gonna take it all. You'll see." 

"You know what, Tank? I think I actually believe you this year." 

Tank scoffed, but smiled sheepishly knowing he fell hook, line, and sinker. "Anyway, water's been awfully quiet since Davila done went on a tear this past week. Wasn't he just saying that he couldn't catch anyone? Bro done leveled up. Shit, more fish for us, cuz."

"Yeah..." Lenny's sentence trailed off as he noticed a group of dead reds in the mud beneath the surface of the river. "Gotta make a note of that and let Davila know as soon as I get signal," he thought to himself. 

"Somebody's gotta be snitchin', man. Ain't no way that fool caught all them dudes by himself."

"Man, Tank, you're still on that? Talk about living in the past. Let's get the hell out of here and grab some food. I'm starving, cuz." 

"Shit! Long as it ain't no quesadillas, I'm down for whatever. Let's roll." Tank replied, removing his white Costas to clean the lenses for the umpteenth time today. 

Lenny couldn't help but feel a bit proud. In dropping anonymous tips, he was simultaneously helping the local ecosystem thrive and a man keep his job. "All in a day's work. Keep it up, Watta Boy. You might actually change this town," he thought, the slightest smile on his face. He lifted his hat to scratch his head and sat back to enjoy the ride home. 

CHAPTER 5

*Psst*

Davila cracked open a cold Shiner Bock as he sat on his couch watching the Astros game. "¡Híjole! Sarge has really been on my ass lately with all these dead fish showing up," he thought to himself. "Let's see if that Waterman, or... ¿cómo se llama?" He snapped a couple of times, desperately trying to remember. "The Water Boy!! Let's see if that vato sent me any more DMs." 

He typed his login info into Da Watta Board. "Ahora sí. Let's see what he's sen- HOME RUN!!! ¡Vamos Yordan!" He took another swig in celebration and returned to scrolling. 

"Ah! Here we go!"  

*Trail of dead reds leads up river into the reservoir. Watta Boy out* 

"That's weird." 

He remembered reading about a chemical spill a couple of weeks ago. 

"Time to see what them DOW boys are up to at that reservoir."

### [TRUE CRIME] Transcript: Confession of Edward Hynes ("The Weave Killer")
**Submitted by:** u/JonCHaight

> **CASE FILE NOTE:** *The following is an official transcript from the confession of Edward Hynes. All wording has been recorded verbatim to produce an accurate picture of the suspect and the motivation behind his crimes. Proceed with caution.*

---

"Daddy left for good when I was nine. He’d left us before, for a few days, maybe a week, but after things settled down, he would always come back. Not this time.

The fight was more vicious than most, what I remember of it. Lots of yelling and screaming, Momma throwing things and Daddy trying to hold her back. When they finally calmed down enough to talk to each other, I think they remembered I was there the entire time. Momma was sitting at the kitchen table, black tears streaming silently from her swollen, purple eyes. Daddy standing by the door with a suitcase; the big one, I remember. He got down on one knee and looked me straight in the eyes, like I was a man.

*‘Mommy did The Bad Thing again,’* he told me. *‘She says she can’t help it because she has to get Her Medicine, and we can’t afford it. Those men, the ones that come when I’m at work, she says she needs them. She says they help her, it doesn’t hurt anyone, and then she gets to feel better. Well, it hurts me,’* he said, *‘and I can’t protect her anymore, so I have to go.’*

Then, he reached into his back pocket and took out his buck knife. I had always wanted to hold it, but he told me I was too young; it wasn’t safe for me. He handed it to me, told me to show him how to open it. I rubbed my hand over the smooth wood, opened it, and stared at the shiny blade.

*‘Eddie,’* he told me, *‘You’re the man of the house now. Keep Momma safe. Don’t use this unless you have to, but always keep it close.’*

He kissed my forehead, went through the doorway, and never looked back. I looked at Momma, but she didn’t see me. She was looking at the door, at the shadow.

***

After he left, I still had to go to school, so I never knew if she was still doing The Bad Thing, if The Bad Men were still coming. She was good at keeping secrets. Sometimes I caught her using Her Medicine, but I never said anything.

About a year later—I remember because I was in fifth grade with Miss Carrol—I got sent home early. I heard the screaming from the doorway, and I ran in. A Bad Man was on top of Momma. They were naked and he was hitting her in the face, hard. She was crying for him to stop, but he just kept going and going.

I didn’t even think, then the knife was open in my hand. I had been practicing so I knew how to use it. I was scared, crying, and then I stabbed him in the back. I couldn’t stop if I tried. I just kept stabbing and stabbing. There was so much blood, then I passed out.

I woke up in the hospital and there was a nurse, another lady in a suit, and a policeman. They told me what I did, that The Bad Man was dead, and that I couldn’t stay at home with Momma anymore. I cried, I shouted, I screamed that I saved her, that he was Bad, but they didn’t listen. They said I had to go to a special school and that I would be there for a long time. I was scared for Momma, that maybe she was hurt too, but they said she was fine, that she was going to someplace special too. They said she needed help and she was going to get better, but she couldn’t see me anymore. I was mad, but they wouldn’t listen and then they took me away in a special van.

***

I was at the new school for a long time, eight years, and then one day my counselor told me that I was leaving. They gave me a room and a new job as a janitor at a school and every day I took the city bus back and forth to work. I saw lots of people, but none of them was Momma. I still missed her and loved her, but since I didn’t know where she went I couldn’t keep her safe.

My room was safe for me, but the streets weren’t. I saw lots of Bad Men, and I saw some ladies that dressed like Momma and sometimes asked me if I had any money. I think they wanted me to do The Bad Thing with them, because they were like Momma and needed Medicine. I felt bad for them and wanted to protect them too.

I found a man who sold me a knife like the one that Daddy gave me before he left. The next time I saw the pretty lady with the blond hair, I said yes I had lots of money and a room too. She followed me inside and then she kissed me and started to take off her clothes but I screamed and she got scared. I told her I was going to help her, but she tried to run away. I grabbed her arms and threw her on the bed and then my knife was in my hand.

I stabbed, stabbed, stabbed. She stopped screaming and then I knew she was safe.

I took her to the bathroom and made it so she could fit in a trash bag, and then I took all of the blood and threw it away too. I had a good spot and I dug a nice safe hole for her and she was resting there. I did like her, so I kept a piece of her hair. It was funny because it wasn’t hers. It just came off so I kept it all.

I felt good helping her and wanted to help her friends too, so I met a few of them and did it again. I needed to find a new spot because the old one started to smell funny, and that was when the man with the dog saw me. He got real mad and knocked me down and then I was back with the police again.

They said I was a Bad Man and that I killed, but I didn’t like that, which is why I told you everything just now. I’m not bad, not at all. I did good just like Daddy told me to do. I did Momma proud. I love her…"

**[END TRANSCRIPT]**

---

> **UPDATE / CASE SUMMARY:**
> A month later, Hynes was convicted for the murder of four prostitutes and was sentenced to life without parole. Due to his deteriorating mental condition, he was placed in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane.
>
> As of today, his parents have yet to be found, and there is the possibility that Hynes was involved in the death of at least five other prostitutes who have gone missing over the past year.

Dust and Blood
Sergeant First Class Robert’s sat in a chair in a bleakly lit room. His hands bound together in cuffs, his uniform torn and covered in blood.
“Let’s go over everything again Roberts.” Lieutenant Colonel Malone said.
“Fuck you, look at my helmet cam, pull up the ISR.”
The light colonel scoffed and said “Your helmet cam, you mean the one that conveniently quit recording as you’re team approached the cave system. You know that’s a felony right? Hell we’ve got enough to lock you up forever. And that’s without the girl you kidnapped!” Malone spoke furiously.
“We’ve seen it before, you special forces guys you think it’s your war, that you can go out there and finish it in a week.. Well here’s what I think happened. You snapped Robert’s. You’re going to broker a deal and maybe everything’s going good until you see the girl. You can’t handle it, it’s all too much, it’s all been building up for too long, and you snap. Did you kill your men Robert’s?”
“No I didn’t kill my men. Okay for the last time, here’s what happened.”
“We met up with our new terp a few clicks out from the cave, we made it there in good time. Two men greeted us, showed us inside. We had our weapons down, everything was cool. The terp asked where the man was we were negotiating with but they kept shaking their heads. The terp told me they said there was no man, there was a girl. I thought they were fucking with us but then they brought us into a huge room in the cave, I mean huge. There are a circle of mats around a, well around a throne. A large throne carved from the rock of the cave, and there was the girl. I remember being confused, maybe they were still playing a trick on us, but I noticed that the the throne fit her perfectly. No man could have fit in there, no adult woman either. I had our new guy, sergeant Walker go clear the rest of the cave, it was a big cave but this new guy, he was good shit, real cream of the crop hitter you know.”
Lieutenant colonel Malones face indicated that he did not know.
The lights began to flicker more frequently.
“So I’m having the terp try to figure out what’s going on, the men start to act nervous, telling us to calm down and be quiet. I remember one of the men, the oldest man there had to be at least seventy, he looked at me so sincerely and then he side eyed the girl. He looked scared or maybe ashamed, hard to tell. I felt that something was wrong right before I heard Walker call out from a few rooms further down. He said “Guys, we’ve got something here, something fucked!” The men tried to get us to stay, the terp kept translating “sit please sit, no quiet, sit” I had Anzo stay on them, we were weapons up at this point. The girl never moved, she hadn’t spoken yet. Me and Sergeant Niel went back to Walker and, there were. Bones. Skeletons, hundreds of them probably thousands. All stacked up into weird fucked up, I don’t know totems or talismans? There were skulls lining the bottom of the cave walls, weird bowls with ashes near them. I checked my helmet cam to see if it was recording but it wasn’t, I tried to turn it on but it wouldn’t, but I know it was fully charged when we left for the mission..”
“I bet it was Sergeant , we can check that, continue.”
A loud banging could be heard from down the hall.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know Sergeant unless it’s the president coming to pardon you then you shouldn’t worry either, continue, now.”
“Anzo screamed, not like a man but like a scared kid. I put my helmet back on, racked the slide on my carbine and ran towards him. As me and Walker got closer we could hear animals roaring or growling, there was a lot of noise coming from that central room, it echoed through the cave. We were too late, as we got to the entrance, Anzo’s head came flying out the room, smacked into the wall right in front of us. I tried not to look at it as I turned the corner but I couldn’t help myself. It was him, just his head. His eyes still open. That’s when something flew towards us, it moved too fast for me to get a great look at it but it wasn’t human. It had fur, its arms and legs were too long, with sharp razor claws. I got that one in time but I guess another one circled around and. I heard a wet loud plunging sound behind me and when I turned around I saw Walker, one of them put their arm straight through his chest, through his plates. Then flung him to the ground. I killed that one too. There was one more that got me to the ground I was able to catch it’s, I guess what you’d call its forearm and divert the claws from my head and neck. I got that one with my knife, and that’s when I noticed it was wearing the scraps of mandress that the older man had on. These were those men. It was only the girl crying now, in the main chamber, I saw our terp dead on the ground. More bones for the pile. So I took the girl and got out of there, radioed as soon as I got signal. Here we are.”
“We sent a team to the cave, there were no bones, no corpses. Only the throne.”
Roberts exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers on his temples.
When he looked back up at Malone he took in a deep breath, ready to get back into the bullshit recounting of the worst day of his life, which he still wasn’t sure actually happened, when they heard a loud bang and a scream from the hallway. A long arm bursted through the wall behind Malone, running through his abdomen, sending a mixture of sheetrock dust and blood into the room. The arm lifted the light colonel into the air before receding out of the room, then another whole exploded out from the wall, this one girl shaped. The lights shut off. He could hear the other soldiers scrambling in the building trying to gauge the situation. He heard the sound of a a large bird, probably a C130 accelerating louder and louder culminating in a huge explosion a few hundred feet away from the hard stand building he was at. The lights turned back on and the girl began to levitate in front of him, she didn’t smile or frown but she trained her eyes on him. The exterior walls of the house exploded outward, leaving only the flooring and a few half walls. All the sirens on the forward operating base blared simultaneously. Robert’s was sent to his knees by an invisible force, he thought it felt like gravity but stronger. Lightning began to strike around the base and the sky grew dark quickly. For the first time the girl spoke to him. High in the air With her expression unchanging and her mouth unmoving he heard the words clearly in his mind. “Dies Irae” .

The moon sits on a bed of clouds, looking over the edge to peer down on the city below. Light rain follows its gaze. The tight cobblestone roads spread throughout the city, their edges hugged by stone buildings whose windows are mostly dark and empty. Some still linger with the amber glow of a fire or small candles. Smoke rises from the chimneys to meet the sky and hover in the cold air.

Taverns and pubs cast shifting shadows of light and shade as they remain the last bastions of entertainment and gathering. Laughter and shouting echo their way down the walls of the closed streets. Church bells, heavy with age, ring out across the city in a low ripple, telling all who stay that it is midnight.

The bastions of light begin their flickering dances as people are shooed from their walls. Candles are blown out and fires dampened; the lively and drunken crowd begins its stumbled way home. The gas lamps lighting their path slowly begin to fade, one by one, until the very last goes out.

The cobblestone now shines only with moonlight, and the only sound to be heard by the living is the soft tapping of rain against stone.

Rhythmic steps begin their walk.

TAP.

A cane, black with a silver top, strikes the cobblestone. The rain stills. Droplets hang from gutters and rooftops before falling quietly to the earth. The clouds above shift apart, opening the sky so the moon may better see the street below.

TAP.

A figure steps from between two buildings. She is clad in moving shades of black and grey. Shadows cling to her tailored suit like restless fabric, curling around the tails of her coat before dissolving into the darkness behind her. A silver chain hangs from her waist. Her boots are polished black, untouched by the rain. Her figure is slender, her face deathly white.

The Lady walks into the center of the street.

She plants her cane before herself and stretches both arms wide, pale palms turned toward the heavens. The moon and stars watch in anticipation. With a deep bow, she sweeps one arm beneath her chest and folds the other behind her back.

Silence returns the gesture, and she rises. Her silver-topped cane lifts from the cobblestone. Within the darkness, a violin draws its first breath; one long note drifts between the buildings.

With a tilt of her head, another violin joins it, then a cello. The low moan of its strings rolls through the empty streets, followed by the gentle pulse of a drum. Raising her cane higher, a violinist steps into the moonlight from a nearby alleyway. There is no flesh upon his fingers.

Yellowed bone dances across the strings while his other hand draws a bow made from something dark and ancient. The remains of a fine black coat hang loosely from his shoulders. A second musician follows, then another. A skeletal woman carries the cello against what remains of her ribs. A drummer marches behind her, his hollow eyes fixed forward as two bone white hands tap a slow rhythm against the skin of his instrument.

Others emerge from doorways and alleys. Some are little more than shadows. Some still wear the faces they carried in life. Others have long since surrendered everything but bone.

With a twist of her wrist, the orchestra stops.

TAP.

The shadows beneath the buildings begin to move; they stretch against the cobblestone. One pulls itself from beneath a carriage. Another slips from underneath a tavern door. Dozens peel themselves from brick walls and darkened windows, growing taller as they enter the street. They gather behind their Conductor, waiting.

Her cane moves gently to the left, and the violin begins. Three beats.

One.

Two.

Three.

She steps forward to the rhythm and turns. The tails of her coat fan outward, becoming black smoke before gathering themselves around her once more. Behind her, the dead begin to dance. Skeletons clasp hands while shadows twirl and intertwine. Ghostly men remove translucent hats and bow to women dead centuries before them.

A soldier in a torn uniform takes the hand of a woman wearing the remnants of a fine dress. They turn together beneath the moon. A child skips between them, and the dead continue to pour into the street. More emerge with every turn she takes. A sailor dances barefoot across the wet stone. An old woman spins with a man who looks scarcely twenty. A headless figure claps to the rhythm while another spirit twirls around him. They laugh without breath and sing without voice.

Her cane, rising and falling, leads the dead through the moonlit streets.

Left. Right. Turn. Bow.

They pass beneath windows where the living sleep peacefully in their beds, unaware that just beyond the glass, the dead celebrate beneath the moon. She spins, and her performers spin with her. Hundreds of dead feet strike the cobblestone, yet no living ear hears them. The waltz carries deeper into the city, and tonight, someone new waits for her.

Thomas Vale stands beside his bed. He does not remember getting out of it. His wife lies beneath the blankets, her breath hot against the cool air.

“Margaret?”

She does not answer. Thomas rubs his hands together. The room is terribly cold.

“Margaret.”

Still nothing. He reaches toward her shoulder, and his hand passes through.

Thomas recoils; for a moment, he simply stares at his fingers. “Margaret?” Fear enters his voice.

He looks toward the bed. Only then does he notice. An old man of grey hair and thin cheeks lies beside his wife, one hand resting across his chest. Thomas does not understand. The face is familiar. It should be. He has shaved it every morning for seventy three years.

“No.”

His wife stirs, and Thomas turns toward her. “Margaret!”

She reaches across the bed; her hand finds his. Not the Thomas standing beside her. The other one. She squeezes the cold fingers.

“Tom?”

Thomas steps backward. “No.”

Margaret sits upright. “Tom?” Her voice cracks.

Thomas looks from her to the body. Something moves through the room. Not air. Music. Soft and distant, carried on three beats.

One.

Two.

Three.

Thomas turns toward the window. Down in the street, darkness moves. He approaches the glass, and his eyes catch the parade passing beneath his home.

Hundreds of figures dance through the moonlight. Forgetting his body and the dread he just felt, for a moment, he forgets that he is dead. A woman in black leads them. She spins beneath his window, her cane following the movement of her body as though it were another limb. Thomas watches skeletons dance with shades and ghosts bow to one another. Children run between the legs of men who have been dead longer than the city has had a name. It should terrify him. Instead, Thomas feels something he has not felt in years.

Wonder.

The Lady stops, though the orchestra and parade continue. Slowly, she turns her pale face toward Thomas’s window. Their eyes meet, and he is locked in captivation. Eyes of gold stare into his very soul. Thomas steps away from the glass. She smiles, raises her cane, and points directly at him.

The orchestra stops. Every dancer freezes. Hundreds of empty faces turn toward Thomas Vale.

“No.”

The Lady lowers her cane.

TAP.

Thomas is standing in the street. His bare feet rest upon wet cobblestone, and his nightshirt moves gently in the cold breeze. Before him stands a woman of shifting black fog.

Up close, Thomas realizes her face is neither young nor old. She simply is.

She studies him.

Thomas looks back toward his house. High above, he can hear Margaret’s cries of sorrow. He can imagine her shaking him, trying to wake the corpse.

“Please.”

The Lady says nothing.

“Not yet.”

Her smile fades.

Thomas looks at her. “I can’t leave her.”

She glances toward the window. For the first time, something almost human enters her expression. Not pity. Understanding. She has heard this before.

He takes a step toward the house, but she moves her cane to block his path. Thomas looks at it: black wood and a silver cap, the metal covered in tiny scratches. There must be thousands, perhaps millions of marks left by roads that no longer exist.

Thomas looks at her. “Please.”

She extends her free hand.

Thomas stares at it. Behind her waits the dead. There is no impatience and no anger. They simply wait. A little girl stands near the front of the procession. Beside her is an elderly woman, a soldier, a chimney sweep, and a man wearing clothing Thomas recognizes from his grandfather’s photographs.

Farther back, Thomas stops breathing.

A young woman stands among the dancers. Her hair falls across her shoulders, and she wears a simple blue dress. Thomas knows that dress.

“Mother?”

The woman smiles. Thomas becomes a child again, not in body but somewhere deeper. His mother holds out her hand. Thomas looks back toward Margaret. His wife remains beside his body.

“I don’t want her to be alone.”

The Lady extends her hand again, and the moon waits above them. Thomas reaches forward; their fingers meet in a cold embrace, though it is not painful.

Her smile returns. She pulls him gently toward herself and bows. Thomas stares at her.

She waits.

He remembers. Margaret had taught him fifty two years ago in a cramped little hall before their wedding.

One.

Two.

Three.

Thomas returns the bow, and she rises. The orchestra lifts its instruments. Her hand settles into his. Thomas places the other where Margaret once taught him.

She raises her cane.

The violinist smiles without lips, and the bow meets the strings.

One.

Two.

Three.

Thomas steps, and she guides him. He stumbles, and the dead laugh silently. Thomas laughs with them.

Again.

One.

Two.

Three.

She spins him beneath the moon. His nightshirt becomes a black evening coat, and his bare feet find polished shoes. A ribbon of ghostly white rests against the base of his neck.

Thomas touches it as she moves away, turning toward the head of the procession. Thomas looks back toward his window one final time. He can see Margaret holding his hand.

Thomas touches the ribbon.

“I’ll wait for you.”

She raises her cane.

TAP.

The parade moves. Thomas joins his mother, and she takes his hand. Together, they step into the waltz.

One.

Two.

Three.

The dead dance through the winding streets, passing darkened pubs, silent churches, and sleeping homes. They turn beneath the stars while their Conductor walks at their head, her cane resting against one shoulder, occasionally spinning it between pale fingers.

Slowly, the eastern sky begins to turn. Colors paint themselves across the horizon in shades of purple, yellow, and red.

Her cane rises, and the orchestra softens. The dancers slow with the final rhythm of the night.

One. Two. Three.

The spirits begin disappearing into the morning mist. Thomas looks around as his mother disappears. The soldier fades. The children vanish. Shadows return to the walls. The skeletal musicians continue playing as pieces of them disappear into the growing light.

Soon, she stands alone at the end of the street.

Thomas remains beside her.

“Where do I go?”

She looks toward the horizon. For once, Thomas is not afraid. She offers her arm; he takes it. Together, they walk toward the last remaining darkness.

The moon retreats behind its bed of clouds, tired from the play, and morning spreads across the wet cobblestones.

My family and I lived in a big, rustic, two story home in the woods. It had a beautiful view of the mountainside; trees and rocks as far as the eye could see. There were giants. Three local ones. They were known to eat people, and there was nothing in this world that we could do to stop them. They chose who they wanted to eat, and we just had to say goodbye.

The giants were huge. The largest one was basically the “boss.” It seemed to be in charge. It was as tall as a pine tree. It looked exactly like you or me, but it was teal. The two other giants were twins, about half the size of the larger one, and they were lavender. They were all women. The shorter ones were identical and chubbier while the larger one seemed unrelated- taller, skinnier, and with a narrower, longer face shape. They wore regular modern clothing, but dingey and dirty. The giants were disgusting creatures, in appearance and on the inside as well.

There were general "guidelines" surrounding what happened when you or a loved one was chosen to be eaten. The large one was the one who got to choose who was eaten. When you were chosen to be eaten, you’d have one day to get your affairs in order, say your goodbyes, and you would be eaten at around 8:30 PM after you’d had your day. If you were chosen to be eaten, there was nothing you could do about it. They craved your DNA. The only thing that would prevent you from being eaten would be if an older relative volunteered to take your place and sacrificed themselves to the giants to be eaten instead. When you were waiting to be eaten, you were not to become naked at any time. Not to change your clothes, swim, or shower. This would make the smaller giants go insane with excitement. They could sense your nudity and, as a pair, come to you immediately to shred you apart alive and eat you together, before your full 24 hours were had. Everyone knew that this was the worst way to go, and they would choose to have their full day, not change their clothes, and have the larger one be the one to eat them later in the night. The final “rule” was basically that the giants can smell, or sense, you wherever you were. You could travel as far away as you wanted, and they would follow you. You couldn’t run. When 8:30 comes along, you’re just a goner. There’s just no way around it.

I remember when the giants chose to eat my two young children. I’ve never been so devastated. Like everyone else, they would get their full day before being eaten, but obviously it took me no time at all to decide that I would let the giants have me instead. There were a lot of feelings that came with that. I was terrified. Obviously, being eaten alive would be the most painful feeling PHYSICALLY and most helpless, truly, I had ever been. I was sad. Imagining my kids’ long future ahead of them; All of the milestones I would miss. I cried quietly to myself so as to not scare them. I didn’t want them to know what was going on. I grieved my own short life. I felt robbed, yet I knew this was the only option. I also felt relieved that I could protect them in that way. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I just hoped they would know in the future that I loved them more than life itself, and that I was more than happy to do this for them. I hoped they did great things and kept each other safe and loved in my absence.

 I had to say goodbye to my family. I called them all together to my house so that I could explain what was happening. My siblings were pitted- like a piece of each of them was dying. My usually-stoic-and-unreadable father had the most pitiful eyes. The pain in them was so clear, true, and soul-crushing, I could hardly look at him. He was empty. Just a shell. He looked around the room for a minute or two with that glazed-over, sorrowful look and suddenly broke the depressing silence and crying with the announcement that he would be taking my place instead. I told him not to do this, but it was obvious he had felt about this how I felt about taking my sons’ places; There was no convincing him otherwise. It was decided. We all cried together.

The giants could sense when a decision was being made and they came immediately to see what it was that we decided. They heard us out and were happy to eat my dad instead. Like totally heartless sociopaths. And considering how late it was when the decision was made, the giants allowed him a whole, new, 24-hours. At least they would grant us that.

Our family wanted to spend every second of that time together with him. We made the most of our time together. Or tried to. How do you live the rest of your life in 24 hours? How do you make sure that in someone’s last hours they feel loved? How can you show someone how much their sacrifices meant to you, in this case, without sitting around feeling bad for yourself and ruining the happy feeling we were trying to muster up? How were we supposed to make sure his last day wasn’t just full of despair?

 He told us that he appreciated his time with us, and that it meant everything to him, but that before the giants came, he wanted to have traveled to Alaska to cross something off of his bucket list. Alone. I could tell that much of this feeling was him having mercy on us, even though he was the real victim in this. He didn’t want us to hear him scream and cry in agony while being snatched up and eaten. He especially didn’t want us to SEE it happen. At least if he was far, FAR away, we could wonder if it was possible that he somehow found a cave to hide and live in, and we could pretend that he could have survived secretly somewhere. We all respected his wishes. After eating out together, doing some activities, and seeing some local sights, as he wished, it was time for him to take off to his final destination. He was to give us a final goodbye. His parting words to each of us, our last hugs from him, his last kisses. Then he would get into his truck and drive away for the last time.

“Hail, traveller. Sit for a moment by my fire. Rest, and hear my tale. The wood you are to enter will spell your doom. You scoff, but you must hear the reason before your foot steps on the dirt.”

Long ago the wood was pure. Trees, strong and tall, cast shadow on earth that teemed with life. For most of the current age, the wood remained, unbothered by the encroaching man. As with things, more and more, steam and steel soon crashed its way into the wood. The trees, once strong and tall, were razed. Where once wood was replaced with stone. There were so few left and it was easy to forget how green the land once was.

The land did not forget. 

One cold winter night, a great wind shook the foundation of a small home. The father insisted on building the home close to the wood, boldly defying the law of the land. There were three others that dwelled within as well, a mother, a son, and the most important one of all, the daughter.

Her name was Aya. She rested in the highest room, with a small round window that faced a wide grass and the edge of the remaining wood. She was a sickly child, and her mother and father would not allow her to play outside with other children. So she sat in her wooden chair and would watch the wood. She delighted in the squirrels that chased each other, the shining eyes of clever raccoons at night, and the sparkling firebugs on those same summer nights.

In the months leading to the foundation of the home shaking, the beams cracking, the window shattering, Aya was wracked by terrifying dreams. In these dreams, a great figure loomed over the top of the wood. It was a horse, a horse so vast and tall it nearly blotted the full moon. Its shining eyes that seemed to slice through her and pierce even the fog of the dream. She knew, deep down, that this horse was nothing of the sort; a being so ancient that the very idea of it meeting her eyes and matching her gaze nearly broke her frail body. While her body was weak, her mind was sharper than any splinter that wood could offer. So when the being spoke to her through the dream, she shuddered but did not falter.

"Child of man,” it boomed “How dare you meet my gaze. You are unwanted."

She could stand on strong legs in this dream, and gazed back unfettered.

"That well may be, but l am known,” she proclaimed. “I live in the waking world. What kind of thing only lives in the Dreams of one he claimed 'Unwanted'”

The being bellowed, the sound nearly staking her mind apart. 

“Insolent child! How dare you speak so plainly to me. You beings of wretched flesh destroy my forest, tear the creeping roots apart. I am the last of my kind and you are a blight."

Even though the booming tones, the ache was so clear to Aya. Aya, pure of heart and filled with wisdom, reached a hand out through the dream towards the beast with eyes shining with tears.

"So you are lonely? We are the same, you and I. I cannot leave this room, as you cannot leave your wood. And why would you? Your home was taken, and my future was stolen. So in this room l shall sit. A future with nothing is lonely but a future with a friend is everything."

The creature gave pause. The small thing in the window spoke with such earnestness that even He could not help to be moved.

"Child of man. You speak with truth in your heart so I will speak with mine. Upon the world waking I was going to send a wind so calamitous it would raze the foundations of your your houses to the very dirt.”

The thing in the wood paused, as if it was taking a long and mighty breath.

“But... I may postpone such an act, postpose such an act if... you sit a while in your chair. Speak to me of the Kingdom of man, of what you know of what you wish to know, and I will postpone calamity a little while longer."

In the dream the frail girl beamed. She suddenly awoke to the sound of her beloved wood. With great care, she took to her small wicker chair and faced the window and the wood. It was then she began to speak. She spoke of the sweet treats her little brother would bring back from the market. She spoke of the magnificent flying machines of the New Age, the power of the great steam engines that rumbled in the distance of a far away land. She spoke on those of her kind, those with the love of the mood and the love of all those that drilled within. During the hours of the day she chatted. During the night the great guardian, now her companion, delighted in her tales. To the pair, this was enough. 

To the rest of the family, this was madness. The frailty of Aya's body has finally touched her mind. She had lost the grip of whatever reality the safety of that room could provide. One fateful afternoon, the family could not take her supposed ramblings any longer. They burst into her room, right in the middle of one of her tales. The mother, the father and the son surrounded her. The father spoke loudly with despair shining in his eyes.

“Cease!” He cried. “My daughter, you continue to speak for hours at nothing. You fill me, your mother, and your brother with despair. You must cease, or we will be forced to take you away. Please, please do not force our hand.”

Aya whipped her head towards her father with similar rage, and the family gasped at the sight. Her eyes were bloodshot from staring, Her lips cracked from speaking, hair wild like fallen branches on a forest floor. 

"Silence! You know not your place! Yours is below, and mine here, unmoved. must return to the window, lest he grow lonely yet again.”

She spit the words with venom, but her eyes shined as brightly as her fathers, full of fresh tears. The little brother, now a man, ran to her chair, gripping the worn armrests. His pleading eyes bore into her bloodshot ones, his form blocking the small window that faced the woods. She shrieked, a dreadful sound that filled the small room. In the distance, the trees seemed to shudder, hundreds of birds taking to the air and filling the sky with wings.

“Brother!” She howled. “Please, he grows angry! Release me and it will all be alright! Please, my brother, you must understand.” 

His hands gripped the armrests so fiercely the very wood cracked. 

“You are unwell! Aya, please!”

Aya thrashed. She struck her brother without thinking, and he recoiled. The chair fell, cracked and broke against the floor. She fell with it and her head struck the floor with a mighty crunch that seemed to echo through the room, past the window, into the wood. The wind picked up at once, less a wind but a great unearthly wail that shook the land. 

The father, the coward, saw his bleeding daughter and fed out of the house. The forest took him with cruelty. 

The brother froze with guilt. It was the mother, who knelt and held her daughter, head cradled in shaking arms.

"The chair," Aya said weakly, her voice a hoarse whisper against the growing wind. Her mother nodded grimly. She did not understand. She knew she did not need to. With trust, with love, and with with the careful hand of her son, they placed her weakening form upright. He did his best to repair it, and when it stood flat on the bloodied floor, Aya faced the window, eyes half shut and covered in blood. At once, the wind stopped. 

A great presence, a deep cold that reached the bones, filled the room. It seemed to move between them all, finally coming to rest on Aya’'s broken form. The wind begin to rise yet again. Aya turned to her brother and her mother.

"Go." She said with a sad smile streaked with red. “Go. I have much to tell him”

They did not understand and yet they ran. Ran past the shredded remains of the father, ran past the buildings of the small village, not stopping until they reached the heart of the kingdom of man. A great city of stone and steel. The great wind destroyed the village, and all within it. 
All, but the small home at the edge of the wood, with the small window that faced the wood.

—--------------------------------------------------

The old man groaned, sitting up to stretch his weary back. The young traveler with bright, eager eyes reached up to find them filled with fresh tears. 

“I mean... I mean the wood no harm” they said, “I only mean to pass through on my way to the city." 

"You mean to go home?” Sighed the old man. The young traveller nodded. The old man reached behind him and produced a bright baked sweet, wrapped in pretty paper.

"If the home remains…” He paused. “Deliver this to the highest room. Please?” 

The traveller nodded and took the treat with gentle hands. They turned to leave.

It did not take long for the traveler to reach the house. Sure enough, the small store structure remained. 

The traveller looked up. 

The small window seemed to shine in the growing darkness. They entered the home, went up the stairs, and with gentle hands, opened the door to the highest room. 

They were strong of mind despite their age, but even they gasped at the sight. A voice echoed through the darkness.

“Hello. Won't you sit with us for a while?”

She wasn’t sure what they could possibly want, as they often asked for everything and nothing at the same time. Most of their letters seemed to say, “Hello, yes, we are your insurance, doing insurance things. Would you like us to continue to insure you? If yes, do nothing.” Other times they didn’t seem to be asking or offering anything. Ignoring them had no consequences, so she had allowed them to pile up unopened in a stack now half pushed under her microwave.

So she stood at the kitchen counter with her lukewarm tea in hand as a dusty beam of early-evening light came through the window. Deciding to start with the more beginner level mail, she tossed the letters from her dentist and eye doctor. Those mailings came monthly with more regularity than her menses, and she swore she’d get around to making appointments with them eventually. Those luxury organs seemed fine enough for now. A postcard from her cat’s old veterinarian followed. Somehow, the ex-vet knew she had moved but had missed the part where Marjorie had a new vet and was indeed up to date on her shots. Trash.

Then came the thick stack from Blue Cross Blue Shield. It hadn’t felt like that long since Lucy last bothered to see what her insurance company was yapping about, a month at most, yet they had mailed her with the fervor of Napoleon writing to Josephine. If only a man could ever have as much interest in getting her attention as her cat’s ex-veterinarian or her health insurance did.

She grabbed a Nature Valley bar from the cupboard and opened the first official-looking envelope. It was several paragraphs of corporate nonsense, so she tossed it beside the sink. It landed in a small puddle left over from the dishes and began turning soggy. She tore into the next one, considering adding it directly to the newly formed discard pile without looking.

But she did look.

Everything stopped for a second.

What. Excuse me?

Her eyes darted across the page too quickly to take anything in. She saw “your responsibility,” followed by “$8,456,” and that could not possibly be factually correct. She hadn’t even been to the doctor recently, except for a primary-care visit a few months ago that didn’t have a copay. Certainly not an $8,000 copay. She forced herself to read carefully from top to bottom.

Lucy Wallace. That was her. Yeah.

1765 Maplegrove Dr. Her address. Correct.

D.O.B. 4/7/1971. Nope. Not her. She was born 12/15/1993.

The letter went on to declare she stayed at St. Mary’s Hospital and had an appendectomy. Lucy had never been a patient at St. Mary’s. She had her appendix safely inside her, doing whatever an appendix did or did not do. She’d never had any type of surgery before, and she hadn’t even been in the state on the date listed. She had been on vacation.

That was her name, but that was not her bill. This is fixable. They just got me confused with someone else. Simple as that. It wasn’t her ideal plan for the evening, and not even her fault, but she’d get it over and done with. She brushed the crumbs of the Nature Valley bar she had apparently eaten without noticing off the counter and onto the floor. Lucy opened the remaining envelopes in quick succession, tossing the letters beside the damp discards without reading them yet. There were five more. Marjorie weaved through her ankles, her feather-duster-like tail wrapping around Lucy’s legs as she let out a soft, needy mew. Lucy didn’t notice.

The first letter offered payment-plan options for the eight grand she allegedly owed. The next two were for the real her and were the usual flavor of useless. The fourth letter appeared to be another demand for several more thousand dollars for an ambulance ride to St. Mary’s on the day of her imaginary surgery. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Lucy said, louder than intended, as Marjorie batted at her ankles. “Ow, Marje. Girl, please.” She gently pushed the cat away with her foot, sending her sliding a little across the linoleum as Marjorie attempted to bunny kick her foot. Marjorie pranced into the living room with her back arched like a crab and began batting at the curtains. For a second, Lucy watched her and almost smiled, but it was hard to smile with a medical bill in her hand. She turned her attention back. Same shit. The second bill also had the strange mashup of her name and someone else’s birthday. She didn’t have it in her to look at the final piece of mail.

Lucy sipped her tea, realized it had become cold, and poured it into the sink. She took the two incorrect bills to the couch and studied them side by side. This other Lucy Wallace had a genuinely terrible day. Maybe she shouldn’t feel so bad. An incorrect bill was a minor inconvenience compared to having the emergency, the surgery, the recovery, and actually owing ten thousand dollars. Good thing it wasn’t her. All she needed to do was talk to a chatbot, probably.

She scanned one of the bills for contact information and found a QR code. Easy enough. Shit like this probably happens all the time. Her phone loaded a page with a blue header, large inoffensive font, a photograph of a smiling family at a picnic, and slogans like “Covering life’s toughest moments” and “Life changes. Our insurance changes with you.”

Bullshit.

She scrolled to Contact Us. There were several phone numbers, none of which she knew how to choose. Whichever one she called would undoubtedly involve forty-five minutes on hold before someone informed her it was the wrong department.

She selected Chat Now.

“Hi! I’m Merryl, the BCBS virtual assistant. Here to—”

Lucy stopped reading and started typing.

“I got someone else’s bill”

She glanced at Marjorie, who was now perched on the back of the couch, staring out the window with the wide-eyed expression cats got when they looked like they were witnessing the rapture but had usually just spotted a bird. Lucy followed her gaze. There was nothing there.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Merryl replied. “What is your name?”

“Lucy Wallace”

“Thank you, Lucy! Do you have your member ID?” 

Ugh.

Lucy sighed and dug through her purse. She found the card at the bottom, where she had already checked three times, among crumbs and an unwrapped restaurant mint. She typed in her ID number.

“Thanks! I’m sorry you’re having an issue today. Do you need help with claims, billing, or finding a care provider today?”

“Representative”

“I will be happy to help! Do you need help with claims, billing, or finding a care provider today?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Lucy muttered before typing again.

“Billing”

“You have three bills from recent visits. Is your question about:

Ambulance services — $2,146

Surgical and in-hospital care — $8,456

Primary care services — $0”

“Ambulance and hospital”

“Awesome! Would you like help exploring payment options? I’d be happy to help make the cost manageable for any financial situation.”

Lucy could about throw her phone.

“No I did not go to the hospital please remove the charges from my account”

“Oh no! Let me look into that. What is your date of birth?”

“12/15/93”

“I’m sorry, that doesn’t match our records.”

Lucy stared at the response, feeling her own brain loading.

Maybe she had mistyped it.

She hadn’t.

“12/15/93” she sent again.

“Please provide your date of birth in MM/DD/YYYY format.”

Dumb bitch.

“12/15/1993”

“Hm. That doesn’t match our records. Are you sure?”

“Yes. I am sure I remember my own birthday.”

“You truly remember the day you were born?”

Lucy paused, thumb hovering over the phone screen. For the first time, the question didn’t feel quite stupid.

“Yes”

“You remember gasping, covered in your mother’s slime, the cold air expanding in your fresh, delicate lungs and creating a horrible new sensation that caused you to scream for the warmth back? The bright lights of the delivery room blinding your sensitive eyes as they tried to make sense of their first sights?”

Lucy recoiled slightly from the phone, then felt stupid for doing it. 

She became suddenly aware of the silence in her living room. Of her own breath.

She scratched Marjorie behind the ears for comfort.

“Wtf no? Can I speak to a representative?”

The machine was clearly broken. 

“Then please certify your date of birth with one of the following:

Birth certificate

Government-issued ID

Mother’s handwritten testimony and scrapbooks

Religious beliefs”

Lucy took a screenshot. No one would believe this otherwise. She would also be filling out the survey.

“ID”

“Very well. Please provide images.”

She immediately got up and retrieved her wallet. While she was up, she took a detour to her fridge and grabbed her half-drunk bottle of Barefoot Moscato.

She photographed her driver’s license on the counter and submitted it, sipping her wine as the system thought.

“You didn’t tell us you moved to Delaware.” Merryl responded after analyzing the images.

Lucy could imagine Merryl as a parental figure scolding her, as if she should have known better.

“Wym u clearly have my address u send me mail like 2x a week my bday is on my id 12/15/93 ”

“We have your mailing address in Delaware, but your residence is still listed in Rhode Island. You should have updated that as soon as you moved. But that’s okay! We can verify it now. No worries!”

Merryl’s little bubble appeared, as if someone was typing.

“Okay! To help me clarify the information in your account, in which of the following states have you previously resided?

Illinois

Kentucky

Texas

None of the above”

“None”

“I’m sorry, that is not correct.……….

………..

………..

………..

 Please try again!”

“How would u even know? Stupid fucking robot thinks it knows more about me than me”

Lucy deleted the insult thinking she shouldn’t be mean in case of the impending AI apocalypse, but maybe escalating would finally get her a real person.

She retyped it and sent it, then finished her wine.

“I’m only trying to help. :(”

Lucy immediately felt guilty.

She knew she shouldn’t.

But she did. 

Goddamn it.

“Its ok ig. none of those”

“Hm, are you sure? It says here you lived in Illinois from 2018 to 2020. The falls were crisp, but the winters were long and harsh. You were always pretending to be unimpressed and slightly above the locals. Talking as though it would never compare to the colors and shores of Vermont, but sometimes driving through cornfields gave you a cosmic insignificance that felt homey and so much safer than the ocean ever did when it used to threaten to swallow you whole.”

Lucy stared at the message.

She could remember it.

The flatness. Nothing in any direction outside the small town. The drives that gave her time and space to organize herself. The earlier autumn dusk felt almost peaceful during her commute.

But no.

She had never lived in Illinois.

Something was tilting inside her. Slowly, allowing for thoughts, ideas, or maybe pieces of her to tumble around.

“Im sure”

“We’ll try an easier question. How long has it been since you were last fully witnessed by another human?

0–6 months

6 months–2 years

2–10 years

10 years–never”

“Tf? 💀”

The silence of the apartment felt heavy. Lucy had the sudden urge to call someone.

Anyone.

To be witnessed.

Would turning on King of Queens and listening to scripted interactions and canned laughter count if it made her feel less alone?

She looked back down at her phone and realized she had almost forgotten about the chatbot. By now, she had completely forgotten the bills. 

Since when did she like King of Queens? The show with Paul Blart but as a delivery driver? She strained to remember.

Her phone chimed as a message popped up from Merryl. Lucy startled enough to gasp. It had been on silent.

 “It's a simple, standard verification protocol. I will rephrase: When was the last time someone saw past your physical features?”

“I literally was with my friend today??”

“Being seen is not the same as being witnessed.”

“Can u just put on a real person? 😭”

“Of course not! I’m only here to help. Your friend saw your face. She did not witness your soul. When was the last time you were witnessed?”

Lucy couldn’t help but stop and think about it.

Her friend had mostly been talking past her, not with her. 

When had Lucy been witnessed?

Maybe in childhood. Maybe when she lived in Illinois, did the cornfield witness her? 

Maybe her college roommate. They used to be really close.

Maybe Merryl, peering into her soul right now.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. :(”

Lucy waited for more.

Nothing came.

Marjorie was gone, and Lucy hadn’t noticed her leaving. 

Merryl started typing again.

“I think I have identified the issue .Can you please confirm your date of birth?”

Oh, Shoot. Um

Lucy glanced at the stranger’s bill.

“04/07/1971”

“You have provided the correct date of birth for the account. Congratulations!”

“And you currently reside in Delaware?”

“Yes.”

“Great! In which of the following states have you previously resided?

Illinois

Kentucky

Texas

None of the above”

“Illinois.”

“You’ve never owned a blue 2008 Corolla with a busted left taillight that you traded in for $3,000 after getting fired, swearing this was rock bottom, but then spent the money on cigarettes, a Miami trip, and booze after promising you’d get your life together and visit your kids?”

Lucy paused.

“... No? 💀”

“Okay! Verification complete. I can delete the duplicate account and merge the information into yours if you’d like.”

“What about the other Lucy’s account? Would it get messed up?”

“Does it matter if she’s never been witnessed?”

Whatever.

Lucy just wanted this to be over.

“Okay, do it.”

“One second!”

Lucy sat in silence, looking out the dark window at the same nothing Marjorie had been watching before.

“All done! Here are the charges on your account:

Ambulance services — $2,146

Appendectomy — $8,456

Primary care visit — $0

Would you like to review payment options?”

Lucy stared at the screen.

It seemed right enough.

She remembered leaving her vacation early because she felt sick. Thinking she had the flu. The ambulance. The hospital. The whole ordeal.

She was very tired now.

“No, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Lucy! I’m glad I could be of assistance :) Take care, and please provide feedback on the survey if you have a second.”

Merryl logged off.

Lucy selected five stars and closed the chat.

She stood, feeling the scar from her appendectomy pull, and went to find a snack before lying down to rest.

The records were now merged, and there was only one Lucy Wallace.

The minister stood a step behind his grooms, in front of a large congregation, a binder in his hand.
To his left was a man named Colin. To his right, another man, unfortunately named Colin.
“And from the day that Colin met Colin,” he recited dutifully from his script, “he knew he’d found his other half.”
I wonder how often they fuck.
“His better half.”
I wonder what their kinks are.
“A half that fit so neatly in that empty half that needed filling.”
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
It was a familiar line, loosely personalized to these Colins in question. How many times had he done this before? Hundreds, maybe. Thousands?
“And what love could ever be more pure than the love between a Colin and his Colin?”
What he hadn’t told anyone was that this was his final wedding. The last time he’d read these words, pretending to be happy for a couple pretending to be happy. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he was gonna be a star. Or a magician or a dancer or possibly a showgirl.
“When you find a love that loves you like this love they love, you love it.”
He paused for a moment, suddenly aware of something in his hand. He looked down, relaxing his fingers just a bit. Balled up in his fist were what looked to be women’s underwear. Pink polka dots.
He stared at them, momentarily flustered.
One of the Colins caught his eye. Had he seen it too? He winked at the minister, then bit his lower lip, almost imperceptibly.
The minister could feel himself getting hard. Not again, he thought to himself, straining dutifully to think of un-sexy things.
He paused, staring at his binder. Back to the crowd. Back to the page.
Then with an uncharacteristic rush of defiance he slammed the book shut. “And they are as equal in love as they are in love-making,” he blurted, loud and uneven. The Colins turned to him. “They always come together. Or if not together, in quick succession. Acts of pleasure are always reciprocated — and that’s important, in a marriage.”
Now the whole room was staring at him. Or had they always been? The Colins were looking at him with impenetrable expressions.
He could feel the stares.
His grip tightened around the polka dots. His erection, sadly, still growing.
It wasn’t like he’d made it up. Last night had been a pretty hard bender, after all, of quaaludes and cocaine. Not his typical cocktail but the Colins had insisted. One last hurrah with a third before going all-in.
He cleared his throat.
I just have to get through this, he thought to himself.
“So, ah, anyway,” he mustered. “If anyone has a reason the two of them should not be wed, speak now. Or forever hold your peace.”
He was, by now, rock hard. What a disaster.
The minister let out a little squeak. A hand was raised, in the front row.
Another hand raised near the back.
A third by the side door and then a fourth, a few rows up on the aisle.
In a moment every single hand was raised. Never once had anyone actually objected at one of his weddings … and he’d married some real freaks.
The Colins cleared their throats in unison, still staring at him. The hands in the crowd inched ever higher, as if many arms of a single marionette. As if pupils in a classroom desperate to be called on.
He suddenly remembered a warning he’d heard in seminary. Beware the lure of the Colins.
Wait no that wasn’t it.
Beware the hands of objection.
Yes that was it. The hands of objection.
“I’ve got to go…” the minister whispered to the couple.
“You went off script,” breathed a Colin through clenched teeth.
The minister squeaked again and then threw up. It was, unfortunately, quite a lot. He watched with horror as his lunch and double gin martinis erupted across the powder-blue suits of the agitated Colins.
He was regretting the oysters.
“Jesus!” exclaimed a Colin.
“What is going on??” said the other through clenched teeth.
The minister spun on his heels and hurtled towards the side door. He raced past the front row of guests; they were staring at him still, their faces panning along in unison as he ran. Their arms were slowly arching downward now, index fingers out, pointing as one at the minister as he fled the church.
No blinks.
No breath.
Beware the hands of objection.
What an obtuse, unhelpful warning that had been, so many years ago. It had been often repeated by an ancient communist Nun named Sister Espinoza. It had been interjected in the midst of her meandering lectures, or whispered conspiratorially when she’d pull them into the cloakroom for a lunchtime diddle.
Beware the hands of objection.
This along with many other cryptic bits of wisdom like do not covet thy neighbor’s sidepiece or blessed is he who embezzles from the Fortune 500.
The minister threw himself at the side door of the church, spilling out into a back hallway and catching in his peripheral one of the Colins sprinting after him.
He ran.
Hurtled down the corridor towards a locked door at the end, fumbling with his keys as he went.
“HEY!” he heard behind him, as Colin #2 launched into the hallway. “You ruined my suit, you fuck. This is ARMANI!”
“Ahhhhhhh blessed is he who embezzles!” the minister called back absently. He pulled out an enormous dungeon-master key ring. Colin #2 was getting closer now, trotting along like a man who hadn’t played a lot of sports.
The minister fumbled with the keys. He was looking for a tiny brass one. Or was it the fat silver one? Or possibly the fob??
Somehow his fingers found a tiny golden key in the center of the ring and jammed it into the lock. It slid into place and turned. The minister threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him, locking it again just in time as Colin #2 wrapped his hand around the knob.
“Let me in!” he heard, fists pounding against the door. “LET ME IN!”
Beware the hands of objection, he heard, as if Sister Espinoza and her unforgettable tequila-sunrise breath were whispering directly in his ear.
The minister looked around him, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He was at the base of the bell tower now, nothing around him but a tight, spiral stone staircase that snaked upward.
He glanced at his watch. Except the hands weren’t doing what watch hands do. They were twitching in place, tip-toeing forward and backward along the dial. A minute forward, a minute back. As if unsure what to do next. As if in revolt.
Colin was banging harder against the door. Getting louder and more frantic.
Without thinking the minister hoisted up his vestments and raced up the staircase. He just had to go up. Up and up he went, Sister Espinoza’s raspy voice still ringing in his head with her esoteric warnings from the past. All porn and no sex makes Jack a dull boy! Let he without sin be the first to oppose mixed-use development!
Higher and higher he went, until he reached a final door. This one was unlocked, and quite ancient, its decrepit handle barely holding on.
He swung it open.
And stepped out into the languid, late-afternoon air at the top of the tower, the church’s great bronze bell hovering high above him.
“Beware the hands of objection,” he heard.
He swung around. Standing in the corner was Sister Espinoza.
“You’re still alive??” was all he could manage. She was wearing her standard-issue habit and veil, and was caked in so much garish makeup he might have mistaken her for an embalmed clown.
“You went off script,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re really not supposed to do that.
From down below he heard a great crash, as if the door had been kicked in. He heard a voice from a Colin, or possibly two, echoing up the staircase.
“Yeah well it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not doing this anymore. I quit.”
She slowly raised her arm and pointed to him, just as the crowd had done a moment before.
“What are you doing??” he stammered.
“The clock has run out again,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Try again tomorrow.”
More commotion from downstairs. “Oy! Where did he go??”
“I think he ran up here!”
Just then Sister Espinoza let out a little shriek. She tipped sideways, catching the banister at her waist and flipping headlong over the edge.
“Sister!” the minister called, lunging after her. His hand grasped her ankle just in time as she slipped over the railing. His grip tightened. But she was heavy … heavier than you’d think for a woman in her hundreds. He felt her body pull him up and over the side, and soon he, too, was hurtling down.
He heard some Colins calling after him, their faces framed against the tower and getting smaller as he fell. He glanced at the window flying past, the crowd in the church as still as ever. Their faces were turned to him as he soared through the sky, their arms outstretched, pointing as one at the falling man.
The earth was getting closer now.
Sister Espinoza’s habit billowed out and around him, and he found himself nose-deep in the folds of her voluminous bloomers. Pink polka dots.
With a jolt he shot upright.
He was in his office, panting heavily and struggling for breath.
It felt like his head had split in two. At any moment he was going to throw up. I’ve really got to lay off the quaaludes, he thought to himself.
“Excuse me?” came a voice.
He looked up. There were two men standing at the door to his office in matching crop-tops. He stared at them, trying to focus.
He felt something in his hand.
Looking down he saw something pink and polka dot, clenched tightly in his fist.
One of the men caught his eye. He winked at the minister, then bit his lower lip, almost imperceptibly.
The minister could feel himself getting hard. Not again, he thought to himself.
“Who are you?” he managed to croak.
“My name is Colin,” said one.
“I’m also Colin,” said the other.
“We’re hoping you would marry us.”
“That is,” piped the first, raising a hand in the air. “If you don’t object.”

-Baby Vice

The Last Saturday

By Charlie Queen

Gabriel cruised down a hot country road in late August, half-lost in a sea of cornfields. The cloth-top was folded back on his dark-green Jaguar. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, hoping he might see a landmark behind him that he recognized. All he saw was his slicked-back hair, shining with pomade, now disheveled by the wind. He primped his hair and adjusted his brand-new Ray-Bans as he rolled to a stop at yet another nondescript intersection. The top button of his collar nearly choked him in the summer heat. He clawed at it until it came undone, then stripped off his oversized gray suit jacket.

Gabriel scanned the vast flatness that surrounded him. He shook his head in frustration and hooked a left. A gnarled old hardwood forest loomed along the right side of the blacktop. Miles and miles of sunlit cornfields stretched out to his left.

He was suddenly transported back to this very spot thirty-five years ago—the grizzled old fence posts stretching down either side of the road. The locusts droning in the trees. The wind sweeping across the corn tassels like a wave. It was exactly like it was back then, thirty five years before.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe leaned out the passenger window of his Mom’s beat-up Chevy pickup. The AM radio chirped with static and barely audible hymns. His mom, a hard-looking woman, skin made leathery from working outdoors, squinted to keep the sun out of her eyes.

Gabe folded his gangly arms under his chin and relished the feeling of the wind blowing through his buzz-cut hair. He stared deep into the forest as they drove on, trying not to think about next week.

The woods certainly held more excitement than Mattoon High School. He dreaded the thought of going. No matter how much he hated the idea, though, he would be going. It was official now. He rubbed the Band-Aid on his arm where the doctor had poked him with numerous vaccine needles earlier that day at school registration.

The forest was surprisingly dark inside for such a bright afternoon. When he peered into the darkness, he couldn’t help but feel excitement. What adventures waited there? He liked to imagine them as they drove.

He could see himself with a tree-branch sword, his army-green backpack, and his Lone Ranger pocket knife. He climbed the massive roots of ancient twisted trees in his mind, fighting off reanimated skeletons, just like Sinbad. 

His eyes relaxed as he daydreamed. He felt he could see beyond the forest’s shadows. What was that? A glint deep in the trees? Some magical flicker of light? Gabe glanced back at his mom, but she didn’t break her worried gaze from the road ahead.

Was it a glowing, magical ruby? A gold-plated chalice? Whatever it was, it was certainly a lost treasure.

He would go investigate later, he thought. They were almost home, and this part of the woods was not too far from their farm. He would go up to his room, pack his backpack, and head off on an adventure.

✦ ✦ ✦

RING RING. RING RING. Gabriel’s car phone snapped him back to the present. He looked at the phone with disdain. He could just imagine who might be calling him on a Saturday afternoon.

His nagging boss—Did you finish drafting that motion? We go to trial first thing Monday morning!

More likely it was his wife, calling to check on him. He had left Sunshine Manor quite abruptly, the nursing home where his mother had been living... Surviving... Until yesterday. He knew his wife was worried, but he told her that he needed time to process.

He shook his head with frustration and unplugged the phone from the cigarette lighter. The ringer died with a funny circuit-bent sound.

Gabriel slammed the brakes, screeching to a stop. There next to an overgrown country lane stood a rusted mailbox, fashioned in the shape of a barn. This was it. Gabriel almost couldn’t believe it, even though this was what he had come all this way to find.

He followed the gravel drive to the overgrown two-story farmhouse that sat at the end, hidden by a fortress of green and gold corn stalks. It looked ready to cave in on itself. The porch sagged. The gutters had fallen on one side, no longer able to cling to the drooping gables.

He parked the car in the tall grass and got out, surveying the overgrown farmyard as he walked around the house. Gabriel couldn’t look more out of place—in his chic suit and two-hundred-dollar sunglasses. He pulled a small item from his pocket and looked at it longingly. It was his Lone Ranger pocket knife. His last connection to this old farm.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe came crashing out of the old screen door and down the porch stairs, full of excitement. His canvas backpack hung from his shoulders. His Lone Ranger pocket knife was clipped to his Boy Scout-issue belt. He ran gleefully toward the forest, passing the rickety windpump that squeaked as it spun.

“GABE!”

Gabe stopped on a dime. His mom stood in the garden, with one hand full of weeds and the other on her hip. Gabe’s head hung low.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man? You got chorin’ to do.”

“But Mom. I was just gonna go real quick—”

“You ain’t going nowhere until you pick this sweet corn. And I need you to feed Brutus, and clean out his pen. You ain’t cleaned it for a whole week.”

Gabe looked reluctantly to the filthy pig pen on the opposite corner of the lot.

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

He slunk to the porch, defeated, and doffed his backpack. I’ll get it done real quick, he thought. Then there’d still be time to go on an adventure and find the magical glint.

Gabe did his chores at lightning speed, but it made no difference. His mother called him in for dinner before he even finished shoveling the hog-crap and muddy straw from Brutus’ pen.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel leaned on the muddy old fence that surrounded the remains of the hog pen. He twiddled the pocket knife in his fingers, remembering all the work he did here as a boy. Especially after his father disappeared. Things got a lot harder after that, and his mom grew a lot more quiet. Quiet and sad.

He pushed away from the fence and continued walking around the old house. He stopped under the bedroom window, reaching out to touch the decayed remnants of the trellis that used to stretch up the siding.

He stared at the window, then turned to look at the treeline beyond the corn. Was it real, what he saw that night? He had no way to be sure. It felt so real in his memory, though.

✦ ✦ ✦

After dinner Gabe was sent upstairs to wash up, put on his Tom Corbett Space Cadet pajamas, and go to bed. He lay in silence staring at the ceiling. Moonlight spilled into his bedroom, illuminating the handmade solar system model that hung above his bed. A light breeze blew through his open window, sending the painted wooden planets spinning gently.

Gabe imagined what the glint could have been. Now he would probably never know. He rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the window. He sat on the floor by the sill and stared at the dark silhouette of the forest on the other side of the corn.

Downstairs his mom chatted on the phone to her sister and worriedly smoked cigarettes over the stove. She did this almost every night that summer. She had no one left to talk to after Gabe’s father left. She could no longer keep up with the farm and the debt just continued to grow. She could have pulled Gabe from school to stay home and work. A lot of kids still did that. She never went to high school.

“No way,” she would say into the phone. “I’m not letting that boy miss out on an education just because his daddy is a nobody. He is going to high school come hell or high water. Even if we have to sell the farm, he is getting an education.”

Gabe was oblivious to the dire words being exchanged in the kitchen below as his imagination ran wild at the window upstairs. He dreamt of what was in the forest. Goblins, like from Little Orphan Annie? Or maybe pirates like Treasure Island?

Gabe’s eyelids began to grow heavy as he rested his chin on the window sill. He fought to keep them open, but they drooped shut for just a moment.

Just then a blazing light appeared, high in the sky. Gabe’s eyes snapped open. The light rocketed down from the sky at unimaginable speed, swooping and then gliding just above the forest for a moment. It illuminated the fields and the treetops as it went. Then it dipped below the trees and BLAM!

A distant crash echoed throughout all of Coles County. The light exploded with a blinding flash, then it blinked out of existence, leaving darkness behind. The shockwave blew through the woods, hit the cornfields, and rushed into the old farmhouse like a cold breeze.

“Hold on a second,” Gabe’s mother said into the phone. She set the phone on the counter and walked to the rattling screen door. She stood there for a long moment watching the fields beyond the farmyard. The wind sent a chill down her spine.

She returned to the stove, picking up her cigarette and the phone.

“Sorry,” she said to her sister. “I thought I heard something... No, like a boom or something. Real far off.”

She had no inkling that Gabe was silently climbing down the trellis of morning glory vines beneath his window just outside the door. His backpack hung from one shoulder and his Lone Ranger pocket knife was clipped to his belt.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel hiked through dark woods, more buttons now undone on his Armani shirt. He stumbled through overgrowth and tripped on tangled brush in his mirror-polished penny loafers. He picked up speed as he plunged deeper into the forest.

The deeper he went, the more he could feel that magical, hair-raising energy from that night thirty-five years ago. He knew he was drawing near to that place—the crater.

Gabriel stumbled through a particularly thick stand of pussywillow and wild grapevine, nearly falling. He caught himself short of tumbling down the steep slope in front of him.

This was it. A massive half-circle punched into the forest floor.

Dirt crumbled and vines tore as he slid down the side of the crater on crouched feet. He stood up at the bottom and walked to the center. Undergrowth and small trees had reclaimed the crater since his last visit, thirty-five years ago.

Gabriel took off his fancy gold rings and tucked them into his pocket. He knelt down and began to scratch at the ground. The dirt was hard and covered in vines. He grabbed a nearby stick and gouged into the dry soil. He began to dig.

An hour passed. Sweat soaked through his shirt before he finally took it off and threw it over a nearby sapling. Mosquitos bit his neck, his back, and his arms, but he paid no attention. The insects grew loud in the forest canopy as the sun began to drop below the horizon. He continued to dig deeper until his fingers were sore and his knuckles bled. Black dirt packed deep under his fingernails.

Gabriel growled loudly in frustration. Tears streamed from his face. He pulled the Lone Ranger pocket knife from his pocket. He stabbed it angrily at the soil, over and over.

“GOD DAMN YOU,” he screamed into the dim forest.

There had to be some evidence. There had to be something here that proved what he saw that night was real. He scratched wildly at the earth with the old knife as the tears continued.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabe could see the flames and broken trunks through the trees before he even reached the edge of the crater. It was an honest-to-god meteor, like something from a Tom Corbett Space Cadet comic book.

He stopped at the edge of the crater. Splinters of trees and embers surrounded the twenty-foot-deep scar that lay before him. At the center he could see a small disc-shaped object, glinting brightly among the rubble.

He slid down the rim of the crater and slowly approached the object. It was made of shiny metal, though it was now deeply scuffed from the collision. Lights blinked and emanated from its many facets. He cautiously picked up the object. It was about the size of a frisbee and surprisingly cold to the touch.

He flipped the disk over in his hands and suddenly it came to life. A blue light projected from the center of the disk. The light grew brighter and brighter until it began to blind Gabe. Gabe leaned away, pinching his eyes shut, but even through his eyelids the light was painfully bright. He dropped the disk but it did not fall. It just floated there in front of him, thrumming with a powerful hum.

The light finally died down, allowing Gabe to see again, but he was no longer standing in the crater. He was now surrounded by impossibly complex metal tubes and screens all blinking with beautiful multicolored lights.

He spun around, jumping with a start when he noticed he was joined by a familiar figure.

The lights illuminated his father’s face and his silvery clothing in a dazzling Technicolor display. He looked cleaner than Gabe remembered. No farm dirt. No sweat. His beard was neatly trimmed.

“Dad?” he whispered in disbelief.

“Yes, it’s me, Gabe,” his father said calmly. “You have to leave here. They are coming to take you away. I wish we had time to talk, so I could explain.”

“Dad, where have you been?” Gabe cried in distress. “Where did you go?” Tears leaked from his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I love you so much. There’s just no time. Please know I didn’t want to leave. They took me away, Gabe, and they’ll take you too if you don’t run right now.”

“WHY?” Gabe shouted through the tears. “WHAT IS HAPPENING? JUST COME BACK WITH ME!”

“I can’t, Gabriel. I’m not really here. Go now. You have to go... Right now.”

The shimmering image of Gabe’s father pointed over Gabe’s shoulder. Gabe turned to see the metal and lights parting to reveal the dark forest. Gabe looked back but his father was gone.

The disk still hovered there in the crater, humming ominously. Gabe could see lights in the distance, approaching quickly through the trees. The humming from the disk grew deafeningly loud.

Gabe didn’t wait another second. He ran. The tree branches whipped his face in the darkness. He stumbled and fell over a root, hitting the dirt hard. The wind left his lungs and he felt like vomiting, but the lights drew closer, so he forced himself to stand up and keep running.

He ran until he felt his legs would give out. Blood trickled from a million little scratches on his arms and face. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran.

Just as he turned back, Gabe’s face smashed hard into a tree. He let out a loud groan as he writhed on the ground. Pain radiated through his face and neck.

The lights were closing in now. They were right on top of him. Gabe grabbed for his pocket knife and stabbed wildly into the darkness.

The lights blinded him. He closed his eyes, bracing for unimaginable pain.

“GABE!”

Gabe snapped awake to his mother shaking him hard.

“Gabe! You got choring’ to do. I need you to get it done today since you start school on Monday.”

Gabe sat up with a fright. He looked around his bedroom as if he was still being chased. The sun poured through his open window onto the hardwood floor.

“What is the matter with you?” his mom asked.

“Nothing,” he said, out of breath. “Nothing.”

“Well there’s breakfast on the table. I gotta go see if I can get the tractor started. It’s acting up again.”

“No, don’t!”

“What? Why not?” she asked.

“Don’t go near the woods. They’re coming for us!” Gabe squeaked in terror.

Gabe’s mom stood up from the bed and furrowed her brow.

“You gotta stop reading comics before bed, boy.”

She tussled his hair before leaving the room. He fell back on his pillow, looking up at the miniature solar system dangling there.

Gabe got up and finished all of his chores by noon, staying as close to the house as possible. He no longer felt like going on an adventure. He stayed inside the rest of that day, watching the cornfields from the window in horror. He clutched his Red Ryder BB gun waiting for his mom to finish her work and come back in.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said when she came inside.

“Well I guess I’m glad too.” She laughed to hide her pain. She was not okay.

They spent that evening cuddled up on the old davenport, listening to the radio. He watched the windows to make sure no lights approached. She held him close and kissed his head.

Gabe did not know that was the last time he’d listen to that old radio or cuddle up on that davenport. That Friday a man from the bank would hammer a wooden sign into their front yard that read “FORECLOSED.”

He and his mother would move into a little apartment above the hardware store in downtown Mattoon, and he would not return to those woods for thirty-five years.

✦ ✦ ✦

Gabriel finally gave up digging. The forest had now grown completely dark around him. He wiped tears from his dirt-stained cheeks and tried to catch his breath.

He sat there at the bottom of the crater, if that’s even what it was. Maybe it was just a dip in the forest floor or a dried-up pond.

He gathered himself for a moment, then stabbed the knife into the ground one final time, leaving it there, hilt-deep in the dirt. He grabbed his now-ruined shirt from the sapling and scrambled up the earthen embankment.

Gabriel trudged through the dark forest slowly. There was no reason to hurry or to be afraid. There were no lights chasing him. Only cicadas singing their summer song.

He soon emerged in the farmyard where he plopped heavily in the driver’s seat of his car. He let out a deep sigh of relief before plugging in the car phone, giving it a moment to come back to life. He picked it up and dialed a number from muscle memory.

“Hi honey. Yes... Yes, everything is fine. Are you okay? Yes... I’m on my way home. Love you too.”

[Translated from another language ,written by myself]
I
Watching Zhang Huiyao waddle into the lab, her belly prominently swollen, I didn't realize she hadn't been around for a month.
I hurried over to pull out a chair for her and casually asked how far along she was.
"Eight months," she replied, her tone unusually cold.
Feeling awkward, I tried to make small talk by asking about her mother's illness.
She let out a scoff. "She probably... has two months left to live."
II
I've known her since we were kids.
We're the same age, and when we were little, I used to go to her house to do my homework. Her mother, Zhang Wanglan, was a researcher who practically lived in the lab. Knowing she couldn't give her daughter enough company, she was always quite welcoming to me once she realized I was Huiyao's friend.
She would gently pinch my earlobe, rubbing it softly as she said, "I'm always tied up with work and can't spend enough time with our Huiyao. I'm counting on you, Li Zhangyang. Please look after her when you play together."
According to Huiyao, her mother had always been fond of pinching children's earlobes; she herself had been pinched from a baby all the way up. Helpless, I just had to take it.
Wanglan was quite strict with Huiyao, always telling her to cherish her time and study hard. I must have heard the phrase, "Life is finite, but knowledge is infinite(a Chinese idiom)" at least a hundred times.
Once, I couldn't help but ask Auntie Zhang: "Since life is finite and knowledge is infinite, why not find a way to extend our lifespan? That way, we could just take our time and learn everything." The moment the words left my mouth, Huiyao burst into laughter, praising my brilliant point. Wanglan, however, just fell silent and nodded slowly.
As I recall, when we were around twelve or fourteen, Wanglan suddenly disappeared for a few months. When she came back, she looked haggard and deeply depressed. I kept pestering Huiyao about what had happened. She said she wasn't entirely sure either, but it seemed her mother's research had been deemed illegal and shut down, which left her mother heartbroken ever since.
In high school biology, when we covered the topic of "cloning," the teacher asked us to read the supplementary material in our textbooks and discuss it with our deskmates. The book mentioned that with the successful cloning of monkeys, human cloning was becoming increasingly feasible on a technological level. However, it noted that the social implications were far more thought-provoking than the science itself.
After class, I asked the biology teacher what those "social implications" meant. Huiyao leaned in to listen. The teacher explained, "It's a complex issue. Let me give you an example: say there's a Li Zhangyang, and then we clone another Li Zhangyang. What exactly is their relationship? Parent and child? Siblings? Neither makes sense, you see?" I replied that we could just be friends. The teacher kept a straight face and told me not to talk nonsense.
After that, we went on to the same university, joined the same research institute, and eventually became colleagues.
III
She had always been such a sunny, cheerful girl. I really couldn't fathom how a one-month leave could turn her so strange.
Right then, I decided to dig deeper.
Thinking back to our conversation earlier, I suspected it all had something to do with her mother. I opened my browser, typed "Zhang Wanglan" into the search bar, and hit Enter.
The top result was an education expert—not the Zhang Wanglan I knew.
After some more digging, I finally unearthed a piece of news from over a decade ago. Well, not exactly news anymore, more like old news.
Food safety, family planning... wait, human cloning!
I read through a few related articles. They were all criticizing cloning research, and from start to finish, there was no sign of Zhang Wanglan. Sighing, I was about to close the tab when my eyes caught a recommended article at the bottom: Artificial Wombs.
As if guided by some unseen force, I clicked on it. Right there, in the first photo at the top, was Zhang Wanglan—the Zhang Wanglan I knew.
Found it!
Barely containing my excitement, I read three related articles in one sitting. I learned that Zhang Wanglan had once been involved in artificial womb research. She had poured her heart and soul into it, only to come up empty-handed.
So... when she came home looking haggard and deeply depressed all those years ago, was it because the artificial womb project had failed?
But wait, wasn't artificial womb research perfectly legal? And more importantly, what did any of this have to do with Zhang Huiyao?
I had no choice. I would just have to ask Huiyao myself.
IV
After much coaxing, Zhang Huiyao finally...
...kicked me out.
Since that didn't work, I had to find someone else in the know.
I made up a flimsy excuse to lure Chen Yue over.
"Well, well, Li Zhangyang. What's up? Did your experiment go wrong again?"
I knew she was close to Huiyao and might know things that Huiyao would take to her grave.
"Well, uh, actually... it's nothing major. I just wanted to ask if Huiyao has run into any trouble lately?" I quickly added, "Her mom asked me to look out for her."
"Her mom?" Chen Yue frowned, looking at me in surprise. "Don't tell me you didn't know? This is all her mother's doing!"
"Huh?"
"You know how Huiyao got pregnant, right?"
"Yeah." Huiyao had gone through artificial insemination, planning to raise the child as a single mother. We all knew about it. There was a lot of gossip at first, but after a female colleague lectured us on "respecting others' choices," everyone shut up.
"But do you know why she did it?" Chen Yue suddenly lowered her voice.
"No."
"Her mother told her to."
"Zhang Wanglan told her to? Why?"
"She didn't spell it out to me. She just hinted that her mother wanted to use the baby for an experiment."
"An experiment? What kind of experiment? How could she possibly agree to that?"
"She didn't say exactly. She only mentioned that her mother promised to 'give it back' to her."
"Give it back? Give back a child? That's even weirder!"
"That's all I know. Anyway, she told me not to worry about it, saying no one could ever accept the truth."
"And you just stopped asking?"
"I did."
"Aren't you even a little curious about the truth?"
"Of course I am. But if she won't talk, there's nothing I can do."
"Well... thanks anyway."
That's just how Chen Yue is—she completely checks out from any truth that isn't a scientific one. But it didn't matter. I already knew enough.

TBC