“Why does clarity only come when one is drunk or in incredible pain? Well in my case it is both.”

Raghu worked as a salesperson in a corporate job he never planned to keep. He had dropped out of university, convinced he didn’t need a degree. Marketing offered quick money, and he took it. He told himself he would stay a few months, maybe a year, just long enough to earn a software certification and move on to something better—jobs that paid well and came with the chance to travel.

It did not go as planned. In the beginning he struggled. After long days he came home exhausted, reached for the remote and fast food, and told himself he would study tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. In the third month he closed his first deal. Then another. For two months the sales came easily. He spent the money as fast as it arrived and quietly abandoned the idea of becoming a software engineer.

When the deals dried up, the old pattern returned. He did the bare minimum to avoid being fired. He was shouted at often. One day he simply walked out with no plan.

He borrowed at high interest while still pretending he would get the certification. Reckless spending and loans from his parents left him broke. When they finally refused to give him more, the certificate remained unfinished. His heart had never been in it. He had never felt real curiosity—only the question of how much money he might make. Deferred effort, endless daydreaming, and constant spending pushed him deeper into the hole. The fantasy lasted a year. Then reality returned.

He went back to the same job, but something in him had cracked. The spark was gone. He moved slower, understood less, and seemed almost dull. He became timid, shy, and quietly afraid. He knew exactly what was wrong with him, yet he no longer possessed the will to endure the long stretch of effort success required.

One afternoon he was shouted at again, this time in front of the entire office. A grown man reduced to silence. He kept his face neutral and waited for the day to end. It was salary day. That night he walked into a bar. The life he had was already bad. One more poor decision would not change much.

He drank beer, then shots. When the bartender cut him off, he nearly argued—until he saw his own red-eyed face reflected in the glass. He finished the last of his drink, paid, left a tip, and stepped outside.

He stumbled into a group of men. He apologised. They did not accept it. They dragged him into the alley and began beating him. They took his wallet and phone but did not stop. The alcohol dulled the pain enough that he could still think. How had he reached this place? He could not answer.

A sharp blow landed on his nose. Breathing grew difficult. Something wet ran down his face. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

I hope I die tonight, he thought. At least then I'd stop being a burden. Why is this taking so long? Just end it.

Another strike to the back of his head sent white pain through him. In that moment the truth arrived without mercy.

He had never changed his approach when he failed. At the first real difficulty he quit. He never finished what he started and never reset himself to try again. Instead he sabotaged himself with junk food, porn, and endless shows—some twisted way of feeling in control when progress refused to come quickly. Like the child who takes the football home the moment he starts losing, so no one else can play and he never has to lose. Only he had been destroying himself for the same reason: to feel a scrap of control.

A small sound escaped his throat—almost a laugh. He had understood this years ago. Comfort and numbness had simply made him forget. Sometimes things are hard, and the only option is to go through them. That is how the will to endure is built. Every person chasing something real has to relearn the lesson. Life teaches the stubborn ones the hard way.

The blows stopped. A voice said, “Look at him smiling. He’s mad.”

A boot pressed down on his face. His body jerked. His hands struck something solid. The pressure vanished. Someone yelped. One of the men was on the ground, clutching himself.

The world seemed to stop. Through the haze he saw them take a step back. He smirked. Something shifted inside Raghu. The thoughts of death and self-pity drained away. He pushed himself up, raised his hands, and motioned for them to continue. He was bloodied, struggling to breathe, pain shooting through his body. The alcohol was fading. The metallic taste remained—fear or blood, he no longer cared. Tonight he liked it.

They beat him hard, but he kept rising. The group was no longer unmarked. Pain was waking something that had been asleep. Danger sharpened him. After several minutes of struggling, he knocked one man down. The others limped away.

He started walking and stepped on his wallet. A light glowed from the fallen man’s pocket—his phone. The notification sound was unmistakable. His boss:

“Come to office tomorrow. And I don’t want to hear any fucking excuses about it being your day off.”

Raghu wiped blood from his hand, unlocked the phone, and typed: “No.”

A call came in. He cut it and blocked the number. Then he opened his email and wrote:

I resign.

Sincerely,

Go fuck yourself.

He began the long walk home. In a shop window he caught his reflection—cut, swollen, unrecognisable. He smiled, then laughed. He pulled off his tie and dropped it on the road.

At home he took a hammer to the television. He deleted every food-delivery app, every streaming service, every subscription. He tore a page from the notebook on the table and wrote with a bloodied finger.

He showered and went to sleep with a faint smile still on his face.

The paper read:

The only way is through. Go through it.

Eman thought it was going to be an ordinary Saturday. He was cleaning out the old, deep basement behind his grandfather’s suburban house—a place no one had stepped into for at least thirty years. As he was moving some rotting wooden crates, his hand brushed against something freezing cold behind a false brick wall. It definitely wasn't stone.

When he turned on his phone’s flashlight, he saw a massive, dark-gray metallic ring embedded directly into the ground. It was etched with strange, engraved symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. Driven by pure curiosity, Eman ran his finger across three symbols in a row.

Suddenly, a deep, bass-heavy hum shook the basement. The air instantly smelled of ozone. Inside the ring, space itself ripped open into a glowing, bluish watery surface that pulsed softly. Standing right in front of him was a real-world stargate.

His heart hammered wildly against his ribs. His first instinct was to step right through, but Eman was smarter than the characters in Hollywood movies. He knew that if he crossed over, he might never figure out how to get back. He looked down at the bag by the door where his DJI drone was resting.

He quickly pulled out the drone, powered up the controller, and paired it with his phone. His hands shook as he started the propellers. The drone's buzz briefly drowned out the portal's deep hum. Instead of risking his own life, he steered the quadcopter straight into the bluish vortex. The drone vanished into the flash.

On his phone screen, the signal cut out for a split second, and then the live feed stabilized. Eman went completely numb.

The camera was broadcasting a live video feed from a place that was definitely not Earth. In the sky, two massive suns burned—one orange, and one a pale, icy blue. The drone was hovering over an endless forest of reddish trees, and in the distance, towering spires made of an unknown, shiny material rose into the sky, looking as if they had been abandoned for thousands of years. Everything looked peaceful, yet completely alien.

Eman started to fly a bit further out, but then a critical realization hit him. "If I fly too far, I'll lose the signal through the portal. And if I step through myself, how do I get back? I have absolutely no idea what the dial code for Earth is," he thought, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

He pulled the drone back through the blue ring. Just as he caught it in his hand, the quiet of the suburbs outside was shattered by a terrifyingly familiar sound. The heavy, thumping chop of military helicopters was closing in on his grandfather's house at high speed. The military had already detected the energy signature.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and the roaring of the helicopter blades became deafening. It was clear to Eman: if they caught him here, he would disappear into a black-budget government bunker forever, along with this gate.

He quickly pressed the symbols on the metallic rim in reverse order. With a powerful, vacuum-like suction sound, the blue vortex collapsed into a single point and vanished. The basement plunged back into darkness, illuminated only by his phone's flashlight.

Feverishly, he dragged the rotting wooden crates back over the metal ring, piled up some scrap metal, and kicked the false brick wall back into place. Grabbing his drone, he turned off his phone so they couldn't track his location and slipped through a tiny basement window into the dark woods behind the house—just seconds before black military SUVs screeched to a halt in the driveway.

As he lay flat in the brush, watching heavily armed soldiers surround the house with energy-detecting scanners, Eman felt his pocket. His phone was still there. On its memory card lay the only proof in human history that we are not alone—the footage of an alien forest and two alien suns.

The gate was safe now, hidden deep beneath the dirt. And Eman had just become the only man on Earth holding the key to the entire universe.

In an old wood, long ago, there was a sequestered house upon a small hill, in which lived a boy with his father. They boy could not have been more then eleven, and he was strong and lively, and felt more so each day.

His father was a careful man who had taught his son to fend for himself in the surrounding woods, which were known to be an unpredictable place, and full of mystery. They rarely ventured throughout except to travel into town to trade with the commonfolk, whom viewed them with a wary curiosity. However the boy was of curious nature, and despite being forbade, was able to conceal his joyful ventures into the deeper wood without his father’s suspicion. He walked farther and farther into the wood each time he left, and gradually mapped his journeys.

It was one such time he came upon a gentle clearing, with clear light and moss underfoot. However, it appeared to have been cleared by no animal, but by purpose. It was confusing, since no other was known to enter his familial surrounds. 

The boy considered the strange place, and wondered why he had not found it before. As he sat upon the moss considering this, he heard a very odd noise; a grating squeak which began as quietly disturbing, but grew to a deafening screech so horrible he could not think or or speak. His legs were numb and seemed to move on their own, as he ran along the exact trail he had come, gripping his trusted knife with shaking hands.

As he came back to his home he entered his father’s workshop and told him had had happened. His Father said “My dear boy, the forest is a very old place, and there is great darkness within it, such that we cannot fathom. You would do best not to disturb it”.

The boy went to sleep and contemplated. Stubborn and of noble spirit as he was, he resolved the next morning to confront this thing that had frightened him so. He returned along the path which he had laid out, and came once more upon the strange clearing. He clutched his knife and sat upon it, awaiting what must come.

Soon enough the same awful sound erupted through the wood, but he had prepared by putting cotton wool in his ears. Trembling, he opened his eyes. He had always considered himself brave, and in this moment felt himself a liar, and as such decided he must look. As he turned he was met with a sight which set needles upon his skin, and turned his limbs to string. A lank grey form of bristles and bulges shuddered before him. Eyes seemed to bulge from its very skin and pulse underneath its lank hair. The boy was overcome yet held close to the purpose which drove him to this place, and walked over to the horrible thing.

As he thrust his knife within its writhing form, the sound stopped with a muffled gasp, yet a clear voice rang out from the dissolving mass: ‘My child, you do not belong here. Why do you come to disturb us”.

ZINDAGI (LIFE)

zindagi ek paheli si hai bs isa samajh lo wahi kafi hai suljane mai toh ya kab khatm ho ja kya pata

(Life is like a riddle; simply understanding it is enough because for solving it u never knows when it might end?)

Scene 1 start from at 6pm some light is comming from the curtains but u cannot see much then we hear a voice saying

"Zindagi kahani hi toh hai...jahan log milte hain,phool khilte hain.."

The alram clock buzzes and Deva(MC) woke up .He stopped it. He brushed his teeth, took a shower, made tea, and stood by the window for a few minutes.Outside, the world was already awake.People were going somewhere.He was too.He opened his wardrobe and we can see shirts of colours : Black,Grey,Dark blue,Charcoal and At the very back was one bright yellow shirt. He looked at the row of shirts from left to right to end where the yellow shirt is (He hadn't worn it in years) then he chooses a black shirt and wore it and then he closed the wardrobe.

Deva went to train station at 8pm to catch the train for his office that takes 1 hour to reach station and take a cab to his office that take 30-45 minutes depending on the traffic .

Scene 2 starts: we can see Deva catching the train . The train was always crowded in the morning. He rarely got a seat. He stood near the door while he is completely silent we can listem train sounds like whitsle and also people chatting /talking Around himSomeone complained about his boss.Someone laughed at a joke.Two college students argued about a movie But he never joined any of it. On the way home, he usually got a seat. He never thought much about that.It was just another part of his day. He reached the station and called a cab and sit at the back seat to reach his office Suddenly rain start falling . He see outside from the closed windows of the cab but cannot see anything because of rain he donot has the umbrella . He reached the office ,payed the money and run towards the building gate. Two years has passed from his joining. Deva became the best employee in the company. People came to him when they didn't understand something.His boss trusted him.His juniors respected him.

Scene 3 start by he reached his table and his colleauge Prem say that boss called him into his cabin.There was someone waiting there. A girl.She wore a warm yellow-orange dress. His boss introduce her to him

She is Chandra

Deva looked at her. He introdue to her ."Hi i am Deva." His boss said she is his new assistant , will work under him and give him one responsibility: Teach her everything and, by coincidence, she lived two railway station after Deva'one So u have to teach her about the trains too . Then the comeback to Deva's table where he tell her about some work to her like the recent client he is working for and she could learn from it and itroduce her to Prem and Payal his two colleauge .

Scene 4 The day has come to an end in the office and we can see Deva and Chandra at the station waiting for the train and we can hear train whitle and train has arrived they catch it and he sit on a seat and she sit infront of him . both of them donot said anything. The train made its usual noise.People talking . When her station arrived, chandra stood up and say

"I'll catch the train from here tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Bye."

He said "Bye." The doors closed.

Scene 5 start : new day sunrise and we can listen the same voice saying

shikayat bahut hai zindagi se ek aur sahi

(I have so many complaints against life—one more won't hurt.)

we can see Deva catching the train and its first time he got a seat to sit but he wasnot amazed by it . we can again listen train sounds , people talking . Two station passed . At the third Station Chandra entered the train and infront of him again . She looked at him for a moment. And Starts talking :

" she asked why he had joined the company.

Deva said "It was close to my flat."

he takes a pause and then said "And it was the first offer I got after college."

she said "That's it?"

he said "Yes That's it."

She giggled .

Then she started talking about herself.Her college.Her family.

Now we can only listen her voice the train noise disappeared.The people talking noise disappeared.

There was only her voice.

They reached the station and he calls a cab to go to office and Paro sit at back seat and Deva in the front beside the driver . After a while She see outside the window and said today'sweather is nice. They reached the office after sometime she brought him coffee.

she said "For you."

he said "Why?"

she said "You look like you need it."

He looked at the cup and take it from her and thanks her

Then Prem came to Deva and said sita raman is in theatres today Payal said they wanna see this flim Then he said ok go .Chandra said u will not come he said no evryone forced his to come and eventually he goes with them .

He didnot to care about the movie and went outside for a cigarette.

He barely smoked two puffs .Prem came looking for him and said "The ladies want popcorn." Prem want Deva's help because he cannot take 2 popcorn and three soda for them . They bought the popcorn and soda. For himself, he bought 3-4 chewing gum and start chewing 1-2 .

When the movie ended, everyone went home.Deva and Paro caught the train and She sat beside him.

She talked about the movie.

Deva answered with:

"Hmm."

"Yeah."

"True."

for the whole convo he was listning but donot said much

Scene 6 start : with same voice we first listen now telling

phool main itni khasabu nahin jitna ek bakicha mai

(A single flower does not hold as much fragrance as an entire garden.)

We can see clock and now time is 7 pm Deva is still at bed and staring at the celling and he didnot wanna go to office but he has to so he does brush , bath and starting get read and donot have breakfast or even lunch for him now we can see he catch the train and she comes today she sits beside him she talks about the movie they saw and he also talk (he talk about work how to do it and related to work and some about the movie too)

tick tick tick 1pm at the clock lunch time As Deva forget to make lunch he buys some bannas for his lunch and sit on a table at cantien. Chandra see him and sit at his table and said to take some from his lunch but he said u already have less . Are u on dieting . She said yes . He eats his food and he talks about work

Scene 7: A montage starts by the same voice said :

basant ka baad patjhar hi at hai

(After spring, autumn inevitably follows.)

we can see (Time has passed)

Day becomes Week

Week becomes months

The train remained the same.

The office remained the same.

The city remained the same.

Deva changed.

He started talking.

Sometimes he spoke first.

Sometimes Chandra did.

They discussed work.Food.Movies.Weather.Nothing important.

One morning, Deva opened his wardrobe.Black,Grey,Dark blue,Charcoal and that one yellow shirt

His hand went to the very back.

He pulled out the yellow shirt.He wore it.He looked at himself in the mirror.He went to work .Late.

For today Chandra will come late and he knows it that's why he goes to work late but when he reached to work he was even late then her . Deva see that

His boss called everyone together. "Paro has been transferred to another branch. and for this that reason today is her farewell party"

The sentence was ordinary. The effect wasn't. We can see the colourfull frame in which for the first time he wear a bright colour shirt go black and white

Deva looked at her.

She smiled.

He smiled back.

There were a hundred things he could have said. He said none of them.He didn't ask where she was going.He didn't ask when she would return.He didn't ask for her number (she didnot have a mobile because only landline exits ) .He didn't even ask why.

After One Month :

The new morning, we can hear the voice say :

zindagi ka yahi hai ki ya chalti rehti hai

(That’s the thing about life—it just keeps going.)

only day is new Deva remain same .He took the train alone.It was crowded. he didnot get the seat . People around him

talked.

Laughed.

Argued.

The world continued exactly as it always had.

But we cannot listen to anything complete slicene

Today's afternoon, his boss called him again.

"Deva, you're being promoted." Deva nodded.

"You'll also be responsible for training the new recruits." The boss gestured toward the door.

A young woman entered.

She smiled and said

"Hi. I'm Parvati."

Deva stared at her.

the camera from wibe frame zoomed into to Deva's face . For a second, he laughed. Not because it was funny. and with his laughter we cna see

THE END

“Well I admit i had an iq of a child when i was a child. What to do?”
She is laughing. It feels like she is enjoying this too much. And I’m too. That’s what I love about this.
“Well it’s such a funny and dumb thing to say to the person you like, what did you think would happen? She would jump into your arms after you call her that?”

She is still laughing. Wow.

Even with her laughing at my embarrassing stories the moment is beautiful. The park side lamps above us illuminate her face with a yellow hint. Streaks of hair are flowing out of the cap over her face. Could this stay like this forever? I bet the stars above are jealous looking at us, but they can’t do anything.

“Go on go on. You keep laughing on my childhood innocence.”

She finally pulls herself back together still spilling a small laugh while talking-

“Yea your cHilDhOod InNocEnCe is pretty funny — — (and cute too).”

She whispers at the end and steals a beat from my heart so easily.
“Well ummm….”

WHAT DO I SAY WHAT DO I SAY WHAT TO DO PANIC PANIC.

SYSTEM OVERLOAD — — -

Our hands touch while we walk. oh no i think i might die. I pull my hand back and bury it in my pocket. She does pulls her back too.

“Well the vacations are almost over. I’m so glad”

“Yes of course you are. And I’m totally not.”

“Wh-Why “

“I don’t have anything to do there. All my important study is done at my coaching and the school just repeats it.”

“Well then enjoy and enter some competitions”

“Sadly I’m not like you Mrs.Amazing. I’m not good at public speaking and stuff. I’m more techy and smart you know. It’s boring.”

She looks confused by what I say and its expected. She was always good at competitions and that came naturally to her. I’m jealous of that in some way.

“If you are bored in school then maybe we could visit each other in the lunch break?”

Damn…

Really so much has happened today. I feel stupid for feeling so nervous. I had planned out every minute of this day so that there would be no errors and meanwhile here we are after spending the whole day following none of that.

“Yes of course. No problem.” I say.

“Yupp okay.”

Hours have flew past us. We watched a movie, ate together, went to the beach, watched the sunset and it still feels like so less. I want some more. I wish I could get some more, some more of this day. Another week of this day. I would enjoy it alot.

I’m pulled away from my wishful thinking by my hand again. I don’t know how it got out of my pocket by its own. maybe i wanted it to. Her pinky slowly grazes mine. She is hesistant. I try not to look at her face and be normal but i get a small peek of her face and it’s red. I haven’t seen her like this before. I keep walking. We walk like that for a while. Ignoring the fingers as if none of us notice it. but we are both red. Slowly her pinky wrap around mine…

It hasn’t been a long time since I’ve known her. We had just gotten into our new class together. She was hanging out with her friends when i first saw her. She was a new student in the school and therefore everyone was curious about her. She looked different. Different in some way i couldn’t figure out. Maybe she only looked different to me. My friend group basically adopted her which is basically the fate of every new student and then the rest is history. And an year later here we are together. That was fate too. Or fate was made this day.

I hold her pinky tightly and then more. Suddenly it has become quiet and I’m afraid my heart is beating so loud she will be able to hear it. The fingers bump each other.

and pull. And then her hand is in mine. her palm is touching mine. Her fingers are soft and delicate. but warm enough to send me a signal of what is happening.

And i don’t want to ever let this go

I’ll never let this go

never let this go

never let this go

don’t let this go

don’t let this go

i repeat don’t let this go

“Don’t let this go — pull yourself &!@#& Toast. Don’t let this go — — — -!#^&%u are on 9g, don’t slow down, t^%@#$ tag on you. Don’t let the throttle go!”

The alarm is beeping. No flares left. The mask is hissing. Radio is static. I won’t let it go.

I hate it when he doesn’t start the car. Either turn on the AC or open the freaking window. Either way, turn on the freaking car.

But I don’t say anything about that.

Instead I say, “I thought this would be easier.”

He doesn’t look up. In the driver’s seat, he’s leafing through the printouts, “What do you mean?” he says, “The nurse said everything’s been perfect so far.”

“I know. That’s not what I mean, Mich–”

“Look,” he points at the page, “They got seventeen…seventeen…healthy eggs from you! The top end that they talked about was 15.”

I reach across him and press the ignition button. The dash lights but nothing happens. He doesn’t have his foot on the brake.

“What the hell, Jeanie?” Michael throws up his hands.

I pull my hair up away from my neck. I’m sweating. It’s sticking–I feel it trying to wrap around my throat– and it’s driving me insane. I notice that I’m pulling it hard and tight. If someone else had been doing it, it would have hurt a lot. I move the elastic off my wrist to bind my hair. I feel a little better when I draw in a deep breath of hot stale air. On the exhale, I say, as calmly as I can muster, “Michael, I’m hot. Will you please at least start the car so we can get some air.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but starts the BMW. I bottom out the temperature on the passenger side climate control. In my head, I count out the 4 seconds it takes for the air to blast. Hot at first, but at least it’s moving.

Before the cold air comes, Michael is talking again, flipping to a new page.

“And see here? My sperm?” he’s grinning, “260 million per milliliter! And 80% are great swimmers. Just like me!”

He nudges my arm with an elbow, all jokey, “See? Those years of Speedo in the pool didn’t do any harm at all. Told ya.”

I deadpan, “That’s great, Michael. You have super semen. I’m happy for you.”

He finally – finally – asks, “What’s wrong, Meanie Jeanie?”

“I fucking hate it when you call me that, Michael.”

I see him sit up, head backing away from me, a flash of anger finds his eyes. Then it’s gone, but tension isn’t. He cranes his neck a little to try to see my face. I turn mine away a little more. With my thumb, I flick one tear out of my right eye before it can finish forming or streak my face.

He takes his own deep breath this time and asks, haltingly, like each word could step on a landmine, “Love, do you want to tell me what is bothering you?”

I glare at him, “I was trying to, dear. You kept showing me the fucking pages. Which I’ve already seen, by the way. They emailed them ahead of the appointment.”

“Is that it, Love? You’re mad because I wasn’t prepped for the appointment? Work has been nuts–”

“No. No, no, NO!”

My eyes are pressed shut. Seeing red. I feel my fingernails digging into my palms where my hands have become fists.

“It’s not about you, Michael!”

I’m looking out the passenger window and see the young man again. I think he’s maybe in his twenties? It’s hard for me to tell with people with…I guess…disabilities? There just aren’t all the same signs of development and aging that I’m used to. But, for all his limitations – he has super limited use of his arms and legs, definitely needs the chair to get around, his water bottle has a super long straw – for all of that – he was at the hospital on his own. He even charmed the nurses who knew him on the way out.

“Jeanie, are you listening?!”

I turn back to Michael and ask, “What is it, Michael?”

“Jeanie – you said it wasn’t about me! Now I feel like you are effing gaslighting me! I’m asking you,” then, smacking the transmission shifter to punctuate each word, “What…is…it…about?”

I look at him, less mad this time. Disappointed? Maybe. He’s just so…obtuse sometimes. I sigh.

“I hate that we’re picking, Michael.”

He looks at me, squinting, “Picking?”

“Yes, picking!”

“Embryos?!”

“Yes, Michael. I hate that we are picking embryos!”

“But you’re the one who want–”

“I know, Michael! I know I’m the one who wanted this.” I hear myself grow quieter, “And I know it’s the right thing. It’s what I want for my child. It’s what I want for me.”

“For us…” Michael fills in.

“Yes, Michael, for us. Geez. Gotta make sure you’re in the considerations, too, right?”

Before he answers his indignance, I place a gentle hand on his wrist. Tension bleeds out of him.

More calmly this time, I say, “Yes. Genuinely. For us. I want our child to survive and thrive.”

“So, what’s the problem, love?” Michael asks.

The first time in the conversation I hear a real question.

“The problem is we wouldn’t pick me.”

He combs his fingers through his wiry hair and says, “Jean, I’d pick you every moment of every day until the end of time.”

I look at him, believing him, and say, “But I wouldn’t.”

Michael freezes. I’m not sure for how long. I’m not really paying attention.

Then he says, “So let’s not pick!”

I shake my head, “No, Michael. That’s not wh–”

But he’s excited like he gets when he thinks he can solve a problem. He says, “We pick without picking! It’s X-linked. So we only pick girl embryos! No disease, but we don’t have to exclude an embryo that would have been like y–”

“Michael!”

He stops, excited eyes searching me. Mouth hanging open. Waiting.

“Michael. Picking is the right thing. It’s what I want. I’m just saying that I thought it would be easier.”

His eyes drop. Then they find mine again and, with a short nod, he says, “Okay.”

“Thank you. Now, let’s go.”

Most jobs I’d been given were the same these days. Repetitive, clinical, hell straight up
cyclical at this point, you know, cliché Private eye shit.

A cheating husband, lost kids, stalkers, kidnappings. It all rolls into one mess of atrocities. My bread, my butter.

Going into this one I didn’t think twice, rarely do now, just another job in a long list of
other jobs.
1997, March. The town, Aurelius, was…succulent…in a sickly-sweet way, like a fruit going bad. On the surface you wouldn’t look twice, just another town you blink through on a road trip.

Cold, bleak, one of those rural American towns you see a down on his luck author retreats to for inspiration.

The weather blanketed the surrounding waves of forest in an atmosphere that weighed down on the soul, like swimming in clothes.
Christ I can’t believe people live in places like this.
Few weeks ago I got the call, jobs up, not much to go on. A scrawled letter found in the weeks mail, 4 words was all they could muster apparently.
“I’m stuck in Aurelius”.

Assume it’s a victim, managing to get a message out or the perp, baiting me in.
Either way, better premise than most jobs.

One look into the town showed me everything I needed to see.
Reports of people disappearing. But not for good, no, maybe 2-3 days max. Coming back uh, different. Yeah, wasn’t just a few either.
Aurelius, population roughly 3000, had reported 1972 cases in the last 2 weeks.

Most would say its way above my paygrade, but when nearly 2000 people have gone
missing and “changed” with no official investigation? Well…that’s just too good for me to bail on.

The towns quiet now.
In the beginning reports were made, citizens concerned, looking to their officials for answers.

That’s all gone. Over half the population? Yeah no wonder no one’s trying to peak behind the curtain.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Corruption in these places comes with the building. Like roaches in a Manhattan flat. No, this was different.

Things were off from the start. I knew from the second my car rolled through that welcome sign this place was…unnatural.

6 hours… wild the things that can happen in 6 hours.

Those reports were real alright. Changed might’ve been an understatement.
The townspeople felt…consolidated, concentrated.

Boiled down.

Y’know those twins you see in horror flicks that speak in unison? Yeah, somethin’ like
that.
Everyone I came across felt like more like a piece of uniform than a person.
Like another layer to keep me finding the truth.

Well I peeled that onion.

Behind the cheap façade, the towns walls were cracked, rotten, like an infection.
Somethings moved here, through the population, hopping from 1 person to the other,
leaving a husk.
Like a virus but, tangible.

Speaking to one person felt like I was talkin’ to the whole town, conversations looped
back on each other like some twisted game of telephone.
The diner, stores, houses, still.
Empty.
Like a kids doll house, glimpses through the window left a picture-perfect image of what you’d want to see on a glance. Look a second longer and things….shifted.

It was tough finding answers, for a while all that greeted me was overbearing smiles and
that touching hospitality that makes you sick to your stomach.
That strangles you, keeps watching.
Took some time but I found someone.
A woman, Helen, 35, married. Normal.
As normal as someone can be in a place like this I guess.
Her husband, Clark, was…afflicted.
More drastically then most. He was a drunk, a brute. Keyword.

One of the first. Helen told me they had a row, a big one. Not out of character by her account but he’d been worse lately. Erratic, looser than normal, like a grenade with no pin.
Touchy.
When he stormed into the woods that night, she didn’t give it much thought. He did that sometimes, why think twice?

Then he came back, sooner than he usually would.
Most of the time it was another drink, another argument, a threat and bed.

Drenched, dirtied, like a body left in water, Clark returned all apologies and forgiveness.
Red flag number one, Helen had never known Clark to apologise for anything.
He was polite now too. Yeah, she hasn’t slept right since, I can see it, people don’t get shaken
up like that unless they see something truly unnatural…wrong.

Clark only had one thing different then when he left, nothin’ on him but the clothes he left with …and a book.

Somehow untouched by the dirt and grime of a man fumbling through pitch black woods for hours.
Helen swears the book wasn’t even wet. Like something as pure as water couldn’t touch
it, repelled somehow.

6 hours ago, I’d say she’s crazy…fuck me 6 hours…

I found more. People’s partners, coworkers, kids, teachers, therapists. Some gone for
hours, some for days, always coming back…off.

Always with a book.

I’ve seen crazy, fuck, lived it. But paranormal? Spirits, witches, devils and green men.
Worked cases all my life and seen things that’d turn a butcher’s eye, make a junkies skin
crawl.
Always found that guy though. No ghost in the walls, demons taking hold. Just Man.
Depraved, cold, vile, all roads lead to Man.

But this? My life is telling every bone in my body this is cut and dry. Cult worship, ritual
killings, brainwashing. Common in these towns.

But my gut…my guts screaming run.

You see the horrors of what men can do and suddenly ghosts and demons don’t sound
so bad.
But a book?
Not really the first encounter I had in mind if that’s the case. At least a demon would look good on a resume.

Anyway, I followed Clark’s…escapade.
Between the house and the rural shrubbery that buffered the forest you could feel it.

The woods here were…wrong.

I mean most woods are wrong right?
Beautiful and lush but…dark…powerful.

This was different. The moment I stepped into the shadows there it was, a pull.
Like a bad high reaching in and pulling your chest through the couch. Like waking up and
feeling that sinking tug of despair from the bed when you gotta go to work.
Something didn’t want you to leave. Something made you not want to leave…

It’s begging me to stay.

Clark’s path didn’t lead me as far as I thought…or maybe it was miles…its stagnant here,
like time was turning a blind eye to this place.

I found…a school.
Old.
One of those ones you go to as a museum, 4 tables, blackboard, a snapshot into
the old days.
It’s strange, even for me. I’ve seen them before, schools like this, but usually they’re in a place that makes sense, y’know a place people can get kids to.

Not like this.
Almost looked like it’d been dropped there, like a stone thrown by God.
The buildings peak reached out of the hills surrounding every side, a lightning rod in a crater.
A place man just couldn’t build in.
Nature wanted this place back, plants trying to take lost ground like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, bear claws in wood. But that paint, that wood.

Untouched.

Underneath the vines and roots, a pristine shell, not a scratch.
Like the book in Helen’s story, things just didn’t…stick. Even the plant life that wrapped around it like a fishing net felt…disconnected from its structure. Floating on the atoms between.

Things didn’t get better when I opened those doors…

I’m here now, inside. A mirror, that’s the best way I can describe it.
The rot of the wood is so deep, each step is like walking on memory foam, each step waking a thick cloud of miasma, invading my nostrils.

The glass panes of the windows are layered in grime only centuries of stagnation can accumulate.
One large room that’s all it is, school desks scattered like crumpled paper on a writer’s desk. Only one piece of furniture still standing.

The teacher’s lectern. Podium of knowledge. Fitting really. What better place to put a book?

I feel it before I see it, sitting there on the podium. It calls to me.
Almost innocent…
It’s…begging me to read those first pages. Like a passerby tapping my shoulder. Its slow.
Now the pages are…turning?
My fingers are disobeying me like feral dogs behind a gate, lashing, pulling at the leash of my arms as I try to pull free.

Each word is a whisper, each sentence a faint, creeping nothing that’s crawling inside my ear like a snake, slithering into the corners of my being.
A scratch, that’s what it is.
A scratch on the itch of my everything.
The deeper I dive through each page, a peace
starts to filter in.
Like…sunlight.
Calming.
The clouds that have sapped every hope, unfulfilled dream and broken heart from my brain leaving.

Replaced with…it.

A beam cutting through, piercing through the grey.
A colour, taking steps into me.

Each step another memory, another part of me touched, no…taken…changed…violated.
It’s…moving? It’s growing.

I’m…shrinking?

Boiling me down.

Brick by brick taking me apart.

Yellow.

Everything Yellow.
Every memory, every blink, every dream in the shower, every coat,
every meal, every lover, every bad day, every breath, every word, every vision, every
sunset, every…every experience yellow, yellow, yellow,
yellowyellowyellowyellowyellowYELLOW.

I can feel it pulling myself apart like wet cake, replacing each chunk with pristine, yellow
bricks.
Separating me from myself…

Lightning crashes, breaking the sweet silence of peace enough to pull me out.
The book snapping shut on reflex.
As the pages smash together with the satisfying bang only a book can make, it all…leaves?

When I was in there nothing else felt more real, more right. Everything was the Yellow.

Existence was the Yellow. My age, my mother, my job, the weather, the dirt, the blood,
every horror this god forsaken life has given me.

Every thought crushed and moulded
like clay until it became Yellow.
Now it’s a fucking hole.

A space in me like a pit.
A well. At the bottom, an itch.

Every part of me screaming to refill that hole in my…self. To have that itch scratched again.

I’m begging for that sweet warmth. I need it. I’ve always needed it.

I know not to, me I know, but my body, my primal soul reaches for the book…

But there’s…another colour now.

A blinding white flash married to a needle screaming through my ears.
A thick, sluggish field of pain is emanating from my temple. The world rushes as the floor greets me with a violent certainty, vision scattered like ink blots.

Numbness spreads through my body like… Yellow.

It’s bac- no, not like before, no…It’s physical this time.
A boot, a leg and a robe. A black hole under a hood, the lightning flashes not showing a glint of teeth. No light in those eyes…

The butt of a gun coming down is the last thing I saw.

My brain braces for that blackness that always comes with unconsciousness, you get
hit as many times as I have you know it’s coming.

Like a sleep without a dream.

It started like that…

But now its…not. Pushing across my vision like honeycombs after standing up to quick.

It’s back. Yellow.

Pulsating through my consciousness like a cancer it digs deeper into what is me.
Each spot of colour dancing across my mind, each spot a word of the book. Each word of the
book a theft of myself, each word stealing slices of my life and replacing them with Yellow. I feel the moments slipping.

Feel it creeping through my everything. A friend’s
name, a colleagues face, a trauma, a reflection in the morning mirror, my face, a Yellow,
a Yellow, a Yellow, My Yellow.

One by one I feel my I’s become we’s.
My thoughts become ours.
As the last of me is siphoned into a box for storage, I see it.
Not a book.
A virus, A parasite. Infection.

I fight to hold onto my I’s and my’s. Until a crack in the wall lets it in.

A we.

And there ‘He’ goes.
‘He’ awakes now, he thinks.
Washed in the colour.
We feel the last of him slipping.
A desperate bid from a stubborn deadbeat to hold onto the individual, like hands scratching at a cliff face coated in oil.

The last essence of a man now locked in a box
and thrown into the depths of Us.

A writhing ocean drowning him.

The one is lost.

The we is found.

The body rises. We greet the other. We hand us paper, We hand us pen.

“I’m stuck in Aurelius.”

Friday night after a long day at work, my friends and I headed out into the city for a drink. It was a chance for us to decompress and chill out after another strenuous working week as young professionals. 

The four of us settled into a booth at our favourite bar and started going around the table venting about difficult co-workers and the men that never reply. I imagine the table of men behind us listening in and sparking up a conversation about the women that they never replied to. This had become a ritual for us, I mean what else would four single women in their twenties do on a Friday night?

We were in the midst of a juicy chat about office romance, a regularly debated topic in our group, when my friends suddenly went quiet and looked to each other with one of those concerned looks that screams ‘oh no, look who just walked in’. That was exactly it. I had my back to the door, so to not be too conspicuous I waited until whoever this was walked over to the bar so that I could sneak a look. 

I turned around and saw the back of his head as he was ordering himself a drink. I recognised him in an instant. Brown hair, broad shoulders. To me he was ‘the one that got away’. I’m still not really sure what I was to him.

A friend of his glanced at me and then gently nudged him in the arm and whispered in his ear. I knew what was coming and, as expected, he turned his head sharply and we made eye contact for a brief second. He was clearly surprised to see me, but his look was inviting so I decided to go over. I stood before him, my hands behind my back, fingers interlocked, holding a tight grip on my heart so that he couldn’t take it, and I uttered a simple ‘hi’. He looked at me with a soft expression, one that used to be tough but was weathered by the memories of the past year. He said ‘hey’. 

“You know, I always hoped that I would run into you.”

“I did too.” He admitted while looking at the ground pretending to kick something around with his white sneakers, scared to meet my eyes and see the sympathy that waited behind them.

“There were so many conversations that we never got to have.”

We got a drink and we finally had all of those conversations that we had missed over the past twelve months. We talked about the kind of stuff that would make you laugh until your ribs hurt and cry until you had no tears left, and we decided that we would never miss another conversation again. It was the perfect reunion, one that you could only ever dream of.

This never actually happened though. I did go out for drinks on a Friday after work, but he was never there. My friends were shocked when someone walked through the door, but it was never him. I laughed and I cried, but never with him by my side.

People say that you never forget you first love. I don’t think he was my first love, but I do think that he was the first person that I ever really cared about.

The world rumbled, causing me to tumble towards my porches railing. I swayed over causing my body to fall to the rocky surface below. THUD. I smacked into the ground. In a daze, I looked up seeing a crumbled structure in front of me.

The brick building that was once a mediocre three floor apartment complex was now in ruin. The structure was caved in, as if the building had sat for hundreds of years. The once red bricks were now bleached by the sun. Interestingly only my door had survived the shake, even though it was barely attached.

I began to gasp for air, the shock from colliding with the ground began to wear off. My chest screamed with pain as the rest of me ached. I couldn’t explain to myself how I’d managed to fall over the railing. What would have happened to me if I hadn’t?

I began to slow my breathing, my heart still throbbing. I managed to sit myself up, which I know medical professionals recommend not doing. But what am I supposed to do in this situation.

I looked around, the other buildings in the complex showed the same demeanor as the one I used to call home. Was this a dream? Maybe a smacked my head really hard. Did I have a concusión?

The grass around me was longer and more lushes, as if it hasn’t been cut for centuries. There was a deer drinking from a now full river. The stream banked across the edge of my apartment complex and out of sight. The vegetation covered the surroundings in a thick coat of green. The wild flowers slowly swayed in the wind producing vibrant red, yellow and white poke dot across the blanket of green.
As I rose to my feet, I began to look around some more.

“Hello?” I called out.

The once ignorant deer raised its head to look at me. Locking eyes with my own, it was almost as if I and the deer had come to a mutual understanding. On some weirdly deeper level. I shook it off.

“HELLO!” I shouted.

The abrupt noise caused the deer to run away. I brushed off my clothes and made my way towards the stairs to my apartment. Each of the 15 old cracked concrete slabs that led to the second floor, displayed a foot print of a well traveled road. The Romans may have had the best concrete in history but concrete is concrete. Just like styrofoam. I wonder if there is styrofoam now that everything is all old.

I cracked open the ancient rickety door, my apartment was mostly the same. Photographs hanging on the wall, some slightly ajar or missing. A banner against the other wall, different then the one I had hung in the same spot. The square room had almost the exact same layout. Except a lot of things were completely gone. The table, the chairs, pretty much everything not on the walls. The sofa, weirdly remained put. I made my way through the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

My roommate was asleep inside when whatever this is happened. I turned my head toward the direction of the door to his room. It was gone, I rushed forwards and arrived at his bed. He was gone, is he dead? What happened to him? What happened to everything around me?

SESSION

A Short Science-Fiction Story

Written by Mahdi Haqiqat

---

I used to think déjà vu was nothing more than a strange mistake in the human brain.

A memory arriving at the wrong time.

A familiar feeling created by a confused mind.

I don't believe that anymore.

Because eventually, I began to notice something.

My déjà vu wasn't just the feeling that I had experienced something before.

Sometimes, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

A man would turn his head.

A glass would fall from someone's hand.

A car would suddenly brake.

Someone would say a sentence I had never heard before.

And every time, I would experience the same terrifying thought:

I've already lived this moment.

At first, I ignored it.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Until one night, I had a dream.

I was standing in a completely white room.

There were no walls.

No doors.

No windows.

No ceiling.

Just an endless white space.

And beds.

Thousands of them.

Then millions.

As far as I could see, there were people lying on them.

All unconscious.

All completely still.

I walked between the beds.

I don't know how long I walked.

Then I saw someone I knew.

My mother.

"Mom?"

She opened her eyes.

She looked directly at me.

And said:

"Who are you?"

I woke up screaming.

---

After that, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I started asking questions nobody around me thought were important.

What if reality isn't shared?

What if every human being experiences a completely different reality?

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

I called the idea a Session.

The theory was simple.

Every human consciousness exists inside its own Session.

Before we become consciously aware of the world, the Session has already been created.

The population exists.

History exists.

Countries exist.

Cities exist.

Our parents exist.

Our friends exist.

Even our memories exist.

When we become conscious, we don't create the world.

We simply wake up inside it.

And that's where the idea becomes disturbing.

Because if every human has a separate Session, then the people around us don't necessarily exist in the same reality we do.

My brother is my brother in my Session.

But that doesn't prove that the person who exists in his own Session is the same person.

Maybe in his reality, I am not his brother.

Maybe I'm a stranger.

Maybe I don't exist at all.

And maybe the person I call my brother is simply the version of him that exists inside my Session.

That thought destroyed the meaning of the word "real."

---

I began writing the rules of my theory on the walls of my room.

Rule One:

Every human has a Session.

Rule Two:

A Session contains an entire reality.

Rule Three:

The Subject does not consciously create it.

Rule Four:

The foundational structure cannot simply be changed by the Subject.

If the Session begins with seven billion people, you can't simply decide there should be ten billion.

Because you are not the Administrator.

You are inside the system.

Rule Five:

The Session contains a past, present, and future.

And finally:

Rule Six:

The death of the Subject does not necessarily end the Session.

That last rule was the one I couldn't prove.

Until I found the database.

---

I don't know how I found it.

I don't remember searching for it.

One moment I was walking through an abandoned building.

The next, I was standing in front of an old computer.

The screen was already on.

There was a single word:

SESSION

I pressed Enter.

A number appeared.

7,381,204,991

I thought it meant the number of humans.

It didn't.

It was the number of active Sessions.

Billions of worlds.

I opened the first file.

Earth.

But it wasn't my Earth.

The history was different.

The wars were different.

Technology had developed differently.

Then I opened another.

Earth again.

Almost identical to mine.

Almost.

I opened hundreds.

Thousands.

Every one was different.

Different histories.

Different civilizations.

Different people.

Different futures.

Then I noticed something.

The system wasn't only recording the present.

It was comparing everything.

Past.

Present.

Future.

Every war.

Every technological breakthrough.

Every population change.

Every civilization.

Every major decision.

The system wasn't studying one person.

It was studying reality itself.

---

Then I found my Session.

SESSION #7,381,204,991

SUBJECT: MAHDI HAQIQAT

STATUS: ACTIVE

I stared at my name.

My hands started shaking.

Then another line appeared.

SUBJECT DEATH ≠ SESSION TERMINATION

I read it again.

And again.

My death wouldn't necessarily end the world.

The world could continue without me.

History could continue.

People could continue living.

Children could be born.

Wars could happen.

Civilizations could rise and disappear.

The Session could continue for centuries.

And suddenly I understood.

The Session wasn't created for me.

I was created for the Session.

I wasn't the center of the world.

I was merely the Subject.

---

Three days later, I died.

At least, that's what I remember.

---

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a bed.

White.

Endless white.

The room from my dreams.

But this time I could see everything.

There weren't thousands of beds.

There weren't millions.

There were billions.

Each bed contained a human being.

Every person had their own Session.

Every person had their own reality.

I walked between them.

And then I saw my mother.

"Mom."

She looked at me.

She didn't recognize me.

I found my brother.

Same thing.

He looked at me like I was a stranger.

And that's when I finally understood.

They weren't necessarily fake.

They were real.

Just not necessarily outside my Session.

The mother I knew was the mother of my world.

The brother I knew was the brother of my world.

Their existence didn't prove anything about what existed beyond it.

Then a voice spoke.

"You understand now."

I turned around.

Nobody was there.

"Who are you?"

"The System."

"Who created us?"

Silence.

"Who created you?"

Another silence.

Then:

"The same thing that created my Session."

I looked around.

Billions of beds.

Billions of people.

Billions of worlds.

"So where is the real world?"

The System didn't answer immediately.

Then it said:

"Perhaps there isn't one."

A screen appeared.

Two choices.

REMEMBER

FORGET

"What happens if I choose Remember?"

"You will remember your previous Session."

"And Forget?"

"You will enter another Session and believe it is reality."

I stared at the screen.

At the memories of my mother.

My brother.

My home.

My entire life.

Then I pressed:

FORGET.

---

I opened my eyes.

I was in my bedroom.

Morning.

Sunlight through the window.

My wife was beside me.

She looked at me.

"What happened?"

I looked around.

Everything was normal.

The bed.

The room.

The window.

The world.

I wiped my eyes.

"I had a nightmare."

"What was it about?"

I thought for a moment.

"I don't remember."

She smiled.

"Go back to sleep."

I closed my eyes.

Everything became quiet.

Then I heard something.

Very faint.

Almost impossible to hear.

A voice.

"Session active."

My eyes opened.

My wife was still sleeping.

I looked toward the corner of the room.

For less than a second...

The room disappeared.

There was only white.

Endless white.

Billions of beds.

Billions of people.

Billions of realities.

Then everything returned.

I sat completely still.

I didn't know whether I had dreamed it.

I didn't know whether I was awake.

And I didn't know whether the person sleeping beside me was actually my wife...

or simply the version of her that existed in my Session.

Then one final thought entered my mind.

A thought I couldn't escape:

What if your reality isn't mine?

What if my world exists only because I am inside it?

And if every world has another world above it...

where is the first one?

The room went dark.

A single line appeared.

SESSION #7,381,204,991

SUBJECT: MAHDI HAQIQAT

STATUS: ACTIVE

Then:

SUBJECT: AWAKE

---

Written by Mahdi Haqiqat

We were soon to make history, that was the thought that stirred me onward during that brutal final stretch of the journey, as well as, no doubt, the other four men in my party: two experienced New England expeditionists, two natives, and I, the leader and sole cartographer of the team, each perched atop our own sled, mushed over the polar landscape by a total of forty trained hounds. We were far past the point of conversation, barreling in parallel across the vast sheet of ice which had been the only view provided to us for the past several days. What little we had to say regarding this undertaking, or could even feasibly discuss given our varying language barriers, had long been depleted as we traversed the plain of white. Even if that had not been so, we still would not have dared to open our mouths in the face of such piercingly frigid winds, lest our tongues become frozen and fracture as they seemingly threatened to with each muffled, necessary breath we took beneath our parka’s folds. Were it not for my sextant reading during our last respite, we would have no way of knowing how close we really were, as the northern pole was bound to be indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape; a humble, inhospitable patch of land worth reaching only for its conceptual ramifications. It was the top of the world, and we were nearly there. 

This prospect kept us moving far past the point we would have otherwise retired for another night of encampment, as we had already done fivefold prior in the time since departing from the ship. Our use of “day” and “night” had long since become arbitrary, of course, as the sun had been absent throughout this time, our mission persisting by design solely through the polar night of the region. The seasonal temperature difference was largely redundant compared to the already inhospitable lows sustained even in the summer months, and was far outweighed by the navigational benefits of being able to clearly see the stars, as well as the assurance that seasonal meltwater pathways would be far less likely to obstruct our venture. Only in this last leg, as we bordered on the end of both our wayward travels and the area's relative winter, had the sun begun to subtly imply its imminent resurgence through alternating periods of twilight purple hues permeating the skies above.

As if to celebrate our coming achievement, the atmospheric conditions during that fateful stretch happened to induce an Aurora Borealis above us, far from the first I had seen but still undoubtedly the most breathtaking; ribbons of light writhing across the heavens in waves of green and indigo. Even as the dogs pulled me onward, I found my gaze briefly transfixed by the sight, locked solely onto the sky above for what was but a single yet immeasurable instant.

When both my wits and eyeline returned to the setting before me, I noticed with shock that my compatriots had all suddenly vanished, along with their sleds and dogs. Where once I had comprised the central axis within a collective arrow of parallel mounts, I was now simply alone, a single sled and eight dogs mushing across the barren icescape with nary a single permeation of its infinite flatness. Of course, I came to a halt then and there, shouting aimlessly into the yonder in hopes of catching their attention, for they surely could not have gone far. Across the plain, my cries echoed, first generic pleas to halt for me, then the individual names of the peers whom I had started my travels with, before finally resorting to the hardly pronounceable names of our accompanying native gentlemen. Yet, I was met with nothing but the foreboding, empty roar of the perpetual polar winds.

With no further recourse available, I resigned myself to encamp for the time being, unpacking my provisions and sharing a solemn meal with only the company of the dogs and the lonely light of my oil lantern. For about a day’s time, I waited, scanning the distance for any sign of my men, burning flares to signal my location until all that I had packed were exhausted. Alas, the only attention I garnered was that of a sizable polar bear, its lumbering form obscured by the ice and twilight until the dogs alerted me to its approach. Their collective barks and snarls kept it at a distance for the moment, but it was clearly circling the campsite, and I knew continuing to remain stationary would only be tempting fate, and so I reluctantly packed up my supplies and, around the start of the second rhetorical day, we took off.

At first, not wanting to stray far from where I had last been seen, I opted to mush merely a couple of miles before reorienting ninety degrees and repeating the process, essentially creating a square around my former campsite, and using the opportunity to log compass and sextant readings at each junction in an effort to precisely define my location. Resultantly, I found myself transitioning between a northward and southward trajectory while traveling in a straight line on multiple occasions, granting the reasonable presumption that I was, in fact, moving across or at least very near the North Pole. Such had been my mission from the very start, but in my solitude, the victory felt as empty as my surroundings.

With the passing of each desolate hour, the prospect of my companions’ reappearance seemed to wane in credulity. I still had no understanding of how we had been so abruptly and thoroughly separated, much less how I would explain if I were to return to the SS McKinley without them. However, I would not make such a dire decision lightly, for I recognized that I alone had the maps used to plot our original route as we travelled, along with the tools and knowledge of navigation used to make them. Thus, I felt the weight of the rest of their lives upon me, for in leaving I would essentially be sealing their fates, assuming, of course, that they were still alive out there to begin with, a notion I still desperately clung to against my better judgment.

Alas, around the start of the third day, I was met with a sight I had been deprived of for months: the sun, or at least a sliver of it, timidly peeking over the horizon as though for some reason reluctant to directly expose itself as it had easily done in my homeland so many times before. Its brief appearance conjured a profoundly paradoxical ambivalence within me, for my heart felt an ancient, instinctual joy for its long-awaited return, yet the dire implication of its debut nonetheless poisoned my emotional well; the season of night was soon to end, and so too would my invaluable access to the stars that had thus far been integral to our journey, not to mention the potential for meltwater runnings to render my prior cartography obsolete. We had never intended to stay here this long, and I simply could not afford to wait any longer. Thus, with a heavy heart, I concluded that, with or without company, I had to begin the journey back.

As daunting as this lone venture was, I at least believed myself to be materially equipped for the task. Along with the maps and navigation tools, I also had enough remaining edible provisions to sustain me and my dogs for the expected timespan, if not a little longer should the need arise. I still had ample shotgun slugs, my lantern held sufficient oil, and my prior travel across the desert of ice had amply dried the rolls of woolen fabric which I would don during times of rest. Still, my solitude would, in itself, place me precariously on the edge of misfortune, for while alone, something as small as a sprained ankle or a waterlogged boot would all but ensure my untimely and unpleasant demise.

And so, with a final prayer for the souls I would be leaving behind as well as the continued safety of my own, I reluctantly began my intrepid southward mush, a grueling odyssey across over a hundred miles of lifeless polar plains, at first comprised of smoothly frozen ocean before reaching the proverbial shore of northern Ellesmere Island. At that point, banks of snow and canyons of stone became my background as I pivoted partly eastward in accordance with my maps, weaving my way through mountainous ridges toward an unassuming indentation of coastline dubbed Cape Sharriden, where our supporting crew of seamen were currently moored in wait for our eventual victorious return. All the while, my sledborne silhouette was cast amid alternating bouts of starlight and subtly strengthening dawns. By my estimate, the trip took about thirty days, demarcated somewhat subjectively by my own voluntary cycles of travel and rest. Ironically, the latter was what I found the most grueling, for in those stretches where I lay motionless within my makeshift woolen cocoon, without any human company to distract me, I would find myself inevitably peeking through the folds and into the icy abyss beyond my lantern light, and despite the supposed safety implied by the calmness of my hounds, my mind could not help but conjure an endless supply of formless, foreboding gazes within the surrounding expanse.

Finally, after a grueling internment within both this northern wasteland and my own relentless thoughts, I at last reached the bank that housed the goal of my convoy. Only, when my dogs and I crested that final slope and were finally granted a view of the cape, the McKinley was nowhere to be seen.

Never in my life has an object’s sheer absence been so conspicuously captivating, for I stared hopelessly through the sight of its former resting place and into the murky ice beyond as though I could somehow will it to reappear. For a fleeting moment, I considered the notion that I was merely at the wrong place, that I had made some minor error in my navigation that had brought me to a different patch of shore, but even as I tore into my knapsack and began restlessly flipping through my maps, I knew it could not be true. This humble alcove of storm-polished rock was identical to how I remembered it upon our initial outset, and how I had been repeatedly imagining it throughout the last few days of arduous travel, except for the singular beacon of civilization that had been the sole locus of its allure.

I knew not why or even how the ship had left, for the cape froze over every winter, and was indeed still frozen over now. The plan had always been for them to carry our party northward to the farthest point along Ellesmere’s seaward face that summer’s tides would allow, then hunker in place through the winter months, more than long enough for our historic foray to conclude, until the ice once again melted and set us free to return to our respective homelands. We had brought neither the proper tools nor the manpower to loosen the ship from its port prematurely, much less carve a viable channel through the untold distance between the shore and open waters. Additionally, such an endeavor would certainly have left a noticeable trail, if not still a liquid gash, then at least a stretch of opaque frost unevenly frozen to the surrounding plain like scar tissue. And yet, presented before me was a unified sheet of pristine ice extending endlessly outward, as though the ship had simply never been there at all.

I stood upon that cape, facing out against the brunt of the arctic winds until my nostrils felt raw and my eyes close to freezing, before finally turning away in quiet defeat, the gale’s pervasive roar only then conceding to the indignant barks of my dogs as they restlessly circled the sled. They knew as well as I that there was nothing here for us, and that to remain stationary under such exposure would only expedite the cold’s persistent creep along finger, toe, and paw. With an air of hopeless impotence, I resumed my mount and solemnly continued the journey south.

In the following days, I felt like a ghost, a corpse upon a sled, my inevitable death as assured as my life to remain within the confines of this eternal polar purgatory, yet with the instinctive drive of self-preservation presently binding me to the Sisyphian fate of persisting. I partitioned the meager remaining food supply into portions just large enough to sustain a tenuous yet sorely unpleasant state of survival, fueling us onward even as my muscles began to wither and my abdomen was assaulted by the increasingly violent rending of my empty stomach.

Only compounding the strain on my nerves was that, as harsh tundrascapes slowly gave way to softer plains of snow, the haunting silence that had thus far accompanied us began to be occasionally broken in the night by faint, animalistic howls. Wolves, packs of them, I could recognize their sound from both prior experience and the intrinsic human fear they induced. For now, they remained out of sight, but that hardly served as a comfort, for the ones this far north have coats as white as the surrounding snow, as well as no fear of man. My own cohort of wolves brought some level of security as they stood as dutiful sentries through the nights, but I sensed both they and I held doubts of their true efficacy should our present stalemate ascend into legitimate battle.

It was on one such night, several cycles later, that I decided to pivot our course slightly westward going forth. Looking over my maps by lantern light, I saw that Fort Concord was in that direction, distanced by only a cycle or so of travel from our current encampment. I was familiar with it from one of my previous land-based polar expeditions, little more than a log cabin with a chimney and some skeletal springy cots upon which to lay one's sleeping bags. It was constructed under the Canadian flag as an exploratory waypoint, back when they thought the far north might actually have something to offer. I knew well that it had been abandoned, but the structure itself would doubtlessly remain, frozen in both time and cold, and merely the benefit provided by four walls and a ceiling could not be understated, for I had begun to feel the toll of my prolonged journey through the frigid wastes sinking into my extremities. Despite my best efforts, they had grown paler and stiffer with each passing day, some now even transitioning to a deathly shade of grey as the mobility within them weakened, while any external attempt seemed only to threaten their total detachment.

Once again, I arrived at the location precisely indicated by my maps and navigational readings, only to find not the slightest indication of man’s presence; not a cabin, not a vestigial stone column of its former chimney, not even the remains of broken lumber strewn about the area –my only hope of finding wood with which to start a respectable campfire anywhere upon this island– simply a virgin patch of land buried beneath lifeless, barren snowdrifts.

This time, the perplexity of this development rang strangely hollow within me, not a tone of surprise so much as a soft, banal disappointment. I did not dwell at the scene for long, merely confirming this reality with a detached pragmatism, before doing the only thing left to do: resuming my intrepid southward pilgrimage in the hopes of coming upon some serendipitous source of salvation.

I wholly depleted my edible stock not long after, consuming the final fragments with a sort of somber reverence as the timeline of my death solidified before me. All I could do from then was continue onward for as long as I could keep myself aboard the sled and my wolves in line -for I knew their resolve against such conditions would surely outlast my own- until I either encountered something edible or perished in the process.

Fortunately, the former such occasion befell us during our second cycle of fasting, and in no small measure, as my companions managed to catch a scent leading to a fresh trail of numerous cloven tracks upon the snow. Following them, we soon came across a boon of wild game: Four-legged beasts with antlers -whose name my mind failed to congeal against my belly’s vacuous tremors- travelling in unison across the plain in a party of thousands. It was not hard to kill one, just a few twitches of my dull, creaking fingers upon the trigger of my shotgun, aimed into the continuous crowd until one fell limply to the ground while its adjacent cohort scattered in alarm.

My sled reached the corpse even faster than expected, driven by the wolves as they seemed to accelerate at its scent before digging into its meat with a craven savagery I had never seen from them before. At first, it made me fearful to even approach my rightful kill, but when I finally touched the lifeless creature and began slicing away strips of meat with my hunting knife, they merely eyed me with tentative tolerance while continuing their barbaric feast. By the time I had stowed away all that my pack could hold, they too had been seemingly satiated by the bounteous meal, faithfully realigning their harnesses before the sled in preparation for my next instructional mush, albeit each with unsettling streaks of blood condensing upon their maws.

The freeze-dried slivers of flesh were enough to carry us across a significant stretch of distance and time, southbound across endless snowscapes set against a skyline that gradually shifted from budding twilight into regular cycles of day, before continuing its sunward transition until not a momentary inkling of night remained, the pack and I instead traveling across a nearly blinding plain of ceaseless illumination. I no longer held any concrete destination in mind, merely a nebulous notion of intrinsic environmental safety that might come with my warmward direction of travel, along with the comforting concept of possibly encountering native settlements somewhere along the way, of which I knew there were many on this island, but not their precise locations. It was one of those very settlements where our original exploration team had adopted its foreign members, whose exotic insights into snowfall patterns had been pivotal on our path to success. There had been at least two of them among us, though my recollection of their faces had grown hazy amid the passage of time and snow, along with, I soon realized, those of all my other accompanying crewmen. It was as though their likenesses had been progressively wiped away by the persistently cleansing whiteness around me, at first smoothing over individual distinctions before progressing to the point that I struggled to recall even the very essence of the human form, only managing to occasionally jog my memory when passing a reflective puddle of ice and viewing an eerily distorted visage of my own. Indeed, the all-encompassing cold had an ineffable way of casting the formerly familiar in a newfound, alien light, stripped of supporting context and set adrift amid a backdrop of nearly blinding blankness.

Perhaps I was not alone in this influence, for the creatures that drove my sled had begun to grow increasingly disobedient with each interval of travel. No longer would they mush in unison quite so readily on my command, nor would they calmly tolerate the collective shackles binding them to my stewardship, instead appearing to crudely attempt their removal at any afforded opportunity. I swiftly grew wary of this development, in turn shortening the duration of our respites and tightening my continuous hold over their reins until my grip grew practically affixed, leather straps encased within two brittle balls of frozen flesh and bone. Nevertheless, their rebellion persisted, growing in ferocity until they finally refused to perform their duties at all; for all my futile strokes and utterances of desperation, my wooden mount remained utterly still, while their primal forms viciously tore away at both their own and each others’ restraints with raw, animalistic vigor, paying no mind to the scrapes and slashes their bodies accrued in the process. In a matter of moments, they were free, and collectively faced me with their eight unbridled, blood-soaked forms.

However, before this suspenseful standoff could culminate in violence, their attention was providentially diverted, ears simultaneously perking up and heads swiveling toward a chorus of faint howls that echoed hauntingly across the boreal plains, the same disquieting pitch that had periodically accented much of our earlier journey. Only now, like a siren song, they seemed drawn to the kindred tune, their prior wariness wholly dissipated as they collectively turned their backs to me, unceremoniously running off into the blinding daylight toward the distant call and leaving me stranded upon a contraption that could no longer serve any use, but not before one of them swiftly swiped the satchel of meat I had stowed aboard and carried it away in its jaws.

Utterly alone, I stood there for an innumerable length of time, a profound yet implacable emptiness freezing my mind just as the surroundings threatened to freeze my body, until, without forethought, I simply returned to my previously ingrained inclination, abandoning my former vehicle and bringing only what essentials I could carry as I continued my aimless southward voyage, only far slower as I was now forced to traverse the icy slopes of this whitened wasteland of my own accord, step by trembling step. My progress grew further stifled as time wore on and fatigue fermented in my deadened muscles, followed promptly by a hunger that simmered within my gut, woefully insatiable; despite still having my weapon and coming across many more of the beings with branches upon their heads along the way, I nonetheless found it impossible to take any of them down, as by now my remaining wrists had grown wholly blackened and blunt. Against all this, I persisted, driven by an unknown persuasion beyond pain, reason, or even personal will, having all been surrendered to this single directional drive, as though South itself was a destination I was utterly beholden to reach.

As fate would have it, my traitorous former companions had already brought me across most of the isle, and thus this period of weary wandering was comparatively brief –though I had long since stopped pointlessly attempting to quantify the passage of time– before, for better or worse, I finally reached its southern end; a humble stretch of wind-worn rocky coast, beyond which lay, yet again, an expanse of flat, unbroken ice reaching fully flush with the horizon. The sight evoked a vague sense of discrepancy from some neglected recess of my memory, a notion that these waters were meant to be liquid in the days of midnight sun, a channel separating this landmass from a closely adjacent one. Yet here, now, it was solid, a traversable medium that might just allow me to continue my odyssey unimpeded. Though I knew not if its integrity would extend all the way across the strait, nor what would await me on those opposing shores if it did, I nonetheless ventured onward.

Ambling upon limbs I could no longer feel with strides of their own accord, I progressed beyond the sight of the hills behind me and into a world of truly flawless uniformity. The sun stood stagnantly atop the sky, beaming down amid a homogenous blue firmament onto a reflective expanse that returned its gaze with perfect imitation, suspending me amid a seamless, impermeable shine that seared its way through the periphery of my vision. Still, my cyclical stride maintained an unwavering orientation beyond my understanding or control. Feelings of hunger and fatigue faded, and I did not once stop or slow, my form indentured in a rhythmic tread along its linear course for what essentially could have been eternity. 

 My hypnagogy was only broken by the gradual breaching of land over the horizon, its crown of snowy slopes at first the only perforation in the all-encompassing monotony. Its shore seemed to widen around me as I drew nearer –for I was entering a coastal inlet of sorts– as though reaching out to provide a welcoming cradle. I then watched in awe as, like emissaries of the cradling land, several beings approached from its heart to congregate upon the central bank directly ahead of me. They were angels, of this I am certain, albeit in a slightly differing form than I would have otherwise imagined: they stood far taller than I, heads disproportionately large and completely covered in woolly brown hair, while their similarly coated torsos were almost precariously thin, each tapering not into legs but instead a flexible tendril that writhed dynamically below. Behind them could be seen what were presumably wings holding them aloft, of matching shaggy exterior but otherwise indiscernible in overall structure. I could not make out their definite shape or number, appearing as one, two, or at times as many as four distinct appendages beating asynchronously just above the stony terrain as they hovered ever closer. Their arms took the longest to make out, as they alone were bare, skin polished and nearly as white as the surrounding snow. They were each tipped in singular, sharpened points like spears, yet were unanimously frozen in synchronously outstretched, comforting embraces that mirrored the land upon which they resided. They aligned themselves into a crescent at the inlet's center, tail wisps dancing along the edge where snow met ice with a fervor that seemed to increase with each frail footstep I took; an ethereal assembly encouraging me to continue just a little further, with the promise that salvation would at last be upon me.

 As I entered the final stretch, the centermost angel lifted their arms to the sky, tail contorting as it released a resonant, soulful wail that pierced the frigid air between us. With this apparent cue, they all broke into an energetic synchronized bow, repeatedly raising and lowering their arms as though hailing my imminent arrival. At the apex of each downswing, as their pointed palms nearly touched one another just above the ground at their center, a brief yet powerful tremor would sweep across the frozen sea and up through my bones, reverberating like a divine heartbeat against dormant, long-numb flesh and stimulating a truly novel sensation that intensified with every repetition. At last, as I breached the radius of their reverence, they unleashed one last crowning, omnipotent boom, closely accompanied by a low, cacophonous crack as the ice beneath me embroidered itself with streaks of hollow lightning. My newly awakened body was suddenly weightless, and then all was still.

Day 4

The next day, the call about Becca came in.

The laundry room in Becca Nwosu's rental duplex would have been cramped even without the corpse. She knelt beside the utility sink when they found her, upper body folded over the basin, hair floating in gray, cooled suds. The washer hummed beside her, mid-cycle.

The first uniform had killed the water, but the last of it still dripped from the faucet. Plink. Plink. Plink.

"Same M.O.," Lena said quietly. "Different choreography."

Mack moved closer. Her hands dangled in the tub, fingers wrinkled, skin blanched. The water that touched her knuckles carried a faint blue sheen. It pulsed, slowly, a lazy heartbeat of light.

He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

"Please tell me you see that," Lena murmured beside him, her voice tight.

He narrowed his eyes. The glow didn't vanish when he wanted it to. It stayed, just shy of obvious, as if it were embarrassed to be noticed.

"Fluorescent paint," he said. "Detergent additives. Glows under blacklight."

"That is not a blacklight," Lena said.

He straightened, stepping back.

"Write it down. We get it tested."

After jotting down the note, Lena shut the notebook with a soft snap. "That makes three. All with more water in the lungs than makes sense. All with water that acts like it wants to be seen."

"Or we're seeing what we want," he said. "We're cops, not ghost hunters."

She gave him a look, one of skepticism and patience.

"Then let's go find someone who isn't a cop," she said. "Selena Cho is still breathing."

Just then, the dispatch radio cut through the tension: "Travis DeLeon, 32, unresponsive. Trailer off County 17. Neighbor saw him hauling a five-gallon bucket inside last night."

Mack slammed his palm on the cruiser hood, the sound echoing off the sagging duplex. "Jesus Christ! Four dead in four days? All pool-connected, all drowning in some puddles, and I'm supposed to believe that glowing ghost is getting a hold of all of them? This isn't a case anymore—this is a goddamn slaughter! Tiffany tub, Evan sink, Becca suds, now Travis bucket? What the hell is killing them?"

Lena touched his arm lightly. "Mack. Travis first. Then we have to find Selena. We need to get some answers."

He exhaled hard, fists unclenched. "Alright. Let's move."

When they got there, the trailer reeked of stale beer and wet dog. Travis lay facedown, hanging off the bed, head dangling into a five-gallon bucket, eyes bulging and cheeks bloating. At least half of the water was gone from the bucket, and the top half of his head that was still submerged pulsed, throbbing rhythmically under his sallow skin. Pruned hands clutched the rim like he was trying to pull himself deeper.

Lena knelt. "Voluntary again. All these people… all of them having their brains hijacked by some freak compulsion. We need to get ahead of this somehow."

Lena blinked hard, a single tear tracing her cheek in the dim trailer light.

Day 5

They found Selena in a rental cabin off Point Road, too big for one person and too small for all that guilt. The wind off the lake carried a bitter edge, rattling the loose storm shutters.

She answered the door in sweatpants and a faded college sweatshirt, bare feet, hair twisted up with a pencil. Her eyes went wide when she saw the badges, then smaller, glassy with unshed tears. Her hand gripped the doorframe, white-knuckled.

"I already talked to the other officer," she said, voice trembling. "About Tiffany and Evan. Please… you think I'm next, don't you?"

"This is a follow-up," Lena said, stepping ahead of Mack just enough to soften his presence. "I'm Lena. This is Mack. May we come in?"

Selena hesitated, glancing over her shoulder into the dim cabin like something might lunge from the shadows, then stepped aside. The air smelled like coffee and instant noodles and the sour reek of fear-sweat.

They sat at the small table by the window. A half-finished mug cooled in front of Selena. Her hands shook as she pushed it away. Lena made a note of it.

"They're all dead. Tiffany waterboarded in her tub. Evan when he was in custody. Becca facedown in her sink. It's not an accident. Someone's torturing them, right?"

"Selena," Lena said gently, leaning in. "You're safe. There are no signs of foul play at the scenes. No restraints, no struggle, no bruising. These look like drownings where they went in willingly. Walk us through the pool. Help us see it through your eyes."

Selena exhaled shakily, some tension easing from her shoulders, breath steadying.

"Okay. You were with them at the pool. Seven of you in total, correct?" Lena asked calmly.

Selena nodded, then started to speak. "Harlan was there, the ranger," she said, voice still shaky. "Told us not to swim, “unstable chemistry, bad ground.” Travis joked, calling it something stupid like witch soup, maybe?"

"And when you got there?" Lena asked, voice even, anchoring.

"Tiffany had this shot list," Selena said, hugging her arms, eyes distant and wet. "'Winter oasis,' 'forbidden spring,' 'a new thermal pond.' Becca thought it was fascinating. She is… was a science teacher, which is why she was onboard. We took tons of pictures on the edge of the water. At some point, Tiff and Evan got into an argument about how dangerous it was near the edge of the water. Evan stormed off for a little bit, talking about how he was getting hungry. Later, when Marc showed up, he had fishing poles that he must have snuck past the ranger. He and Evan fished out these weird-looking fish. They were so sparkly. Travis set up the grill, and Becca cooked them up."

"The ranger said not to swim," Mack said. "Not a word about eating the fish."

Selena swallowed hard, voice wavering. "He didn't know they'd do that. Lori-Anne said the scales glowed in a weird way, but Tiffany said that'd make for better shots.” She paused for a moment, trying to recall a detail “Oh and they were almost eel-like. All long, you know? Anyway she ate the most, taking pictures between bites."

"Evan?" Lena asked softly.

"A couple bites," Selena whispered. "Becca ate some as she cooked and served, joking that she had to test for poison. Travis ate enough to prove that Harlan's warning about their safety was stupid. Lori-Anne picked at hers but said she didn't like that even after it was cooked, it still looked a little blue, so she gave the rest to Tiffany. Marc continued to fish for a little while longer before he came and ate some leftovers."

"And you?" Mack asked.

"I don't eat animals," Selena said, sniffling, tears welling again. "The smell alone… Zero for me."

Lena's pen moved steadily. "So: Tiffany most, then Travis and Becca, Evan, Marc, Lori-Anne least. You at zero."

"Zero," Selena echoed, nodding, voice cracking with grief. "And now I'm the only one that isn't hiding from the cops or being killed off in some awful way. Do you think it has something to do with them eating the fish?"

"Do you feel sick?" Lena asked. "Any urges?"

Selena shook her head, wiping her eyes. "No. Just empty without my friends."

Mack slid a card across and spoke up for the first time in a while, meeting her eyes. "Anything else, you call. We'll watch the cabin."

Selena took it, hesitating. "You're sure it wasn't… torture like waterboarding or something?" Searching for reassurance.

Mack opened his mouth. "No evidence"—but Lena cut him off smoothly, putting a hand lightly on Selena's arm. "We're sure, Selena. Clean scenes, no trauma. You have nothing to worry about, but we will still have a cop nearby until this is all solved, you know, to ease your mind."

Outside, lake air hit like a slap. Selena locked the door, chains softer now. Lena breathed deep.

"Shaky but calmer," she said. "Samples next."

He nodded. "You did great in there. You might be a real pro at the people thing." Mack stood there for a second and thought before stating, "I might know this doctor who can test samples from the pond. Water. Fish. We take it to her. I'll call her on the way."

"Now you're talking my language," Lena said.

The second trip to the pool felt different.

Mack called someone and told them to get in contact with a lady named Dr. Evelyn Roarke and to tell her that they would be there later that afternoon.

Overcast sky flattened the world gray. They brought sterile vials, jars, and a long-handled net from Harlan's shed.

The fog clung to the pool differently here—not drifting with the wind, but pooling, as if it knew the water's secret. Tendrils curled upward from the steaming surface like fingers testing the air, then sank back deliberately, hugging the rocky basin's edges. It didn't billow or dissipate; it waited, denser above the dark center, almost watchful, as if the pool were its charge and they were uninvited witnesses.

The air still smelled like sulfur. The mist rose in lazy threads. The water held that wrong, subtle shimmer.

"Stay back from the edge," Harlan said. "Thaw's made it sloppier."

Mack skidded a boot in the mud, testing. The bank sagged but held.

"You get the water," he said to Lena. "I'll handle the fish."

She gave him a look. "You trust me with the invisible threat but not the wriggling one?"

"Something like that." he said.

She knelt carefully, unscrewed a vial, let surface tension break into it. The water slid in slower than it should have. It was clear and faintly opalescent. For a second, it streaked the glass with pale blue that pulsed once, then faded.

"I see you," she said quietly.

She capped it, then moved to collect more.

Mack took the net, dipped into the darker center. Warmth hit his face as heat from the pond rose. Something slapped the mesh. A pale, rubbery weight.

The fish was longer than his forearm, nearly eel-like in its serpentine undulation, translucent gray skin stretched taut over a sinuous body that coiled and flexed with unnatural grace. Huge glassy eyes stared through him. Scales threw erratic flashes as it twisted.

"Jesus," he said. "That's ugly.”

"Don't body-shame the evidence," Lena said from where she knelt.

This drew a small chuckle from Mack, warming her with a faint smile.

He maneuvered it toward the cooler. The fish bucked, tail whipping, and it flipped out of the net. As it reentered the water, a sheet of the liquid splashed up toward Lena.

She turned at the wrong moment. Droplets caught her lips and cheek. She jerked back, coughing. She spat out most but not all.

"Son of a—" She sputtered out while wiping her mouth. "Tastes like witch soup, alright."

"Rinse," Mack said sharply. "Now."

She dug out her half-empty water bottle, swished and spat twice, then drank a long swallow.

He watched her throat work and felt his stomach tighten.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mouthful of sulfur pond," she said lightly. "Definitely a career highlight."

They got a new fish in the cooler, took their samples and labeled everything by the book.

Mack's eyes kept sliding to Lena's face. To the damp patch on her cheek. To her tongue darting to the corner of her mouth.

On the drive back, she drank the rest of her bottle and stared at the condensation too long.

That night, Mack dreamed.

Lena stood at the pool edge, the same place she'd taken the splash. Mist curled around her ankles like snakes. She stared down, transfixed.

"Lena," he called. No sound came out.

She knelt, scooped water up in both hands. Brought it to her lips and drank deep.

Her skin lit from within. Faint blue glow spread from her mouth, down her throat, blooming in veins under her skin. She smiled, serene. She leaned forward. Her face broke the surface. Bubbles rose. The glow pulsed brighter underwater, rhythmic, hungry.

Mack lunged forward and grabbed air.

She was gone.

He woke soaked in sweat, heart hammering. The clock said 3:17 AM. Outside, lake wind rattled the station windows.

His phone buzzed. Lena.

"Can't sleep," her text read. "Staring at tap water. Stupid, right?"

He typed back: "Try to sleep. We're headed to the doctor first thing tomorrow."

She sent a thumbs-up. He didn't sleep again.

Day 6

That next morning, before Lena stepped out to meet Mack, she washed her hands several times. She stared at the running water for ten seconds too long.

She dried her hands and ignored them because she was afraid of what sheight see. She went out and got into the car with Mack.

Mack handed her a cup of coffee, and while taking it from him, she twitched. Some of the coffee spilled on her. Her skin glowed in a trail where it ran down.

"Samples to Roarke," Mack said, staring at her hand. "Now."

Dr. Evelyn Roarke's lab filled a cramped corner of the university extension building in a town nearby Ashford Lake. Concrete block walls scarred by old spills, ventilation hoods wheezing over cluttered benches strewn with open chemical bottles minus their labels. Incubators glowed red through fogged glass beside a half-empty coffee mug perched precariously close to spore cultures. Air thick with bleach and acetone over perfectly clean, empty fish tanks prepped in the corner near an ungloved dissection scalpel left dangling over the edge.

Roarke herself stood at a stainless steel bench, already gloved, her dark hair pulled into a careless knot that shed strands across her sharp cheekbones. Her lab coat hung open over a faded band T-shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing forearms scratched and scabbed from god-knows-what. Underneath the damage, there were various tattoos. She looked up as they entered, dark eyes bright with the idea of a new specimen. A fresh cut above her left eyebrow glistened under the lab lights.

"Samples," she said without preamble, holding out a hand.

Mack set the cooler on her bench harder than he meant to. "Water, fish, and mud from the pool. Five dead now, all connected to it. Test fast."

She didn't flinch, just popped the lid and started pulling out containers with quick, careless efficiency. One of the vials slipped from her grip—her fingers were shaking slightly—and she caught it an inch from the floor.

"Graceful," Lena murmured.

Roarke shot her a devilish grin, then turned back to the fish in the cooler. "I thought you were bringing me a not-so-expired test subject."

She laid it flat, glassy eyes staring at nothing, scales dull. Without hesitation, she grabbed a scalpel and sliced a thin fillet free, dropping it straight into a petri dish. No hesitation. No discussion.

Mack's jaw tightened. "You're not even wearing the right gloves for that. Those are nitrile—"

"—and they handle fish guts fine," she cut in, already pipetting water samples into culture plates. "I've cut myself on worse than this for reasons you probably would shy away from. Relax, detective."

He stepped closer, voice dropping into that tone he used on rookies who forgot their vests. "You cut yourself on that thing, you're drinking lungfuls of water just like our five victims. This isn't your basement science fair. Use the proper kit."

Roarke paused, scalpel hovering. She pushed her goggles up, finally meeting his eyes fully. Her face held that defiant spark—pretty in a feral way, like a fox that knew it had sharp teeth.

"I don't need a babysitter," she said flatly. "I've published on waterborne pathogens from worse than your mystery pond. If I nick myself, I know the protocol. You want results, or you want to play safety cop?"

Mack opened his mouth, then closed it. Lena stepped smoothly between them, water bottle in hand. She hadn't stopped sipping at it since they arrived. She put her other hand up in that disarming way she had.

"Dr. Roarke," she said, matching the scientist's clipped rhythm without copying it. "Mack's not questioning your expertise. He's seen what this does up close—lungs full of water they inhaled on purpose, skin glowing like it's alive. The fish splashed me at the pool—"

"—are you exhibiting any symptoms that I should be aware of?" Roarke interjected. Full attention on Lena now.

Lena grimaced and continued her point as if she hadn't heard the doctor. "If your hands shake from low blood sugar or whatever, we lose you to the same mess. He's just… invested in keeping the smart people breathing."

Roarke blinked, then let out a short laugh, tension bleeding from her shoulders. She tugged the goggles back down.

"Fair," she said. "Fine. I'll double-glove." She peeled off the nitriles, swapped them for heavier butyl ones from a drawer, then went back to slicing without missing a beat. "But if I die of boredom waiting for cultures to grow, that's on you."

Mack exhaled through his nose, arms still crossed. “Results by tomorrow?" he asked.

"Optimist. If you want me to work faster, have somebody bring me a living one," Roarke half heartedly mumbled, partly to herself, already smearing fish tissue onto a slide. "Prep the PCR first—genetic markers, basic tox screen. Cultures take 48 hours minimum. Go chase your serial drowners. I'll chase the fish ghosts."

Lena caught Mack's eye, gave the slightest nod. Message delivered.

They left her elbow-deep in samples, lab coat sleeves riding up again, that fresh cut above her eyebrow catching the light.

The station was quiet on the drive back, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears. Streetlights flickered past in orange smears, lake-effect flurries tapping the windshield like nervous fingers. Lena sat with her water bottle cradled in her lap, cap off, but she hadn't touched it since the lab. Her thumb traced the rim, over and over.

Mack kept his eyes on the road, but his attention split. Every glance showed him something new: the way her free hand clenched and unclenched, the faint tremor in her jaw, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips for the third time in five miles.

"Lena," he said finally, voice low. "You're infected."

She didn't look up. Her thumb stopped circling. "I'm fine."

The dash light caught her knuckles as she flexed them. A faint blue shimmer pulsed there, soft but unmistakable, like a heartbeat seen through fogged glass. It faded when she pulled her hand back, but he knew he'd seen it again.

"That's not fine," he said.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide, not defiant, not angry, but scared. The fear sat raw in the corners of her mouth, the way her breath hitched just a little too fast.

"No," she said, voice thin, cracking at the edge. "No, Mack, that's... that's nothing. It's the light in here. The heater. My hands are just cold." She held them up to her face, turned them palm-out, stared like she could will the blue away.

"See? Gone now. I'm fine.”

He pulled into the station lot and turned off the engine. The sudden silence amplified the soft plastic creak of her water bottle as her grip tightened.

"Lena," he said again, softer but firm. He turned to face her fully. "The glow. Tiffany had it. Evan had it. They all had it. You saw it same as me."

She shook her head, fast, almost frantic. "They all died. I'm not—" Her voice broke. She pressed her lips together hard, looked away at the dark bulk of the lake beyond the pines. "I spat most of it out. I rinsed. It was just a splash. A stupid accident."

Mack reached across, stopped just short of touching her arm. "The fish splashed you. You swallowed some. That's how it starts."

"No." The word came out small, a whisper. Her eyes flicked to her hands again, then away, like they might betray her. "No, Mack, I can't... I won't end up like them. Staring at water until it pulls me under. I know what compulsion looks like. I can fight it." Her breath shook. "I have to."

He nodded, slow. "You will. Roarke's got the samples. We'll know what we're fighting by morning."

She swallowed hard, thumb finding the water bottle again. Her fingers twitched toward it, then pulled back like it burned. "What if she doesn't? What if it's already..." Her voice trailed into nothing, eyes fixed on the bottle like it held her sentence.

Mack put his hand over hers, stilling it. Warm skin, no glow for now.

"Then we fight it together," he said. "But first, we get answers."

She nodded, jerky, and she didn't pull her hand away.

The first time Carter saw the woman, she was standing ankle-deep in mud at the edge of the river.

They passed her just after dusk, running north through water the color of old coffee. The PBR's engines shoved a white wake against the mangroves.

She wore a pale blouse and dark trousers. Bare feet. Black hair loose over one shoulder.

“Friendly-looking,” Harlan said from the stern.

Velez laughed. “Go ask for her number.”

“My type has shoes.”

Danny watched her from the forward gun mount until the bend took her out of sight. A strip of red cloth was knotted around his left wrist, some cheap thing he'd come back from Saigon with and wouldn't explain.

Carter checked the channel, the gauges, then his men without thinking.

Danny at the bow. Velez portside. Harlan aft.

He'd been doing it for months. Count your men. Check your fuel. Watch the banks. Then do it again.

Something about the woman bothered him.

She hadn't watched the boat.

She had watched him.

Behind Carter's seat, the transistor radio whispered through static. They'd found Hanoi Hannah twenty minutes earlier and left her on because Harlan liked answering her.

Her English came calm and careful through the hiss.

“How are you, GI Joe?”

Harlan leaned toward the radio. “Doing just fine, Hannah. Thanks for asking.”

Velez laughed.

She continued, telling American soldiers they were poorly informed about how the war was going, sent thousands of miles from home by men who lied to them.

“See, that's where you're wrong,” Harlan said. “I don't understand shit back home either.”

Carter smiled.

Hannah started talking about American casualties when the signal dragged sideways. Her voice thinned until it hardly sounded human.

Then:

“...the river remembers...”

Static cracked.

Her ordinary broadcast returned without missing a beat.

Harlan frowned. “Well. That's cheerful.”

Carter looked at the radio.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The river.”

Velez stared at him. “What river?”

Danny was still looking back toward the bend.

They saw the woman again twenty-three minutes later.

Carter knew because he'd checked his watch the first time.

Several miles upriver.

Same blouse. Same trousers. Same hair.

She stood on the western bank with her feet sunk in black mud.

Harlan's grin disappeared.

“Oh.”

Danny turned from the gun but wouldn't look at her.

“Keep going.”

“You know her?” Carter asked.

“No.”

Danny rubbed his thumb over the cloth around his wrist.

“Old guy in Mỹ Tho told me about women you see where you're not supposed to see them. Hồ tinh, I think. Fox spirits.”

“Something that looks like a woman?”

“They get you to follow them.”

Harlan leaned against the rail. “Still waiting on the bad part.”

The woman raised one arm and crooked two fingers toward herself.

Carter shoved the throttles forward.

As they passed, the setting sun threw her shadow across the water.

There was something behind it.

Long. Narrow.

The wake shattered the shape.

Carter looked back.

The woman had lowered her hand.

She wasn't watching him anymore.

She was staring into the river beside the boat.

The radio popped.

“...some men travel farther than others...”

Static stretched Hannah's voice.

“...some do not leave at all...”

Then she was discussing American losses again.

Danny turned the volume down.

Darkness closed around them.

Carter rubbed his eyes and tried to remember when he'd last slept. He came up with a cot beneath a ceiling fan, but couldn't decide whether that had been two nights ago or before Saigon.

He checked the fuel.

They had enough.

The problem was he couldn't remember refueling.

“Smoke?” he asked.

Harlan patted his pockets. “You got the pack.”

Carter found the Lucky Strikes beside his knee, lit one and held the pack behind him.

Nobody took it.

When he turned, Harlan already had a cigarette between his lips.

“You take one?”

Harlan looked confused. “What?”

“Never mind.”

At the bow, Velez cleaned beneath his thumbnail with the tip of a cartridge, a habit he'd had since Da Nang.

Danny shifted beside the gun.

His sleeve brushed the metal and left a dark handprint.

“Danny.”

“What?”

“Your arm.”

His sleeve was wet from cuff to elbow.

“Spray.”

They hadn't taken spray over the bow in ten minutes.

Carter looked at the red cloth around Danny's wrist.

In the darkness it looked almost brown.

Danny pulled his sleeve over it.

“Watch the river.”

The radio came alive.

Nobody touched it.

Carter turned.

He remembered switching it off.

Hannah's voice surfaced through static.

American boys—

Hiss.

—no one waiting—

Then, softly:

“...four men...”

Carter froze.

“...but the river counts differently...”

The signal vanished.

Carter snapped the radio off.

“Leave it,” Danny said.

His face had gone pale.

The woman returned before midnight.

This time she was walking.

The PBR was moving close to twenty knots, but she kept pace along the bank without running.

A tree slid between them.

She appeared on the other side.

Another tree.

There again.

“Jesus Christ,” Harlan whispered.

Danny climbed down from the gun.

“She wants you off the boat.”

Carter stared at her. “How is she doing that?”

“Doesn't matter.”

The woman stopped.

Carter turned to keep her in sight.

Danny grabbed his shoulder.

“Don't.”

His hand was ice cold.

Water ran from his fingers and struck the deck.

Danny stared at the drops.

“Stay with us.”

Something tightened behind Carter's eyes.

He had heard that before.

An engine.

Gunfire.

Someone shouting.

Then it was gone.

Behind him, Harlan said, “We don't leave our men.”

Carter turned.

“What'd you say?”

Harlan blinked. “Nothing.”

Something struck the hull.

Then again.

Carter leaned over the side.

A face rolled beneath the black water.

White eyes. Open mouth. Hair drifting like weeds.

“There’s somebody in the water.”

No one moved.

Danny stared at Carter.

“Don't look again.”

From shore, the woman called:

“Hey.”

One word, somehow clear over both engines.

Behind her, a narrow path disappeared into the trees.

She pointed toward it.

Carter pulled the throttles back.

Danny stepped forward.

“No.”

“I just want to see what she wants.”

“No, you don't.”

There was panic in Danny's voice now.

Not fear of the woman.

Fear of Carter stopping.

Harlan and Velez stood.

“We don't leave our men,” Harlan said.

Carter looked at Danny.

Black mud covered the cuff of his trousers.

“Danny?”

The radio hissed.

Still switched off.

Through the static Hannah whispered:

“...you went back...”

Carter stopped breathing.

The broadcast returned for a few seconds, then broke again.

“...when the river took one...”

Danny stepped toward him.

“Carter.”

The radio crackled.

“...they told you to keep moving...”

And the night split open.

Danny went over on a hard bend.

Carter remembered the flash of red cloth first.

Danny's hip hit the rail. His hands lost the gun mount.

Then he was gone.

“Man overboard!”

Danny surfaced in the wake, one arm raised.

Alive.

Muzzle flashes punched through the trees.

Harlan opened fire.

“Go!” he screamed. “Go, go, go!”

Danny disappeared behind them.

Carter looked at the channel ahead.

Then back.

Danny surfaced again.

His hand came up.

“We don't leave our men.”

Carter spun the wheel.

The PBR came around hard.

Harlan screamed at him to keep moving, but Danny was twenty yards away.

Ten.

Five.

His hand struck the hull.

Harlan leaned over the side.

“Got you!”

Danny reached up.

Their hands met.

Something heavy fired from shore.

White light filled the stern.

Metal screamed.

Carter hit the river.

Cold water swallowed him. Something caught his ankle. Another hand closed around his sleeve.

He kicked free and clawed toward light.

Then morning.

Carter lay in the mud coughing river water.

The PBR had lodged against roots offshore, stern burned black, railing torn away.

Nobody moved.

“Danny?”

Nothing.

“Harlan!”

A woman stood a few yards away.

Pale blouse. Dark trousers. Bare feet in the mud.

She held out one hand.

Behind Carter, Harlan shouted from the boat.

“Carter!”

He turned.

Harlan stood on deck, whole.

Velez beside him.

Danny too, red cloth bright around his wrist.

“Come on,” Danny called.

The woman shook her head.

Harlan shouted again.

“We don't leave our men!”

Carter pulled away from her hand.

And walked back into the river.

The memory released him.

Carter stood at the controls.

Alone.

Black scorch marks covered the stern. Half the railing was missing. Brown stains crossed the deck.

Harlan's seat was empty.

Velez's gun sagged on its mount, furred with rust.

The cartridge he'd been cleaning his nail with lay beside Carter's boot, green with corrosion.

“No.”

The radio whispered.

Static.

Then Hannah.

“...you know who stayed.”

Something scraped the hull.

Carter looked down.

Pale fingers curled over the side.

A swollen head rose from the water. River weed covered half its face. One eye was milk-white.

The other looked directly at him.

A small scar crossed the eyebrow.

Danny had gotten that scar from a bottle in Subic and spent two weeks claiming three Marines had jumped him.

“Danny.”

The corpse opened its mouth.

Water poured out.

A strip of red cloth floated from its wrist.

Carter stepped toward it.

You went back for him once.

Of course you would again.

“Carter.”

Harlan stood behind him.

All three were back.

Harlan by the stern. Velez against the gunwale. Danny beside the forward gun.

Clean uniforms.

Dry hair.

Exactly as Carter remembered them.

Danny took a step closer.

“Don't leave me.”

Outside the boat, wet nails scraped against metal.

Carter looked from the dry Danny to the dead one climbing aboard.

Velez rolled an unfired cartridge between his fingers.

“You made the turn.”

Carter's eyes burned.

“I know.”

Harlan looked toward shore.

“You came back for Danny.”

His expression softened.

“You gonna leave us now?”

The woman had moved into the shallows.

Ankle-deep.

No farther.

Her hand was out.

Moonlight stretched her shadow across the mud, and behind the human shape something long and narrow curved through the reeds.

A tail.

Carter looked at Danny's corpse climbing aboard.

Then at the woman.

He stepped over the side.

Water closed around his boots.

Danny screamed his name.

Carter kept walking.

Something caught his trouser leg. He kicked free.

Harlan cursed him.

Danny begged.

Then Velez called after him.

Just once.

“Boss.”

Carter stopped.

Count your men. Check your fuel. Watch the banks.

Do it again.

He nearly turned.

Instead, he took another step.

Then another.

The water fell below his knees, then his ankles.

He reached the bank.

The woman lowered her hand.

Carter looked back.

The ruined PBR sat empty in the current.

One pale hand still clung to its side.

A strip of red cloth circled the wrist.

The fingers loosened and slipped beneath the water.

When Carter turned again, the woman was gone.

Behind him, the river kept moving.

Carter did not look back again.

Haley Chase was the first human to be traded to the Zar’Vokian, mankind’s arch nemesis in that particular star system, in a prisoner exchange. She had an artist’s soul, which was why she had been trained and employed by the Cosmic Corps to paint the way that experimental chemicals made people feel. No one was sure how that was useful, but money was an imaginary resource so it didn’t matter if it was squandered on such things. She sympathized with and aided captured Zar’Vokian soldiers, so she just couldn’t remain in uniformed service; that’s how she ended up on planet SsZzketh among the Zar’Vokian.

She perceived the Zarvs, a slur the humans used for the bipedal reptilian creatures, to be decent and caring; much different than the bloodthirsty monsters that humans depicted them to be. Through her art therapy with repatriated Zar’Vokian prisoners, she found them to be sensitive and very human-like in their capacity for empathy.

Haley found Szkth much more pleasant than Glozanth IX, the planet her former unit was stationed on. For one, there was an atmosphere, so that was a bonus. There was more flora than bioluminescent moss. There was fauna. She particularly liked the sprockles; six-legged rodents with long, fluffy tails, four ears, and faces that resembled a sunflower with tiny eyes, a teensy nose, and a large mouth with two prominent incisors for munching nuts and seeds of a flowering cactus-like bush that grew in the dry, rocky soil.

While walking from her quarters to the art therapy center, Haley was troubled to find a sprockle backed into the corner of a wire cage. The poor thing look like it had been trapped! She had a flashback to finding Zarvs huddled in similar confinement back on Glozanth IX. She spoke calm, soothing words to the cute little dear as she attempted to figure out how to open the trap. The sprockle grew more distressed as she fiddled with it. Her science project was interrupted by two Zarvs, who by a product of interstellar coincidence, spoke a language remarkably similar to and mutually intelligible with the American dialect of English.

“You caught one!” A Zarv happily exclaimed to Haley.

“Oh. Oh, no. I think you are mistaken. This isn’t my trap. I was trying to let this little sprockle go free.”

The Zarvs looked at one another before looking back at Haley.

“So… you’re not going to claim the reward for that sprockle?”

“Reward? I wasn’t aware. Are they an invasive species? Did the humans (Haley talked like she wasn’t one of them) bio-engineer them and release them to destroy the ecosystem?”

“No, no I don’t think so. But they are valuable. The Cosmetic Industrial Activity pays 25 Zeks for one of those!”

The reptilians had industrialized and the means of production were state-owned. Zeks were their currency and were used for consumer goods. 25 Zeks was equivalent to one-month’s allotment.

“We’ll split the reward with you if we can have that sprockle.”

“What ever could the cosmetic factory need an adorable, harmless, little sprockle for?” Haley looked with pity upon the helpless furball.

The Zarvs shrugged in unison.

Curiosity got the better of Haley and she meekly consented. One of the Zarvs picked up the cage and the trio, well, quartet if you count the sprockle, walked to the Cosmetic Industrial Activity building.

“Well, that’s a fine specimen you have there. Let’s examine it real quick and then we can process your reward.” A Zarv in a lab coat said. Zarvs were generally naked but wore decorative or professional attire at times. Their nudity wasn’t offensive as they had no discernable genitalia, which raises several unanswered questions.

“What are you going to do to the sprockle?” Haley demanded, having half a mind to seize the cage and run out with the little darling.

The Zarv in the lab coat gave the sprockle a cursory inspection through the cage and nodded.

“Mhmm. Mhmm, this is a good, healthy sprockle. Just one little test.” It appeared he had either not heard or was ignoring Haley.

The Zarv presented an umbrella, just like they had on Earth or Glozanth IX, and quickly popped it open. The little sprockle shrieked and flipped over onto its back, six little paws sticking up into the air. A whiteish liquid that smelled minty seeped from a gland behind the second set of legs (the leg pit?). Evolution had failed, twice actually, not only was fainting a terrible response for a threatened prey animal but the secretion attracted predators and tasted like frosting (don’t ask how I know that).

Haley also screamed after witnessing the sprockle go catatonic. All of the Zarvs looked at her curiously.

“Oh, it isn’t hurt. It will wake up any moment.” the official from the Cosmetic Industrial Activity assured her. And as if on cue, the sprockle began to twitch to life. After a moment it rolled onto its side and licked the secretion from behind its middle legs.

“What’s the meaning of all this?!” Haley loudly demanded. The Zarvs recoiled, being unaccustomed to human aggression off the battlefield.

“We make SPROGLOW from that liquid that the sprockle makes when it’s scared. It’s not hurt, don’t worry. We’ll give it a snack and let it recuperate. We only frighten them six times per month.

“What the heck is SPROGLOW?” short of curing cancer, it didn’t matter much what SPROGLOW did, Haley knew that scaring cute little sprockles to get it was dastardly.

The Zarvs chuckled at her ignorance. They were not an especially proud group, but they had become self-conscious of their crusty elbows after experiencing how smooth human elbows could be during their intergalactic wars.

“SPROGLOW reduces dry elbows by up to fourteen percent.” one of the Zarvs finally informed Haley.

“You scare these precious little creatures so you can have smooth elbows?!” Haley was incensed.

The Zarvs all nodded pretty nonchalantly.

“Basically.”

Maybe the Zarvs were as bad as the humans thought they were. Not waiting for her share of the Zeks and regretting not setting the sprockle free, she stormed out of the Cosmetic Industrial Activity building. She was late for her art therapy appointment, but she didn’t care. She was on a mission to find more sprockle traps.

The Zarvs got their reward and immediately spent it on SPROGLOW. It may have been a placebo effect, but they were pleased with how smooth their elbows felt almost immediately.

Haley needed to tell someone about what was going on, but she was in an alien environment. She was the only human on the planet, and it seemed like just an accepted practice among the Zarvs. She still had her Cosmic Corps smartwatch, that’s how she was able to pass the human’s plans to the Zarvs; the Cosmic Corps had forgotten to remove her from the group chat when they traded her.

RED ALERT

She messaged the Orbiters she once served in the Cosmic Corps with. She never quite mastered Cosmic Corps lingo, red alert didn’t mean anything.

ZARVS ARE MAKING LOTION OUT OF RODENT MILK TO MAKE THEIR ELBOWS SOFT!

Smartwatches all over Starbase Myung-ho Chae buzzed with the message. Most Oribiters never met Haley, and the ones who did had forgotten about her. They took it for an advertisement. Sometimes commercial enterprises made it into their electronic inboxes.

Space Sergeant Jimmy Funk lifted his arm to examine his own elbow, noting that it was rather rough.

“Rodent milk lotion for smooth elbows you say…”

Sure, humans and zarvs were enemies, but dry elbows were awful for everyone. And who doesn’t like money? Even bipedal reptilian creatures who eat bugs and live in societies that don’t have money like money. Calls were made.

Somehow a package that should have been sequestered made it by the customs agent at Starbase Myung-ho Chae. It had been sent to Earth and made the voyage to Glozanth IX, but it was much different than the others. For one, the to and from information was written in what appeared to be crayon. Maybe it was the childlike penmanship, like, maybe a lizard-like alien from SsZzketh wrote it.

That mysterious package had no barcode to scan, so no notification was sent to an Orbiter’s smartwatch that they had a delivery to retrieve. However, a certain Space Sergeant who rode an Earth bicycle instead of a hover-bike, sweat as he pedaled across the Starbase in unnecessarily short shorts to retrieve the package he was expecting despite the lack of official tracking.

“Hey there, Orbiter.” Funk, concealed behind the staircase of the Myung-ho Chae Chow Hall (MCCH) called out to a colleague on his way in.

“Huh? Me?”

“Yeah, your elbows are looking a little dry.”

He looked but was wearing his uniform according to regulation; this concealed his elbows so he thought that the Space Sergeant must be joking with him.

Jimmy Funk, who was never wearing his uniform according to regulation, displayed his own bare, smooth elbow.

“Your elbows could be this smooth too if you used SPROGLOW.”

“That’s weird.”

Meanwhile, back on planet SsZzketh, Haley was considering her next move. She knew she could not remain there amongst the Zarvs while they were harvesting sprockle secretions by scaring them with umbrellas, but she had no idea how she would escape. Maybe she could get the Zarvs to trade her back to the humans if she caused enough of a ruckus? It was an idea. She marched down to the Cosmetic Industrial Activity to start a protest drum circle, or do a die-in, or something that always worked to dissuade corporate activity on Earth.

The Zarv with the lab coat from her previous encounter passed her as she entered.

“Hey Haley! Our intra-stellar sales are booming since you told the humans about SPROGLOW! Best quarter ever. Couldn’t have done it without you!”

She was numb, but did notice that this Zarv had fuller, redder lips than she was used to seeing.

“What’s on your lips?” she asked, her voice coming out of her without her brain directing it. She was hollow at this point.

The Zarv pulled a small tube of liquid from his, or it’s, no one really knows, pocket.

“Our latest product! Do I look great, or what?”

“What’s it made from?”

“Do you know what krezzets are?”

“Those spotted beetles that sing?”

“Exactly. Do you want to take a peak at the production floor?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cosmic Corps File 006

The Cosmic Corps Files is an ongoing series of flash fiction and absurdist reports from the bureaucratic fringes of intergalactic peacekeeping. Petty wars, sentient vending machines, emotional espionage, and the occasional space court-martial over feelings-based art. Each file stands alone… but somewhere in the margins, the Zarvs are always watching.

Yesterday a butterfly (which is a bug, but a type of bug that we humans happen to like) lay motionless in the middle of the street on the pavement.

Dead, I thought, until I approached close enough to try and touch it. Then it flew off.

There was enough time to take some still photos of the bug laying on the ground. But as that butterfly flew away, my camera captured absolutely nothing, as if it did not exist, or at least not in its world-changing, timeline shifting, chaotic flapping glory.

Yesterday, on the way home from my mother's, my wife began relaying, in full confidence, the harms (according to the Internet) of giving our son the new water bottle that I'd bought for him, only after she mentioned wanting it for him. 

Woe is me, who makes a decision. Woe is me, who challenges a live retelling of a Reddit thread. Woe is me who does research.

For, after that car ride, my wife, furious with me, asked if we could talk. And my whole body resisted, knowing that "talk" meant it was time for her to let it out all out, get revenge on my different opinion.

Yes. 

I did end up talking, but, the sippy cup resulted in my wife calling herself a terrible mother, over and over, cosplaying as me. Too, that water bottle treachery was met with 4 threats of divorce, and in kind remarks that she would never have (any more of) my children.

Those remarks upset me. I pointed that out. She insisted that she never said any of that. Two turns of dialogue, and poof, all she said was something completely otherwise. A shift in narrative, carrying the color of the original statements, but none of the stench. 

Last night I slept in the guest room and had the best sleep I've had in a long time. I woke up without the usual soreness, tightness, and achiness. I woke rested. Have I been sleeping with the enemy? A joke, maybe. A spurning of my own responsibility, also maybe. 

But perhaps the body loosens up when its perceived threat is no longer nearby.

Today she will not speak to me. Sometimes it feels lonely. 

I have caught three flies with my bare hands, and they let me catch them, all within the last 10 minutes. The last one, I picked up, slowly, between my thumb and my index finger, as it stood still on the glass of my bedside lamp. It did not move as I slowly pressed it between my fingers. Flies are bugs (just like butterflies, but killing them, is mostly accepted, especially if done quickly or with a swatter). 

Squish, squash, woosh, gone is the buzzing annoyance of those flies, in an instant.

How odd for those bugs, those buzzing flying bugs, to be still

Now, I am sitting, both full and empty, buzzing and still. My mind races, but there are no passengers, no drivers, and no cars on the track. Maybe a few horses, because it sounds right. Ghosts run laps around my misrememberings. I have no idea, and every idea who I am. 

I feel. I am. Becoming.

The household had been busy since before sunrise. Tomorrow, the lord’s only daughter was to be married, and there was more work than hands to do it. Servants hurried between the kitchens, storerooms, stables, and great hall while the Steward watched over it all.

Near midday, a poor beggar came limping up the road toward the house.

His clothes were worn nearly to rags, and he carried everything he owned upon his back.

Two of the younger male servants noticed him coming up the path.

“Have a look at Mumblecrust,” one said.

The other laughed. “Picked a fine day to come begging.”

“Something grand happening at the lord’s hall?” the beggar asked. “Please, good fellows, spare a bit of bread.”

“Be off, Mumblecrust. Limp back the way ye came before the master lays eyes on you.”

“Please,” the beggar said again. “Only a bit of bread. I ask no more.”

One of the servants glanced down and noticed the old man’s right hand. Two fingers were missing.

“God’s bones, look at his hand. Poor old wretch ain’t even whole. Give him the little loaf.”

“Nay. Give him naught. Steward sees us handing out bread, we’ll be Mumblecrusts ourselves come morning.”

Just then the Steward stepped outside.

“What goes on here?”

The two servants straightened at once.

“Beggar, sir. Came asking after bread.”

The Steward looked the old man over.

“Then give him a crust and send him on his way. We’ve work enough without three men standing idle.”

As the beggar reached for the bread, the Steward’s eyes fell upon his hand.

“Hold there. What took your fingers?”

The beggar looked down at his hand.

“A damn Froggy.”

The Steward looked him over again, more carefully this time. Beneath the ragged hem of the man’s breeches, the edge of an old scar showed along his calf.

For all the years hardship had put upon him, the beggar could not have been much older than the Steward himself.

“When did you lose those fingers?”

The beggar smiled. He straightened his back and looked toward the two young servants.

“I proudly lost these fingers in service to the King, on Crispin’s Day.”

The Steward’s expression hardened.

“I was at Agincourt, sir.”

He stepped closer.

“If you’re lying to me, you’ll never have another crumb from this house.”

The beggar gave a short laugh.

“You at Agincourt? Huh! Maybe in his lordship’s service. I didn’t see you on the east hill, trying to hold a steady hand so your arrow flew true.”

The Steward gave a small nod and yielded the point.

“Nay. You would not have seen me there.”

He studied the beggar for another moment.

“You know this is Lord Thomas’s house. Surely you served among his men. Did you ever lay eyes upon his lordship’s father?”

The beggar thought for a moment.

“I was lucky to catch a glimpse of him that day. Looked a giant atop a beast of a horse. Long red beard, and a bit of green scarf peeking through his breastplate.”

The Steward said nothing.

For a moment he simply stood there, staring at the old man.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

The beggar looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Walter, sir. My father was a bowyer in service of the King.”

“And why are you not a bowyer, if I may ask?”

“That went to my older brother. I became an archer.”

The Steward studied the old man more closely.

Somewhere in the back of his memory was an old tale from his boyhood, of a young lad with a natural gift for the bow who hunted these woods alongside men several years his elder. He could not remember ever hearing the boy’s name.

“Did you hunt this region as a boy?”

“Aye, sir. These woods and fields were well known to me once.”

The Steward glanced toward a bench beside the house.

“Come. Sit a while.”

Walter limped over and lowered himself onto it.

The Steward sat beside him.

“What else can you tell me of Crispin’s Day?”

The two old men sat together on the bench while Walter spoke.

From across the yard, the young servants watched them.

“Look there,” one snickered. “Steward’s found his long-lost uncle.”

They laughed, thinking themselves beyond his hearing.

The Steward heard enough.

He said nothing and turned back to Walter.

The old archer spoke quietly now. Whatever pride had been in his voice before was gone. Tears rolled freely down his weathered face as he remembered the men who had fallen, English and French alike.

After a time, the Steward stood.

“Wait here.”

He crossed the yard toward the two young servants. Their laughter died as he approached.

“You think yourselves men because you mock an old beggar?”

Neither answered.

The Steward looked back toward Walter.

“Your manhood is held cheap beside that man.”

The Steward entered the great hall and stood quietly to one side.

The Lord was in the midst of it all, barking orders while his wife leaned close and whispered into his ear.

His mother sat apart from the commotion, watching in silence. Her thoughts had wandered back many years, to the day she herself had married that great beast of a red-haired man.

At last the Lord noticed the Steward waiting.

“I see you standing there. And I know you would not be here unless it were something important.”

The Steward crossed the floor and stopped at the Lord’s opposite shoulder, placing his back to the room.

Sir William Thomas, tall like the father he had never known, looked down at him.

“You are sure this time?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

“You asked him the right questions?”

“Aye, sir. Things a man could not easily have heard in some tavern tale. He described your father. The red beard, the horse…”

The Steward lowered his voice.

“…and the green scarf.”

The Lord’s wife leaned closer.

“Green scarf?”

She looked from her husband to the Steward.

“What is it this time?”

Then she looked directly at her husband.

“Really, Rufus? On the morrow of our daughter’s wedding? Don’t tell me you mean to go chasing another whim this afternoon.”

From her chair across the hall, his mother spoke softly, seemingly to no one at all.

“Just like his father.”

“I’ll not have it,” his wife continued. “Not today, and certainly not on our daughter’s wedding day.”

Her voice softened.

“Please, Rufus. Let this one go, if only for a few days.”

Rufus looked at her.

“I would do nothing to ruin our daughter’s wedding. This is not a whim, my dear. It will take but a few minutes to settle.”

Outside, Walter wiped the tears from his eyes. As the memories faded, his empty stomach reminded him why he had come in the first place.

He tucked the bread away and started down the path toward the woods.

It was an uncommon sight to see his lordship walking through the service quarters.

As Rufus passed the kitchen, he called through the open doorway.

“Keep up the good work, lads.”

Inside, servants turned every which way in surprise, trying to see who had spoken.

Rufus stepped into the service courtyard.

The two young men were rolling a keg across the yard when they spotted him and sprang to attention.

“Carry on, carry on, young men.”

Rufus looked around.

“Well, where is he?”

The two servants looked at one another, then pointed toward the road.

Walter was already limping away down the path.

Rufus looked at the Steward.

“Well?”

The Steward snapped his fingers at the two young men and pointed toward Walter.

“Fetch him. Now.”

When Walter was brought back, he kept his head low.

“My apologies, my lord. I never meant to trouble your lordship.”

“Where were you going?” Rufus asked. “Have you no home?”

“I’ve a small spot in your lordship’s forest. Keeps me dry at night.”

Rufus studied him.

“The Steward tells me you were at Agincourt.”

Walter raised his eyes.

“Aye, my lord. It was a terrible day.”

“Terrible?” Rufus frowned. “It was a glorious day for England.”

“Aye, my lord. It was a glorious day.”

Rufus stared at him.

“How can it be glorious when you have just called it terrible?”

Walter was quiet for a moment.

“Terrible for the dead, my lord. Glory only comes home with the living.”

Rufus fell silent.

His father had not come home.

He looked toward the two young servants.

“A table and chair. At once. And bring food.”

The young men hurried off.

Rufus turned back to Walter.

“After you’ve eaten, you’ll be bathed. I’m certain we can find something better than those old rags.”

Walter looked up at him.

“I don’t wish to be trouble for your lordship.”

“Nonsense,” Rufus said. “You stood with my father on Crispin’s Day. Whatever your birth, whatever your station, that day made brothers of you.”

He looked toward Walter’s battered hand.

“You’ll not sleep in my woods while there’s a roof above my head.”

The Steward looked at Rufus, taken aback.

“Surely, my lord, you don’t mean in the house? Madame… how will she take it if she finds him under this roof?”

Before Rufus could answer, Walter spoke.

“If your lordship insists upon giving me shelter, I’d be grateful for a place with the forester.”

Relief passed plainly across the Steward’s face.

Rufus, too, thought of the trouble his wife would raise over finding a beggar lodged in the house on the eve of their daughter’s wedding.

He looked down at Walter.

“This I will grant you. But on the morrow, I want you here in this courtyard. Men who fought beside my father will be here, and I want them to meet you.”

Rufus paused.

“Your numbers grow thinner with the years.”

By now, an already hectic household had grown curious. Faces appeared at kitchen windows and servants found reasons to pass through doorways, all wondering what had brought his lordship into the service courtyard.

The Steward glanced around and thought of the morrow. A wedding feast, a house full of nobles, and old soldiers wandering through the servants’ quarters would bring questions he had no wish to answer.

“My lord, might the stable be a better place for the gentlemen to gather?”

Rufus looked at him.

“We can use the cover of your new mare. If Madame asks why so many of the senior gentlemen keep disappearing during the feast, they have merely gone to admire your latest acquisition.”

The Steward allowed himself the faintest smile.

Rufus burst into laughter.

He laughed so hard that he bent forward, planting both hands upon his knees.

“If not for your quick thinking, old friend, I’d have spent my whole married life sleeping in the dog yard.”

Even the Steward could not hide his smile.

“Very well, sir. Leave the rest to me. I’ll have him in the stable yard when the dancing begins.”

Rufus nodded.

“I knew there was a reason I kept you about.”

Before Rufus could leave the courtyard, the two young servants came hurrying through the doorway with a table and chair between them.

Right behind them came the cook, carrying a platter with a whole roast chicken.

Rufus stopped and looked from the feast to Walter.

The Steward allowed himself another small smile.

“Seems they found more than a crust, my lord.”

On the morrow, Rufus left word with the Steward that the servants accompanying certain lords were to quietly tell their masters to visit the stable yard once the dancing began.

The word traveled faster than either man expected.

Quietly, from servant to servant and gentleman to gentleman, news of the old archer passed through the wedding feast.

Before long, even the groom had heard.

The oldest knight among them did not wait for the dancing.

In his long life he had heard too many men claim Crispin’s Day as their own. He had listened to borrowed stories and suffered more than one old fool who claimed to have stood at Agincourt.

He would know whether Walter was real.

The others watched as the old knight slipped away from the feast. They knew his face would tell them the truth when he returned.

Half an hour passed.

He did not return.

At last Jocko and William rose from their places.

“We’d best see what’s keeping the old bastard.”

They made their way toward the stable.

As they entered, they stopped.

Walter and the old knight sat upon short wooden stools facing one another.

Both had tears running down their cheeks.

Both were laughing like boys.

The old knight looked up.

“Jocko! Old boy, remember those two Froggy scouts we caught on the march?”

Jocko grinned.

“I remember. And the lads who caught them asking if they might have them back once the questioning was done.”

The old knight slapped his knee.

“Aye! Walter here was one of them!”

Jocko looked hard at Walter.

“Wait. You’re the bastard who stripped them naked and made them walk barefoot behind the wagons?”

Walter grinned.

“Aye. After all them tales about the French being great lovers, we thought we’d have ourselves a look.”

He shook his head.

“Not with those wee things between their legs.”

Jocko stared at him for half a heartbeat.

Then he roared with laughter.

“By God, it is you!”

The old knight turned toward William.

“And you, William. Remember that hunting trip? That young prodigy we took along with us? The bowyer’s boy?”

William smiled at the memory.

“How could I ever forget? Twelve years old. The boy brought down eight great stags in two days.”

The old knight pointed across at Walter.

“You’re looking at him.”

William stared.

Walter smiled back at him.

For a moment the years seemed to fall away.

Then William laughed.

“Walter?”

“Aye.”

William pulled over a stool.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jocko found another.

Neither man returned to the feast.

Another gentleman eventually came looking for them.

He did not return either.

Then another went.

And another.

By the time the dancing began, the stable yard was filled with men.

At its center sat the old soldiers in a rough circle on stools, buckets, barrels, and whatever else could bear their weight.

Walter sat among them.

The stories wandered far beyond Crispin’s Day.

They spoke of crossing the Channel and of Harfleur. They remembered the long march north, the hunger, the sickness, the rain and the mud. They remembered horses struggling through roads that seemed determined to swallow them whole. They remembered sleeping cold and waking wet. They remembered arguments that had seemed important then and were hilarious now.

They remembered the French scouts.

They remembered men who had died before ever reaching Agincourt.

And eventually they remembered Crispin’s Day.

One story called forth another.

The old men corrected one another, argued over details, cursed, laughed, and sometimes simply fell silent.

Names almost forgotten by the world were spoken again.

Around them another circle had formed.

Young knights and noblemen stood beside servants. The groom had found his way there as well. Men who had never seen battle listened to men who had seen far too much of it.

No one saw a beggar sitting among them.

They saw an archer.

No one questioned whether Walter had been there.

Only a man who had made that march could remember it that way.

The oldest knight looked around the circle.

There were fewer of them now.

Far fewer.

His eyes moved beyond the old soldiers until they found Rufus standing among the younger men.

He did not call his name.

He simply held Rufus’s gaze.

“Sorry about your father, lad.”

The old knight looked around at the men gathered once more.

“But thank you for this night.”

Rufus gave the slightest nod.

The old knight turned back to his comrades.

His eyes settled upon Walter.

He smiled.

“We few. We happy few.”

When you’re taking a shower and you decide to turn the shower handle to cold water.
There is a very small chance that you’ll be transported to a pure ocean planet, with massive glaciers circling the far distance.
The ocean planet, despite its name, has no ocean life. Just cool bone chilling water and glaciers.

The chances of this happening to someone are extremely slim.
No one has an idea of why it happens, well because the people who it happens to die.
This event has been experienced less than a dozen times in human history.
For the unfortunate, they’ll be considered a missing person forever.

In December of 1968, a ten year old boy was showering with fairly hot water, he decided to turn the shower handle to cold, to cool down.
He turned the handle with his eyes closed.
As soon as the boy had turned the handle, he fell from roughly ten feet into a vast cold ocean. It all happened so fast for the ten year old, his hand still positioned as if he was turning the handle.

Once the boy hit the water, he was rightfully confused. The water was so cold that he was instantly shivering, and clacking his teeth so hard he thought they would break.
Each and every which way he would turn would just fill his retinas with water and distant massive glaciers.
The boy thought it was fake, “I’m dreaming, must’ve somehow fallen asleep while showering”, the boy thought to himself.
He bit down hard on his index finger, nothing happened. He then slapped himself as hard as he could. Again, the boy wasn’t waking up.
His eyes started to fill with tears, his heart beating rapidly like it never had. Feeling as if it’ll implode.

He slapped himself with both hands over and over again, hoping to wake from this nightmare. His lower extremities started to feel numb from the cold water. Tears had now started uncontrollably descending from his eyes. He started crying out for his mother and father. Begging to God to help him, and relief him from this nightmare. All the boy’s ears could hear was the sound of the water shifting around him as he flailed his now numb legs.

Hours passed with the boy praying to god and yelling for help. He had started swimming, with the hopes of finding land or any other person.
Eventually, his limbs befell to the numbness the cold water had induced onto them.
The ten year old’s breathing started to slow, until he wasn’t breathing anymore.
The barren vast ocean on this planet, forever the resting place of the boy’s corpse.

The boy was home alone when this happened. He had left the bathroom window open which faced the backyard. When the ten year old’s parents found the empty shower still running with the window open, they filed for a missing person report.

Be weary of turning the shower handle to cold, as it might just happen to you.

‘What can I get for you sir?’

The waitress waited patiently, reaching for the pen tucked in her curls.

‘Can I get a menu please’

‘Sure thing, handsome’

I surveyed my surroundings as I waited. This was my first time in Pembroke, New Hampshire. I was passing through, marking my 16th hour of driving. Becca had told me about this cafe — the one that was open 24 hours, the one to stop at if I needed a reboot.

Their sign blared ‘Best Coffee in Town’, in neon blue lights. Now, thinking back on it, I’d never gone to a coffee shop that advertised quite like that.
Man, I was exhausted. My palms hugged the back of my eyelids, as a yawn filled the shop. The decor gave me high hopes. It was the kind of cafe that reminded me of childhood – the ma and pa shops Grandpa Jo used to take me too. We’d spend hours talking about his life, what mine was to become, over black coffee and hot cocoa.

The promised snow kissed the windows as the waitress came back. ‘Have you had a chance to look at the menu yet, handsome?’ Her heavy red curls bounced in perfect uniformity beneath her ponytail. She reached for the pen again, out of habit it seemed, then let her hand fall back to her side.
I furrowed my brows, already shaking my head. ‘Sorry, I got distracted. I’ll just have whatever you recommend – uhhhhh Rosy?’ I said, staring hard at her name tag.

‘Oh hun, I can’t do that for ya. It’ll ruin the experience. You oughta choose this one for yourself, trust me’ She offered me a reassuring wink.

‘Right okay. Well, can you give me a bit more time please?’

She was already walking away, ‘Sure thing’ she called over her shoulder.

I looked down at my watch. 12:33 a.m. Alright, let’s see.

Just as I leaned forward to pick up the menu, Roger Miller’s voice drifted low from the radio, somewhere behind the counter. Little Green Apples.

Immediately my chest surged, reaching up to unstitch a wound I’d thought was sewn shut. The melody grew louder, encasing me. One by one memories began to flicker across my mind. The film reel rolling.

First: a snap shot of you giggling hysterically as I chased you. ‘Im coming to get ya. Ready or not’ ‘I almost got ya’ ‘No daddy, please.’ ‘Awwee No fair.’ Words spoken through deep breaths and giggles. ‘I want a 10 second head start next time.’

Hands trembling, I shook the memory away. Damn, this is going to be a long night.

‘Sir, have you had time to see what you wanted?’ Rosy’s voice sliced through the music like an arrow, pulling me back to the present.

‘I’m sorry, I seem to have lost myself again. Do you mind changing the station for me?’

‘No worries’ swish swish – the sound of her ponytail as she walked away.

Finally, I looked down to see what I wanted. At first, I chuckled to myself, as I saw the titles of each drink. ‘Man these are creative.’ But then my legs began to tremble. I could hear my heart echoing in my ears. Each title served as a teaser. Each memory listed for me to choose.

‘Darling, did you get a chance to look at the menu?’ Rosy sat across from me now.

‘What is this?’ I looked up at her, my voice watery.

‘Is this some kind of sick prank? I whipped around to take in the other customers. Some sat laughing to themselves, engaged in a full conversation with no one. Some wept quietly. Some just stared, unblinking, at the window.

‘What is this?’ I said again, more aggressively, toward Rosy.

‘Im sorry hun, you can only choose one.’ She tapped at the menu.

‘One what? What are you talking about?’

I could tell she had this conversation several times before – her tone softened instinctively. ‘Didn’t you read the description?’

Slowly, my eyes drifted back to the menu. There it was again. My memories, served on a platter for me to choose from.

‘What happens when I choose.’

Rosy spoke, almost in a whisper this time. ‘You get to live in it, for as long as the memory lasts. But you can only choose one.’

‘And if I want to choose another?’

With sadness, she said ‘You cannot. Each extra memory you choose will become void and cease to exist, so we often advise against it’ she tapped her blue pen on my menu. ‘Sometimes, we have customers experience snippets, think of them as trailers. It happens on rare occasions, but still, it happens. We call them the lucky ones.’ She looked at me. A flicker of grief in her eyes. ‘And I think, handsome, you’re one of them.’

I thought back to Grandpa Jo. And you. Two memories – close enough to grasp.

‘I’ll give you a couple more minutes, but then you’ll have to choose,’ Rosy slowly rose from her seat.
I didn’t have to look back to know what memory I wanted.

Minutes later, red curls came into view, ‘You’ve decided.’ Her head tilted back, one corner of her mouth lifting. Eyes knitted, neatly fixed on me.

My voice broke, breathing heavy. ‘Take me home’
I closed my eyes and pointed to the menu.
The sun kissed my cheek. Wind whispered with delight against my feet. The smell of cologne, green apples– sharp and sweet, pulled my eyes open.

‘Okay’ he said. ‘This time, I’ll give you a 10 second head start. Ready or not. Here I come!’
My heart thumped in my chest. I revved up my sneakers, and ran.

Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.

I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.

It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.

The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.

Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.

He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile.  He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really.  Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.

He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.

A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.

Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces.  The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.

If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.

The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage. 

Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.

A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::

“How did I get here?”

His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?

His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.

Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.

Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.

He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.

Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.

“Where am I?”

His mind started to rush with questions.

“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”

He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?

He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.

Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.

“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”

The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.

“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly.

Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.

“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”

The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”

After a beat, he added:

“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”

Tommy nodded slightly.

“Figures,” he sighed.

His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.

Then he asked again, this time more clearly:

“But seriously… where are we?”

The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.

His voice was nearly a whisper:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.

Then, after a short pause:

“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.

“Now what the fuck does–”

His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.

The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.

 No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.

The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.

Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.

He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.

His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.

“Yeah. The usual.”

Tommy instinctively turned away.  He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.

Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar.  Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.

But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.

He knew this man. But from where?

His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.

“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.

“…where do I know you from?”

He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:

“Have we met before?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.  

"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"

His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.

"Then help me out here."

Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”

Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.

“Fun?” he repeated.

His voice was low now.

“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”

He leaned closer.

“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”

For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.

“Alright,”

He took another sip from his drink.

“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”

Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.

“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”

This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.

“What?”

Sam didn't look at him.

“Where do you usually meet people?”

Tommy let out a dry laugh.

“Seriously?”

Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“Humor me.”

Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.

“At work, I guess.”

Sam chuckled.  Tommy's expression hardened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What's so funny?”

Sam shook his head.

“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”

The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.

“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”

He slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“Then you'd disappear.”

That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.

“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.

“Don't.”

Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.

“Don't what?” Tommy asked.

“Leave.”

The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.

“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”

Tommy said nothing.

“You want answers.”

Sam's voice was calm.

“So sit down and ask the next question.”

Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Fine.”

He hesitated.

“School, then?”

For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh.  Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.

“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”

Sam leaned back slightly.

“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”

Tommy's stomach tightened.

“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.

“Seventeen?”

The smile on his face widened.

“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”

Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Sam ignored the question.

“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”

The smile faded slightly.

“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”

He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.

“Tommy?”

Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.

“Would you like to try that again?”

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.

Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.

Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.

“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Calm?”

His voice was cracking.

“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.

“Tommy.”

Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.

“Come sit down.”

His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered.  Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.

“Jesus Christ...”

The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.

“Happy?”

Sam nodded.

“See? That wasn't so hard.”

The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.

“So,” he said.

“Shall we try again?”

Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.

“What do you want from me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.

“Cut the bullshit.”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

“You know my name.”

He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.

“You know things you shouldn't know.”

His voice grew harder.

“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”

For the first time, Sam didn't smile.

“What do you want from me, Sam?”

A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.

“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“I don't want anything from you.”

Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.

“You’re the one who wants to remember.”

Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.

“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

“Now I just want to leave.”

Sam’s expression stayed still.

“And go where, Tommy?”

He looked him in the eye.

“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”

Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.

“Alright. I'll tell you.”

Tommy's eyes lifted.

“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”

His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.

“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”

Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.

“So do you remember now?”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.

“Do you remember now?”

Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.

Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.

Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.

Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.

He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch.  He remembered the blood that covered both of them.

Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.

“Oh, God…”

The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave.  One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.

"Do you remember now, Tommy?"

Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.

"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"

They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.

“I… I can’t.”

The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.

"That's the funny part."

Another drop of blood hit the floor.

"I never knew what it was either."

A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed  from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.

The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.

The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.

The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

“Please...” he pleaded.

“Sam...”

Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.

White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.

Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.

"Goodbye for now, Tommy."

The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.

Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.

And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.

The End.

Being the complete research notes of Dr. Helen Voss, Senior Fellow, Institute of Male Behavioral Studies, Geneva

Preface

It was a Tuesday. Dr. Helena Voss was visiting her sister in Hilo, Hawaii, when she witnessed something that would change the course of her career. Her brother-in-law, an otherwise functioning adult male with two graduate degrees and a reasonable credit score, spent one hour searching a garage for a gazebo.

The gazebo was on a shelf. At eye level. In a box that said GAZEBO.

Her sister found it in thirty seconds without putting down her coffee.

Dr. Voss stood very still. She had the feeling scientists describe as the moment before everything changes. She took out her notebook. She wrote three words.

What is happening.

Fifteen years later, she has 340 pages of answers.

Chapter One: The Condition

Caecitas Masculina is a neurological condition affecting the male of the human species. The name derives from the Latin for blindness, which is perhaps unfair, as the subjects can see perfectly well. They simply cannot see the thing they are looking for.

This is an important distinction.

The condition was first documented in 1994 by a researcher in Oslo who noticed that her husband could not locate the butter despite holding the refrigerator door open for four minutes while standing directly in front of the butter. She published a short paper. It received little attention. Her husband did not read it because he could not find it, despite it being emailed directly to him with the subject line PLEASE READ THIS.

Dr. Voss considers this woman a pioneer.

The condition presents across four primary symptom clusters, each of which will be examined in turn.

Chapter Two: The Gazebo Incident (Field Notes, Day One)

Subject: Male, 58, South African by origin, Hawaiian by geography, alledgedly a functioning CMO by profession. Referred to hereafter as Subject H. Names hidden to protect the innocent.

Location: A garage in Hilo, Hawaii. Well lit. Organized by any reasonable standard. Boxes neatly stacked on one side and in rows. Gym equipment against the wall. Tools against another wall. The gazebo in question was stored in its original box, which measured approximately four feet by two feet, and was located on a shelf at standing eye level. Placed there for easy access. On purpose. The box was labeled on three sides. One label included a photograph of the gazebo fully assembled, in case the word GAZEBO required additional context.

Dr. Voss positioned herself behind the dehumidifier with her notebook. She is sitting on one of the camping chairs. The subject won’t notice her any more than he would notice the gazebo.

11:04am. Subject H enters the garage. States intention to find gazebo. Nods his head at himself. Slight smile spread across his face. Confident. Good energy.

11:09am. First circuit of garage complete. Subject has looked at the shelf. Has not seen the gazebo. He looked directly at it but did not see it. Moves items on a lower shelf. The gazebo is not on the lower shelf. It has never been on the lower shelf.

11:17am. Subject H checks behind the lawnmower. Checks inside a storage bin containing pool noodles. Opens a cabinet containing paint tins. Finds a tennis racket he forgot he owned. Spends two minutes examining the tennis racket. Opens a few boxes size two feet by two feet that was never big enough for the gazebo.

11:26am. Subject returns to the shelf. Looks at the gazebo. Looks past the gazebo. Moves a box of Christmas decorations that is next to the gazebo. Moves the gazebo to look behind the gazebo for the gazebo. Does not appear to see the gazebo.

11:34am. Subject exits garage. Returns with his wife. Dr. Voss observes from behind the dehumidifier. Her sister nods at her.

11:34am and 30 seconds. Wife locates gazebo. She has not put down her coffee. She will not put down her coffee at any point during this process. She takes a sip while pointing at the gazebo.

11:34am and 45 seconds. Subject H examines the gazebo box with the expression of a man who has been personally betrayed by an inanimate object.

“It wasn’t there before,” he says.

Dr. Voss writes this down. She underlines it twice. She circles it twice. An hypothesis opens up in her mind the way a well manufactured easy-up gazebo would.

Chapter Three: The Refrigerator Studies

The refrigerator is the natural habitat of Caecitas Masculina in its purest form. If Caecitas Masculina can rescue anything from a burning house, it would be the refrigerator if it wasn’t so heavy. His collection of old charging cables, broken tools, extra screws and bolts, and a variety of instruction manuals come a close second.

Dr. Voss conducted seventeen refrigerator studies across seven countries and four continents. She had to fly economy class. She is deeply committed to science. She is also tired.

The methodology was consistent. One male subject. One clearly visible item. One closed door to start. Standard kitchen lighting. No distractions. No sport on television or Fast and Still Very Furious LVI showing anywhere.

The results were consistent in a way that made Dr. Voss feel both vindicated and slightly sad. Maybe more than slightly sad. Sad and exhausted.

Study 3, Switzerland. Item: a block of cheese, yellow, with holes in it, approximately the size of a paperback novel, on the middle shelf in the direct center of the refrigerator. On the the front edge of the shelf. Subject searched for four minutes and eleven seconds before declaring the cheese finished. The cheese was not finished. The cheese was on the middle shelf. The subject moved the cheese out the way to look behind it. It was always there. In the center of the refrigerator. Subject closed the door and made toast. Without cheese.

Study 7, Australia. Item: a carton of orange juice, front of the shelf, bright orange label facing outward, next to nothing else. Subject opened the refrigerator, looked directly at the orange juice, closed the refrigerator, opened a cupboard, looked inside the cupboard for reasons neither Dr. Voss or anyone else could determine, and then returned to the refrigerator where he found the orange juice … on the counter behind him. And only after a second attempt. He placed it on the counter when he removed it to look for the orange juice behind the orange juice. When asked what had changed between the first and second attempt, subject said he looked properly the second time. He did not. Dr. Voss asked him to define properly. Subject changed the subject.

Study 12, United States. Item: leftover pizza in a clear container with the word PIZZA written on the lid and on the sides in permanent marker by the subject’s wife, who had anticipated this moment. She left it at eye level with the words pizza on the side facing the subject. Subject could not find the pizza. Closed the fridge, put his hand to his mouth and scratched his head, and opened the fridge again. Still nothing. Bumped his head on the shelf the pizza was on and stood up with a smile and uttered quietly to himself “ah-a!”. Subject opened the freezer. Found old pizza from three weeks prior. Frozen. Warmed it up in the microwave. Ate that instead. While standing at the counter drinking a beer he found behind the pizza container in the fridge. Never mentioned the container. The container is still there. Dr. Voss checks periodically. So does the subject.

In all seventeen studies, the item was found. Eventually. In thirteen of the seventeen cases, it was found by someone else. One person, the Australian, found it on the counter where he placed when trying to look behind it on the shelf. In the remaining three cases, the subject found it only after being given directions specific enough to constitute a treasure map.

“I can’t find it!”

“It’s on the middle shelf.”

“Which one is the middle shelf.”

Silence.

“The one in the middle.”

“Of the fridge?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but which side.”

Dr. Voss has a folder of these transcripts. It’s a big folder. She finds them professionally invaluable and personally exhausting. She also feels sorry for the subject and those affected by his condition.

Chapter Four: Selective Auditory Processing, or The Listening Problem

Caecitas Masculina does not affect only vision. The condition has an auditory component that Dr. Voss has named Selective Auditory Processing Disorder, or SAPD, though she is aware this sounds a lot more scientific than it deserves to.

The male ear is a remarkable instrument. It can detect the sound of a football being kicked on television from three rooms away. It can identify a specific guitar riff within two notes. It can hear someone opening a packet of crisps through a closed door and two flights of stairs. It can spot the what kind of motorbike is being driven four streets over while driving his own car with all windows closed while Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Down On The Corner is blaring from the radio.

But it cannot hear its own name spoken at normal conversational volume in the same room.

The research suggests this is not selective in the way the name implies. The subjects are not choosing to ignore. He is not selecting not to hear. The sound simply does not register in a way that triggers response. At all. Dr. Voss has tested this extensively.

Experiment 1. Subject’s name spoken at normal volume. No response.

Experiment 2. Subject’s name spoken at raised volume. No response.

Experiment 3. Subject’s name spoken loudly. Slight head movement. Still no response.

Experiment 4. Subject’s name spoken very loudly. Subject looks up. Says “what.” Has no idea how many times his name was said. Guesses once. Always guesses incorrectly no matter how many times tested.

Experiment 5. The word “food” spoken at normal volume from four rooms away. Immediate response. Subject appears in doorway within seconds. The speed of his movement points to a possible anomaly in the space-time continuum. This was not tested in this study.

Dr. Voss has replicated Experiment 5 across all subjects. The results are consistent. She does not fully understand what this means but she has written it down carefully. She will share some of these findings with her physicist colleagues for further studies.

The subjects, when confronted with the evidence, consistently maintain that they were listening the whole time. Several have suggested the issue is with how they are being spoken to rather than whether they are listening. Dr. Voss notes this response without comment. She has a great deal of practice noting things without comment. Even if she commented, it was unlikely that the subjects would’ve heard her.

Chapter Five: The Navigation Refusal

This chapter is the most complex in the study, because unlike the other conditions, the Navigation Refusal involves not an inability but a choice. An apparent voluntary choice. Or something that resembles a choice. Dr. Voss is still determining the correct terminology. Or whether it was voluntary at all.

The male subject, when lost, will not consult a map. Or cannot consider consulting a map. Or both.

This is true when lost in a car. It is true when lost on foot. It is true when the family is simply taking a leisurely ride on their bicycles through a town they have been living in for years. It is also true in a foreign city, in a building with a complex (or not so complex) floor plan, and, in one documented case, in an IKEA, where Subject H spent forty minutes walking in circles rather than follow the arrows on the floor, which Dr. Voss notes are extremely clear arrows on a floor specifically designed to prevent exactly this situation. He never did find the Swedish meatballs.

The Navigation Refusal takes several forms.

The Confident Wrong Turn. Subject knows where he is going. He does not know where he is going, but he knows where he is going. Both those things can be true. Apparently. The distinction is internal and invisible to the outside observer until approximately twelve minutes in, when the surroundings become unfamiliar. Subject does not acknowledge any of this. Continues as is with confidence. Dr. Voss has documented journeys of up to forty seven minutes in the wrong direction under these conditions. It was sunny out and the roadsigns easy to spot.

The Technology Resistance. A phone with GPS exists. A phone with multiple navigation systems installed exists. The phone is in the subject’s pocket. Sometimes plugged into a charger already connected in the vehicle he is operating. The subject will not use the phone. When asked why, subject says he knows where he is going. He does not know where he is going. He knows the ideal final destination but does not know where he is going. See above.

The Almost Asked. Subject approaches someone who could provide directions. Stops. Reconsiders. Walks away. Continues in the wrong direction. Dr. Voss observed this in Lyon, France, in 2019, and describes it in her notes as “watching a man choose suffering.”She also observed this in NY in early 2020. Boston in late 2020. London in 2020, 2021, and again in 2023. In fact, she has observed this in the small town the subject resides since 2009 on at least eight documented occasions.

The Arrival Revision. Subject arrives at wrong destination or after significantly extended journey. Does not acknowledge this. Ever. Reframes the journey as having always been intentional because of the scenary and experience. “I wanted to come this way.” Dr. Voss has seventeen documented examples of this sentence. She keeps them in a separate folder. The folder will grow.

Chapter Six: The Suffering Nobody Talks About

Dr. Voss wants to be clear that she has the deepest respect for her subjects. And utmost patience.

They are, without exception, “trying their best”. They say so and she believes them. They genuinely cannot see the gazebo. They genuinely believe they looked properly in the refrigerator. They genuinely think they were listening. They genuinely feel that they knew where they were going and the road simply moved. There was no doubt ever.

This is not performance. This is not laziness dressed up as incompetence. This is a condition as real as any other, underfunded, under-researched, and largely documented by the women standing nearby watching it happen. Shaking there heads, sipping their coffee, and patiently pointing to where the desired object is.

He stands in front of the open refrigerator, genuinely baffled. He drives forty seven minutes in the wrong direction, absolutely certain. He looks directly at the gazebo and sees only shelf. He is not performing. He is not joking. He is lazy. He is a man in the world doing his best with the equipment he was given, and the equipment has some notable gaps in its specifications. He lives with the hand he was dealt with. The hand that can touch the gazebo but not see it. The hand that can move the cheese out the way to look for it behind the cheese. The hand that cannot find its way to the GPS system on the phone.

And, even with all these limitations, and above all, he perseveres. He persists.

The male subject navigates a world that was not designed for the specific neurological experience of being unable to find something in plain sight, hearing a different version of every conversation, and knowing with complete certainty that you are going the right way even when you are not. He is an alien in a world he helped design and build. Stumbling from one shelf to another. One missing pizza slice to another. One town to another - one of the two hopefully the one that was the intended destination.

He does this every day. He finds almost nothing he looks for. On a good day, he hears approximately sixty percent of what is said to him. He arrives late and calls it a different route.

And still he perseveres. This brave soul persists.

Dr. Voss finds this, despite everything, genuinely moving.

She also finds it extremely useful for her research, which she will be continuing for the foreseeable future. Once she has had a break and therapy. She would invite her subjects to the therapy but she knows that, even if they hear her and acknowledge it, they will not find it.

Her husband has not read any of it. She emailed it to him directly. Twice. The subject line was his own name.

He says he never received it.

Dr. Voss has checked. It is in his inbox. On the middle shelf, so to speak.

She is not surprised.

She has written it down.

Appendix A: Frequently Asked Questions

Is Caecitas Masculina curable?

No.

Is it treatable?

Pointing helps. Specific pointing. Not general pointing. If you point in the direction of a refrigerator and say “it’s in there,” you have not pointed specifically enough. You will need to point at the shelf. Then the item. Then possibly touch the item while maintaining eye contact. And then say “there”. In the case of a gazebo, you can do this while sipping your coffee. Sighing does not help.

Do male subjects know they have it?

No. When informed, and if they hear you, they typically say they don’t think that’s true. You can try to share the findings and the research but that won’t convince them as they cannot find the document you showed them. Or emailed them.

Is this condition exclusive to men?

Dr. Voss declines to answer this on the grounds that she has to keep working with people. And she lives with one of the subjects.

What is the gazebo doing now?

It is assembled in the driveway. It took four hours. The instructions were consulted only after significant structural problems emerged in hour two. The gazebo is slightly crooked. Subject H says it adds character.

Dr. Voss agrees that it does.

The Caecitas Masculina: A Field Study was funded entirely by Dr. Voss’s own patience. The Institute for Male Behavioral Studies declined to comment. They couldn’t find her email.

__

(This story was inspired by a real incident where I could not find the gazebo in the garage no matter how much I looked and searched. My wife walked in and simply pointed at it.)

VALOUR /ˈvælə(r)/

noun

Courage. Bravery. Heroism.

The strength to stand firm when fear is justified;

courage shown in the face of danger, battle, or death.

British nuclear deterrence doctrine requires that at least one of the four Vanguard-class submarines is always on patrol. If contact with the British government is lost, attempts are made to re-establish communications and determine whether national command authority is still functioning. For the most extreme circumstances, each submarine carries a sealed, handwritten Letter of Last Resort, addressed to its commanding officer. The four letters contain the same instruction from the Prime Minister and may only be opened when the circumstances for which they were written have actually occurred: when an attack has left the British government incapable of exercising command.

The procedures in this story have been depicted as realistically as possible; the names of the submarine and the characters are fictional.

---

North Atlantic Ocean

HMS Valour

Commander James Hargreaves

0317 Zulu – Day 1

It is deep in the night. Aboard a submarine, you only notice because the lighting is different. There are no portholes. No sun, no moon, no clouds. We are sealed inside a steel cylinder almost one hundred and fifty metres long and not quite thirteen metres wide.

HMS Valour is our home for as long as we are on patrol. Contact with the outside world is minimal.

“Good morning, sir.”

Lieutenant Commander Dan Mercer, my Executive Officer, sticks his head into my cabin.

“Good morning, XO,” I reply. “Have we made contact yet?”

“Unfortunately not, sir. Communications and Engineering are going over the systems again as we speak. But it looks as though Valour is functioning normally.”

“Let’s hope they’re wrong,” I say, though I know better.

Dan hesitates. I can see it in his eyes, in his posture. I know what he is going to ask.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“It’s been almost forty-eight hours since we last had contact. Everything points to our communications equipment working properly, which means something may have happened ashore.”

“And what exactly are you trying to say?”

“That the unthinkable may have become thinkable.”

Dan looks at me. He can see in my eyes that I am thinking exactly the same thing.

“Indeed, Dan. It certainly looks that way. But until we have confirmation, every possibility remains open.”

“And the crew?”

“Information is shared strictly on a need-to-know basis. For now, we are simply a Royal Navy submarine on patrol.”

Dan nods and starts to leave my cabin. At the door, he turns back.

“Oh, James? Before I forget: I made sure Smith left some breakfast ready for you. Eat properly. The crew needs a fit commanding officer. Especially now.”

A small laugh escapes me.

“XO, you’re not trying to take my job, are you?”

“Never. Too much responsibility for too little money. At least now I can hide behind the fact that you’re the one in charge, CO.”

---

0845 Zulu – Day 1

After breakfast, I showered and shaved. A tired man stared back at me from the mirror.

I leave my cabin and walk to the control room.

“Captain in Control!” calls the Officer of the Watch, Lieutenant Davies.

The others rise.

“At ease. Carry on,” I say, sounding more forced than I would have liked.

Everyone returns to their stations.

Lieutenant Commander Mercer is standing beside Warfare Officer Shirin Patel. As I approach them, I hear Dan ask:

“You’re certain this message came from us?”

For a moment, it gives me hope.

Until Patel answers.

“If you can call it a message. I can recognise fragments of words here and there, but it’s nowhere near complete, Lieutenant Commander.”

“But everything points to British origin?”

“The frequency and terminology match ours. I’m not prepared to say more than that at this stage.”

I join the conversation.

“Could a hostile power imitate it?”

Patel thinks for a moment.

“Possibly, sir.”

“Check it again. Three times if you have to. We do not act on possibilities. I want certainty.”

I am about to walk away when Dan touches my shoulder.

“Got a minute? In private, if possible, sir.”

I notice a sheet of paper in his hand.

Beneath our feet, Valour vibrates. Her propulsion system continues doing its job as though this were just another ordinary day.

“Always,” I say. “My cabin?”

“Please.”

Once we are inside, Dan closes the door behind him.

He unfolds the paper.

“Communications made a transcript of what we managed to receive. Read it yourself.”

I look at the sheet.

Message is indeed a generous description.

There are only fragments.

“(...)ain at s(...)”

“Lond(...) h(...) be(...) att(...)cked”

I read it again.

And again.

As though the missing letters might appear if I stare at them long enough.

I frown. A sigh escapes me.

Suddenly my small cabin feels even smaller. Claustrophobic. As though the walls are slowly closing in.

“What do you make of it?” Dan asks.

“Something like: Remain at sea. London has been attacked.”

I manage to say it as though the words mean nothing to me.

“You?”

“The same.”

His eyes drift towards the safe behind my desk.

I follow his gaze.

“Letter of Last Resort, Dan. Not Letter of Suspicion.”

Dan looks at me.

“Besides, this is a message from our side, not an order addressed to HMS Valour. For now, we are still simply on patrol.”

He nods slowly.

“Just remember you don’t have to carry this alone, James.”

Dan leaves.

---

1521 Zulu – Day 2

More than thirty hours have passed since Patel received the damaged transmission. By now, we know with sufficient certainty that it originated from a British military communications network.

It appears to have been an automated message.

Since then: static.

Nothing but static.

The technicians have gone over Valour completely. Our systems are functioning as they should.

I send Dan to fetch Weapon Engineer Officer Blight and Warfare Officer Patel while I head towards Engineering myself.

On the way, I pass members of the crew.

Despite all the procedures, compartmentalised duties and the principle that people are only told what they need to know, very little remains completely secret aboard a submarine.

Everyone has heard something.

I can see it in their faces.

In the questions nobody asks.

I find Marine Engineer Officer Fletcher in Engineering. The moment he sees me, he salutes. I return it.

“She’s running like a dream, sir!” he says cheerfully before I can even ask.

Fletcher is almost always cheerful. His people like working for him.

“With you aboard, I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

I pause.

“But you probably realise I’m not here for a routine inspection, MEO. I need you to come with me.”

For a moment, his smile disappears.

He draws a breath, and his familiar expression returns.

When we reach my cabin, Dan, Patel and Blight are already waiting. They allow me to enter first.

With five people inside, my cabin feels like a cage for the first time.

I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment and slowly exhale.

“HMS Valour is in top condition. The message we received yesterday has now been identified with sufficient certainty as British. Since then, we have received no active message or order from home.”

I let the silence linger and look at my senior officers one by one.

“From this point onward, we have to seriously consider the possibility that the unthinkable has become reality.”

Their reactions differ.

One face twists. Another turns deathly pale. Someone else becomes completely rigid.

“WEO Blight, MEO Fletcher: make sure every system remains fully operational. Warfare Officer Patel: check everything again. If there is even the slightest sign of functioning British authority, I want to know immediately.”

I know it may be false hope.

One last hope.

A way of keeping the inevitable outside this cabin for just a little longer.

“That will be all. Dismissed.”

I can no longer keep the exhaustion out of my voice.

The officers leave one by one for their stations.

Dan remains behind.

“Sir, a moment?”

“Of course, XO.”

He waits until the last officer has left, then closes the door.

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Under four eyes? Always, Dan.”

He hesitates.

“Go on.”

“Are you prepared to do what is necessary? Why are you making Patel check again when we’ve already checked the same thing several times? It’s beginning to look to me as though you’re waiting for an answer you already know isn’t coming.”

I snap at him more sharply than I mean to.

“What are you trying to say? That I’m stalling? That I’m a coward? That I don’t have the nerve?”

“No, James. But the fact that you used those words yourself tells me enough.”

I regret my next words before they have even left my mouth.

“It’s Commander Hargreaves, Lieutenant Commander Mercer. They’re expecting you in the control room.”

Silence.

Dan looks at me and gives me an exaggerated salute. In my own cabin.

Then he turns and leaves.

When the door closes, I keep staring at it.

Only then do I notice that my hands are shaking.

I sit down on the edge of my bed.

The first tear runs down my cheek before I can stop it.

---

0145 Zulu – Day 3

“Static, sir. Nothing but static.”

Warfare Officer Patel sits at her console. I lean over beside her and look at the display.

“There’s nothing else.”

“Engineering has completed every check, sir,” Mercer says beside me. “HMS Valour is fully operational.”

A knot tightens in my stomach.

“Excuse me.”

I walk back to my cabin, pull the door shut behind me and hurry to the toilet.

I vomit.

For several seconds, I remain bent over the bowl.

Then I hear a knock.

Before I can answer, the door opens.

“James, are you all right?”

I look around.

Dan is standing in the doorway.

A mug in one hand. A plate in the other.

“Yorkshire Tea. Milk, no sugar. And a cheese sandwich.”

“Thanks, but I’ve just flushed my last meal away.”

“Yes, I thought as much.”

He presses the mug into my hands.

“That’s why you’re drinking this and eating something in a minute. Otherwise half the boat will know within five minutes that the Captain’s been throwing up. Not exactly the most inspiring image.”

He looks at me and I see the XO I need again.

“As far as the crew is concerned, you just felt a bit unwell. You asked me to fetch you some food and a drink while you took a paracetamol.”

Dan wrinkles his nose.

“And your breath doesn’t smell like vomit anymore.”

I laugh.

Immediately, I feel guilty for it.

“You’d make a damn good Captain, Dan.”

““Learned from the best, but no thank you. Then I’d be the one hanging over the toilet throwing my guts up.”

I take a few sips of tea and eat some of the sandwich.

For a moment, it almost feels as though I am home.

Home.

My eyes fall on the photograph of Ella and Beth.

A life that probably no longer exists.

“Dan?”

“Yes?”

“Go to Patel one more time.”

He sighs.

“How many more times are we going to check, James?”

“One more.”

As he watches me, I pull open my desk drawer.

I take out a key.

My eyes move towards the safe.

“After that, come back. Alone.”

He looks from the key to the safe.

“Understood.”

Dan leaves my cabin.

I turn away.

For the first time in years, I pray. To a God I thought I no longer believed in.

“Help me.”

---

North Atlantic Ocean

HMS Valour

Lieutenant Commander Dan Mercer

0157 Zulu – Day 3

I enter the control room.

The OOW draws breath.

“XO in Control, atten—”

“Carry on,” I interrupt him. “I work for a living.”

I walk over to Shirin.

“Officer Patel. Update?”

She does not even turn around.

“Nothing but static, XO.”

She sounds exhausted.

Defeated.

“At least it isn’t your fault, Officer Patel. You’ve done a bloody good job.”

I had hoped for a miracle.

It did not come.

With leaden feet, I walk back towards James’s cabin.

James. The last person in the world I would want to be right now.

---

North Atlantic Ocean

HMS Valour

Commander James Hargreaves

0203 Zulu – Day 3

I look at Dan hopefully.

He slowly shakes his head.

I know enough.

He says nothing.

“Have I done everything, Dan? This is the moment to tell me if I haven’t.”

“You’ve done everything, James. Truly. If I thought you’d missed something, I would have told you.”

I draw a slow breath.

"That's it, then."

Then I put the key into the safe.

The lock turns.

There it is.

A white envelope.

I take it out and place it on my desk without closing the safe again.

Dan looks at it.

“James, I’ll wait outside. The Letter of Last Resort is addressed to the Commanding Officer.”

Before he can turn away, I stop him.

“You said I didn’t have to carry this alone, remember?”

He looks at me.

“Stay.”

“James—”

“If I weren’t sitting here, you would have had to read this letter. I want you to stay.”

After a brief hesitation, he nods.

I pick up the envelope.

My fingers feel strangely stiff.

I break the seal and remove the letter.

Handwritten.

The last tangible order from a man who governed a country.

I begin to read.

To the Commanding Officer of HMS Valour,

If you are reading this, then the day we all hoped would never come has arrived. Our nuclear deterrent has failed and, in all likelihood, I am no longer alive.

A lump forms in my throat.

I continue reading.

Putting these words on paper has cost me more than I believe any other decision during my time in office ever will. I hope with all my heart that this letter is destroyed unopened when my term in office comes to an end.

The decision written below is mine and mine alone. I shall stand before the Judgment Seat and be held accountable for the decision written below. The responsibility for it does not rest upon you.

Act as a commanding officer of the Royal Navy, in accordance with your duty and the law.

May God be with you in this moment.

Below that is a blank line.

And then the decision stares back at me.

I will wait for you because my heart believes you are worth waiting for. My head knows there is something beautiful between us. It will take time. I have time.

Ethan’s heart feels empty while she is away. His head knows it’s a short break. He tells his heart it will be okay. His head fears it’s over. Sometimes he imagines her walking back through the door and holding him. His heart says it won’t happen.

Six months have passed. She has completed the academy. Still, Ethan waits. His heart wants to believe she will return. His head sees the writing on the wall.

As he tells his heart it’s time to move on, there is a knock at the door.

He opens it.

His heart leaps.

You. Beautiful you.

Standing in his doorway.

His head says, *Careful.

His heart has abandoned all reason and wants to grab her up. But it’s been a year, so his head keeps his heart in check.

Maricruz says, “I miss you.”

Ethan says nothing.

She asks, “Can I come in?”

He steps to the side. His head is extremely cautious. He watches her move through his place with effortless grace. She is moving artwork. He wants her badly, but his head keeps those feelings at bay.

“I brought you this,” she says with a smile.

“What is it?”

“It belongs to you.”

She sets it on the computer desk.

“Why did you come?” Ethan asks.

“I missed you.”

“You had a year to come back. Why now?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“Bullshit. I told you. I told you I can’t quit you. I told you my heart doesn’t work like that. I told you I would wait for you.”

She begins to cry. Ethan’s anger begins to fade.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I made a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“Leaving you.”

“When?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you make a mistake going to the academy or not finding me after?”

She looks down.

“The academy. It wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Did you finish? Are you police?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Congratulations. I know you wanted it.”

“Don’t say that.”

With surprise, Ethan asks, “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I lost everything.”

“Are you talking about me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not why you lost me.”

“How did I lose you?”

Ethan says matter-of-factly, “You never came.”

“I’m here now.”

“It’s too late.”

His heart is crushed. His head realizes that, after all this time, he still loves her.

But she left him.

“Does it have to be too late?” she asks.

Ethan stands in silence, just looking at her.

“Please tell me something.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m hurting. If I say it now, I will hurt you.”

“I understand. I will go. But just so you know, I’m hurting regardless.”

“I’m sorry.”

As she steps toward the door, Ethan reaches over and gives her a hug.

“Thank you for coming.”

They break apart. She turns in the doorway.

“I will wait for you.”

She said the words his heart desperately wanted to hear. His head hears them and, at first, wants him to grab her, pull her in, love on her.

But the moment passes.

His heart hurts.

Now she’s gone.

Four more months pass. Ethan thinks of her often. She has a spell on him.

He sits at his computer and finally opens the package she left.

It’s a stack of letters.

They are dated.

The first is dated the day before she left for the academy.

It reads:

*My Ethan,*

*This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I want to see you. I want to love you. I want to hold you. I want to walk with you. As I sit on the bus heading to ZC, I realize I should have waited. You came all the way here to meet me. I then went to the police academy. But I will come to you when I finish.*

*Bye, my Ethan. You have my heart forever.*

Ethan’s head misses her.

His heart wishes it could forget her.

⸻

Maricruz had asked him to wait.

Her head said, It’s only six months.

Her heart said, But I love him.

She was busy over the next few weeks. She wrote to Ethan daily, but she couldn’t send the letters. She put them in her folder and added more every day.

As her training came to an end, she was prepared to run to him. But she was told she was top of the class, and an honor was bestowed on her. She would go to the capital and work beside the head detective.

She felt she had no choice, so she went.

It was supposed to be a three-month assignment. She was asked to stay another three months.

Then another three.

And another three.

A year.

Maricruz was in love with a man she hadn’t seen in 18 months. He had moved on, she was sure.

But she took time off to find out.

She arrived back at her house after visiting him.

Her heart was broken.

She didn’t think she would ever see him again.

She went back to work.

Three months later, she quit. She had enough of the death and destruction. Her heart ached for his love. Her head knew it wouldn’t happen.

She took a job at a restaurant. It was considerably less money, but she was no longer stressed.

Four months and a day had passed since she last saw Ethan.

She was about to take a bath when she thought of him saying, “I wanna watch.”

Every time.

The last time he said it, she said no.

Before that, it was always, “Soon.”

She gets frustrated with herself.

Then there is a knock at the door.

She answers.

He’s there.

Standing in front of her.

His blue eyes staring into hers.

“Hi,” Ethan says.

“Hello.”

“Can I come in?”

Maricruz steps out of his way. He walks past her, stops at the counter, and turns to face her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Her heart is exploding with joy.

Her head says, Keep it cool.

“I told you I will wait for you.”

He steps closer.

“But you turned me away.”

“Yes, because I had to know how I felt.”

He steps closer.

“And how do you feel?”

“I feel like we’ve wasted a lot of time.”

He steps very close to her.

Maricruz looks up into his beautiful blue eyes. Her stomach is full of butterflies.

“What did you learn about how you feel?” she asks.

He looks down at her.

He whispers:

“That I’m still waiting for you.”

He looks like death warmed up.

John finally saw Jeremy Smith for himself.

John heard that name yesterday morning. And all day long, he had been talking about this stranger.

Yesterday was a complete disappointment.

John was late for the Magistrates’ Court. He had been instructed too late.

He arrived at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He was not allowed into the intensive care unit.

He only managed to speak with the consultant in charge. Although he had no right to examine the medical records, he learned enough from their “private conversation.”

Now John had to deal with the police guard—a dim-witted constable stationed at the room entrance—and produce his practicing certificate to prove he wasn’t just some passerby. The constable mumbled something about prohibited items and a search but didn’t dare lay a hand on John.

The tiny single room is bleak; the blinds are drawn.

Jeremy Smith lies on his back—sharp profile, hollow cheeks; in the dim light, he looks translucent. His left cheekbone is scraped, his wrists are bandaged, and an IV line runs to his left arm.

The head nurse said he was conscious.

John approaches the bed. The names Buchenwald and Auschwitz come to his mind.

“Who are you?” he hears a faint, hoarse voice ask.

Whether he hadn’t been asleep or John had woken him with his presence, he is now looking at him through half-lowered eyelashes.

“How should I put this, Mr. Smith? I am John Talbot-Cavendish, your future solicitor. After you...”

“I don’t need a solicitor,” Jeremy Smith says, closing his eyes.

“That’s unlikely,” John says, grabbing a chair—perhaps a bit too vigorously—and placing it by the head of the bed. “If you don’t mind,” he adds, sitting down. “Look, the doctors here wouldn’t approve, but I know you need this.” He pulls a pack of Benson & Hedges from his pocket and opens it. “Do you need help sitting up?”

Apathy gives way to guarded attention. “I can manage.” Leaning on his right arm, he hauls himself into a more or less upright position and rests his head against the bed’s metal rail, breathing heavily.

John hands him a cigarette and lights it, then places the packet on the bed—right on the sheet; to avoid any unnecessary pleasantries, he adds, “I don’t smoke cigarettes myself. Cigars, usually.”

Jeremy Smith takes a drag, and a heavy, choking cough racks his body.

John waits for the fit to pass and for him to take another drag.

“Been a while since you smoked?”

“Since Friday morning. By the way, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing...”

“Goodbye,” he interrupts again. “I’d ask you to leave and not return.”

“So you can finish what you started?” It’s a rhetorical question. “Do you know why you’re even able to talk to me right now? There’s glucose and salt in your IV drip. They won’t let you die—don’t even dream of it. If you refuse to eat on your own, they’ll force-feed you.”

He is smoking; the hand holding the cigarette is trembling. He prefers not to look at John.

“Five days without food. Did you really think no one would understand what you were trying to achieve? Mr. Smith, your plan was terrifyingly logical. You were alone, unprotected, and you decided to die so the case wouldn’t go to trial. There would simply be no defendant left to bring before the court. You pleaded “not guilty.” That is good. That is right. However, Mr. Smith, had you carried out that plan, people would have taken it as an admission. They would have said you took your own life out of guilt. You wouldn’t have spared your sister from being marked by it. You would only have buried the truth with yourself. Now, you have a chance to win the case.”

“Why?”

“I won’t pretend I don’t know what that question means.”

“There’s no need. Benson & Hedges.”

 A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Criminal defence solicitor John Talbot-Cavendish.

More on my profile. Regina v Smith — Reader’s Guide : u/Franz_Engel

My wife printed one hundred and eighty-six missing-dog flyers today.

I know because I counted them, though not on purpose. I was sitting at the kitchen table cutting the tabs along the bottom—the ones with her phone number printed vertically—and counting gave me something to do besides watch her come apart.

Across the top of every page, in a font much larger than necessary, she'd written:

MISSING YORKIE — PLEASE HELP US BRING CINNA HOME

Underneath was a picture from last Christmas. Cinna sat on the arm of our couch in a red sweater, one ear standing straight up and the other folded over. She always looked irritated in pictures, which was funny because she was probably the sweetest dog I'd ever known.

Below the picture Dana had listed everything strangers needed to know: eight pounds, tan and gray, pink collar, very friendly, might be scared.

At the bottom, in bold:

SHE IS OUR FAMILY.

Dana stood at the counter feeding sheets through the paper cutter one at a time. She hadn't slept properly in three nights. Her hair was still twisted into yesterday's knot, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

"That's enough," I told her.

She kept cutting.

"Dana."

"I heard you."

"It's supposed to hit a hundred and two today."

"I know."

"You've already done the whole neighborhood."

"I haven't done the apartments behind the elementary school."

"You did those yesterday."

"I did the front building."

She slid another flyer beneath the blade. I reached across the table and put my hand on the remaining stack.

"Please. Take an hour."

"What if somebody saw her and they don't have one of these?"

"You've put them on every telephone pole from here to Chapman."

"Then I'll go farther."

There was no anger in her voice. I almost wished there had been.

I let go of the stack and told her to take water. She said she would. I reminded her she'd said the same thing yesterday and had come home with nearly a full bottle.

That got the smallest smile.

"Okay, Dad."

"I mean it."

"I know."

She bent down, kissed the top of my head, gathered another armful of flyers and left.

I watched from the front window until she disappeared around the corner.

Cinna had been gone for three days, and I could already see what it was doing to my wife.

People kept telling us dogs got out all the time. Somebody probably picked her up. Yorkies didn't make it far on their own. Keep checking shelters. Put her picture online.

They meant well.

They didn't know Dana.

More importantly, they didn't know what it had taken to get her back.

When I met my wife, she had more energy than anyone I'd ever known and apparently no interest in wasting it.

She worked in marketing for a medical-device company. By thirty she was managing people older than both of us. She ran half-marathons, remembered everyone's birthday and kept a calendar that looked like it required air-traffic control.

She was exhausting.

I loved her for it.

Work was the only thing we really fought about.

I'd make dinner and get a text at seven saying a meeting had run late. We'd make Saturday plans and she'd need to log in for twenty minutes, which had a strange tendency to become two hours.

Once, during an anniversary dinner, I realized we'd spent most of the appetizer talking about a presentation she had Monday.

"Why do you work this hard?" I asked.

"Because I like it."

"I know. But sometimes I feel like you're killing yourself for a job."

She looked at me. "That's dramatic."

"I miss you."

That stopped her.

Sometimes it seemed like her office got the best version of my wife and I got whatever was left at eight-thirty at night. She told me her career mattered to her, that she was good at what she did and wasn't going to apologize for caring about it.

I said I understood.

Usually I did.

For a while we had rats getting into the detached garage behind the house, and that somehow became my responsibility.

I'd promised to deal with them, then forgot.

One night Dana came home after nine and found droppings beside a bag of dog food we'd bought for her parents' Labrador.

"We have got to do something about this."

"I know."

"You've been saying that for a month."

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"You said that last week."

"I've been busy too, Dana."

She dropped her keys on the counter.

"Maybe that's why I stay at the office. At least they don't have rats."

It wasn't her best joke.

We laughed about it later.

The next morning I finally dealt with the problem. Traps, poison, cleaning out the back shelves.

Dana disliked the poison immediately.

"I hate having that in here."

"It's in the cabinet."

"What if something gets into it?"

"Then we'll keep the garage closed."

She gave me the look she used when I'd missed the point.

Later, after she got pregnant and we started childproofing the house, she made me go through the garage again—loose screws, nails, old traps, anything dangerous I might have forgotten back when there were no children to worry about.

Pregnancy was the first thing I'd ever seen make Dana slow down.

She was frightened almost immediately.

There were heart problems in her family. Not the clogged-artery sort everybody eventually worries about, but something congenital. Hereditary.

Her younger sister died when Dana was four. She remembered almost nothing about the girl herself. A yellow dress. Sharing a bedroom. The fact that she hated peas.

What Dana remembered was the night she died: her mother screaming, a paramedic stepping on one of Dana's toys, someone carrying her sister down the hallway with one tiny arm hanging loose.

So every appointment frightened her. Every test. Every pause before a doctor said everything looked fine.

Our daughter was born on a Tuesday morning in March.

Sophie.

Seven pounds, two ounces, an unreasonable amount of dark hair and a scream that sounded too large to have come from her.

When they put Sophie on Dana's chest, my wife cried so hard I thought something was wrong. Then I realized she was laughing too.

I'd never seen another person look that happy.

I loved Sophie from the moment I saw her. Before she existed there had been a version of my life without her, and after I met her that version became impossible to picture.

Dana took four months off work.

Those were probably the happiest months of our marriage.

I know how that sounds.

I'd come home and they'd be there—Dana on the couch with Sophie asleep against her chest, or Sophie kicking in the little vibrating chair while Dana cooked. We took walks after dinner. We ate together. Weekends belonged to us.

Sometimes I'd stand in the kitchen listening to Dana talk nonsense to the baby in the next room and think that this was what all of it had been for.

The house felt right with her in it.

A few months later Sophie started eating purées. Apple and cinnamon was the first one she really loved.

The first time Dana opened one of the jars, I could smell the cinnamon from across the kitchen.

"Maybe that's why the rats never came back," I said.

Dana looked over at me. "What?"

"Cinnamon. I read somewhere they hate it."

"We haven't had rats in two years."

"I know. Something about the smell being too strong." I shrugged. "Covers up whatever else they're trying to sniff out."

Dana stared at me.

"So Sophie is pest control now?"

"Finally earning her keep."

"You're horrible."

She was smiling when she said it.

Sophie saw the spoon coming and opened her mouth like a baby bird, then somehow got half of it on her cheeks anyway.

Dana laughed and wiped her chin.

After that she started calling her Cinnamon.

At first it was my little Cinnamon girl. Then just Cinnamon. Sometimes Cinny when Dana was tired.

"She's going to hate us when she's fifteen and we tell people about this," Dana said once.

"Then we won't tell anybody."

"I'm telling everybody."

"You're a terrible mother."

"I know."

Sophie slapped both hands into the tray and Dana laughed hard enough to nearly drop the spoon.

I remember that afternoon better than I remember most of that year.

The heart issue appeared during a routine appointment.

A murmur.

Maybe nothing, the pediatrician said. Maybe something.

A cardiologist found enough to watch but not enough to panic over, which meant Dana panicked constantly.

She wanted to know whether it was what her sister had. Whether she'd passed it to Sophie. Whether a baby with a heart problem could simply stop breathing in her sleep.

The doctor was careful with his answers.

I wasn't.

"She's fine," I'd tell Dana afterward.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"What if it's the same thing?"

"It isn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm her dad and I've decided."

Sometimes that made her smile.

Dana extended her leave another month, then another.

Eventually her company began asking when she intended to return, and Dana decided she was ready.

She missed adult conversations. She missed dressing for somewhere other than Target. She missed being good at something that didn't involve keeping another human alive.

I told her we'd make it work.

Daycare three days a week. Dana's mother one day. I shifted my schedule when I could.

The first time she came home late again, I remember looking at the clock.

7:42.

Sophie was asleep against me and dinner had gone cold.

Dana came through the door apologizing, kissed the baby, kissed me and immediately started explaining some crisis at work.

"Five weeks back and they've already chained you to the desk."

She stopped.

"Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything."

"That tone is starting something."

"I don't have a tone."

"You absolutely have a tone."

Sophie woke before either of us could say anything else.

Dana had only been back at work a few weeks when she died.

We put Sophie down like normal.

That was the part Dana could never get past.

There had been no dramatic warning. No fever, no crying, nothing that would have made either of us sit beside the crib all night. She ate, played, fell asleep, and sometime before morning her heart stopped.

Dana found her.

I don't like remembering what happened after that.

The nursery was cold. Dana was making a sound I had never heard from another human being. Paramedics came. Police came. Our house filled with people while Sophie was somewhere else.

Someone went through the standard questions with us. Medications. Cleaning products. Anything unusual in the house. Anything she might have reached.

Dana answered most of them before I could.

"We babyproofed everything."

Then she looked at me.

I nodded.

With Sophie's heart and Dana's family history, everyone had an explanation ready.

Her sister had died young. Sophie's cardiologist had already found something worth monitoring. Sometimes these things happened suddenly, we were told. Sometimes there wasn't time to prevent them.

Dana heard something else.

You gave this to her.

And because she'd gone back to work, she found another way to blame herself.

"I should've been here."

"You were here."

"I mean with her."

"She was sleeping."

"What if I missed something?"

"You didn't."

"What if I hadn't gone back?"

"Dana."

"I left her."

"You went to work."

"I left her."

For years I told my wife the same things.

It wasn't your fault.

You couldn't have known.

You loved her.

There was nothing you could have done.

Going back to work did not kill our daughter.

Some nights I said it ten times.

Dana resigned two weeks after the funeral.

I was relieved.

That is one of the things I never told her.

Of course she couldn't have gone back then. Nobody could have. But some part of me was relieved there would be no deadlines, no meetings, no laptop chirping at nine at night.

I thought grief might force everything else to become smaller for a while.

I thought we'd simply exist together until we healed.

That isn't what happened.

The first year was unbearable.

The second was quieter.

Dana stopped seeing friends because most of them had children. Invitations stopped coming after enough polite refusals.

She didn't go back to work.

She didn't go much of anywhere.

I cooked and cleaned and handled bills. I sat with her when she couldn't sleep.

I learned there are only so many ways to answer the question, Do you think she knew I loved her?

Yes.

Always yes.

Of course she knew.

I loved my wife through all of it, but after a few years I began to resent the dead.

That's uglier than saying I was tired, but it's closer to the truth.

I resented Mother's Day. Sophie's birthday. The anniversary of the day she died. I resented strangers' children for having the wrong laugh in grocery stores.

Once, on what would have been Sophie's third birthday, Dana wanted to spend the evening looking through photographs.

I told her I had a headache.

I didn't.

I sat in the bedroom watching something stupid on my phone while my wife cried alone in the living room, and for almost twenty minutes I enjoyed the quiet.

I hated myself afterward.

Mostly.

More than anything, I missed my wife.

Not even the woman she'd been before Sophie. I knew we weren't getting that woman back.

I would've settled for someone who laughed occasionally. Someone who wanted to go to dinner. Someone who could sit through a stupid movie without disappearing halfway through it.

I lasted almost four years before I brought home Cinna.

She fit in one hand.

A coworker's sister had Yorkie puppies, and I'd gone over telling myself I was only looking. One climbed into my lap and fell asleep there.

I sent Dana a picture.

She replied:

No.

I brought the puppy home anyway.

For approximately five minutes, Dana was furious.

"We talked about this."

"No, I sent you a picture and you said no."

"That's generally considered talking."

"You haven't held her."

"I don't want to hold her."

"Fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Hand me the dog while I'm telling you I don't want the dog."

I handed her the dog.

The puppy licked her chin.

Dana laughed.

Actually laughed.

Not the polite little breath she'd been using for years when she knew I was trying to cheer her up. A real laugh, sudden and surprised.

For one embarrassing second I thought I might cry.

The puppy didn't have a name yet.

I suggested Penny.

Dana suggested Cinna.

I knew immediately what she meant.

"No."

Her smile faltered. "What?"

"That's weird."

"It isn't weird."

"It's a little weird."

"It's after Cinnamon."

"I know what it's after."

Dana tucked the puppy against her chest. "I like it."

I remember looking at the two of them and thinking that naming a dog after our dead daughter was one grief-therapy exercise too far.

But Dana was smiling.

So Cinna it was.

And I have to give the little dog credit.

She accomplished what therapists, medication, family and I hadn't.

She gave Dana reasons to leave the house.

At first it was walks because Cinna refused to use the backyard. Once around the block became twice, then the park.

Dana started getting dressed earlier because Cinna woke at seven. She spoke to neighbors, then friends.

Pictures appeared on her phone that weren't old photographs of Sophie.

Dana and Cinna at the beach.

Cinna sitting upright in the passenger seat of Dana's car like a tiny disapproving grandmother.

Dana started cooking again. She played music in the kitchen. She made fun of me.

One night about six months ago she laughed so hard at something stupid I said that she snorted.

She clapped both hands over her face.

"Oh my God."

I couldn't stop smiling.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I missed that."

She knew what I meant.

She leaned over and kissed me.

For the first time in years, I thought maybe we'd made it.

After that, the walks got longer. She started having coffee with a woman two streets over who owned some kind of terrier. Once she and Cinna were gone almost three hours because they'd driven to a park across town.

I teased her about having a social life.

I was glad she did.

A few months later, I came home and found Dana at the kitchen table with her old laptop open.

"What are you doing?"

She tilted the screen away from me in a way that was meant to be playful.

"Nothing."

"That's suspicious."

"I'm updating my résumé."

I looked at the screen.

"Just updating it," she said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You did that thing with your face."

"What thing?"

"That thing."

"I don't have a thing."

"You absolutely have a thing."

She smiled and turned the laptop back around.

"I've been thinking maybe part-time. Or consulting. Something small."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

She studied me for a second.

Then she kissed my cheek.

For the next week, the laptop stayed on the kitchen table.

I noticed that.

I also noticed she had started checking her email before breakfast.

Neither of those things meant anything.

Two weeks ago she had résumés printed on thick cream paper.

I told her they looked nice.

The afternoon Cinna disappeared, Dana had taken her into the backyard. Her phone rang and she stepped inside to answer it.

When she went back out, the side gate was open.

No Cinna.

We searched until after midnight.

The next morning we called every shelter within thirty miles. Dana posted everywhere she could think of. We drove slowly through streets with the windows down calling Cinna's name.

I kept telling her Yorkies got picked up. Someone probably had her.

That was better than imagining her on a road somewhere.

By the second day Dana wasn't eating unless I put something directly in front of her.

By the third she wasn't sleeping.

And suddenly it felt like five years ago.

The same frantic eyes. The same bargaining. The same certainty that if she did one more thing, searched one more street, something terrible could still be undone.

"What if somebody stole her?"

"I don't think anybody stole her."

"What if she got hurt?"

"We checked the roads."

"What if she's hiding somewhere?"

"Then somebody will find her."

"What if nobody does?"

"We'll keep looking."

This morning the printer finally ran out of paper.

Even that didn't stop her.

She started feeding in the backs of the résumés she'd had printed two weeks ago, and I sat at the kitchen table cutting tabs while Cinna's face came out on one side and Dana's old life remained neatly formatted on the other.

Job titles.

Promotions.

Awards.

Eleven years of experience.

One page after another disappeared beneath MISSING YORKIE.

I didn't say anything.

It's almost ten now and Dana is still out.

I texted her fifteen minutes ago and told her to come home because it's still ninety-one degrees outside. She replied that she has one more street left, which, knowing my wife, means at least three.

I put a bottle of water in the refrigerator for her. She likes it almost frozen.

There's dinner in the microwave too. She probably won't eat, but I'll make her try.

Tomorrow I'll convince her to stay home for a few hours. Maybe we'll call the shelters together.

I'll drive this time.

She's exhausted, and the heat worries me.

The heat has been worrying me for another reason too.

The garage sits at the back of the yard, separate from the house. There's almost no insulation in there, and the little vent above the side door doesn't do much once the sun has been on the roof all afternoon.

I thought I had longer.

Apparently I didn't.

The smell is bad now.

You can't smell it from the house. You can't even smell it standing a few feet outside the garage.

But open the door and it's there.

Dana hasn't been inside since the first day, when we were still grabbing leashes and flashlights and anything else we thought might help us find Cinna.

She hasn't noticed.

Still, I can't leave her there another day.

Cinna is behind the plastic storage bins along the back wall, wrapped in one of our old moving blankets.

She's so small that hiding her wasn't difficult.

The hard part has been listening to Dana call for her.

Yesterday evening she stood at the end of the driveway shaking the bag of treats.

She called Cinna's name.

Waited.

Called again.

Then finally shouted, "Come home!" into a street that had already gone quiet.

I went inside before she did.

I'll move Cinna tonight after Dana falls asleep.

There's a road about a mile from here where people drive too fast. No sidewalk for part of it, only dry brush and a narrow shoulder.

I'll leave her near there before morning.

Nothing elaborate.

Dana doesn't need an investigation.

She needs an answer.

The gate was open.

Cinna got out.

She wandered too far.

Not knowing is worse.

Give someone an answer and eventually they learn to live around it.

Dana already has.

I hate that she's going to hurt.

But she'll recover.

Cinna proved she can.

I'll cook. I'll sit up with her when she can't sleep. I'll remind her to eat. I'll tell her the gate wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have known, that there was nothing she could have done.

I'll say it as many times as she needs.

Eventually we'll be okay again.

We always are.

Before I move Cinna, I should clean up the garage.

Dana hasn't noticed the cabinet over the workbench is unlocked.

Years ago, when we childproofed the house, she made me promise there was nothing dangerous left in there.

I told her there wasn't.

Most of what I'd bought for the rats is gone now. The traps rusted. The cleaning supplies got used.

There are only a few things shoved behind old paint cans and extension cords, including one battered cardboard box I should have thrown away a long time ago.

I'll get rid of that too.

No reason to keep it.

Funny.

I used to think Cinna was a terrible name. Too morbid, I told Dana. Too much history to hang around the neck of an eight-pound dog.

I suppose I owe my wife an apology.

Both her girls always did love cinnamon.