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The Dry Spell It hasn't been raining since it had. I sound vague? You haven't stared at the spearhead of a midday road. You haven't tried to track rain and heard the summer roar. Everything set for the rain - that cup of tea, those books and music, social media posts, bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness that breathes on and perishes at the same time - all hold a bowl. No noise, tune, ting - the bowl remains an arch of aching. It waits. Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell gets wet with our sweating. Halo- rainbow around my sins (To Robert Frede Kenter) A halo-rainbow surrounds my sins, its glow almost motherly callous and concerned as if she stands in our longevous balcony and see us playing soccer in the street without watching us, and hence we can be the truants from good behaviour, moral language. I blink. I cannot remember a rainbow in my life let alone a halo around the sun. I murmur, "Forgive me for leading a monochrome life." Cold breeze feels for my pulses, touches my neck. "Am I alive?" I desire to ask and decide not to. The grass smells of a memory falling from a great height, from the parapet of Eden. The air thronged with the particles reminds me of how the crows circle and scream when one of them falls. Light has fallen. It is sundown soon. I can call you Rob and say, "Slainté Mhaith." or hear the sobbing water of a lake nearby. An author, journalist, and father, Kushal Poddar, editor of 'Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being 'Postmarked Quarantine'. His works have been translated into eleven languages. amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

She always loved airports. Her dad, robbed of having a son among his three children, used to take her to the parking area at the end of the runway to watch the planes take off. Her sisters were uninterested but she loved it. For a long time she thought he did it only for her. Really he was doing it for him. When her marriage failed and she was still only in her twenties, she took to spending time at the airport even when she wasn’t going on a trip. She liked to sit in the main terminal and watch the travelers check in, pulling their wheeled luggage along and gazing at the panel of ETAs and ETDs. She’d read or listen to string quartets through her earbuds, and then, after a couple of hours, she’d go home feeling revived. In search of a bathroom one time she wandered into a long hallway that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. It had a firehose in the wall behind a glass case. It had a struggling ficus backed into a niche where it didn’t get any light. High windows threw some sunlight beside the niche, so she dragged the ficus there and watered it with her Evian. Every time she went to the airport, she’d go there to check on the ficus and discover that someone had moved it back to the niche. She’d set it out again in the the sun patch and water it, and it started doing better and better. She saw a man look at his watch after checking in and thought he had too much time to kill before his flight. This was all on impulse and later she was surprised at herself, but she went up to him and asked if he wanted to see something special. He was nice looking, a little older than her, and had sweet eyes. She took him to the hallway with the ficus and showed him how she had nursed it back to health. Then she took his hand and led him into the niche, and she unbuttoned her blouse and said he could have her if he wanted her. When they were done and he had to catch his plane, he asked her name. “You can call me Bluebird,” she said and went skipping away. Her father used to call her Bluebird. For a while she did this regularly, finding just the right man, showing him her ficus, and offering herself to him. These men were always grateful, then bewildered when she told them her name and skipped away. It was better than her marriage. But then she chose a man quite a bit older, and he wept when they were finished, and that made her wonder what he was thinking. His eyes were something other than bewildered when she said her name. They were full of sorrow. Kevin Brennan is the author of eight novels, as well as stories and poetry that have appeared in many online and print journals. A Best Microfiction nominee, he's also editor of The Disappointed Housewife, a literary magazine for writers of offbeat and idiosyncratic fiction, poetry, and essays. Kevin lives in California's Sierra foothills, where he cavorts among the pines and writes anomalous indie songs for his wife.

With striped lawns and fences and barking dogs and lost cat posters on lampposts. I’ve spent weekends pulling weeds and evenings walking, some years pushing a stroller. Cordial hellos. You get the idea, but I’m not finished. Here where they pretend concrete is art—cul-de-sacs and speed bumps, medians and roundabouts. Someone paints their door bright then someone else follows suit but in another hue. There are kitschy flags about holidays and seasons or sometimes wine, advertising alcoholism as a worthwhile pursuit. There are wreaths on doors, welcome in curly fonts, all screaming personality! The sound of rolling trash bins is music every Thursday morning, or at least an alarm clock, everything is pulsing in that methodical way. We don’t know how much money the neighbors pull in, it’s in the same ballpark probably but some winters it’s a class war between snowblowers and shovels, sometimes we’d leave our driveway uncleared hoping for some benevolence. Once I tried to move my kids into the city proper, where we could walk somewhere beyond a park, a gas station. I want the trees, the forest, but that will have to come after the kids are grown. My ex said downtown was too far, he didn’t want to drive them to me there. He might have said more but I didn’t bother to make it out above the endless drone of a weed whacker. Holly Pelesky writes essays, fiction and poetry. She received her MFA from the University of Nebraska. Her prose can be found in The Normal School, Okay Donkey, and Jellyfish Review, among other places. Her collection of letters to her daughter, Cleave, was recently released by Autofocus Books. She works as a librarian while raising boys in Omaha.

Show tits. Be Black. Laugh too loudly. Order veal. Have the kind of queer relationship that Netflix hasn’t figured out how to monetize. Rent. Walk down the street thinking they don’t know your headphones are blasting that one pop-punk hit you felt guilty about listening to even back in high school. Slouch. Pick your teeth. Do the drugs they don’t write breathless travelogues about. Run back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge at 4 a.m. with someone you just met because you feel that ugly beautiful energy when you look at them and it has to come out, come OUT, COME OUT, before you can go somewhere as prosaic as bed. Appreciate silence. Age appropriately. Imagine a better life is possible. Call an ex from 10 years ago who occasionally stalks your Insta stories and tell them you don’t miss them, not really, but sometimes you wake up with the memory of the taste of their ass on your tongue, anyway hope they’re well. Know sorrow. Learn nothing. Turn right on red. Chas Carey is a public servant and member of the interdisciplinary performing arts collective Wolf 359. This piece sprung up after someone told him about a colleague who charged $800 for a masterclass on how to get accepted by the New York Times' "Modern Love" column.

Bad Donna calls me, as she does each year, to sing-song her signature ditty, “hey, hey, it’s the first of May! Outdoor fucking begins today!” She asks whether my husband knows how to “put a spinner on it.” After a couple dirty jokes, she moves on to cancer. Lung cancer, she tells me. Both lungs, but a different kind of cancer in each lung. “The doctors say they’ve only seen a few cases like this before,” Donna says. “I really am terminally unique.” “Terminally unique” is AA-speak for people—usually newcomers—who are garden-variety drunks like everybody else, yet insist they face special challenges the rest of us can’t understand. If they’re lucky, time disabuses them of that notion. Bad Donna’s always quick with the jokes. Bad Donna’s twelve years older than I am, old enough to have been my babysitter, but not so old I’ve ever given a thought to losing her. The two of us became fast friends at an AA club in Delaware decades ago. Since we share a first name, Donna decided she’d be “Bad Donna” while I—by default not merit—would be “Good Donna.” Bad Donna displays her “badness” on the surface for everyone to see. I’ve never known why she is so sex-obsessed. I asked her once and she said, “go figure, maybe I’m just honest.” We used to see each other every day at the 7 AM Early Bird meeting, speaking by phone more often during the craziness of early sobriety. Now we talk four or five times a year. I always call her on her birthday in early December. She laments the lovely skin and slender waist of her youth and complains she looks like an evil stepmother. I listen, and tell her she is beautiful—and I mean it. So, a day off work to drive down to South Carolina where Bad Donna and her husband live now. We are so busy at the office; it’s a terrible time for me to be away, but fuck it. I wouldn’t have made it through those first years of sobriety without my friend attaching “Good” to my name and convincing me I could live up to it. Bad Donna taught me the crushing shame I had carried didn’t have to be my permanent condition. My GPS directs me to Donna’s door. Ken says he’s glad I’ve come. “How bad is it?” I ask. “Hospice comes tomorrow. She’ll start IV pain meds.” Ken says he’s going upstairs to take a nap. Bad Donna is propped up on pillows in her bed, a cloth turban on her head. Her eyes seem too big and there isn’t much left of her under the covers. I lean over to kiss her cheek and her breath smells funky. Her hands push against my shoulders. “Get off me, Good Donna, or I’m gonna whip your candy ass!” she hollers. I’m so relieved she’s still got spunk I could cry. “I brought you ice cream, Bad Donna.” “I can’t eat that shit. I’ll get fat like you!” “Suit yourself.” I take a minute to study her and the room. The bedside table holds a bunch of prescription vials and inhalers. Along with a copy of Emmanuelle. “Did I tell you the one about Snow White at Disney World?” Donna asks. “No, honey, I don’t think so,” although we both know she did. “They had to kick her out of the place. They kept finding her sitting on Pinocchio’s face, saying, lie to me, Pinocchio, lie to me!” We laugh. “I can’t believe it’s been two years since I’ve seen you.” “And I can’t believe how tired you look.” Then she launches into more jokes. I try to listen, to laugh when she wants me to, to bring my old friend comfort, but my monkey mind goes through a litany of my own worries. Problems at the office, mostly, and things aren’t great with my teenaged daughter. I’ve been feeling pushed and pulled and pissed off. I never miss my AA meeting, but I’m missing one today. “Oh,” I say, when I notice that Bad Donna has stopped talking and is watching me. “I’m so sorry, my mind drifted for a second.” “I’m dying here. Why did you even come? Shit.” “Do you remember Sheila?” “Of course, I remember her. Came to meetings off and on for years and never even put together thirty days. Finally took a header off her balcony, didn’t she?” “Yep, that was Sheila, very pretty, too. Do you remember her funeral? How a couple of guys got into a fistfight at the cemetery, arguing about which one of them she loved?” Bad Donna hoots. “I’d forgotten that! What a circus!” “That could have been me, there in that cold ground while a couple of drunken fools slugged it out and turned my funeral into some big cosmic joke. That probably would’ve been me if I hadn’t met you, Bad Donna.” We are quiet for a minute. I am determined not to cry. “I haven’t forgotten how you helped us with our bankruptcy. Thank you,” Bad Donna says. “Donna. Oh, I wish you weren’t so sick.” Bad Donna eyes the tub of Rocky Road melting in my lap. “You better get us a couple bowls, Good Donna,” she says. “God, I hate funerals.” Sarah Holloway lives in Savannah, GA, with her husband and lots of books. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, 50-Word Stories and SugarSugarSalt Magazine.

Bertrand ignored the wailing sirens as he hustled along the street, dodging parking meters and stepping over sidewalk cracks. He hated the sound of sirens; besides being harbingers of bad news, he could feel his teeth vibrate as the pitch changed with their Doppler Effect. Instead, he thought about the shifting autumn light as the evening approached. The sun turned the sky pink and orange as the city lights flickered on. Despite his mood, the coming night felt pleasant. The air reminded him more of late summer than mid-fall. For November, the temperature felt unseasonably warm. Bertrand liked it, liked the smell of the warm air this late in the calendar. He focused on the warmth to shake off his irritability. Some optimism should change his mood. Maybe he’d enjoy the poetry reading after all, even if it made him cringe. He’d order a beer when he arrived at Mulvaney’s. Besides, Cindi would pick up on his sour attitude in one second flat if he didn’t change his mood before he arrived. Cindi Ventalli, his junior-college crush. They’d met in a freshman poetry class he hadn’t intended to take. His ex-girlfriend, Macy, got him to enroll in the class before she split a month later. Macy had met a trucker who wanted to “show her the world.” Bertrand took the news well because by then he’d started to develop a new attraction—Cindi Ventalli. It was fate, he told himself, when the instructor asked the students to “pair up” and Bertrand and Cindi turned to face each other. Since then, they’d only ever been friends, but Bertrand still showed up at her readings, sifted through her emailed verses and sonnets looking for patterns and imagery, or whatever else that long-voweled teacher had asked the students to look for and then deliver in their offered feedback. Cindi loved the class; she gobbled it up, even when the instructor played a recording of William Shatner—yes, Captain Kirk—reading a particularly terrible poem about a space cowboy. Cindi looked directly at Bertrand and declared that in 50 years everyone would consider Shatner’s work unparalleled genius. Bertrand was still waiting. He chuckled to himself recalling those early days of their friendship. Cindi had that effect on him; she could change his mood. True, too, she was keen to his mood. If he showed up in his present state—bitter and resentful—she’d have hurt feelings. And hurt feelings would change her reading, maybe even change the material she’d read, perhaps even change her words. He’d once seen her come unhinged at a reading, in the middle of a sestina, and start editing her main six words, the very spine of her sestina unraveling before a stupefied audience. No, he’d need to change his mood and do it fast. He didn’t want to attend the poetry reading in the first place, but Cindi didn’t deserve his defiance. By the time he reached the crosswalk at 8th and Coburg, the sound of the siren had faded to a low hum. He could see Mulvaney’s from there, a seedy, university bar that attracted discerning intellectuals as well as growler collectors and loggers. The house’s usual entertainment drew eclectic crowds. Mulvaney’s had a side room with a stage and fairly decent audio system. Small-time, touring bands frequented the bar. Not fancy enough for a wedding, but the room did well enough to host a weekday Quinceañera, in addition to the annual ska band revival festival. And it was the perfect place for a dimly lit, retrospective literary reading. Such readings took place there a few times a month. Plus, they sold a bitter ale Bertrand craved when he thought of it. The reading that night, The Eugene Navel Gazers, had become a monthly event at Mulvaney’s, and people went nuts for it. At one time it was a reading for all genres. The name ‘Navel Gazers’ was meant as a joke, but the memoirists hated it and stopped attending. The poets never minded the jeer, though, so they took over the reading and made it theirs. And so the series became exclusive for poets. Over the years Navel Gazers hosted some pretty big names in local and state-wide poetry talent from Paulann Petersen to Tom Swearingen, folks Bertrand had never heard of but Cindi assured him were the real deal. Over the years, Cindi had been asked to read there several times—she had something of a following herself and had seen a little publishing success, too. But her day job found her schlepping books at the big box bookstore and waxing lyrical the plain-type words of children’s picture books for story hour. While Cindi’s English degree had landed her the bookseller job, Bertrand’s environmental science degree had landed him a construction job. He wasn’t too invested in the environment even when he was a student. He’d only picked the degree because it lacked the foreign language requirement he’d need with a B.A.. But his job wasn’t too far off from what he liked about the degree; he did get to work outdoors and he occasionally got to stand in for the boss when inspectors came around. He’d boast about methods they used to prevent spills and accidents—sort of the truth—and so, naturally each job site was made “environmentally safe” by his holding the degree. His boss, Josiah Tanner, often gave him cash bonuses—under the table, of course—for a job well done. That same day Josiah had jammed a wad of bills into Bertrand’s hand as he left the job site. Earlier that day, Don Davies, the company’s superintendent, had come around asking about some fiberglass insulation trimmings that needed to be disposed of properly. Bertrand had been hauling these off each day and ditching them out by the train tracks in Glenwood, but he’d made up something convincing on the spot about donating these to a local re-use center which was all too happy to have them. For his quick thinking, Josiah gave Bertrand three-hundred dollars in cash—a bonus. Bertrand had intended to head over to the casino on the coast with his buddies after work but then Cindi texted him just as he was leaving to remind him of the Navel Gazers reading. What’s more, she would be reading that night. She needed him there. And so, to his chagrin, he found himself walking through downtown headed toward Mulvaney’s, with a scowl, an attitude, and three hundred dollars cash in his wallet. At least the night was warm. The ‘walk’ sign flashed and Bertrand stepped off the curb. As he crossed the intersection, he took in the scene in the lot across Coburg Road. A shanty town had sprung up there; make-shift structures of cardboard and tarps hung over strung ropes and chain-link fencing. Bertrand could see the outlines of people arranged in various poses, huddled together in their dejection. Some had faces he could see through the dimming light, scruffy and tired. Others were only silhouettes slumped this way or that. The sight of them made Bertrand sick. Couldn’t they find some other place to set up camp? Couldn’t he walk down the street in his own city without being bothered by their filth? Their lewd presence? As he neared them, the features of their faces became clearer, and he could see that many of these people, men and women alike, diverted their eyes, bowed their heads, or adjusted themselves as Bertrand walked by. Bertrand snorted a sound of contempt. Serves them right, he thought, out here in the street. Surely they each deserved their fate. After all, even he had landed a job. Sure, he didn’t love it, but it gave a decent paycheck. And the three hundred dollars in his pocket felt right, even if he was on his way to a god-damned poetry reading. This was the American way, he reasoned. Well, maybe not the poetry reading. But a person could make something of himself even if he didn’t love his job or if he came home each day to an empty apartment—at least the apartment was his, month-to-month, anyway. Why did it seem so many people were afraid of a little hard work? Just then, he caught eyes with a man about his age, early thirties, in a faded Dodgers-blue jacket, the LA logo grayed with grime. The man had a stubbly, dirty face and a hard set jaw which he squared up to Bertrand as their eyes locked. The man seemed to look into Bertrand’s soul. He seemed to read Bertrand’s mind. He seemed to say, I didn’t choose this, daring Bertrand to challenge him. “Gotta’ dollar, man?” his gruff voice said. “I just need to eat something. Chula’s said they’d give me a burrito for one dollar. How ‘bout it?” A black hole marred the man’s smile where his left canine should have been. “Get a job, bum,” Bertrand sneered. He shook his head, cocked his shoulders back as he passed the man, trained his gaze on Mulvaney’s up ahead. Its neon sign glowed red against the dimming sky. Bertrand’s own words echoed in his mind as he walked. He reassured himself he’d been right to tell the man to get a job. He figured nobody had ever said something like that and perhaps he would make a positive impression on the man, a little tough love could go further than any dollar ever would. Sure, that was it. Bertrand had truly been a good Samaritan, he figured, a goddamned saint. As he approached Mulvaney’s, he noticed another homeless man pushing a bike with a Burley trailer attached to the back. The man was headed toward him. At his current pace the two would meet right at the front door of Mulvaney’s. Bertrand studied the man’s appearance. He was older, maybe in his late 50s. A worn trench coat hung from his frame like a soggy cape. He appeared to have socks on his hands as gloves, wrapped around the grips of the bike’s handlebars. What were once colorful streamers hung from the handles like sad birthday decorations, faded and forgotten. The bike itself was an amalgamation of cycle parts, things welded here and there in a chaotic representation of a bicycle. It hosted two bells on the crossbar and a broken headlamp hung there too. Rust and stickers lined the frame. The seat was a wide, shabby saddle. But it was the Burley trailer attached to the back which gave Bertrand pause. The thing was pristine, beautiful even, as if it had just rolled out of REI. It probably had, Bertrand decided. The man had probably stolen the trailer. But what was in it? A trailer like that was meant for children to ride along on bike trips. Even babies could safely scuttle behind mom or dad as their parent pedaled to the grocers or daycare. Bertrand decided he would look closer at the trailer as the man passed—see if there might be a baby in there, report the man to the police for endangering a child by living on the streets—but he never got the chance. Before the man came within ten feet of the door to Mulvaney’s, he stopped short and propped the bike against the wall of the pub. He bent down to the bike’s chain and appeared to tug at something there. Bertrand kept his eyes on the man until he was safely through the door of Mulvaney’s and the world transformed to a safer, warmer place. Inside the bar, a soft Wes Montgomery tune burbled. The lighting glowed about the place illuminating a few people arranged in clusters sharing ale and laughter. The smell of old wood and stale beer filled Bertrand’s senses. He spotted Cindi right away, her familiar petite shoulders, auburn hair. She stood next to the bar chatting with a college-aged kid, an empty stool between them. When Cindi spotted Bertrand, relief washed over her face and she waved him over. “Hi,” she said too loudly and leaned in for a one-armed hug. “This is Phil.” She gestured to the kid. “He’s a math student at UO. Wants to teach. Has a cool project he’s working on.” Bertrand stuck out his hand and the kid pawed it into a quick shake. “Bertrand is also a poet,” Cindi told Phil, which was a lie, but the lie was not Cindi’s lie. Bertrand did write his thoughts down, and he wrote them in column-form, but the poems never had any rhyme or reason. He’d done the same thing in that poetry class many years earlier just trying to eke out a passing grade. A few people, including Cindi, found his work full of imagination and emotion. So, Bertrand had kept on with his writing ruse, occasionally offering Cindi a page or two of his random thoughts and she would “critique.” At one point, he explained the lie to her when he’d had too much to drink, confessing his ruse. But Cindi had only laughed and assured him his writing read more true than many of the hacks who had taken the stage at Navel Gazers. Phil asked, “Are you reading tonight?” “Oh, reading’s not for me.” “We’ve been trying to get him to read for years but he’s far too modest,” Cindi beamed then lifted peace fingers at the bartender for another round. “You drinking tonight?” “I’ll have one, I think.” “My treat,” Cindi said. “Thanks for coming.” “Wouldn’t miss it.” Two bottles arrived on the bar and Cindi picked them up, handing one to Bertrand. They clinked necks then sipped. The cool bitter ale tasted refreshing to Bertrand and he took a second pull before looking around the bar again. The sizzle of carbonation described his esophagus with a simmer as the ale slid into his gut. He warmed. “Are you waiting for someone?” Phil asked, leaning toward him. “No, just seeing who’s here tonight.” Bertrand said. “So, math, huh?” “Yep. How ‘bout you.” “I’m in construction, but I do a little environmental work for my company, too.” Phil nodded like Bertrand’s words had made some kind of sense to him. “I gotta go do the mic check. It’s almost time,” Cindi said, clinking bottles with Bertrand once more before moving off. “Thanks for the brew,” he called after her. “Sure thing.” Bertrand excused himself from Phil saying something about wanting to get a good seat. In reality, he wanted his seat, the seat in the back corner, to be precise. He felt safe there, tucked away. Plus, he didn’t want Cindi to see his face if his attention waned. Bertrand moved through the opening to the side room and found his way to the back corner near a large, wooden door. At one time the side room had served as a storefront and the big heavy, wooden door led out to the sidewalk and street beyond. Years since then, though, the door had been permanently bolted shut. A sign affixed across the door read, “This is not a door,” which always made Bertrand laugh. He touched the sign as he sat then sipped his ale again. Cindi was on the stage with one of the Mulvaney’s crew checking the sound and dimming the lights. Bertrand watched her and admired her shapely figure, the line of her skirt, the soft edges of her sweater. She’d left her hair down and it hung to her shoulders, swishing as she moved about the stage. Most readings, she tied it back in a stunted ponytail, a cute look, but Bertrand preferred her hair down. He tipped his bottle to his mouth and drained the last of his ale, thought about ordering another but did not want to give up his seat. Instead, he settled into the warm feeling in his stomach. Wes Montgomery faded from the speakers. Before long, people started trickling into the side room filling seats. To Bertrand’s surprise, Phil stood at the mic first. He tapped the bulb and the audience quieted. “Thanks for coming out tonight to, uh, Navel Gazers.” Phil’s body moved in a gyrating motion but his head remained fixed at the mic. “Cindi said I could make a quick announcement if I also agreed to play emcee. You know, introduce the readers. So here we are.” A murmur of laughter moved through the room. “So, my name’s Phil Messier. I’m a grad student in the math department at the University and we have started our own reading series. It’s a math series, though, so not like your typical literary reading. You know, it’s more like poetry in patterns.” He made scare quotes in the air when he said ‘poetry.’ “If you want more information, get with me after the reading tonight. I also have a stack of flyers ..” He looked over the heads of the audience. “There,” he said, pointing to a table in the opposite corner from where Bertrand sat. “Anyway, first up is none other than the legend herself, Cindi Ventalli. Give it up for Cindi.” Applause filled the space and Phil stepped off stage as Cindi stepped on. She nodded at him and said something, though her words came before she’d reached the mic so Bertrand didn’t hear her. True to fashion, before Cindi spoke, she paused for a long moment with her eyes shut. Then, she opened the yellow folder—always yellow—and set it on the lectern. “Narcissus,” she started. “I notice you alone / Near the water’s edge / Your head tilts toward the reflection...” Her modulation rose on the last word and she paused. Bertrand hated it when she read like that, like performing her piece rather than just sharing the words. He hadn’t learned much in that poetry class but he knew the importance of allowing people to have their own interpretation. Just read it, he thought as she continued. “The expression on your face / Reminds me of something / I heard once in a child’s song / About a cow and a moon / And a dish and fiddle.” Good lord, Bertrand thought, pulling the bottle to his mouth before remembering he’d finished the ale. He set the bottle on the ground with a soft clank and redoubled his efforts to pay attention. He knew Cindi would ask about the reading when it was over so he’d need to have some recall of her words. That’s when the crying started. Through the bolted door, Bertrand heard what sounded like whimpering coming from outside: the distinct sounds of a fussy baby. Was there a baby on the street outside? Surely it was dark by then. Who would have a baby around this part of town at night? The sound grew louder, taking on an urgent cadence. Bertrand thought of the man with the bike trailer, that brand-new Burley. The image of the man with his bike propped by the pub wall came back to Bertrand: older, disheveled hair, new baby trailer. The man had seemed too old to be a father; a grandfather? Maybe. But why would he have a baby out at night? Babies should be at home nestled in their cribs. By then, Bertrand realized he’d missed the last stanza of Cindi’s poem and he tried to tune out the sound of the baby crying outside. “You smile. / The clouds hold up the entire sky / Above you.” Cindi nearly sang the word ‘you’ and Bertrand almost groaned. Focus, he told himself, pick a phrase or two to recall later. But the baby’s lament grew louder. Bertrand was certain others in the seats near him could also hear the cries. He looked to his fellow poetry patrons, but none seemed moved from the poet at the mic, Cindi, pulling her stanza’s ends up like questions. And then, the crying shifted to high-pitch shrieking as if sudden pain inflicted the infant. The sound assaulted Bertrand’s senses and he felt the need to rise from his chair and move to the other side of the room to escape the din. But there was another part of him that also wanted to go outside, to find the baby, to alleviate its discomfort or stress, whatever the source of its hurt might be, to find it and fix the cause of its anguish. Again, others near him seemed to not notice the crying. But now the sound vibrated his being. The hair on his arms grew stiff as the crying morphed into an urgent bleating. The cadence of its noise became cyclical, like each breath of the infant issued the same distress and terror or pain over and over again into the night like a siren warning of unimaginable trouble. And Bertrand was certain the sounds came from an infant. Such screeches could only belong to the very young, that specific octave only new vocal chords could reach, a squall of panic and agony from things not yet understood. But Bertrand understood the pain in that wailing. Somewhere out on the street a baby was in pain. Again, Bertrand looked around the room—at those closest to him—with more scrutiny. Either they did not hear the baby or else they ignored it, all of their attention taken up with Cindi who droned over the din, “When you laugh / The sound comes like a series / Of bubbles spilling and popping / Gurgling and bursting to life.” That sound? Bubbling and popping? Bertrand gaped. What about the sound of a baby in the night howling with such misery that the very issuance of its complaints had begun to cause Bertrand physical harm? His ears rang with the infant’s bellowing. His skin tingled with each keening sob. The yowling and agony that roared from such an aching, its torture-filled squawks made the ale in Bertrand’s gut churn with regret. Bile rose to his throat. He thought to hold his hands to his ears, stand and rush out of the place, flee those echoes that filled him with such guilt and fear—guilt for his inaction and fear for the life of the child. He imagined the man parking the bike along the wall of the bar, his attention to the child forgotten, some opioid transaction luring him away from his grandchild, so small and fragile in this broken night of vagrants and disease. Then, just as Bertrand shifted forward in his seat, no longer concerned with what Cindi would think if he walked out in the middle of her reading to find the child—as suddenly as if a glass had fallen from the bar causing everyone to hush, to turn and look—just like that, the crying ceased. The silence that issued forth from beyond the bolted door came in a most terrible emptiness that permeated the old wood and bolts all the way to the very bones of Bertrand. The silence—more abysmal than the wailing had been once the wailing had gone—gripped Bertrand’s throat with a maddening fear. His thoughts sifted through the nothing he heard, searching for a bleat, a whimper, a hyperventilating wheeze that might inform him of the baby’s wellbeing. He sharpened his senses so as to detect the sounds of an infant soothed, cooing or clucking from an adult nearby, or else the sound of a restless babe still convulsing with trauma. But only silence came; silence and the droning of Cindi at the mic, “Your slope consumes me / Your energy compels me / Your amusement amuses me. Don’t go. Don’t you ever go.” Had he imagined the crying? Those near him, their rapt attention on Cindi, seemed to confirm the sounds were not real. Still, for the rest of the reading, Bertrand remained stunned in a state of hyper-awareness. He continued to listen for the baby outside, imagined the man had pedaled away, and that the motion of the Burley trailer had lulled the child to sleep. He imagined the man had scooped the baby and swaddled it to comfort, suckled it to a warm bottle. He also imagined terrible things, things that scratched into his consciousness without prompting, things he did not know he could imagine, but he shook these thoughts away. He grabbed words and phrases offered by Cindi and the other poets who read, clung to their meanings for distraction and tonic. Phrases like, “Pine trees wet from the rain of a mighty storm,” and “The smell of the pages fresh like linen and ink, oil paints on new canvas, linseed uncapped.” After the reading, he dared not go outside. Instead, he ordered another ale and drank it down. Cindi found him at the bar, third beer in hand. “Whoa partner, slow down,” she said, parking atop the stool next to him. “Want one?” Bertrand raised his hand to the bartender who came over wiping her tattooed hands on a white dish towel. “No thanks,” Cindi said to the bartender and not to Bertrand. “Good reading,” Bertrand lied. “Yeah?” “But what was up with that baby crying?” “Ted’s poem about his dad?” Cindi laughed. “What? No. There was an actual baby crying outside during your read.” He studied Cindi’s face. She stared back blankly. She raised an eyebrow. “If you weren’t able to pay attention tonight, I get it. Long day, all that.” “No, Cindi, I’m serious. There was a baby crying outside. Loud. You didn’t hear it?” “Who would bring a baby to a bar?” She laughed again. “No, outside! Jesus, Cindi, a fucking baby.” “Are you mad at me? I was at the mic. I heard nothing. It’s pretty consuming to be up there, you know.” Just then Phil walked up to the bar to hand a stack of flyers to the bartender. “Phil,” Bertrand called out. “Phil, did you hear a baby?” “Ted’s poem?” Phil asked. “What? No.” Bertrand had no recollection of Ted’s poem. He had no recollection of most of their poems—all he could think about was that baby. “Uh, no,” Phil said. “Why would someone bring a baby to a bar?” “You know what, forget it,” Bertrand said and he stood to leave. “Aw now,” Cindi said. “See you later, Cindi. Nice to meet you Phil.” He stood up and slapped a ten on the bar. “Hey, wait a minute,” Cindi said but it was too late. Bertrand had moved across the room and out into the cool night before she could change his mind. Once outside he looked to the other side of the bolted, wooden door. To his disappointment nothing slumped there. The sidewalk remained vacant; even the street in both directions appeared empty of loitering. He scolded himself for hoping he’d find something there, some evidence that he had heard a baby crying. He thought about the place where he sat in the side room, how maybe a trick of a heater vent had issued the wailing sound. Maybe he’d only imagined such a noise, had given it human origins. He thought for a second he should go back inside and tell Cindi he’d just been joking with her. He decided to go home instead. As he hurried along 8th Avenue, he watched for the man with the bike and Burley trailer, but he also feared he might actually see him. As he passed by the shanty town, he noticed that the Dodger’s jacket bum was gone, maybe by then enjoying a burrito at Chula’s, or so Bertrand found himself hoping. He thought of the money in his pocket, the bills folded together, and how he would buy the man dinner if he saw him on the street—but would he? Bertrand figured he might only tell himself we would buy the man dinner; make himself feel better. Other shapes of people moved in the shadows, human beings with souls and feelings and history. He felt ashamed at his judgment of them, embarrassed at himself for not leaving the reading to seek out the crying baby. Then he shook his head and pursed his lips. Bertrand jammed his hands into his jeans pockets as he walked. The air had chilled and the smell of rain permeated his senses. He couldn’t see the storm clouds that had stacked above the city but he felt their weight. The wind picked up and whipped his hair around his face as he walked. Three more blocks and he would be home. The caterwaul of an alley cat startled him and he quickened his pace. He tried to calm himself. “It’s only a cat,” he said out loud to nobody. He imagined the curly golden hair of a baby in the bottom of a dumpster and he coughed to keep from crying out. He started to run. By the time he reached the last block from his house, Bertrand was in a full sprint. As he ran up the steps and unlocked his front door, he felt a sour paste rise in his throat. He made it to the bathroom just in time before losing his ale into the sink. The splattering sound that came with his purge caused him to heave harder. He ran the water clutching the faucet handle. Then he dry-heaved and wretched with a convulsive ache. Sobs snuck out of him between throwing up and catching his breath. Finally, he calmed. He comforted himself with the thought that he’d only imagined the baby crying. No one else had heard it. Perhaps Bertrand had a stomach bug having eaten something that had made him sick. A hallucination, that was all. In his own reflection, he saw red in the whites of his eyes; burst blood vessels—likely from his heaving—formed a crimson halo behind his irises. Sweat beaded up along his forehead and his hairline. And there was something else too, he could see just behind him through the reflection of the medicine cabinet’s mirror. There in the bedroom in the dark stood the shape of something odd and out of place. The white spindly rails of a baby crib came into focus behind him. He spun in place and looked into the dark bedroom but there was only his bed and nightstand—no crib. Now he was sure he was sick. How could such a thing be real? How could a crib suddenly appear in his room? And the crying! It must have been the result of a fever hallucination. Besides, if the crying had been so terrible, surely someone else in the bar would have heard it, would have gone to see to about the baby, sought out the reason for that sudden silence. It was the silence, Bertrand remembered, which spooked him the most. He remembered the abruptness, how silence had become a thing he could feel, like he could reach his fingers into that hush and strangle a bit more sound from it, reanimate the baby if only through its sounds. The rain came at once then, loud and torrential, pelting the windows and drowning out all other noise. Bertrand wiped his face and moved off to bed to the floor. He finally slept to the drone of loud rain. Hours later, it must have been, Bertrand was awakened by a clap of thunder. He rose from the floor, checked the clock—3:30 AM—and went into the bathroom. He peed, grabbed a drink of water with his hands, then splashed his face. He avoided looking in the mirror. As he made his way back into the bedroom, his foot kicked something and it skittered across the floor. The thing was small and light and made a clatter as it traveled. Bertrand peered through the darkness at what he thought might have been a beer bottle. He reached his bedside lamp and turned the switch. To his horror and amazement, he discovered there on the carpet a plastic baby bottle with the word, ‘Avent,’ scrawled across its midsection. He reached for it, grasped it in disbelief, and picked it up. Although it was empty, he had the impression of warmth from its plastic sides. The thing was warm. He smelled it. It smelled like sweet milk with sour undertones. What he found truly remarkable, though, was that the smell also seemed warm. He found himself looking around his bedroom for a baby. He felt the expectation that a baby was nearby. He looked under the bed and in the closet. Finally, he sat down and scolded himself for buying into this chicanery. Cindi must have played a joke on him. Bertrand knew he should have taken his key back after she house-sat for him last year. He called out to the apartment, “very funny, Cindi.” A clap of thunder responded. He would not sleep then so he made his way into the kitchen and set the bottle on the countertop. He opened up his laptop and checked his email, convinced that there would be a note from Cindi saying something about how he deserved the prank for not being more mindful during her reading. He found no such email. After glancing through the promotions on Amazon, he closed the laptop and flipped the T.V. on. He thought to stream something banal, maybe The Office, being as he had seen every episode at least a few times so he’d barely need to pay attention. He pulled a blanket over his legs as he settled onto the sofa and stared mindlessly at Michael Scott until his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was already up. It was 7:30 AM and he would be late to work if he didn’t hustle. He jumped in the shower and threw on a t-shirt and pair of jeans. Rushing through the kitchen, he grabbed a power bar and his jacket, and then stopped dead in his tracks. He looked to the place on the countertop where he had left the prank baby bottle, only no baby bottle sat atop the counter where he was sure he’d left it. He looked all around. He opened the fridge. No bottle. He must have dreamed it. Plus, he had drunk three ales and could have imagined just about anything after that, so he dismissed the baby bottle and headed out the door. Bertrand made it to the job site a few minutes after eight and Josiah was waiting on him, arms folded. “Did you have a rough night at the casino?” Josiah asked with a reprimanding tone. “Nah,” Bertrand said. “Cindi had a poetry reading and I went to that instead.” “Party animal,” his boss said. “Listen, that heavy rain turned up some crazy stuff behind the foundation last night.” “Toxic or …?” “Nothing like that. Probably some kids used to play back here, is all.” “Vandalism?” “Nah. This came up with the rain. Looks like things just bubbled up out of the ground, maybe buried there like a time capsule. Who knows what kids are thinking.” He pointed to where the backyard would be of the house they were constructing. So far, only the foundation and frame had been completed. The rest of the lot was bare except for stacks of building supplies and the few work trucks parked in what would soon be a new driveway. “Came up? Like what?” Bertrand asked. “We need to get the excavators out here again?” “I don’t think so but it is odd. I mean, speaking of excavators, you’d think we would have scraped away anything like this when we leveled the yard.” The two men had begun to walk through the mud to the backside of the house’s foundation. Bertrand grew annoyed at the mud accumulating on the soles of his shoes as they walked. When they reached the backyard, Bertrand took in what appeared to be muddy lumps in a puddle. As they approached, Bertrand could see waterlogged stuffed animals, mostly what used to be pink and yellow, and also fabric; fabric adorned with small animals, maybe ducks or foxes, mixed into the mud. He could clearly see the shape of a baby rattle covered in brown silt. As Bertrand surveyed the mess, his ire grew. Was Josiah in on Cindi’s trick from the night before? “What the hell is this?” Bertrand said with contempt. “I have no idea. Wondered what you might think—” “This isn’t funny, Joe.” “Well I know it ain’t funny. That’s what I’m talking about. Odd.” “Jesus Christ!” Bertrand yelled. “Whoa, settle down.” Josiah said, his hands moving like they were patting the air. “Don’t tell me to settle down. This is messed up! These are baby clothes. You know what they are.” Bertrand shook his head. “You’re in on this too, you asshole!” “Now, wait a minute, Bernie. I got no idea what you’re—” “Screw you, man,” Bertrand waved his arms in the air. “All y’all, screw you!” He turned around in the mud yelling out at the few other guys on the site or whoever else he thought needed to hear. “Get ahold of yourself, son, or I am going to have to send you home.” “I’m already going!” Bertrand yelled back at Josiah before slogging away fighting against the mud on his soles. He slipped but regained his footing before falling. What a messed up prank, he thought. Cindi had gone too far this time. When he got to his truck, Bertrand dialed Cindi. “This is Cindi Ventalli,” he heard the voicemail announce. “Leave a message.” “Cindi, of all the stupid tricks.” He was fuming mad. “I think you’ve taken this a little too far. The bottle in my apartment? The baby clothes at my worksite? I’m not sure what kind of point you’re trying to make, but this is not cool.” He started to drive before he hung up. “Not cool,” he said. Then he ranted about how selfish she had been to ask him to do things she wanted to do, never wanting to do what he wanted. He said some other things that he could not remember before finally clicking off the call. As he drove, he grew angrier. Convinced that Cindi had something to do with all of this and that she had a point to make about him not paying closer attention to her terrible poetry, he pulled up a text dialog box. He held the phone at the top of the steering wheel and typed frantically while he drove. He hadn’t finished the first line of text when he felt the thump of his tire, like he’d hit something large, maybe a dog. The thump jarred him out of his rage and he stopped the car. Good lord, he hoped he hadn’t hit a dog. He got out of the truck, rushed around the front, and saw the pink lace of a little girl’s dress, along with her leg, her tiny fingers. His hand went to his mouth. His heart jumped into his throat. As he came all the way around the front of the truck, he saw what he had hit. It was a doll—a doll and not a child, thank god! He had run over a fancy doll wearing a frilly, pink dress. He’d shattered the head into a million dusty pieces. He knelt down to pick up the doll’s pieces and he started to cry. Bertrand went home and took a sleeping pill. He slept the rest of the day and most of the next morning. When he awoke, he listened to his voicemail. Josiah had called and left a message telling him that he was being let go. “Don Davies found out you were dumping the insulation trimmings by the train tracks in Glendale, Bert.” The crackling voice said over voicemail. “What could I do? The company will pay a stiff environmental fine. I had no choice but to tell Don you were responsible.” There was more, too, something about how he could expect his final paycheck in the mail. Before Josiah ended the call he added, “Don’t use me for a reference.” The next message came from Cindi who was apparently quite upset by his voicemail accusations and the text message she had received. She said, “What gives? And what the hell does ‘Baby killing me’ and ‘you’re next,’ mean?” He verified that this was what he had sent but figured it was predictive text and not actually what he wrote. He couldn’t recall what he had been trying to type. He called Cindi and got her voicemail. “Hey,” he said. “I’m a little scared. I thought you were playing a trick on me for not paying attention during your poetry reading but . . .” He took a breath. “Listen, I’m sorry. The text was a mistake, too. Can you just call me? …Please,” he added. After he hung up, he sat quietly thinking about what he would do next. From the street outside he could hear the sounds of children playing on the sidewalk. Just above that din, he recognized the soft complaints of a baby crying. Days later, when he had not heard from Cindi, he tried to call her again. This time, he received a message saying the number was not accessible from his current line. Blocked. When he went by the bookstore where she worked, the security guard met him at the door and told him he was not welcome. He tried to remember what he had said on the message he’d left her but he could not remember. He tried to plead with the security guard to let Cindi know he just wanted to talk but a baby started crying and its mother was not able to soothe him. The shrieking unsettled Bertrand and he left. In fact, it seemed everywhere he went he heard babies crying. They cried at the grocery store, in line for unemployment, next to his truck at a red light. He heard them crying when he watched T.V., heard them crying while he showered, saw babies always out of the corner of his eye but when he turned to look directly at them, they vanished into the ether, strollers rolling out of sight around a corner, mothers ducking into doorways with swaddled bundles of cacophonous sounds. He started to think the baby he’d heard that night during the reading had joined him in some way, a haunting of sorts. Could noises haunt a person, he wondered. To assuage his mental health, he decided he should talk to a doctor. “Behavioral Medicine, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end seemed sincere when she offered to help. “I keep hearing babies crying and I think I am losing my mind.” No response. “So … uh, I thought I should talk with someone.” Bertrand took a deep breath. “Sir, are you requesting an appointment with one of our providers?” “Yes, I think so.” “And have you been in to see us before?” “No.” Bertrand had never believed in psychiatry or therapy but he felt desperate. “I am sorry sir. Our providers are only taking new clients on referral. Check with your primary care doctor and see if you can get a referral. After that, their office will contact us and then we will contact you to set up the appointment.” “Oh,” Bertrand sat down. “But what if I need to see someone right away.” “Sir, I cannot make that determination for you. As I said, you’ll have to start with your primary care provider.” “Well what good are you!” Bertrand snapped and he hung up the phone. He sat in silence for a long while thinking about what he might do next. Then he called his doctor’s office. The appointment setter notified him that he no longer had insurance coverage and that he would have to access medical care either through Cobra or the services available through the local clinic, White Bird. Bertrand knew about White Bird. It provided mental health and medical services to homeless people. He didn’t think they could help him because he was not homeless. Instead, he went to the corner bar and drank as much as he could. He even bought a round for the house. The next morning, he found that his $300 cash had been spent and his credit card was missing. After that, his bank account was suspended pending the investigation that he might have been the one to overdraft the balance himself. All transactions occurred within a few miles of his apartment and Bertrand had no proof that the cash withdrawals and purchases were not his own. Bertrand could not find another job. With the little money he had squirreled away, he started drinking heavily to silence the constant wailing he heard, wailing from babies no matter where he went nor the time of day. At the laundromat, a crying baby could be heard over the din of the dryer and tumbling clothes, but no baby was present in the laundromat. In the grocery store, Bertrand heard two babies, twins, shrieking together in agony on the aisle over, but when he went to the next aisle, he found it empty. By Christmas, the finance company had repossessed his truck. Mulvaney’s barred him from coming around after a fight he’d started with a poet who wouldn’t deliver a message to Cindi. His landlord evicted him. On the last day in his apartment, as he packed up what he could carry into a plastic trash bag, not sure where he would go, he finally found that missing baby bottle, the letters spelling ‘Avent’ seemed worn, somehow much older. As he gripped the bottle, he noticed that it felt cold to touch. Not like the warmth he once sensed there. Clutching the bottle in his hand, he made his way out of the apartment and down the street not sure where he would go. The winter chill had settled into the valley by then and the wind felt colder than he remembered from past Novembers. He made his way to the corner church where he’d heard they often hosted a warming center for homeless folks. Bertrand did not count himself homeless; he was just down on his luck. It was temporary, he told himself. Things would turn around soon. Still, he needed a warm place to go. When he entered the church a woman greeted him, wrapped him in a blanket and gave him a cup of hot soup. She told him he was welcome to stay on the bottom floor with the other single men but that the second floor was reserved for families with children. Just then, the familiar sound of a baby crying wafted down the stairwell. The sound steered toward him with such foreboding that Bertrand shook. He knew he could not stay if that sound remained within an earshot. He told the woman as much and he shuffled back through the door muttering, “That baby. That goddamned baby.” Just as he reached the street, Bertrand saw the figure of a man on a bike pulling a Burley trailer. He ran to catch up with him calling out, “Hey! Hey, where’s that baby? What happened to the baby?” Looking back at Bertrand, the woman—not a man at all—redoubled her pedaling and swiftly pulled away from Bertrand’s pursuit. He noticed the look of fear and judgment on her face before she turned away. Dejected, Bertrand made his way up 8th Avenue toward Coburg Road. He found a place between a hedge and fence where he could squeeze himself in to escape the wind. He checked his pockets looking for a few dollars so he might buy something to eat; they were empty. So he hunkered down and wrapped his arms around himself trying with all of his might to ignore the silence but also hoping it would not be replaced by the noises of a crying child. To his relief, a siren called out from a vast distance and he honed in on its sound, finally settling in to sleep. Rhonda Zimlich teaches writing at American University in Washington, DC. She has been published by several literary journals, including Brevity, Past-Ten, American Writer’s Review, and was awarded the 2020 Literary Award in Nonfiction from Dogwood, a Journal of Poetry and Prose at Fairfield University. The same essay earned an honorable mention in Best American Essays. She received the 2021 Fiction Award from Please See Me. Her spookier work has been published by Ink Stain, Icarus Down, and Eat Crow, Pink Panther Magazine, and more. Her writing focuses on history, grief, and intergenerational trauma, with an occasional ghost story that incorporates all of these elements. More at www.rhondazimlich.com

Brian is handsome under moonlight: black shirt, grey jacket and peppered hair. My husband and Brian’s wife have stepped away from the table on a patio where we are dining. The jazz band is taking a break. Fragrant thyme pokes up between the flagstones under our feet; waiters top up our champagne. I love Brian, I always have, we’ve shared so much of the past. Fifteen years ago, he and I were both alone, he recently widowed and I newly divorced. Friends told me to be careful. I didn’t understand. He was my sister’s husband. Hers. Not mine. Yet still, a question I’d wanted to ask so many times over the years hung between us like a tangled web. I blurt it out. “Do you think you and I could have been a couple?” My late sister’s husband stares at me, his magnetic green eyes penetrating mine. He says nothing and, like leaking balloons, my words dissolve into the thyme. I’m none the wiser. Virginia Foley writes in Stratford, Ontario, Canada. Her work has been featured in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Read650, Talking Writing, Roi Faineant, 5-minute lit, and Split Rock Review among others. Connect with her on her website: virginiafoley.com

We’re digging up weeds in the garden. Skinny stalks with curly white roots rain dirt onto parched earth as we pluck and pull. We’ve been at it for days and they keep popping up, more unafraid than us. Dandelions scatter as we unearth rocks from their homes but we’re scavengers, rooting for what might exist beneath the mess you left behind. We’re convinced we’ll find you there, in dirty overalls nursing a tarnished pocket watch, sticky from melting cherry cough drops and pomade, even though we saw you planted on a hill three miles from here, covered with fake flowers and turfgrass and a marble marker. There’s a rustling from the woods beyond the corner of the garden so we stop, turn our heads to find a raccoon watching us. We stare, squatting still in the tossed earth, while he stands on his back legs, paws raised in hallelujah and welcome, as if he wants us to go to him, hug him, take him home with us. All we can think about is how you gave up, before we were awake, before we realized we needed to say goodbye. We think how this raccoon could be you, a resurrection to help your daughters understand they’ll be just fine, eventually. But like the rascal you are, he disappears into the darkness of the brush before we have the chance, that last chance, to tell him he can’t leave us with tears and hope and everything unsown staining our skin. Melanie Maggard is a flash and poetic prose writer who loves dribbles and drabbles. She has published in Cotton Xenomorph, The Dribble Drabble Review, X-R-A-Y Magazine, Five Minute Lit, and others. She can be found online at www.melaniemaggard.com and @WriterMMaggard.

Boiled down, she was a writer and I wasn’t. “This story, it’s terrible,” she said. “You’re writing fiction, for Christ’s sake.” That hurt me a lot. “Show, don’t tell,” she said. “And if you can’t do that, don’t bother.” “Can I ask you a question?” “Fine.” “If I make changes, will you read them?” “Only if you get them to me before next week.” “Why’s that?” “Because my residency is up. You have to pay me after that. I’m not reading this shit for free.” “Are you saying you’ll read shit as long as someone pays you?” I could see it on her face, she didn’t like the question. “Seriously,” I said. “How much?” She pointed at the door, told me to get out. So I left. And I realized she was right. Show, don’t tell. Travis Grant lives up in Canada. Travis has a couple stories out there over the last year or so. One in Cowboy Jamboree titled "Angel" and a novelette called Winners & Losers, which was published by ELJ Editions. He’s currently working on a novel.

1 Saturday Jen’s head pounded in time with Amari’s playlist, some pop compilation they probably found on Spotify five minutes before the first guest showed up at their downtown apartment. She’d love a glass of water, but getting up sounded like more effort than it was worth, so Jen stayed on the couch, scrolling through Instagram photos from her cousin’s most recent trip to San Diego as her best friend’s twenty-ninth birthday party raged around her. All of her people were otherwise occupied. Amari sat half in a plush armchair chair, half in their girlfriend’s lap, chatting animatedly with their high school friends and twisting the bleached and re-dyed red ends of their hair into circles. A handful of Jen and Amari’s college friends took shots off the time-worn coffee table. On the other side of the room, Soledad flirted with a woman in a white crew neck Jen didn’t know, which meant she and Jen probably weren’t going home together tonight. Not that Jen particularly felt like being fucked. She and Soledad had been friends-with-benefits-ing on and off for four years, when Soledad moved to New York and Amari introduced them. Another familiar face pushed her way from the throng of bodies and dropped onto the couch beside Jen, who amended her earlier thought. Not all her friends were occupied, then. May, the cousin of their gracious host, swept her dark bangs aside and asked, “How’s my favorite introvert doing in this crowd of thousands?” Jen snorted and tucked her phone in her pocket. “Dozens, at best.” May didn’t drink much anymore, but her face was pleasantly flushed with a cider or two. Behind May, one of Amari’s coworkers changed the song to something lower-key. Jen silently thanked them for it. Her headache had begun to pick up and the contents of her stomach churned unpleasantly. “Still.” May had on the navy v-neck sweater Jen had gotten her for her twenty-seventh birthday just a few months before, the one that showed off the top of her rather toned chest. The thought thrilled Jen more than it should. “That’s because you don’t know any other introverts,” Jen asked. Soledad might be, but May had never cared for Soledad. Amari, who was now taking tequila shots with their roommate, was definitely an extrovert. Amari and Jen had met in undergrad when Amari, a sophomore to Jen’s freshman, TAed Jen’s psych 101 class before she decided to never again take a psych class. And then, of course, Jen ended up dating their cousin. “You’d be my favorite anyway,” May teased, and Jen couldn’t help but smile. It had taken the two of them a long time to get to this place, where they could tease and even flirt a little at a party. Jen liked this place. It wasn’t dating, but they were better like this. Dating hadn't gone well for them. “I’m alright,” she said. “You must be thriving here.” May laughed. The usually pleasant sound reverberated around Jen’s tender head and she took a deep breath. “I’m wonderful,” May said with a playful grin. “Thank you so much for asking.” Jen swallowed hard. “How’s midterm grading coming along?” When did her mouth become so dry? May rolled her eyes in a suspiciously Amari-esque fashion. “Almost done, thank God. Spring break is only really spring break for the co-eds. Co-eds who seem to retain nothing I teach them, for that matter.” Jen’s head gave a particularly nasty throb and she wondered if she was on her way to a migraine. “Are you going to be at Columbia Monday? I have to be uptown at eleven, if you want to get lunch after.” Deep breath in, deep breath out. “What’s uptown?” “Just an appointment.” She hadn’t had the chance to tell any of them what was happening, nor did she plan on doing so tonight. Amari’s birthday was decidedly not a good time. “I’d love to,” May said. “I don’t have anything after my morning class. Will you be free by one?” May had spent most of her fourth semester as a PhD student alternating between teaching and procrastinating her thesis. A fact that, should one of their friends called her out on it, she had become an expert at avoiding. Jen nodded and winced as the movement sent another jolt of pain through her head. She stood. “I’m getting water,” she muttered. That’s what her doctor told her to do anyway, when the pain got bad. Water and the drugs Jen now carried in her backpack. She wondered how stealthily she could be collecting the pills from said backpack on Amari’s roommate’s bed. May stood as well. Her mouth moved, but Jen could barely hear her. The whole room spun as Jen stumbled past May and straight into a pair of partygoers who gave her scathing looks. May caught her by the arm. “Jen?” Jen lost her footing and the room turned upside down and she was somehow on the ceiling. She thought she might have shouted as her head pulsed violently and the last thing Jen felt before her world went black was falling, falling, and then May's arms under hers, keeping her upright. She woke to find herself on the furry white carpet on the living room floor in Amari’s apartment. Her eyes fluttered open and May's blurry face came into focus. Jen put a hand to her head. “What … Ugh.” She shut her eyes. An anvil hammered away at the center of her skull and she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just die. She inhaled sharply. “Stay down, Jen. You passed out.” May squeezed her arm. “Oh, thank you.” Jen cracked her eyes open again and saw Amari’s roommate hand May a glass of water. Behind May, several party guests stared and whispered to their neighbors, thinking themselves subtle with their mouths hidden behind their hands. They probably thought Jen’d had too many tequila shots. She wished she could disappear. “Here,” May said to her. “Drink.” She helped Jen turn slowly to the side and put the water to her lips. Jen swallowed and tried not to gag. Beside May, Amari bent forward. “You can lie down in my room if you can stand,” they said. Their face, a twin of May’s for all they claimed they didn’t look alike (“We’re cousins,” they would say. “Not twins!”), was pinched with anxiety and Jen hated herself for doing that to them. “Alright,” she said. She felt off, fuzzy, but she managed to lean on May as they traversed the hallway back to Amari’s bedroom. There, Jen collapsed against Amari’s mountain of pillows and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her headache was less, but still hovered behind her forehead, delivering a steady thrum of pain. The mattress dipped as May sat down. “You scared me out there,” she said softly. “Yeah.” Jen removed her hands and gazed up at May, who was studying Jen’s face in concern. “Sorry.” “Don’t be sorry,” May said, emphasizing the word as though it were a vulgar swear. “Do you know how many times you’ve picked me up off the floor?” Three years ago, May had finally agreed to go to rehab, then NA. Before that, many times. Jen shrugged and May said, “You didn’t have anything to drink, did you?” Jen didn’t answer and May said, “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?” Jen glanced at May before turning her gaze to her hands in her lap. “No one else knows,” she said quietly. May shifted her hand closer to Jen’s but didn’t take it. “Are you sick?” May asked. “Ish,” Jen said. “There’s a … mass.” “In your brain.” “Yes.” May inhaled sharply and guilt wrapped itself around Jen’s chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. It was Amari’s birthday. They were twenty-nine today. Meanwhile, Jen was sitting in their room, telling their cousin about how she might be dying. “Are they doing surgery?” May asked. “They would need to shrink it first,” Jen said. “It’s not in a good place, obviously. I’ve been getting these … migraines.” And dizzy spells, and vertigo. This is the first time she straight up fainted. “With chemotherapy?” “Maybe,” Jen said. “What do you mean, maybe?” “I don’t know, May.” Jen massaged her forehead with her palms. “I’m meeting my neurologist on Monday.” “So this is recent.” “This week,” Jen admitted. She didn’t tell May she’d only gotten the official diagnosis yesterday and then came out to a party tonight. That wouldn’t go over well. May frowned. “Don’t they have pills for that now?” “If you can afford them. I’m already going to have to figure out what to do … I won’t be able to work as much.” Whether she decided to go with the treatment or not. She loved working at the tattoo parlor, loved working with her clients. Jen specialized in coverups, anything from cigarette burns to surgery and self-harm scars. May herself had a rather large floral tattoo of Jen’s design along her spine and two more, smaller, on May’s chest along her top surgery scars. Both closely resembled Jen’s own sleeve of poisonous plants. May’s back tattoo covered the scar tissue from a nearly fatal car accident five or so years ago, a year after May and Jen’s breakup. “How much are the pills?” May asked. Jen narrowed her eyes. “May.” “I’m just asking.” “Sure.” They thought about finances a lot when they were together. May was a trust fund kid, Jen a foster kid by age twelve. It wasn’t that May ever made her feel bad about it on purpose, but there were only so many times May could pick up the check or offer to pay the missing part of Jen’s rent without a blow to Jen’s ego. “As for general finances,” May continued, “could you sublet your studio? Noelle is looking for a place. Amari’s sister.” It took a moment for Jen to remember Noelle. The last time Jen saw her, six-ish years ago, she’d been fourteen, long-limbed and gangly, uncomfortable in her own teenage skin. She must be twenty now. “And live where?” she asked. “I have an extra room.” It was true that Jen probably shouldn’t live alone the next few weeks, at least. Probably months. “I can’t afford your place,” she hedged. She didn’t actually know what the rent was on May’s apartment, but a two bedroom, two bath in lower Manhattan? With in-unit laundry? Too much. “Consider it payment for all the times you had to clean my vomit off the floor,” May said. Jen couldn’t help but smile. “You were sick, May.” “Is that the pot calling the kettle black?” “Fine,” Jen said. “I’ll think about the apartment. But I’m not letting you pay for pills.” “We’ll see about that,” May said. “Seriously, whatever you need, alright? I’m happy to tell our friends or shave my head if you need someone to do that.” “You?” Jen snorted. “With your vanity?” “I’d do it for you,” May said. She was so earnest it hurt to look at her. “I know,” Jen said. “I know you would.” “At least come back to my place tonight,” May said. “I don’t want you going all the way back to Brooklyn.” Jen fought a grin. “Are you propositioning me, madam?” May swatted gently at Jen’s arm. “You’re an ass.” “Mmhmm.” Jen closed her eyes again. “Fine. But if you’re going to take care of me, can you get the painkillers out of my bag in the other room?” Her headache had picked up again. It took far too much effort just to focus on this conversation. “So bossy,” May chided, but she went. Jen shut her eyes and massaged the center of her forehead. She had to start telling the rest of her friends soon, hopefully not until she had more of her shit under control. They would all offer to help, she was sure, but the idea of being a burden on them, of being to them what her mother once was to her, hurt more than the headache. The door creaked open on hinges Amari refused to fix and Jen’s eyes snapped open. May appeared in the doorway and frowned. “Alright?” she asked. “You’re very pale.” “Just tired.” Jen took the pill May handed her and murmured, “Thanks.” She knocked it back with the water and said, “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. You can go out and enjoy the rest of the party.” “Yes, I’m sure I’ll have a great time out there thinking about how you’re languishing away in here.” “Alright, Ms. PhD, I’m not languishing.” May sat at the edge of the bed. “Amari will throw another party next month,” she said. “I’d rather be here with you.” Was she blushing? Jen hoped to god she wasn’t blushing. “You’re just saying that.” “I’m really not. Is it alright if I stay?” Jen nodded and May crawled into bed beside her, putting her arm around Jen and pulling her close. 2 Sunday Jen woke Sunday morning before May. She always woke before May, or every day May didn’t have to get up for classes, in the two years they were together. Sometimes she would even delay her morning run just to watch May sleep, to watch her breathe. May would call her creepy with a sleepy smile on her face and Jen would kiss her quiet. She probably shouldn’t think about that in May's guest room. Jen sat up slowly, still unsteady after the previous night’s events. The guest room was fairly plain but for a photo of twenty-year-old Amari, eighteen-year-old May, and their parents on the dresser at a Seolnal festival somewhere in South Korea. Another photo, facing the first, depicted Jen, May, and Amari at the beach last summer with some of May and Amari’s childhood friends, May’s arms thrown around Jen on one side and Amari on the other. At last, Jen rubbed her eyes and got up to grab her clothes from the dryer in the hall. The night prior, May had lent her an old Jones Beach-branded sweatshirt and joggers. She threw her jeans on (if she also kept May’s sweatshirt because it smelled like her, so what?) and headed into the kitchen to make breakfast. May made her appearance just as Jen finished setting omelets on two plates.“You have this uncanny ability to sense exactly when breakfast is ready,” Jen deadpanned. Probably she imagined the once-over. “Call it a gift,” May said, lacing her hands behind her back and stretching. “Did you sleep well?” Jen jerked her head noncommittally and May changed the subject. “This smells great.” “It’s just eggs,” Jen said. “You need to stock up your fridge.” May grabbed a plate. “I clearly had enough for you to work with.” Jen joined May at the table. “Barely. Most of your current inventory is made up of Lindor chocolates and Spearmint. I’m amazed any vegetables found their way into your home at all.” “So,” May said, pointing her fork in Jen’s direction, “have you thought at all about if you’d like to stay? If the bed wasn’t comfortable enough, you can always bring your own.” Jen took a bite of her eggs. Chewed. Swallowed. “I don’t know.” She used her fork to toy with a stray bit of egg. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s fair for me to move into your apartment just so you can watch me die.” May twisted her face like Jen had forced her to taste something sour. “You won’t die, Jen.” May didn’t know that, but now wasn’t the time to correct her. “I haven’t even decided if I’m going to do the treatment.” May froze, her eggs halfway to her mouth. She set her fork down again. “I’m sorry, you haven’t decided if you’re going to do a life-saving treatment? I thought the debate was infusion versus pills, not death or life.” “There's a forty percent chance it’s going to work at all,” Jen explained. “I don’t want to spend my last few weeks vomiting into a bucket at the hospital and losing all my hair.” “Really? Well, who’s vain now?” May pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “What about the pills?” she asked. “You would have to spend less time in the hospital, at least.” “I already told you –” “It seems silly of you to prioritize your pride over your life.” “That’s easy for you to say when you’re not dying.” “After my car accident,” May said loudly, “I couldn’t do anything by myself. The nurses had to help me do everything. Going to the bathroom, that was the worst. Washing myself was a close second. It was humiliating and I hated every minute of it. There was more than once I wished I were dead, as you know. So yeah, I think I get it.” Jen picked at her breakfast with her fork. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think …” She sighed and tried not to think too hard about the accident, about May lying in the hospital after the surgery, her whole face and her arms all black and blue and a tube shoved down her throat. “I’ll talk about it with my doctor tomorrow. That’s the most I can promise right now. And I’ll stay with you … for a while.” “Ok. Should I ask Noelle if she’s still looking for a place?” Jen nodded. “I’ll have to get my things.” “You’ll need movers,” May said. “I won’t be able to help you much, I’m afraid.” She put a hand to her lower back subconsciously, where the worst of her injury was after her accident, where she could still get chronic and brutal pain. “I don’t have much,” Jen said. “Noelle can have my bed and drawers for now.” She cut a piece of egg and didn’t eat it. “At least let our friends help,” May said. “No.” “Soledad, at least. Aren’t you two dating?” May’s mouth turned down as she said it. “Soledad isn’t my girlfriend,” Jen muttered. “We’re just friends who fuck on occasion.” “Really, they’d all be happy to help. I know Amari would.” “I’ll do it myself.” She didn’t want her friends to know until she decided what she was going to do. Hell, she hadn’t wanted May to know. She just happened to have an incredibly nosy and perceptive ex. “Fine,” May sighed. “You know, you’re an ass.” Jen nodded and cut another slice of omelet she wouldn’t eat. “I know,” she said. “I’m your ass, though.” May prodded Jen’s leg gently under the table. Jen forced herself to eat a single bite. It took all day, mostly because Jen’s studio was all the way in Bay Ridge, but by the time the sun set over lower Manhattan, she was on the train with the last of her things. The subway rose onto the bridge and Jen gazed out over the darkness in the hope that she could see the view, but mostly she saw only her own reflection. She was breaking out and she had heavy bags under her eyes. She looked away before she could see any more. Jen set her things up in the guest room, minus what she left behind for Noelle, who had shot May a text saying she wanted the sublet. Truly, May’s bed was more comfortable than Jen’s own. Besides, Jen was far from sentimental. “Anything I can help you with?” May asked. She sat on the bed as Jen folded her clothes and set them in a drawer. Jen shook her head. “You’ve done plenty.” “I’ve done the bare minimum,” May said. “You invited your dying ex-girlfriend to live in your apartment,” Jen said. “I don’t think that’s minimum.” “You’re not dying,” May mumbled for the millionth time that day. She watched Jen put the last of her shirts away and said, “Do you want to get takeout? On me.” “Of course it is.” Jen sighed. “Fine, let’s do it.” Her headaches were always worse at night. She had no desire to put a meal together right now. “Are you ok?” May asked, also for the millionth time. “Fine,” Jen said again. “Tired.” She wondered how many times she could use that excuse before May called her out on it. “Come on. You can lie on the couch.” She put a gentle hand on Jen’s arm as she rose and followed close behind. Jen flopped onto May's couch and May tapped on the top of her head. Jen shifted down and May settled in beside her, setting Jen’s head on her thigh. May ran her fingers through Jen’s hair and Jen closed her eyes, humming contentedly, as May ordered from their favorite Chinese place on her phone. “Get me dumplings,” Jen said. “I know. Chicken, fried. You want your rice?” “Mmhmm.” May continued to stroke Jen’s hair in silence as she texted or scrolled or did something on her phone Jen couldn’t see. Jen reveled in her touch, the only comfort in the uncertainty that had become her life. So much so that by the time the delivery arrived at the door, Jen didn’t want May to move, even for fried chicken dumplings. 3 Monday Really, Jen shouldn’t have been surprised when May hurried into the quiet waiting room in NYU Langone’s oncology wing the following day. “What are you doing?” Jen asked. “It’s noon.” May sat beside her. “And?” “We said one for lunch.” “I thought you might like some company,” May said. “My class let out early.” She pulled a book from her bag. “You mean you let your class out early.” Truthfully, although she’d never admit it out loud, Jen was glad May came. She was a welcome distraction from the all-too-familiar hospital smell, too much antiseptic that still didn’t quite cover the scent of the sick and dying. May’s presence filled the room and made Jen feel safe, whatever the doctor had to say this time. “Hmm.” May failed to conceal a small smile. She opened the book and began flipping through the pages until she stopped at a bent corner about a third of the way through. “You know, this would be incredibly annoying from anyone else.” “Good thing I’m not anyone else,” May said. “Do you want me to join you when you meet with your doctor?” “What are you, my mother?” “It can be very overwhelming,” May said, her eyes still on the pages. “There were several times when I was in rehab that Amari sat in on meetings with me because I had a hard time keeping track of everything.” May’s calm when discussing her addiction unnerved Jen to no end. “Fine,” Jen sighed. She tried to remember if her mom had anyone join her in the doctor’s office when she was sick, besides Jen herself of course. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. Jen was the only one who ever seemed to know what was going on. Jen looked down at May’s book. “Are you actually reading that, or is it a prop?” May laughed. “It’s for class,” she said. “I thought I’d re-read some of the passages before I made the students read it.” Dr. Byrne appeared in the doorway, a clipboard tucked under his arm. Flyaway hairs hung around his freckled face. He smiled in their direction. “Jen?” Jen stood. “Coming?” she asked May. May nodded and closed the book. She followed Jen and the doctor down the hall and into his office. He sat behind the desk and gestured to the seats in front of him. “Who’s this?” he asked. “May,” May introduced herself, hand extended. “Just a friend.” Jen’s stomach did a backflip at that, but what had she expected May to say? Dr. Byrne didn’t need to know their whole sordid, eight-year long history. Even “ex-turned-friend-turned-roommate” was probably TMI. Dr. Byrne took May's hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, May. I’m sure Jen has caught you up on her diagnosis.” “She has. I’m just here in case she needs an extra set of ears.” “Of course. A lot of my patients bring friends or loved ones.” May looked rather smug at that. Jen glared at her and turned back to her doctor. “Ignore her. She thinks she’s cute.” Dr. Byrne laughed. “No problem. Now I know last time you said you weren’t sure if you wanted to pursue treatment, but I’d really advise you to reconsider.” “Is there a treatment she could do at home?” May asked. “Chemo pills or the like?” “Yes, but her insurance won’t cover that, unfortunately.” “I can cover it,” May said. “Would that be a course of treatment you’d advise?” Jen glared at her. May pretended not to notice. Dr. Byrne handed May a pamphlet and started on the possible benefits and drawbacks of doing chemo treatment at home. Jen let her eyes wander over the various posters in his office, the flyers advertising support groups and drug trials. She wondered if they actually recruited anyone from those flyers. “Jen?” She looked back at Dr. Byrne. “Sorry, what?” Dr. Byrne didn’t look particularly perturbed. “Would you like to take the pills instead?” Jen glanced at May, who was watching her in turn. She looked away. To Dr. Byrne she asked, “How long can I take to decide?” “At most, a week,” Dr. Byrne said. “If you don’t make a decision by next week, the tumor will become a lot harder to treat.” May practically radiated her disappointment. Jen kept her eyes on Dr. Byrne. “Should I just email you?” “You can do that. Honestly, though, I’d suggest getting started as soon as possible.” Jen risked a glance at May, whose mouth had thinned into a straight line and whose eyes shone with unshed tears. She turned back to Dr. Byrne. “I won’t take more than a week,” she promised. Lunch was a subdued affair. For the first five minutes or so, they only spoke with the hostess at May's go-to diner uptown. When at last they set aside their menus, May spoke first. “Why won’t you just do it?” Jen ran a hand through her hair. “I’m thinking about it.” “I know, but what is there to think about?” “Can we just drop it for now?” May scoffed and crossed her arms. “It’s your life, I suppose.” “One week,” Jen said. “That’s all I’m asking for.” May pursed her lips and toyed with her knife on the table. “Oh come on, May.” “I’m not saying it will be easy. I’m just saying it’s better than the alternative.” “I said I would think about it,” Jen said, perhaps too loudly. A couple dining a few feet to her left looked over at them with wide eyes. Jen took a breath. “What can I say to make you change your mind?” “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Jen said. Her head throbbed. She took a long drink of water and wondered how much of her meal she could force down before claiming she just wasn’t that hungry and not worrying May. Again. After lunch, Jen went back to the apartment and May went back up to Columbia to meet a student. Jen had been back nearly an hour, doodling new tattoo ideas in the sketchbook May got her for the holidays last year, when the door swung open and Amari walked into May’s living room holding a thin, black coat. They spotted Jen and dropped their bag on the floor. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before Amari asked, “What the hell are you doing here?” “Hello to you too.” Jen shut her sketchbook. “What are you doing here?” “May left her jacket at my place.” They set said jacket on the back of the couch. “And now you?” “It’s … a long story.” Amari sat on the arm chair beside the couch, their legs flung over the side. “Are you two sleeping together?” “What? No. That’s a horrible idea.” “It’s the middle of a weekday. I happen to know my sister and I are the only ones with extra keys to May's apartment, which means she gave you her key to come in here.” Jen made a mental note to ask May for a fourth key. “I might be staying here for a while,” she admitted. Amari’s eyes narrowed. “Is everything ok?” “No? I mean, not really?” Jen forced herself to look her best friend in the eye. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.” “Are you dying or something?” Amari said it with a half-smirk, like it was a joke. When Jen didn’t answer, their face fell. “Holy shit, Jen, are you dying?” “I don’t know.” Amari crossed their arms and leaned back in their chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It depends on if I take the treatment and how well it works.” Amari’s gaze softened and Jen had to stop herself from crying. “What is it?” Amari asked. Tears welled up in Jen’s eyes and she looked away. “Brain cancer,” she said. She hadn’t actually said the words aloud before. “Fuck,” Amari whispered. “And May knows?” “We talked about it after I passed out at your party,” Jen admitted. “I didn’t want anyone to know until I decide what I’m going to do, but …” She trailed off and bit her lip. “That’s why you’re staying with May?” Jen nodded and Amari asked, “What can I do?” Jen shrugged. “There’s nothing to do, I guess. I have to decide about the treatment within a week.” “If you want to make a pro-con list, that’s more May's area of expertise, but I’m here if you want to talk it out anyway.” “May wouldn’t make a pro-con list for this. She’s pretty sure I’m suicidal for even considering not doing chemo.” “Well, it’s not May's brain,” Amari said. Jen quickly wiped a stray tear from her cheek and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.” Amari snorted and moved over to the couch. “Come here,” they said, and wrapped their arms around Jen. Jen leaned into Amari’s shoulder and focused on the red, scale-patterned tattoo around Amari’s wrist, one of Jen’s own design. Amari kissed the top of her head. “We’re right here,” they whispered. “Me and May and our friends whenever you decide to tell them, alright?” The door swung open and Jen lifted her head from Amari’s shoulder. May slipped her shoes off. “Hey.” She looked back and forth between Jen and Amari. “What’s going on?” “Well, I came to drop off your jacket and learned my best friend has brain cancer. What’s new with you?” Jen couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips. Even May's mouth twitched into a small smile. “Really, Amari.” They squeezed Jen’s hand. “Obviously I’d love it if you didn’t die, but if May gets annoying about the treatment, let me know and I’ll kick her ass.” They stood and grabbed their bag. “Call me if you need anything. If you need me to tell our friends, whatever.” Jen nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly. Amari gave her a quick hug, then May, and then they were gone. May took her place on the couch. “I’m so sorry. I should have remembered they like to stop by at random times without calling ahead.” “I should have assumed. I know Amari.” Jen sniffed and wiped her welling eyes again. “Shit. I’m sorry.” “You don’t have to apologize for feeling a human emotion,” May said. “You’re not a robot, however much you like to pretend.” She put a hand on Jen’s shoulder. “What do you need right now?” Right now. She could do right now. “I need … Do you still have Scrabble?” “I … Yes?” “Let’s play,” Jen said. She sat up straighter. “I need a game.” She needed, for five minutes, to pretend everything was normal, that her world wasn’t falling apart. May gave her an odd, searching look. “Alright,” she said at last. “You need your ass kicked I guess.” Jen forced a grin. “Bring it on,” she said. “And no, you can’t use those fancy Latin words you like to play.” May laughed and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Jen pulled the pills from her backpack, popped one in her mouth, and swallowed it dry before May came back. 4 Tuesday On Tuesday, Jen woke to a note from May in the kitchen. Class until 11:30 today. Text or call if you need anything. Much love, May. Jen ran a finger over the sendoff. “Love” because they were friends. She knew that, and yet sometimes, it felt like they still had the potential to be more. Stop. Thinking. Those. Thoughts. Besides, it wasn’t all good when they were together. They fought constantly, and not just about money. About Jen’s possessiveness, her jealousy. It wasn’t May's fault she was so fucking gorgeous, but how was Jen supposed to react when a stranger made an overt come on in the middle of a bar, a street fair, or even a goddamn a book store? May refused to admit she was just as bad, even when Jen called her out on it. They couldn’t even be in the same room with each other immediately following the breakup. It wasn’t until eight months had gone by that Amari sat them down and told them they were both being stupid. Good timing too, because a little over a year post-split, May had been in a vertebrae-and-life-shattering car accident. Jen turned the note over and checked the clock on the wall. It was already eleven, the latest she’d slept in possibly years. Probably from the cancer. God, none of her thoughts were safe this morning. She ate a granola bar and lay on the couch, suddenly exhausted. She should check her work email, do some sketching. She hadn’t gotten anything done yesterday after Amari’s visit, and yet the mere idea of opening her laptop and seeing anything that required her attention drained her. Instead, she grabbed her phone and checked her personal email. Spam. Spam. More spam. Jen made another mental note to unsubscribe to any and all lists she might have found herself on over the last few years (the thought that they’d send these emails even when she died depressed her to no end) when she came across one sent at nine o’clock this morning: Hey Jen, I’m finally settled in and would love to see you soon! Attaching photographs of the new apartment and one picture of me and Daisy out front. Xo, Nathalie. She’d completely forgotten, in the drama of the last few days, that her childhood best friend and her daughter had moved to Brooklyn for a job. Before they made the leap, Jen had helped find good school options for Daisy, helped them find an apartment within their budget. She opened the last picture, the one of Nathalie and Daisy, and grinned at their smiling faces. Daisy was seven now. Jen hadn’t seen her since she was five years old, when she visited her and Nat in California. Daisy had bangs now and was missing at least two teeth. She hit the reply button, then hesitated, her finger hovering over the keys. Besides May and Amari, Nathalie was absolutely someone she could talk to about this, and Jen didn’t think she could lie to her face. Then again, Amari and May had both taken it ok, minus May's need to control everything, and she had to tell Nathalie eventually. Nathalie knew what it was like. She had been there with Jen’s mom that summer … Jen exited out of the Gmail app and called Nat’s number. Daisy barreled into Jen as soon as she crossed the threshold. “Auntie Jen! Do you like our new house?” Jen held Daisy at arm’s length. Her missing teeth were even more prominent in person and Jen felt her heart swell with her love for her basically-niece. “I love it,” she said. “I would love to see more of it after I talk to your mom for a little bit.” “Ok.” Daisy ran off down the hall and Nathalie laughed. “She adores you,” Nathalie said, and kissed Jen swiftly on the cheek. “You wanted to talk?” “Yes, I … Could I have some water?” Her throat felt like sandpaper all of a sudden. She wasn’t sure if that was a cancer thing or a telling-all-the-people-I-love-that-I’m-dying thing. Probably both. “Of course.” Nathalie dashed off to the kitchen and Jen made herself at home. She settled on Nat’s new cream couch and looked around at the walls. Loads of pictures dotted the space beside the window and above the TV. Most of Daisy over the years, from their arrival in New York this week to a photo of a blanket-bundled infant, but plenty of friends and family too. Jen counted herself in exactly three. One from her last trip to California two years ago. One from Nathalie’s Bat Mitzvah in Tijuana. Both of them were dressed up and beaming at the camera. It was the first time Jen could remember being happy the year after her mother’s death. A final photo of Jen and Nathalie, age five, Jen’s mom – Jen’s stomach lurched – smiling widely in the background. Nathalie came back in with two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. She followed Jen’s gaze. “That was the only photo of the three of us I could find,” Nathalie said. “It’s a good photo.” Jen took her glass and ran a finger around the rim. “I’m dying,” she said. Nathalie turned her gaze back to her. “What do you mean?” “I have a mass in my brain,” Jen said, willing her voice not to waiver. “It’s making me sick.” Tears filled Nathalie’s eyes and Jen looked away. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. She knew that. But damn, it shouldn’t be this hard. “Can they treat it?” Nathalie asked. “I’m not sure if I want the treatment,” Jen said slowly. “I’m still deciding.” “Jen, what the hell?” “I know. I know.” She took a long, slow drink, and set her glass aside. “I need to decide if it’s worth it.” “Of course it’s worth it,” Nathalie said. “You’re not even thirty. You’re not an old woman.” She inhaled sharply. “I know. God, you sound just like May.” “I always liked her,” Nathalie mumbled. “I don’t know what the right choice is. I’m not suicidal. I just don’t want to spend the last of my days like …” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything yet.” A thin tear slipped down Nathalie’s cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away. “How long do you have without the treatment?” “Six months,” Jen said. “Maybe less.” “Shit,” Nat muttered. “How long do you have to decide?” “I have the week,” Jen said. “May … she offered to pay for pills, so I don’t have to go to chemo. That wouldn’t change the side effects, but it would make my life easier.” And probably avoid triggering traumatic hospital-related flashbacks. “I just don’t know if I can accept that much. She’s already letting me live in her guest room rent free.” “Are you two back together?” “No. Definitely not.” “Really? Because you’re living in her apartment and you’ve brought her up twice now since you’ve been here.” “She’s the only one who knows,” Jen protested. “Her and Amari.” “Funny,” Nathalie said. “I haven’t heard Amari’s name once.” Jen shoved Nat’s shoulder gently. “We’re not together,” she said, fighting an obscene smile. Nathalie took her hand in both of hers. “You can’t just give up,” she said. When Jen didn’t respond, Nathalie added, “Know though that none of us want to lose you, okay?” “I know,” Jen said again. She squeezed Nat’s hand. “I’m going to think about it. I promise.” “Auntie Jeeeee-en!” Daisy called from the other room. “Can I show you around now?” “Be right there,” Jen called back. Nathalie quickly wiped her eyes and Jen kissed the back of her hand. “I know you all mean well,” she said. “I just need some time, alright?” Nathalie nodded and gave her a small, watery smile. Jen gave her hand one last gentle squeeze and went to get Daisy’s tour. Jen stayed until late, checking her phone only to text May that no, she hadn’t died and yes, she would be home for dinner. Daisy played in her room while Jen and Nathalie talked about the cancer, the treatment, May. Jen tried more than once to ask her about the move, but Nathalie seemed determined not to talk about anything that wasn’t obscenely painful. “Are you thinking about her a lot?” she asked. “Your mom?” Jen glanced at the photo. Her mom twenty-three years ago, smile bright, no hint of the heartache to come. “Of course I am.” “You don’t think she’d want you to get the treatment?” “God, Nat.” She rested her head in her hands. “Treatment didn’t save her.” “You’re not her,” Nathalie said. “They caught it earlier for you. We’ve come so far in the last fifteen years.” “Sixteen,” Jen said automatically. Sixteen years. She remembered every moment. When Jen came home (she already thought of it as such), May was standing in the kitchen, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when Jen entered. “I ordered pizza. Mushrooms for you.” Jen’s favorite. Her stomach clenched quickly in protest and she breathed through it. “Sounds great.” May set her phone aside. “How are Nathalie and Daisy?” she asked. “I’d love to see their new place.” May had met Nathalie twice in person, Daisy once, but while Jen and May were dating, May would join in on Jen and Nathalie’s video calls all the time. “Nat would certainly love to see you,” Jen said. “She’s convinced we’re secretly back together.” The words were out of her mouth before she could reconsider them, but she didn’t regret them. They acknowledged their strange history. They flirted. Still, she couldn’t help the knot in her stomach as May answered, “So sorry to disappoint,” and she tried not to let it hurt that May didn’t have more of a reaction. “I told her I’m sick,” Jen said instead. “That was … hard.” May's face twisted in empathy. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Did you tell her about the treatment?” “She’s Team May, no surprise.” Jen ran a hand through her hair. “She cried a lot.” “I know it’s hard for you,” May said. “It’s hardest for you, of course, but it’s also hard for the people who love you. I had to learn that when I was struggling.” It had been hard, back then. Jen remembered the hysteria in Amari’s voice when they called the night of May's accident, how Jen couldn’t get a coherent sentence out of them for several minutes, how she couldn’t lock the door behind her on her way to the hospital because her hands shook so badly. The agonizing wait with Amari and a handful of friends while May went through long hours of surgery. Begging the doctors to tell them something, anything. Jen leaving their vigil only to throw up in the bathroom. The far-away look in May's bruise-rimmed eyes in the weeks to come, how Jen wanted to scream at her to snap out of it. She remembered May sobbing in her arms after a particularly brutal physical therapy session and after, when May struggled against the restraints of opiate addiction and Jen found May passed out and cross-faded in a gutter (what a cliché) after someone called (Jen had long forgotten who) and said they couldn’t find her. The shaking and the screaming throughout rehab. The one time May admitted she just wanted to die. She remembered her mom. A diagnosis. Tears. Three months of agony, of prolonged hospital stays. Jen cleaned her up when she could no longer do it herself and she insisted on dying in her own home, thank you very much. It was harder for Jen to see that time in her life clearly. Not because it was fuzzy, but because it was too much. “I get it,” Jen said. “I remember.” The doorbell rang and May ran to get it. Jen met her in the dining room with a set of plates stacked in one hand and two glasses of water held precariously in the other. “Smells good,” Jen said. She willed the nausea away. “Dig in.” May slid a slice onto her plate and Jen did the same. They sat across from each other. Jen took a bite and chewed slowly. May took a bite of her own slice and swallowed it. “You know,” she said. “You would think spring break would’ve revitalized my students, but they just seem like they’ve given up. I can’t remember being like that in undergrad.” Jen swallowed at last. “Weather’s too nice,” she said. “It couldn’t be your teaching.” She liked mushrooms. If only her stomach could remember that. “Hush up,” May said with a grin. Jen forced herself to take another bite and May said, “I imagine you’re right though. That, and they’re overloaded. So many of them are taking on too much, and honestly … Are you ok?” Jen swallowed her second bite and barely stopped herself from gagging. She held a hand to her mouth and took a deep breath. Slowly, when she was sure nothing was going to come up, she dropped her hand. “Just … Not so hungry.” “Is your stomach alright?” “I hate it when you read my mind like that.” “It’s all over your face,” May said. “Go lie down. I’ll put all this away.” “I’m fine.” “You’re green, Jen. Go lie down and we can put on a movie or something. You can pick.” Jen had to admit, if she spent five more minutes with the pizza smell, she was going to throw up. “You finish,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the living room.” “Deal.” May sent her off with a small, fragile smile and Jen lay on the couch in the living room taking slow, measured breaths. She checked her phone on the coffee table and found a single message from Nathalie: Let me know if you need anything. I love you so much. Jen sighed and pressed her phone to her chest. These conversations wouldn’t get easier. Fuck. May came in after fifteen minutes or so. Jen had distracted himself in the meantime with one of the books on May's coffee table, a worn-out copy of The Vanishing Half, but looked up as May came in. “Hey.” “Hey. How’s the nausea?” “Better.” May pinned her with her gaze and Jen admitted, “Not gone, but better. And no, I don’t need anything.” “Alright, alright. Any thoughts on what you want to watch?” Jen shrugged. May joined her on the couch and Jen resumed her Sunday night spot with her head on May's thigh. May grabbed the remote and flipped through Netflix as Jen closed her eyes, leaning into the feeling of May's fingers through her hair. 5 Wednesday Overall, Jen enjoyed living at May's place. An in-unit washer/dryer, multiple rooms, and engaging company. On Wednesday, she was particularly glad that not only was May's apartment conveniently located by two affordable grocery stores, a CVS, and an indie bookstore, but also Jen’s job. “You don’t have to go in,” May said. “Deanna won’t care.” Deanna had been Jen’s boss since Jen was nineteen. She’d seen Deanna give people extra time off for doctor’s appointments or mental health days without docking them pay, but this? Jen shrugged. “I like going in,” she said. She might need to sit down more often, sure, and eventually she would need to take off, whether for treatment or for dying, but she’d love the normalcy of the tattoo parlor, the quiet hum of the needle and the colors of the ink bleeding onto skin. She and May met because of her work, in fact, when Amari dragged May to the studio to ask Jen if she’d give them a ring of red scales around their wrist. Jen, at the time a college junior with a double major in art and business, had been working at the studio part-time for a month. She and May had chatted for the duration of Amari’s appointment and after, when Jen was kicking herself for not getting May's number, she found an email from May in her work account. Hey Jen, it’s Amari’s cousin May. I hope this isn’t too forward, but I really enjoyed our conversation earlier and I’d love to get together for coffee sometime this week. “Take care of yourself,” May said at present. “I’ll be around if you need anything.” “I don’t have any clients today,” Jen said. “It’ll just be walk-ins at most.” “Still.” Jen made sure May saw her roll her eyes, but she did take those words to heart. She had one client near opening, at noon, a city skyline to cover up a series of self-harm scars. She sent May a quick text to let her know she hadn’t died yet, then took on a second client, who had her do two does on her upper back. By four, Jen’s boss demanded she take a break. “Lunch,” Deanna said. “I bet you haven’t eaten all day.” Jen hadn’t, but she also wasn’t particularly hungry. If she had to pick a way to go out though, starvation-by-tumor wasn’t high on her list, so she grabbed a mayo-smothered turkey sandwich and a coffee from down the street and headed back to the tattoo parlor only to be greeted by the one and only May, sitting on the counter. “Are you stalking me?” Jen asked. “At least I’m a friendly stalker.” May plucked Jen’s coffee from her hands and took a generous sip. “Where’s Deanna?” “She took a client. She says you haven’t taken your break yet and I’m to make sure you do.” She spoke in Deanna’s clipped cadence, an admittedly excellent impression. “You’re both a pain.” Jen swiped her coffee back and hopped up on the counter with May. “It’s usually pretty slow around now. We’ve only had two walk-ins today, but it will get busy after five.” “That just means you have to eat now.” Jen elbowed May, who didn’t even seem to notice, and unwrapped her sandwich. They sat close, close enough that Jen couldn’t use her left arm for fear of hitting May again by accident. She ate a bite and asked, “How was class today?” “Pretty good! Grabbed lunch with Amari and Noelle after, so I saw your new tenant. She likes the space. And then I actually ran into Dean uptown.” “Who?” “Sorry, Dr. Byrne. We were getting coffee at the same shop.” The sudden bad taste in Jen’s mouth had nothing to do with her sandwich. “Oh?” She knew her oncologist’s full name, but she never thought of him as anything but a doctor. “Yeah, so we chatted a while. He asked about you.” Sure, fine, but May's lips had curled into a smile that used to be reserved for Jen. Jen took another bite and chewed slowly. Swallowed. “Would you prefer I get a new doctor so you can ask him out?” May frowned. “What? No. We just ran into each other. It wasn’t a big deal.” “No, really, it’s no problem. Maybe I can just forgo the doctor and die all the sooner?” “What the hell is your problem?” Jen took another bite of her sandwich without really tasting it and May took advantage of the food in Jen’s mouth to add, “I’ve made it very clear where I stand on this. I want you to do the treatment. I want you to get better.” Jen swallowed and took a long drink of her coffee. “I think you should leave,” Jen said. She stared straight ahead at the opposite wall to avoid seeing the Hurt May expression she knew so well. The wide puppy eyes. The trembling lip. So cliché. “Jen,” May cried, and the break in her voice was enough. Jen shut her eyes. May stood and Jen mourned the sudden loss of contact. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll talk when you’re being rational again.” She stormed out, sending the little bell above the door on the fritz. Jen ate the rest of her sandwich, went to the bathroom to throw it all up, then took her third walk-in of the day, an eighteen-year-old girl who shyly showed Jen a long appendix surgery scar and asked if she could cover them up with a bouquet of her mother’s favorite flowers. May was in the living room, fifteen or so minutes after eight, reading her class book in the armchair when Jen got back. May’s eyes stopped moving along the page. Slowly, she looked up. “Hi.” Her bangs hung just above her eyes. Her lips parted just slightly. Had she always been this damn attractive? Jen nodded in her direction and sat on the couch. “I’m sorry for what I said.” Then she sighed and rubbed her eyes. “This has all been so stressful, but it’s not fair to take it out on you. You were right.” May shut her book and ran her finger over the spine. She appeared to think about it. Then, “Can I get that in writing?” “Ha. Never.” May cracked a small smile. “You were right, too. I did flirt with your doctor earlier today. That was … inappropriate.” Jen’s stomach clenched again, but she forced a smile. “Well.” “I don’t even know him. I … I guess I felt more like myself when I was … I know it’s hardest on you and I never … I’m fucking this up.” Jen shook her head and patted the cushion beside her. May moved to the couch and dropped her head onto Jen’s shoulder. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry too. Also, probably just as importantly, I promise not to go out with your oncologist.” Jen wrapped her arm around May's shoulders. “I forgive you,” she said quietly. “I imagine he is attractive to women who are into that sort of gender presentation.” May laughed loudly, and Jen couldn’t help but smile. “Are you up for another movie tonight?” May asked her. “I’m kind of tired,” Jen said. “Later this week. I promise.” “We’ll have plenty of time,” May said. she squeezed Jen’s shoulder. “You’re eating dinner before you head to sleep, though.” “Ugh. Fine.” She tried not to think about her earlier regurgitated sandwich. “Something light.” “Your stomach alright?” “Prime of my life, May.” May glared at her, but there was no heat in it, and Jen cursed her ex for being so difficult to stay angry with. 6 Thursday Jen woke gasping. Her eyes flew open and she struggled against the twisted sheets for a moment before she realized where she was. May’s guest room, in lower Manhattan, at what the clock on her bedside table revealed was four in the morning. Not in a hospital room, watching her mother die. She detangled her hand from the sheets and rubbed her eyes. Her dreams had become more vivid in recent weeks, brighter, harder in the moment to distinguish from reality. This most recent one was already fuzzy, fading, but she remembered her mother’s face, her screams … Jen slowly unwound the blanket from her legs and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. The city lights illuminated the kitchen through the uncovered window, highlighting the clean dishes in the dish rack. Jen grabbed a glass and filled it halfway before drinking from it slowly. She was no stranger to nightmares. She used to get them after her mom’s diagnosis all the time. Dark dreams about losing her, about her agony. Worse were the good dreams, where she lived, where she got better, especially after she didn’t. May, too, was familiar with Jen’s nightmares, from when they were together. She used to sleep through them quite often, but every once in a while she’d wake up, wake Jen up, and whisper reassurances until Jen fell back asleep. The first time that happened, three weeks into their relationship, Jen had buried her face in her hands and refused to look at May until morning, when she apologized for waking her and admitted she had such dreams at least once a week. That one particular time, she dreamt of her last foster father, who put out his cigarettes on Jen’s arm, the skin now covered by Jen’s tattoo sleeve. May chided her for apologizing and insisted on making Jen chocolate chip pancakes, even though it meant May would be late for class. They weren’t dating after the accident, but Jen was at the hospital one evening toward the end of May’s stay when May woke screaming. Jen held her as she cried and reassured her and pressed gentle kisses in her hair until May calmed down enough to admit she was glad it had been Jen there instead of one of their other friends or even Amari. “You understand,” she said, her eyes still bright and bloodshot. Presently, Jen drained her glass and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She missed waking up with May. The couple of times she woke Soledad with her flailing or her shouting, Soledad had stayed up with her for a while, but never seemed to know what to do. The following mornings, Jen would sneak out early. She rinsed the glass and set it back on the dish rack. No reason to alert her recent roommate with anything out of place. May left for a meeting with her advisor early Thursday morning, so Jen ate breakfast alone, trying not to miss her friend and trying harder not to think about how she possibly wouldn’t mind if her friend were more than just her friend … She stabbed her egg extra hard with her fork. Now was decidedly not the time. The door swung open just as Jen finished putting the dishes away. Amari joined her in the kitchen and Jen smirked at them. “Do you ever knock?” “No.” Amari hopped up on the granite counter and kicked their feet. “What are you doing today?” “Working.” “Still?” “I still have to make money,” Jen grumbled. “May has money.” “May isn’t responsible for taking care of me.” “Oka-ay,” Amari sang. “What time do you get out?” “Eight. Aren’t you supposed to be working as well?” Amari did child therapy with a domestic violence shelter uptown. “Not today and everyone else is busy.” “Yes, because it’s half past ten o’clock in the morning on a weekday.” Amari shrugged. Then their face turned gravely serious. “Have you thought any more if you want to do the treatment?” Jen hopped up on the counter across from them. “Yes and no.” “Which means?” “I have thought about it,” she said. “So yes.” “But?” “I still don’t know, I guess. There’s a forty percent chance it does anything at all. And that doesn’t factor in everything that can go wrong in the surgery or even getting sick from the chemo.” Amari kicked their foot again. “Can I say something without you getting mad?” Jen arched an eyebrow. “To be determined.” Amari sent a glare her way. “I was going to say that maybe, just maybe, you might be a tiny bit scared?” Jen bit her lip and Amari continued, “Chemo sucks. Being sick sucks. Having to depend on people sucks and knowing you that’s probably freaking you out the most.” “Who said you know me?” Amari aimed a kick at her, too many feet away to make contact. “Could that mean I might’ve hit the nail on the head and be the smartest friend in the whole world?” Jen threw a crumpled up napkin in their direction and missed by a long shot. It landed by a small stack of mail instead, the collection of bills and junk mail starkly out of place on the marbled granite. “I have to get ready for work,” she said. “Alright, alright.” Amari hopped off the counter. “Text me later. We’re doing something this weekend.” “Didn’t we just do the whole ‘I’m dying’ thing?” “So we’ll see a movie or take a walk or just sit at home. I still want to spend time with you, asshole.” Jen grinned. “Love you, Amari.” Amari blew a final kiss and left. No one showed up for the first two hours of Jen’s shift. No one who wasn’t already prebooked with Deanna or another artist. Jen managed the front desk and doodled tattoo ideas in her sketchbook to pass the time, until Deanna came out with a customer, who had a familiar bandage on her arm where his new tattoo healed. He thanked Deanna and left, and Deanna sat in the chair beside Jen. “Those are really good,” she said, peering over Jen’s shoulder. “Thanks.” She set her pen down over the doodle she’d done of a blue jay. She’d been thin on ideas recently. The most recent drawing besides the blue jay was a sunflower she’d sketched a week ago. “When’s your next client?” “Not for half an hour. Do you have any booked today?” “One at four and one at six,” Jen said. A geometric design on a client’s thigh and a crown to cover the name of an abusive ex. “Adele can sit up front,” Deanna said, nodding at their coworker who’d just appeared from the back, a short girl with dark dreads and a permanently sunny smile. “Feel free to get food before I have to go again.” “Sure.” Jen stood. “I’ll do that … Whoa.” The room spun and Jen sat down again. She shut her eyes and put a hand to her head. From far away, Deanna or maybe Adele called her name. “Hang on.” She breathed deeply until the world righted itself again and she risked a bleary look at her coworkers. Both of their faces were twisted in concern. “I’m ok,” Jen said. “I stood up too fast.” Her heart raced and her legs shook from what little weight she put on them leaning forward. “Are you sure?” Deanna asked. “You’re white as a sheet.” How many damn colors could her face turn from this disease? Green, white, gray. Jen shut her eyes again and pressed her hands to her forehead. “Could I get some water?” “I got it,” Adele said, a moment later, she placed a plastic cup in Jen’s hand. “Thank you.” Jen knocked it back like a shot and wiped her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. “Sorry.” “Are you sure you’re ok?” Deanna asked. Jen shook her head and mentally cursed himself for holding back tears. This was her boss for crying out loud. It wasn’t May or Amari or Nathalie. Why did she care so much about Deanna knowing, or Adele? Except that of course she cared. She’d known her boss for nearly ten years, owed her entire career to Deanna. “Brain cancer,” Jen said quickly, as though doing so would expel some of the toxic cells in her head, maybe make her realize he’d been having a horrible nightmare this whole time. Adele inhaled sharply. Deanna groaned. “What are you doing here, Jen? Shouldn’t you be in a hospital?” “No.” Jen sat up straighter. Slowly. “I haven’t … It’s a long story. But I’m not in treatment right now.” “Jesus,” Deanna muttered. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day? I can cover your appointments.” “I’m really ok.” “I’ll pay you through the end of the day,” Deanna promised, a hand to her heart. “We have short-term disability here. We’ll figure it out.” Jen’s eyes watered again and she swallowed hard. “Ok,” she whispered. “Ok.” If only to avoid breaking down in front of her coworkers. She stood up (again, slowly) and gathered her notebook, her bag. “I’m really fine,” she tried. “Go home,” Deanna said again. Not unkindly, but Jen still wanted to throw something against the wall. May came home before the end of Jen’s shift, around six. She frowned. “What are you doing here?” The exact question Deanna had asked her before. Seemed as though Jen didn’t belong anywhere these days. Ironic while she considered whether she wanted to live or die. Jen flipped a page in The Vanishing Half. “Deanna sent me home because I’m dying.” May nudged Jen’s leg with her foot and Jen shifted over. May sat and said, “Did something happen?” “I just got dizzy at work. It’s not a big deal.” Nearly passed out. Scared the shit out of her boss. The usual. “Isn’t it?” Jen didn’t look up from the book. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “But – You know what, fair enough.” Jen snorted. “Really? You?” “I should probably let you decide when you do or don’t want to talk about this more often.” Jen shrugged. “I might be a little scared. Your darling cousin came over this morning to psychoanalyze me like I’m one of their clients.” “And what did they say?” “That I’m a bitch.” “Fair enough.” “They also want to hang out this weekend.” “Of course They do. They love you.” May gave Jen a searching look. “Have you thought about –” “I still haven’t decided,” she snapped. “Alright. Ok.” May stood up. “I’ll order something for dinner. Do you want anything specific? Anything for your stomach?” Jen shook her head and May left the room. Of course she left, because Jen was an utter ass who always managed to push her away, somehow, however much she wanted May to stay. 7 Friday Deanna texted Jen early Friday morning. Stay home today and tomorrow and I’ll still pay you. Let’s talk about work on Monday. Jen set her phone aside and stared up at the ceiling. She’d had this diagnosis a week and it was already taking everything she loved. Her work. Her cordial (if pining) relationship with May. Her ability to talk to her friends without making them cry. She rolled out of bed past noon and was surprised to see May in the kitchen. “You slept late,” May quipped. “I was awake. Don’t you have class?” May shook her head. “Not Fridays. Are you not going to work today?” “Deanna says to stay home.” Jen pulled the eggs from the fridge. “Ah.” May watched Jen pull a pan from below the sink. “I can make those for you.” “I’m not comatose. I can make my own breakfast.” “I know you can. I just thought –” Jen slammed the pan down on the counter. “I just want to be able to have a conversation with my friends about something that isn’t the tumor in my head. For five fucking minutes. Can we do that?” “Jen, I –” “Let me guess,” Jen said loudly. “You were going to ask me about the treatment next.” “It has been a week.” “You’re fucking unbelievable.” Jen turned to glare at May, who glared right back. “It’s my life. If I want to throw it away, that’s my fucking decision.” May stood. “There are so many people who love you. We don’t get to say a damn thing? We don’t get to tell you not to kill yourself?” “I didn’t ask for this,” Jen shouted. “Do you think I want Nathalie to cry every time she looks at me? Or for Amari to have to pretend everything is fine so I can lose my shit? Or you, do you think I want to be a burden to you?” “You could never be a –” “Don’t.” She held out a hand and shut her eyes. A tear flitted down her cheek and she couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. “I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified. I know what it’s like to depend on people. I watched my mom do it for months before she died and I never, ever wanted to … to be that helpless …” She trailed off, breathing hard. May, too, had tears in her eyes. Jen turned away. “I hadn’t even thought … I never meant to make you feel …” Images flashed unbidden through Jen’s mind. Her mom lying prone on a hard hospital bed, all harsh angles and loose skin, tubes up her nose and gasping for air anyway. The decades-gone smell hung in her nose, sour antiseptic that couldn’t quite cover the rot. She felt her mom grip her hand with inexplicable and painful strength, heard her crying and screaming and begging for Jen to end it … Jen slapped away her tears. “I need some air.” Jen shoved the eggs back into the fridge and didn’t even bother with the pan before she grabbed her sneakers and stormed out of the apartment. Behind her, May called her name. She didn’t turn around. As bougie as it was, Jen had always liked Park Slope. She liked the brownstone aesthetic and she liked the little (if overpriced) shops. She hadn’t been sure where she was going until she found herself a block away from Soledad's place. She wasn’t surprised. Soledad had been Jen’s release over the last four or so years, and Jen Soledad's. Soledad moved to New York a month after Jen’s first post-May relationship ended in dispassion and displeasure, about a week after Soledad’s breakup with a long-term partner in her home city of Austin. Jen and Soledad never dated, but they were convenient and they were sexually compatible and right now, Jen’s blood buzzed with adrenaline she desperately needed to expel. Soledad let Jen up once she realized who it was making all that racket downstairs. Jen raced up the stairs to the second floor and ripped the unlocked door open. Soledad sat on the couch, tuning away at a scuffed up guitar. She barely spared Jen a glance. “Hey.” “You look good,” Jen said. Jen hadn’t paid much attention to her at Amari’s party, which, she had to admit, was fair given the circumstances. Soledad's once short hair spilled over into her eyes in loose curls and her short sleeved T-shirt showed off a new tattoo, several waves up and down her arm. Deanna’s work. Soledad set the guitar aside. “Are you hitting on me?” she asked with a smirk. “Isn’t that what we do?” “Usually you text first,” Soledad said. “Or I do.” “I was in the neighborhood.” Soledad quirked an eyebrow. “Park Slope?” Jen didn’t say anything and Soledad continued, “I don’t know how to tell you this. I probably should’ve texted.” Oh God, Jen didn’t know how much more news she could take. Her stomach knotted and she swallowed hard. “What is it?” Someone is dead. Someone else is dying. “I’m kind of seeing someone,” Soledad said, and Jen burst out laughing. It took a minute to calm herself, bent double and hysterical with Soledad staring from across the room. Jen caught her breath and wiped her eyes. At last she said, “I’m sorry, that’s not funny. I thought you were going to tell me your childhood cat died or your mom was in the hospital or something.” “The fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jen sat on the couch. “So many things,” she said. “Soledad, I’m fucking dying.” She told Soledad about the diagnosis. She told her about moving in with May the night of Amari’s party and the arguments they had about a possible treatment. She told Soledad about seeing Nathalie and nearly passing out at the tattoo shop and when she was finished, sitting on the couch across from Soledad, the guitar now on the floor, Soledad hadn’t said anything in nearly ten minutes. “Well?” “Give me a minute. That’s a lot of information at once.” Soledad frowned. “So you’re not with May?” “I … What?” “Amari said it was only a matter of time,” Soledad said with a crooked smile. “I just told you I have brain cancer, and you want to talk about my love life?” “Seems easier.” Jen groaned and leaned back against the couch. “I just came here to blow off steam, but since you’re clearly off the market, I’ll be on my way.” “Hey, we’re still friends,” Soledad said. She picked at a nail. “How have you been feeling? Other than passing out at Amari’s and then again at work.” “I almost passed out at work,” Jen clarified. “Much better.” “Not great,” Jen admitted. “I don’t want to die, I’m just … scared to live like this, I guess.” “I get it. I mean, I don’t but I do.” “I know.” Jen sighed and pressed a palm to her forehead. “I should apologize to May. I might’ve blown up at her before I left.” “May is a good person,” Soledad said. “Even if she hates me.” “She doesn’t hate you,” Jen lied. Soledad laughed. “She does, and that’s fine.” “I never got why,” Jen muttered. They were different, sure, but no more so than May and Jen, or even May and Amari. Soledad laughed again. “Really? You never got why?” She picked up her guitar and strummed a still-out-of-tune-chord. “Damn girl, I thought you were smart.” Jen got off several stops early and swung by the confectionary just outside of Chinatown. By the time she got home half an hour later, she was a little shaky and her head achy, but not so much so that she couldn’t finish her plan. She knocked gently on the door (she still needed that key) and after a moment May opened it widely. She took a step back and eyed the chocolate in Jen’s hand. “What’s this?” Jen held out the package. “A peace offering,” she said. “Although a better one might’ve been real food considering the sorry state of your kitchen.” Jen rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and added, “I’m sorry. Again.” May let out a breathy half-laugh. “I feel like I should apologize to you,” she said. “Again.” May moved aside so Jen could come in. She did, setting the chocolate on the coffee table. May sat on the couch and Jen followed suit. May traced her finger along an unraveled thread of her sweater and refused to look at Jen. “I have something I need to tell you,” she said. “Before I do, I just want to say, I understand if you don't want to live here anymore. I know Amari has a pull out couch and I imagine that wouldn’t be quite as comfortable, but if you wanted to –” “Ok, what the hell are you talking about?” Jen’s chest tightened and her heart pounded. May was kicking her out. Holy shit. May took a shaky breath. she closed her eyes. “I never really got over you, you know?” Jen’s brain short circuited. “I’m sorry?” This wasn’t how things were between them. Jen pined, and that was fine, but May … Was this really happening? May ignored her. “Maybe it was selfish of me to invite you to live here, knowing that, but I kept telling myself I would do it for any of our friends. I think I would, but I suppose we’ll never know. I hope we’ll never have to know.” Jen’s heart pounded. “You absolutely would,” she said. Of course she would because she was May. She was too good for Jen by far, too good for most of their friends. She was … damn it, there were no words. She was just May. She was the woman that held Jen in the midst of nightmares and offered to house Jen when she needed a place to stay and Jen never would have thought, not in a million years … May ignored that too. “I keep pushing you to do the chemo because thinking about living in a world without you, that hurts so much.” May's voice broke and she cleared her throat. “It isn’t fair that I’m putting that on you because you’re right, it is your life, and I remember how pissed off I was when I was recovering and people kept telling me what to do with my own body. But you never did. You were just there when I needed you and I don’t know how to do the same.” “I don’t know what …” Jen’s face grew warm and she twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I never really got over you either.” May finally met her gaze. “Really?” Jen took a steadying breath. “I can’t … I can’t put you through what I’m about to do. I can’t …” She bit her lip, hard. “If you died tomorrow,” May said slowly, “I would regret never getting the chance to be with you again. That’s all.” Jen shook her head. “May …” “I don’t want to push you. I know you’re going through something terrifying right now. I just wanted to let you –” Jen leaned forward and kissed her. She kissed her gently, then harder, and raised a hand to cup May's cheek, the smooth skin under her palm making her shiver. May kissed her fiercely, rising slightly from her seat to lean over Jen, and a warm and familiar feeling grew in the pit of Jen’s stomach. May moved her lips to Jen’s neck and Jen gasped at the contact, at the relief, at the release. Nicole Zelniker (she/they) is the author of several books, including “Until We Fall,” which was a finalist for the Forward Indie Awards in LGBTQ+ adult fiction. Her forthcoming book "From Where We Are" comes out with Signum University Press in April 2024. She’s also the founder and editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Knee Brace Press.

Being a teacher does not pay well. Being a teacher’s aide pays even less. Mostly the kids are fine, just loud. It’s small town school. Jeremy waited in line for the microwave. He was a small boy, a good boy. He rarely smiled. His eyes were of that particular blue the British call grey. When it was his turn, she saw him stick a can of beans in the microwave, then shut the door, looking at the controls, trying to figure out what to do. Lisa walked over. She asked him Jeremy, what are you doing? Trying to cook my beans, he said. He looked at her directly and spoke slowly. Like all small boys asked a direct question, he wanted to give the right answer and was painfully conscious of being wrong. She told him about microwaves and metal cans. She found him a bowl and a cover and a can opener and helped set the timer. While the beans cooked, she asked him, how old are you, Jeremy? Ten in January, he said. He looked at her carefully when he responded. Your mom gave you a can of beans for lunch, Lisa asked? I couldn’t wake her up this morning, he said, so I looked for something for lunch and I found beans. I like beans. Is she sick? I don’t know, he said. She’s asleep and I can’t get her up. She looked at his clothes. He didn’t look like he had dressed himself. Small boys dressing on their own often show up in orange and green with no socks and spectacular bed-head, but all small boys look like they have bed-head even ten minutes after they have bathed and brushed. She looked at the bag he had brought the beans in. It was just a plastic grocery bag. The receipt was still in it. She took it out and read it. The receipt was for two cans of beans. The microwave’s bell went off and his beans were ready. He ate furiously. It was loud in the lunchroom, no one heard them talk. After lunch was over and all of the kids and Jeremy had gone back to class, Lisa went to the office and told the school secretary about Jeremy and the beans. The secretary said that there had been problems with the family. What kind of problems, Lisa asked? Oh, you know, the secretary said. No father. The mother struggles some Children’s Services were called. They must have known the family a bit better. They called the police. An hour before school ended the secretary called Lisa to the office. The police had gone to the residence with the social worker and when no one responded they forced entry. Jeremy’s mother was dead on the couch. She’d been dead for long enough that no attempt was made at resuscitation. They suspected that she had overdosed on Fentanyl. There would be an autopsy but the F-word had been around and had lain on other couches, in other homes, here and there. But this is small town, Lisa said. I know, said the secretary, but it still happens. It happens everywhere now. The principal came out of her office and asked Lisa to bring Jeremy to the office after class. A social worker and someone from Victim’s Services were coming over to look after him. They’d be here soon. They have to find a place for him to stay. That would take time. Calls were being made. The Victim’s Services lady is really great, said the secretary. I know her. She’s been here before. She’s really kind. He turns ten in January, Lisa said. The secretary looked away. She’s good with children, the secretary said. Is anyone going to say anything to him, Lisa asked? The secretary said nothing. The principal came out of her office. Thanks for doing this, Lisa, said the principal. Does he have grandparents close by, Lisa asked? Aunts? Uncles? Anyone? That’s what the professionals are looking into, the principal said. Can you bring him here? He can wait here for them. Lisa said she would. Thanks again for doing this. Tough day to be a T.A. I feel bad for you. Lisa walked back to her class along the rows of coats hung in the hall. Most kids had their lunch boxes on top of the ledge where they hung their coats. The coats were pink or blue or green and bright. The lunchboxes had ponies or impossibly muscled cartoon heroes or professional sports team’s logos. Her heart beat in her ears and her face felt numb. Come with me Jeremy, she said. We need to go to the office. There is someone coming to see you. Am I in trouble, he asked? Lisa thought of how he was small for his age. A very small boy. No, she said, you are good. It’s just some people coming to see you. What about, he asked? His voice was getting a little higher, thinner. I don’t know, Lisa said. The floor felt hard under her feet. He walked behind her. His coat was undone and he slung his backpack over one shoulder. He still had the plastic grocery bag with the receipt for the two cans of beans. Somehow, from some habit of thought he could not articulate on his own behalf, he’d thought to save the bag. Perhaps, this was what his mother had taught him. They arrived at the office. The secretary was already gone. She could hear the principal in her office, on the phone. She was a loud talker. Stay here, Lisa said, and wait for the people. Do you know them, Jeremy asked? His voice was thin, barely creaking, and his eyes a bright and searching blue. I don’t, she said. But don’t worry. I want my mom. Jeremy said this without looking at her. He set his jaw. He believed it when he said it, and he spoke it as if it might conjure her in his presence, there to be incarnated in the most perfect form of herself and thereby make everything alright. Like those lost at night who pray to the solitary light of the Stella Maris, he hoped, and he thereby believed. Lisa left him then, sitting alone in the waiting area. She got her coat and her things and walked out. When she walked past the office he was still sitting there. The people hadn’t come yet. He saw her walk by and he smiled a little smile, wiggling his fingers in a half-wave. He swung his feet back and forth. He was not quite tall enough to sit in the office’s chairs and have his feet touch the floor. His shoelaces were undone. Am. I. In. Trouble? He mouthed the words, his features exaggerated, his eyes bright enough to light the room. She shook her head and waved back, the same wiggle-fingered wave he had given her, and she felt him follow her with his head and eyes and a kind of gravity specific to him leaning to see her as she walked out into the parking lot to find her car and go and she would not look back, would not chance that, thinking that if she did she might be cursed and become undone and be made all salt and misery and rue, rue for the day and for the boy and for all to see. Steve Passey is originally from Southern Alberta. He is the author of the short-story collections "Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock" (Tortoise Books, 2017), the novella "Starseed" (Seventh Terrace), and many other individual things. He is a Pushcart and Best of the Net Nominee and is part of the Editorial Collective at The Black Dog Review.

Twenty-two minutes of music. I put the phone to one side and open the laptop. I'm in bed, a place for handling numbers. Patience slips over my shoulders. The agents voice is there now searching my list of standing orders I lean back in the pillows and close my eyes. I could fall asleep here. Dog snores in her basket. The six thirty comedy winds up Sinking back the cotton is cool —he breathes out— I hear how close his mouth has been to the mic all this time, holding back air as he searched and now he asks; Can I put you on hold? Trombonist Emily White has been writing since studying in creative writing at Oxford University Department for Continuing Education graduating in 2021. A member of Huntly Writers she won the Brian Nisbet poetry prize, had short stories published in Insights (Claret Press,) Anthology (Parracombe Prize) and was shortlisted for the Wells Literary Festival Short Story Competition. Her poem; Where will the Owls Go?, was published in The Phare and her poem Pulchra Es will be performed at Dartington International Festival 2023.