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Kyle was a driven man insofar as he was driven places by his mother. But he was also driven by dreams of fame and fortune—which he hoped to obtain with minimal effort. This led him to attend the Jerry Rollins Ultimate Power and Success Workshop. The daylong event kicked off when Rollins, a huge, lantern-jawed man with a headset microphone, burst out from the wings of the small stage and began high-fiving people. Kyle was enthralled. It was just like the infomercial he'd seen two weeks earlier. "How are y'all doin'?"  Rollins asked. "Are you excited?" The crowd roared. "Well, you should  be because this is going to be a life-changing day."  As the audience at the Convention Centre settled down, he pulled up a stool. "Now, I know you're all eager to grab life by the tail, but first, let's talk about being poor. Trust me—I know all about it. My whole family used to lie in a gutter all day. We thought resources were scarce, but we were wrong . Scarcity is just a mental construct that, if you think about it too much, can become a roadblock to success." He stood up again. "You see, it's not resources that matter, it's resourcefulness —as Abraham Lincoln would no doubt have said if he had thought of it." Kyle noticed that the woman next to him was taking notes.   "All wealth begins in the mind. That means before you can be  rich, you need to feel rich. Think of how money smells . V isualize it coming toward you. Then, as soon as you're ready, prosperity and abundance will start flowing into your life." Kyle felt more than ready. He was getting impatient. About twenty minutes into the presentation, Rollins said it was "time for a little one-on-one," asking for a volunteer from the audience. From the front row came a small man with sunken eyes and a t-shirt displaying the words 'Show Me the Money!' in giant letters. He told Rollins his name was Garth. "What brings you here, Garth?" "Um...I want money," Garth replied softly. "He wants money!" Rollins repeated to the crowd. " Everybody  does. But let me tell you something, Garth: money wants you  too. It loves  you. It's trying to find a way into your wallet and your bank account so it can be with you. If you want money, then you've got to shout it out from the rooftops. Let the universe know you want money. Say, 'I want money!' Say it, Garth." "I want money."  "Say it louder!" After Garth said it louder, Rollins turned to the audience with his arms outstretched. "Everybody say it."  From twenty-five rows back, Kyle surprised himself by joining the chorus. "All right. Now we've put it out there," said Rollins as Garth returned to his seat. "This whole group wants money. So, what's next?  Well, you need to decide what you want the money for.  What are your dreams? I want you to divide into groups of three or four. Just pick the people sitting around you. Introduce yourselves. Find out what makes your neighbors tick and what their goals are. Share your dreams. And I'll be back here in fifteen minutes to tell you how to instantly make them a reality." Rollins was handed a water bottle as he walked off stage to thunderous applause.  Kyle always felt awkward meeting new people. To his right was an empty seat. To his left was a woman in camouflage leggings with tattoos and a nose ring. This was in stark contrast to Kyle, who, wanting to appear upwardly mobile in an understated way, wore a Lacoste shirt with a sweater tied around his shoulders and sunglasses perched on his forehead.  Before he could change seats, his neighbor turned to face him. "Sup, my friend?"   she said. "I'm Amy."  Kyle barely had time to introduce himself before the two were interrupted. "Hey, guys," said a young woman leaning over from the row behind them. The newcomer had long, stringy hair and braces and wore a faded 'Jerry Rollins World Conquest Tour' t-shirt. Her name was Beth. She said that she'd quit school to follow her dream of becoming "an influencer who motivates people to live their best life."  Amy told Kyle and Beth that her  goal was to "take my current work as an entrepreneur to a global level." She was selling press-on nails painted in colorful designs. They weren't her own designs; rather, she bought them in bulk from the Philippines and kept them in her cousin's garage. "If I can just get Jerry to endorse them, that'd be huge. He doesn't even have to wear them or anything."  She handed business cards to Kyle and Beth. "I'm an entrepreneur too," said Beth. "Right now, I'm a distributor of Futura Health and Wellness Supplements." She passed out business cards of her own. "Networking is key. Every day I try to make eight new contacts. It helps that I'm in the Young Conservatives." "I was a skinhead once," said Amy. "They're kinda the same in a way." Kyle didn't know much about skinheads but wondered if he, too, should join some sort of group. "Do the skinheads hold interviews, or is it just a matter of filling out an application?" Amy laughed. "Well, they'd hardly take you looking like a young Pat Sajak. No offense." "Okay, but I want to know I'm accepted before I get a funny haircut." "Dude—you should totally join a cult," said Amy. "Go the whole nine yards. I know Jerry Rollins has fanatical followers, but this isn't a cult per see ." "What do you mean 'not a cult per se '"? "I mean, nobody's bowing down to him or stockpiling firearms in a compound. Trust me, cults can get pretty wild." Kyle sighed. "I guess all I really want is unlimited money and power." "Then join the Young Conservatives!" said Beth. "You'd fit right in.  You're an entrepreneur, right?"   "In a sense," said Kyle. The sense being that he identified in spirit with capitalist tycoon-types, though he hadn't done any actual work since he finished high school two years earlier. He pictured himself a few years down the road on 'Shark Tank'—not as someone making a pitch, but as one of the rich people passing judgment.  Kyle also envisioned himself as someone who had his guests announced by a footman, then greeted them by spinning around in a high-backed swivel chair like a Bond villain.   His reverie ended when music and lights signaled Rollins' return to the stage. "Hey, gang, did you miss me?" asked Rollins with a chuckle. "I hope now that you've got to know your neighbors, you'll be able to draw strength from them in your journey."  Kyle shuddered.  " Okay, so now that you've all had a chance to think about your dreams, how would you like to make them come true—just like that ?" He snapped his fingers. "All right, consider this: it's not a dream—it's a plan !"  There were some gasps from the audience. Amy wrote it down. "Now, who wants to get in on the ground floor of something big ? I mean, really  big. Anyone?"  All hands shot up.  "A few of you," said Rollins, grinning. "Well, good news! Just being here today means you're already on  the ground floor. Time to take it to the next level."  He began a PowerPoint presentation. "Long, long ago, back in the 1970s, people used to talk about 'Pyramid Power.' It was all about harnessing the wisdom of the ancients to bring about prosperity. Physicists tell us that the power of the Great Pyramid of Cheops is one thousand times greater than the power coming out of Hoover Dam—only nobody's figured out how to harness it. Until now."  He paced and gestured broadly as he spoke. "At last we've found a way to unlock the power of pyramids, enabling you to achieve Total Ultimate Success Instantly. This is the real deal, folks! Don't be fooled by imitations. We're selling shares in a virtual pyramid, and I'm giving you a chance to move to the next level—up with all the wealthiest, most successful people on the planet. Best of all, you don't have to leave your family and loved ones behind. If you recruit them, you get points, and whoever has the most points at the end of each month has a chance to move up to the third level absolutely free. Basically a 'win-win' situation. "Plus, if you come up to the second level of the pyramid, you'll get extra perks like an NFT of a pyramid, which is yours to keep, and the possibility of speaking to me directly." He stopped pacing and lowered his voice, adding gravitas to what followed. "Now, I promised you a big surprise, and this is it: in just a few minutes, we'll take a short bus ride to The Great Beyond, where we'll meet Muldor, a powerful mystic steeped in the wisdom of the ages. Muldor will make mind-blowing prophecies and reveal the astounding truth at the core of all human existence—as soon as your payment of sixty dollars has been confirmed. But you can pay on the bus. Sound good? Don't do it for me; do it for you—because you deserve it."  Kyle had hoped that the 'big surprise' would be a handful of cash, not additional charges.  "You'll get lunch on the bus, and after everyone drinks the Kool-Aid, we'll walk on fire. I don't mean that literally; it's not Kool-Aid, it's Sprite. Kool-Aid is just a figure of speech. But we'll literally  walk on hot coals, protected by the power of the mind, as outlined in my book Total Self-Mastery . Talk about life-changing! If you can walk on fire, brothers and sisters, you can do anything!"   The crowd cheered. "When we return, I'll unlock the secret to making your dreams come true instantly and effortlessly. But first things first. Buses are waiting to whisk you away. So, c'mon, gang—your destiny awaits!"  The theme from 'Rocky' played as Rollins left the stage. The house lights went up. "You heard the man, Kyle," said Amy, rising to her feet and swinging her backpack to her shoulders. Kyle resented being charged an additional sixty dollars. It didn't seem right. Besides, he wasn't interested in seeing some old man with a long white beard and a book of spells. "I think I'll sit this one out. I'm not really into sword and sorcery stuff." "But what about the firewalking?" said Beth. "You don't want to miss that." But Kyle did  want to miss it. He liked avoiding danger and uncertainty—which, after all, was part of the appeal of living in his parents' basement. "I'm just going to wait for Jerry to come back and unlock the secret to making my dreams come true instantly and effortlessly."  "Suit yourself," said Amy. "We're off to The Great Beyond." For a while, Kyle remained in his seat. He'd assumed a lot of people would skip Muldor and the firewalking, yet the whole audience seemed to be pouring out the doors. Maybe some were just going for a lunch break—something he hadn't given much thought.  The only person left onstage was a technician employed by the venue who was winding up an electric cable. A frowning guy in a tie-dyed shirt and a headband now entered the lecture hall and stepped smartly up to the front of the stage. "Don't tell me Jerry's gone," he said.  "He left five minutes ago," said the technician. "I think he took off in his helicopter as soon as people got on the buses." "Isn't that typical?" The guy explained that he'd been in charge of preparing the coals for the fire walk portion of the event and had rushed away from his post upon learning how Rollins was going to pay him. "Who'd have thought he'd be using cryptocurrency? It's not even Bitcoin—it's Bitcoin Blue . What the hell is that? We had a contract." "You're not the only one, trust me," said the technician, shaking his head. "This guy's a real smooth operator." "Yeah?  Well, if he wants to play games, fine. He can go right ahead. And I'll see him in court." Kyle was only hearing snippets of the conversation, but uncomfortable with eavesdropping, he got up and left. From the lecture hall, he went down a corridor in search of a vending machine, hardly seeing a soul.  Stepping out a side door, he pulled out his phone. No messages. He checked Twitter under hashtags '#rollinsworkshop' and '#easymoney.' Nothing was happening. He tweeted, 'Where did everybody go? #rollinsworkshop,'  The Convention Centre was on the outskirts of town, without much nearby. To kill time, Kyle started walking a narrow sidewalk toward the back of the building.  It wasn't long before the sidewalk ended, and he found himself on a rough path amid trees and tall grass. Rounding a corner, he came to a sunlit meadow full of tall grasses, dandelions, and tangled weeds, on the far side of which stood a row of two-story suburban homes. He stopped and took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. A small flock of eastern bluebirds fluttered past, one stopping to drink from a puddle near Kyle's feet. He'd never felt much connection with nature and didn't know how to respond. What would Jerry Rollins do? There was no possibility of getting money from the bird, but surely there was something he could do to turn the situation to his advantage.  'It's not resources that matter, it's resourcefulness,' he reminded himself. Slowly extending his right arm, he attempted to subjugate the bird using the power of his mind, such that it would be compelled to perch like a parakeet on his extended forefinger. Despite twenty seconds of staring at it and concentrating intently, the bird flew off, disappearing among the wildflowers. Clearly, the creature didn't recognize human authority. Score one for the bluebird. Despite its lack of money, no one controlled it. Kyle dimly recalled an old saying—something about being free and how the best things in life are something or other.  Before his philosophical musings could get any deeper, he was notified of a direct message on Twitter. Apparently, Jerry Rollins himself was responding to his tweet. 'Are you still at the Convention Centre?' @jerryrollins asked. 'Yes. Just me,' Kyle responded. 'Hey, buddy, I need your help. Have you seen a dude in a tie-dyed shirt? If he's there I need to talk to him.'  'Tie-dyed shirt and a headband - yes,' Kyle answered. 'I think his phone is dead. Muldor finished way ahead of schedule, but I don't know if the coals are ready for the fire walk.'  'I heard him talking. He said it's fine - u can go right ahead.' Rollins wasn't persuaded. 'He said that? The coals seem hotter than usual. Can you find him for me?' Kyle's stomach growled. Under the circumstances, he didn't feel like being helpful. 'How do I know ur really Jerry Rollins?'   'My account has a blue check mark.' 'That doesn't mean anything. "Don't be fooled by imitations." That's what Jerry said.' At this point, he hoped it really was  Rollins because he was enjoying toying with him. 'C'mon, bro, help me out!' 'I can't talk 2 u cuz I'm only on level 1.' And with that, Kyle exited Twitter.   Continuing his trek, he Googled 'firewalking.' According to Wikipedia, when coals have burned for a sufficient time, they get covered in enough ash to insulate the heat away from the skin. Interesting... After rounding the back of the Conference Centre, he reached the shady main entrance just as some charter buses were pulling into the parking lot.  This surprised him because less than an hour had elapsed.  As Kyle drew closer, grumpy-looking people began to disembark. Beth was one of the first off, and she headed straight for him.  By this time he'd grown weary of dealing with go-getters, yet he was curious to hear what had happened. "Amy's doing the firewalking," she said. "Not me. I didn't expect Jerry to ask for another seventy-five bucks after we'd already  shelled out sixty to see Muldor. Not worth it. You were smart to stay behind." They began ambling back toward the Convention Centre.  "So, what was it like in The Great Beyond?" She sighed. "Brief and stupid. The Great Beyond was just a name they assigned to a vacant lot near where the firewalking was set up."  "So, was Muldor an old coot with a long beard?" "Actually, no. Muldor was just some   white chick in yoga pants. Lynn Muldor. She said happiness is all about maintaining a positive focus, then she tried to sell us stuff."   "I thought she was supposed to have deep insights." "Well, she thought she did. With her infinite wisdom, she said we're all characters in a book and exist only in the consciousness of the reader." "I don't get it." "She said existence is only possible when observed by an outside consciousness—in this case, 'the reader.' It's like Schrödinger's cat." Kyle didn't follow. "Hmm." "I can't believe I paid for that." "At least you got lunch on the bus." "Yeah, right. A tiny bag of chips and a can of Sprite." They stepped over the curb and continued talking on the lawn. "Did she make prophecies?"   "Yeah. She said that a figure would soon appear on the horizon to guide us; a man who's above it all.  Which I took to be a reference to Jerry walking on fire or the fact that he travels in a private helicopter. I'm sure it was no coincidence that it landed behind her just a moment later. Oh, and she said something about the man being someone who reads, implying, no doubt, that Jerry is the godlike 'Reader.' I think the whole thing was scripted, but somehow it came out sounding a bit sarcastic. Anyway, Jerry started walking toward her, and she broke off her talk and rushed over to him." "What did she say?" "We couldn't hear much because she had a hand over her mic. Something about Bitcoin. It looked pretty heated." "Yikes." "Then she got in her car and drove away. I don't think Jerry knew what to do. He had his phone out and seemed to be texting someone, looking pretty pissed." "Imagine that." "Of course, Muldor was supposed to get everyone hypnotized or whatever for the firewalking. But suddenly Jerry's like, 'Muldor schmuldor. Let's go, gang. It's firewalking time!' The hot coals were right nearby, but that's when Jerry asked for more money. I'm surprised Amy paid. They'll probably be back in another hour."   "Another hour ," moaned Kyle. "Oh, well, I guess I don't mind waiting another hour if I get unlimited wealth and power instantly." Truth be told, he'd have been happy with even a thousand dollars if he could have it instantly, as promised.   "You're right. We need to keep a positive attitude. The universe wants us to succeed." She squared her shoulders and forced a smile. The wind picked up a bit, blowing dead leaves and litter around the parking lot. A second wave of buses roared in. While the people from Beth's group had looked somber and disillusioned, the people returning from the fire walk appeared enraged. When Amy emerged, Beth waved, and she came straight over.  "Stupid Jerry Rollins!" said Amy, stepping onto the lawn. "Everything's canceled!" " What?"  "What a joke.  He gave this big speech about how walking on fire proved the supremacy of the will over physical flesh and how if we just believe , we won't get burned. So he gets us all into this lofty state, clearing our minds of self-doubt, then he says he'll lead the way. So he puts one foot on the coals, then starts screaming his head off!" "Look, it's on TikTok!" someone shouted. Soon, everyone was watching a viral video of Jerry Rollins stepping onto the hot coals accompanied by Elvis's 'Burning Love.' (' #jerryistoast #epicfail .') Watching the video, Amy shook her head in dismay. "That's the moment when our eyes were opened and we saw him for what he really is." "So, what happened?" asked Beth.  "He was furious, blaming everyone but himself. Someone treated him for minor burns, then he flew off." Kyle may have taken satisfaction from this turn of events, but he did his best to hide it. As the group mingling on the lawn grew bigger, some of the people who had re-entered the building came back out, complaining that the doors to the lecture hall were locked. Pulling out their phones, people began tweeting. 'It's OVER! #rollinsworkshop.' 'That's all folks! #ultimatepowerandsuccess.' Garth (the young man who had joined Jerry onstage) appeared particularly distraught and kept asking, "What about the virtual pyramid we've been building?"   "What a crook," said Amy. "Here I thought Jerry was such a pure soul—except for the drug charges." "Larceny and assault too," added Beth. "But those were just allegations . Still, I'm going to feel weird wearing my World Conquest Tour t-shirt now."    Kyle's opinion of Rollins had hit rock bottom. "Who needs Jerry Rollins?" he said, speaking with a degree of confidence that had eluded him all day. "Him and his stupid ' levels .' I wouldn't want to be on the top level of the pyramid now, even if it was free . There's got to be more to life." Beth seemed intrigued. "You think so?"  "I know  so," said Kyle. "Maybe unlimited wealth, total self-mastery, ultimate power, and all the rest of it are overrated." "Okay, but what are we supposed to do now ?" asked Garth, coming closer. "Maybe we should just relax and fool around," said Kyle. "You know—have some fun. Stuff like that." It was just what the lost souls needed to hear. "We've had it with Jerry Rollins," Amy told Garth. "To think I was ready to follow him to the ends of the earth. If you ask me , this  is who we should be following." She pointed to Kyle.  "Whoa. I'm no leader," said Kyle. "Everyone should just live and let live. Go with the flow or whatever." Amy, Beth, Garth, and about a dozen others who'd gathered around stared at Kyle, speechless. Finally, Beth spoke in a trembling voice. "Holy crap! It's Muldor's prophecy! She said that someone would appear on the horizon to guide us." She turned to Kyle. "That's you . You're the 'Reader' she was talking about." "But I never read anything," Kyle objected. "I watch videos." Amy wasn't dissuaded. "It's all so clear now. Muldor's Reader is someone who must have read , right? Okay, and you have a red shirt. Red—get it?" She turned to the others. "Kyle's wearing a red shirt! He's the Reader!" " What ? Lots of people wear red," said Kyle. "You guys can think what you want but leave me out of it."   Beth gasped. "Muldor said, 'a man who's above it all.'" "Kyle backwards is 'like,'" added Garth. "Spooky," said Beth. "That clinches it," said Amy. "Any cult of yours is good enough for me." " Cult? Oh, come on , I'm not here to start a cult." Kyle thought for a moment. "But if I do start one, you won't like it. I'll make everyone wear their hair like Pat Sajak—men and women both—and instead of stockpiling firearms, we'll be stockpiling overripe fruit." The group seemed unfazed. "That doesn't sound so bad," said Garth. "And all male members will be castrated."  "Whoa, I hadn't planned on that ." Garth took a deep breath. "Still, if it's a free castration..." The mood shifted as the spirit of peace spread over the little gathering. A serene and beatific look came over Kyle's face. "So be it. Gather 'round, my children." Amy, Beth, Garth, and the others all dropped to their knees before him. He held out his arms as if welcoming them into the fold. "Now bow your heads."  Everyone looked down.  By the time they looked up, Kyle was long gone. David Partington is an omnivorous bipedal mammal, most active during daylight hours. He came into this world at a very young age and has found his subsequent mortal existence to be a reliable source of amusement.

Even though the music was loud in the gym I could hear her clearly; she was talking about the honeymoon and mentioned going to Lichtenstein.    “Lichtenstein?” I asked. “You’re always full of surprises. Still I was not ready for this one. Lichtenstein, of all places. Are you serious?” “Lichtenstein!” she replied. “I didn’t say anything about Lichtenstein. What’s Lichtenstein?”    “It’s a feudal mini-state wedged between Switzerland and Austria. That’s pretty much all I know.” “Really? Lichtenstein sounds like a hero soldier’s name from the Thirty Years’ War.”    I followed it up with research on Lichtenstein but nothing I found made sense. Worse yet, apparently there’s no soldier hero named Lichtenstein mentioned anywhere in the chronicles of the Thirty Years’ War.    Soon we drifted apart.  The truth is, there can be no going back after the bond of trust, Lichtenstein in this particular case, is broken. Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.

“No, no, no,” he says to himself as he sits at the piano. If he could hear or see me, I’d assure him the song is going to be his masterpiece and will be iconic. He repeats the opening bars, singing along. He stops again, curses and bangs the keys with his fist, then tweaks the chord progression and lyrics. He’s still not quite there. I wish I could help him.  He’s thinner than I imagined. Almost emaciated. Drugs? Or so consumed with writing and recording he’s not eating? After a few minutes, I have my answer; when his wife comes into the room and offers him a sliced avocado, he waves her off. It’s a small detail I’d never have known if I hadn’t witnessed it myself. She kisses the top of his head; he reaches up and touches her cheek Then she sits cross-legged on the floor with a stick of charcoal and a sketch pad. Maybe after I’ve saved enough for another excursion, I’ll see for myself if she really was the villain as she’s been portrayed. After toiling at the piano for longer than I would’ve imagined, he sings and plays the song that’ll be known around the world as an anthem of peace. And I’m here to witness its birth. What a moment.  He turns toward his wife. “I’ll release it and see what happens.” She smiles. “If it’s not a hit,” he says, “maybe I’ll sing it to the grandkids when I’m 64.” He chuckles. Even if I could tell him that’s not to be, I wouldn’t have the heart to. Besides, the cloaked machine that brought me here is signaling that my time is up — and his will be far too soon.

Once Stu decides to leave, that’s it (except not really, no, not at all).  He moves into action at once (or, at least, he tells himself that’s what he’s doing. Stu lies to himself a lot). Packing things – random things like coat hangers and tea cups and knitted gloves and bits of dried flowers – into a big cardboard box. He throws everything in and then stares down at the jumble of items. His life, bits and pieces, that make no sense, strewn about. He closes the box up slowly, sealing the cardboard box up with sticky-tape he stole from the LCA’s stationary cupboard. He picks up the box, ready to take it out to his car (a Kia Sportage, run down, a grunting mess of a thing), before remembering that he sold his car. His car is gone, the money given to the LCA – for all the right reasons, of course. Penny McKenzie had told him that morning that it was important to give – and keep giving – as much as he could. That was the way to freedom, or something like that anyway. But sometimes – and he knows he’s not meant to say this, let alone think it, he doesn’t feel very free at all.  He feels trapped. And tired. His fingers are sore from scrubbing constantly and his muscles ache. Penny says you have to do the work to make it work, and Stu knows she’s right, but why does the work have to be so exhausting?  That’s an O G thought though.  O G means obstructive grievance.  Stu has a lot of O G thoughts. Once in class, they told him he was an O G. Which he understood but he didn’t like. It made his skin bristle.  Still, no matter because the LCA – the League for Cultural Advancement – is his home. It’s a funny kind of home. A home where he is never allowed to relax. He just wants to go out for a while. He just wants to take his box of little bits and pieces – dried lavender that his mother gave him, a fantasy novel he’s never had the chance to read, a pair of folded socks he’s never worn because the LCA say they are the wrong colour – and find some sun somewhere and sit in it. To feel the glow on his skin.  Penny says sun comes from within. That light shines from your insides and sure, that might be true, he doesn’t deny it, but he also wants the other sun. Please, can’t he have the other sun?  He remembers the sun, you know. The way it glided over his body. He remembers wearing sunscreen, slapping it on his nose, his cheeks, his arms, the back of his neck. How it made him feel alive, like something was uncoiling inside of him. Warm, all over. When was the last time he went out in it, felt it settle on his skin? Months ago, surely. Maybe even years ago. Egg and pickle sandwiches, cheese and onion crisps on the grass in front of the library. He’d watched people walk by with books loaded in their arms, students with merry smiles, couples holding hands, mothers pushing strollers. It had been nice (so nice, so much nicer than he even wants to admit), seeing the hustle and bustle of movement. It was a world away from the LCA. Not, of course, that that’s what he wants. He loves (can he really say that, truly, deep down?) the LCA. Of course he does. Still, there’s something inside him, something that pulls and pulls and doesn’t let go, that wants what everyone else has. A wife, kids, a house in the country – blue peachy skies, golden sun, a garden to potter around in. He wants long lazy weekends. He wants to take his car and drive to a diner somewhere, eat butter-milk pancakes with honey, drink coffee from a large mug, his hands wrapped around the sides. He wants to forget about the future of mankind, forget about processes and rules and systems and healing the planet (he’s only one man anyway – he’s limited in what he can do…) but but but but – there are so many buts inside of him.  He’s not going to do any of that. He’s going to ignore the longing in his heart. He’s going to pull the bits and pieces out of his cardboard box again. Cancel those plans inside his head. He’s going to put everything away again, back into their rightful places, and then he’s going to carefully fold the box down again, untape the sticky tape he so carefully taped, and get back to work. He’s going to remember his place.  Katelin Farnsworth lives in lutruwita (Tasmania) among the trees and the mountains with her husband. She loves to read and write, drink tea, and travel. She's currently working on a novel about a cult.

Her new habitat had been untouched for years. Decades, perhaps. The fauna orgiastically entwined around her form. Brittle branches snapped where she'd landed. The blunt fingers of blunter minds pressing into her back and shoulders. Pressuring and demanding obedience. Patches of sky sparkled in her eyes through beatific sun or many speckled stars. The natives traversed her veins like roadways. Her lower half sex doll splayed in the dirt. Not invitingly, but all used up. The streetlights didn’t reach her. She remained undisturbed and unseen. She knew nothing of the necklace clasp snapped. Nor smelled the tang of exhaust fumes wafting in like an accusing abuser who no longer shook her.  They called with no response. They searched and searched the last known whereabouts only feet from where she lay. In that time, new generational trauma was born because life must come from death. Every type of driver came and went.  Horns blaring, tyres screeching, the tailgaters, the joyriders. The sirens wailed past unknowing to other scenes of cursed domesticity. Her bruises would never fade. Her name and face would be replaced in the headlines by her killer’s. The victim’s lot is to be forgotten. That is, if they are ever found. Scott Cumming unsuspectingly went to see Garden State wearing his Shins tee. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Versification, Mystery Tribune and Shotgun Honey. His poem, “Blood on Snow”, was voted the best of Outcast Press Poetry Things We Carry issue and nominated for a Pushcart. His collection, A Chapbook About Nothing, was released in December as part of Close to the Bone's First Cut series. Twitter:  @tummidge  Website:  https://scottcummingwriter.wordpress.com/

Boris Yeltsin and I sit across from each other, the table between us crowded with bowls of borscht. White tablecloth. My dead grandmother is there too, back from the afterlife to haunt my dream with the precision of a grandmother’s visit, polite, yes, but with intent. She’s resplendent in pink, wearing her Sunday best, her silver hair adorned with her good hat. She frowns when she sees Boris. I was hoping for Reagan, she says, her voice heavy with disappointment, but Reagan’s busy in some celestial debate club or another, defending Jelly Belly from St. Peter, I imagine. I brought these,  she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out two flavors of Jelly Bellies. Blueberry. Buttered popcorn. Colors as vivid and distressed as the Ukrainian flag. But those are your favorites, not mine,  she points out. I shrug. What can I say? We’re from Krakow, we have no flag, just borrowed flavors, borrowed identities, borrowed countries. You're wrong, she says. Boris leans in, asks her for the gołąbki recipe. She responds with a stare—her eyes steely and glittering like the memory of snow. It’s not just a refusal, it’s a verdict. Boris shrinks, or maybe I imagine that. An unexpected rage flares in me, burning hot, reckless. Coward,  I think. He looks at me, breaking the fourth wall, like he’s in on a joke, one I am just beginning to understand. You were the only bluebird in her chinoise wallpaper,  he tells me, and suddenly it’s too much, all of it. I want to tell him I don’t care. I want to tell him I don’t care about this dream or this scene or the way his name trips over my fingers every time I try to spell it out, Yeltsin,  each typo a kind of invocation, each correction an exorcism. But it’s like trying to paint a memory, and you’ve blurred out the nucleus and are left with the lapis lazuli of an empty middle. I got my MFA through my father’s alcoholism,  I blurt out instead. And then it’s all crumbling, everything—the dream, the conversation, the borscht that’s been sitting untouched. Boris Yeltsin, zeitgeist poltergeist of my childhood, the face I remember from years of watching TV with my grandparents, is crumbling. I Google him in the early morning dark, the glow of the screen illuminating his last year in power. It’s the same year my grandmother died. I don’t know what that means, but it feels like it should mean something. Chrissy Stegman is a poet/writer from Baltimore, Maryland. Recent work has appeared in/forthcoming: Rejection Letters, Gone Lawn, Gargoyle Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Stone Circle Review, Fictive Dream, Inkfish, The Voidspace, The Madrigal, 5 Minutes, Ucity Review, and BULL. She is a BOTN nominee.

A skull-shaped cloud floated past the day he crashed into my life. Into the window, to be precise—thwack! And there he was, lying still. One for sorrow. I don’t believe in coincidence. My abdomen fluttered, like the first flicker of life. I crossed myself, saluted, tried to remember which incantations forestall bad luck. Just as I started to fear the worst, he hopped upright.  “Do you need water? Food?” I asked. Like a waiter. Bread or olives while you wait, Sir? I fetched a pack of nuts from inside, poured a little pile. He sat, dazed. Whole minutes later he blinked, shot me a withering look, and flapped off. Next day, the nuts were gone and the magpie sat squawking in their place. When I went out, he flapped into the apple tree. I poured more nuts and was barely back in the house before he swooped down for them. He returned every day. When the nuts were gone, I moved on to peas, then stew, whatever I could spare. I called him Reggie.  *  The village folk bring pies and cakes, but never stay to eat them. I don’t take it personally. They don’t trust the land to hold, here on the edge of things. They think I’m mad to stay. There are places in town, they say. More houses than people these days. Some hardly need any work. They put in compost toilets years ago. Did one for me too, bless ’em. My poo-with-a-view. On nice days I leave the door open, look out over the cliff. No one’s caught me in the act yet, except the odd gull. Living dangerously. They bring me yarn too, the villagers. Flax usually, although they’ve been experimenting with nettle fibre and plant dyes. I run it up on the loom and return the cloth, save what I need, which isn’t much. As we learn, the fabric gets finer, colours richer, patterns more intricate. Reports of the death of technology have been greatly exaggerated. The electronics, telly, phones what-have-you are gone, but we overestimated their usefulness. We still have spades, saws, looms. We were dazzled; magpies drawn to shiny things.  *  The loom’s disassembled and packed into the wheelbarrow. I usually avoid town, but I need someone to take a look. It’s started making a juddering noise, like a magpie’s rasp.  So when I hear Reggie fussing, I picture the loom, zombie-weaving in the yard.  “What’s got into you?” I wipe my hands on my apron. He hops along the path, looks back, chitters. “You tease!” I laugh, following. He flaps towards the wheelbarrow, then up onto it, head cocked. “What’s the rush, you incorrigible bird? I—“ An almighty crack echoes up through the ground. The messy grind of rock on rock, wood splitting, stone crumbling, metal shrieking, all at once. I turn. Strange sky echoes blue where house should be.  I stare back at Reggie, then lift the handles of the barrow, hands trembling. I don’t believe in coincidence. Rachel is a newspaper subeditor, mother-of-three, mood reader and genre floozy from just outside Brighton, UK. Her writing has won prizes with Anansi Archive and Steyning Festival’s Short Story Prize and has featured in Fly on the Wall Press and Pure Slush anthologies, as well as online at Punk Noir Magazine and FlashFlood Journal, who nominated her for Best of the Net. She is on the steering committee for her local Transition Town group and is a big fan of liveable biospheres. You can find her on Threads @spectopia.

If I listen closely, I can sometimes pick out the high-pitched whiz that grand pianos and Acme anvils make when they fall from the sky. On a good day, I can dodge them. But sometimes, I don't hear them until it's too late.  Like this morning. I go into the fridge for coffee creamer, and my eyes notice a pink plastic straw at the back. Where did that come from?  The second I dig out the plastic boba cup — the tea evaporated and only black sludge at the bottom — that's when I feel it, the WHAM!! on my head, and a halo of little yous in prison-orange circle my head. I stomp on the pedal of the garbage can and toss it. But when the metal lid closes, my distorted reflection is giving me stink eye — I probably just threw away one of the last things you touched. That vein in the middle of my forehead starts throbbing, and like clockwork, I hear it: the slow hiss of propane, the click click click of a starter button, and my menopausal body turns into a janky, old BBQ again, the burners blue with flame. I hurry back to the fridge, throw open the French doors, and insert as much of my sweaty upper body into the blue-white wispiness as possible. I lean my forehead against a shelf and stare blankly at the Tetris of takeout boxes I've been working on since I watched you on the nightly news, a police dog taking you down by the ankle in the garish spotlight of a hovering helicopter. Where'd you get the fucking gun from, Michael?! You stupid, stupid kid! I've been meaning to clean out the fridge. No better time than the present, right? I drag the trashcan over and start with the Chinese takeout boxes and Styrofoam containers. I empty produce and deli drawers, cold cuts gone green, green grapes gone black. I gingerly pick up two squishy avocados caving in on themselves; those were two bucks each, what a waste! In a baggie, three-fourths of a Pepperidge Farms summer sausage I splurged on last Christmas. Growing up, it was such a delicacy; I couldn't wait to share that taste with you over some cheese and crackers. But I forgot it had a rind, and after you pulled a long strip of it from your mouth like a strand of some stranger's hair, you refused to have any more.  I take everything out, at first intending only to double-check expiration dates and clear off shelves so I can wipe everything down. But before I know it, the garbage can is overflowing, and I'm almost done filling up a second bag. Practically empty jars of pickles, ketchup I don't even like. In the freezer are those disgusting pizza roll-ups you love and blueberry waffles you said you wanted but never touched. Finally, there's only one thing left, way at the back, an ancient bag of peas I used on your boo-boos when you were a kid. Before I can change my mind about the peas, I toss them in, tie the bags, and hoist them downstairs into the dumpster. The sound of breaking glass is gratifying.  I pause to catch my breath and look around. The cool air feels good against my clammy skin. People out with their dogs and little kids walking to school, holding their mommies' hands. I remember school mornings when you were that age. You used to eat your cereal in front of the TV while I got ready for work. You used to hold onto my pinkie finger like a calf tugging on a teat. And if I didn't grab a kiss from you quick enough, you'd be off, running to find your friends, Meep meep, Mommy!  But right now, you couldn't pay me a million dollars to do it all over again. Dawn Tasaka Steffler is an Asian-American writer from Hawaii who currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was a Smokelong Quarterly Emerging Writer Fellow and was selected by the Bath Flash Fiction Award, the Welkin Mini, and the Wigleaf Top 50 long list . Her stories appear or are forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Flash Frog, Ghost Parachute, Moon City Review, Iron Horse Literary Review’s PhotoFinish 2024 and more. Find her online at dawntasakasteffler.com  and on Twitter and Instagram @dawnsteffler.

I was standing outside the theater with Redford after the show, mingling with what was left of the crowd. It was a cold, late-fall evening in the Pacific Northwest and I was surrounded by people half my age. I’d rather have been in bed, reading a book or bingeing a cooking show, but instead I beamed my thousand-megawatt smile (okay, I probably wasn’t capable of generating one that bright anymore) for a selfie with some random stranger.  No, wait, I’m sorry, that’s not right. A lovely young fan.  “Oh, my god, thank you so much,” the woman said. What was she, twenty, twenty-three? She had that kind of flawless, porcelain skin people I used to know paid a premium to either maintain or to acquire. But I could tell it was the sort of thing she took for granted, like the way she assumed that being young and attractive and able to withstand a cold evening in little more than a child-sized t-shirt and torn jeans was something her body would be able to maintain in perpetuity. Still, there was something about her…energy? Her eagerness to spread a little kindness to an out-of-work actor she just happened to recognize, that reminded me what a gift it is to meet a fan. A real fan. In fact, just being near her had lifted my spirits, made my situation a little less… what’s the word for it? Undesirable. I felt seen. I felt that surge of dopamine that had made so much of my life as an actor worthwhile. “My mom used to be, like, such a huge fan of yours when she was younger. She just turned the big four-five and is super depressed her life is, like, over.” I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t expect such a brutal flurry of emotional bodyblows from this one. I guess it’s true: words can hurt. When a person half your age indirectly points out that she thinks of you as someone who’ll soon be dead, on top of her estimation of you being a has-been—at least in terms of her mother’s fandom—it stings.  So, to keep myself from saying what I really wanted to say—that her no-longer-young mother and I were the same age, that people don’t whither up and die the second they turn forty—I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough that my eyes began to water. She thought I was getting emotional and, to her credit, attempted to staunch the bleeding from the wound she inadvertently opened. But she just ended up doing more damage.  “She’s gonna be so excited I met you and your super-cute boyfriend,” she said. “I think older guys make better boyfriends, don’t you?” She cocked her head to the side and waited for me to say something. To agree with her, maybe? I was well aware my D-list celebrity status meant I couldn’t actually berate a “fan,” much less yank her phone from her hand and delete the photo. Or just smash the fucking thing. You know, give her the full Sean Penn Combo Deal, the Deluxe Alec Baldwin with Cheese. Besides, for all I knew she had already uploaded the selfie to Instagram or Snapchat or God knows what other platform I’m not on and have never even heard of.  I looked over at Redford, my supposed boyfriend. He wasn’t smiling, but then again, he wasn’t not smiling, either. He had a case of perma-smirk. I think it was what you’d call a resting shitface. “Him? He’s not my boyfriend,” I told her. “Are you, like, waiting for him, then? I hope you’re not waiting too long, it’s so cold out here.” She hugged herself to emphasize that last bit.  “Nope, I’m not waiting for anyone. Because I don’t have a boyfriend. Because I’m not actually gay.” “Really? But I thought...” “It’s okay, really. You’re not the first to think that.” “Well, whatever. You two are awfully cute together. Maybe, I don’t know, like, think about it?” “Oh, I will definitely do that,” I said and smiled again. I waved my hand as the daughter of a once-young, former fan of mine turned and walked down the street, probably to an older boyfriend who’s never even heard of me either. “Okay then, bye-bye.” “You should really charge for that kind of thing, Jones,” Redford said. “Fifty bucks a pop for a photo, a hundred for a video. You could say, ‘Happy Birthday, Dennis!’ or ‘Great job at that little league game, Jimmy!’ Some shit like that. I bet you’d do pretty well. Not great, but okay. Like the guy who played that prick robot on Star Trek . I bet he does pretty well.” In the light of sodium lamps lining the streets of Hilltop, Redford looked like a fifty-something lycanthropic truck-stop attendant. His presence—that craggy face layered beneath massive mutton-chop sideburns, and those cold, blue, unblinking eyes—was enough to discourage many a Seattle ex-pat from moving to Tacoma, to be another tech-money-infused gentrifier looking to score big on some Hilltop real estate while it was still cheap. Well, cheap enough for someone pulling down six or seven figures a year.  “Look at me,” I said, “free photo with former-famous guy is about all I have to offer. I start charging people for pictures, no one’s gonna want one anymore.” “So it’s a win-win. Either you make a few bucks, buy me dinner—keep a little something for yourself—or sorority girls don’t bother you in some desperate attempt to impress their mothers who didn’t love ‘em enough in the first place... or whatever.” As he often did, Redford seemed to make a good point out of a lot of nonsense. Lately, I’d begun to wonder what it was that kept me from acting more like Redford: comfortable with myself, not obsessed with the obsolescence awaiting me. Already half-consuming me. Redford’s outsized sense of satisfaction with his achievements (which were minor, but perhaps no less significant than my own) was overshadowed by the pleasure he derived in recounting them for strangers again and again. Even his (petty) grievances, like the claim that he was the true, sole author of “Detachable Penis”—which King Missile rode to a cultish kind of fame while I was still in high school, nearly three decades ago—somehow underlined this notion of his having lived a well-lived life. The man had stories to tell. As an incredibly popular local musician, he had a face and a name people knew and wanted to remember. All I had was the persona of a quirky television character who had long since been remanded to the mold-ridden basement of popular culture called syndication. This idealized version of myself was on a rather precipitous decline, one that pushed me further and further from the public’s collective consciousness and solidified my self-imposed exile from the business we call show. I first met Redford on the road to Puyallup. (This was seven years ago, back in 2014 when  I’d just moved back to Tacoma from L.A. with my tail tucked between my legs, having failed to land even a supporting role in, well, anything for about three years.) He was thumbing for a ride and had this greasy tan duffle bag slung over his left shoulder. Under his right arm was what looked like a piece of wood with the word HEART on it. Turns out, Redford had been busy that morning; he’d cut the heart out of an anti-abortion billboard so that it read: ABORTION STOPS A BEATING. I still can’t say what compelled me to stop, to pick up this complete stranger—one who recognized me right away (I’ll say it again. It is always nice to meet a fan)—but I’ll say that the decision changed my life. In a lot of ways, I feel like he found me.  Since neither one of us had anything to do that day (a fairly common occurrence), we spent the afternoon in a coffee shop on the North side of town shooting the shit before we made our way downtown, on a kind of impromptu dive-bar crawl. He seemed genuinely interested in me, in my having been a regular staple on an honest to god hit television series. He peppered me with questions about how the industry worked, what my process was as an actor, how I found my character, and what it was like working with a new director almost every week. Most people I meet want to know gossip about other, more prominent celebrities who may or may not have been in my orbit at the time. It meant a lot to me that this strange, wolf-like man wanted to get to know me, the real me, and not to get some vicarious thrill off my tenuous proximity to famous people roughly a thousand miles away.  It wasn’t until we hit the third dive bar, a tiny hole-in-the-wall place (ironically?) called The Crown that I found out Redford’s locally sourced fame surpassed my own. I was embarrassed to say the least, talking about myself all afternoon while presuming him to be nothing more than a fan. But he didn’t play it like that. If anything, he propped me up, announced to everyone who I was—who I used to be. I appreciated it. It felt good. The adoration.  Even if it was filtered through Redford. Even if it was plainly obvious he was using my fame to augment his own. All in all, we hit it off pretty well. And while I’m loathe to say it for reasons that will soon become clear, it felt like the greatest blind date in the history of blind dates.  After that, the two of us settled into a kind of friendly rivalry. We were a couple of old attention whores, living off residuals and spending our days seeking that dopamine hit of recognition and adulation, which was becoming increasingly hard to come by. We’ve had our fair share of adventures, sure. “The French Fry Ghost,” “The Misshapen Croissant,” and “The Waiter Who Served Us Toilet Water” all come to mind (and you can read about them in my forthcoming (i.e., never to be finished) memoir, which is tentatively titled, I Find Your Existence Intolerable. ) I suppose I’d been looking for a fresh start in Tacoma, a chance to be the star of my own story. I’d devoted nearly a decade of my life to amassing a small fan base and even smaller fortune co-starring as Rutherford Beulah, the sassy and possibly gay (but that was never confirmed in the series proper) medical examiner on The Aesthetician’s Daughter , a procedural crime drama that ran for eight seasons on CBS. I was still cashing fairly sizable residual checks some ten years after the show aired its final episode in 2011. Not enough for me to continue living in Los Angeles (or even Seattle), but all things considered, I was doing pretty well for a guy whose professional ambition had evaporated along with his career. Redford, on the other hand, was a lot of things I was not. He was the toughest guy I’d ever met. He could drink a gallon of milk in under ten minutes, and, long before I met him, he had already been a preteen arsonist, a drug store model, and, because he refused to let anyone forget, the alleged writer of “Detachable Penis.” To back this up, Redford frequently pointed to his status as the former frontman of Pig Hooves on Porcelain and  Tacos at the Yard Sale, bands with which he’d achieved success similar to that of King Missile around the same time, albeit mostly regionally. I can’t say I totally believed him, but I also can’t say he was lying. He was my friend and I did him the courtesy of trying to take what he said at face value. If something didn’t add up, I would just let the mystery endure. Like when we were walking back to my place on the Fourth of July, enjoying the gloom of dejected revelers and drunken, explosion-loving hicks booing the city’s failed fireworks display, and he told me he’d pulled an inside job, a heist on the blasting caps that would have facilitated the city-wide spectacle, I had asked Redford why he was the way he was, and he said, “I grew up in a family without a swimming pool.” That was the last time I ever asked him a question like that. Despite my having just been accosted by a twenty-something convinced I had one foot in the grave, Redford and I still mingled among a small group of hangers-on who had gathered outside Press ESC, the now-defunct escape room that had been converted into a live-music venue. We’d just seen I Don’t Know, Margo!, who were okay, I guess. They had good energy onstage and a couple of their songs, “Beleaguered Robot” and “Dryager (the Dry-Aging Fridge),” had playlist potential. They reminded me a little of bands I listened to in high school—Superchunk and The Refreshments, and maybe a little bit of The Faith Healers and My Bloody Valentine.  It had been hard for me to completely enjoy the concert, though. For one thing, it was really loud and people kept shouting at me to move, saying I was too tall, that I was blocking them from recording the show on their phones. That was annoying, sure, but it’s not what really bothered me. What really bugged me was seeing Wilson, the band’s lead singer, come so close to achieving actual success. He and I recently had a falling out when I accompanied Redford to Wilson’s house a few months ago. (Wilson had inherited a six-bedroom Spanish Revival in North Tacoma when his mother died. He used the rest of the money she’d left him to record and promote I Don’t Know, Margo!’s debut album, The Donut Man of Wilfordshire .) Redford and Wilson were sitting together at a glossy white grand piano, singing “Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs” ( Frasier was a major touchstone for them both, and, they assumed, because I used to work in television, that it was a big deal for me too). I was on the floor sipping a warm Diet Dr. Pepper Wilson had pulled from a gym bag. There wasn’t any furniture in the house other than the grand piano. Not a couch, not a loveseat, not even a folding chair.  The lack of furniture had been perplexing, but who was I to say what was normal for a guy like Wilson? I kept my mouth shut. It was a feat I managed until Wilson started talking about how he knew a guy who was looking to sell a rhinoceros, and that he was thinking about buying the beast. Wilson was either lying or he actually knew a guy who trafficked in endangered animals—I didn’t really care. What bothered me was the way Wilson pronounced “rhinoceros,” like it was a hyphenate. He pronounced everything after rhino as “ess-aeros,” so it came out “rhino-ess-aeros.” At that point, I just had to say something.  We don’t need to get into the particulars. Words were exchanged, obviously. We both said some things I’m sure we neither regret. I was accused of mansplaining. I told Wilson it’s not mansplaining if we’re both men. He said that shouldn’t matter. I accused him of appropriating another gender’s grievances. He told me to not take another goddamned sip of his Diet Dr. Pepper. I did anyway. Things between me and Wilson were pretty tense ever since *** The small group outside Press ESC was already well acquainted with Redford, and some knew of me—or they had enough passing knowledge of The Aesthetician’s Daughter  to smile and nod in polite recognition—so it was no surprise that Redford and I were invited for post-show drinks at the Camp Bar, a summer-camp-themed pseudo dive bar a few blocks away. Redford graciously accepted the invitation on behalf of us both. And while the idea of drinking myself into oblivion with a bunch of twenty-somethings, whose stars were on a more convincingly upward trajectory than mine maybe ever had been, sounded about as appealing as sitting next to my father, glassy-eyed and speechless, watching a video of his most recent colonoscopy (true story), I smiled and said it sounded like fun.  It didn’t really matter; I was otherwise preoccupied with the prospect of calling Quincy, my ex-girlfriend, about an article in Jezebel  I assumed she—or someone on her PR team—had leaked. It was a puff piece about her and her new boyfriend that not only suggested she and I were never actually an item, but that after The Aesthetician’s Daughter  ended, I had begun living in exile in the Pacific Northwest with some strange man.  It was a phone call I had been putting off for the better part of the day. The walk to the bar was short, which made it easier for me to maintain a respectable distance from Wilson and his entourage, which had swallowed Redford whole and didn’t spit him back out again until we were inside the bar. By the time I caught sight of him again, Redford had already ordered a round of Coors Extra Gold (in cans) and shots of whiskey for everyone in the bar. Wilson handed me a can, along with a nod and a curt, “Vernon,” in lieu of an actual “Hello.” Wilson insisted on calling me by my first name, even though everyone else called me Jones. I once asked him whether Wilson was his first or last name and he told me it was just Wilson, like Madonna or Cher. I asked him what about Seal? He said that was different, that it wasn’t a real moniker; it was a showy stage name. “It lacks authenticity, Vernon,” he’d said. The group sat down at a long table with our drinks. Wilson pulled Redford into the seat next to him, so that he was flanked by a handful of I Don’t Know, Margo! fans and the drummer, Annie. Annie had just flashed me one of those genuine smiles of recognition that faded into what I interpreted as a knowing smugness, possibly related to her and Wilson’s successful heist of my only friend, and possibly related to what I assumed was her knowledge of the dismal state of my personal and professional affairs.  With no other seats available, I sidled up next to the bassist. I figured the bassist, with his menial, minor-third position within the group dynamic, would lift my spirits. I’m sure he was used to being in close proximity to talent and stardom. In other words, I was pretty sure he would be grateful for my company.  “Good show tonight. You like King Missile or The Faith Healers?” I asked. “I have no fucking idea who that is,” the bassist said, without looking up from his phone. An unlit, hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his lips. He was really texting up a storm. After a second, his thumb stopped moving, and he said, “Hey, man, how do you spell Sphincter? Is it S-P-H-Y-N-C-T-E-R? Or is there a G in it? My auto-correct keeps changing it to Sphinx.” “An I instead of the Y, and no G,” I said, “Just like Leon Sphincter.” “Leon Sphincter? Is that a thing? Is that a real person?” “You bet it is,” I said and looked around the bar. “He’s probably here tonight. Retired in Tacoma after he lost that fight with Mike Tyson.” The bassist looked at me for a second, not quite ready to believe or disbelieve what I’d said. “Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked. “How do you mean?” “I mean your face, it looks really familiar.” “I used to be on TV,” I said. “But that was a long time ago now.” “Yeah, that’s it! You were on TV,” the bassist said.“What show, though?” “ The Aesthetician’s Daughter ,” I said, though I was beginning to think it didn’t matter what I told him. “Shit, really? I could’ve sworn it was something else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. You sure you didn’t, like, host Survivor  or a gameshow or something?” “Well,” I told the bassist, “maybe it was before your time.” This remark seemed to please him. As a reward for acknowledging his youth, and lack of knowledge about anything that occurred or was created before 1998, he offered me a second hand-rolled cigarette that had been perched behind his left ear. I didn’t smoke, but I still gladly accepted his offer. I rolled the cigarette between my thumb and index finger and watched Redford confer with Wilson and Annie and the other followers. I was amazed at his ability to command their attention, the way his high forehead, effortless smile, and mutton chop sideburns seemed to make him belong in this bar, this town, and among these people.  I felt a stinging need to get to the bottom of the Jezebel  article, and, if I’m being honest, to hear Quincy’s voice again. So I excused myself and went outside.  Quincy Wurtz, my former co-star (she played the eponymous daughter of the aesthetician) and sometimes-girlfriend, had been spotted canoodling in Vancouver with Derek Austerlitz, her more “age-appropriate” co-star from her new show, Don’t Watch Your Heroes Eat . Quincy starred as Farley Farheim, the proprietor of a greasy-spoon diner frequented by a cast of colorful, yet mostly ineffectual, superheroes. Derek played the show’s Superman ripoff, Supremian, a nigh-invulnerable half man, half chimp hero with a fondness for Farley’s buttermilk pancakes (that’s not a euphemism).  Quincy had broken things off with me not long after I moved to Tacoma. She said maintaining our relationship wouldn’t be fair to me, on account of the hours she put in at work. I’m now convinced she was spending what little time she had off banging Derek. I can’t say that I blame her, much like their onscreen counterparts, the two enjoyed an undeniable chemistry.  I probably should’ve seen it coming. Quincy had a habit of falling in love with anyone who fell in love with her, which explained our on again, off again relationship over the past few years. I was in love with Quincy, but sometimes I think I was more in love with the idea that being with Quincy meant I could, someday, if I chose to, reclaim my place in the world I’d left behind. Either way, you’d think the mental image of her knocking boots with a guy who earned his SAG card pretending to be an indestructible half-chimp would bother me. And I guess it did. But I couldn’t really blame her. I was once in the same room as Derek when he’d taken his shirt off, and I’m pretty sure it made me about half as gay as most people already assumed I was *** The Camp Bar was smack dab in the middle of the Hilltop neighborhood. The building itself was bracketed by two empty lots. One was fringed with weedy overgrowth that partially obscured a concrete staircase leading from the sidewalk to, well, nowhere. On the other side was a trash-strewn parking lot that the Camp Bar shared with the brilliantly-named Grocery & Deli. The place had a turquoise awning that advertised CHICKEN & GYROS, and even FRESH SANDWICHES. I stared at my phone and lit the bassist’s hand-rolled cigarette with the brass lighter I always kept with me, a gift from my mother when I first moved to Los Angeles. On it was engraved the words: “Trust No One.” Mom was a big X-Files  fan.  While I waited for Quincy to answer my call, I blew smoke into the crisp winter air, pleased to see the night sky was not at all cloudy but was instead full of stars.   My call went to voicemail—Quincy was either on set or on Derek—so I ad-libbed some nonsensical message about libel and slander and a possible defamation lawsuit over the article. When I hung up, I felt guilty about being so aggressive and fired off an impotent text: Q. Call or text when you can? I miss you. When I put my phone in my jacket pocket I noticed a familiar, let’s say, vagabond, sitting on the sidewalk to my right, with his back against the Camp Bar’s wall. I’d been known to give this vagabond a few bucks from time to time. He was wearing camouflage cargo pants (probably why I didn’t see him at first), a pair of dusty work boots, and a lived-in waxed canvas jacket that I’m sure Redford would consider throwing his grandmother off a bridge for. His face was mostly obscured by a heavy red beard on the bottom and the rolled brim of a Pennzoil trucker cap on the top. I liked the guy; he felt authentic. That’s what I told myself had brought me to Tacoma. It was the antithesis of Hollywood, a place where being a card-carrying member of the Perpetual Hustle Gang wasn’t a prerequisite to belong. A place where people weren’t constantly trying to make something—themselves, usually—happen. Where people were neither mired in the past nor overly fixated on the future, they were just, you know, living life, relieved to still exist. I don’t know, maybe I was projecting too much of myself onto the people of this crusty burg.  The guy lifted his head in my direction and smiled. I assumed it was because he knew I was an easy touch for a few loose bucks. “Ladies got you down?” he asked. It was the first time he’d spoken to me and the first time he looked at me with something other than incredulity. He had a honeyed voice that belied the life I imagined he must live: panhandling or foraging for food by day before bedding down in a soiled tent under an overpass every night.  “Oh, you know, same shit, different day,” I said, pleased with how genuinely folksy I sounded.  “I hear ya, man,” he told me. “Don’t let ‘em get you down, okay?” “Roger that. Over and out.” I’m not sure why I said that, but I assume it had something to do with his hat. I searched my pockets for loose change, a few bucks, anything. All I came up with was a ticket stub, a tissue, two Werther’s Originals, and an expired Subway Club card. I’m not sure what bothered me more, that the contents of my pockets suggested I had somehow turned into my grandmother or that nothing on or of my person would be of real value to someone in need. I held out my hands to show him they were empty and said, “I’m so sorry. Can I get you next time?” I contorted my face to convey that I understood his struggle, that I sympathized with his inability to get his shit together and that I, like him, also faced each day with the knowledge that time was running out for me to find purpose in this life. That instead of looking forward, I was too often inclined to stare longingly over my shoulder into the past. But, when I communicated this to him, he removed his hat and glared at me. With his hat off, I could see that he wasn’t some grizzled drifter man. He was young, certainly younger than me—by a decade at least, maybe more. He calmly asked me why I was offering to get him next time.  “Because you’re a... person in need?” “I need of what? Your money? Your help?” “You’re not hungry?” “Man, if I was hungry I’d go and buy myself something to eat,” he stood, so that we were eye-level with one another. “I teach at the university. I have tenure, fella.” “No shit? Well, good for you.” I was stalling, trying to recall where it was that I’d seen him and what he’d been doing that made me think he was homeless. I tried to remember whether he ever actually signaled to me that he wanted money, and I don’t know if he ever did. I recall pulling my car into an empty parking space on the university’s downtown campus. I was on my way to The Swiss to hear some local band play and to get a good old-fashioned drunk going with Redford. It was probably nine o’clock at night and pretty dark out. The guy was sitting on the ground, leaning against a window and he recoiled from my headlights like they were burning out his retinas. But he didn’t move. It was like he’d been there all day, like he was protecting his turf. This was a good spot and he wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. While I was paying for parking I heard him say something in my general direction. I assumed he was asking for spare cash so I gave him a few bucks. “Why didn’t you ever say anything, then? Why’d you take my money?” “Oh, those four dollars you held out like they were the cure for cancer? Because it’s embarrassing.” “Okay, yeah, I can see that. Well, I tell you what, maybe don’t sit on sidewalks so much?” “No, for you. It’s embarrassing for you.” I thought about this for a second and said, “So, uh, what do you teach?” *** When I re-entered the Camp Bar it was with Walt the Philosophy Professor, my new friend who was not homeless but was  mercifully understanding about the way I had misread his outward persona. Redford was standing at the head of the table, regaling Wilson, Annie, and the other hangers-on with the story of the time when he and I watched David Bowie eat an entire croque monsieur at Café Presse in Seattle. When he finished the sandwich, the Thin White Duke got up from his table, winked at Redford, and, clear as day, said, “Tacos at the Yard Sale, right? Great. Just great.” That seemed to be enough for Bowie. He left the restaurant and vanished into the back seat of a black Lincoln.  Without breaking his storytelling stride—he was at the part where we sat in utter disbelief until a waiter asked us to order something or please leave—Redford’s eyes drifted from me to Walt with a look that, in my mind, intimated a kind of betrayal. At that moment, I began to give serious consideration to the idea that my tendency to pick up and befriend strange, seemingly itinerant men played some part in perpetuating certain falsehoods that had plagued me throughout my career. Weirdly, those same falsehoods were what aided me in avoiding a significant ass-kicking from Walt moments ago, and to persuade him that I, too, was the victim of a pernicious untruth. Outside, I had showed Walt my phone. It was open to the Jezebel article sent to me by my former agent, Jefferson Mintz. The piece frequently used the word “squee” to describe the author’s approval of seeing Quincy and Derek hold hands and kiss on the streets of Vancouver. As in “Look at the joy of young (and this time we are happy to report it’s actually young) love blossoming on the set of Quincy Wurtz’s new TV show in British Columbia. Squee!” The article also mentioned the poor ratings for Don’t Watch Your Heroes Eat, and that Quincy was in the running for the lead role in a new big-budget dystopian sci-fi film called No Such Thing as Nothing . Then it mentioned that Quincy was previously rumored to have been dating Vernon Jones, her “much older co-star who enjoyed a recurring role on The Aesthetician’s Daughter, and was last seen living in Tacoma, WA with an unidentified male partner.” “You know what bothers me the most, Walt? Can I call you Walt?” I asked when he handed me back my phone. “It’s not that Quincy was thirty-three when we were dating, all of ten years my junior, mind you. It’s the phrase ‘Recurring role.’ Recurring role? What is that bullshit? I was the  co-star . That’s what you call the person who appeared in all one hundred and seventy-six goddamned episodes of a hit series. Check IMDb, Jezebel,  you lazy fucking knobs. Recurring role, my puckered asshole. And who’s their source on this? Who is this mysterious someone who claims to have seen me living with ‘an unidentified male partner’? Why does everyone think I’m dating Redford? It’s like the world is angry that I’m not.” It was then that Walt confessed he thought I looked familiar. It turns out, he used to watch four-hour afternoon marathons of The Aesthetician’s Daughter  on TBS with his mother while she was bedridden with complications from lupus. “She never understood why your character was on the show, but she thought you were really funny,” he told me. “She was always laughing at you.” Backhanded compliments aside, my heart had been sufficiently warmed and, as a way of apologizing for thinking him a vagrant, I offered to buy Walt a drink.  Walt and I stood at the bar, drinking fresh cans of Extra Gold. I gave him the abridged versions of a couple of my best Redford Davis stories. I told him about the time we crashed the Thanksgiving dinner of a woman who’d been sending Redford nudes and whose husband was such a big fan of Pig Hooves on Porcelain he had the band name tattooed on his chest, right above his heart. The woman’s palpable discomfort and her husband’s obvious joy, along with his in-laws’ refusal to believe we were anything other than vagrants, made that Thanksgiving arguably the best I’d ever been a part of. And I say this while also admitting that the turkey was dry and the sides were, well…uninspired. Then I told him about the time Redford accompanied me to an Aesthetician’s Daughter  fan convention in Wisconsin. We got lost looking for the hotel pool and wound up mediating a substantial drug buy between some track-suited Russian gangsters and a quiet Midwestern couple who’d been manufacturing meth on their family farm.  Walt politely internalized and contemplated these stories with greater emphasis than even I thought they deserved.  Then he hit me with this: “Well,” Walt said, “the way I figure it is there are simply no words in the current generation’s lexicon for the relationship you and Redford seem to have. As far as I can tell, they see two men who understand each other the way you and Redford do, who’re committed to each other the way you two are, and they just assume it’s some torrid love affair. They’ve shipped you without your consent, Jones. It seems to me that you and Redford are the victims of their goddamned fan fiction.” Just as Walt was wrapping up his theory, I overheard Redford conclude the David Bowie story. He then immediately segued into a story about the time he joined James Van Der Beek’s bookclub. I knew how this one went: he was kicked out because he kept saying “fuck” (the club was reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover ) when what the Beek had requested everyone say was “make love.” Only that was my story. I was the one who had been kicked out of James Van Der Beek’s bookclub for the excessive use of the word “fuck.” That was right around the time I failed to land a guest spot on CSI: Cyber  and Patricia Arquette stopped returning my phone calls.  I could have stepped in and called foul. I could have claimed the story as was my right. But Wilson and Annie and the others were all laughing hysterically. Redford was in the zone. The attention and the adoration, it was like mother’s milk to him. I thanked Walt for his understanding and for the scholarly analysis of my situation. I then looked over his shoulder at Redford, who had grown silent. As if on cue, an uneasy hush came over the table. One by one, Wilson, Annie, and the bassist all tracked Redford’s gaze across the bar to where it met my own. Redford was waiting for me to say something, to decide if he could continue telling this story—my story—or not.  For just a moment I saw this as my chance to reclaim yet another piece of me that had been lost. But then I thought, who was I to deny Redford this thing he wanted in front of a captive audience? Who was I to pass up the most meaningful collaboration to come my way in years? “What are you looking at me for?” I said. “This is Redford’s show. And believe me when I tell you, he’s got a good one lined up.” Kevin earned an MFA in Creative Fiction from Eastern Washington University where he teaches English Composition and Creative Writing. He is at work on a collection of short stories, some of which can be seen in Clamor, Bigfoot Country Anthology, the tiny journal, Gavialidae, and in ann upcoming issue and FailBetter. His short story, “Say it with Your Eyes Closed,” was voted Best Fiction of 2023 on BarBar Literary Magazine.

When we took the Uber home from the cemetery this afternoon, I thought of that holiday we had in Lisbon with you and Mum. We were sitting in some terrible pretend Scandinavian coffee place, it was the hottest day of the year, no air conditioning, and Zoe was acting up. You and Mum wanted to go back to the Airbnb for one of your Little Rests, and I offered to get you an Uber – we’d been getting a lot of Ubers for you two, I hadn’t realised Lisbon was so sodding hilly – but you wanted to do it yourself. Clive must have installed the app for you, but now you couldn’t figure out how to use it. I tried to help but that only made you more confused, and Zoe kept prodding my arm because she needed to ask me something RIGHT THAT SECOND, and you just sort of froze. Your stubby finger trembled as it hovered above the screen. There was a drop of moisture on your cheek which I assumed was sweat, but looking back I’m not so sure. In retrospect, that should have been the moment when I realised something was up with your health, but I didn’t because all I wanted was to get you and Mum out of there so I could deal with Zoe and maybe even have a moment to drink my overpriced latte in peace, so I grabbed your phone, saying give me the bloody thing, I’ll do it , and your face fell so hard that I immediately regretted it, but it was already too late. Sitting in the Uber this afternoon, I wished I could do it again. Wished I could explain patiently how to order the ride, watch as you pressed each button in turn. See the satisfaction in your face as the message appeared, saying the car was on its way. Daniel Addercouth grew up on a remote farm in the north of Scotland but now lives in Berlin, Germany. His stories have appeared in New Flash Fiction Review, Trampset and Vestal Review, among other places. You can find him on Twitter/X at @RuralUnease .

“How did you come to know Catherine Cormier?” “Kitty? We both lived at The Harris.” “The Hotel Harris, downtown?” “Yes, that’s right.” “And what brought you to the Hotel Harris? ” “The same thing that brings anyone there. Bad luck.” “You think it was luck?” “Call it what you want.” “But you  call it bad luck?” “A lifetime of it. Yuh.” “What was the bad luck, exactly, that led you to live there?” “I moved in there after I got out of prison. You pay by the week. You know, a flop house. It was cheap.” “And Catherine. Or Kitty. She lived there?” “Yeah, she had been there for years.” “So you two, you became friends?” “Sure.” “You seem an odd pair.” “How’s that?” “Well you're, what, 35? An ex-con? And she’s in her 70s, little old French lady.” “Ex-con? Man, you got a lot to learn about this place. I did time for writing bad checks, stealing chainsaws, and possession. Lots of people round here end up in jail.” “It was prison, Cato, wasn’t it? What about the assaults? The armed robbery?” “Sure.” “So regardless. You became friends?” “I told you that.” “What kind of friends?” “What the fuck are you asking?” “I just mean. Can you tell me about your friendship? I’m having a hard time…understanding it.” “There’s nothing to understand. We drank. Whiskey will make you a fast friend. If you’re down on your luck, and you’re at The Harris, you got nothing but time on your hands. You find ways to get through it. To hang your days on something.” “I see. So you drank together?” “We were known to have a few drinks at her kitchen table. Sometimes down at Peppermints.” “And sometimes other people drank with you?” “Sure.” “Who would that have been?” “I don’t know. Whoever.” “Like Timothy Richmond?” “Timmy? Sure I guess.” “How about Jason Davis?” “Who?” “Jason Davis. Worked at the mill.” “Everybody worked at the mill.” “Jason had a dog. A rottweiler I believe.” “Oh. The big guy.” “Yes. Did he drink with you?” “Probably. I mean sure. He was around. He was at Peppermints a lot. For awhile. What’s he got to do with anything?” “Well that’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’m trying to understand who all was involved.” “Involved in what?” “Well, Catherine Cormier went missing more than 6 months ago. No one has seen her, nor has she touched any of her assets. Her family believes she’s dead.” “Family? Who is that?” “Her brother’s daughter. Her niece.” “Never heard nothing about her.” “Well, we are trying to find out what happened.” “Ok.” “Do you know what happened, Mr. Bond? To Kitty?” Cato Bond Some people inherit money. Or a perfect face. But in my family you inherit bad luck. More like a curse, to be honest. A life of hard work, pain, loss. My old man died in the military, and not in an honorable way. I’ll just leave it at that. My mother had me at 19, and she bounced around from one bad boyfriend to the next. I stayed with her sometimes, but mostly with my Grammie. She was nearly blind, and she took in piece work to make money. Grammie sat on an old brown stinking sofa, chain smoking, and sewing leather together for shoes. Her hands were so calloused and worn she could jab a needle into her palm and not feel a thing. She used to throw glass ashtrays at me when she was pissed. She drank sherry.  Everybody works at the paper mill around here. And when I was 13 I got my first job there. Sorting rags. Then I moved up to Hole Watch. The mill is a beast. Big like a mountain. You can’t ever really see the whole of it, unless you’re way up, like a bird. Inside it’s loud, and dark, and filled with heat, reek, and men who have worked themselves into their own damnation. It was my lot in life to work there, and the weight of that lay heavy on me, even before I could buy a drink. I hated that place. The smell of it. The way it never slept, never rested. It ate men. Chewed them in it’s metal maw. Gummed them down into the pulp they made the paper from. It sits in the center of town like a monster, clearly sentient, clearly malicious. It eats the poor and spits out money, money for someone else. It’s a filthy system. So I got into the pills. I won’t bore you with the details, but by the late 90s I’d been in the game long enough to ride the Oxycontin wave to something that felt like freedom. Higher than fuck all the time, dealing, flush with cash. I got a new truck. Claudia and I had a place, a little trailer. Quiet little spot. She used to hang the laundry out in the yard. But the good times dried up quick. As they always do when you’re playing that game. I don’t know. But, I lost all of it. Her, the truck, the little trailer with the bed of daffodils in the front. In and out of jail, sure. Sleeping on people’s couches. I ended up in prison on a aggravated narcotics charge. They got me coming back from Lynne, Mass. with 100 grams of H. I was already on probation. There was stolen shit in the truck, the tags were expired. There’s more to the story. But, you get the idea. I was fucked. When I got out of prison I had nothing. I didn’t even have clothes to wear as they’d “lost” the shit I came in with. I left in sweatpants and a sweatshirt. It was January. I would have liked to have left town. Left Rumford. But I had probation. I didn’t have a job, or a dime, or a car. Nowhere to go. So ended up downtown at The Harris. It’s a boarding house. You rent a room. Each floor has a shared bathroom. Laundry in the basement. Payphone in the lobby. People from away might think it’s fancy. The exterior is. Grand and imposing, with a sign on the roof that lights up at night spelling out Hotel Harris. But they probably haven’t been inside. It smells like piss and is full of broken, sick folks. Sometimes they’re dangerous, because sometimes when you push someone against a wall, they attack. It’s just nature. Human. Dog. Nothing likes being cornered like that. The Harris was, at one time, a grand hotel. Built during the boom time, when Rumford was alive with industry, and families were coming in for jobs at a mill that couldn’t make the paper fast enough. Well, those days are long gone. And if you’ve driven through Rumford of late you’ll see that she has lost her shine. Not just the Hotel Harris but the whole damn city. The Harris still stands, a beautiful building if you see it from a distance. The entire top floor was shut down when I was there. But it had two floors of rooms, and a grand lobby downstairs. The rest of the downstairs was a restaurant, which was permanently closed, and a department store, also permanently closed. My favorite thing was the front desk, a big wooden thing with a series of cubbies behind it. Covered in dust and deserted. But I could picture a well-dressed person waiting there, a shiny bell, a brass trolley for bags. Some nights I swear I saw the shadow of those things. But then someone upstairs would holler, or some pile of rags would shuffle in, use the pay phone, and ruin it. You could sense something below the surface there. Something that glowed kind of golden and soft. But then the shabbiness was back; the stink, the fluorescent lights buzzing. Time as thin as the carpet. Kitty lived on the second floor. She had a corner room. Bigger than mine. And she had a window. Big nice window looking over the street. My room had no window.  A dark shitty room, with a moldy carpet, a single bed, a sink, and no fucking window. My cell in Windhoek was bigger. But having a key to get out is nice. She had her kitchen table there by the window, and one day I helped her get her laundry cart up the stairs. Cause the elevator was out. Again. I helped her and she made some coffee, and we sat and smoked at that table. And when I left she said she had a drink from time to time. She pointed to her mini fridge, atop which sat a bottle of whiskey. Expensive. The big bottle. Well I nodded, and I took note. And I guess you could say we became friends that day. I’d walk out to the side alley and smoke, as I couldn’t stand to do it in my windowless room. But if it was poor weather I didn’t want to stand out there, so I’d knock on Kitty’s door. She was always up. And we’d sit at her table, have a few drinks, and smoke. She had that window. So there was that. She told me about how she’d pick blueberries with her whole family in the summer when she was just a kid. How they’d stay in a cabin, sleep on the floor, no running water, and spend all day in the baking sun raking blueberries, covered in bug bites, poison ivy, and filth. How she hated blueberries. Thought they tasted like pain. I told her how I once saw a baby fawn get swept down the Androscoggin, when the river was roaring after a rain, and how the doe dove in and rescued her baby. Swam the rapids and got the tiny fawn onto the other shore, the little thing bleating like a screaming child. “Well there,” Kitty said, her eyes shining, “I like that story.”  We’d walk down to the store to get another bottle. Or some beer. Or some smokes. The town would be nearly deserted in the night. And come winter, with the snow sifting down and the streets void of tracks of any kind, the whole place looked like a sound stage. An empty set. The Harris was one of many impressive buildings downtown. And though it was desolate, those structures still communicated grandeur. Walking around out there you’d feel like you’d slipped right out of time. And we’d talk about albino moose, and men who killed their whole families, and her Grampy kicking a bear in the head one night when he was blind drunk and the little bear attacked their dog. Or all the weird ways people have died in the mill. Back in Kitty’s room, she’d put on a kettle for hot toddies and we’d find a movie on TV. She liked Bruce Willis and I liked watching her work her knitting. What can I say? We were comfortable with one another. She never asked about prison, I never asked her about her marriage of 40 years to a man I knew to be a wicked little piss-ant. With a temper. We just kept time together. It seemed natural. I had gotten work at The Mill . Back in the beast. Hating every moment of it. I had a checkered past at the mill and I was a felon, so they let me know that I would need to prove myself. Well, that didn’t sit right with me. And about 3 months later I was laid off for being late and missing work. Cause of the drink. Cause I didn’t give a shit. Cause I hated that place. Cause it’s what I do. And once I was out of work I guess I started drinking more. Long days. Longer nights. By that second winter at the Harris Kitty and I drank together most every night. And it wasn’t uncommon for us to take a walk, like I said, to get something more to drink. Jeannie’s store on the corner across the bridge, off the island, was open all night. It was a bit of a walk. But it was one we took many times. Peppermints, the local bar, saw our asses from time to time, but if you’re on a budget you go wholesale. You go for a bottle. Sometimes we’d open the bottle on the walk back. Not at first, I don’t think, but at some point, it happened, and then it became more common. Then we’d sometimes meander back down to the end of the main street. The Mill would be running. Always. Day and night. Every year it’s a smaller and smaller crew, but it’s running, those machines never stop. There’s a little car bridge down at the end of Main. It kind of runs through a little patch of woods back there, so if you’re walking you suddenly turn into a dark tunnel and it’s dark for a bit before some lights from The Mill hit the road. Off the bridge, you see the slurry pits, and they are all lit up. They have sort of fountains spinning round down there, stirring up the mix. It stinks, but it’s pretty. In the winter the steam rises up over there so you’re in a putrid fairy land. We’d stand there watching the slurry and sipping our drink and not saying much. The sky some nights was inky and purple and odd, other nights it was dark and awash in a billion sharp little stars. Those were nice nights. Those were nice walks. Kitty Cormier They say drink will make fast friends. I don’t know that it’s true. I’ve seen drink make much faster fights than anything. But I do think when you are a real drinker, a professional drinker, you find those like you. You can find them fast. I’ve had many, many drinking buddies over the years. More than I can count, more than I can remember. I’ve probably forgotten the names and faces of people I spent hundreds of hours with. That might make some people sad, but I count forgetting as a gift too. I’ve been around seven decades now, and the drink has touched six of them.  I met Cato on the stairs in the Hotel Harris. I was hauling my laundry cart up, cause the elevator was broken again. He spotted me. jogged across the lobby, and hoisted that cart like it weighed nothing. He was a tough, sinewy guy with a little weasel face. I’ve seen many like him. No chin, tiny eyes, all angles. This town manufactures them it seems. Muscle, grime, greasy hair, thick work clothes, and nowhere to go. Caged. Pent up. With a shadow of fear sketched on his face. He brought my cart into my room. He commented on my windows. He had one of the small rooms in the back hall. No windows. He told me he was just out of prison and the room he’d come from wasn’t too much different. Only he could walk out his door. Which is a difference. It is. Well, I poured him a cup of coffee, watered my geraniums, and asked him about his plans. He had just started back up at the mill, of course. But I sensed it wouldn’t last long. They’d put him on hole watch. Which is a sorry position for a grown man. His skin bristled like an animal’s when he spoke of it. His eyes went to a bottle I had atop my mini fridge. Makers Mark. A gift. When he left I invited him by for a drink sometime. He nodded like he wouldn’t come, like it wasn’t going to happen. But I knew he would. And he did. Well, we met in the summer, but by the following spring, an ugly one, as always, he was out of work. And he did what most men round here do with time on their hands, he set into the drink for real. Like it was his job. He lost weight, which did not suit him, and he slept in ‘till late afternoon. I had things to do. Errands, people to stop in and see, laundry, cleaning. But by the evening I’d be free to have a few drinks. And that started to be a regular routine. Now I’m an old, old lady, and I have more ailments than I could list here. Bad hip, knee, eyes, stomach. The whole works is going down. But the thing about old ladies like me is that despite the body failing, I am resilient. I don’t stop. And with fresh whiskey in my veins, I can find my energies again. We’d go out to smoke, we’d go down to Peppermints if we happened to have a twenty in our pockets, and we’d walk off the island (as they call the area round the mill) and into town to buy a bottle or some smokes. Long night walks. It was soothing and quiet. Just keeping time with one another. I never thought too much about it. I try to not look too deep into much of anything anymore. That’s a young man’s game. Life happens and you just go along to get along. Friendship is probably the sweetest gift the world might give you. Take your bits of sweetness and hold them close, cause most of the time it’s hardship and pain that will be walking your road with you. Cato Bond I can’t say I trust my memory. But I can tell you how I remember it starting. I’m not sure when, exactly, but Kitty and I had come into the lobby after walking to the store for smokes and some beer. Chasers for the bottle upstairs. It was late, dark, but it’s winter so it’s dark all the time. It was late though. There hadn’t been anyone out. We started up the stairs to the second floor when Kitty stopped. She was looking up to the second-floor landing, where a balcony overlooks   the lobby downstairs. There was a little common area there, some tables, and a few upholstered wingback chairs. I stared at her a minute, then I looked up to where she was looking. There was someone sitting in one of the wing-backed chairs. Which was odd but not unheard of. It was late, but it’s the Harris, you’ll see any manner of folks wandering the halls at any hour of the night. Like us for instance. I was about to turn back to Kitty and ask her who it was when my eyes blurred a bit, then refocused. Or maybe the woman blurred and then refocused. I don’t know. My eyes are good. Always have been. Never had glasses, still don’t. I used to spot deer out in the field better than anyone in my family. My Mother told me I had eagle eyes. Seemed to please her. But I had been drinking, it was late, I can’t say for sure. The person in the chair was clearly a woman. Long dark hair, light clothing, pale face. But the whole thing was blurry. I don’t know how else to state it. Also this woman; I didn’t recognize her. It’s mostly men at the Harris. I felt something shimmy along my skin, down my spine. My stomach did a slow slide. “Who is that?” I murmured, not even meaning to speak. Suddenly Kitty started moving up the stairs at a rapid clip, and I followed her. She turned hard at the top of the stairs towards her door, away from the chairs. I didn’t turn and look. I wanted to. I felt a strong need to. But Kitty was pointedly not looking, and walking fast, so I did the same. I felt something back there. Kitty unlocked her door.  We went in and Kitty slammed it behind her, locked it, and engaged the chain, which she never used. Or not when I was there. I went and sat on the couch, dropping the beer onto the floor. My knees felt loose. I was trembling a bit and I rubbed my hands together. I waited for Kitty to say something. She stood with her back to me, facing the closed door. Listening maybe? Or just regrouping. She then went and got two juice glasses. She poured out some whisky and I pulled two cans off the sixer and cracked them, sitting them on her coffee table. We sipped the warm booze and the cold fizz. She sat at the table. I sat on the couch. We didn’t speak of it. And as I sat there I talked myself out of it. Someone was in the chair but not a long dark-haired lady. Just some old bum. Or maybe no one was in the chair. Perhaps someone left a sweatshirt hanging on it. It was dimly lit in the hallway, and the common area was in even deeper shadow. So we didn’t speak of it that night. Besides drinking with Kitty I was spending time drinking alone in my room. And I found myself pacing and thinking about the past. Imagining different outcomes. Imagining running into some people from back then and having them admire or desire me. I put music on and ran over these “stories” again and again, circling the tight edges of my room, stopping to take another sip as I passed the nightstand where my bottle of old granddad sat, and imagining my ex leaning in, asking how I was, looking me up and down, liking what she saw. In these scenarios, I wasn’t unemployed and living at the Harris. I wasn’t scrawny and dirty and drunk at 10 in the morning. I felt the warmth of being wanted, of being strong, of having all those fuckers who walked away from me (bosses, stepfathers, girls, so-called friends) want me, or better yet be jealous of me. I could feel it. Even though the reality was that I wasn’t admired or desired, no one was jealous. I was alone in a room, pacing and drinking like a crazy person. I felt weird about the ritual, but I also looked forward to those sessions. It was a secret. Along with how much I was drinking in a day. Kitty Cormier People talk about belief. If they believe in ghosts or the afterlife. But I don’t think belief has much to do with it. I’ve seen things I can’t explain my whole life. I sat bedside with my Grammie, my Mother, my Father, and my brother, all who died in our home. All of them saw people in the room at the end, right before they went. With Grammie it was her mother and sister. She named them, seemed happy to see them. Patted my hand and said she knew she’d be ok. My Father was scared. Said a man was standing in the corner. In a suit. Didn’t seem to know him and felt afraid of him. And my Mother saw all kinds of people in the room, and a few cats. Angels, she called them. My brother saw our Mother, as she had passed years before. He was dying of cancer. Only 44 years old. Many of the men who worked at the mill died of cancer.  When I was 15 or so I saw lights in the sky. Orbs, two or three. Not just once but several nights in a row. Cold, cold nights. They slid around the sky moving every which way. Playful, fast, you couldn’t predict it. I don’t know what they were and I never saw anything like thatagain, but one of those nights my brother was with me and he saw them too. They were there, I just don’t know what they were. And that’s it right, an unidentified flying object? I’m not saying it was an alien, I don’t know.  I saw things at the Harris. Someone slipping around the corner of the hall on the third floor, up towards the stairs. I would hear someone walk up to my door and stop, and thinking it might be Cato, I’d pop the door open. No one. And in the common area. Yes, many times I saw someone up there, usually from the lobby down below. A woman. I was with Cato when I saw her. I didn’t bring it up and thought I’d wait for him to bring it up, if he did notice. Or not. Like I said, I’m not one to make a big deal out of these things. They are. We are. What’s the fuss? And we’d always all been drinking. The woman though. She was specific. I kept seeing her in that common area.  And one night, when Cato and I were coming up the stairs something different happened. I saw her, and when I looked at her she turned her face and looked at me. At us, in fact. Right at us. It was the first time this had happened and it changed the whole thing. I felt her see me. I felt her look at me, as I had looked at her many times. We saw  each other.   Cato Bond I started having nightmares. The content of these dreams is bleary, but the terror I remember vividly. I would wake up from them screaming, or making moaning sounds that sounded like they were coming from an animal.But that animal was me. I was in the Harris in these dreams. I was walking the halls. Moving up and down stairs, and up and down the corridors. But always converging, or being pulled, to that second-story landing. I would fall through the dream in layers, awakening in my room, and suddenly realizing it was still a dream when I saw a stranger standing near the door, or a strange cat with limbs bent the wrong way. It would happen over and over, each layer I fell into more bizarre and twisted than the last. A few times I had sleep paralysis, waking up and being completely immobilized. Just awash in terror. But that’s the DTs I guess. Or he Harris. Or both monsters, dancing in the dark of the night. It is hard for me to separate the nightmares from the reality. My dreams were always in the Harris. There aren’t clear lines of demarcation. My days were often spent in a trance in my room. There but not there, pacing the floor. It all becomes very blurry. We went to Peppermints the night of the incident. Kitty and I. A little hole-in-the-wall bar about 100 feet from the Harris. It was owned by a guy named Randy. He’d lost an eye at the mill. He’d been a teenager when it happened, 35 years ago or so. A machine busted and a long, thin piece of metal went into his eye. Famously, it was sticking out several inches, buthe said it didn’t really hurt initially. And he could still see out of the eye, even with this metal rod in there. But the eye was ruined, and he quickly lost all the vision. The eyeball itself was so damaged they had to remove it. He tried to wear a fake eye for a while but gave it up. Said it was damn uncomfortable. So the socket collapsed a bit over time, and then his entire face on that side collapsed a bit over time. He doesn’t wear a patch either. Now at 50, he is some kind of goblin. Rough looking hole in his face, everything sliding to the right. You get used to it. Randy is a friendly son of a bitch and he was in a good mood that night. Kitty and I had several rounds up at the bar, and the place filled up. And then, at some point, she was there. This girl. She wore her long hair in a braid, had a dark hoodie on, and jeans. She said she was passing through. She said she was a hiker. She drank some whisky with us. Bought us a round I think. She was sitting next to me, on my side, and told me about her hike. Up White Cap. I didn’t listen. I was drunk. And not in a good way. Sometimes I’d go a stretch where the booze just hit me bad. I’d feel sick off just a drink or two, but I needed more to not get shaky and terrified, so I’d have to power through, and it just made me feel worse and worse, even as it kept the real DT’s from setting in. It was ugly. But then, a few days or weeks later I’d seemingly snap out of it, and I could drink again, normally. Or not normally, not to any normal person, but normal for me. I could get drunk. I could enjoy it a bit before the greasy slide. But that night it was all greasy. I felt like trash. I couldn’t even pretend to give a shit about the girl. Things like getting laid had fallen away. I was in the shit with the drink. We went outside to smoke. We went back in. We probably did that a few times. There were other people there and Kitty was chatting with a few. She knew everyone in town. I guess I do too, I just don’t get friendly with no one. But everyone loves Kitty. Eventually, we were back outside and Kitty and I decided to head back. We were out of cash and had been bought all the drinks we’d likely get that night. We walked up the street. It was freakishly warm. Almost misty. We rounded the corner and went into the Harris. It felt ice cold inside. One of those weird things where it gets oddly humid in the winter, a warm snap, and then inside feels cold. There was condensation forming on the big windows that looked out the lobby. Drips had run down the glass here and there making it streaky. I was so drunk I couldn’t look at the windows without the whole scene starting to spin. I felt pretty low. I was in my room. Alone. In bed. And then someone knocked on my door. I thought it was Kitty. I wanted to ignore it but thought maybe she needed something. I’d be useless to her, was feeling worse and worse, but got up to check. She was old after all. It could be something serious. When I stood to walk to the door, it felt like my foot sank into the floor. Fuck. This wasn’t good. I was all fucked up. Normally I could drink and drink without losing my balance. It tightened up my balance if anything. But tonight everything was sideways. I was low. It had turned on me. When I opened the door it wasn’t Kitty. It was that girl. From the bar. Dark hoodie up, shadowing her face, hands jammed in pockets of jeans. And then she was in my room. We were sitting on the bed. She had taken the hood off but it was dim and I couldn’t see her very well. She was talking. I think. But I couldn’t really hear her. There was a weird humming sound. But it was just in my head. I was sick. I felt hot and then cold. The room was swaying. I could hear this mumbling, which I think was her. But I couldn’t make out any words. I tried to focus, but it was no use. It was like another language. I think I apologized. I think I tried to tell her I was sick. But I don’t remember what I said, or what she said. And then she was touching me. I’d feel…something along my arm. I sort of looked but she wasn’t there, but then she’d be right in front of me somehow. Movement. I felt her hair on my face. I felt her breath. But I couldn’t track where she was. Shadows moved around me. I tried to reach out, touch her, to push her away, to be honest. I felt so sick, and whatever she was doing, this weird vague touching, I couldn’t handle it. I felt my hand brush something, but I couldn’t find her really. I slid off the bed onto the floor, but she was still there. Sort of flowing around me. I saw her face, for a moment. Her sharp nose. Her long hair. My eyes hurt. My head hurt. I was covered in cold sweat. And then my door was wide open. I looked up and saw a big black hole where my white door normally was. Kitty was in the room. There was a commotion. I crawled to the sink. It felt like my hands and knees were sinking into something thick and dense, sinking down below the level of the floor. I curled up under the sink. I might have been out for a minute or two. Suddenly I was back, staring at a pipe. It was very close to my face. I looked around. Kitty was fixing my bed. She turned and saw me. She had turned on my bedside lamp. The room looked normal. White walls, brown carpet. My bed looked so appealing. But hadn’t I just been over there? Hadn’t something terrible been happening? Kitty patted my pillow. “Get in here, Cato.” I crawled to the bed and pulled myself into it. Kitty tucked me in. Like a mother. She smoothed a hand over my forehead. I felt the tension ease out of me. I felt myself sink down, down, down. Kitty Cormier That night at the bar Cato had seemed off. He sat by himself, staring straight ahead as all the people pressed in. He seemed absent. He’d been quiet lately. But it was late winter. Everyone gets blue round here at the end of winter. Time seems to grind to a halt in March. It might be a nice month in some places, but for my money, March is the ugliest, dirtiest of months in Maine. When we walked back it was warm out. Oddly so. Fog was oozing out of the snow banks, forming halos around the street lights. Back at the Harris, the big lobby windows were coated in condensation. Warm out and cold within. And something seemed off inside. I couldn’t track it and wrote it off as the weird little warm snap. But something wasn’tright. Cato stumbled up to his room and his door closed. That was unusual too. He was always steady on his feet, even on nights when we worked through a bottle, and tonight had not been that. But who knew what he’d gotten up to earlier in the day? Let him sleep it off. In my room I felt ill at ease. I put on my electric kettle for tea. It wasn’t unusual for me to have a hard time finding sleep. I’d spent many nights awake at my kitchen table. Working some puzzles. Listening to the radio on low. Just thinking. It looked like this would be one of those nights. I got my cup of tea and sat on my little couch. But I was nervous. I got up and sat at the table. Then I was just pacing around. I felt real nervous. My joints were hurting. This weird weather. And at some point, when I was standing quiet over by the window looking out at the strange misty alleyway down below, I heard someone walking out in the hall. I looked towards my door and I saw a bit of light slip by, on the bottom. It was her . I stood there listening. I could hear her walking down the hall. I heard her stop. A long, long pause. I thought that was it. But then I heard a knocking. Someone knocking on a door.  My mind did a lot of gymnastics right then. All in one moment: It wasn’t her . It was someone else going to visit someone. It sounded like it was down by Cato’s door. It was her . And she was knocking on Cato’s door. It was someone else knocking on Cato’s door. It was someone else knocking on another door. There were five or six doors down there, no reason to assume… I heard a door open, and then close. Silence...It’s none of your concern. It is your concern because it’s her , and she just went in Cato’s room. But how? Why? All of this crashing down in my head at once. But what floated to the top was: she is in his room. Go. Out in the hall that off feeling got much stronger. I looked to the left. The balcony sat in shadow. The air felt cold and damp. The fog from outside must have been oozing in. I looked to the right. The hall was empty. The red exit sign glowed from way down at the end. I looked down at the carpet, expecting to see little ghost footprints. But there was nothing. The carpet was threadbare up here. And dirty. I walked down. I was almost tiptoeing for some reason. I stopped in front of his door and leaned in. As soon as my face got close to the wood of the door I heard a hum. The hum grew louder. It felt like it was coming from in my head. I leaned back and the hum cut off. Stopped clean. I leaned forward again and it slowly started. Swelled. Got pretty loud. That’s when I reached out and opened the door. Cato Bond The next morning I awoke early and somehow walked down to the gas station. It was cold out. That warm weather had blown right past. I bought two sixers of cheep beer and a huge Styrofoam cup of coffee and brought them back to my room. I got back in bed and slowly sipped beer. I got a can and a half down, then added the coffee, alternating until I had two beers and half the coffee in me. One sip at a time, nice and slow, I started to feel better. Memories from the night floated up, and I pushed them back down. Wouldn’t even look at them. There was a gentle knock at my door. I got up and stood there, hand on knob, scared. “Cato, it’s me.” It was Kitty. I opened the door and she stood there in a nice woolen green suit, with a jacket and skirt. She had a little hat on her head. I’d never seen her so sharp. She had her purse on her arm and a pair of brown shoes on her feet. “I’m going to church. You want to come with me?” “Church?” I didn’t know she went to church. Was it Sunday? “Saint Athanasius. Mass.” “No.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Ok. I’ll be back in a few hours. Then we should talk.” And with that she turned and walked down the hall towards the stairs. I locked my door and got back in bed. Opened another beer. Took a sip of coffee. Lit a cigarette. Awhile later I was feeling like myself. I went and took a shower. When I was drying off in the bathroom a saw some scratches on my arms. I looked in the mirror and saw scratches up and down both arms, and along my sides, from armpit to hip, along my ribs. They were thin but deep. I looked at my back, expecting to see them there. That’s where scratches of this nature usually show up. But my back was unmarked. I dressed, and when I got back to my room put a flannel on. I looked in the little mirror above my sink. Nothing on my neck or face, my hands were clear too. I felt the need to hide the scratches. I just didn’t know what they were, what they were from. I must have blacked out last night. Memories started to rise but I pushed them down. Nope. I opened a fresh beer. Awhile later, another knock on the door. Kitty was back and had changed into her regular clothes. A plain shirt and a pair of slacks with pantyhose underneath. She always wore pantyhose underneath her slacks. It was something my own grandmother had done. “Let’s go to my room,” she said, “It smells like ass in here.” Kitty Cormier When I was a girl, we went to church twice a week. We were Catholic. I went to a Catholic school as well. God was central in my life; a giant beam running through everything. Everything you did or said was supposed to be about God, or for God, or in the service of God. At the top of each assignment, we were to write JMJ, an abbreviation for the holy family; Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Everything was in service to them, even our math homework. Or that’s what we were told. I noticed early on that what adults did and said seemed to have nothing to do with God. Including the nuns. And certainly my parents. When I heard them muttering, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph” under their breath it was not in service to anything holy, if you catch my drift. But you weren’t allowed to ask questions about that. You weren’t allowed to ask questions about any of it, and I had a lot of questions. Had I had children I might have taken them to church, it might have brought me back. I was a lapsed Catholic, I guess you could say. But I didn’t have children. We never used birth control and I never got pregnant. We never talked about it. My husband and I, well we never talked about anything other than what was for dinner or why hadn't I done this or that. I never spoke to him at all if I could help it. I learned early on that staying out of his way was the safest bet. Even then I sometimes got a beating, but if I flew low it was better. The beatings were for various things I’d done wrong (or said wrong, which is why I just stopped talking round him). He told me I made him beat me, by the way I acted or the things I had or hadn’t done. I tried to figure it out at first, thought there was some kind of code I could crack to get him to stop. But the thing was it had nothing to do with me, or what I did. All that darkness came out of him, it was in  him. It had nothing to do with me at all. By the time I started to go through the change I realized we hadn’t had a baby, and that we wouldn’t now. And I was glad. He would have been a terrible father. He was a mean man. I was 58 when he dropped dead of a stroke in the middle of a shift down at the mill. I wasn’t sorry to see him go. I don’t think anyone was, to tell the truth. But being a lapsed Catholic doesn’t mean I don’t think about God. I do. And the older I get, the more I think about it. There’s more to this world than could ever fit into my head, or the head of people much smarter than me. There’s more that we don’t understand than do. Death is among the biggest. We are all headed there and yet not a one of us knows what it is. I think it used to scare me, just the unknown, but it don’t anymore. I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I think we create those things here on earth. For ourselves, for others. What was Auschwitz but hell on Earth? What is laughing with a friend so hard you can’t catch your breath but heaven? But death? That’s a whole other thing. I don’t know what will happen, if anything, but I’m not afraid of it. I’m curious. And to be truthful I won’t have to wait long. I’m old. I’m worn out. I can feel the edges of this thing fraying, and fraying fast. I won't be in this old body much longer. I went to mass that morning to ground myself in something. What I’d seen in that roomhad shaken me. I was baptized in that church, married in that church, and I had attended dozens of funerals there. It was  a holy place, and not because of the teachings but despite them. The church was barely a quarter full. When I was a girl it was packed every week. I let the words and the ceremony wash over me, hearing nothing, taking in nothing, just letting it flow past. It was a cold sunny day and light streamed in through the stained glass. It was so pretty. I walked back in the cold sharp air feeling better. Feeling ready. Cato was up and showered and clear-eyed. We went and sat in my room. “What do you remember about last night?” I asked him. He shrugged. Grimaced. Rubbed his face. Stood up from the couch and moved his body in a nervous way. I had brewed a pot of coffee and I poured out two mugs. He took his black. I dashed some half and half in mine. Cato took his cup and held it in his hands. “I don’t know. Not much I guess.” “Do you remember what happened in your room?” His body stiffened. I thought he might get up and leave. But he just stared down into his cup. Steam rose and danced in a ray of sun shooting in through the geranium leaves. He sighed. “I remember something. I remember…that girl from the bar.” This wasn’t what I expected him to say. What girl from the bar? But I waited, letting him sort it out, letting him tell it. “She came to my door, I guess. I don’t know how she knew where I lived. She followed us I guess?” He looked up at me. I said nothing.  “Well I was sick. I couldn’t... and then I don’t know. I was sick and then you were there. You put me to bed. Maybe. Did that happen?” he was staring into his mug. “This girl from the bar. What did she look like?” “Well you saw her. That hiker girl. She had on a dark hoodie sweatshirt. She was sitting with us up the bar. It was that girl.” “So that’s who was in the room with you? The girl in the hoodie?” “Well didn’t you see her when you came in? Did you come in?!”  He stood now, agitated. He ran one hand up and down the other arm, shoulder to wrist. “Let me see your arms.” He froze, like a deer in headlights. He looked at me. Slowly he unbuttoned his flannel. He carefully removed it and put it on the back of a chair. Both arms were covered in long thin lines, many of them, shoulder to wrist. He lifted up his T-shirt and showed me his sides. Also covered in thin red cuts. Like paper cuts. I sucked in my breath. He sat at the table with me. “What happened last night?” he asked. Now it was my turn to sigh. “I didn’t see any girl at the bar. Not one such as you described.” “She bought us a round of drinks. Didn’t she?” “No. I got a round. You got a round. Then Timmy Richmond got us a round. Right before we left Randy poured us two more.” He stared into space, chewing on his lip. “OK.”  I cleared my throat, clasped my hands on the table. “When I came in your room you were laying on the floor. It was dark, but not pitch dark; I could see you. And right above you, floating above you and kind of all around you, was her .” “The…hiker girl?” “No. Her . That one we’ve seen.” He stared at me.  “Her? You mean…” he rubbed his face, rubbed all over the top of his head, mussing his still damp hair, “Wait, what do you mean?” “I think you know. You’ve seen her.” “So it was…a ghost.” I nodded. Cato stared at me, blank faced. “A ghost did this to my arms?” he pointed to the thin red cuts. “She was…I don’t know how to say it exactly. She was cutting you. I don’t know if it was with her hands or her hair or her teeth. I thought I saw…” I shook my head, shaking the image from my mind, “I don’t know exactly how but she was cutting you. She had blood in her mouth.” Cato sat back from the table, both hands gripping the top. He stared straight ahead. I couldn’t blame him. The sight of her bloody mouth had been horrific. She had turned when I came in the room, looking at me. Looking right at me. Black eyes. Red mouth. I was pretty sure I had seen her teeth. Sharp. But also, as I had approached her, something like her hair had drifted over and touched my arm. It had burned. A cold burn. I had a little cut there. Just an inch long. Cato started shaking his head. Slowly. He stood and paced. Picked up his cup and set it back down. He went over to the the window and looked down into the alley. The sun shone on his face. He looked haggard. His pupils large even in the bright light. I sipped my coffee. Letting it sink in. Letting him absorb it. I wasn’t sure what he remembered. More than he’d said, but I didn’t think he’d seen any blood, or felt any pain. Not in the moment. He was too out of it. I couldn’t track this hiker girl story. There hadn’t been anyone like that at Peppermints. It was all locals. No hikers, no hoodies, no one we didn't know. But it didn’t matter. There had been no hiker girl in his room. When I’d stepped further into the room she  had flown straight up. Into the  ceiling above. The room had been dead silent then. I’d turned on the lamp and Cato crawled over to the sink, curled up like a dog under there, shaking, arms bloody. I had made his bed (the sheets and blankets were on the floor with him). I’d gotten a cold washcloth and wiped his arms. They didn’t look too  bad. I didn’t know about the cuts on his sides. Then I’d gotten him into bed, shut off the light and sat there. He seemed to fall right asleep. When dawn broke I went back to my room. “I need a drink,” Cato said from over by the window. I got out the bottle. Cato Bond I didn’t believe in ghosts. And I didn’t believe in vampires. And now it seemed that some combination of the two had left scratches all over me. How could a ghost scratch a person? Was that possible? Why would a ghost drink blood? Trying to find logic in any of it was…well, crazy. Because it was  crazy. That hiker girl had come into my room and scratched me up. That was all. But I knew that wasn’t true. And when I dug down on this hiker girl, I started to feel the ground beneath me crumble. It felt like the reveal in Fight Club. Me at the bar, the girl in the hoodie next to me, and then suddenly, not there. There was something not right about those memories of her. Something…tampered with. Even the memory of her in my doorway. I had looked at her, recognized her, sort of. But something was screwy about it. And once she was in my room...no. It hadn’t been some girl. Not at all. I was weary all day. Went back to bed and slept. I wasn’t afraid of her coming back. Not then. I just felt empty, and anxious, in a general way. But that might have been the booze. On top of all this was my drinking. I was in a bad place with it. I needed to pull up. But now everything felt…out of control. And I was so damn weary. How was I going to get myself out of this? I was not up for it, any of it. What would have happened if Kitty hadn’t come in? I couldn’t even follow that thread. Didn’t want to. Could a ghost kill you? Vampires could. But. Or. I didn’t fucking know. I slept. Kitty Cormier That night I sat awake at my table all night. There wasn’t that feel in the air. But I listened for her anyway. She’d left through the ceiling, but she’d gone in through the door. Perhaps that was the rule? Let’s hope so. But regardless, the energy felt different. I was pretty sure she wasn’t around. I sat sipping my drink and thinking it through. When I’d seen her on the balcony area I had thought she was a ghost. A spirit. An Imprint. Whatever you want to call it. But a person. Or linked to a person. But now I wasn’t so sure. What I’d seen in the room hadn’t felt human. And who ever heard of a ghost harming someone in that way? I’d never heard even the kookiest kooks claim a ghost had cut them up. Poltergeists could what, throw things, push you down stairs? And they were thought to be more demonic energies. But drinking blood? This wasn’t a ghost. I didn’t know what it was, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a person. I wasn’t sure what was motivating it. Was it eating? That also felt unlikely. Was it just hurting people for the fun of it? I didn’t get that impression either. Maybe eating but in a different way. It didn’t need sustenance, but maybe it fed off some aspect of the act. I circled round and round it as I burned through the night. Trying to conjure up every story I’d ever heard about…well anything. But in the end I just didn’t know. Didn’t know what she was or what she wanted, if anything. Would she kill him? Could she? If she could slice him up, yeah, it seemed she could. What if I hadn’t walked in when I did? What would have happened? Cato seemed vulnerable to it somehow. How to protect him? Cato Bond I had to meet with my parole officer the next day. He was a real prick. Before I could even sit down he handed me a cup. Random drug test. He’d done it every time. He didn’t have to, but he did. The only saving grace was that he just did the 5 panel, which didn't include alcohol. I’d gone in on a narcotics charge, so he must have been hoping to catch me back on H. But I was off all that shit. For good. It was expensive, it was dangerous, and I’d had enough running around after it. I’d come out of prison clean, and I wasn’t going to let it get it’s hooks into me again. I pissed in the cup and left it on the little table in there. They did the test right then, and if you failed they could arrest you on a probation violation and that would be it. I sat in his office waiting. “You been looking for work?” he asked as he sat down. He didn’t say I’d passed the test. If I’d failed he arrest me, but he didn't acknowledge that I’d passed. It was like he was hoping for me to fail. I always felt that way with him. He wanted me back inside. Thought that’s where I belonged. “Not much around.” “Where have you looked?” “They won’t take me at the mill.” “Yeah I know, Cato. You’ve burned every bridge over there. How about a store? Clerk work? How about construction? You know how to change oil?” I said nothing. We’d had this talk every month. He yammered on. Telling me I had to try. I had to WORK. Telling me I wasn’t doing well. Telling me I wasn’t going to make it. I said nothing. I had nothing to say. Also I’d had a few drinks that morning to get myself in here. The smell might still linger. I left in a sour mood. My back hurt. My head hurt. My jaw ached. That fucking little prick had read me the riot for almost 25 minutes. He wasn’t there to help me, he was there to watch me till I fucked up and then put me back in the cage. Thinking about it made my blood boil. The police station, where we met, was almost across from The Harris but I decided to take a walk off the island. It was a cold, windy, gray day, but I needed some air. Needed to move. I felt like I could smash up some shit. I felt trapped. I ran into James walking his big dog Lady down by the Swift River behind the playing fields. I’d gone to school with him. I told him about Officer Shithead and he laughed, told me he knew all about it. Told me he had a bottle back at his place. Apple Jack. Off we went. James lived in a room above a garage in the town across the river, in the shadow of the mill. Literally. The long shadow cast by the mill fell over his place almost the entire day. We drank there for a while and then two of his brothers rolled in. Or cousins. Or friends. He called them brothers. They’d come all the way from Jackman. We drank together and then they wanted to go out. So we piled into their truck and headed to Gatch’s, a little sports bar in town. We were there awhile and then James had to go home, so he peeled off. I stayed with his brothers and we all decided to head to Peppermints. They were flush and buying rounds. We’d hooked up with an older guy and he went with us. In the truck he pulled out a flask and passed it to me. It was straight grain alcohol.  “GODDAMN!” screamed one of the brothers. Fucking right, I thought Kitty Cormier Cato’s room was quiet and I assumed he was sleeping, still worn out from the other night. I hauled my laundry down to the basement and did a wash. I went to the market and did a shop. Then I lay down on my little couch, and I guess I dozed a bit. I hadn’t slept at all the last two nights and it caught up to me. It was a restless sleep. I kept bobbing up to the surface and then back into scattered dreams. At one point I was on the coast, in a small chilly house by a restless sea. In one I was in my room here at The Harris and someone knocked on my door, and I knew something was wrong. Then I was in the house I grew up in. The little white saltbox on the edge of town. I sat at the kitchen table and the sun streamed in the little windows with the wobbly old glass. My brother was in a basket by the stove, just a baby. My mother was up at the sink, her back to me, humming. The clock ticked. It was just as it had been when I was a girl of five. But I was me. An old woman. On the table sat a white plate with a small pile of fat blackberries. We had a wild patch of bushes out back and we’d pick them for momma, and she’d make the sweetest jams. She turned and came to the table, smiling at me, drying her hands on her skirt. My breath caught in my throat. I’d forgotten her face. The little curls that came loose at her temple. The dimple on her chin. Her warm grey eyes. I came up out of the dream with tears on my cheeks. It was getting dark. I had napped too long, I felt off kilter. I washed my face with cool water. I drank my cold tea. I turned on a lamp. Something felt off. I opened my door and poked my head into the hall. No one had turned the lights on out here on the second floor yet. It was dark and dead quiet. I looked over at the common area on the landing. It was quiet, empty. The Harris seemed to be holding it’s breath. I walked to Cato’s door and knocked, the sound loud in the silent hallway. There was no sound from within. I knocked again. The stillness was complete. He wasn’t in there. I walked back to my room. I put on a pot of coffee and poured myself a few fingers of whiskey. The light was gone from the sky now, it was full dark. And there, hanging low and bloated in the sky was a big fat yellow moon. I could see it just beyond the roof of the building beside us, that formed the alley below. I sipped my drink and stared at it. No, this was not good. Cato Bond The place was packed. Wall to wall people. I could feel the waves of energy move through the crowd. Loud shotgun explosions of laughter. A woman shrieking. Undulations of conversation; rolling, rising, falling, bubbling, simmering, washing over me. I had a beer in my hand. No idea where I’d gotten it. Next to me an old timer, Dickey Damon, was telling me about a parrot he knew once. He told me the bird was 80 years old and rode around on the shoulder of a guy who’d hang out in the bars of Portsmouth. The parrot had a dirty mouth. Dickey’s eyes glowed as he recited some of the things the bird would say. Somewhere behind me the brothers were flirting with Lisa Ouellette. I was floating somewhere up near the ceiling, feeling safe and secure and content. There was nothing but this moment, this place, this room. I hoped it would never end. I went out to smoke a cigarette, I came back in. I went out to smoke a cigarette, I came back in. There was a whiskey & Coke in my hand. Then someone handed me a shot. Now I gripped a tallboy of Pabst. The room swirled, and stilled, tilted and righted itself. Harsh laughter smashed into me. A guy smashed into me. I found myself sitting at the bar. The brothers were there, telling me about their maple syrup operation. I wasn’t listening. Back outside the old guy with the flask came up to me and gave me another nip. Whatever he had in there was fire. It shot into me like paint thinner. I felt heat rising from my face. I sure was feeling fine. Up in the sky a beautiful golden moon looked down on us, bathing the street in soft, warm light. All felt right in the world. I walked to the store at some point. With the brothers and the guy with the flask, I think. I remember the fluorescent lights, and digging through my pockets for money for some smokes. On the walk back someone lit a joint and we passed it. The brothers had a sixer in a paper bag and they loaded up in their tiny Toyota and rattled off down the road, back to Jackman. It was late, and things were winding down. A feeling of unease rose in me at the thought of calling it a night. I wanted more. And I guess that’s how the guy with the flask and I ended up headed back to my room. I thought Kitty might be up, and we could all have a drink. I had a few beers at my place too. We were keeping it rolling. Thank God. We stood outside The Harris finishing our smokes. The old guy was talking, but I couldn’t focus on the words, they kept slipping away in a mumbled tumble. Like mice running every which way across the kitchen floor, slipping under furniture, disappearing underneath a door. Inside we climbed the steps up to the second floor. The place was empty, vacant feeling. I moved to knock on Kitty’s door but the guy said something, shook his head, motioned further down the hall to my door. I dropped my hand, poised to knock, and followed him to my room. We went in. Kitty Cormier I was down in the basement folding sheets and towels when I heard someone come in and go upstairs. I tried to hurry up and see if it was Cato, but when I got up there the lobby and balcony were empty. It was quiet. I went back down and loaded my clean laundry into my little hand cart, then hauled it all up to the lobby. I climbed the stairs feeling twinges in both knees, a twinge in my back. All the blessings of old age. I got the cart up to two and looked around. Quiet. Not a soul around. There was no light from the bottom of Cato’s door. I went into my place and began putting away my clean clothes. Cato Bond Have you ever had a dream in which you’re with someone you know, a friend or relative, and suddenly you look over and realize it isn’t  them? It looks like them, but it isn’t. And as you realize this you know somehow that you can’t let them know that you know. Inside my room it was dim, almost dark. No damn window to let in that nice moonlight. I was sitting on my bed and the old guy was in the chair a few feet away. But it was pretty dark and I couldn’t make him out that well. He was just a shape. I had an opened beer in my hand, the can warm. But I hardly wanted it. I felt sick to be honest. I was drunker than I’d known. Now sitting here I felt heavy, weary, and nauseous. There was a humming in my head. I wanted to say something to him, tell him I needed to get some rest, ask him to leave. But as I sat there looking over at his shape I realized it wasn’t  him. It wasn’t the guy from before. It was someone else. I wanted to turn on the light but I was frozen. I couldn’t move. Saliva filled my mouth. I should get up and go out to the bathroom. But I sat on. I even took a sip of the beer, just out of nervousness, unease, just for something to do. I needed to act normal, for some reason. I wasn’t sure why. Who was in here with me? I truly didn’t know. My eyes roved around. I could just make out my sink, and the opposite wall. The door. Then I was back to the chair, and it sat empty. He was gone. I opened my mouth to say something, when I felt movement behind me, and something touching the side of my face. He was behind me. On the bed. The humming got louder and the can slipped out of my hand, hitting the floor There was movement all around me, something touching me seemingly everywhere. I felt myself fall back, and somehow I just kept falling. Kitty Cormier This so called ghost, it was only bothering Cato.. Why was that? I knew all the folks that lived here. I’d have heard something if someone else was having encounters. And she wasn’t bothering me. She in fact fled from me. It seemed to me that she was connected not to this place, so much, as to Cato. Why? If she were to kill him, I wondered what an autopsy would show. The scratches would be peculiar, but I’d bet not enough to cause him to bleed out. What would it look like? Cato was drinking a lot. He was in the shit with it. All day, everyday, and it’d been that way for a long while now, ever since he lost his job. I wondered what his blood alcohol was most nights, by the time he passed out. People who drank like that, they built up huge tolerances. I’d bet he was approaching levels that would be fatal in other people. It would look like he’d died of alcohol toxicity, and his organs would have the wear and tear to prove it. It would be mostly true in fact. Was it her that was going to kill him, or the drink? Were they the same thing? It was then, as I sat there thinking this final thought, that there was a loud pop, and all the lights went out. I sat a beat in the dark, then I stepped into the hall. The red Exit sign was missing from down the hall, and the lights in the lobby below were off. Power was out in the whole building. That’s when I heard the humming. It was coming from my right. Under Cato’s door I saw a light. It was very bright. She was in there with him. I had to GO. Cato Bond It’s left to me to tell the last part it seems, and a worse narrator you’ll hardly ever find. The whole thing happened so fast. I was in my room, but I wasn’t in my room. The walls were there, but not there. I’ve no other way to put it. Above and around me, sort of everywhere, was her . I saw her hair, filling all the spaces, her white dress, or robes, billowing out big enough to cover a house. Everything was in motion. Waves of terror kept jolting me. I was going to pass out, and I felt myself turning towards it. Letting it happen. I wasn’t on the bed anymore, I was floating, within my small room, but also adrift in a vast space. Not toggling between the two but both, at once. And then Kitty was there. She was right next to me, but also across a distance. She was hollering to me, at me, but at first I couldn’t make it out. And the effort of trying to hear her words made my head ache. I closed my eyes, and turned back towards the darkness, towards slipping down underneath it all. But then I felt Kitty grab my arm. I opened my eyes and she was there, right there, face close to mine. Her face was covered in little slices, one of which had opened her cheek a bit. There was blood in her thin white hair, which was whipping around her head. It was like we were in the center of a storm. “Cato! It’s the drink! It’s the drink that’s killing you!” I nodded at her. She was right. It was obviously true. I’d known it for some time. But to hear it, to hear the words, here in this place. The words said aloud had power. “The drink is killing me. I want to stop.” My voice was barely a croak. But it came out. And Kitty heard me. She smiled.  And then it was quiet. We were still there, kind of floating, but the noise was gone and I guess she  was gone. Just all at once. I felt pain all over my body. Kitty’s face was right there next to mine. She was bleeding. “I can see my mother and brother in the room,” she whispered. I looked around. I could still see a vast space, and my room, existing together. I wasn’t sure where I fit into these spaces, where I actually was. I didn’t see anyone else, but there was a tremendous light off to the right. “I’m going to go. I’m ready now,” she said, not to me. I started to cry. I didn’t really know what she meant in the moment. But I also knew. I guess I just knew. And then she was gone. And I was on the bed. The room was just a room. Dark, quiet. And I was alone.  “Cato, when did you last see Kitty?” “We had drinks. I don’t know what night exactly. We had drinks at Peppermints, and a night cap in her room after that. The next day I went to parole, oh, so that would have been the 28th of March. I didn’t see her that day. Met up with some friends, got back late. And then I didn’t see her after that at all.” “So you last saw her the 27th then.” “I guess so.” “She was seen the 28th, but no one has seen her since then. Where do you think she is?” The question hung in the air. I slipped my hand in my pocket, felt the plastic six month chip in there. Ran my thumb along its edge. “I honestly have no idea.” “Well, if you think of anything you let us know.” He flipped the notebook shut. “You’re in Bangor now right?” He hands me his card. “Yes. I’m hanging sheet rock with a local operation. I’ve got a place downtown.” I stand, stretch, and walk out into a cold clear night, unencumbered, no longer haunted, free. The End

CW: Pregnancy loss, suicidal ideation I’ve never been in a waiting room this fancy before – I guess that’s what £100 an hour gets you. It’s bright and lovely, the muted yellow of the walls implying health and good cheer. The credentials on the wall tell me that this man is someone who thinks he should be trusted with people’s innermost thoughts. He has multiple certificates, all displayed in shiny oak frames. I wonder if they protect him from the stories he hears, if he uses them like a talisman in the night when he cannot sleep, if he still believes that objects can keep him safe. Like a child. Lucy, lovely to meet you. He takes me down a short, cheerful corridor and into his office, all unkillable plastic plants and unbreakable plastic coffee cups. I sit on the chair to his left, weaving my fingers through a thick blanket he has placed over the arm of it. False comfort. How are you today? What an unoriginal starting question. I take another look at him from beneath my eyelashes, having resolved to focus on the blanket and not much else. He’s frowning gently at me, concerned, and I realise that not making eye contact might be a bad idea, might paint me as someone who has things to hide. I raise my head and meet his gaze full-on. I’m not too bad, doctor. I know you might think that’s a strange answer, that I wouldn’t be here if I was okay, but today I’m honestly not too bad. He smiles warmly, but it doesn’t quite reach the depths of his muddy green eyes and I realise that I need to be a bit more careful, a bit more circumspect, if I want to leave this encounter unscathed. As if I ever really leave any encounter unscathed. I smile to myself, but he isn’t watching me now. He’s shuffling a stack of papers on top of a clipboard on his knee. He has a pen, and for a moment, I think he’s going to give it to me, but at the last second he seems to decide to keep the power of the written word to himself, to make me speak rather than write. That’s fine. I’m used to men holding onto the power they think they have over me. Before we begin today, there’s a questionnaire I want us to fill in together. It’s about different things that can affect your mood, and it’s called the Patient Health Questionnaire. I’m only asking about the last two weeks, so it’s a snapshot of how you’ve been feeling. I’m going to give you a statement, and you’ll give me a number between zero and three – zero being “not at all” and three being “nearly every day.” Is that okay? I suppose so. Nobody mentioned a questionnaire to me when my husband booked this appointment, but I suppose he wants as much information as possible to make an informed decision about whether I’m mad or not.  Yes, doctor. Please, it’s David. Call me David, I insist. Now – first question: over the last two weeks, how much have you been bothered by having little interest or pleasure in doing things? Define “doing things.” For that matter, define “little interest or pleasure.” If there’s a cup of tea involved (oat milk, no sugar) or a good book (not that trash that my sister reads), I’m fairly interested. I get pleasure from watching the birds feeding their young outside the kitchen window and probably get overly invested in the chicks surviving into the summer. But if you’re asking me about spending time with my friends or having sex with my husband – no interest, no pleasure. And that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?  Erm…probably a one. I hedge my bets. His face tells me I’ve given the right answer – a bit down, but not a completely hopeless case yet. Yet. Okay. How about feeling down, depressed, or hopeless? Well, over the last two weeks I’ve been increasingly down, depressed, and hopeless since my husband, who I always thought was a reasonable man, decided that I needed to see a psychiatrist for my “mental health.” Meaning, that he found out about my plan and exercised every last bit of his power over me to make me come to see a man who is going to make a judgement on whether I’m sane or not. So, I guess you could say so.  No, doctor – David. I’d say zero for that one. I have a good life, for the most part. Good. Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much? Ah. Now that I do have difficulties with. Trouble falling asleep, when my husband comes home from the bar with his friends right at the time that I’m getting comfortable and ready to drop off. Trouble staying asleep when he gets into bed and paws at me after he’s had a few drinks. Falling asleep during the day due to my inability to get a decent night’s rest, between him and the crying babies, wailing for their mother – for me – every few minutes, especially when my back is turned, especially from a different room. And yes, I do know that they’re in my head now. I’ve figured that much out at least, but my husband’s behaviour towards me very much is not. Probably a two there, I do struggle with sleep. His face tells me that I’ve given the wrong answer this time, and I make a mental note to lie later that this is due to me staying up late cleaning or cooking and then collapsing due to exhaustion rather than any internal process. Okay, then I’m guessing this one might also apply – feeling tired, or having little energy? Damn it, now I’m going to have to say yes to this one and increase my score on his stupid questionnaire. I suppose it’s true – the babies do keep me awake, and then during the day I’m so tired I imagine that I can see them, always crawling around the next corner or running – some of the older ones – away from the windows when the sunlight catches them. I didn’t expect the miscarriages to have such a lasting effect on me, never really wanted children to start with, but my body is obviously aware of what I’ve lost, and the older ones call out to me in the night, asking me to come with them, wanting to take me away from where I am. The younger ones just scream, slowly eroding any last bit of resolve I might have had to deny them what they want. Yes, you’re right – but only a little. One for that question, I think. Great. How about poor appetite, or overeating? I don’t have any appetite these days. I know that if I want to grow a new life I need to eat well and often, but as I said, I’m not really interested in having children. I’ve already got four, the babies and the older ones, and as they’re aged between five and three months old, they do keep me busy. It’s my husband who tries to encourage me to eat, makes me whatever food I fancy every night and doesn’t even flinch as I pick listlessly at it. He can’t hear the babies, I know that now. I thought it was something we shared, but when I mentioned it to him it got me a one-way ticket into this office, so. Something to keep to myself in future, and definitely not something to tell David.  My appetite is fine. Zero for that one . He frowns, and I wonder what my husband told him when he booked this appointment. I’d probably better make my next answer more convincing. Okay. Feeling bad about yourself, or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down? Finally, one I can answer sincerely, as everyone knows about it anyway. Yes, I do feel bad about myself. As you’ll be aware, I’ve had four miscarriages, and at times I can’t help but feel that they were my fault. So, a three for that one. He smiles benevolently at me and I return his expression tentatively, trying to mask my relief. That was clearly the correct answer and fits with what he thinks he already knows about me. Oh Lucy, please don’t think that. None of that is your fault, at all. But let’s finish this questionnaire, and we can discuss it in more detail. I warm towards David slightly. He is trying, and he doesn’t blame me. But I need to make sure I get what I need from this, and that’s going to mean lying to him a bit. Listen, Lucy, he’s asking you the next question. Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching television? My concentration would be fine if the babies would stop crying, if the older ones would stop their whispering, but I decide that doesn’t count.  One. My concentration is fine, but obviously I’m tired sometimes and that can affect it. A call back to earlier questions – risky, but I think I’ve pulled it off. Good. How about this one – moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed? Or the opposite – being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around more than usual? I have absolutely no idea what he’s getting at here. Some days my whole body is slowed down, and it’s like moving through treacle just to answer my husband’s questions when he gets home from work. Sometimes I’m a ball of energy, designing new curtains for the nursery room and alarming my friends and family with my assertions about what we’ll call the new baby when he arrives. Knowing all the while, though, that he’s never going to arrive. That my hopes for children are all buried with my mother in the graveyard, and that it’s so stupid because I was on the fence about them to start with, but now I can’t get away from them and their crying and their whispering about how the soft earth is so comfortable and quiet. I have to admit, it sounds inviting.  No, I don’t think I’m like that. Maybe a one, I’m sometimes a bit slow. And the last question – thoughts that you would be better off dead or of hurting yourself in some way? Every single second.  No, not at all. Zero. He smiles again, prejudicing a process that I’m sure he thinks is neutral, and I know this was definitely the right answer. Okay, so you’ve scored nine out of twenty-seven on that questionnaire. That indicates mild depressive symptoms, which is good. That means I don’t have to be too worried about you. So, tell me what’s brought you to me today. My husband found out that I was planning to join my dead children and I can’t stop hearing their cries.  Well, my husband thought that it would be good to get my mental health checked after the miscarriages, which I completely understand. I don’t feel that I need any therapy, but I do feel a bit down and bad about myself at times. David smiles and writes this down on his notepad, and I start to feel another plan forming as the words pour out of me, unbidden. This is clearly a man who likes to know, who likes to diagnose and pin and treat, a lepidopterist of the human variety, a feelings collector. I can use that to my advantage. *** I leave David’s office an hour later, £100 lighter and with a prescription for antidepressants in my pocket. I have just enough time to go and pick them up from the pharmacy before my husband arrives to take me home. I won’t tell him that I have them, of course, but I will claim that the meeting was helpful, and to show my appreciation I’ll make us a lovely meal tonight, so stunning that I’ll surprise him by eating most of my portion too, so richly spiced and flavoured that he won’t taste anything bitter or wrong. And then we’ll go to see the children.   Together. Sarah Blackshaw is a psychologist and writer who lives in the north of England. She can be found as @academiablues on most things, and also at www.clinpsychsarah.com .