124

The smell of hyacinth always brought back the memory of her mother, though Clara didn't know that's why she kept remembering her at such odd times. Usually while going for a walk, or occasionally while in the car, her nose out the window. In the spring. It was warm and the smells were fresher and painted clearer pictures. Clara didn't have a clear picture of her mother, or the others in the litter, but she remembered the feelings, and that was enough.

123

Cammaratta giggled like a demented schoolgirl and it was at that moment that Lara knew he was insane. "Okay, then, Cam. I gotta go. Seven in the morning gets earlier every day," she said, chuckling like she agreed what he thought was funny really was.

Cam sighed, his face still grinning on the surface. "No, you don't."

A tingle passed into Lara's belly. "No, I don't what?"

"No you're not leaving." Cammaratta's wooden desk chair squeaked backwards on its metal rollers as he pulled his feet off John's body and straightened.

122

She felt her jaw being stroked. She was in pain, but the gentle touch pulled her away from the agony of the bullet in her belly. She felt her hair pushed back from her face and was grateful, but unable to say so. Who... the thought was crushed by her insides hiccuping, cramping and squeezing. Someone grabbed her hand and she squeezed it against the pain. She realized, in a detached way, that she could hear voices and, distantly, a siren. Where had she been? What had just happened? Who was now speaking to her in deep, soothing tones? Why couldn't she understand him?

121

Take the chicken, he said. He said. Well, I didn't take no galldang chicken, and where did that land me? Where? In the whohaw. Right in the whohaw. That galldang chicken I never took, and he knows it. He's gone to the grave with it now. To the grave. And ain't I glad? I'm glad. I'm glad.

120

He never went to the auditions; the lack of a daughter would be too obvious there. He only ever sat in on rehearsals, watching as the girls improved night after night, though some, invariably, never improved.

He sat right with the other proud dads, but unlike them, he never brought a Tom Clancy novel or the latest issue of Fly Fisherman or even a fancy phone. He watched. His favorite was "A Hard Knock Life," though "You're Never Fully Dressed" came in a close second.

Whenever any theatre company was putting on Annie, Harper was there. Unobtrusive in "dad jeans" and a flannel shirt or slightly worn out weekend polo.

119

"Get out of the trunk." The girl unfolded painfully, her knees and hands bruised from kicking, her fingers bleeding from trying to disconnect one of the tail lights. She squinted against the light, eyes watering. At least, she thought, I left some DNA for them to identify me. She tried not to sob.

118

"Leave the trunk." Jarvis jerked his hands away from the handle, but he hesitated. "Leave it."

"Yes, sir."

So the trunk stayed while the rest of the household was removed.

117

The rain rustled the leaves and tapped the roof, a welcome relief from the previous nights' heat. Sonja was pleased because she had repaired the roof herself; dangerous work without a ladder or the regular safety precautions, but she had gotten it done and it didn't leak. Her precious hammer lay next to her mattress. It had made all the recent repairs so much easier, and she didn't want to have it out of reach.

116

Crisscrossing metal spikes covered the field for as far as the eye could see. They menaced, conveyed danger, shouted to all "Keep Out!" Those who buried those spikes should have imagined the decades of decades that would pass, but they didn't. They underestimated the effect of weather and flora. The ten inch diameter spikes eventually bent, fell, were torn apart by the relentlessness of time. Eventually, the seemingly endless field seemed like just another field. The carefully crafted warning decayed while the threat, under the soil, still threatened.

115

Cybill hated only one person in the world, and she had never met him. He drove down her street nearly every day on his motorcycle--he called it a "crotch rocket", but she didn't know that term. It had neon green plastic that matched his leather jacket and pants, his sneakers, and his helmet. She had heard the phrase "Loud pipes save lives," but she didn't care. His pipes were too loud. He drove too fast. He squealed his tires. He even "popped a wheelie" on occasion. Cybill hated him, hated him, hated him.
 
After nearly two weeks without seeing her nemesis, she thought, Good. He was gone and that's all that mattered. Maybe he moved. Maybe he was arrested. Maybe he finally got into that accident he was looking for. Oh, God, maybe he was dead...

114

Carole could feel their cruel eyes on her. It made her feet feel too big, her face too long, her mouth too wide, her clothes smelly and dirty and out of fashion. None of it was too true. Carole had rather large feet, but she was tall. Her face was made to appear too long because of her inappropriate haircut, or lack thereof. Her mouth was wide, but, though she didn't know it, it was one of her best features. Carole's clothes were, indeed, out of fashion. Under scrutiny, she was sweating and increasing her chances of smelliness. There was also a stain on the front of her shirt, but she hated to throw it away.

113

When I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I'm not on the top of an Alp. I'm not hanging with Eskimos. I'm not about to shred a powder-perfect mountain with my snowboard. When I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I see death.
 
I was driving and I opened my patty at a light - safely, thank you. Light turned green, I went, and I took a big bite of chocolate and peppermint and nearly died. My throat closed. I couldn't suck even the tiniest of winds. I chewed frantically and tried to breathe. My sight was closing down into a tunnel. Darks were very dark and lights were washed-out bright. How was I steering? My foot lagged on the gas as I swallowed reflexively and kept trying to breathe. I can only imagine my eyes were bugging out of my head, my limbs becoming weaker. I thought vaguely of pulling over, but I couldn't spare the energy--I needed to breathe!
 
Finally, a teenie bit of air. I swallowed and sucked another teenie bit. Not enough, and not fast enough. I looked at Death. Death from a friggin' York Peppermint Patty. What a stupid way to go.

112

There once was a girl who lived alone in the woods. No one knew how she had gotten to live alone, for most girls her age lived with their parents or, at least, an appointed guardian, but this girl had none. She lived in a home made of stone with a roof made of thatch. No one knew who had built the house, and they assumed the girl could not have built it herself, so craftily made it was. Townspeople often filled their empty times by turning conversations to this girl alone in the woods, but their ideas roamed around and around without getting anywhere. The conversations always ended with a helpless shake of the head and wishes that someone, somewhere, would do something.

111

Your house is a mess, and it depresses you. What are you doing about it? Maybe you want to move, and think that will solve your problems. WRONG! You will simply bring with you your #1 problem: YOU.

Real Living Secret: it doesn't matter where you live. You could be in a cream suburban dream, a hipster's flat, a gleaming mansion or a cardboard box--your life will be exactly the same unless you get to the source of your problem.

There are thousands of books on cleaning up clutter, energizing your house, feng shui-ing the heck out of the cardinal points, detoxification, taming paper tigers, but those are temporary solutions. If you want permanent change, change yourself.

Good News: reading this book is your first step!

Bad News: reading this book won't mean diddly if you don't absorb the information. Stop reading now, and simply reflect on your situation for a day. Reflect on the knowledge that it doesn't matter where you live--YOU will always be there.

110

He was the Superman to my Lois Lane. Or was it Lana? Anyway, he was Superman, and he had it all. Everybody loved him; except his arch enemies, but that kind of jealousy was to be expected. He was invincible. He could do no wrong. He was desperately needed, especially by me. My knight in shining spandex, the savior of all.

We were married, and, yeah, being the object of jealousy was great; I finally knew the thrill Superman got from Lex Luthor's envy. It's because we were married that I found out Luthor's envy was misplaced. No one would be jealous if they knew what I knew: Superman was a royal bastard.

109

Still no signal, still alone. Maybe it was that she was hemmed in by tall brick buildings on both sides of the dim alley. Fiona held her phone higher then swore at herself for being stupid. Desperation makes everyone stupid, she thought, but sometimes it seems to work. Her flat sneakers slapped the damp brick pavement as she tried to find her way out of this warren. Fiona felt it was getting difficult to breathe, and she recognized the dull ache in her head as stress. Breathe, stupid. Don't worry yet.

She pulled her backpack onto both shoulders but kept her phone in her hand. At the end of every intersection, she redialed John's number, but got nowhere. One alley opened onto another, some brighter, some darker. Some empty, some not.

108

Eventually, you will be forgotten. Harsh, yes, but a reality you should face: you will be forgotten. Everyone who truly knew you by name will die. Your grandparents, your pets, your parents, your aunts and uncles, your older cousins, your younger cousins, your brothers and sisters all will die. If you have children, they may die; they may even "die of old age" before you. Your friends will all die. You will make more, but the further on in life you go, the faster those new friends will die. No one will be left who could say the color of your eyes. No one will be left who remembers the color of your hair. No one will be left to recognize your voice.
 
Once there is no one left who remembers you, how will you view yourself? Senility is a possibility, but it's not guaranteed. You remember you. You remember all those who loved you and are now gone. You remember the teen heartthrob you mooned over, long dead and unrecognized in conversation for decades. Your favorite things, the things you saved for, the things you wanted but couldn't afford, you can't find anymore. Nobody even remembers what they were used for. Forgotten. Just like you.
 
How do you view yourself? There is no one who shares your memories, your likes and dislikes. Who are you?
 
You are a time-traveler.

107

Luther thought back to when he still had his legs and hated himself for being so unappreciative. Stairs. His motorcycle. Regular shoes. They had given him prosthetic legs and he had dutifully learned how to use them, but they hurt and were awkward and he couldn't wear any of his old shoes. At least, he thought, my feet will never smell. At that, he burst into laughter that turned into tears, and the old people in the park stared at the crazy cripple.

106

The dry leaves sounded like insect husks stirred by shuffling feet in an empty room. The trees dropped their bones upon the cooling ground and they snapped under Kee's light boots. Only the stone markers seemed completely quiet, though they spoke to Kee in their fading fonts and weeping willows.

105

Marjorie did weird things when she thought no one was looking. Kaylee caught her sniffing her shoe. James saw her eating bits of eraser. Georgio wondered why she talked to her hand. When her teacher noticed her licking and replacing the class' boxed crayons, Marjorie was sent to the school counselor.

104

He never wanted to be a murderer. He never wanted to be a hero. Most people believed him one or the other, but he knew that he was both at the same time. The same "most people" resist the multi-layered approach to humans, preferring them to be "good" or "bad". They, themselves, are on the same scale, assuredly on the side of good. More good than bad. Most people also cannot handle seeing others from different perspectives. Generally, "different perspective" equals "wrong".

Jack was a murderer. Jack was a hero. Jack was good and Jack was bad. Every person's perspective was different and none of them were wrong. Not even Jack himself.

103

It was a hot, bright day and it was noisy with cicadas and lawn mowers. The occasional car roared down the side street, a popular cut-through in the down-turning neighborhood, thumping bass and rattling plastic. An old man groaned to his rat terrier as he shuffled out to his porch across the street, and he sat carefully in one of the molded plastic chairs.

Martin was sipping iced tea on his porch, watching. It felt like a day that something would happen, and although he had felt that way before, he was sure that this was the day. He was right.

102

It was days like this one, ones that woke her, sweating, out of a fitful sleep, that she knew were going to be particularly bad. Moist heat was already rolling in her bedroom window and it squealed when she shut and locked it against the stifling morning. Cara closed all the windows and pulled the drapes. It would do no good if all the cooler night air was wasted in a half-hour of sun-sizzled daylight, the air so thick it felt like she was wearing it like a wetsuit.

101

What is in room 101? A person who has read George Orwell's 1984 knows the answer is "The worst thing in the world." If I were to ask that person what the worst thing in the world is, he or she would most likely answer, "Rats." He or she would be wrong.

The worst thing in the world is sacrificing those you love to save yourself.

I did that. I did the worst thing in the world. I sacrificed everything I ever loved to save myself, and here I am, and here they're not. I wish the worst thing had been rats.

100

They say that because cruise ships are so big you never feel the motion of them on the sea. They are apparently not sensitive enough to that motion. The ships, no matter how large, roll slowly back and forth, up and down. They pull forward. They lag back. The motion never ceases, not even in port. This motion is the clearest when you are in your cabin's bed, tossing because you're rolling. The next clearest is when you try to walk normally down a straight hallway. You can't just step; you must place your steps, and even then you will drift back and forth. The worst, however, will come when you are back on land and you're still rolling. You lie down in your hotel bed, trying to get some sleep before your early morning flight back to the ice and the dark, but you are too dizzy from the rocking, rocking, rocking of the perfectly still bed.

99

Hal dreamed of a woman he didn't recognize. He understood, in his dream, that he knew her. They were in a cemetery on a sunny, fall day. She walked ahead of him and stopped to read a tombstone. She must have read something interesting because she turned to him, pointing. When she knew he was looking at her, she smiled broadly, and Hal smiled, too.

98

Being with others never became easier. They clung. Their smells lingered. Their faces hung behind closed eyes and their voices repeated and repeated. How many people were too many? It would depend on how the gathering went. One perceived misstep could linger, well, forever, as far as Mary knew. There were episodes from her elementary school days that still replayed on bad nights. She was getting better at recognizing when these moments were happening, though she was still powerless to stop them. Mary would know the instant it was over that it was an interaction that would haunt her.

97

Martien awoke slowly. He was dreaming that he was trying to open his eyes, but the light was so bright, he had to keep squeezing them shut again. Try as he might, he couldn't open his eyes. They started to water and Martien began to panic. In his dream, his body suddenly became sluggish. He struggled against growing immobility. His panic increased and he strained to lift even a finger. His chest hurt. He tried to scream and found he couldn't even breathe. Move, move, MOVE! he thought.

Martien convulsed in his bed, scissoring his legs into a tangle of sheets and slapping one arm against his night stand. He gasped like he had been drowning and blinked his streaming eyes against the late morning light coming in from the tall windows. Awake, finally, and knowing this day he would be nagged by the feeling that some wordless thing was wrong, Martien wished that you could go home again.

96

It was a conscious decision, as Frannie believed all her decisions were, to change the face she put out to the world. It had always been her own face, unadorned and unrevealing. As Frannie crossed over the birthday that brought her closer to her own life's end than to the beginning, she first fully acknowledged that she had never been fashionable, and then she decided to remedy the situation, even if only temporarily.

95

The outdoor concert smelled like beer, sweat, perfume, and cigarettes. Occasionally someone steeped in weed wandered by, but the security cracked down on that hard, so it wasn't much of a problem for Julia who was surrounded by bodies. Slowly but surely she was moving closer to the stage.

It was a small city, but they had managed to get some formerly big names to do their Friday night concerts. Everyone came out, though for different reasons. Most came out no matter who was performing. Julia knew anyone under the age of thirty attending this concert was here to find their friends and to be seen. A great many came just to drink and ogle the teen girls. Around the outskirts were the very old and the infirm, bobbing their heads and being grateful they weren't indoors on such a nice night.

Julia, and most of the people down in front, were actually here to see the band. A fifty-something lady dressed head to toe in jeans was screaming the words and swaying, hands in the air, her eyes locked on the lead singer. Whenever he appeared to look her way, the lady would wave two thumbs up, hoping she had been seen. Julia stepped around the woman into the red light bathing the first fifteen feet of the crowd.

Even after more than twenty years since this band had filled any auditorium, it was still a dream of most of the older women, and a great many of the men, in this audience to be noticed. To be tapped on the shoulders and have a backstage pass pressed into their hands. To be asked to stay after the concert because the lead singer wanted to see you, personally.

Julia swung around a grey-haired man with a goatee who was boogieing down despite his ample beer belly. The band was just crashing through the final chords of one of their best remembered classics. The singer conducted the drummer's crashes, pumping his fist again, again and again before spinning to face audience, triumphant and beaming. The crowd screamed and hooted and waved. Julia pictured the fifty-something woman, her red-rimmed mouth open and thumbs thrusting to the sky.

The singer grabbed his microphone with his left hand and looked out, then down. His wide smile faltered as his eyes caught those of Julia, surrounded yet somehow alone, bathed in light from the stage.

94

The dead escalators were the best way down into the subway, though they were palm-sweating steep. The ceiling had collapsed over the regular stairs. When she was in a desperate hurry, Clara hopped into the space between the former down and up sections and slid, her smooth-bottomed sneakers and gloves taking the friction.

93

I thought my mother's first reaction to my new place was going to be, "It's too dangerous to live there!" but it turned out she actually said, "You bought a what?" because she misheard me.

"A warehouse, Mom."

"Ahh. My God, I thought you said 'whorehouse'."

"Muh-ther!"

My mother did eventually get to the part about where that said warehouse is located, but by then she was so relieved I wasn't suddenly a Lady of the Evening that she forgot to harp on it.

Yes, the warehouse isn't in the best neighborhood, but there aren't any warehouses in the rich sections of the city, even if I could afford to live there. Living in a warehouse is much more secure than anything else, though. It has industrial doors and industrial windows and it doesn't look like much so people mostly ignore it. I, however, thought it was beautiful, and it is big.

There are three floors, and I don't live on the first floor at all. I have a freight elevator that I take up to the second floor where I keep all my junk under paint tarps. The best part is that I can ride my bike right into my apartment and never have to carry it! Yeah, I traded off having an actual kitchen, but that will come.

92

Usually, when you feel as if someone is staring at you, it is merely your own brain sending out electrical shots of paranoia causing increased heart rate and surface skin reactions that you interpret as eyes upon the back of your head. Julia began feeling that someone was watching her, however, when someone started watching her from across the street.

Having had a sound, scientific upbringing, Julia initially analyzed her body's reaction as a residual guilt over not marrying her former boyfriend and thereby disappointing her grandmother. It was, therefore, days before she even thought to look at the dull, blue-grey house opposite and wonder about its tenants.

91

Hamlet lived in a small world. His possessions were neatly organized in his room, mostly in shoe boxes and baggies. He carried what he needed for the day in a stiff, brightly-colored backpack. Hamlet's clothes were varied, but all looked like each other and were always well pressed. His sandwiches were small with the crusts cut off.

The bus arrived promptly between 3 and 3:15. Hamlet boarded, swiped his bus pass and sat in the middle, deftly swinging his backpack from his shoulders and holding it firmly in his lap. He looked around and noticed only details.

90

"I think John Pizzell is retarded."

Claire looked over her shoulder at Mike who was sitting at the other computer. "Why is that?"

"Because he refuses to spell check and uses random capital letters in his posts."

Facebook was really beginning to bother Mike who was a stickler for proper English. He couldn't even use abbreviations while texting, but, then again, neither could Claire. "Don't worry, Mike. It's just the breakdown of civilization."

"Yeah, but he's promoting his 'professional' business! He should really try to be professional." Mike closed the Facebook window in frustration. "Are people's brains really being rewired?"

Claire swiveled around in her chair. "Are you asking me to start a new study?"

89

The walls were beginning to close in. The books and piles of folders loomed. Scraps of paper were stuffed and taped in any available space. Dust and crumbs and the occasional dessicated insect littered surfaces. Even the back of the faded red sofa was dusty. Balls of cat hair tumbled under tables, gathering more and more until they caught on the edge of a throw rug or under the long drapes.

Lauren had once wondered how anyone could go more than two days without a shower, but she eventually found that five was her magic number. After five, she started to itch.

88

A woman stood in the art gallery, her back to the large windows facing the street. Her weight was on her left hip and her body made a slight curve. Her hair was not long, nor was it short. Her clothes were gender-generic and neutral in color. The woman stood still for long moments before suddenly shifting her feet or pushing on her hair and returning to her neutral, if slightly bent, position.

The art was blurry from a distance. Smears of color washed in art gallery spotlight. Small squares of canvas were dwarfed by large expanses of pristine white walls. There were no frames.

87

"What the hell am I suppose to do?"

Mrs. Kirby continued to shuffle paperwork. She sucked on her invisible braces and looked everywhere except at her client.

"I need to see a doctor. I ain't got enough money to see a doctor but you telling me I got too much money, somehow. How? How is that?"

Mrs. Kirby opened her mouth and closed it again.

"I don't even have nothing for them to take when I can't pay. My car? How am I suppose to get to work, then?"

Another service worker peeked over the cubicle divider and looked worried.

"You don't write the rules, is that what you wanna say? You just follow the rules? Is that it?"

Mrs. Kirby tipped her chin up.

"I see. You don't care because you got your nice job with benefits. Or you did care but now you don't because you think I'm mad, that all your "clients" are mad, at you. Is that it? I'm not mad at you excep' for the fact that you don't do nothing to help change the system. You don't ask questions. You don't even answer my questions!"

The security guard wandered in from the hallway and waited at the door.

"Mrs. Kirby, you should quit your job to-day. It has taken your soul. You ain't helping nobody, not even your own self. You are just like all these forms you make all us fill out and send back again and again when there's parts we missed. You a government form. Nothin' but, and just as soulless. Quit, Mrs. Kirby. Maybe I see you around when you found your soul again. Or maybe I'll be dead."

86

Cindy had a carefully crafted persona that become most obvious to the rest of the world when she began insisting her name was spelled "Sin-Dee," complete with the dash. Her persona-crafting, however, had begun in second grade. Cindy could pinpoint it herself, if she chose to (though she didn't,) as the moment her elementary school crush, Matt, said she looked like his mother.

In Matt's defense, Cindy did look like his mother, especially on that particular day. Cindy had been wearing a cream-colored cardigan with faux pearls sewn down the front. She had also gotten a new haircut--the "Dorothy Hamill"--that didn't suit her, but was the same style worn by Mrs. Anderson (Matt's mother.) Finishing the look, Clumsy Kelley had just dropped the box of loose crayons on the floor at Cindy's feet. The face Cindy made, combined with the fists-on-hips stance she took, struck the boy Matt so profoundly, that he blurted, "You look just like my mom does when she's mad."

Sin-Dee today has a penchant for black, several piercings and several more tattoos; however, if Matt would have walked by the bar where Sin-Dee worked on this particular evening and saw the look she was giving a patron who had just knocked the drink from her hand, he may have found himself again blurting, despite the tramp-stamp, "You look just like my mom does when she's mad."

85

When I was ten, a guy opened the front screen door and caught me by surprise while I was watching Tom and Jerry in the afternoon. It seemed that I moved so slowly, like you do in those terrible dreams, and my head was still turning towards him as he straddled me on the old sofa. My step dad threw that sofa out while I was still in the hospital. I came back and we had a new, blue sofa from that warehouse that sells crappy sofas and crappy mattresses. It was the first time I recognized being grateful to anyone for anything.

The guy moved fast while I moved slow. My legs and right hand were pinned and my Kool-Aid spilled on the carpet. I shouldn't have had it on the floor, I thought; Mom would be mad. Even though my left hand was free, I somehow didn't think about it and it lay there, useless. The only thing I did do was yell. I had great lungs and I really let loose. The guy got so mad, he screamed at me to shut up, shut up, or I'll slice your throat.

Well, that was it; I heard he'd slice me and I screamed even more. I drowned him out, the TV out, the traffic out. I screamed and screamed--it was the only part of me that worked. He stopped trying to pull off my pajama pants, the ones with the perky princesses on them, and pulled out a serrated knife. I didn't think it possible, but I screamed even louder. I suppose that was good because the neighbors who visited the hospital told me that scream was what made them come down. The guy sliced my throat.

You figure you'd die. It stung terribly for a second then, nothing. I gushed blood all over him and he hopped back. I grabbed my throat, one finger going into the slit, and out again. Mr. James, our upstairs neighbor, squeaked open the screen door, and the guy freaked. He freaked and ran. Mr. James breathed, "Oh, my God." I'd never heard a grownup sound scared, but he sure did. I thought Mr. James left, but I guess he found a towel in the bathroom. He rolled it up like I would for swim class and pressed it to my neck. "Hold this here, Bria. Hold it tight. I'm going to call for help."

We didn't have any phone, so he ran back outside. I was scared the guy with the knife would come back, but other neighbors started looking through the screen. I sat on the old sofa with the towel on my neck. I heard Mr. James yelling outside, "Help! We need help! Call an ambulance! There's a girl hurt! Help!"

There's never a cop too far away in our neighborhood, which in this case was good. Mr. James held the screen and a younger cop strode in until he saw me. He must not have believed Mr. James or thought he was exaggerating, but when that cop saw all the blood and me with a bloody bath towel and with the red Kool-Aid on the floor and sound of Tom running after Jerry, he skidded to a stop. The older cop that came in behind him didn't hesitate. He knelt down by me, right in the blood and cherry Kool-Aid, to tell me it would all be okay. He asked me if I could talk. I nodded, though I wasn't sure. He asked me what happened. I swallowed, but it hurt and I cried a little then. I held the towel tighter and told him about the guy with the knife. I saw my pajama bottoms were on the floor, and I cried again. I can't believe it, thinking back, but I was partly embarrassed to have my pants off, and partly upset because those were my favorite PJ bottoms.

84

Jere pulled back the door's curtain just as some kid walked up to ring the bell. The kid screamed and dropped the raffle tickets he was holding.

"Sorry," said Jere. "I didn't mean to scare you." Jere's bare feet came into the kid's view. The toenails were dirty and long. A mangy cat sped out of the house and scattered the remaining raffle tickets.

"It's okay, mister. I'm okay. I was just..." The smell from the house hit the kid and he gagged on his words.

"Let me help you," said Jere, squatting and picking at a ticket. Jere's short robe rose up his rashy thighs and the kid gagged again, turning his gaze away too late, too late. For the rest of the kid's life, the image of scabby knees spreading wide as Jere squatted before him would resurface whenever he was under stress, and once when he looked in a pot of boiling roast.

83

Aaron drove his new-to-him truck to work in the dark. It wasn't dark because it was the crack of dawn; it was dark because he worked the overnight, and it was winter. Dark came early in winter.

He was very pleased with his truck because it was the newest vehicle he had ever owned, and the driver's side door didn't squeal embarrassingly when it opened and shut. He hated working the overnight. He hated his job. He hated his tie.

The door to Aaron's truck swung open silently. He was already picturing the reluctant trudge into work as he slammed the truck door firmly shut, more energetically than was necessary. The force of the shove, an unusual show of muscle for Aaron, caused him to slip on the ice. His midnight lunch flew comically high in the air as his feet slid out from under him. Aaron hit the ground with lung-clearing force, and the sheet of ice carried his body completely under the cab of his truck. He heard his lunch hit the ground behind him.

Tonight was not going to be a good night.

82

The woman who owned the bookstore was obviously addicted to the Mary Jane, though she undoubtedly thought it didn't show. Her artwork was terrible and it hung in random places, like it was supposed to be a pleasant surprise, but was more unfortunate than that. Books were generally overpriced and hard to browse because of their haphazard stacking. The college students in the eclectic neighborhood thought it was wonderful mainly because they hadn't cultivated any astute judgment yet. What was well thought out was not yet appreciated; rather, if they were told it was "cool" then it was.

81

The fall air was gold and crisp and it carried the eye for miles and miles. Golden sun warmed where it shone while the sharp shadows held the cold promise of frost to come. Evenings were heralded by woodsmoke fires as the light faded and left the summer-lovers surprised still. Willows yellowed, oaks held fast, and maples dressed in bright finery to be waxed and pressed by those who remembered in time.

80

As the barista deftly scooped the remaining foam off her no-foam latte, Margaret listened to the conversation occurring at the table closest. Normally, you couldn't hear anything, but it was eerily quiet. She realized the ever-present, ultra-hip compilation CD wasn't playing. Now that it was gone, she missed it.

"I can't make decisions. It's because of my mother. She never let me decide when I was young. My father worked all the time and I developed an unhealthy attachment to men who would abandon me."

"Mmm," said the man.

"One no-foamsoychailatte?"

"Thank you," she said, abandoning the woman herself as she was sure the man would, too.

Margaret sat at a small, round table near the front windows. Another woman with a lap full of computer sat in one of the upholstered chairs. The woman kept laughing at something she was watching. Eventually, Margaret had the idea that the woman was not laughing at something on the computer, but rather something playing in the woman's own head. The realization made her notice the woman's clothes, which didn't match, and her short haircut, which was uneven and quite possibly self-inflicted.

Her chai was hot, but not overly so. She sipped cautiously to make it last.