The phone rang. It did that a lot.

“Watch,” Veronica said, all business.

I nodded.

She turned her face on. That’s what she called it. Always turn your face on, she’d instructed me. They can hear it.

“The Clinic.”

Simple and crisp, but friendly. A statement. Most of the rest of the call was just sounds. Veronica had a whole repertoire.

“Oooh!” This noise implied surprise, like she was hearing something brand new.

“Aaaaah.” This was for yes, now that you mention it, that makes perfect sense.

“Mmmm hmmm.” This was conspiratorial, like I know just what you’re going through.

Her favorite seemed to be “Aww!” This was pity. You poor thing. That’s terrible.

“Well, we will make sure you never have to look at that again,” she’d say. She made that promise to every caller, with her face turned all the way on. “We guarantee it.”

Her warm smile clicked off every time she hung up the phone. It was back to business.

“Most of the questions you’ll get are how fast can they get in, how much does it cost, and how long will it take them to recover—especially anything with their face,” Veronica explained, holding up three fingers.

“They want to get back on their snaps and insta. This is what matters most to our clientele.”

I nodded.

“The Procedure is $5,000. Non-negotiable. It takes about an hour. Recovery is always quick. Yes, they will notice results immediately. Yes, it is always successful. No, there are no refunds.”

Veronica wrote this on an index card, which she then handed to me.

“This is all you need to know. You get them in, and we take care of the rest.”

I nodded, admiring her neat penmanship.

“If they ask you anything else, you just say ‘That’s proprietary.’ Understand?”

I nodded again.

“Any questions for me?” Veronica asked.

I hesitated.

“How can it cost the same every time? And it’s always an hour?”

She looked at me blankly.

I glanced at the steel door leading back to The Procedure Room.

“What’re you guys doing back there?” I whispered.

Veronica’s face turned on.

“That’s proprietary,” she said, warmly.

I nodded. Her smile switched off. And that was the extent of my training.

* * *

It took a few days to get the hang of things at the front desk. It took longer to get used to how secretive and, honestly, just weird The Clinic was. For example, I never met anyone besides Veronica. I could not talk to the customers when they arrived, and I was not permitted to enter The Procedure Room.

The waiting room really wasn’t, by which I mean we only allowed one patient inside at a time. Appointments were scheduled to prevent overlap, so customers did not see or interact with each other. Our security team verified identities and confirmed details downstairs before giving them access to the elevator. Then I would buzz them inside—but not until Veronica was there, ready to greet them by name. She would use her key card to unlock the heavy door into The Procedure Room.

After those brief moments in the lobby, I never saw the clients again.

All of this eventually became normal. Not asking questions was normal, too.

In about a year, nothing about The Clinic felt normal anymore.

* * *

Veronica and I reviewed the appointment book together every morning. I learned new terms for things, the medically correct names, like rhinoplasty and blepharoplasty, breast augmentation, and liposuction.

There seemed to be no end to the things a person could have done, or to the body parts they did them to. Like anal bleaching—my friends laughed so hard when I told them this was a thing people did. We spent an hour discussing the need for aesthetic improvements to the place your poop comes from. Charlie kept asking why people were even looking at that. Layla said people must run out of things to worry about to end up worrying about the brownness of their buttholes.

We decided bleaching the skin around your anus was a good indicator that you didn’t have enough real problems.

They loved asking me questions about my job, but my NDA prevented me from sharing much. Not that I really knew much. I didn’t.

It turned out I didn’t know most of it.

* * *

“Today is going to be a little unusual,” Veronica explained that morning, as we reviewed the book. “Our last appointment of the day. I’ve scheduled a special client. They’re being accompanied.”

This was more than “a little unusual.”

Clients always come into The Clinic alone. This was one of our rules. No one was allowed to bring a companion. They pay in advance, submit their paperwork and notarized waivers through the secure portal, and show up alone. That’s how it’s done.

But I didn’t ask questions. Of course. I knew better.

“This is a special client,” Veronica repeated. “She is a minor.”

I nodded, confused—and curious.

“The client’s mother wants her to have some work done. It’s a unique circumstance. A first for us,” Veronica continued. “Typically, we would never agree to this, but the girl’s mother is quite insistent. She feels strongly that her daughter needs a few things taken care of.”

Veronica’s face turned on.

“After a long conversation with the mother, we knew we had to do something to help.”

* * *

That evening, 4:45 on the dot, Veronica greeted a woman and a teenage girl, her daughter, who looked to be around 16.

Veronica looked very serious as she nodded, mmmm hmmm’d, and aww’d her way through the conversation with the mother, who spoke in a low voice as she pinched, poked, and pointed at her daughter.

I could only make out a few random words, like fat and breasts. Something about her father’s Italian nose.

The girl was stiff. She wouldn’t make eye contact and refused to talk.

I thought she was just being a teenager. You know, with the attitude.

Finally, Veronica slid her arm around the girl’s shoulders and promised her that she would leave happy.

“We need to share more details about The Procedure with mom first,” she explained, with her smile at full volume. “Please just wait here, and we’ll be with you shortly.”

Veronica and the mother disappeared behind the heavy door.

Almost immediately, my phone buzzed.

“Please have security escort the young lady downstairs,” Veronica said, her voice calm and even. Business as usual.

“A car is waiting.”

* * *

It was the daughter who called the cops, after her mother arrived home in a cab hours later. She was frantic, couldn’t remember anything, and said she couldn’t see. The girl got scared and called 911.

By the time the police entered The Clinic, it was empty. Everyone and everything, just gone.

The story was huge. I was interviewed on all the major networks, telling the same story to different people and answering “I don’t know” to most of their questions.

There was no one else for them to talk to about this, after all. I was better than nothing.

In reality, I learned almost everything by watching TV, just like the public.

That was where I learned the truth about The Procedure.

All those clients—their retinas were taken. Then they were donated for transplant.

Hundreds of people were blinded.

And hundreds more had their sight restored.

Some people called Veronica a butcher. Others called her an activist or a hero.

Either way, without anyone to prosecute, with no salacious trial to devour, we moved on to the next thing that captured our collective attention in no time at all.

Back to business.

It was always going to end this way, and

we both knew.

We pretended we didn’t—

it was essential to the adventure,

because not pretending

meant saying

we both knew

it was always going to end this way.

Kim felt them staring.

She felt them everywhere she went, the heavy looks of judgment and disgust. She’d learned a long time ago how to hold her gaze—to fix her eyes on the ground, not make eye contact, and look appropriately ashamed of herself. Some places were easier than others. Restaurants and grocery stores were the worst: people peering into her cart, scrutinizing its contents, or watching what the waiter brought and if she ordered dessert.

But this? This is a close second.

She slowly made her way down the aisle, trying not to touch anyone but unavoidably touching everyone. Hips, belly, and thighs pressing against arms and shoulders, one foot at a time. Some people refused to move even an inch, as if to challenge or punish her. Others recoiled, like she’s repulsive. Like her fat is contagious.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. Sorry.”

She silently promised herself she would never fly again, no matter whose funeral it meant missing.

She glanced at the row numbers.

That’s only row 9, she thought desperately. Oh my God, it’s so far away.

Kim looked towards the back of the plane, past a sea of people, her face hot with embarrassment.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She couldn’t wait for this trip to be over. She just wanted to go home and be by herself with her cat and her books.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a reminder to put carry-on items under the seat in front of you if they will fit. We have a full plane today and need as much overhead bin space as possible to accommodate everyone. Thank you for your assistance.”

Kim cringed. The trip out had been hard, but at least the plane had a lot of empty seats.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Finally, row 24. She was grateful for her aisle seat. Her row was empty, but she knew that was too good to last. She dreaded having someone in the middle. They were going to hate her.

She lifted the inside armrest and sank into her chair. She knew a flight attendant would be by shortly to offer her the seatbelt extender.

Kim thought about her grandma’s funeral, how her father’s empty, stiff hug felt like a stranger’s, with a robotic pat pat pat and release. He would not look at her or even stand near her. She didn’t bother trying to talk to him; he never had anything to say. Her mother overcompensated, as usual, with a pitying smile and fluttering hands, offering chocolate candies and small packs of powdered donuts from the endless supply in her purse.

She’d had 22 years of that. Now Kim carried her own consolation prizes. She’d eat some later, alone, in the lavatory.

Those patient boxes

stacked in corners

what’s buried

tugs my elbow

taps my shoulder

whispers in my ear.

In the dark, I roll over

reaching

until I remember

sleeping dogs have

soft fur and

sharp teeth.

Coffee shops and beauty parlors were full of armchair detectives—everyone had a theory to share or rumor to spread. Thanks to the papers, even the surrounding communities knew what he looked like and, especially, his name.

Everybody knew his name.

Another Child Vanishes; Cops Claim No Leads

Search Continues for Local Scout

No Trace of Bradley Jenkins, Age 8

Third-grader Bradley Jenkins was the sixth child to go missing.

* * *

Tamma walked into The Engine Room around 3:15. They didn’t open for another 45 minutes, but that didn’t stop the small band of regulars from taking their seats—or the bar’s owner, Ted, from setting a cold beer in front of them. Still in her first week, Tamma felt she was starting to gel with the rhythm of the place. Her arrival was acknowledged with polite nods as the routine hum of conversation went on unabated.

“Ain’t no way it’s a local,” one of the regulars said.

“You got that right,” Ted agreed.

“It hasta be,” said another.

“We’d notice someone that didn’t belong here,” affirmed a third.

“I heard they found his shoe,” the second added.

“Nobody found a shoe!“ the first replied. “Nobody ever found anything!“

“That’s why they’re never gonna solve’m,” Ted added.

“Y’all think it’s the same guy?” one wondered.

“Who said it’s just one guy?” answered Ted.

Tamma listened to their chatter as she cut lemons and limes into wedges and topped off the garnish center with cherries and olives. Once her prep was complete, she popped into the ladies’ room to freshen up before the happy hour crowd arrived.

* * *

It was familiar and foreign at the same time: a girl’s plastic barrette, teal blue, shaped like a butterfly. It was snapped shut, with ragged strands of hair trapped between.

Tamma stared at it, confused. When did she put this in her apron pocket? Or...did she put it there? She couldn’t remember. Children were not allowed in The Engine Room, so she couldn’t have found it here. Right? Why else would it be in her apron, though?

A group of women entered the restroom. Tamma started to throw the barrette in the trash, but stopped and slid it back into her pocket.

* * *

Tamma had worked at The Engine Room for just a few weeks, and she felt like she was losing her mind.

Somehow, someone kept...putting things...in her apron. It was probably a little friendly hazing for the new girl, she thought, and she tried to take it in stride—but these were weird, sometimes creepy little trinkets that made no sense, and, admittedly, it unsettled her. It started with that barrette. Next, a red and white domino. A few days later, a little elastic bracelet with heart-shaped beads.

But then, yesterday, there was this: a torn piece of white shoelace decorated with yellow ducks. Tamma turned it over and found it smeared with something—deep, rusty red. She moved from feeling uneasy to something much closer to scared.

If this had ever been funny, it wasn’t anymore.

* * *

“Hey, Teddy Bear,” a regular called out. “Answer me this. I need a birthday gift for my nephew.”

“What’re you asking me for? I don’t know shit about kids,” Ted replied with a laugh, looking up from his newspaper.

Tamma sat nearby and tried to focus on her liquor inventory sheet. Her mind was on the shoelace she’d found the day before—where it came from and what she needed to do about it.

“Isn’t he going into the Boy Scouts?” one asked.

“Get him a compass—what’s that one they all get...” the third began as he scrolled through his smartphone. “...yeah, here it is: ‘A Treeline Starter Compass has a compact baseplate designed for children’s smaller hands.’”

“I got one of those when I went into Scouts; that’s a good idea,” another agreed.

“Nah,” said Ted as he turned his attention back to the paper. “I think they break easy.”

“What does he know?” one teased.

“He said he don’t know shit!“ answered the third, and they all laughed.

* * *

There was a little pine tree icon on it, and the words were printed just under that: Treeline Starter.

“I got one of those when I went into Scouts.”

Tamma held the jagged plastic chip with shaking fingers. Her mind spun.

Search Continues for Local Scout

This just happened, she thought frantically. They were talking about this ten minutes ago.

“Children’s hands.”

She knew—without a doubt—that this just appeared in her pocket. Her apron was around her waist the entire time.

“They break easy.”

This is crazy—I know it’s crazy. But I know it’s real. This is really happening.

Her mind gripped that thought tight, and it steeled her.

* * *

In the quiet of the storeroom, Tamma tucked a slip of paper in her apron and closed her eyes.

This will never work, she thought.

She took a few deep breaths.

“Bradley. Tell me what you need me to do,” she whispered.

She waited a moment and retrieved the paper. There, in a child’s scrawl:

Wide-eyed, Tamma clutched the note to her chest. She quickly made her way to the office, slipped inside, and gently shut the door.

Standing in front of Ted’s desk, she surveyed piles of paperwork and stacks of folders. The heavy wooden desk had several drawers. She felt sick with fear, overwhelmed, and unsure where to begin.

Then one of the brass ring pulls flicked. It flicked repeatedly, up and down, slapping against its baseplate. It was the bottom left drawer. Tamma reached and then jerked her hand back. She took the bar rag from her waistband and wrapped it around her fingers, gripped the ring, and pulled.

At the bottom, there was the remainder of Bradley’s smashed compass. It sat alongside a yellow yo-yo, a cracked retainer, a small stuffed dog, and a teal barrette shaped like a butterfly.

* * *

Tamma followed the news with secret satisfaction. Of the items Bradley had tucked into her apron, she kept only the note:

The oak tree in her back yard kept watch over the rest.

“Can we share?”

Margaret looked up from her laptop and felt herself staring. The woman standing at her table was intensely beautiful.

“OK if we mix?” The stranger smiled brightly with photogenic teeth. “It’s so crowded.”

“Oh, yes!” Margaret stammered, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “I’m about to head to my gate, anyway.”

“Thank you,” the woman sighed, settling into her seat. “Don’t you just hate airports?”

Margaret closed her laptop. “Well, they are great for people watching.”

“I know just what you mean,” the visitor grinned. “By the way, you have incredible eyes! So blue. I’m jealous.”

Margaret smiled. She loved her “sparkly sapphire eyes,” as her daddy called them, just like her mother’s. She never considered herself pretty, but her eyes were special.

“Well, thanks. I guess I’ll keep them,” Margaret joked, getting up from her chair.

The stranger laughed and extended a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Riva.”

Margaret grasped it and suddenly felt wobbly. Exhausted. She leaned against the table to steady herself. Riva furrowed her brows. “Are you OK? You look…”

“Tired, probably,” Margaret finished, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I think this trip is catching up with me.”

“Travel really is draining,” Riva agreed. “Anyway, thanks again for sharing.”

Margaret gathered her things and shuffled toward the restroom. She’d splash some water on her face. That might help.

* * *

Minutes later, under a staccato fluorescent light, Margaret gaped into the mirror. She didn’t even recognize the gaunt face staring back, with thin, flaky lips. Her papery, wrinkled skin was powdery grey, the same dull color as her tangled mass of dry, wiry hair, and she reached to smooth it down with a craggy, veined hand. But it wasn’t until she noticed her lifeless eyes—pale as dust, barely blue—that she screamed. The sound splintered against tile and stainless steel and dissolved into the roar of hand dryers and a final boarding call for flight 819.

The taste of pennies was the first thing. A mouthful, sharp and metallic.

The fact that she was moving came next—the thing she was in. This container.

Sheila’s eyes were open, but she couldn’t see. She heard a motor, felt a gentle, rhythmic bumping.

She smelled gasoline.

A car. The trunk of a car.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

The rhythm was soothing. Hypnotic.

She felt fuzzy and tired, sinking again into the deep, dark water.

***

What is happening? Sheila’s mind reached out, groping—and found nothing.

Her hands were twisted and bound behind her; her knees and ankles cinched tight. She could barely move.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

Her mouth was filled with blood. She desperately wanted to spit it out, but her lips were sealed shut with leathery tape.

She swallowed hard and forced it down.

Teeth, her brain said.

You swallowed your teeth. Like pills.

She slid her tongue across her gums, searching, and found the raw spots where they had been broken.

An icy wave of panic washed over her. Her scream swelled but stayed trapped, escaping as a muffled noise.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

And she needed to throw up.

She told herself: You cannot do that.

You will choke.

Her mind raced, calculating.

You will die.

Focus.

***

Sheila receded into herself, concentrating on not vomiting.

On not panicking.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

On breathing.

She thought about being in labor with Chloe, scared by the pain. It felt like her back was breaking. She thought about the stuffed toy Roger brought to the hospital—a lamb, with a music box inside. Its head moved in a slow, mechanical circle while it played a tinny lullaby. She’d squeezed its woolly, soft body. She found comfort in the metallic clicking as she wound the little silver key.

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are gray...

Now Chloe was almost three, and she loved that toy. It went everywhere with her.

Sheila thought about the lamb’s face. And Chloe’s.

You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you...

That’s when Sheila realized she wasn’t simply remembering the tune.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

She could hear it.

***

She struggled closer, her body rigid as she strained to listen.

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine...

There it was. She could imagine Chloe’s tiny fingers turning the key. Click, click, click.

Then she heard Roger’s muted voice, deep and low. Unmistakable. That was her husband—and Chloe’s laugh.

Her daughter was right there.

You make me happy
When skies are gray...

Her mind reeled.

It was their car.

Suddenly, she had a flash of memory: Roger’s face, ugly, twisted in rage. His fists. She remembered falling. He still wouldn’t stop. She remembered thinking this time felt different—like she meant nothing to him anymore. Like he just wanted her gone.

Chloe screaming—that was the last thing she remembered.

You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you...

Sheila wept quietly.

BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.

The highway disappeared beneath them, and she lay still, listening.

Please don’t take
My sunshine away.

Maddie pressed her forehead to the airplane window and stared at the clouds, unblinking. She was exhausted. It reached her bones. She’d barely slept since the phone call two days ago that ruined her life.

And now she was on her way to collect her brother’s things.

To collect her brother. Nick.

Nicholas. Niko. Who never forgot her birthday. Who texted her every day, even when they were mad at each other.

No, wait. She was not collecting Nick.

His “remains,” that’s what they said. That’s the word they used. Not Nick. Not his body. Not a human being—just what’s left of one. A drunk driver took away the last family member she had on this earth. Wiped him away. Turned him into “remains,” like a magician. Now you see Nick, now you don’t. Ta da.

She hated the drunk driver, whoever he was. The fucking murderer drunk driver who can rot in hell, she thought. She understood the word hate now, for the first time. It’s not an emotion; it’s an activity. It breathes with her. She hoped he was paralyzed. She hoped they had to cut everything off of him—no arms or legs. She hoped he hurt and would hurt forever. She wanted his pain to match her own. She’d never had such dark feelings towards anyone, and the power they carried unsettled her. She could feel them taking residence in every part of her. Her spleen hated. Her heart thumped it from her chest like a drum.

She hated the motorcycle her brother loved that did nothing to protect him from the drunk driver she hated. She hated the cop who called her and used that word—remains—because now she couldn’t stop repeating that word to herself, over and over.

What else remains when someone dies, she wondered.

Maddie thought about that.

She does. She remains.

Alone here, with her grief. Her love. Her rage. Her hate—her enormous hate. Where does she put all of this? All of these remains—where do they go?

She wished she could put them in the ground, too.

In the ground, like Nick. Nick is going in the ground.

Tears slid down her cheeks and soaked into her shirt. This is all she did, cry and feel big, awful things that lived inside her like an aching tumor. A pained noise escaped her then—a choked, whimpering sound. She tried to swallow it. This is what the tumor was made of, she decided. All the feelings she kept swallowing. This is what would kill her.

Maddie closed the shade and sat back in her chair. Wiped her nose on her sleeve and closed her eyes. They burned hot behind her swollen lids. She wasn’t trying to sleep, but in no time at all, she was.

She dreamed she was on the back of Nick’s bike, holding on to his leather jacket. It was nighttime. She laughed, wild and free. Her hair whipped behind her, the pavement a blur beneath them. She felt weightless. Nick turned his head, and she leaned into him as he started to speak—

“Flight attendants,” the pilot said over the intercom.

Maddie awoke with a jolt.

“Prepare for landing.”

Her new dress was purple and it had sparklies all over it and when she twirled around her skirt fanned out in a perfect circle. Her mama let her pick it out all by herself. Her shoes were also purple. She wore them even though they were getting too small especially with tights. Her patent leather purse was stiff and shiny and she had a dollar neatly folded next to her glittery lip gloss that made her feel like a grown-up. She put the strap across her chest instead of over her arm because of the dollar, which she would check by turning the little silver knob and opening the purse to make sure it was still there. She was worried about the dollar and checked on it a lot and mama said if she kept opening the purse she might lose the dollar and to stop checking and that made her worry about the dollar more so she kept checking. She checked it again while she was waiting with all the other girls who were here for visitation which was a dance they would get to do with their daddies and it was special. Mama said they never do this with the prisoners but some people arranged it and it was the only time they would do this and that’s why they had cameras and so many people there. She spun in a circle to make her skirt fan out and a girl said I like your dress and she said thank you and mama didn’t have to squeeze her arm and say what do you say, she just said it by herself. She told the girl she had a dollar and that they were going inside soon to dance all night. The girl asked if she liked dancing and she said she did. She spun again and mama said stand still and so she did but not for very long. Mama said she had ants in her pants and they both thought that was funny. When it was time to go in they stayed in a line and went to the room where their daddies were waiting and she looked for her daddy and then she saw him and he had on a fancy outfit with a tie and he smiled so big and said there’s my ladybug. He picked her up which made her feel small because he is strong and she liked that. She couldn’t wait to show him her spinny skirt so she did and he said wow and that it was the prettiest dress he ever saw. Daddy danced every song she wanted to dance to. She took off her shoes because they pinched and that made her slide all over in her tights and they both thought that was funny. She stood on his feet while he danced her and she liked that the most of all. She told daddy she could ride her bike without the trainers and he said she sure is getting so big and growing like a weed. She told him that the capital of Nevada is Reno and the capital of Utah is Salt Lake and that she got 100 on the quiz about capitals and daddy said he believed that because he knows his ladybug is the smartest one in her school. She said do you remember when I helped you wash the car and you sprayed me with the hose and he said he didn’t but she knew he did because the smile meant he was pretending with her. She had tried to spray him too but she couldn’t make the thing work and daddy helped her spray him back and they both thought that was funny. She showed daddy her dollar and he said you better keep that safe and she put it back in her purse right next to the lip gloss and then she put on some lip gloss and then put that back next to the dollar and closed her purse. When she was dancing she asked her daddy where was his ring and he said they don’t let us have jewelry in here and that her mama was keeping it. She said she could put it in her purse for him and he said he knew she’d take very good care of it. She asked him when he was coming home and he said six years and she showed him that many fingers and she said that’s more than one hand and he said I know but soon it’ll just be one hand and she said six is too many and he said maybe if he’s good it won’t be six and if she’s good he’ll be good too and she promised. She cried because she missed him and wished he could come home and she doesn’t know why he can’t come home and he said I know ladybug I’m sorry and he hugged her for as long as she wanted. When she was driving home with mama she talked about how she danced on daddy’s feet and how she could slide on the floor in her tights and mama said it sounds like you had fun and she said she did. She told mama that daddy said he would be home in six fingers and that if he was good it might be less and mama said we’ll see but she knows we’ll see always means no. She was quiet after that and looked out the window at all the lights going by and her throat hurt when she swallowed because she was crying again. She tried to do it quiet because she didn’t want mama to know. She didn’t want to talk about it. She opened her purse and checked on her dollar and it was still there and that made her feel a little bit better.

Greg hadn’t been “home” in something like 35 years, and he wondered how much the town had changed. He had no idea what to expect—from his hometown, or this 40th high school reunion. This was his first one. He was really looking forward to seeing his old teammates (what was left of them, anyway). He knew he’d get to tell the story of his winning touchdown in overtime against the Panthers that brought home the state championship—and he was absolutely going to stop by and say hello to that old trophy on this trip.

“Greggo! Tell ‘em about the night you made the Panthers go home crying to their mommas!” they’ll say. “Tell ‘em about our senior season!”

Greg loved to tell that story. All those stories. Everything in the world was still in front of him, and he was on top. Thirteen-and-oh. Senior year. A fucking legend.

Claire was part of those stories. A big part. That night, they stayed out way past curfew, losing track of time in the back of his dad’s Chevy Caprice.

Greg and Claire lost a few other things back there.

They got grounded. Hell, it was worth it.

Greg smiled to himself, thinking about Claire in the back of that old Caprice. He knew she was divorced, and he knew she was coming tomorrow—and so, most of all, he was looking forward to seeing her.

Winning her back.

The one that got away.

He hadn’t seen Claire in decades, either. She broke up with him after he dropped out of college in his sophomore year.

But he had to—he lost his scholarship, along with any shot at the pros.

If you asked him, Greg would admit that Greek life was a lot of fun. Okay—probably too much. Weekends ended a little later, started a little earlier, and before long, a practice or three got skipped. Coach Bosky was always bitching at him, accusing him of being hungover, saying he was slow and flabby. Then Bosky cut him. Just like that. It was over.

Without football, he had nothing. He couldn’t pay for school. Going back home was his only option.

That was the beginning of the slide.

When he got there, Claire didn’t waste time. She dumped him. She said he was drinking too much. That he was ruining his future.

He was humiliated. Brokenhearted. They never spoke again.

But Greg was sober now. After two divorces, a daughter who wouldn’t even see him, a hundred different jobs—and, finally, a very expensive DUI, he’d agreed he had a problem. He’d started the AA thing and was six months in. And he’d even lost a few “LBs”—even though he was still carrying a little extra weight and a whole lot less hair, Greg was feeling good about himself.

And now he was here, on a plane. Hoping. If Claire could still see something in him, then maybe there was something left to see. She had loved a version of him he still believed in. He needed to know that she did, too. With Claire back in his life, he could see himself as happy again, for the first time in a long, long time. He’d bought a suit, he was going to get her flowers—the whole nine. This was the most important thing to Greg since...well, second only to his decision to stop drinking.

Greg absently thumbed through the airline magazine, not really looking at any of it. He thought about Claire. He thought about everything he’d messed up, the things he’d ruined and wasted. He thought about tomorrow night and started to feel nervous.

Really fucking nervous.

He thought about the drink cart, now making its way toward his row. And then he had a familiar thought: What could it hurt to have one—just one—“to take the edge off”?

The forest air,

spicy and clean, is

cold in the nose and hot in the throat.

Clouded breath, in the chase of

rabbits and squirrels.

Underfoot: pine needles,

leaves, and wild vines—

fresh earth, torn by claws

from the hunt.

To the left, to the right

ahead and behind:

my pack.

We talk to each other

calling out

the secret words of wolves,

our mother tongue.

I am never alone, and because

I am never alone,

I am never far from home.

During the day,

I live the good life with

my holiday sweater and

birthday cookie.

I wait for my dinner.

I am a Good Dog.

But at night,

when I sleep—

here in my house,

on this expensive memory foam bed

where I am safe, warm, and dry—

my eyes twitch.

My feet move.

I am in the forest.

I run on the cool dirt,

on the hunt,

alive with the memory of the

scent of rabbit, and

I call to my pack

in our ancient language.

I am never alone.

I am never alone.

I am once again

of The Wolves.

She’d found three faces in the fissures randomly etched into her ceiling tile, each one a frozen expression. Unchanging. There was a small kind of comfort in that. She could count on them to be there. She looked for them every day, for—how many days?

How long had she been here? She concentrated. She had to think really hard.

Trying to remember things made her tired.

She stared at the ceiling, searching for him.

There.

Fat Baby.

She gazed at Fat Baby’s toothless grin and slanted eyes.

Her baby is grown now. She remembered her baby when her baby was a baby. The sun is bright there. Cookies and bathtime. Bedtime stories.

These memories felt nice. She looked at Fat Baby and felt that sun.

She couldn’t see her husband, but she could hear him. He was talking to someone. People do that, like she’s not even here.

Maybe she wasn’t here.

Am I here? she asked.

She felt the question leave her, but she made no sound.

“...today isn’t a good day...” her husband said.

Today is how many days?

They kept talking. She didn’t want to hear them anymore.

She looked up at the ceiling.

Old Dog.

She thought about her dogs. A lifetime of dogs. Blurred piles of dogs. Black and white and brown. Soft fur and pink tongues. Wet noses.

She smiled, thinking about her dogs, even though her face didn’t change. She felt the smile instead.

Old Dog smiled back at her.

That’s a good boy, she told Old Dog with her mind. She watched him smile. He always smiled.

Fancy Lady.

Fancy Lady wore a hat with flowers. She looked busy. Where was she going? She stared at Fancy Lady’s indifferent face and thought about flowers. She thought about going places. She thought about being outside.

She thought about being here. How long had she been here?

How many days?

Her husband looked at her from across the room. He watched her staring at the ceiling and wondered what she was thinking about. He wondered if she was thinking about anything at all.

He thought about how her face never changed.

Quiet Woman.

“…extremely aggressive maneuvers clearly indicate conquest. Civilian casualties are projected to be total in all remaining zones. The enemy is executing a full-clearing operation. No life will remain...”

CLICK!

“…all analyses confirm total operational failure. Resistance has collapsed. Allied forces have withdrawn. Hostile units will not take prisoners. No rescue is possible...”

CLICK!

“…the government has activated an end-of-life protocol. All civilians are urged to follow all instructions carefully and calmly.”

"Honey, please. That’s enough for now. Turn it off."

CLICK!

***

They moved their mattress into the living room so they could lie together, all three. The government's instruction sheet indicated everyone should gather in a ground-level room with open windows.

Hanna believed it was all for fun—a family slumber party. Maybe they’d watch a movie. Diane saw a child psychologist recommend that on TV.

She nervously glanced at the screen to check the countdown timer. There were people fighting in the street. Police.

Diane started to cry. Everything was just happening so fast.

***

Garrett had a deep cut on his eyebrow, blood dripping onto his dirty shirt.

He shook his head, resigned.

"What happened?" Diane, alarmed, tried to keep her voice low.

"I was thinking, what if I could get some of the masks?"

“But…why?” she asked, eyes wide.

"It was bad, Diane. Someone started shooting..." his voice trailed off.

"Please, Gare, not so loud," she whispered. "We agreed not to, I thought...?"

"I felt like I had to try. I just wanted..."

“I love you for trying,” she said, pulling him towards her. “I just love you.”

Garrett squeezed her so hard it hurt.

***

"Sweetie, please," Diane begged. "We all need to take the sleepytime medicine."

"I not sick! No want it!” Hanna protested. She clasped a tiny hand over her mouth.

"Watch daddy!" Garrett pressed the dosing cup against his lips and pretended to swallow. "Mmmm, grape!"

"Careful,” Diane cautioned. “They only gave us just enough..."

“Me do it,” Hanna negotiated, reaching for Garrett’s hand.

Diane leaned in and kissed Hanna’s temple. Smelled her hair.

“That’s my good girl.”

***

It almost felt like any other night.

They lay together on the mattress and softly sang along to Hanna’s favorite bedtime CD:

Everyone is sleeping—

From little fishies in the sea

To the birdies in the trees,

Yes, everyone is sleeping.

Oh, it’s time for bed,

My sleepy head,

I’ll see you when we’re dreaming.

They heard the rumble of trucks outside. Dogs barked as soldiers shouted to each other, working their way down the street.

Hanna, rosy-cheeked, was fast asleep—a relief.

Garrett squeezed Diane's hand. "Remember, breathe deep," he said in a tired voice.

Diane closed her eyes. Hanna, cozy and warm, was tucked in between them.

Rubber tubes slid through open windows. Then a hissing sound. The gas had a sweet, citrus odor, just like they said it would. She thought that smelled nice.

“I wish you’d have dinner with me,” she said.
And I thought,

If we’re wishing for things,
I wish you’d watched your mouth
and kept your hands to yourself.

I wish you’d tried
at all.

I wish I’d had a better mother,
a different mother.

Anyone
but you.

So, we all wish for things,
sometimes.

Don’t we?

And we don’t always get
what we want.