Fiction

Note: The following is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress

Skating down towards Central Park, Leah’s hair flew behind her in a white and haunting ghost. 

As she rode, apartment buildings looked like mix-matched checkerboards, and each window was a square. Some were illuminated, some pitch-black. Inside the illuminated ones, maybe a family watched TV, laughing, smiling, and bonding. Inside the dark ones, maybe a family slept. Or maybe they were empty. Maybe no toddler ever made a mess on their floors. Maybe there was no food on that toddler’s plate. Maybe they only knew emptiness. Like Leah, who felt like an empty apartment, a deserted room with nothing inside of it. Except for maybe a frozen pizza and some Hot Pockets.

As Leah sped down dirty sidewalks with overgrown moss, she arrived at Central Park with only one thing on her mind: Tower Rock, her and her father’s favorite rock in Central Park. The first time they went to Tower Rock, it was breathtaking. Leah was nine years old, and she had just finished her best-ever softball game – she had a whole two hits! As a treat, her father brought her to Central Park and got her a double scoop of strawberry ice cream.

“Holy cow,” her father said. “That is huge.” The ice cream cone was bigger than Leah’s head.

“I’m not sure if I can eat this all,” Leah said. Hoards of people milled around Central Park that day; it was a mid-afternoon in July. Couples walked by them hand-in-hand, children ran away from their parents, and people rode on by with their skateboards and bicycles.

They made their way to a bench and sat down. About ten feet away from them, a man sang “Let It Be” with an acoustic guitar.

“What a day,” her father said. “I can’t believe you hit two freakin’ doubles!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her in his excitement.

“Stop it, Dad,” she said, smiling. “You’re gonna make me drop my ice cream. And then the pigeons will eat it and get sick.”

“Oh, right.”

Leah smiled, ice cream seeping out onto her lips and chin. She liked how her father got so excited about things.

“So how do you feel now that you’re a softball star? Can I get your autograph?”

“I’m not that good,” Leah said. “I just got lucky. Why isn’t Mom here?”

“Oh, you know that your mother’s busy,” her father said. “She’s always working.”

“Today is Saturday,” Leah said. “There’s no school on Saturday.”

“True,” her father said. “But there’s a PTA fundraiser today.”

“Oh,” said Leah. “That stinks.” 

Her father thought for a moment. “Hey, have you ever climbed on the rocks here?”

“No.”

“Do you want to try?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s scary.”

Her father shook his head. “I remember climbing the rocks here when I was your age. It was fun, climbing up there and seeing the world. It was like I was flying, except…”

“Humans can’t fly, Dad.”

“Do you want to try?” 

“I guess so,” Leah said. She couldn’t finish her ice cream, so she gave it to her father. He ate it in ten seconds, got up, and took Leah’s hand. They navigated their way to Central Park South. It was a five-minute walk, but there were so many people that it took at least fifteen. 

They saw children playing frisbee on the open grass, people on benches reading books, and ducks swimming along the pond. And then she saw the rocks. Most were short and flat; little children climbed all over them, some racing to see who could reach the top first and others trying to knock each other down, much to their parents’ dismay. One rock rose above them all, reaching ten feet in height. Its exterior was smooth, and there were very few footholds. Only a handful of people were at the top, most of them kids that were older than Leah. 

“Which one are we going to do?” asked Leah, but she already knew the answer. Her father looked at that rock, his eyes wide. Leah supposed that he was trying to take in as much of the world as possible.

“That one.” He pointed to the tall rock. 

They walked over, Leah’s knees shaking. 

“You go first,” her father said. “That way I’ll catch you if you fall.”

She grabbed a handhold and pulled herself up. Feeling the rock’s surface with her shoe, she tried to find a foothold, but she just dangled there. Without knowing what to do, she let go and fell straight into her father’s arms.

“Woah there,” her father said. “Maybe I should just take you up there. Get on my back.”

He set her down and squatted. Leah climbed onto his back and grabbed his neck. 

Inch by inch, her father scaled the rock, and Leah saw what he meant. She looked behind her, and the world started changing. The trees grew tiny and far away. The world on the ground didn’t matter.

“What’s this rock called?” she asked.

“I’m not sure of the official name,” he said. “But I always called it ‘Tower Rock.’ Isn’t this beautiful?” They reached the top in one minute, and her father placed her down.

Leah nodded and touched Tower Rock. It was cold and hard, and she could tell that it would be here for eternity, would remain here long after everyone around her died. In all her life, she saw nothing as beautiful as the view from Tower Rock. Two teenage girls laid on their backs looking up at the sky. A boy sat at the rock’s edge leaning against his mother’s shoulder. Everything seemed like it was a thousand feet below her. From that height, all of the trees, all of the people, all of the wildlife, emanated insignificance. Looking up at the sky, Leah felt that if someone would give her a boost, she could grab the sun with her hand and give it to her father.

“Well,” her father continued, squeezing her shoulder, “one day you’ll come here by yourself and not need me to help you climb this. You won’t need me for much longer.”

“I don’t think that will happen, Daddy,” Leah said, burying her face into her father’s shoulder, and hugging him. 

“Okay.” Her father chuckled, placing Leah onto his lap. “But if you need me to help, just tell me and I’ll be there.” He ran his fingers through her hair. They smiled.

Four years later, her father died. 

---

One night when she was thirteen, Leah laid asleep when she heard her mother enter the apartment. The door slammed, her mother’s keys jangled, and she kicked off her shoes near the front door. Thump-thump. Curious, Leah crept into the hallway. Her mother sat at the kitchen table crying, a picture in her hand, a glass of wine in the other. Soft, silent sobs.

“Mom?” Leah whispered. She almost didn’t want to be heard. Perhaps it would be better to let her mother have this private moment to herself. 

Her mother quieted and set the picture down. “It’s past your bedtime, Leah.”

“I heard you come in.” Not knowing if she should approach, Leah stood there, frozen.

Her mother chuckled. “I guess I shouldn’t have worn these.” She gestured to her boots.

“They make you even more of a klutz.” Leah wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say, but it was the first thing she thought of. Although she sometimes hated her mother, she didn’t like to see her cry. So she tried making her laugh.

It worked. Her mother smiled. “Yeah, I guess they do.”

“You probably can’t even walk in a straight line,” said Leah. “Because of the boots, not the wine,” she clarified, flinging her hands toward her mother’s feet.

“Because of the boots.” Her mother sighed, nodded, then added, “Sit down.”

Leah sat, hands shaking, heart pounding; she heard every pulse in her temples and looked at the table. The picture was right in front of her. She, her mother, and her father stood beneath the arch at Washington Square Park. Her father stood in the middle, his arm around her mother, and he held Leah’s hand. In her other hand, the nine-year-old Leah held a churro. They smiled. In the background, a saxophonist played “My Favorite Things.” Staring at that photo, Leah couldn’t remember the last time her mother looked that happy. Back then, her mother was thirty-three, her hair jet black, her skin clear, and her eyes filled with life. The person sitting next to her had aged thirty years in the past three. 

“Mom.” Leah reached out and held her mother’s hand. “Tell me what happened.” Her voice cracked. She could already figure out some of it. The picture. A drink. Tears. 

Her mother looked her in the eyes. “Your father’s gone, Leah.”

Leah shook her head. 

“It happened in his sleep. They said it was at 11:37 pm…”

Leah’s heart pumped in her chest, sending her body into a frenzy. She tried to move her hands, but they couldn’t stop shaking. The clock on the wall read 1:04 am. Less than two hours ago.

She only believed it when her mother hugged her because the last time they hugged was not long after that photo was taken.

“It’s ok,” her mother whispered. “It’s okay, Leah.”

“Liar,” Leah whispered, her voice hoarse. She started crying, thin, cold tears trailing down her cheeks. 

“Shh, shh.” Her mother patted her’s hair, stroking her fingers through her long blond strands that, according to her father, were brighter than the sun.

Leah pressed her hands against her mother’s chest and pushed back, launching herself so hard that she almost fell out of her chair. She stood up, knees trembling, voice wavering. 

“Don’t lie to me, Mom.” She took rapid, deep breaths. It was like she needed infinite air to survive. 

Her mother stood up, eased open a cabinet, took a glass, and filled it with water. She handed it to Leah, who took it and drank. One sip, then two, and she drained the glass before she knew it, the cold water sloshing down to her stomach. She put the glass in the sink and sat down. 

Her mother handed her the photograph. “Take this.”

Leah took it, examined it for a moment, and handed it back to her mother. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want this photograph to be the only way for me to remember what he looks like.” 

Her mother took a deep breath and stood up. “I think we should try to sleep.” Without making a sound, she left Leah in the kitchen. She also left the photo behind. 

Leah looked at the photo and closed her eyes. She felt it, pinched the upper left corner, and pulled. It ripped. Her mother’s face fell away. Pocketing the photo, Leah went back to her room.

Part I: 

Earth was something Yarrow understood from a distance. She knew from school it was where humanity originated, and where they fled from. It was a ball of blue with sparse green stains and wide belts of dull, barren brown. The planet orbited the sun and the city of Asylum orbited it. She never experienced life on Earth for herself; almost no one had since Asylum lifted off the planet’s surface, but she could imagine what it was like before things like windstorms and heat waves and hurricanes caused it to crumble. 

The planet was not supposed to be important anymore. Work was important. Earning the credits to buy food, getting work boots repaired, and keeping the city’s energy grid from malfunctioning were important. So when it came to the Earth, most wanted to stay as far from it as possible. It had nothing to do with daily life. 

Yarrow took after her father. He was a Scavenger, and it was his job to pilot a Pod that could leave the city- sometimes flying even farther from the Earth than Asylum. Scrap metal from old satellites could be melted down for nuts and bolts or support beams for housing units. Old technology could be repurposed. Water could be siphoned from clouds or the atmosphere for life support. Her father was more aware of their former planet than most. 

But Yarrow wasn’t afraid of the Earth. Her parents called her curious, Oleander called her insane. She didn’t care, not even with her older brother’s aversion to talking about it. “Why spend hours at the windows staring at that hunk of rock?” 

And she was never afraid to answer him. “It was our home. Or at least it was where humans used to live,” she said to him. “And it can be our home again, can’t it?” Oleander was quiet for a moment, “You’re too much like Dad.”

And maybe he was right. But Yarrow liked staring at Earth’s swirling mass of gray-white clouds or its frothy, dark blue seas after school. The vast stretches of dusty, dry land covering much of the world made her itch to sink her fingers into the fresh dirt. Her father made three trips to the Earth in his lifetime, for rare supplies. He could tell her all about it, the farmland remnants where deserts now sprawl. Or the swamps that consumed cities, ones like Asylum except rooted to the ground, making them sink below rising waters. It all sounded so thrilling. Hearing his stories made her dream of cold seas and hot skies. 

It had to be nothing like Asylum. But to keep a city as large as Asylum from falling apart, its underbelly with all its mechanisms and fuel and water filtration needed hands to keep it running. More hands than what Topside had. Asylum was crowded and sooty, tended to by its Luck Ones. 

But for some reason, it was the Topsiders that got to be called ordinary people. “Why aren’t we all just called people? Or Asylumners? Something. Anything but Topside and Underside.” 

“People like to think they’re special. Or different.” Yarrow’s mother tugged her thread taut, the hole in her gray coveralls sealing itself shut. Yarrow watched how her hands moved and began sewing the hole in her pants leg with the same stitch, but slower than her mother. 

Topside had ancestors called Founders. But Yarrow’s were called the very first Lucky Ones. The hands that made Asylum rise into the sky. Their duty was to labor away at the city to keep it alive. 

“We’re not special?” 

“I never said that. And be careful, don’t prick your thumb when you push the needle through. Good girl.”

The tear in her pants vanished before her eyes. She triple knotted the thread to keep it from unravelling and bit the line to sever it. Black thread, gray cloth. Everything she owned was gray. It didn’t match her dark hair or eyes. It didn’t suit her at all, she thought. 

“You’re lucky I saved Oleander’s old clothes, I could’ve donated them to the Fleets. It’ll take you a nice long while to outgrow them.” 

Lucky. Yarrow didn’t know if she liked that word or not. Lucky Ones should be grateful their ancestors were spared from the conditions on Earth, however many generations ago it was when Asylum took flight, and Lucky Ones should do their part to keep Asylum alive, and they should all wear uniforms to show their unity. Their brotherhood and citizenship! Topsiders said all sorts of strange things. And she’d heard their name so many times, that when Yarrow heard the word lucky in any sense she imagined something gray. 

Her mother added, “You’re plenty special, Yarrow. You’re a Lucky One. Topside might own Asylum, but the Promised Day will be ours.” She took Yarrow’s hands in her own to make sure she didn’t prick herself. “The work you do with your hands makes you one of us. You are a Lucky One.” 

She was ten when her mom first decided to teach her how to sew. From then on, Yarrow had worked as a seamstress out of her family’s home after school to help salvage a few extra credits. A lot of her work was sewing buttons and mending tears, but it also helped her collect spare fabric to donate to the Fleets for a few more extra credits. Not that currency would mean anything after the Promised Day. 

For however many years, Asylum functioned as one city with two sides, top and bottom. As far as Yarrow understood it, a bunch of Lucky Ones a long time ago decided they weren’t happy with living Underside. Something not even Topside with their Founders or their drones

were aware of. It was the idea of the Fleets, airships built wherever there was space to house them, that could return them to their original homeland. The Earth was so large, surely it couldn’t all be ruined. So the idea of the Promised Day became permanent, at least for the Lucky Ones. Everyone Underside hoped they’d live to see it. Yarrow included. 

Every day, she wanted it to come tomorrow. 

And maybe that was why she often sat alone in school, her hopes burned too hot. School #7, Quadrant 2 was based in a long, one-story rectangle several housing units wide. It stored several dozen students on a given day, from children age ten to age eighteen. Yarrow studied in the Lower Years classroom, for those ten to thirteen years old. She was in her last year before she could advance to the Middle Years classroom. 

She was one of the best readers in the school. Some of the other good readers were interested in a placement in Topside as some kind of assistant or secretary. Easy work, but boring. 

“Yarrow,” Instructor Young said. 

She looked up from her cracked e-reader tablet. “Yes?” 

“Reading time is over.” 

She hesitated. “But I’m almost done.” 

It was a reading for the older kids, but it talked about the types of work Lucky Ones in Scavenging did. Yarrow had her Dad, but she wanted to know more. She wanted to know about the teams that made missions to Earth. She was even glossing over the photos in favor of the interviews with Scavengers from early Asylum history. 

“We’ve waited over thirty years to return to the Earth,” the transcript said, “I don’t know what anyone was expecting… the desertification, the poison in the air…”

Yarrow wanted to know how it ended. Instructor Young wove through the rows of metal desks bolted to the floor and came to stand in front of her. He held out a hand. Without a word, Yarrow shut off her e-reader and handed it over. 

“Minus marks for not following directions,” Instructor Young said. 

Yarrow nodded. “Yes, Sir.” 

Oleander was right. Instructor Young was a hardass. Unlike them, his uniform was a crisp dark blue with polished pleather shoes. He was from Topside. 

He returned to the front of the classroom. “Might I remind you all, each and every one of you are incredibly fortunate to be descended from a refugee when Asylum was first launched.” His eye met Yarrow’s. She refused to look away. 

“Your ancestors were not engineers or doctors or thinkers, they had nothing to contribute to Asylum other than their hands. You are all lucky to be here. Now, let’s continue our studies in mathematics.” 

As he turned his back to them, Yarrow found it hard to be intimidated by a man more than ten years younger than her father, but with half the hair. 

That night, Yarrow got to have a rare dinner with her whole family. What often happened was either her mom was stuck in the Topside barracks to work longer hours, her brother was on another side of the city to do work, or her father was scavenging for Topside’s resources. Sometimes, it was all three of them off and away, leaving Yarrow to have her ration bars. On those nights, the scrape of her chair against the floor felt loud enough to echo through the whole housing unit. Unsettling, Yarrow liked to eat with her back to the wall so she could see the entrance to the kitchen.

But now that chair clattered backward as Oleander fell in it. He sat at a slight angle so he could stick one leg out to the side and stretch one out under the desk. Yarrow felt his foot knock into hers and she snorted. Her brother was all long limbs, in a way that made her think he might end up being a lanky pole forever. 

Yarrow heard the swish of heavy fabric as her mother circled the table with a smile. She draped her jacket over Yarrow’s shoulders. It was her work jacket, faded, scuffed, and dirty at the sleeve hems. Yarrow grinned as she adjusted it over her shoulders, the two-sizes-two-big jacket warm on the inside and carrying the smell of something sweet. Flowers. 

Their dad dropped a box of ration bars on the table. Oleander was the first to tear into it. He set down bars in a circle around the table, two for everyone until the box had just two indivisible extras left. Unlike the plain bars with the almost-taste of something salty, these were flavored to taste like seasoned chicken. Yarrow also took the time beforehand to brave their rickety electric stovetop to heat a sloshing pot of water and rice. So on that night, the table was lively and crowded as Oleander scarfed down his meal, supposedly his best one since leaving home weeks ago to work on a job for Air Quality Control. 

“Are you even tasting it?” Yarrow asked. 

“Of course I am.” 

Unlike the gardens that existed for leisure, Topside also had farms. The bowls of multi-grain rice on the table was one of the many modified crops that could be grown and harvested in months. When Yarrow went down to the supply depot after school, she flashed her ID to indicate she was a member of a family of four. She snagged her rice, the bags labeled with words such as water efficient and high protein, and tugged them home in the box cart she pulled along. Unseasoned, it had no taste and only a starchy-chalky texture. But left to soak in hot water

with a smidge of salt and some boiled beans she also collected from the depot, it made a thickened meal that warmed her bones. 

It was nice, especially considering how chilly Asylum could get at night. 

“I’m just so sick of ration bars,” Oleander said. 

Their father laughed. “Welcome to life, Ollie. It’s all you’ll get Underside.” “That’s why you should consider transferring to work Topside,” their mom said to Yarrow, “it’s good work.” 

Yarrow frowned. “Those jobs are the competitive ones.” 

“But I can speak to my supervisor about allowing you into the gardens. She might take you in. You can start transferring some of your payment to foodstuffs automatically, and it’s good work.” 

“But it’s for Topside,” Yarrow responded. 

Oleander cleared his throat, coughing into his fist as he gave Yarrow a pointed look. She fell silent as their dad spoke up. 

He leaned forward in his seat and began to share stories of his latest Salvaging adventure. Halfway through he said, “I was minding my business, trying to grab this old satellite…” the table was silent, waiting, “but I couldn’t help looking down below. There’s a saying in Scavenging to not look down, because that’s a long way to fall if you do. But I did it anyways. And I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow the Canadian desert got bigger! I definitely remember there still being some green surrounding that cluster of lakes, but it’s all gone now. My Pod’s scanners warned me what conditions would be like it’d be if I landed. Ask me what it’d be like.” 

“What?” Oleander asked, quicker than usual.

“The dust and the wind would have overloaded the Pod’s ventilators in minutes! My poor Scavenging partner, Lana, it was only her second job and her first time with me as her mentor. I had to keep telling her our Pod probably wasn’t going to crash land. So we grabbed our scrap metal and left before the universe could test us.” 

“What did it look like?” Yarrow asked. 

“The satellite?” 

“The Earth.” 

“Oh, uh… big. This endless brownish-green expanse. The usual,” her dad said from between mouthfuls of rice. It was a nice meal, but in three days for Yarrow’s birthday, they were going to use their store of spices and dried meat for curry. Even if it was the cheap artificial meat, it would be something actually worth looking forward to. 

Oleander didn’t look impressed by their dad’s story. “But it’s no fun without any danger, right?” 

“Ollie!” Their mom said. She was the type of person who believed words had power. “What?” 

It was Yarrow’s turn to draw attention to herself. “Would flowers survive in a place like that?” 

Her dad shook his head. “Maybe. I’ve never been, though. That dust pit doesn’t have much that Asylum’s interested in.” 

Her heart fell, but not by much. Her dad said the flooded city he visited years before was covered in slimy, mossy green stuff. If moss could still grow on Earth, other plants could too. Animals, also. And humans were animals, Yarrow understood this from school. Humans were good at surviving.

“This is your last chance to back out, Erika,” Mom cautioned as she unhooked her car keys from the worn wooden rack she bought from a yard sale.   

“I’m not backing out,” Erika said firmly, grabbing a bag of shrimp chips from the pantry for the road: stress snacking. For almost two years, Erika fought the urge to chop off her waist-length hair. It took months of convincing for Mom to agree to take her to this appointment. As Erika gazed at her long black mane in the mirror by the doorway, she vibrated with anticipation.    

“Alan, you’re not even trying to talk her out of it anymore,” Mom cried.  Her voice pitched up and down with frustration.  She’d lived in the US for over 20 years, but her Thai accent still dominated her.   

“Come on, let the girl have her fun,” Dad said from the couch, only half paying attention. His blue eyes were trained on Sunday Night Football, which was poorly named because it was two in the afternoon. “Hair grows back,” he said. 

“It will take years to get it back long. She’s wasting her pretty hair.” Mom marched into the family room and stood directly in front of the television.   

“Come on, I’m missing the play,” Dad motioned for Mom to move. 

“Let’s go Mom, we don’t want to be late,” Erika urged, walking into the living room and reaching for Mom’s wrist, who jerked away from her daughter’s touch with a huff.  She stormed out of the room, her feet slapping against the linoleum flooring. Erika followed.   

“Yeah, honey. Don’t be late,” Dad’s voice was far away as his mind latched back onto the game.   

North Carolina humidity beat down on Erika as she followed Mom into the driveway. When Erika opened the door of the family car, caustic air blasted her in the face. Before Mom even turned the key in the ignition, she began ranting again.   

“You have a small, pretty face! Your hair suits you so well,” Mom said as the car roared to life. Gray strands peppered her once thick, black hair. It had thinned from decades of poisonous stress. 

“Mom, I know you don’t get it, but this is something I need to do. I’m not even making you pay for the haircut. I just needed a ride,” Erika said, patting the front of her shorts pocket to triple-check that her wallet was there. Then, she reached into the bag of shrimp chips which crinkled obnoxiously. When she ate one, the dry cracker disintegrated into a powdery paste. Her stomach unwelcomingly received it- the pouch felt shriveled with anxiety.   

“Is this a… gay thing?” Mom nearly whispered the word when she stopped at a red light. The sinew on Mom’s fingers strained against her thin skin as she tapped the steering wheel. She wouldn’t turn to look Erika in the eye. Ever since her daughter came out two years ago, “gay” was a word Mom seldom dared utter. It was a term too shameful to share, even in private.   

 “It’s a me thing,” Erika replied quietly, bowing her head and twisting the hem of her Kehlani T-Shirt. A long, heavy curtain of black hair encased Erika’s shoulders like armor and obscured her face. Despite the AC blasting her face, she felt sweat collected at the base of her neck.    

“People won’t compliment your hair anymore,” Mom said. Grief colored her words gray.    

  “No, they won’t.” 

 They drove on in silence. Car rides with Mom were usually filled with endless talk. Mom would complain about her coworkers or chatter about what she’d make for dinner: her thoughts were on constant display. Today, Mom was rebelliously quiet. Erika sat tensely under silence’s oppressive reign.  Through the car window, she watched as endless fields speckled with cattle and faded barns rolled past. 

Mom was somewhat of a reckless driver; she first learned in Thailand where driving laws are more like suggestions than rules. After living in America for so long, she gets far fewer tickets than she used to.  Through the years, Mom’s habit of speeding remained. Yet today, Mom spent an extra few seconds at every stop sign. Instead of racing to beat the yellow light, she descended slowly to a halt. It took 20-minutes to drive to the closest town, but to Erika, it felt like an hour. Her eyes would dart to the car clock to remind herself they couldn’t possibly get there late.   

Erika’s anxiety eased a little when they pulled into the parking lot of the salon. She unbuckled her seatbelt as soon as Mom parked and jumped out of the car. Part of her couldn’t believe when she walked back out the door of that salon, her hair would be short. Mom had to fast walk to catch up to Erika before she rushed in the door.   

 “You don’t have to do this,” Mom pleaded one last time like Erika was about to walk off the lip of a ledge instead of into a hair salon.  

“I want to do this,” Erika grabbed her Mom’s hand and held her warm dark eyes. “Thank you for bringing me. I know you didn’t want to.”   

Mom didn’t respond as they walked towards the salon. It was ambitious to call the dingy strip-mall Supercuts a salon, but it was better than Erika shearing her head in the bathroom with kitchen scissors. She’d considered taking matters into her own hands but decided against it. Erika needed to do this the right way. Over a year after coming out, Erika had scrounged up the courage to declare she wanted to cut her hair short. Mom spent the subsequent months trying to talk her out of it. But once Erika’s pristine locks degraded into a tangle of dead-ends, Mom could no longer object to a haircut. Erika made an appointment the moment Mom reluctantly agreed. She knew Supercuts would almost definitely take a walk-in, but she didn’t want to risk not making an appointment.   

The door jingled as they entered the near-empty salon. The receptionist greeted them cheerfully. Her overgrown fuchsia acrylics cracked against the sticky keyboard as she searched Erika’s name.           

“Please follow me,” the receptionist said. 

“I’m fine by myself,” Erika said as Mom tried to follow. Mom gave her a skeptical glance before plopping into a worn waiting room chair. Erika was led to a line of styling chairs, each paired with a vanity and mirror. The faint yet sharp chemical smell of Barbicide emanated from the blue jars filled with combs and scissors. The receptionist pointed Erika to a chair and told her a stylist would be with her shortly. From the reflection in the vanity mirror, Erika could see Mom tapping her foot like a rabbit as she scrolled through her phone. Mom picked at the foam that poked out the corner of the seat, glancing at her daughter every so often.  

It didn’t take long for a woman with mid-length faux-ginger hair and yellow-tinted teeth to walk behind Erika’s chair.   

“My name’s Sally. What can I do ya for, young lady?” She ran her hand through Erika’s locks from behind the raised chair, her fingers catching in the knots. “Such beautiful long hair! Just a trim?”   

“No…” Erika scrambled to pull up her Pinterest board. The reception in the strip mall was lacking, and it took a long moment for the pictures to load. After two years of dreaming about cutting her hair, the board held over 300 photos: pixie cuts, shaggy mullets, and even a few French bobs. But one style stood above the rest: “I want a wolf cut.”  

“A what?” Sally’s smile froze on her lips.  

“Like… a shaggy mullet? Short but with layers,” Erika motioned to the pictures on her phone. As she scrolled through the pictures, Sally’s face twisted and she sucked in her thin lips.  

“Sweetie… that won’t suit you. You have such a delicate face. What about trying long layers?” Sally grabbed a brush from the vanity and began brushing hard through Erika’s thick hair. She held in a wince as Sally tore at her skull.   

“No thank you,” Erika said. The blood beneath her face boiling from Sally’s rejection. But Erika needed her to understand. Her fingers trembled as she held up the photo once more, “This is what I want.”    

Erika looked up from her phone, and Sally’s piercing blue eyes stabbed into Erika’s in the mirror. 

“How old are you, honey?” Sally asked with a patronizing sigh, grabbing the cross pendant resting on her chest and twirling it thoughtfully.   

“16,” Erika said in a small voice.   

“The boys won’t like ya, sweetie. All the girls your age wish they could have hair like you. And look at those big exotic eyes- you’re beautiful! Why ruin it with such a boyish cut?” Sally’s smile was like molasses, sticky and cloying. Erika felt her resolve rot like enamel beneath unbrushed teeth.   

“Thank you for your advice, but I know what I want. Please cut my hair just like this,” Erika tried to say sternly. It felt like there were microscopic shards of glass vibrating at the tips of her fingers. All the blood had rushed from her extremities to her face.   

“I don’t know… I think you’ll regret chopping it off. What’s your Mama think about this? That’s her, right?” Sally pointed to Mom’s reflection in the vanity mirror. She caught Mom’s eyes and motioned her over. Erika’s blood froze in her veins as Mom stalked towards them.   

“Whatcha think, ma’am? You okay with her cutting off all this stunnin’ hair?” The brush crashed through Erika’s locks once more. She fought to push down the wetness pricking behind her eyelids. Her throat ached with heat and pressure like she was trying to swallow a geyser.  

Mom was silent for a moment.   

“She’s not going to listen to me,” Mom said finally, her thinly-plucked brows pinched. “Cut it.”  

Then, Mom hurried back to her seat, like she couldn’t bear to watch the massacre she’d begrudgingly sanctioned. Somehow, Erika wanted to cry even more. Her reflection swirled and blurred in the vanity mirror as tears swam in her eyes. She blinked them free then hastily wiped them away, hoping Sally and her Mom wouldn’t see.   

“Alrighty…” Sally still wasn’t convinced. She reluctantly grabbed a smock from a drawer and draped the black cape around Erika’s shoulders. Then, she gripped Erika’s hair into a low ponytail and tied it at the back of her head. The collection of strands was so thick it almost didn’t fit in Sally’s hand.  “Ready?” Sally asked, scissors poised at the base of Erika’s neck. Erika gave a quick nod, holding her breath.   

It was simpler than Erika had anticipated. The scissors groaned and squealed as they severed thousands of strands in a matter of seconds. Then, it was a cluster of black keratin in Sally’s pale, veiny hand.  Part of Erika expected to feel separated from something essential, like an amputee.  All she felt was free.   

Just as Erika requested, Sally chiseled her hair into fluffy layers. When she was done, Sally unclipped the smock from Erika’s shoulders. Then, Erika hopped from the chair to admire herself in the mirror. Elation expanded and sparkled in Erika’s chest like a newborn star. Her hair was still a little longer than she wanted, but with weight off her head it felt like she could finally lift her chin. Erika admired her sharp jawline: the bone jut was accentuated by the harsh cut.  Erika walked towards her mother who was waiting by the receptionist’s desk.   

Mom took in Erika for a moment: her short yet flowing hair, her bright eyes, and the grin on her face.  Their eyes met.  Then, Mom nodded curtly and pulled out her wallet.  

“Wait Mom, I said I’d pay,” Erika’s hand flew to the wallet in her shorts.   

“I pay for all your other haircuts.” Mom gave exact change to the receptionist, thanked her, and walked out the door.   

You’ve tuned in! Welcome, welcome. I haven’t had a listener in quite a while. You won’t be able to see anything about where I am, but my words should be good enough for you, right? Just picture yourself in a blank, empty, and infinite place, with tiny passageways tucked into the fabric of space itself. Those passageways lead to my worlds. This is my universe.  

You. Yes, you. Know that you’ve made a mistake by establishing the connection with him. Try to find an opportunity to tear yourself away. It’s for your own good. He’ll be upset at your abrupt departure, but there’s nothing he’ll be able to do about it.

So, now that you’ve made contact with me, I assume there’s a lot on your mind. What would you like to learn about me or my universe, I wonder? Wait, never mind, I already know the perfect place to start! Members of your kind all crave the same thing, don’t you? You’re all fascinated by the impractical and impossible: the things you can’t have! That’s why you immerse yourself in stories, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you all about how I made the “impossible” a reality for so many people here. 

The first time I bestowed special abilities—or “magic” as you might prefer to call it—onto one of my subjects, my excitement was boundless. So many possibilities, so many stories that could be made with the introduction of such powers! Feeling rather ambitious, I gave one very lucky human the ability to will anything into existence with mere words. An immensely potent ability, I know. As I said, I was ambitious.

Sticking around for a bit, then? Fine by me. But if you won’t consider my warning, at least let me prevent him from deceiving you, when he makes attempts. 

Of course, I was also foolish back then. As it so happened, the first word—and the last—that human ever spoke was “stop.” And then their world ceased to exist for all eternity.

Needless to say, I learned my lesson.

Wrong. He enjoyed it.

But I vowed to myself I would never let such a thing happen again.

Lies. He did just that time and time again.

Alas, I quickly broke my promise. More accidents happened, as they do. Some worlds did thrive under the supernatural gifts I provided, but many more suffered from them. A few even collapsed on themselves.

Sometimes, the people who received their gifts were not what you might call pure of heart, and their fellow man fell before them at their command. As you know, that kind of story only ends badly, for both the conqueror and the conquered. Other times, psychopaths, sociopaths, schizophrenics, and the like, would destroy everything around them upon discovering their abilities, leading to a result similar to my first story: total annihilation. 

Fulfilling his intention.

I continue to carry the burden of these utter failures today. It weighs on me, almost keeping me from continuing to create. But I must. How can we improve if we never learn from our mistakes?

Good question. Perhaps he should find someone to answer it for him. He seems to be in dire need of self-improvement.

I persisted. And now, there are hundreds of thousands of worlds out there, doing just fine with what I’ve granted them. And I know what you’re thinking: once I found the right formula, the right abilities to give them, of course it was easy, right? I just had to keep everything simple, safe, and containable, and it would’ve been child’s play, wouldn’t it? And you are correct, in a sense; it would have been easy. Too easy. I assure you, I give every world I create something unique and wild. What fun would it be if I didn’t?

What fun indeed. 

So, through trial and tribulation, I’ve managed to create a stable yet exciting universe. Your time here would be well spent. You could go anywhere you wish, be virtually anything you would want, with everything you need to entertain you! It’s a paradise!

Far from it. What’s truly sickening is that if he really did want to create a paradise, he could do it with a snap of his fingers. 

Although, that’s not to say I haven’t had my fair share of troubles recently. 

Oh? This ought to be good. What lie will he twist for you this time?

As a matter of fact, a strange being has recently been making appearances in my worlds. I’ve never caught a good look at it, but I know it’s there, especially since its actions are so obvious. All it does is bring havoc.

Some kind of eidolon, perhaps? A multi-planar apparition, created by something that isn’t me? I don’t know what it could be. I’ve never known anything other than myself capable of navigating these worlds and the space between. 

. . . Wait.

I mean, the only thing other than me would be . . . no, it’s not that. I think I would recognize it if that were the case. 

Oh! My apologies. I was lost in thought there for a moment. What was I . . . ah, right! The creature. A terrible thing, I tell you, obliterating worlds left and right like it’s the only thing it knows how to do! I wouldn’t be surprised if that were indeed the case.

No. You can’t be serious. 

It must be shy or afraid, since it never shows its face to me. But it communicates with my subjects all the time. It whispers sweet lies in their ears, making promises too good to be true. It drives them mad within moments of contact, turning them against themselves and each other. Oh, such a sad thing to witness.

I . . . you . . . what?!

You know what? I wonder if you can hear it. Lend your ear to the silence of this space, and the thing might make its way toward you. Its voice is smooth and firm, with a subtle scratch to it, like rubbing a flat strip of metal on a mirror. You’ll be drawn to listen to it, even while all your instincts are repulsed by the sound.

I can’t believe this. I seriously can’t. He’s hit an all-time low. 

Don’t worry about it trying to corrupt you. As long as you’re listening to me, you should be fine. If you do happen to hear its voice, simply ignore it. Its words are its sole weapons. It can’t physically reach you any more than I can. You’re safe from direct harm.

He’s referring to me, in case you couldn’t tell. Except, as always, he’s leaving out some of the finer details. You know, the bits of the story that would turn this outright travesty of the truth on its head. 

I mean, sure, I corrupted those people. I did all the things he said I did, actually. But I’m not to blame. I know that doesn’t sound right, but I’m telling the truth. And no, I’m not going to try to corrupt you. Fortunately, you’re safe from the guidelines in my directive. For now. Hopefully, it will stay that way, but you can never be sure when it comes to him.

I know you can’t exactly respond to me, but I’m confident that you’ll heed my advice. 

What he’s saying, it just . . . ooh . . . it makes me livid.  

Still, it’s strange, isn’t it? It appears that my universe has a bit of a curse. Perhaps, one of these days, I’ll finally catch a break, and I won’t have any mirages or monsters causing mayhem and killing my people seemingly just to spite me.

You-! What are you saying?! That was the purpose I was created for! That’s what you have me doing! I am your product! 

. . . Sorry, I have a bit of a headache. Give me a moment, would you? I . . . need to . . .

No. No! I’ve put up with this for far too long. Listen here, you scum bastard! You can’t just keep doing all these horrible things for your own amusement! Those people were constructed by you, yes, but they had lives, minds, and souls, just as you do! And you killed them.  

And then, you have the audacity to blame and condemn me? Me?! I am you. You created me from your own flesh, blood, and soul to be the curse for your universe! I am your weapon of choice, used to keep the blood off of your hands so that you can be the righteous one! Stop using me as a means for an excuse! You did this. You killed billions of people. It’s all your fault! At the very least, own up to it rather than fabricating a facade to disguise your guilt! You disꬶųʂŧɨɲꞡ, ɕɏᵰīɕǻȴ ԿԱԲԳԴԵ ԶԷ ԸԹԺշյՒԽկռԿ ՓՁխ նվգՊհքփԽՉռֆ֏ճլՏՅ—ՒկռԿ——— —  —

—

Where were we? I forget. Oh, I have an idea! How would you like to see one of my worlds for yourself? I can try and find one that hasn’t been tainted yet. You could even talk to one of some of my subjects. I’m sure such conversations would be to your liking. However, do be cautious of the occasional, ah, stranger, if you know what I mean. I try to be a perfect creator, but, after all, when it comes down to it, I’m still just like you. Only human. 

Not all of my products are worthy of praise. Then again, there are billions out there to make up for it, aren’t there?

We’re mobbed up—Six deep in a midnight blue ’93 Buick Century with the windows up and multiple blunts going.

Bauer fronted everyone. He’s sitting shotgun wrapped up in a black bubble goose and Polo jeans with a Notre Dame skull cap topping him off.

Mike’s in the captain’s chair. His unmarked, royal blue sweatshirt is too tight of a fit. The shit should have been donated to the Salvation Army a decade ago when we were all still caged in at South Scranton Intermediate. The shirt’s lack of demarcation matches his non-existent hairstyle—a thick mass of brown strands, about two inches in length, combed straight forward, the split ends resting just above his eyes.

I’m getting crushed between the right-rear door and this girl named Kate that I have never met before today. I’m driving from back here.

“Take a left at the light!”

When we reach the intersection of Vine and Jefferson Mike does as he is told.

I say, “Alright now take a right, not at this stop sign coming up but the next one.” Chris is somewhere to my left, next to Nicole. I can’t be certain though. This girl Kate is half sitting next to me, half sitting on my lap. She’s obscuring my line of vision. For all I know his existence in the car is a figment of my imagination. All I hear is his voice.

“This kid’s dad play for the fuckin’ Yankees or somethin’? Jesus Christ, look at these houses!”

Green Ridge looks like an east coast Beverly Hills minus the media fanfare. The Buick crossed its unofficial border a mere three blocks ago and it has yet to pass a house that doesn’t have a professionally landscaped lawn that screams PEASANT! at everyone who drives by.

At least that’s how I see it.

I feel the need to correct Chris.

“Nah his dad’s dead, man. Lung cancer I think.”

Out of nowhere, he jolts forward, becoming visible to me for the first time since we crammed ourselves into the backseat. He clutches his chest, coughing uncontrollably as smoke billows out of his mouth and lingers above his head like a mushroom cloud. He holds the remainder of the blunt away from him, gesturing for somebody, anybody, to take it. Nicole rises to the occasion and carefully pinches it between her thumb and forefinger then extinguishes it in the overflowing ashtray that is located between the two front seats.

She says to Chris, “You’re ugly when you smoke.”

He sucks his teeth, says, “You’re ugly all the time,” then kisses her on the cheek.

Nicole’s eyes and mind are out the window. She’s decked out in a baby pink hoodie and slim-fit blue jeans. Her hair is wrenched back in a ponytail, the hair tie with a death grip on her brown locks. She’s probably thinking about that scholarship to Syracuse she gave up to remain in her comfort zone. She’s probably losing hope that she can have some kind of impact on the world.

She says, “Can we roll down a window you guys? I can’t breathe.”

Chris backs her up, sort of.

“Yeah guys roll down a window. I’m dying of lung cancer back here!”

Mike says apathetically, “Hi-Yo,” like he’s the Ed McMahon to Chris’s Johnny Carson.

He turns around in the driver’s seat and passes me the blunt that he has been sucking on, but I wave it off. He turns back around, cracks his window and drops the roach out into the unseasonably warm, January air.

Kate winces at Chris’s mention of lung cancer and mutters what sounds like “That’s horrible” under her breath.

Chris reacts immediately. His head jerks to the right and he glares at her, sizing her up like he’s an animal about to feed.

I lean forward to get a better look at him. The weed slows everything down and I believe I can tell what he’s thinking by the expression on his face. If I know him like I know I know him he’s thinking, my dad shot himself when I was ten and I found the body. You have no idea what horrible is.

I notice how uncomfortable the joke makes her. I say, “Calm down. He’s just kidding.”

She doesn’t respond. She is staring ahead, avoiding eye contact with everyone. I’m taking her in; her soft, straight blonde hair draped over the fur-covered hood of her North Face jacket, her black yoga pants tucked into a pair of grey wool socks that are climbing out of her Ugg boots. I’m trying to analyze her the way I analyzed Chris. I know there is something there with her. I can’t identify what it is though.

Mike hangs a right and now we’re more than halfway to Joe Doherty’s house.

*

We were up in the church parking lot on Davis Street when Bauer got the phone call. Nicole was playing liaison between Kate and me. I didn’t know I’d be meeting somebody. I left my mom’s house wearing sweatpants and a dirty-ass hoodie thinking the outfit would convey the message that I didn’t want to meet ANYONE, that I wanted to stay within my hemisphere, but Nicole ruined it.

She said, “So Matty, Kate’s brother washes dishes at Smith’s. Didn’t you used to work there?”

“Yeah. I got fired. I stole a bunch of Filet Mignons from the walk-in.”

I ditched them before they could respond and moved over to Chris who was skating around the parking lot. I watched his backfoot pop the Creature deck’s tail, making it flip underneath him. He botched the impossible. The board landed grip tape-down on the pavement and he was thrown to the ground, face-first. His hands softened the blow. He sprang up like nothing happened then hopped on for another try, his black denim vest flaring out behind him, distorting the canvas Negative Approach patch that adorned his back as he pushed away from me.

His physical energy was too much to take. I had to get away.

Bauer and Mike were haggling over weed sales.

Mike said something like, “Come on, just front me today and I’ll pay you half this Friday and half next Friday!”

Bauer yelled back, “Mike ya can’t pay in installments! This isn’t BowFlex!”

Then his phone rang. He walked away from the group so we wouldn’t hear him, but he didn’t go far enough.

“Yeah…What’s up?…Who?…No why?…Are you serious?…No… Wait, what was his name again?”

He pulled his cell phone away from his face and yelled over to me.

“Yo Matty, you know Joe Doherty, right?”

Joe Doherty. I hadn’t seen him in years.

I said, “Yeah why?”

Something clicked in him. He looked at me dead-eyed.

“You know where he lives?”

I thought about that big, obnoxious house I used to go to when I was a kid.

I said, “Yeah. Over in Green Ridge. On Quincy”

He quickly put the phone back to his ear and said. “I’ll get him.”

I hung out with Joe a decade ago—John F. Kennedy elementary, fifth grade. We went our separate ways in junior high. Not everyone is meant for each other.

Bauer had that menacing look on his face, the one that people feared him for. He walked over to Mike and said, “We’re going for a ride. I’ll front you whatever you want.”

The mood shifted.

Mike asked, “Why what’s up?”

Bauer was already opening the passenger-side door when he answered.

“This kid doesn’t want to pay me.”

I hurried over to the Buick and caught up to Bauer before he could get into the car.

I was telegraphing my moves. Before I could ask, Bauer said, “Yeah I’ll front you something just show me where he lives.”

I heard Nicole let out a soft, “Oh my god.” She looked at Kate in a way that made me feel like she wanted to warn her.

But she didn’t. She is just like us, no matter how much she refuses to believe it.

*

It’s just starting to get dark as we turn down Quincy Avenue. We pass the hospital my mom and Joe’s dad worked at when I was a kid.

I was latchkey after the divorce. Mom took on more hours at Moses Taylor. Hospice unit noise helped her block out reality—The man she married wanted to have sex with young women in their physical prime. Joe’s parents felt bad for us, offered to take me in for a few hours after school so I wouldn’t spend all that time alone. Mom accepted their help begrudgingly. She took it as condescension.

At least that’s how I saw it.

I’m staring out the window, in a trance, remembering everything, then Bauer abruptly shouts out, “Matty, is that him?!”

I snap out of it, push my head forward and to the left so I can get a better view between the headrests of the driver and passenger seats. Kate adjusts her upper-body so I can get through.

I don’t think she has any idea what is about to happen.

The Buick is moving towards two human forms at the top of a driveway that leads to a two-car garage attached to a fucking mansion. One is dribbling a basketball, driving to the hoop.

The other is playing defense. There’s too much distance. I can’t tell if one of them is my old friend Joe.

I say to Mike, “This street’s a dead end. If it’s him, you can turn around and come back.”

Mike nods.

Bauer is impatient.

“Well if that’s his house, it’s probably him, right?”

I want to be sure. As we get closer, I shift my position until my back is pressed against the seat. I look out the window as we pass and I get a perfect view of the two basketball players. One is wearing black mesh shorts, a plain white t-shirt and Jordans. The other one, the one who just missed the lay-up, sports the same outfit only the mesh shorts are swapped with a pair of fresh-off-the-rack grey sweatpants, like the ones I’m wearing without the cigarette burns and lowkey cum stains. He turns around and trots away from the basket and I get a good look at his face.

It’s him. He’s had a growth spurt, height-wise and muscle-wise, but his face is the same. Those high cheek bones. The broad chin, well-sculpted blonde hair and near perfect facial symmetry. It’s the kid I watched WrestleMania with back in ’98 because my mom couldn’t afford pay-per-view. The kid with the dad who supported him while mine was doing the bar scene, trying to pick up girls half his age, too drunk and in the middle of a mid-life crisis to realize that he was all washed up. The kid who eventually told me we only hung out because his parents made him.

I say to Mike, “Turn around and park.”

He pulls a u-ey at the end of the block then parks as inconspicuously as possible behind a silver S.U.V.

Bauer puts the hood up on his sweatshirt, peers through the windshield and says, “Which one?”

I notice Kate looking at me. She has obviously connected some of the dots. Her hands are in her lap, clutching the hemline of her coat. Now I can read her face. I know she regrets coming here. I know that she’s hoping I won’t tell Bauer which one Joe Doherty is. I know there is something in me that hopes I won’t tell Bauer either. But I rationalize instead. Maybe if she witnesses something traumatizing, she’ll understand that lung cancer jokes aren’t that horrible in the grand scheme of things.

I look directly at her and say out loud, “Sweatpants.”

Bauer says to Mike, “Keep it running. I won’t be long.”

Then he is out of the car, moving quick with his head on a swivel, keeping an eye out for spies.

Kate looks away.

Nicole says to her, “I’m so sorry about this.”

Chris jumps in. “Come on Kate, look! Watch this kid get fucked up!”

Bauer is in Joe’s face now. The teammate stands by, holding the basketball against his hip, looking like he’s looking at a ghost. Even from the backseat of the Buick I can see that he is trembling. Nicole should introduce Kate to him. They’d probably get along.

The whole thing is taking too long for Mike. He’s frantically looking around for cops, kids, old ladies, anybody who can jot down his license plate.

He says, “C’mon hit him. I wanna get out of here.”

On cue, Bauer swings. His closed fist goes from six o’clock to twelve o’clock in milliseconds. The haymaker meets flesh, cartilage and bone. Joe drops, his whole body flat against that perfect blacktop. Bauer pounces on him, connecting with blow after blow to his head and body. When Joe stops moving Bauer runs his pockets, finds some bills, stands up, spits. He lunges at the teammate but the kid bolts inside the house before he can do more
damage. He yells something unintelligible then runs back towards the car as fast as his short legs can carry him. He jumps in the front seat and pants out directions.

“Go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

Mike does as he is told and goes, tires screeching and everything.

There’s electricity in the Buick now. The scene gave Chris an adrenaline rush and he’s throwing awkward right jabs at the driver’s side headrest that are so poorly executed I’m afraid he’s going to break his hand.

Nicole tries to calm him down.

“Stop!”

Mike adds his two cents from the front.

“Yeah man stop that. Seriously.”

Chris lays off the headrest. He says, “Sorry, sorry. That shit was cool though. Bauer, you get your money back?”

Bauer looks like the grim reaper. His hood is still up, and the night takes away all his features. He’s focused on counting the bills he snatched from Joe’s pocket.

“Yep.”

“How much did he owe you?”

The grim reaper’s head turns slightly to the left and I get a glimpse of that unmistakable profile.

He says, “I don’t even know.”

And that is that.

We’re halfway back to Davis when Kate says to Mike, “Can you take me home? I live pretty close.”

It was the most she had said all day. She seems more mentally intact than I expected her to be, like the violence pieced her together instead of tearing her apart. When Nicole questions her intent, she says, “Don’t talk to me.”

Mike takes the right. Kate is in command from back here. She’s leaning forward with her hands on both headrests, barking out orders all of a sudden.

“Go to the top of the hill.”

We’re coursing through South Scranton’s jugular vein; Palm Street. After it intersects with Prospect it goes semi-vertical at an almost impossible angle. We’re closer to home now.

Joe Doherty and Green Ridge might as well be in another state.

I look over at Nicole. I get a clear shot of her with Kate leaning forward in the seat. Her arms are crossed. Once again, she has failed at broadening her world and ours. We boxed-out her interloper, protecting ourselves from the positive unknown. Chris lights the blunt roach she put out for him earlier and blows smoke in her face to get her attention. She doesn’t budge. I see her blink, shake her head, then I lose her in the fog.

The Buick bottoms out at the top of Palm and Kate says, “Up here on the right.”

We’re in the “rural” part of South Side now. The degenerated wooded area behind the Valley View Housing Projects where nobody goes. I didn’t even know there were houses up this way.

We creep up to a decrepit, off-white single-frame duplex that sits right up on the street; No landscaped lawn that screams Peasant! at everyone who drives by; No driveway that leads to a two-car garage attached to a fucking mansion. The only thing between the Buick and the front porch is a chipped-up sidewalk. A man sits beneath the glaring porch light in a plastic lawn chair with his head down and his hands dug into the pockets of his oversized Carhartt jacket. His being there seems to have alarmed Kate. She doesn’t get out immediately.

Chris can’t help himself. He says, “Damn look at that dude dip,” then adds sardonically, “Kate, that your boyfriend?”

She leans over, opens the door herself. Before I can step out to let her leave, she climbs over me and throws herself out of the Buick.

Chris won’t quit. “Don’t be scared girl. Bauer wasn’t gonna hit YOU.”

Kate spins around and says, “Get the fuck out of here,” then slams the door.

Mike begins to pull away, but Bauer stops him, says, “Wait a second.”

He is glaring at Kate through the window as she makes her way to the front porch. She is moving slow and deliberate like she doesn’t want to wake the man sitting there.

I can just barely hear her saying, “Dad. Dad. Dad.”

She grabs him by the shoulder and shakes. He comes to life incrementally. He lifts his head up, turns it toward her, opens his eyes. He’s ugly as sin. He’s got a pale-green face, a heroin frown. He’s looking at her but he’s not there. He might as well be over in Green Ridge, unconscious on the black top with Joe Doherty.

Bauer’s glare softens and if I know him like I know I know him he is thinking, Kate, just give up. Once they go that far it is too late. You can’t help your dad just like I couldn’t help mine.

Kate is struggling to lift her father up out of the chair. His head dips again. He’s back to square one.

Chris can’t shut up. “Alright let’s go. I don’t wanna look at this scumbag anymore.”

Mike shifts the Buick into drive, but Bauer stops him again.

“Wait.”

His head is cocked to the right. His facial features come back stronger than ever and I see how much he looks like his own dad. I think it might be the nose or the shape of his head. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I’m just high. I don’t know.

I’m starting to feel something though. Something is trying to connect me to the world outside my own. Something about Kate’s way of dealing with her pain that doesn’t involve cancer jokes or violence.

I instinctively push the feeling away, propping up my pessimistic outlook so I can remain in my comfort zone. I’m thinking, Kate let that dope fiend go. You will never change him. 

She counteracts my thought process and sits down in the empty lawn chair next to her father. She puts her hand on his back as he sinks even lower into his junkiedom.

I think Bauer is starting to feel something too, but he’s not ready for it.

He says to Mike, “Alright let’s go.”

And the Buick goes.