Three days after the Safeway run, I made a mistake. Not a catastrophic one, just a you-should-have-known better miscalculation. My gut had been screaming at me, but frankly, I was so exhausted I didn’t hear it. Or maybe I was just ignoring it. I don’t know. This was one of those mistakes that lives in that chasm between careful and paranoid — a gap you imagine you can jump across, no problem.

Bullshit.

The mistake? I let Isabelle drive off in the gray Civic. Alone. I didn’t protest. I said nothing.

Isabelle had asked about going out multiple times that week, and each time I’d gently expressed some discomfort and concern, while trying not to convey the terror I was actually feeling. Mine was not exactly an Academy Award-winning performance — I failed monumentally in covering up my worry. And so, on the third attempt to convince me she was good to go, I made an extra effort to sound supportive and to release my reservations. I encouraged her — you know, get out there, go see the world. I mean, there she was, standing in the doorway of the garage with her new dark tresses, wearing goofy faux glasses that someone had obviously swiped off Henry Kissinger during his open-casket viewing. Isabelle looked like a completely different person. So, yes, I caved. Hell, if I could hardly recognize her, surely no one else would. Right? She was no longer Isabelle. She was Izzy.

Then there was that look on her face — the one I’ve seen a hundred times — her jaw squarely set, brows furrowed, lips pursed, an indication she was done having this conversation we weren’t really having. I probably should have protested or at least made tears or created some sort of drama to get her to reconsider, but I didn’t. I kept telling myself she cannot live in a garage; she is twenty-three years old. She just did a trial run at the grocery store without incident. Quit being so paranoid, bitch.

Stupidly, I dialed down my worries, smiled, and said, “Okay. Get out of here, girl. Have yourself an adventure.” Then I handed her the keys.

We had parked the Civic a couple blocks away. Leaving it in the neighbor’s carport, as we had done for the last few weeks, wasn’t discreet enough for my taste. So, this was the new procedure we’d put together: keep the Civic parked down the block on the street, then move it from time to time so it appeared to be used regularly. Whoever was moving or driving the car was to wear one of our designated “disguises,” and there were several. Nothing was to be connected to my house, to Laura or me, or to Isabelle. And most decidedly, not to the car. On this particular occasion, Isabelle was to walk through the alley, turn onto Elm, then pick up the car from its spot behind the dry cleaner on Prospect, an unremarkable spot it had been occupying for the last three days. Then off she could go. I felt pretty confident in all of this.

And now, here we are, doing a meticulous reconstruction of what exactly went wrong, as well as a full psych-eval on what the hell I was thinking in not stopping her. What I didn’t know — what none of us knew at the time — was that Alexandros, from The Brotherhood, had made a call.

We didn’t put his name to any of this until much later, but this is what we eventually pieced together: Alexandros, whose identity was partially obscured in the Telegram threads Laura had been copying but had not yet fully decoded, had flagged a pattern two days before the crash and shared it with the group. It was not about Isabelle’s hair, nor the glasses, nor her new Carhartt clothing. Alexandros seemed clueless about those details. No, he was on to something subtler and less obvious. The Civic. And he’d noted it was sitting near the dry cleaner on Prospect.

Fuck.

He knew this because he knew Basti. Not personally — at least, we couldn’t prove they were pals or even acquaintances — but Basti had parked the Civic three times in the same location on three separate weekday afternoons. And he hadn’t worn a disguise. Everyone in town knew Basti, and they knew him to be one of Isabelle’s closest friends. And they knew his car. This Civic was not it. Why was he driving this instead? This is a soft detour from behavioral regularity that looks like it’s nothing unless that’s exactly what someone is looking for. The Brotherhood had not been tracking Isabelle’s face. They knew she was likely in disguise at this point. They had been tracking her network, all the people who still orbited her life. Me, Laura, Basti, the whole gang, though probably not Adam.

As Laura would quietly point out after all of this went down: they weren’t watching her, Isabelle. They were watching us watch her. This was a much more sophisticated operation than we’d given them credit for, and these were the types of details that kept me up at night. I got to thinking that the royal we were going to have to quit being so reactionary in our responses and start thinking and acting as they did. Calm, cool, and collected. The Brotherhood was playing a sophisticated game of chess, not participating in a WWE “professional” wrestling match, though their caveman mentality might have made one think otherwise. Our gang would have to strategize with clinical detachment and deliver either a checkmate or a forced resignation if we were to keep Isabelle and the other young women in town safe.

If you’re not fucking following this chess lingo, Google it.

So off Isabelle went. Then, only blocks from where the Civic had been parked, was Caden, standing right on the corner of Miller and Fourth, at the light. Isabelle, not having driven in weeks, was preoccupied. She didn’t see him. The gray Civic slowed to a halt as the light turned red. There was a good, long clearance interval at that intersection, something Caden and his helpmates had surely considered.

Isabelle conveyed these details to me later, in bits and pieces. You know, the way you reconstruct something that happened way too fast for your brain to properly process at the time. She said she didn’t see him until she rolled down the passenger-side window. Someone had knocked on it while she sat waiting for the light to change, the car idling. So she lowered the window, imagining god knows what — that people in our town could be trusted? She said the radio had been on. It was a favorite song, and she had it cranked — and she was toggling, keeping an eye on the light, while thinking about what type of coffee she was going to order at the Java Hut. Perfectly ordinary thoughts, really. The kind of thoughts a person with an ordinary life might have.

Isabelle was trying to be ordinary. For just a few minutes, please.

Then, without warning, the passenger door was thrown open. And Isabelle couldn’t move the car forward or backward. She was sandwiched between two cars.

She said her first instinct was not fear. It was confusion. Why was this fucker opening my car door? For starters, she was sure she had locked the doors before taking off. Then she thought: Who in the hell gets into your car at an intersection? That was not a scenario she had ever played through in her mind. This was a small town. A sleepy little community. Things like this didn’t happen here — carjackings, that is. Isabelle had not played out all the possibilities in her mind. She’d left that to me. She really hated that sort of thing — that planning for the worst. Isabelle was unapologetically a trusting, in-the-moment sort of person. An optimist.

Isabelle’s confusion was short-lived. She looked at this unwelcome passenger, recognized him, and her second instinct kicked in: fear. What the fuck was Caden Galt doing in her car? In the passenger seat?

Caden had the face of the hometown golden boy. A squarish Germanic face, sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes, a nice tan and a fine-tuned physique. He was photogenic, that was for sure. And he was Logan Hill High’s salutatorian in 2019 and was also the first among his peers to be making good money. At the tender age of 23, Caden had his own landscaping business with a steady clientele of middle-aged ladies, most of them recently divorced. He was, in essence, getting paid to play the part of “husband” — mowing the lawn, raking leaves, fixing a few things around the house, and yes, that. Caden was famous for his inexhaustible sexual appetite — which is exactly why Isabelle had sent him packing. Caden needed more than one woman in his life to meet his needs, apparently. Typically there were four or five. That had been a difficult secret to keep from Isabelle, whom he had convinced for three years was his one and only.

Caden also knew the secret handshake for all the upper crusty men in town who golfed, and he had the gift of gab — both qualities you typically only see in older misogynist pigs, not in a 24-year-old. These rich old geezers were his peeps, and he’d managed to bring more than one of them into The Brotherhood. They were ripe for it.

Caden and Isabelle had been a pair for over three years, and during that time, Caden had expressed to her his dream of building something real. He envisioned her being his wife, and them having children. He hoped to buy a large ranch which would eventually become the family compound, a place they would grow old together. And he hoped Isabelle would come around to the idea of his mother living with them. She was surely going to divorce his sorry ass father, if given the opportunity. Philandering was what Phil was all about. That and putting back the Jack Daniel’s.

Caden was going to take care of Isabelle, “til death do us part,” he said more than once and which, in retrospect, probably should have been perceived as a threat. This seemingly innocent cultural idiom had, at the time, been accompanied by a cheap bouquet of Trader Joe’s flowers. Caden attributed this expression to something he had read in the Bible, a book Isabelle had never cracked, nor had any inclination to read. Turns out those actual words are from the Book of Common Prayer of the Church of England. Not the bible. Caden relayed all of this in the way men say things they imagine demonstrates devotion, or will be perceived as a compliment, when all they are actually doing is announcing plans. Their plans. The plans they are making for your life, without your consent. Caden was in charge. He was the decision-maker. He was the man.

Caden got in the car and shut the door with smug authority. This was his woman; this was his space. He gave Isabelle the once-over, his expression delivering a verdict on her new look: it was disgusting. “Drive,” he said. The light had turned green. Behind them, someone tapped a horn — more than once. So, she drove.

But of course Caden knew who she was. The disguise — it was no disguise to him. Yeah, perhaps if he’d seen her from a distance, but this was up close. That’s the thing she kept circling back to as she told her story. He had looked at her — dark hair, glasses, shirt she’d borrowed from Basti — and he’d known instantly it was her, the way you know someone you’ve been intimate with for years. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t do a double-take. He opened the door with all the confidence in the world and said, “Drive.”

For the first few blocks, he was silent. He sat with his right hand gripping the grab bar above the passenger door, his arm hanging down, swinging slightly, his jaw clenched into a hard line. He had the casual, relaxed body language of someone just catching a ride with a friend — this, though something was clearly off. Then he slowly reached into his right pocket, pulled out a gun, and laid it across the dashboard, just out of Isabelle’s reach. Only then did he start talking. The fucker.

I’m not going to transcribe all that came next. I can’t anyway — I wasn’t there, and I didn’t record Isabelle’s recitation. Though I am inclined to fill in details that suit my narrative of what likely went down, what would be the point of that? My problem: I have no tolerance or patience for stories left unfinished. Filling the void — that is one of my obsessions. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. I consider it my way of arriving at a much-needed conclusion before it’s too late.

I look at it like this: rather than waiting for all the pieces to fall into place, I imagine what those missing parts might look like, and when I feel my vision resonate, I know that’s it. I feel confident I understand what’s going on.

As the expression goes, the wheels of justice turn slowly. I am not a patient person, especially when it comes to waiting for law enforcement to get things right. Especially a police force in bed with the Galt family.

Isabelle is my daughter. Her life and happiness are my responsibility. I intend to plow right ahead.

Isabelle had really only given me pieces of the story — small bites delivered in an unusually flat affect — a tone of voice that conveyed to me, her mother, that she’d begun walling things off. She was building a fortress. She was keeping reality out. She needed it to be that way. I had to respect that.

Caden’s beef? Isabelle had left him without his permission. That was his core grievance. It’s not like they were incompatible, or that the relationship had run its course, or that she had her own life and her own reasons. No, no. That was not possible: her leaving him. That was inconceivable. It was an act she had no authority to perform. Their split made him look stupid. And then, she took it a step further. She had gone away — to a place he was not privy to — and she’d made herself unrecognizable, unattractive. She dressed like a man and was doing nothing to win back his affection. Through her words and actions, she was giving everyone the impression she was done with him.

Had he given her permission to do that? Hell, no.

Caden could only conclude that Isabelle was delusional. He and his pals were going to fix this situation.

Caden ordered Isabelle to get onto the county road heading north. And she did, because there was that gun in plain view on the dashboard. She was absolutely going to be following Caden’s directions to a T, though her inner GPS was commanding her to take a U-turn at the next intersection.

Isabelle thought of stopping; then she ran the calculations. There was a gas station at the corner of Miller and Crosscut; two people were standing outside of it. Perhaps she could flag them for help. She could slam on her brakes, get out, and run. But Caden had thought ahead on all of this. He was smart — the bad kind of smart. He’d explained, in his new, rehearsed, authoritative voice, that if Isabelle did anything stupid, all he had to do was swing by her mother’s house to settle the score — you know, that cute bungalow with the detached garage. That garage was the perfect place for a young woman to hole up. He remembered it being a bit grubby, and from what he could ascertain, Isabelle was down for that — a grubby old garage. If she wasn’t going to be with him, someone who was clearly a good provider and would see she had every advantage in the world, she deserved a less than ideal life.

Isabelle made her way to the county road. This old two-lane, which headed north out of town, was the kind of road that felt like freedom when you were sixteen and blasting Harry Styles’ Watermelon Sugar on the car sound system. Oak-covered hills rose up on both sides of the road, the occasional hawk perched on a PG & E pole. In the wrong situation — like this early evening drive she was now taking with Caden Galt — there was not that feeling of freedom. No, far from it. There was growing panic, not exhilaration, as the distance between safety and the unknown expanded with each mile.

Caden directed Isabelle through two sharp turns, as if she wasn’t aware of them on this road she’d driven a hundred times. His point: to establish that he was the one in charge. He was the one who knew these roads. He was the one navigating. And he was the one who had taken her up this way on many a moonlit night. This was their road. No. Make that his road. He’d brought many other young ladies up here, too.

Caden continued talking, though the content was shifting — from grievance to instruction. From you abandoned me to here’s what’s going to happen, bitch. Isabelle listened with the part of her brain that cataloged information and ran survival math, while the other part, on autopilot, drove the car. For the time being, she had to shelve the panic and fear.

As Caden rambled on and on, Isabelle thought about the steering wheel. She thought about whether she could angle toward a shoulder, open her door, jump out and roll. She decided she couldn’t. It seemed likely she could lose a limb or get run over by her own vehicle. She thought about the gas station they’d passed. She thought about her phone in the cupholder, and whether she could gingerly pick it up without him noticing. None of these opportunities were real opportunities.

So, she just drove.

At some point, the steady rhythm of the tires settled Caden down. He was mesmerized, drawn into a reverie, imagining things were as they had been in the good old days. He reached over and tenderly put his hand on the back of Isabelle’s neck. There was almost a proprietary ease to it — the gesture of someone reclaiming a possession he’d temporarily misplaced.

The sensation of his hand on her neck made Isabelle nauseous. She cringed: “Don’t.”

Caden reluctantly retracted his hand, then pulled back into the reality of the present situation, coolly stating: “You’ve lost the right to tell me ‘don’t.’ How can you possibly imagine you get to do that? Are you that stupid?”

And then they came up on the curve. The curve. A curve missed by a few hundred cars over the course of many years. The owners of the property at this spot eventually got smart and placed massive boulders in front of their house. Nothing like a Ford pickup plowing into your living room in the middle of The Tonight Show.

The curve and utility easement at that corner of Route 12 — or what should have been a “corner” — was not a dramatic feature on any Google map. It appeared as a standard rural bend, with signs dictating 35 miles per hour, though even that was too fast. It was the kind of curve that looked shallow from a distance but tightened up faster than one could anticipate. And then there was that cluster fuck of utility poles on the right shoulder at the front of the bend. It was the kind of infrastructure the county had put in before anyone had properly considered the road geometry. All of those poles were a little too close to the northbound lane. There wasn’t, in fact, even a shoulder at that spot, unless you considered 6 inches a “shoulder.”

Isabelle was doing thirty-eight MPH when Caden grabbed the wheel.

This was not to steer, mind you. That’s important, because as would be revealed later in the accident reconstruction, this detail mattered. Caden had grabbed the wheel in the way you grab something to stop it, a lateral jerk with his right hand — he actually reached over with his dominant hand — followed by a refusal to yield control, a clear you don’t get to control this, bitch. His gesture expressed intent more clearly than anything he’d said to Isabelle over the last twelve miles.

The Civic left the road.

Isabelle slammed on the brakes — a reflex — and despite being the correct instinct, braking did little to prevent what was to come, not at that speed and that angle. The right front bumper caught the edge of a utility pole at approximately twenty-two miles per hour, which the accident report later described as a moderate-impact collision, a phrase that means absolutely nothing when you’re writhing in pain, trapped in a vehicle.

The airbags had gone off, the windshield didn’t break, but the hood crumpled into a V.

Above the stopped car — which was still in drive, engine running — was a sustained electrical buzzing, a sound that shouldn’t have been that loud or that close. It was a transformer, which had become disconnected from the pole due to the impact of the car. There it was, dangling precariously from the wires at the top of the pole, swinging back and forth above the car, and far too heavy to continue for long in this capacity as a pendulum. This was a mother-fucker of a transformer, one I would find out later weighed over 1400 lbs. Those power lines were not designed for that kind of weight. The transformer was complaining, throwing sparks, and threatening to make physical and electrical contact with the ground below.

Caden and Isabelle understood the danger, and didn’t move for what felt like an hour, though it was probably less than a minute.

Here is what I learned about downed and damaged electrical lines after my extended conversation with a PG&E crew supervisor, someone who’d clearly had to explain these facts far too many times: when a vehicle strikes a utility pole and makes contact with a downed conductor, the car can become energized, especially if damp. If the passengers and driver stay inside the vehicle, there is less chance of them coming into contact with the electrical current. Stepping outside, they risk crossing a lethal voltage differential.

Shit. Those two kids could have been killed.

Hal explained you only get out of an energized vehicle if other threats are more concerning — i.e., fire, smoke, water. Typically, you are advised to wait for the utility company to de-energize the line. This is not a guideline. This is a politely worded directive, given in a life-or-death situation. Loaded guns were not mentioned in this list of dangerous circumstances. The gun on the dashboard was now wedged under Caden’s seat. He reached between his legs, feeling for it, and upon finding it, pocketed it.

Unfortunately, Isabelle knew nothing of these precautions when the buzzing started. And neither did Caden, as it turned out. He swung open his door and started to exit the vehicle, until the first responder — a volunteer firefighter named Garrett — told him to “Stay in the vehicle,” conveying this with an unmistakable urgency Caden couldn’t ignore. Caden stopped in his tracks, door wide open with one foot extended mid-air. “Don’t touch the car or the ground,” Garrett stated in a more measured voice. “Stay in the car. I need you both to stay in the car until PG & E arrives.”

Isabelle’s face was bleeding. She had hit the steering wheel. The airbag had deployed, but not fast enough. Her cheekbone had made contact with the steering wheel, leaving her with a periorbital contusion and soft tissue trauma to her left orbital ridge. Not a pretty sight. Most disconcerting, however, was her back. It hurt in a way that felt indescribably wrong. She didn’t have words for the sensation she was feeling, but her gut told her it was a structural hurt, and it was complaining at high volume.

Isabelle remained in the car, staying as motionless as possible. She knew this could be a life-changing situation. The impact had been violent.

Caden, after a moment, pulled his foot back into the car. He said nothing. There was no apology, no are you ok? Just silence. And he bristled with irritation. He was irritated at having to wait for PG &E and having to stay in the car. Irritated that things were not playing out as he had planned. Isabelle tried to wrap her head around the impatience radiating from him. It was hard to appreciate it when this situation was entirely of his own making. All of this was his fault. 100%. Did he not understand that?

Caden’s arrogance and sense of entitlement, his need to show Isabelle who was in charge, all of it had failed him. There they were, sitting in a totaled car; a power outage was affecting hundreds of houses and an elementary school, and there were injuries, the severity of which was yet to be determined.

And so they sat in the crumpled Civic, a sparking, buzzing transformer teetering above them, and they said nothing. There was nothing to say.

The PG & E crew arrived less than fifteen minutes after Garrett’s call. They had de-energized the circuit at the pole upstream. A crewman with rubber gloves confirmed the vehicle was no longer in danger and gave Isabelle and Caden the go-ahead to come out.

The head EMT opened the driver’s side door and instructed Isabelle to carefully and slowly swing her legs outside the vehicle. Isabelle relayed her concern about her back and was told to wait while Garrett directed two of his colleagues to bring the long spine board. He walked them through what would be a standing takedown. All of this had to be coordinated perfectly to prevent exacerbating Isabelle’s injuries, which they feared might include fractured vertebrae. Though Isabelle’s legs held through all of this, her back had made a terrible sound, which sent a wave of nausea through her body.

Caden, who was already outside the vehicle, was running a hand through his hair, feeling for the laceration above his left eye, which was producing more blood than the injury warranted. He looked annoyed, but not frightened. All of this was an inconvenience he’d not planned for. Yes, he’d wanted to scare her and bash up the car, but the rest of this was not playing out as he’d hoped. It was, in fact, a fucking mess, and he said as much. There might be an investigation. His parents would be pissed.

The animosity Caden began directing Isabelle’s way came across loud and clear to the ambulance driver. There was no way he was putting the two of them in the same vehicle. He’d seen this dynamic before, namely in domestic abuse situations, and so he called for a backup vehicle. He intended to send Caden in the second ambulance and to direct them to a different emergency room altogether, one that was down valley and in another county. And the driver decided not to give Caden the benefit of knowing this change in advance. His first priority: to protect Isabelle. The young man was unhinged, and he didn’t want him anywhere near her.

Isabelle arrived at the hospital to a flurry of nurses and doctors. Her diagnosis came in stages, the way serious injuries typically do. Her adrenaline was running interference, and it would take a while for her true symptoms to emerge. The facial contusions were obvious, but the vertebral fractures — two of them, T11 and T12, nondisplaced, stable — showed up on the CT scan and produced a conversation with an orthopedic hospitalist which Isabelle barely comprehended. She hoped someone, hopefully John, would arrive soon and be able to take in all he was saying and make the decisions that needed making. Words like conservative management, neurological monitoring, and thoracolumbosacral orthosis washed over her. What were any of these terms? Their meaning would be revealed over the next 24 hours after all the test results, scans, and X-rays had been evaluated by specialists. In the meantime, Isabelle was given hardcore medication for the pain and shock, cleaned up, stitched up, then outfitted with a TLSO brace, which would cover her from mid-chest to her hips. This device was going to be her constant companion for many months, she was told. Best to get good with it. The alternative, should she choose to not wear the brace: her currently stable fractures could slip, potentially rendering her paralyzed. Wow. Yesterday, she was doing yoga.

Isabelle closed her eyes to the bright fluorescent lights and all that fussing and milling about by hospital staff, but she couldn’t escape what had just happened. The nightmare of that buzzing transformer, its frequency she might have precisely named had she perfect pitch. Was it buzzing at a Bb or a concert A? The sound of it had settled in her inner ear and wasn’t leaving. It was a pitch she would never forget.

Down valley, Caden was being treated at a smaller hospital, his injuries unremarkable. He received four stitches above his left eye and otherwise had a clean bill of health. His parents arrived at the hospital just forty minutes after the ambulance, their attorney in tow. Though there was a general sense of goodwill between hospital staff, the lawyer, and family, copious notes were being taken about the incident, and the family pressured the head of the ER to interface with the other hospital. What could they find out about Isabelle’s prognosis, Caden’s family demanded to know. Who was in charge of the investigation? Was there going to be an investigation? Had Isabelle been intoxicated?

On the surface, the Galt’s concern seemed real, but the chief of emergency medicine had his doubts. There was something about this young man that did not sit right. For starters, why had the EMTs taken the two victims to different hospitals? Dr. Reiner’s impression, based on Caden’s interactions with his female staff, was that this might not be Caden’s first rodeo — that perhaps this was a case of intimate partner violence. The patient seemed too smooth, too sure of himself, and absolutely sure of his right to be given details about the other person injured in the collision. A young woman named Isabelle.

Despite all of the Galts’ posturing, the thumbscrews were not convincing the doctor to reveal details about the other party. He would not be telling them anything about Isabelle’s prognosis, even if he knew it, which he didn’t. Giving out this sort of information was strictly prohibited under the HIPAA privacy rules. And no, it absolutely did not matter that these two patients were supposedly in an intimate relationship.

Caden was pissed. Molly and Hank Galt were pissed. They would be stopping by the police station before heading home. They knew who to talk to there. They would get answers.

A county sheriff’s deputy named Trujillo came by to take Isabelle’s statement. He was not unkind, but he was operating on the assumption that the car’s driver, Isabelle, was responsible for driving the vehicle off the road. His understanding: this was driver error, either a miscalculation, distracted driving, or a DUI. When blood tests came back, they revealed that Isabelle had been sober — there was no sign of alcohol or drugs. So, what actually had happened? Trujillo was curious to know.

Isabelle, who had been given something quite potent for her pain, felt she still had the wherewithal to make a statement. In his notes, Trujillo observed that Isabelle was lucid, but seemed weak from her injuries. He also sensed there was something wrong — something she wasn’t willing to talk about. She sounded too sure of herself. Her answers to his questions were too patent.

Isabelle explained to Deputy Trujillo that she and Caden had been driving around together, just wanting to talk and get out of town. They had been on the county road. She had come into the curve too fast and had lost control.

That was the long and short of it, she said.

Trujillo wrote all of this down. What more was there to ask? Everything Isabelle said lined up with the physical evidence. Something wasn’t sitting right, however, and Trujillo couldn’t put his finger on it. He really needed to hear what this young man had to say. Would he back up her story?

And why were they being treated at different hospitals? This was curious.

Trujillo sat in the hallway nursing a coffee, ruminating on the details of the crash, then decided he really needed to double-check the circumstances leading up to Isabelle’s leaving the road. He gently knocked on the door to her room, and an ER nurse let him re-enter. Might he have a few more minutes with the patient? He had a couple of concerns. Isabelle seemed exasperated that their previous conversation was not the end of the inquiry, but she knew better than to protest. That might be perceived as a red flag, and she was absolutely not ready to confront Caden and the Galt family head-on. Accusing Caden of carjacking and kidnapping — my god, they might kill her. Caden’s parents were fiercely protective of their children, even when they did a wrong thing. Isabelle had heard stories.

Trujillo wanted to know this: what had been Caden’s behavior leading up to the accident? Was he cheerful, argumentative, depressed — what was his mood? Had there been an argument? Raised voices? Any kind of altercation before the crash? Had Mr. Galt ever threatened physical harm toward Isabelle? Did he carry a gun?

As to Caden’s mood, Isabelle said only that he had been pleasant, and to all other questions, she replied: “No.” That was all she had to say. Now she needed to rest.

Trujillo noted that Isabelle had called Caden an old friend. He wondered to himself: was this a former friend, a long-ago friend, or a forever friend? Something in Isabelle’s voice made him think Caden was someone who used to be her friend. As in past tense. Isabelle had also said, “This is my fault,” and she nodded when he asked if that was all there was to it.

I want to be precise about something here: Isabelle was not protecting Caden. I am aware this is how it might have appeared to those looking in from the outside. And this is surely why the public story went the way it went. Fucking sideways. But that’s not what’s really happening in this room.

What’s happening is this: I have a twenty-three-year-old daughter who is badly injured, sedated, and alone in a hospital bed in a county where Caden Galt’s family is royalty. She was not ready to tell the truth. The truth was on its own schedule. It was not in our time zone. We would have to be patient and wait for the sun to rise.

Deputy Trujillo closed his notebook and told Isabelle to feel better. He laid a warm hand over hers and lent her an assuring smile.

I was at Laura’s when my phone rang.

The caller ID read: Logan Hill Regional. I picked it up before the first ring finished, which tells you something about the frequency I’d been operating on since Isabelle had driven away in Adam’s car.

The nurse on the end of the line was professional and gentle. She gave me the essential facts: Isabelle had been in a vehicle accident; she was stable; she had injuries that required monitoring. Perhaps it is best for you to come.

I got in my car.

I don’t remember the drive or that Laura and John were with me. This is also information.

Isabelle looked terrible, which is an ordinary thing to say about a person who has just been in a car accident, but it is also entirely inadequate. Isabelle had large bandages on her left cheekbone. She was awkwardly positioned in the hospital bed, and at an angle I’d never seen her assume. Her dark hair, spread across the pillow, caught me off guard. Somewhere in my reptile brain, I was still expecting blonde. There was a disconnect.

I sat down and held Isabelle’s hand. This was a moment I needed to say nothing. My duty as her mother was to hold on to the geography of the situation.

Eventually, Isabelle would tell me that she and Caden had been riding around together. Like old times. That she’d just come into the curve too fast.

I looked at Laura, who was standing in the doorway. Laura looked at me. What could we say?

I knew Isabelle was lying. Not about the crash — that was real, the injuries real, everything structural about the story was true. But I knew she was lying about the why, about the how they got there, about the circumstances leading up to the Civic shaking hands with the utility pole. I knew because I’m Isabelle’s mother and because I’ve spent my whole career writing a column precisely about the texture of things people don’t say.

And I knew not to call her on it. I smoothed her hair back from her face, carefully kissed her forehead, and told her we were going to get her somewhere safe and comfortable, where she could recover, and that we were going to focus on that right now. That was enough.

Isabelle closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep, thanks to the pain meds.

Laura pulled me into the hallway.

“Was it Caden?” Laura asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“He got to her somehow.” Laura was in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“But she’s not going to say so tonight, is that right?”

“No,” I said. “Not tonight.”

We stood in the overly bright hallway and said nothing else for a good long while. I was emotionally exhausted. Down the corridor, a television in another room was softly playing the news. Outside, it was pitch black — a cloudy, dark night.

Two days later, getting Isabelle home — to the barn, to the only safe house we had at our disposal — required navigating that TLSO brace, with its laundry list of instructions and a laminated sheet of warnings. There were approximately seventeen caveats about positioning, some for at night and some for during the day. The brace was rigid plastic and foam, and had been custom-fitted for Isabelle right at the hospital, in under two hours. It covered her from mid-sternum to the top of her hip bones, wrapping around her lower back in a way that made clear which types of weight-bearing were acceptable and which were out of the question. This was all going to take some getting used to.

Isabelle walked to John’s car with a cautious, shortened gait. John had come to get us, thank god. His car seats were higher and easier for Isabelle to navigate, and I was in no condition to drive. As usual, John had arrived without having to be asked — the kind of gesture that makes clear why you married someone. We were comforting extensions of one another.

John helped Isabelle into the back seat, positioning pillows under both her arms so she would be less inclined to tip from side to side during a turn. He drove home slowly, taking back streets to avoid causing frustration for other drivers. One might have imagined he was transporting the crown jewels. He was.

Laura rode in back with Isabelle, and I rode shotgun with John. There wasn’t much conversing, and the radio was left off. No noise was good. There’d been far too much stimulation over the last few days: monitors and blood pressure checks, nurses in and out, doctors weighing in on tests and X-rays, meds being administered, physical therapy, another round of questioning by the police. Enough already.

The town whizzed by in its usual configuration — the gas station at Crosscut, the feed store, the turn for The Bullpen, the oak trees on Old Town Road. Everything was normal, though unrecognizable to me with these new lenses I was wearing — the ones outfitted for hypervigilance. I saw danger everywhere.

We got Isabelle into the barn, going through the house and then the backyard, John and I each taking a side. She didn’t need full support, just ballast against the unfamiliar geometry of the brace. Laura would be staying out in the garage with her for the time being. She’d set up a workstation for herself, and we’d put up a large Chinese screen between the living and sleeping spaces. Isabelle needed to know someone was keeping watch, and we needed to know she was getting her prescribed meds on the schedule dictated.

Isabelle’s friends had come by and cleaned and organized everything. Her canvases were stacked against the far wall, her desk clear and ready for her to work, the blackout curtains drawn. It felt safe — the space nearly impenetrable.

Isabelle sat herself on the edge of the bed with the care of someone doing mental load calculations with every inch of descent. Eventually she was able to get into a reclining position, after which Laura tucked her in, positioning pillows all around her to keep her immobile. She then raised the head end of the bed, so Isabelle was in a semi-upright position.

I stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to say.

Isabelle asked if she could have her sketchbook.

I got it for her. It was on the shelf next to her desk. I also grabbed the wooden bed tray we’d picked up. I placed it over her lap.

Isabelle reverently held her favorite sketchbook, gazing at the cover as if it were her long-lost “lovie.”

Then, off topic, she blurted out: “I want to get colored contacts, green ones. I know — Isabelle has blue eyes. But Izzy can have whatever she wants. And that’s what I want.”

I said, “Okay.”

“And I want to do something else with my hair. I want it to be shorter. I don’t want to think of it anymore.” She touched the nape of her neck. “More committed. I want to commit to this new persona. I want Izzy to be me.”

“Okay,” I said again, without reservation.

“I know — none of this will keep him from finding me,” she said, in that flat, precise voice of a woman who’s finally revised a belief she’d always been operating on. “Even if he finds me, he’s never going to touch me. I am going to be stronger than those fuckers. Wait until they see what they have unleashed.”

Her determination, her rage, it all felt right. Izzy was on to something. The distinction she was drawing was between camouflage and self-determination — this was something we could all get behind. This was something I understood completely.

And so I said for the third time: “Okay.”

Isabelle opened the sketchbook to a blank page. She took a thick charcoal pencil and held it over the white expanse, not hesitating really, rather, exercising precision. She then drew a thick, horizontal line.

I didn’t ask what it was. But I knew.

I let her draw.

READ ALL OF OVERPAINT:

Overpaint, Chapter 1

Overpaint, Chapter 2

Overpaint, Chapter 3

Overpaint, Chapter 4

The morning after? It smelled of bacon grease and fear.

Adam had arrived at six-thirty, before anyone was properly awake, letting himself in through the back door the way he always did, as though my kitchen were an extension of The Bullpen’s. By the time I stumbled downstairs in my bathrobe, he’d already commandeered every burner on my stove. Scrambled eggs with crème fraîche. Thick-cut bacon. Crispy hash browns fried in duck fat. A soothing fruit salad with melon, blueberries, mandarin orange slices, shredded mint, and honey. And coffee strong enough to strip varnish off a Victorian sideboard. Adam had brought everything in Cambros, thereby sparing my fridge and countertops. He moved efficiently, quietly, as if he’d run a professional kitchen for twenty years, and with the economy of someone who doesn’t have the luxury of wasted motion.

John came downstairs ten minutes later, no doubt aroused by the smell of applewood smoked bacon. He took one look at the assembled company and started setting the table without prompting. What I love about John: nothing is performative. He just helps. He assesses the situation and simply does what needs doing.

The posse gathered around my big, round dining room table: Laura, John, Adam, Basti, Kaira — and Isabelle, who had slept all of forty minutes last night and looked like she’d aged a decade. She sat with both hands wrapped around my Fuck Off coffee mug, staring out at nothing and at no one, oblivious to the animated conversation in which she was immersed, and of which she was the center of attention. I was listening, however, while also keeping watch over her as I had since she was born — looking for signs, signals, and the small tells that meant she was about to go under. I could feel them. She was close. Very close.

Adam laid his huge spread on the table, and we dug in like voracious wolves — exhausted and famished, we ate in silence for the first few minutes. Even Adam, who normally had the uncanny ability to tell colorful anecdotes while simultaneously julienning carrots and calculating a player’s ERA — he had nothing to say.

Basti’s ADHD caught up with him, however. He quickly cured his boredom by stealing three pieces of Kaira’s bacon. She stabbed his hand with her fork without so much as looking up, after which he proceeded to stuff all three slices in his mouth at once. I tried not to laugh; he looked like a chipmunk. At the same time, I was mentally revisiting the steps for the Heimlich maneuver: get behind, make a fist, grab the fist, lean the person forward, pull sharply inward and upward. Repeat until item blocking the windpipe is expelled.

Suddenly, Laura, who had appeared pensive and distracted, set down her coffee and redirected her attention from some distant coordinate in the ether to everyone gathered around the table. “We need to talk logistics,” she said forcefully. It was time.

All the nervous breakfast banter abruptly came to a halt — this was what we’d all been waiting for. Some direction.

“Isabelle cannot be seen coming or going from this property,” Laura said. “​I suppose that’s obvious. Until we have this figured out — what we’re doing, how we’re doing it — there can be no walks, no errands, no sitting on the front stoop. And no sitting in the parts of the backyard where neighbors can see from upstairs.”

Isabelle set her mug down with a small, controlled plunk. “I’m supposed to just stay inside?” She was irritated. “For how long?”

“We don’t know yet,” Laura replied.

“But I have school. I have to work.” Isabelle’s eyes were welling up.

“You can easily take a leave from school,” I said. “Medical, personal, whatever the registrar needs to hear. I mean, really. You’re not going to want to be crossing paths with Lichter or some of the male students in your class, am I right? So, it seems best to just drop out temporarily, at least until we have things sorted.”

“So I just disappear?” She looked around the table. “I just stop existing?”

“For now, yes,” I said sternly. “You’ll have all of us. And we’ll do our best to keep you entertained. And you’ll have no expenses living here, so no need to work.”

She stared at me for a long moment. In the silence, the refrigerator hummed, a bird thudded against the dining room window, the neighbor’s chihuahua yapped — the ordinary sounds of an ordinary morning in a house where nothing was ordinary anymore.

“They get to keep their jobs,” she said, sneering, resentful. “Their apartments, their friends, their freedom. That is fucked. And I have to hide in a garage.”

“You are someone worth protecting,” Kaira said quietly.

“All of this is just until we’ve worked through the logistics of bringing these pitbulls to heel,” Laura added. “This nightmare will end. Count on it.”

“How is it even possible to bring them to heel?” Isabelle was frazzled, distraught. She couldn’t think straight.

“It’s going to take some time, sweetheart,” I said.​ ​”​But I think you know how Laura and I operate. When we’ve decided how a thing is going to go down, it will be going down. Full stop. You’re going to need to be patient. Your best distraction will be immersing yourself in the planning. We are going to need as much help from you as you can handle emotionally — like every gory detail about these fuckers, and the names of everyone in their orbit.”

Everyone around the table was nodding; John smiled gently.

Isabelle pushed her plate away — she’d barely touched her food. This deliberate, small gesture meant only that she was lost in thought. She’d been doing this since she was a little girl. Don’t clear the table, folks. At some point, she will attack those cold leftovers with a vengeance.

“​Okay,”​ she said, turning to Laura. “Tell me the plan.”

The plan, such as it was, started with the weekend.

On Friday night, Isabelle’s closest and most trusted friends arrived. They came in groups of two, parking three or four blocks away and approaching the house on foot through the alley, as Laura had instructed. Location-finding apps on everyone’s phones were to be disabled; no flashlights were to be used, including those on their phones. And there was to be no loud talking when walking through the neighborhood, as it was likely that some of the aforementioned men were keeping watch on my house. The girls’ voices would be recognizable.

Everyone had been briefed, to some degree, on what was going on and what had been happening to Isabelle. Kaira had handled all of that, working through a text chain that Laura had set up on Signal and would delete by Sunday. None of Isabelle’s friends were privy to all the details, because knowing too much wasn’t safe for anyone, especially Isabelle. The friends began arriving, their arms full of thrift store treasures — it looked like a Gen Z version of a wedding shower, though no one was getting married. Maren came bearing blackout curtains she’d sewn by hand, in thick navy linen, hemmed with the precision of someone who took her craft seriously. Simone brought several bolts of string lights, a 12-pack of rechargeable batteries and a recharging pack, and Jade had a vintage rug rolled under one arm and was gripping a box of vintage ceramic pots with the other hand. Two other girls — Petra and Rose — brought a sound system on a collapsible hand truck: a 1980s turntable, amplifier, and speakers, along with two crates of albums. Someone whose name I didn’t catch brought a huge box of cleaning supplies, and someone else had gifted a Cost Plus bag of scented pillar candles, a box of books, and a bottle of Grocery Outlet Malbec. All of these items were essentials for any 20-something-year-old.

Basti arrived last, because he was always the last to arrive. He’d stopped at the Army surplus store on the south side and had gotten Isabelle three pairs of men’s cargo pants, in what he hoped was her size, three black and four navy crew-neck T-shirts, and a pair of steel-toed combat boots. Also, inexplicably, he came bearing a grocery store geranium, probably intended for someone convalescing.

“It’s for her windowbox,” he said when Kaira rolled her eyes.

“Ah, there’s no windowbox, Basti,” Kaira noted.

“Well, I’ll fix that,” Basti replied. And by midnight, he had.

The friends worked through the night, as I watched from the back doorway for a good while — before Laura gently pointed out that my hovering wasn’t helping and handed me a glass of wine. So, inside I went and sat at the kitchen table, continuing to listen from a distance. It was a lovely din, the sound of young women (and Basti) transforming my garage barn into a fun, livable space. They bickered about music, some wanting Miley Cyrus, others hating that, and Kaira wanting Rascal Flatts, eliciting groans from the entire peanut gallery. Finally, all were settled on Billy Eilish and PinkPantheress, which they cranked, singing along at the choruses. Industrious, determined. Cheerful manic was the vibe that last hour of the barn-raising — a bit like the hour before a major deadline at an office gig, when panic converts itself into focus.

By two in the morning, the garage was — well, not beautiful, exactly. But it was theirs.

Maren and Jade had hung the blackout curtains with military precision. Petra had scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees until they were completely free of debris and resembled fresh-poured concrete. Rose set up the turntable on a shelf Basti had bolted to the wall; the string lights ran in a warm zigzag across the length of the “living room.” The plants were arranged on a makeshift shelf near one of the windows on the backyard side of the barn, intermingled with a trio of grow lights. Basti’s geranium was in a new window box near the garage door, as promised.

Isabelle’s art supplies occupied an entire corner of the space: canvases stacked upright, jars of brushes arranged by size on a huge woodworking table, and tubes of paint organized by color in a system only Isabelle understood. I’d set up her easel, and we’d installed a generous amount of overhead lighting since she’d not have the benefit of natural light, unless she chose to work in the backyard some days. I’d also created a spot next to the utility sink for washing brushes.

“This is actually pretty cute,” Maren said, standing back with her hands on her hips.

“Ugh. It’s a garage,” Isabelle groaned.

“It feels like a sanctuary to me — I’d take this in a heartbeat. Better than sharing a two-bedroom flat with three other women.” Kaira complained.

“Alright, alright. It’s pretty fucking cool. You’re right,” Isabelle admitted.

It was time to crash. Everyone was exhausted, but it was a bit too late for anyone, especially the girls, to be driving home, so three of them piled into Isabelle’s king-size bed, and Basti passed out on the couch. Everyone else holed up in the guest bedroom in the house.

The important transformation happened Saturday night.

I’d been expecting resistance, bracing for it, in fact. I know my daughter and the way she goes still and flat when someone tells her what to do with her body or how to dress. She clenches her teeth and gets a steely look in her eyes. No way comes across loud and clear even though polite words are coming out of her mouth.

Simone constructed her workstation in the center of the garage: a folding chair on a wood pallet, a pile of towels, and scissors and combs laid out on a metal table like surgical instruments, two boxes of hair dye in a deep auburn — a carefully considered color based on Isabelle’s skin tones. Her new color needed to look natural even if it wasn’t.

Isabelle sat down. She was all in. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and held it there for a moment, glancing briefly at the long, pale ponytail. She didn’t need this anymore, this thing that had been drawing the wrong kind of attention since she was fourteen years old. She was happy to let it go. Fuck it.

“Do it,” she said. “Make it gone. And don’t stop to ask me if I’m okay. I’m OK.”

Simone began cutting. First, the big chop. Twelve inches straight across, now in a pile on the floor. Simone kicked it out of the way, as there was so much of it that she was afraid of slipping. Isabelle ran both hands through her newly shorn locks. Damn, it felt liberating. She was glad there were no mirrors. She couldn’t care less how any of this was going to look. It felt amazing, and that’s all she cared about. Fuck mirrors.

“Keep going, please,” Isabelle encouraged. And so Simone dug in, using thinning shears to lower the weight and volume of her hair before doing the precision cutting. They decided to aim for a shoulder-length shag. Something a bit alt and careless-looking. Something as far from soft girl as possible.

By the time Simone was finished with the cut, Isabelle had shed nearly 14 inches, her face framed by a gently ragged, disheveled bob. She already looked like someone else altogether. They were getting somewhere.

Then came the dye. This was actually the hard part.

Simone worked section by section, methodically, quietly, as Isabelle sat very still, eyes closed, meditating to melodic techno and the smell of developer and red coupler — which had an oddly comforting chemical warmth. The other young women buzzed around Isabelle, continuing the garage project in hushed voices, folding underwear and T-shirts into drawers, arranging books on shelves, stacking plates and lining up glassware on papered shelves in the kitchenette area, fluffing pillows, and organizing clothes on makeshift garment racks. The sheer force of this domestic activity swept away all the trauma, making room for a new normality. Pretty sure women have been doing this sort of thing since the beginning of time. It is truly one of the most underrated forms of love.

After Isabelle’s long stretch of sitting under a heat lamp, Simone rinsed her hair in the utility sink, then brought her back to the chair for a blow-out, and some final dry cutting and texturizing. When done, Simone pulled off her apron and stepped back, signaling for everyone else to stop what they were doing and take a look.

Isabelle glowed under the string lights. Her color was dark — a complex blend of rich browns, copper-red highlights, and a few flecks of deep gold like the autumn hillsides. The new color and cut had changed everything, and not just aesthetically. This new hair changed the frequency Isabelle was broadcasting. The blonde had been one signal, whether she’d meant it to be or not — a particular kind of visibility that men had learned to read as availability. The new look was something else altogether. Complex, Challenging. Strong. Elusive. Independent. This was a woman who made her own choices. Most men were too weak to handle a woman like this.

There was no more Isabelle. This was Izzy.

Izzy, a name Isabelle had wanted to use her entire life. Now here she was, adopting this name out of necessity. It was like a seismic slip-lock.

“Oh, wow,” Kaira said softly, in awe.

Izzy didn’t need a mirror. The expressions on her friends’ faces told her everything she needed to know. In fact, she asked Basti to take the one and only mirror in the room and set it in the garden. She then had him replace it with one of her large, colorful canvases.

Simone’s work was done. She began her clean-up and pack-up. Jade handed Izzy some thick-framed glasses with non-prescription lenses, and Izzy tried them on. Everyone went quiet for a second time. It was clear: Izzy would be able to walk past Caden Galt on the street, and he would not see Isabelle. He would have no interest in this new woman. Caden, Isabelle’s former boyfriend who had the intelligence of a sponge, wouldn’t know whether this brunette was at peak ovulation or sporting a penis under those cargo pants. He only knew what he’d seen in the manosphere. And she was not that.

“I’m guessing I look like a different person,” Izzy reiterated for the umpteenth time.

“Oh, yeah,” Laura said. She and I had just popped our heads into the garage to check out the progress. We were flabbergasted.

I feel like myself,” Izzy said, and there was something in her voice I couldn’t quite pinpoint. It wasn’t happiness. Certainly not grief, nor disappointment. It was something more complicated. I believe it was relief.

“Maybe,” Basti said carefully, “you now look as you’ve always thought of yourself, instead of how these men decided you should be.”

She looked at Basti.

“​Okay,”​ she said. “That lands.”

The next day, Sunday, we were back at the table.

It was just me, Laura, Adam, and a couple of new faces: Diana Shields, a family-law attorney and Laura’s college roommate, and a woman named Cora Fineman who ran victim advocacy services at the regional women’s center — a woman with a calm, precise manner. Laura had called them in without any advance warning, because that’s how Laura rolls. Waiting for permission is usually too slow; better to forge ahead, then ask for forgiveness. She knew this: the right experts at this very moment were going to save us a shit ton of time — time we didn’t have. And amateur guesswork — well, we couldn’t afford that either. We needed people who could connect the dots for us, and quickly.

We had coffee. We had yellow legal pads. And we had Adam’s chicken salad croissants, which were a guarantee he would never be short on female companionship.

Diana distributed the legal pads like a dealer at a blackjack table, then clicked her ballpoint pen impatiently, waiting for us to quit jabbering and get down to work. “Let me be clear about what we can and can’t do,” she said, without preamble, “because I want to save us forty minutes of movies.”

“Movies?” Adam asked.

“Witness protection. False identities. Government-issued Social Security numbers, new birth certificates, the whole shebang. That’s the federal witness protection program. It’s administered by the U.S. Marshals. It’s for people who’ve testified against organized crime or terrorism and whose lives are in documented danger at the federal prosecution level.” She tapped her pen on the pad. “It’s not available for victims of sexual assault, domestic violence, or stalking, regardless of how serious or how organized. I’m sorry. That’s just the reality.”

Laura nodded slowly. She’d been expecting this, I could tell. I hadn’t. This was disappointing.

“So what can we do?” I asked.

Diana turned to Cora, who opened a slim folder.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Cora said. “But we have to be systematic. And we have to be patient. And most importantly, we have to document everything we do, because some of these steps have legal implications and we need a clear record.”

She pulled out a sheet and set it on the table between us, and what followed was one of the more chilling hours of my life — not because of what Cora said, but because of the expressions on everyone’s faces while she was saying it.

California’s address confidentiality ​​​​​​​program — Safe at Home, which was administered through the Secretary of State’s office — could give Isabelle a designated substitute mailing address, an official one accepted by specified state, county, ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​and city government agencies,​ so that her real location didn’t appear in any public ​​​​​​records. Safe at Home records a single address (a monitored P.O. box) that is accepted by specified state and county entities and designated for voter registration, the DMV, etc. The program would forward her mail and could serve as an agent for service of process. It was not a magic cloak, Cora said. It was a legal mechanism that required going through an authorized enrollment process with documentation of the ​​​​​​​situation. It wouldn’t automatically reach every school record, employer, private business, or financial account — those would each need to be handled separately. But it was a meaningful foundation that would help Isabelle “disappear.”

“So she’d need to document what happened,” I said.

“Yes, and sooner rather than later,” Cora said. “Even if it’s not time for law enforcement to kick in, the documentation matters​. She needs to begin the paper trail. It will make a difference later.”

“Later,” I repeated.

“Yes, later,” Cora said. “Trust me on this. From all you’ve described, sadly there will be a ‘later.’ This is just the reality of these sorts of situations. So, best for Isabelle to bring all documentation you’ve already gathered and sit down with a female desk officer to write up a complaint about the men involved. This could factor in should there be further aggressions — the police will respond differently with this information in front of them.”

Then there was her phone. The device itself was compromised — not just the number, but the hardware, if she’d ever let anyone else handle it, if she’d ever connected to an unfamiliar network, if she’d ever installed an app that requested location or contact access. Laura laid Isabelle’s phone on the table like evidence, which it essentially was, and explained that they’d already removed the SIM card and powered it down, but that if anyone had installed tracking software, that could have been activated before they took those precautions.

“I need to go through this with a forensics tool,” Laura said. “So for now, it stays off. In fact, it would be better if we just got her a new phone and put in every protection ahead of its use.”

“That phone was her whole life,” I said. “Every contact, every photo —.”

“Well, keeping it could cost Izzy her life. So there’s that.” Laura laid it out: “Every contact and every photo on here is likely accessible to them. I think this is one of those moments where starting from scratch is preferable. There is no good alternative to be considered,” Laura said. Not unkindly. “All right.” I agreed to this on Isabelle’s behalf.

And so it was to be. A new phone. Prepaid, cash purchase, no account linkage. This new number would be known only to people at this table and a well-vetted group of friends, all of whom would have to agree to have their phones cleared of potential spyware. Going forward, two-factor authentication would be set up on every account Izzy kept that was tied to the new number, and she’d get a new recovery email address — fresh accounts all-around, no association with her name, everything hosted by a provider Laura would select. Recovery codes would be printed and stored physically in a safe offsite; nothing stored digitally.

“I need to write all this down,” I said. “I’ve already written it down,” Laura countered, and slid a folder across the table. It was color-coded. Of course it was. And Laura had seen to it that a safe was installed next door at Roger’s, our district attorney, someone we trusted implicitly. All account credentials would be kept there going forward, and Roger would be nearby as a backup for retrieving this information should we be away from the area.

Then there were Isabelle’s social media accounts — and there were a lot of them. This was the piece that made her go quiet for quite a spell. We’re talking about five years of work that went into creating these spaces. This is where Isabelle promoted and sold her artwork. It’s where she had a professional presence, where every collaboration and conversation and commission lead lived, here in these virtual spaces. These were her art galleries and where the audiences she’d cultivated gathered — interacting with her post by post, through thousands of comments and replies. It was gut-wrenching to imagine dismantling all of this.

“We won’t delete any of this,” Diana said. “Deletion destroys evidence. But we will lock down all social media accounts — new passwords, new recovery, log out of all sessions, review connected apps, the whole nine yards. Everything will stay archived. But Isabelle will stop appearing in these spaces. It will be as if she just dropped off the face of the earth.”

“And what happens when an outsider looks at these spaces?” I asked.

“They find an account that has gone dark. Consistent with someone who’s been traumatized and stepped back, or someone who is simply tired of social media and has left to do other things. Take your pick.” Diana paused. “Which scenario do you prefer?” Hmm. We’d have to think about that.

The financial accounts. Close anything that might have been compromised that bears her name. Move funds carefully, lawfully — no large cash withdrawals that could trigger reporting requirements, no transfers that looked like flight. Open new accounts in her assumed name at other institutions, preferably ones far away, and link these to her designated P.O. box — the one managed by the state — the one that can legally be used on all public and government documents in lieu of a physical address. This would frustrate the hell out of anyone trying to stalk her. That’s exactly what taking these steps is intended to do. All of this would take time, and it would require careful sequencing because accounts that suddenly look empty attract attention, and attention is not something we could afford.

“My car,” Isabelle said. “What about my car?”

“Adam,” I said. “Tell her what.”

Adam, who had been sitting at the table stone-faced, arms crossed, was giving off the vibe of a mob enforcer — someone impatiently waiting for permission to inflict direct physical pain on a perpetrator. He was wound up, big time.

“I have a 2014 Honda Civic with Washington plates that nobody is driving,” he said. “Gray. Nondescript. The most forgettable car in North America. Still registered to my step-Aunt, so it’s unlikely it could be traced to me, especially since she’s been married twice since 2014 and hasn’t bothered to update the DMV. The tags, however, are up to date, as is the insurance, and it’s got limo tint on all the side windows. I’ve parked it at Erin’s, in the alley, and have already passed both sets of keys on to Basti. So it’s whenever you are.”

“I can’t just take your car —”

“You’re not taking it. I’m lending it to you. Indefinitely. Better than leaving it garaged for years on end and letting the hoses dry rot. Nobody who knows you has seen me drive this car. I’d been lending it to my housekeeper, but she got sent back to Mexico.” He paused. “It has a new set of floor mats, for whatever that’s worth.”

Isabelle almost smiled. But not quite. “What about my real car, the one I actually own? Where did that end up?”

“Thomas drove it to his family’s cottage on Lake Tahoe, and it’s sitting in their four-car garage. It can sit there indefinitely. Pretty sure none of these folks we’ve had problems with have connections up there,” Adam said. “And since I’m regularly private cheffing for the Esterhazys, I can turn over the ignition when I’m up that way and take it for a spin — you know, when I’m out foraging and whatnot. There is nothing to worry about.”

Then Cora talked about Isabelle’s college records — her credits, grades, grants and loans. These were not things that could disappear, nor did Isabelle want that to happen. She had worked hard in her classes, was near completion of her Associate’s Degree, and had anticipated continuing on to a four-year institution. Yes, the leave of absence would put all of these things on hold, but it didn’t resolve the underlying problem: anyone at Logan Hill who knew her real name could confirm her enrollment status, and faculty, like Gordon Lichter, could access just about anything else in her confidential files. The registrar’s office was not automatically bound by confidentiality to the same extent as, say, a medical provider. If someone called claiming to be a family member, a landlord, or a prospective employer, they would likely get the information they needed simply by asking the right questions. Logan Hill was not exactly Fort Knox.

“So I have to tell the school?” Isabelle asked. “I have to go in and tell someone what happened?”

“Yes, you need to talk to the Title IX office and to the dean of students,” Diana said. “And yes, that’s a conversation that should be done in person, with documentation, and with me present. They have obligations to you that they may not currently know how to fulfill. It is my job to fill them in on the hard facts and to document everything in writing so they can’t wriggle out of this or convey your details to the wrong people.”

“Obligations they’ll want to minimize, no doubt,” Isabelle added, thinking of how much money Gordon Lichter brought to the school in the way of art endowments.

“Yes,” Diana said. “That’s why I’ll be there. So there’s no bullying.”

Cora also talked about data brokers — those invisible clearinghouses that aggregate your address, your phone number, your relatives’ names, your employment history, and sell it to anyone willing to pay five dollars for a background check. She had a list of service providers that were experts at submitting opt-out requests and could do so on Isabelle’s behalf. This wasn’t a permanent fix because the databases are constantly rebuilding themselves from new sources, but it was better than doing nothing. And when done in tandem with the state government’s new, legal, monitored address — any stalker would find himself hitting one brick wall after the next. Frustrating stalkers was the name of the game. All of this could take weeks, but it was well worth doing.

And then there were the public photographs. The ones at the college, on department pages, in event coverage. The ones friends had posted over the years. The ones that existed in any searchable form with her name attached.

“I can’t make people delete their personal photos,” Isabelle said.

“No,” Laura said. “But you can ask. And the ones on institutional sites — the school, the gallery she showed at last spring, the arts council newsletter — those we can request be removed.”

“Request. But not demand. Right?”

“Some of them will comply because it’s the right thing to do. Some will require a formal legal request. Some probably won’t budge.” Laura folded her hands on the table. “We go after the ones we can get and document those we can’t.”

Isabelle was quiet for a moment. Outside, a car passed slowly in front of the house. It was one of those Dodge Chargers with a low, aggressive-sounding engine. We all heard it.

“And after all of this,” Isabelle said — “After I change my phone and address and my hair and my name, and my social media and my banking and school records and my car. After I learn to change my gait and take new routes to get around town, and I get practiced at pretending not to recognize old friends when I’m in public…” She stopped. “After all of that — what are the odds this will work?”

Nobody answered immediately, which was its own kind of answer.

“Well, it significantly reduces your exposure,” Cora said. “It doesn’t eliminate risk. No plan does. But the math is good.”

“The men who did this to me,” Isabelle said, “are still walking around. In this town. Going to work. Going to church. Eating out. Living their lives. And I’m the one who needs an entire team to be safe.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know. That’s not justice. I get it. Right now, safety is what we can actually get you. Justice is step two.” I held her gaze. “And it is coming. I promise you that.”

She looked at me for a long while. “Okay,” she said, for the second time in two days.

She was down for it. This plan of ours.

Our full operational plan took shape over the three days to follow. Gallons of coffee were involved, as well as copious amounts of carry-out and, of course, many of Laura’s color-coded folders. Adam saw to sending a square meal every evening. We were good.

Adam’s contribution to the overall operation was practical and elegant. The Bullpen would function as a logistics hub. Discreet transportation was available when needed, coordinated through his head waiter, Marcus, and two longtime kitchen staff members who had been carefully vetted and were personally vouched for by Adam. Food and various other supplies could arrive on my front porch in Bullpen delivery packaging so as to avoid attracting attention — a restaurant making a residential delivery was unremarkable in a food-obsessed town. The Bullpen’s reservation system, it turned out, was also a useful timeline generator, and Adam had a gift for remembering who came in with whom and when, a skill he’d honed over the many years he’d overseen a dining room. Many of our perpetrators were regulars at The Bullpen’s bar. This was good.

“You’ve been doing this a while,” Laura noted with admiration as she watched him sketch out a rough communication protocol on the back of a delivery receipt. “I’ve been watching men behave badly in my dining room for fifteen years,” Adam said. “I’ve just been waiting for a reason to do something useful with it.”

John handled the physical logistics: a new lock on the garage with keys available to everyone in our group, four exterior cameras that fed into a monitor in my kitchen and a second monitor on Laura’s phone, and a set of protocols for anyone approaching the property. John did all of this with the unhurried competence of a man who has managed a working cattle ranch and knows that security is all about good video equipment and computers rather than high drama and firearms.

Basti and Kaira took charge of Isabelle’s daily life within the compound. They rotated 24-hour availability via phone and text, so Isabelle always had someone she could trust within reach, and they developed a communication system that used Signal’s disappearing messages and compiled a set of code words to describe specific situations. Basti, who had more money than he ever admitted to, deployed it with his characteristic obliqueness, quietly sourcing a set of fixed-blade knives in hand-tooled sheaths from a shop he trusted and giving them to all the girls in Isabelle’s orbit, along with a short primer on how to use them properly.

Laura organized the digital documentation — every screenshot, every date, every account change, every opt-out request, every correspondence with the school, all of it logged and backed up in three separate encrypted locations. She did this the way she did everything: with the systematic precision of a microbiologist who understands that integrity depends on keeping detailed records. At some point, these records would matter. This we knew.

And I wrote. Not just my daily column — but everything else. I chronicled what I had seen, what I knew, what I could prove, and what I suspected. I wrote the way I had written every major story of my career, which is to say, I wrote as though a jury would eventually read it, because, hopefully, juries would.

The young women in Isabelle’s circle organized themselves with a speed and discipline that I found quietly astonishing. They developed a communications protocol that they administered themselves, independent of our oversight, that was on a second Signal chain — one that Laura and I were not privy to. What I did see were the results: six young women who moved through their ordinary lives with new awareness, who watched and remembered and reported back through Kaira, and who never once faltered in covering for Isabelle’s absence among all their peer groups. And they kept track of the men. Their comings and goings, their interactions (at least the ones they could see), and they followed all of the local gossip. Were these men stalking other women? What else were they up to? Had there been any sexual assaults?

If anyone asked, Isabelle had gone to stay with a relative. She was taking some time. Dealing with a family situation. She’d likely be back, though when was the question. The girls’ stories were consistently unscripted and vague — basically fact-free — which made them hard to follow up on and even harder to dispel.

On Thursday, ten days after we’d moved Isabelle out of her apartment, she was desperate to know — was any of this working?

“It’s too soon to say,” I said.

“It’s been ten days. I can’t stay in that garage forever.” She was exasperated.

And she was right. She couldn’t stay holed up forever. I knew it. She knew it. We all knew it. The whole point of the transformation was so she could function in the world; how would we know whether she could do so without trying? Remaining fearful and guarded was not a sustainable security strategy.

So we made our plans. First, a trip to the Safeway on the north end of town — but not Blink’s. No way, no how. We weren’t going anywhere near Howard or Caden or Lichter — none of their haunts. Isabelle would have to go in alone, new purse and shopping list in hand. She’d also be sporting her new soft butch clothing and faux distressed combat boots. I would then come in separately and give her a wide berth as she made her way through the store. We mustn’t be seen together. Adam’s gray Civic would be parked near the store entrance, and Isabelle would keep her burner phone and ​​​​​​fixed-blade knife in her right pocket in the event of an emergency. Twenty minutes. This was going to be the hard limit on this first grocery store run.

I watched Isabelle cross the parking lot from her car and felt something I can only describe as controlled terror — the kind you have when you’ve done everything you can think of, but you know it still might not be enough.

Isabelle walked differently. She was now Izzy. That was the first thing I noticed. She’d been practicing, she told me later, in the garage — learning to take up less lateral space, to keep her gaze at mid-distance rather than bright and open, and to carry her shoulders with purpose rather than ease. She was more upright than usual, resisting the instinct to shrink in apology. She needed to be different. A woman with a specific place to be, who had no interest in detours or distractions, and who was not interested one iota in men. A woman with a distinctive dyke vibe. Strong and sure of herself.

I followed Izzy in. Took a basket. Went to the produce section.

She was on the cereal aisle, across the store, when I saw him. Tall, blond, Seahawks jersey, talking on his phone in a voice too loud for indoors. Posturing. I recognized him from the Telegram screenshots — a peripheral figure, one of the boys from Caden’s social circle, not one of the inner ring but close enough. He’d no doubt seen a hundred pictures of Isabelle. I moved left, keeping an end-cap between us and straining to hear what he was conveying on his phone: “Yeah, she just vanished. No one’s seen her in like two weeks. Caden’s losing his shit about this. It’s making him look bad. He’s lost control of the situation.”

My heart stopped. Isabelle was turning the corner into his aisle. Did she even know this guy? He knew her.

Then, she was six feet from him. Then three. Then she was passing him, close enough to brush his sleeve, her gaze fixed on the spice shelf, her hand reaching for a bottle of turmeric. He glanced at her the way men glance at any woman — sizing her up. To my great relief, he decided she wasn’t worth looking at.

The disguise worked. He looked away.

And Izzy kept walking. Enjoying her freedom. Oblivious to the shark that just swam past her.

I set down my basket, and let myself be still, and waited for my heartbeat to return to normal

Twenty minutes later, we met briefly at Izzy’s car. She had oatmeal, apples, a carton of milk, a half pound of sliced turkey, turmeric, and a sprig of parsley. I had nothing. I’d completely forgotten to shop.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“It worked,” I said.

She exhaled — a long, shuddering breath that she’d been holding in for God knows how long — then crawled into the driver’s seat of Adam’s forgettable gray Civic and looked at the ceiling.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I proceeded to my own car and, once situated, glanced in the rearview mirror, and there it was: that SUV. Dark, mid-size, maybe two years old. It had been in the church lot when I was parked there dropping some clothes into the donation box. Now here it was parked at the far end of the Safeway lot, engine running, facing me.

I sat with that for a moment.

The angle was wrong for them to see my plates. We hadn’t been followed in — I was nearly certain of it. It could be anyone. It probably was anyone. People idle in parking lots all the time for entirely ordinary reasons. Right?

I watched it for ninety seconds. Nobody got out. It didn’t move.

I started the car and pulled out, then angled myself toward the back exit.

In my peripheral vision, I saw that the SUV wasn’t following me.

It just sat there, engine running, staring at the spaces we’d been in.

“Mom?” Isabelle texted. “Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“I’m right here, just leaving the lot,” I said. “We’re good, no worries.”

Isabelle needed to believe this was true, even if I was harboring doubts.

We drove back through town, Isabelle in her gray car about six blocks ahead of me. The afternoon sky, also gray and hazy, was like that fine line between hiding and being safe. A soft, delicate line. Not a fortress.

I had promised my daughter that justice was coming, and I’d meant every word of what I’d said. But that gray space between what I declared to be achievable and what I could actually manifest was vast — it felt like an abyss.

This was going to take everything I had. I could not let Isabelle fall into the void.

Read Overpaint, Chapter 1, here.

Read Overpaint, Chapter 2, here.

Read Overpaint, Chapter 3, here.

The call came at 12:47 AM on a Tuesday. Laura’s voice was tight and low. “You need to get to Isabelle’s apartment. Like now.” I was already swinging my legs out of bed, reaching for my linen pants and flip-flops in the dark. “What’s happened?”

“Just come. I’m already here at her apartment.”

John sat up, blinking. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said, grabbing my keys and phone off the nightstand. “Can you keep your phone handy? It may be nothing; we’ll see.” I was so tired, but wired from fear, a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Grab a croissant. And call if I need to be there, please.”

I shot out the front door, fired up my CR-V, and headed out, trying to right the chaos of my hair as I drove, and rubbing my hand across my chest only to discover I’d forgotten my bra. Shit.

The streets in my neighborhood at night were always quite dark, but there was the added element of the road being slick from rain, with a mushy layer of fallen leaves. Old Town had not changed much in a hundred years, minus the size of the trees that lined the streets and filled backyards. They had become huge, and city ordinances prevented tidy-obsessed neighbors from chopping things down willy-nilly. The roots wreaked havoc on our sewer system, but that was a small price to pay for the privilege of living in an urban forest. Coast redwoods lined both sides of the street one block west of mine and the alley behind my house. There were sycamores, bay laurels, and valley oaks sprinkled throughout front and back yards, and every manner of other native plant. I kept part of my backyard wild and filled with amaranth, and gave the other half to vegetables and a box of bees. My detached garage was mired in mountain lilac on all four sides, with a huge fig tree and several of its volunteers guarding the space between my yard and Roger’s. There was barely room for a squirrel to squeak through. It felt wild and protective, and we had our own food source, growing right there, off the kitchen.

Old Town was literally a forest in the middle of town, with little Victorian cottages tucked between statuesque old farmhouses on double- and triple-lot properties, the occasional Craftsman bungalow kit house thrown in for good measure. Very cozy, but with a clear delineation between the haves and the have-nots. Regardless of social rank, all inhabitants were expected to keep up appearances, to make things look nice, to put in colorful seasonal flowers, keep leaves raked, and maintain planter boxes. There were only a few rebels amongst the citizens of Old Town: one hoarder fellow who was a militant Unitarian Universalist (the UU being his beard for his compulsive saving disorder) whose house, including the entrance, was choked by bamboo, and an older woman on a corner lot who had really let things go after a bad spill that left her unable to walk. Sadly, none of the neighbors had stepped in to lend her a hand.

I was driving way too fast through the neighborhood, on my sleepy street, where dim porch lights glowed like distant constellations, and mostly older folks slumbered in bedrooms at the back of their cottages. The majority of the houses on my street had been, back in the day, weekend cottages for wealthy city dwellers looking to escape the oppressive San Francisco fog that settled over the city every July and August, or Fogust, as it was jokingly called. The North Bay had sun. Lots of it. And back before global warming had set in, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky for months. Not even cirrus clouds.

In only a few minutes, Isabelle’s apartment complex loomed in front of me— a sprawling 1970s structure with peeling paint and a parking lot full of potholes. The apartments were spacious enough, but dated, with industrial-style carpeting, linoleum floors, and Formica countertops. Still, they were clean and functional, decent spots for young folks to do their adulting: getting to work on time, doing their own grocery shopping and cooking, doing laundry, making beds — all that stuff. The Blalock family owned this particular complex, along with half the other rental properties in this town. I’m talking about Zane Blalock’s parents. Caden’s best friend. A Brotherhood member we’d seen in that Telegram chat room. He was one of the guys who’d been watching Isabelle, coordinating their next steps. Of intimidation, that is. Hey, it’s just a sport, right? No harm, no foul.

Well, we’ll see on that.

The point: Isabelle’s apartment had never been safe, despite the complex’s well-lit paths, its swimming pool with chaise lounges neatly lining the perimeter, the warm laundry room with ample folding tables, and its game room with vending machines. All a façade.

Laura’s car was parked in the shadows near the dumpsters. I pulled in beside her and killed the engine. She emerged from the darkness, her face pale in the glow of her phone screen.

“They’ve escalated, Louise.” “It’s bad.”

We took the exterior stairs two at a time. The door to Isabelle’s apartment stood unlocked. Inside, every light blazed. Basti sat on the couch with his arm around Isabelle, who was staring down at her hands. Kaira was sitting on a stool near the window, keeping watch from the living room window, her phone clutched in her hands like a grenade.

“Mom, I don’t know what to do.” Isabelle’s voice was hollow. I knelt in front of her.

“What has happened?”

She couldn’t speak. She just shook her head. Laura handed me her phone. The screen showed Isabelle’s Instagram account — except it clearly wasn’t her account anymore. Someone had hacked it. The profile picture had been replaced with an AI-generated image: Isabelle’s face, unmistakably, digitally superimposed onto an explicit, sexually suggestive body. There was Isabelle, nearly naked in expensive-looking lingerie, hands posed provocatively, eyes half-closed. It made my stomach drop and my skin go cold. I kept scrolling. There were a dozen more posts in a variety of settings — the backseat of a car, on a desk in someone’s office, leaning on a tree in the woods — all timestamped within the last two hours. Deepfakes created with Grok, according to the kids, each one more graphic than the last. There was Isabelle’s face, her blue eyes, but not her body. Imagery created in her likeness without her consent. None of this her choice. And all of it out of her control. And we could not get into her account to delete the posts or shut down the page.

The captions were even worse. Available tonight. DM for address. Looking for a good time. No strings. And then, below one picture, a particularly haunting caption that included her full address, parking instructions and a phone number. Yet another outlined her availability for a “get-together,” noting that she was unavailable during her classes at Logan Hill JC. All of it was spelled out, as if this were her life — having sex with random men — all the fine details lending an air of credibility to this incredibly graphic IG page. A final flourish: she was “eager” and “waiting for your text or call,” with kissing emojis.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.

“It’s on Facebook too,” Kaira said, her voice shaking. “And X. They’ve posted everything, everywhere. They’re saying she’s —.” Kaira couldn’t finish her sentence. She was sobbing. Basti filled in, “This has happened to Kaira as well.”

“They’re making out like I’m a whore,” Isabelle said flatly. “That I’m asking for it. That anyone who wants me can just show up, and I’ll be grateful. You get this? They’re setting me up to get raped.”

Basti’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. “We need to call the police.”

“And tell them what?” Laura’s voice was sharp. “That someone posted fake nudes? They’ll say it’s a civil matter. That she should contact Instagram’s support team and maybe hire a lawyer? That there’s nothing they can do unless someone physically assaults her?”

“But they published her address,” Basti said.

“Yeah, well, Caden’s dad plays golf with the police chief,” I said. “And Zane’s family owns this building and half of the rest of town. You think they’re going to investigate these people? They’ve been getting away with these sorts of things for years.”

Silence.

Isabelle looked up at me. Her eyes were red, but dry. She’d gone way past crying, and was heading into some harder, colder place. “They’re not going to stop, are they?”

“No, they’re not,” I said. “That you can count on.”

“Then what do we do?”

I looked at Laura. She nodded.

“We disappear you,” I said.

By 2:30 AM, we had the outline of a plan.

It wasn’t a good plan. It wasn’t even a complete plan. But it was a plan, and that was more than we’d had an hour ago. “We move you out before sunrise,” I said. “Everything. Furniture, clothes, art supplies, everything. We make it look like you just vanished. I want us to clean the entire apartment, as well, as if it were ready for inspection. You’re on a month-to-month with a required two weeks’ notice. These fuckers are not getting to keep your deposit on top of your dignity, and we’re not paying for another month here. I am positive they know their son is up to his eyeballs in this stuff. How could they not?”

“Where does she go?” Basti asked.

“My place. The garage barn out back. It’s detached and opens onto the yard, which has eight-foot redwood fences on all sides. All relatively new, very sturdy. No one can see the yard from the street or the alley if we’re careful. She’ll be able to go from her space to the house or to just be outside without being detected.”

“Your garage?” Kaira looked skeptical. “Isn’t it falling apart? And the big sliding doors and side door aren’t exactly secure from what I remember.”

“I already texted Adam. He was up late closing an event and has already been over to Walmart for supplies. There’s a group of four heading to the house to secure everything, and I’ve got a 24-hour locksmith from several towns over who’s meeting up with them. By the time we get over there, there will be new locks, bars on the windows from the inside, the works. It’ll be secure enough.”

“And her car?” Laura asked.

“Adam’s storing it at his place. Out of sight. And he’s going to leave a nondescript gray Honda Civic parked in the alley behind Erin’s house. The plates won’t connect to Isabelle. She’ll be able to use that vehicle at some point.”

Isabelle was shaking her head. “This is insane. I can’t just disappear. I have school, I have — I don’t know — this brings everything I do to a halt.”

“You have eight men who just published your address and phone number alongside fake porn,” I said. “You have a coordinated group of predators who’ve broadcast a message that you’re available for the taking. You have Zane Blalock’s parents as your landlords, which means they have keys to this apartment and access to the security cameras in this parking lot.” I let these facts settle in.

Isabelle flinched, then closed her eyes. This was more than she could deal with.

“I know this is terrifying, sweetheart,” I said, softer now. “I know you don’t want to leave your life behind. But staying here isn’t safe. Not anymore.”

“How long will this be for?” Her voice cracked. “How long do I have to hide?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted. “But we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Isabelle looked at Basti, then at Kaira, then at me. “I already quit my job because of Howard and stopped going to my art class because of Lichter. Now I’m supposed to just vanish? Like I’m the one who did something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “You’re the one they’re hunting. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Her voice was bitter. “Because it feels the same.”

No one had an answer for that.

Finally, Basti stood up. “I’m going to go get my Transit. It’s pretty much cleared out and should be able to hold everything. We’ll only need to make one trip from the apartment to your house, Louise.”

“I’ll help pack,” Kaira said.

Laura was already on her phone. “I’m texting Adam. He’s sending over a couple of waitstaff to help empty the apartment, and his banquet captain is going to stay and do a quick final clean and vacuum.”

I looked at Isabelle. “We need to move fast. Can you do this?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she took a deep breath through her teeth. When she opened her eyes again, something had shifted. Her face was not registering acceptance, exactly. More like fury and resolve.

“Let’s go,” she said.

We had to work in near silence, moving through the apartment like burglars.

Basti and Kaira dismantled the bed frame and pocketed all the bits of hardware, while Laura and I packed clothes, toiletries, and books, stuffing everything into plastic bins and pillowcases, wrapping all the hanging clothes in sheets that could be dragged down the steps. Isabelle moved through her apartment like a ghost, touching things — the thrift-store lamp, the succulent on the windowsill, the painting she’d made last spring — as if memorizing them.

“Of course we’ll leave the furniture that came with the place,” I said. “We’ll just take what’s yours.”

“What about my lease?” Isabelle asked.

“I’ll deal with that later—it’s in my name, anyway. Right now, we just need you gone.”

“They’re going to charge me for the two weeks.”

“Let them,” Laura said. “Better than staying here.”

By 5:15 AM, Basti’s Ford Transit was loaded. He was going to drive it to my place via back roads, avoiding main streets and any traffic cameras. Kaira would ride with him. She’d left her car on the street a couple of blocks from the apartments. Laura and I would take Isabelle in my car, separately, no convoy.

“Phones,” Laura said. “Power them down, please.”

“What?” Isabelle looked stricken. “I can’t just —”

“They could be tracking you,” Laura said. “Location data, app activity, everything. If you want to disappear, you need to actually disappear. Please turn it off, for all of us.”

Isabelle stared at her phone — her lifeline, her connection to everyone she knew — and then, slowly, she powered it down and set it on the kitchen counter. Laura picked it up and put it in her purse.

“I’ll get you a burner,” I said. “Which will be just for emergencies. We’ll get this sorted, I promise. It’s going to take a few days, and we need to find someone who’s not from town and is tech-savvy. Until then, you’ll have to watch ‘Dexter’ from start to finish. All eight seasons.” I chuckled.

She nodded, but I could see the loss in her eyes. Another piece of her ordinary life, gone.

We left the apartment at 5:43 AM. The sky was still dark, but the horizon had begun to pale. Isabelle didn’t look back.

The drive to my place took all of twelve minutes.

Isabelle sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the empty streets. Laura followed in her car, keeping a careful distance. No obvious connection.

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle said quietly.

I glanced at her. “For what?”

“For all of this. For dragging you into it. For whatever I’ve done to cause this.”

“Stop.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “This is not your fault. None of it. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t do anything to deserve this. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, but I could see she didn’t believe it. Not really. That’s the idea, isn’t it—to make you think you’re the problem. Make you apologize for being hunted. Classic domestic partner abuse. As if any of these men had been Isabelle’s “partner.” This was really twisted shit.

“We’re going to fix this,” I said. “I don’t know how yet, but we will.”

“What if they find me?”

“They won’t.”

“But what if they do?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. So I just drove.

My house sat three lots in from the corner, tucked between our local district attorney, a man I trusted with my life, and a two-flat with two pairs of husband-wife journalists from the local newspaper. And then there was my house, one of the aforementioned kit houses. The house was cute as a button, a persimmon tree on one side of the front yard and a huge sycamore shading the front of the house. The entire backyard was enclosed by a tall redwood fence, and the garage was perched on an alley — its slightly sagging 1920s structure looked more like a barn — with only the roofline visible from the front.

Adam’s truck was already in the alley when we arrived, his guys keeping a lookout for any snoopers, be they innocent or the men from whom we were hiding Isabelle. When we arrived, there were three other vehicles I didn’t recognize.

“Whose vehicles are these?” Isabelle asked, worried.

“Friends,” I said. “People Adam trusts.”

We pulled into my neighbor Erin’s driveway. I had called ahead to let her know a bit about what was going on. The Transit was already backed up to the garage, its rear door open. Basti and Kaira were unloading things, and Adam was directing traffic, pointing and gesturing like a general, his guys taking care of the bigger items, the locksmith working diligently on the new locks, which looked to be up to penitentiary standards.

He saw us and came over. “We’re almost done with the locks. Bars go up next.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He looked at Isabelle. “You okay, kid?”

She shrugged. “Pretty much. All of this is a huge shock.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fair enough. Let’s get you settled. Louise — shouldn’t we get her into the house, out of view? I’m worried that all of these people are attracting unwanted attention. I don’t want it to be associated with Isabelle.”

By 8:30 AM, the garage had been transformed from a storage space into something almost habitable. Laura had brought over her sister and daughter, who in turn brought a carload of cleaning equipment — mops, vacuum, soaps, sprays, scrubbers, etc. Someone had strung a hose in from the backyard through one of the windows and hooked it up to the utility sink, and neighbor Eric, Erin’s husband, had put up curtain hardware and installed several industrial-looking light fixtures. The two of them had also brought over some nice wood shelving, an old desk and chair, and a treadmill from their garage. Laura’s team contributed some much-needed rugs.

When all was said and done, there were proper locks on all the doors, and bars on all of the windows — the kind that lock from the inside, so Isabelle wouldn’t be trapped if there were a fire. The interior had been swept and scrubbed, the cobwebs cleared, the old oil stains covered with the rugs that Laura had pulled from her own basement.

Isabelle’s bed was in place and made up with her linens; there was an easy chair and a television. But no laptop or phone for the time being. I brought in several boxes of books and left those for Isabelle to put onto the shelves.

It wasn’t beautiful. But the space was secure. At least as secure as we could make it.

All of Isabelle’s belongings were stacked inside: bins of clothing, art supplies, books, decorative items, non-perishable foodstuffs. Her life, compressed into a 300-square-foot space. And we’d set up a camping toilet, a mini-fridge, and a coffeemaker with all the necessary supplies. It was the best we could do for the time being.

She stood in the doorway, looking at it all, and I saw her face crumple.

“Hey.” I put my arm around her. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

“I had an apartment,” she whispered. “And a life.”

“You still have a life. It’s just a little different. Okay, a lot different. Consider this an adventure — one that’s better than the alternative.”

“Different.” She laughed, but it came out broken. “That’s one word for it.”

Read Overpaint, Chapter 1, here.

Read Overpaint, Chapter 2, here.

Hi, friend. Really appreciate you reading all of my stuff. It’s a lot, I know. Sometimes heavy, sometimes crazy and sexual, then some really angry stuff, but always lots of humor. What would I do without my writing? And the humor? I’d probably be dead. Better question: What would you do without it? Read bitches gotta eat, I hope.

I do need someone to read this stuff, though, or it means nothing. So, thank you for that, Steve.

This I know: a lot of my writing is good. Quite a few people read it, and they seem to find it interesting, which I’ve always found a bit surprising. I would describe my style as oddly polished in its unconventionality. I’m going to attribute this to a lack of formal training, a voracious appetite for reading (mostly the really good stuff), and a desire to do everything perfectly. I really get off on perfectionism, or as I like to call it, perfectionasm, which as you might have guessed is like the difference between organism and orgasm. Perhaps I didn’t need to point that out.

I was always an aspiring snoot about literature — from the first grade on — thanks to my friend Kit’s parents, Sally and Bill, and to a slew of really great teachers I had over the years. Thank you, all. I noticed a few of you, Mrs. Dorner and Sally in particular, wrote your own obituaries. Who does that? Damn! They’re good! FYI, Ethel Dorner was absolutely the best teacher, ever, although I really liked Mr. Adrian, too, and he’s still alive. Note to self: drop him a line. Mrs. Dorner lived to be a perfect 100 years old. But of course she did. That was exactly the kind of person she was. An exact person.

Ethel, as I’d like to call her now that I’m considerably older than she was when she taught me the facts of life, helped me to understand something really important: it didn’t really matter what other people thought of me. I could just be my crazy self, and that was cool. “Go for it” was her message, even though that wasn’t an expression at the time. Sometimes, though, when my crazy self got too crazy, I did have to pound erasers out in the snow. Without a coat.

Truth be told, I don’t really give a shit what people think of me, even to this day. I seem to have gotten mired in this developmental phase, and I’m not sure I want to move on to anything else. One of my readers called my writing “sophomoric,” as if that was an insult.

I’m quite good right here, where I’m at. I think most women don’t achieve this state of nonchalance (or that slightly elevated version: “indifference”) until they are well into menopause. Me, I was solidly settled into my whateverness by ninth grade. I figured out very early on that not caring what others thought of me was powerful stuff. More people should give it a try. If they did, they’d probably find themselves making much better decisions all-around, and they’d quit feeling guilty about writing people off who really deserve to be written off. Same goes for those who deserve flipping-off. Or those who take issue with my cooking with Trader Joe’s sauces rather than making curry from scratch.

It blows my mind, all the energy people expend trying to impress so-and-so and what’s-his-name. I’m like, wow, we could have solved world hunger by now. Or just had a damn nice curry, fuck you very much. You know who you are.

FYI, no one cares you were a cheerleader, Brenda. Or homecoming queen, Connie.

I equate my writing to a really great tent in the middle of a homeless encampment; a sanctuary in the middle of fucking chaos. You get to watch people working it out, while you quietly sip kombucha in your low-profile folding camp chair. You’d have to make at least one friend at the camp, preferably someone without an addiction issue, so you could take turns watching each other’s shit. And when it rains, there’s that lovely sound on your tent, and of course, I would have made a point of pitching my tent higher up so it wouldn’t get flooded. I did think that through.

It could be a decent life, you know, “living rough,” as the English call it. You just need to make sure you have plenty of warm clothes and a sturdy cot. Also: water and a good can opener. In fact, once you got into the life, you might start thinking, “Hey, I could get used to living like this.” It would certainly be more interesting than your average existence. My goal has never been to live up in the hills. Nah. Too boring.

Until I moved in with my current beau, I was quite set on living in a camper. In fact, my #1 financial goal was to save up for said camper. I dreamt and dreamt about living nomadically, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with that Frances McDormand flick, Nomadland, that I’ve watched about 17 times. In the dream, I sometimes parked in my daughter’s driveway, sometimes in my son’s, but most of the time I’m parked in the woods at a KOA campground in Cloverdale.

There are a lot of those KOA campgrounds. Ya gotta move around because they don’t let you stay permanently at any of them. They have great showers, toilets, and proper hookups, and they’re cheap — maybe 1000 bucks per month — if I were part-time with my kids. I’d just rotate sites all year, sticking close to Northern California. There are like 15 of those campgrounds between Watsonville and Mount Shasta. Perfect. This would give me the opportunity to check out the world in small doses, while continuing to live like a hermit, dining nightly on my favorite tuna salad on multigrain and assorted canned beans. OMG I love beans. Every fucking kind. And they’re cheap because people are idiots and they eat stupid shit like bacon and filet mignon instead.

Not gonna lie. I also love dorm food and hospital cafeteria food. I am positive that some of my friends wished they could take back the rude comments they made about the cafeteria — like around the time they were trying to juggle toddlers and full-time work. Yeah, bitches. Bet you wish you could just go down to the cafeteria and load up your tray with Hungarian goulash, coleslaw, and buttered lima beans. Those were the days, baby.

Steve — I’ve been doing this storytelling thing since I was a kid. You’ve only known me for what, 2 years? I just wanted to point out that I tell stories in a number of ways — through my writing, sometimes off the top of my head at the dinner table, other times through my flute playing. Some of the stories are real, every detail exact, every sensation, every smell, every color; some are not. I call those made-up shit. Usually those stories are not as good, at least in my estimation. And it's seriously painful to write them. All that fucking pretending and not saying exactly what you mean. I’m just not good at it. If I want to call Brenda a bitch, I want it to be the real Brenda, not “Belinda.” All of this is the same reason I hate Disney animations.

Other stories of mine have super fuzzy details and are disorganized, like a meandering dream, with asides that seem to have nothing to do with the main plot. Sort of like those awful ballets they used to insert between acts of Italian opera while they hosed down the lead tenor during costume changes. Some stories are deeply satisfying, I know because I make myself cry at the end, while others seem to cause my readers great unease. Sorry, Hannah. I can assure you that neither of those two variations in emotional effect is intentional. I’ve not got that much skill.

By the way, Laura, when you read a run-on sentence in one of my pieces, 99.9% of the time it’s intentional. I do this when I write stories or when I tell them at dinner. My goal: prevent someone else from cutting in and fucking things up, even if it’s just in their mind. Also, run-ons give the impression the character is coming unhinged, a common theme in my work. But, perhaps, these grammatical issues point more to the writer’s becoming unhinged. Another whatever moment.

The one thing you can count on as one of my readers: I am writing whatever I feel, and whatever I feel like. Is there a difference? I need to take a walk and think about that.

And if the story I’m writing is a little too close to home and I know I’m heading into a potential lawsuit with my ex, well… let’s just say there’s a reason I have called this section of my writing “Fictionalized.” Come to think of it, it might be good to call all of my writing “fiction.” That feels very liberating to me, because truth be told, I have a very hard time writing about things I’ve not actually experienced. And while I am, by nature, a shit disturber, I’m thinking I’d rather just say stuff and not have to worry about the consequences. So, going forward, let’s just call all of this “fiction.”

And sometimes, I'm really not positive that what I’m putting out there is 100% non-fiction when I am trying to write non-fiction. You know, it’s hard to recall every single detail accurately. Especially when you were going through huge hormonal changes at the time the events were occurring.

So, let’s keep it simple and call everything I write going forward “fiction.” I like that.

By the way, do any of you ever forget which hand is left, which is right, now that you don’t have a callous on your middle finger anymore?

Lately, I’ve been trying to imagine my way out of this nomadic existence I’ve been stuck in most of my life — the one where I’m moving from place to place with my mom and dad, then my stepmother and dad, and then I am living in someone else's space and someone else’s community, or in an institutional setting (music camps, universities), or with another person’s family, or in a house mostly paid for by in-laws. You know, all those fucking places where I’m not really an owner of the actual space or part of the community or family. Or I’m only “allowed” to be there temporarily. Thanks for nothing, Jim. You prick.

I’ve spent a lifetime investing my sweat equity and talent into making everyone else’s life better, or at least easier. Invariably, at the end of the day, week, month, or year, I personally have zero to show for all my effort. Lately, I find myself stepping back and thinking: “What is mine, actually?” An existential question, right? After all those fucking years solving everyone else’s problems, making their lives nice, helping their kids get on in this world, what’s left for me? Well, that’s easy: my kids. That’s all. Two youngish people, sturdy, healthy and good-looking. Yeah, I know. Shut the fuck up — that’s a lot — a lot more than many can say they’ve got in this world. I do wish I had something to leave them when I’m gone, however — something besides stories. But the reality is that’s all I’ve got when everything is said and done. There’s no money. None.

But there are lots and lots of great stories. Insert smiling emoji. I’ve had quite the life.

And somehow, I continue to have a satisfying existence, even though nothing is mine. Every morning a great cup of coffee and beautiful views from the breakfast table. Fresh air, a million hiking trails I could explore if I felt like it, soft clothes and a cozy bed. And a really wonderful man, who is gentle and won’t eat anything spicy. And then there are those beautiful kids. Not sure I deserve all of this. But I’ll take it.

And for the time being, this is my kids’ reality, too. Maybe we’re all better off this way, not having things. Probably not, though.

Yeah, yeah. Judge away, readers. I don’t really care what you think about any of this. I believe I mentioned that above.

There is nothing, really, that I’d like more than to know that my children, if they felt inclined, could sit all day and paint — something beautiful or ugly — or spend a weekend hiking with friends on the Lost Coast, and know that at the end of any given day, they would have a roof over their heads and a warm bowl of beef stew on the table. This is why I always include a subscribe button at the bottom of the page.

Hey Steve, I can see from my Substack dashboard that you’ve been there for me, checking out nearly every article and post. Know that every time I put pen to paper (even though I don’t really put “pen” to “paper”), I’m thinking of you. Every time I write — knowing you are a reader — well, that makes me up my game. Seriously. I consider whether you’ve likely had enough of one bitchfest or another, and then I try to think of something else to write about. I like that imaginary challenge. I also let Grammarly take a third and fourth swipe at my piece so you won’t get tripped up on grammatical errrors, which can be so annoying when you’re OCD. I was reading Maigret mysteries last week, and found one of the books riddled with typos. I found at least five, at which point I had to put the book down. It was driving me nuts.

No. I want you to fall right down the rabbit hole and land gently on a pile of sticks and leaves. Then off we go on an adventure together.

Today, I’m here at my standing desk looking out the window onto the bullpen at the ranch. It’s surrounded by a thick, 5 ft. high rock wall that was built about a hundred years ago by Portuguese immigrants. Beyond it are the remnants of their fruit orchard and lots of olive trees. They were pretty smart — they knew where things grew well. Sometimes you can see the horses chowing down on the low-hanging apples. Hard to believe trees that old can still produce fruit. Very cool.

It’s a very dry California landscape right now. August. Crispy. And here I am, looking out the window, typing.

Sometimes when I’m writing, I fantasize I’m staying in a hotel in Seattle, and that it’s raining and raining, and the words and the tears, they all come together and flow down the hill into Pike Place Market, where at some point in the day I’ll go in search of smoked salmon. There’s a lot of moisture in this Seattle fantasy. Thoughts of having to stay cuddled up indoors or walking in the rain somehow get me to say what I need to say. Usually it’s the really difficult stuff I'm writing about when I’m in my pretend Seattle. And at the end of a long stint of writing, I get a pretend table for one at The Pink Door, and I order the cioppino.

A little aside — it’s a fucking miracle I can type right now, as this was something I couldn’t do six months ago. Not even a little bit. I did wonder whether I’d reached the end of the line. It sure felt like it: that final fall at the end of an agonizing year of Graves’ Disease. There were twelve fractures. I was bruised, scraped up, a huge mess; I couldn’t walk or use my arms, and I was in excruciating pain for over a month. But then my beau reminded me I damn well better hang on. I had promised to take care of him, and I had two kids who should really have a say in the matter. “You bitch! You don’t get to give up!” All of this was said humorously, of course, though there was a good dose of real in those words.

I do hate breaking a promise, and my guy knew that. I also felt this in my gut — the need to carry on for my kids, especially given the way things are in the world right now. A fucking nightmare. I had not prepared them for any of this. So, I was going to have to fix that. That meant I was going to have to find a way to get well. And I did.

I’ve always believed that things and people, events, jobs, bad habits, good habits — they all wear you out over time. There’s only so much you can endure or that you can do. Life is abrasive. Bones weaken, and joints start scraping against one another. Synapses in the brain quit connecting.

How many times can a person work 18 hours straight on their feet, carrying things, righting chaos, making things beautiful and perfect, being nice, saving people from themselves, then closing up for the night and making sure everyone has gotten off safely to their homes and families? My job, that was it, in a nutshell. All of my jobs were like that, in fact. I was somehow, always, the person who was in charge. And I was really good at that. Congratulations, bitch. No, shut up.

Being in charge is a huge burden, in the same way being good at difficult things is not a gift. You’re rewarded, then punished, all in one fell swoop. Exhilarated when you’ve accomplished the thing, then exhausted for a month. Then there is the hubris, which according to AI “is considered the worst and most fundamental of the seven deadly sins.” Got that right, bitch. Sometimes I was so damn proud of myself, but then, a moment later, I would feel horribly diminished. The realization: all of that good stuff I’d done, it was for someone else’s benefit. Not for myself. Not for my kids. Fucking pride.

Steve. Don’t do this to yourself.

In the end, I just got tired. Very, very tired. I wanted to go back to tasting my food and feeling the tepid water dissolving the oily, salty sweat. I wanted to feel refreshed again. But I was so numb. I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing. The water might have been boiling hot and burning my epidermis. I wouldn’t have noticed.

That’s pretty much what was happening to me.

A little synopsis here, so you have an idea of where all of this is going. This is a story about my ex, whose name I cannot bring myself to say out loud. I do hate him that much. He was horrible to our kids and to me. You need to know how very difficult it was for me to type “our kids.” I so wish I could take that connection away from them. It was immeasurably damaging. Of course they wouldn’t be here without it, but I do wish they could have had just about anyone else for a father. For nearly two decades, it felt like he was killing us.

My crazy work life continued on as I’ve alluded to for years. There were no days off, no real vacations, at least not for me. We’d go to the boardwalk in Santa Cruz for four days and I’d let the kids each bring a friend, then it was passes for everyone, except me. Off they’d go, and off I went — to a coffee shop. Then we’d meet up for Mexican mid-afternoon after I’d spent five hours cranking out emails to customers and vendors. We did this year after year, though sometimes we’d do the Russian River instead. Back then, I was putting in 65-hour work weeks.

For nine months of the year, Fridays and Saturdays were my event days, and they typically started in the early morning, with me finally getting home around 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. I’d peek in on my kids, check on homework progress, throw in a load of laundry and do a few dishes before giving myself permission to collapse, which, more often than not, I did fully dressed, with my shoes still on. On those nights, I had not one ounce of energy left. Not one.

My end-of-event ritual, without fail, was allowing myself a single bottle of sparkling water, a large Pellegrino, which I pretty much put back in single draught. I’d needed much more than that in the way of water throughout the day to replenish all I’d lost in the way of sweat, but there was never enough time. Everyone depended on me.

By the end of one of those long events, my body felt wrung out; I was so dry. Sometimes it felt like I was dying. Even then, I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going. Keep going. Keep going. If I didn’t do the job as was expected, the job I’d been paid to do, how was I going to put food on the table and pay the rent? So, I just kept going.

In the mornings after one of these events, the kids would be starving. They’d had to fend for themselves the whole 24 hours prior, and they weren’t very experienced at it. So I made myself get up, and I put breakfast on the table. A huge, tasty breakfast, though my hips — omg, they were killing me. I could not lift my feet off the ground. Seriously. I could only shuffle. It was an embarrassing sight, which fortunately no one ever saw — that, and me trying to get into that damn clawfoot tub shower. I had to use my right arm to lift my leg in. It really felt like at some point, my legs weren’t going to work anymore. I did think about that quite a bit. How much longer before my legs would just give way beneath me? They were threatening to do it, big time.

Yes, it was time to start worrying about my health, but I simply didn’t have the luxury of doing that. I was going to have to find a way to shelve all this pain temporarily — hide it from my kids and my customers. I mean really… who was going to hire someone to run their events when they were limping all the time? Not gonna happen. And I could not be the mom who couldn’t walk. How embarrassing for my kids. It was bad enough I looked (and was) older than all the other moms. So I pretended I was fine and made myself do what felt impossible.

On those Sundays after two days of events, I had to suck it up. My kids had to come first — they needed me. They needed some fun and to get their homework done, and I’d promised we’d go rock climbing and get tacos, and that their friends could join us. I couldn’t not do that stuff. Right? So we did. Sometimes I fell asleep at the picnic tables at Rockzilla. Right there, under the fluorescent lights. I’d wake up and find that Dwayne, the owner, had set a chilled Diet Coke next to me. And he never, ever let me pay. I kind of knew why, but we never went there. Who had time for that?

And then there were Mondays, always looming just around the corner; another day in court, fuck me. The thought of it lingered over our Sundays like gathering clouds. I was having to appear in court again, and I’d not had time to write a response to the latest summons and complaint. A huge whatever.

I’ve lost count at this point. Was this the twenty-third time he’s filed a motion for child support or to change the custody schedule or to publicly accuse me of ruining everyone’s lives? These court appearances had become an ugly thread that ran through our lives every single week, all year, or so it seemed. My ex, he was just so fucking horrible. It didn’t matter that I was asking him for nothing. It didn’t matter he got the car, the house and everything in it, minus my laptop and flutes. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to harrass me. He needed to hurt me. He needed to win. Always needing to win. For what? I just wanted to be left in peace. That’s it. Keep your fucking money. Just go away.

Mondays would arrive, as they always did, and then there were all those stairs at the courthouse. I saw them, and my legs felt like rubber. How was I going to get up to the third floor? If I took the elevator, I was sure to run into him or his cocky attorney. I really didn’t want either of them seeing how weak I’d become. They would turn it into an excuse to take the kids away.

For years, there was this rising feeling of burning every time I drove past the courthouse. It would start in my chest, then rise up through my neck and into my cheeks. I would turn crimson — it felt like my face was on fire. My flushed face was hugely embarrassing, and something I couldn’t control. It was so noticeable, in fact, that everyone would ask if I was OK, including whoever was the judge du jour. Now I know — it was cortisol. It was all that fear, anger, frustration, worry, and despair. Cortisol. Years of it. It nearly killed me, and it’s probably what fried my thyroid.

My ex and his antics — this was one huge knot I couldn’t unravel, and it was growing more complex every time we went to court. I’d get served papers, then a flood of horrible thoughts would pollute the most beautiful summer day, triggering memories of all the other years of sadness, hardship, and worry I’d had as a child. And he knew this. He loved it. Throughout the year, he’s make sure to serve papers on a day we had an outing planned or on my birthday or on Mother’s Day. You could count on it. And if we had people visiting from out-of-town, well surely that was going to be a week I had to be in court. He had this down — the ex parte hearings for imaginery emergencies.

And then there was his sitting on a bench outside the courtroom in his fucking Mr. Rogers zip-up sweater and his obscenely expensive Mephisto shoes, always smiling and cheerful, ready to bring me down a peg, in front of a judge, publicly. A beautiful day in the neighborhood. And never did he present a single shred of evidence I’d actually done anything wrong, short of my using profanity in his presence.

But then malignant narcissists don’t need evidence, do they? Everyone knows they are right. They are the deciders, they are in charge. And they are more intelligent than everyone around them, including the lawyers and those ridiculous judges. He would fill them in on what was really going on. Surely they would see he was right. It was so clear. So logical. She was unhinged; look at her red face.

If he’d had his way, I would have been reduced to nothing. Dead. Never mind how this would have affected our kids.

This is the story I promised you, Steve, and which I have kept to myself until now.

Keep in mind, this is fiction.

It was our usual Sunday evening out, though circumstances had changed. John and I had taken an invigorating hike up into the hills on the west side of the valley, and were now sitting in a favorite eatery on the edge of town, The Bullpen, run by my longtime chef friend, Adam.

Adam had a manly, tough-guy aura — he was burly with a thick, dark beard, and always had a transistor radio sitting on the windowsill of the Bullpen kitchen blaring whatever the current MLB game was. Adam was adept at booth banter, which he had no problem juggling with his cheffing, often putting together an over-the-top Bolognese with fresh-made pappardelle, or braised short ribs with pommes purée and cabernet jus, while calling out baseball stats to anyone within earshot.

Meat and sports. Adam’s specialties.

Prior to being a chef, Adam had been a clubhouse reporter and analyst for both the Seattle Mariners and the Seahawks — this at the tender age of 24 — he was a sports announcer prodigy, of sorts. And despite this being his destiny, given his native talent for broadcasting, Adam’s true passion was food, and so it wasn’t long before he was weaving cooking classes into his already demanding schedule as an announcer. Turns out Adam had as much a knack for food as he did for sports. Big time. I’m talking major league cooking chops. His first gig after culinary school: executive chef at one of the wine country’s top resorts, which is where I first met him in my capacity as a restaurant critic for our small-town paper.

In both careers — as an announcer and a chef — Adam had mingled with every manner of high-testosterone individual: sports figures, announcers, billionaires, winemakers, high-tech gurus, and, of course, other chefs. He could talk on their level about all the things of importance in this world, namely money, booze, food, women, and sports. They revered his cooking, and he played the part of celebrity chef to a T, as documented in the hundreds of photos of him with famous people that were sprinkled throughout the restaurant. Adam had the look, made incredible food, and was raking it in, hand over fist.

Adam was also notorious for being a hard-nose in the kitchen, which was tempered by his fierce protection of his employees, be they sommeliers or scullery staff — a dynamic different from that found in the kitchens of his competitors. Adam was respectful to everyone, except slackers, and in return, his staff was loyal, worked their asses off, and was motivated to meet his high standards in all things. Adam also made a point of bringing on board as many women as men, and elevating staff based on skill and tenacity, not ethnicity or gender — a rarity in the white male-dominated field of chefs and restaurateurs.

Adam was also an outspoken feminist. He had two daughters, and he’d been raised by a single mother. In fact, that’s how he first developed his cooking skills — putting meals on the table for his hardworking mama, Lori. Lori worked an insane number of hours as a paralegal for King County’s prosecuting attorney, this in order to keep a roof over their heads and to ward off her trust fund, drug-addicted ex, whose favorite pastime was taking her to court. Being surrounded by lawyers — criminal lawyers, specifically — is how she kept Bryce at bay. Criminal lawyers know all too well how to deal with sociopaths, and they happily shared these skills with Lori. Since Bryce didn’t work, he had ample time to make trouble for Lori and their sons, and things might have been much worse had she been bagging groceries at Metropolitan Market rather than working in the criminal justice system.

Neither Adam nor his brother Josh had any desire to live with “Dad.” Their father had demonstrated early on that he was incapable of getting them to their Babe Ruth baseball games on time, which always put them at the bottom of the batting lineup, and dinner at his house commenced around 9:00 p.m., which was perfect for Dad, but caused the boys to torture through homework on empty stomachs.

Laundry didn’t get done at Dad’s; there was never enough money for lunch, and Dad was more often than not spending his evenings playing craps with his buddies in the basement or out of the house for a couple of hours on a Friday or Saturday playing pinball at Jerome’s Billiards without the boys. Adam and Josh knew which side their bread was buttered on. There was no butter or bread at Dad’s.

Adam had also discovered, by age 14, that the thing that kept his mother’s spirits up through all of this crap was coming home to a cooked-from-scratch meal at the end of the day, then being able to put her feet up post-dinner while someone else loaded the dishwasher. She absolutely relished this. And so, Adam cooked, and Josh cleaned, with sports radio blaring in the background. They were an awesome tag team. Once everything in the kitchen was back to rights, the whole gang would retire to the futon couch (which doubled as Mom’s bed), to binge-watch episodes of The Office.

All of this is to say: Adam had an appreciation and respect for women — his mother, her boss and quasi-aunt, Janelle Foster, who was the top prosecutor in Seattle, and for all of the women with whom he worked at the resort and his restaurant. And despite their differences, Adam also regarded highly his ex-wife, Beth, who took stellar care of their three children. Adam was an all-around standup guy, surrounded by strong and capable women.

Which is why I wanted to discuss Isabelle’s situation with him specifically. Not only was he one of my best friends, but Adam also appreciated my challenges as a single mother. And I had an inkling he had connections to some of the men we needed to get to know.

Though Adam and I were close, he was even closer to Isabelle, as she had worked for him for several summers both as a back waiter and as an on-the-day coordinator for the large events held at the restaurant. Event work involved early-morning deliveries, and bright, hot afternoons of furniture and tabletop setup that morphed into long, exhausting evenings, guests swirling around the dance floor until the wee hours of the night, while staff stood on the sidelines, reserving their energy for the event strike at midnight.

Events have a way of revealing what a person is made of, their strengths, their shortcomings, and their ability to remain centered, patient, and kind in trying situations. Isabelle trusted Adam implicitly, as he did her. She was an important part of his team. And now we needed him on our team.

Adam was also an important part of our community — dialed in to everything going on — his restaurant a major social hub for locals, young and old alike. Adam knew everyone, and everyone knew him.

And so, that Sunday afternoon, I called ahead to see if he could join John and me in a private corner of the dining room for our favorite bison burgers, and a pitcher of his famous adaptogenic herbal tea. And to talk. I needed a good-sized chunk of his time, perhaps an hour. This was important. Laura would join us if she could, so include some of those garlic parmesan sweet potato fries please.

Bits and pieces of the situation with Isabelle had been floating to the surface for some time, giving every indication that something was lurking below, hidden in the detritus. This something was threatening to pull my daughter under. I could feel movement down there, a subsurface turbulence gently rocking the boat, and I was clutching the thwarts in anticipation of what might come next.

The thing about ambient terrorism is that it doesn’t announce itself. There is no manifesto. No declaration of war. Just a steady accumulation of small violations that, individually, seem too minor to report. But collectively they began to create an atmosphere so suffocating that the target starts to believe the problem is her own paranoia. I’d watched this very thing unfold for two weeks now, and had been documenting it all, just as I would if covering a story for a major publication.

As of today, however, I’d reached a saturation point in the gathering of information. It was time to put everything on the table, share what I’d seen, and to dissect it. All of this needed more than one set of eyes. The details, because they related to my daughter, were a bit too close for me to bring into focus, yet even when I stepped back, I was still failing to see the larger picture. I was both hyperopic and myopic — everything was a blur.

Though I was having a difficult time seeing what was going on, I knew there had to be a common thread. For Isabelle’s sake, I needed to find it as soon as possible.

Tuesday, 9:47 AM: Isabelle was back at Blink’s Market — she needed the regular paycheck, and quitting would have signaled to Howard he had power over her. She was like me: not good at acquiescing to men and always doing her damnedest to keep from revealing her weak spots to them. She dressed tough, she acted tough, and she was tough. Just like her mom. And so it was decided, by Isabelle, that she would continue going in to work, she would do her job competently and be polite, and she’d find clever ways to thwart Howard’s advances, without letting on how repulsed he made her.

Isabelle was positive she had all of this in hand, that she knew what to do, and would not get hurt. There was no talking her out of it, so I bit my tongue. What I wanted to say, had the opportunity presented itself, was that Howard was much meaner than she could ever hope to be, that she didn’t stand a chance against someone that practiced at being cruel — a person fueled by malice, insecurity, and a need for control. On top of that, Howard was one of those men who felt entitled to have whatever he wanted. And Howard wanted her.

I did let her know, however, that if she were going back to that place after what had transpired, I was going to station myself nearby, at least until things cooled off. Isabelle wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but she knew better than to try to talk me out of it. And at some level, she was relieved someone had her back.

And so I parked my Honda CR-V across the street from Blink’s Market, which gave Laura and me a clear sightline to the entrance, while also keeping us out of range of the surveillance cameras sprinkled throughout the parking lot. Once Isabelle made her way inside, Laura and I crossed the road and headed straight to the produce department under the pretense of looking for heirloom tomatoes and our veggies for the week.

Tuesday, 10:02 AM: As I picked through a pyramid of navel oranges, Laura saw Howard emerge from the stockroom. He scanned the store, located Isabelle at one of the registers, then suddenly changed direction. He was wearing the same khakis and polo shirt he’d worn the other day — the day he hadn’t even noticed my presence while he was hitting on my daughter. Middle-aged women, his wife included, were invisible to Howard. And he was wearing that same damn wedding ring, the one he was always touching like a rosary. Howard’s approach was casual and practiced — nothing the fisheye cameras would flag as suspicious or that might alert his wife, who sat religiously in front of the large security monitors every day, making sure the family fortune remained intact and that Howard kept it in his pants. But from where I stood, I could see the calculation in Howard’s trajectory, and the unmistakable look of determination on his face.

Making his way swiftly to the front of the store, Howard positioned himself immediately behind Isabelle, spreading his arms across the entrance to her register area, gripping the countertop on either side firmly, as if to keep her from leaving. At first, Isabelle paid no attention — she was busy checking out a customer — but when she tried to turn around, she found Howard crushingly close — so close, in fact, she could smell the Listerine Antiseptic on his breath — a touch he imagined would impress this beautiful, young woman.

Laura, who was standing in line at Isabelle’s register with a cart full of fruit and veggies, texted me: He just told Isabelle the new inventory “really needs a woman’s touch.” Asked if she could stay late this evening to help him “arrange things in the back.” I don’t need to tell you how this landed in my stomach. Like a rock.

So I swung by Isabelle’s checkout lane, grabbed Laura, and off we headed to the deli for sandwiches, potato salad, and some bottled Starbucks vanilla lattes. Laura’s text told me all I needed to know. It was going to be a long evening, a stakeout that would last at least until Isabelle clocked out for the evening. Provisions would be needed.

Tuesday, 10:00 PM: Isabelle’s shift ended, right on time. She punched out, grabbed her bag, and headed for the exit. With his wife back at home and no longer glued to the security monitors, Howard saw his opportunity and followed Isabelle to the parking lot, but just enough paces behind to escape detection. As she opened her hatchback, Howard made his move, swooping in to grab her groceries from the cart and help her load them into the car. I watched in disgust the huge smile on Howard’s face, his right hand on the small of my daughter’s back. A married man, over twice her age. Isabelle excused herself from this light embrace by stepping to the side, putting as much distance between them as possible. She then slammed hard the liftback — in one gesture expressing anger, demonstrating her physical strength, and punctuating the end of this unwanted interaction with an exclamation mark.

But Howard was not to be deterred, and he let Isabelle know it. He was furious. Though most of his words were imperceptible to us given the distance, the change of tone in his voice was unmistakable. “Let me get your door,” he commanded, making clear this was not some gallant gesture. Since he was already standing in the path between Isabelle and her driver’s-side door, Howard had only to take one step forward to block her completely. Then, rather than reaching for the door handle to actually let Isabelle into the car, Howard extended his left arm outward and leaned against the car roof, using his full body to shield her escape. She was stuck, here in the parking lot, unable to get into her car. Unless, of course, she were to give Howard a hard shove. And so she did. With both hands.

Howard stumbled backward, nearly landing on his ass, but catching himself at the last minute and tweaking his ankle in the process. Howard was not a young man, and this near fall put the fear of god in him, if for but a split second. Then suddenly, without warning, his face darkened, and his hands began to shake. It was as if a switch had been turned on. His voice became low and muffled — he was telling Isabelle something extremely distasteful, her body communicating pure tension: shoulders up, arms crossed, weight shifted back. Her face had that frozen smile women learn to deploy when they’re calculating the cost of saying no. Then Isabelle’s tectonic plates shifted of their own accord. Isabelle raised her head and pulled herself upright, planted her feet shoulder-width apart, offsetting her feet, one forward, one back; she instinctually curled both hands into tight fists. She made herself immovable and ready to hit Howard square in the jaw with everything she had. I watched in amazement just a few yards away, readying myself to take this fucker to the asphalt mat should she need assistance.

Howard leaned forward and touched Isabelle’s arm again, this time letting his hand slide down to her wrist, then realizing her hand was clenched in a fist. He tightened his grip and didn’t release his hand until over a minute had passed, and he had finished saying whatever bullshit he felt he needed to say — or should I say, that he felt entitled to say. He would make her listen.

Isabelle turned her head to the side, refusing to make eye contact for what she knew to be coming next: Howard’s hugely inappropriate and insulting request, to which she replied simply: “No.” She didn’t shout it, she didn’t cry, she didn’t beg him to leave her alone.

Howard's face registered disbelief. How dare she refuse him? Who did she think she was? Since her message clearly wasn't sinking in, Isabelle repeated her reply, this time a tad louder, and still with a stone-cold expression: “No!” Howard sneered and issued a guttural noise from deep in his chest. He was reluctant to release Isabelle’s wrist. Relinquishing control would mean she was winning. But as he stood there, considering his next move, Howard had a moment of clarity. None of this was going to work out well for him, not in the stockroom, not here in the parking lot, not in the back of her car, and most certainly not with other employees witnessing what was going down. So, Howard stepped back, if only slightly, and it was at this juncture Isabelle raised her head and gave him a powerfully hateful look, a threatening just-try-fucking-with-me look, while slipping her recently released right hand into her coat pocket, assertively grabbing whatever was in there. Was it a knife? Pepper spray? A gun, perhaps? Whatever it was, it was clearly something that could cause harm. And in case her gesture didn’t drive that message home, Isabelle flashed him a knowing smile.

How had Howard so misjudged Isabelle? She was not sweet and obliging. She was unyielding. Pleasing him was not a priority for her. She had no intention of obeying him. She was rejecting him on every level: as her boss, as a friend, as a potential lover, and Howard’s malevolence was growing. And horribly, it was giving him a huge hard-on. How could he have so misread the situation, their relationship? If Isabelle’s beauty, kindness and gentle femininity were not for him, who were they for? The thought that any other man should have her was unacceptable to Howard. His body wanted her, and she would be his. Maybe not tonight, but soon.

Isabelle was a bitch. Like all the others.

Howard reassessed his options. Since physical harm seemed a potential consequence of pressing her any further, Howard abruptly stepped back. “You will regret this,” he hissed. He then turned away and limped stiffly back to the store entrance, passing, but not acknowledging, several of Isabelle’s co-workers along the way. They stood in shocked disbelief, having just witnessed the whole scene. Only after Howard was out of view did Isabelle get into her car.

Back at home, Howard’s wife was warming up his chicken pot pie and cuing up Fox News @ Night. She was ready and waiting for him, in whatever condition that might be. Perhaps he would be needing a shower before settling in for his late-night dinner. Sometimes that was the case. He was always relaxed on those evenings, and quiet. She understood. And she would keep his food warm.

As Isabelle made her way out of Blink’s parking lot, we started up the Honda and followed her, but at a distance. My guess: Isabelle needed some headspace. This had undoubtedly been an extremely tense situation. Though Isabelle knew we were right there behind her, she did not catch my eye in her rearview mirror, nor did she wave or shoot me a text.

Halfway back to her apartment, Isabelle pulled into a Starbucks parking lot. She sat in her car, gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, a stone-cold look on her face. I could feel her rage. And her fear.

I gave her five minutes, then texted: Coffee? They’re closed.

She didn’t respond for another three minutes. Then: Not tonight, Mom, please. I’m tired. Time to head home.

Tired. Right. Got it.

Wednesday, Noon: It was hard to believe, but Howard Blink was only one of Isabelle’s current challenges with men. And he was a big one. Howard was her job, her livelihood. And Blink’s was where we shopped. Like for decades. Turns out Howard was not Isabelle’s only headache, as of late; she’d had a deluge of bad situations and she’d not brought them up until now because, hey, who would believe this many men had been harassing her? She did wonder. Was she imagining all of this? Would we think her paranoid? Was this somehow her fault? Poor kid.

This morning’s text, which I only just noticed around 8:00 AM: Mom, I’ve got another problem. It’s my art professor. I may need your help. Like ASAP. As in this afternoon.

Time for Stake Out #2: Logan Hill Junior College, Fine Arts Department. Talked to Laura and she was down for it — in fact, she left ahead of me, arriving at the college early enough to sign up for an art class, get supplies, and position herself in the hallway two doors down from Lichter’s studio. Who does that? You’d think Isabelle was Laura’s daughter. Well, she kind of was. Laura was hoping that being on the inside might reveal important information. At a minimum, it would allow her proximity to the action so we could document firsthand what was going down.

As I would find out from subsequent texts, Isabelle had been having serious issues with an art instructor and the department head, Professor please-call-me-Gordon Lichter. His relentless advances over the last year had been one part frustrating, one part threatening. On the surface, everything he did and said appeared innocuous, if not supportive, but anyone who understood art world politics would have recognized that Lichter was, in essence, threatening Isabelle’s career—her academic career and, in the long term, her professional one. His not-so-well-disguised message: “Put out, or I could make your art career a living hell.”

Laura and I had been talking details on this one for some time, well before Isabelle was willing to admit, even to herself, that Lichter was a problem. We had been rounding up specifics on this guy: who was in his circle, where he had taught, and under what circumstances he had left his other positions. What was a bit odd was that he had been on the faculty at both the Art Institute of Chicago and the Rhode Island School of Design, and that he had paintings in permanent collections at prestigious institutions all over the U.S. and Europe. How was it that Lichter had come to be teaching at a small-town junior college?

The picture was just starting to come into focus, but solid evidence and corroborating witnesses would be needed if we were to take action. Judging from all the vivacious, 20-something-year-old bodies prancing around campus, there were no doubt other victims. We just needed to figure out who they were and convince them to talk.

And so, the three of us — me, Laura, and Isabelle — met briefly before class to discuss a plan of attack. We were all still reeling from the late-night shenanigans at Blink’s, but Isabelle assured us that was now a non-issue. She had tendered her resignation at 6:00 AM, when Rachel Blink arrived to open the store. Though there was nothing Isabelle would have relished more than giving Rachel the blow-by-blow on all that had transpired over the last week and leaving her stewing in that knowledge, Isabelle knew better than to bother. She didn’t like Rachel — no one did, really — but what purpose would it serve to torture her? Rachel would be, had always been, in complete denial about her husband. There was nothing that she, Isabelle, or anyone, for that matter, could say that could have convinced that stone-cold bitch to face reality. All Isabelle would have gotten for trying was an earful — about being a conniving whore, and a worthless employee — expressions of endearment she knew had gone out to other female employees who were forced to resign or were fired, namely those who’d reported sexual harassment and assault to the HR department, of which Rachel was the head. By now, Rachel should have known to run for the hills, that her husband was a serial rapist. But she continued to stand by her man. Cowboy boots firmly dug in.

Isabelle decided to offer up her own version of an appropriate adios: be polite, tell Rachel she was going back to school full-time, and express how much she had loved working at Blink’s. Sorry to be leaving at such short notice. Buh bye. Isabelle ended the conversation with a Mona Lisa smile, signed her final timecard, and got the fuck out of there. Let Rachel’s imagination fill in the gaps without her help.

The only bit captured on video, which Howard would no doubt review, would be that vanilla script Isabelle had adhered to. She’d left not one iota of evidence to bolster any argument Rachel was likely to initiate with her husband. That woman was a powder keg — all that worry, doubt, and mistrust — at some point there was going to be an explosion. This was an upcoming event you could bet on.

Isabelle appreciated that being married to Howard was surely a living hell, but knew at some level that Rachel deserved him. She had started fucking him back in the days when she, herself, was a clerk at the store. Yep. Back when Howard was still married to his first wife, and they had three young children. Not many people remember that.

Wednesday, 2:15 PM: Isabelle made her way to her figure drawing class, where Gordon Lichter was the instructor — a man fifty-eight years old, tenured, twice divorced, and driving a Subaru Outback with a “Coexist” bumper sticker and a Grateful Dead decal. The kind of guy who imagines his faux progressive politics inoculate him against being perceived as a predator.

I sat outside the campus coffee shop with a clear view of the art building entrance, sipping on an iced Hojicha tea and nibbling on a dried cherry scone. Laura was doing recon inside — sitting in the hall, two doors down from Lichter’s studio.

Wednesday, 4:15 PM: Classes had ended, both Isabelle’s and Laura’s. Students filed out, Isabelle being one of the last to leave, with Lichter right behind her. He was walking way too close, talking animatedly, and not so discreetly checking out her legs and ass. I watched him gesture toward the sculpture garden — a secluded area behind the building where students sometimes work on outdoor projects.

Laura texted: He just invited her to “discuss her portfolio” in his office. Told her she has “raw talent that needs nurturing.” Said he sees “something special” in her work that reminds him of his own early pieces. Then, a throwing up emoji.

This is classic negging disguised as mentorship. You’re talented, but you need me to unlock it. You’re special, but only I can see it.

Isabelle declined the last-minute office visit. I could see her shaking her head, pointing toward the parking lot, making excuses. Gordon’s smile didn’t waver, but his posture shifted — he threw his shoulders back, chin up, the physical language of a man who’s been told no and doesn’t accept it. He’s thinking: “Let me rephrase this, bitch.”

And then something else is said. Who knows what exactly. Lichter tilts his head to the side in a cocky way, eyes half closed, gives a slow nod, and has a look of derision on his face. “Am I clear now?” he says as he rounds out the conversation. Isabelle goes pale. I can see it from here. She nods twice, then quickly walks away, nearly running as she nears the parking lot. She waves haphazardly at me in my car, but does not look back at Lichter. She is frantic.

I intercepted her at her car. “Hey, baby girl. How was class?”

“Fine.” But she won’t look at me. She’s fumbling with her keys; her hands are shaking.

“Lichter seem okay today?”

Her jaw tightens. “He’s fine, Mom. He’s just... he thinks I should apply for this summer intensive program. In Santa Fe. He says he could write me a recommendation, but I’d need to, like, work more closely with him. Show him my process.”

“Work more closely? How?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Studio time. Bring my stuff into his office. Critiques. Whatever.” She gets the door open, throws her bag onto the passenger seat. “I’m not doing it anyway. I can’t afford Santa Fe. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Did he suggest any other ways you could... earn his recommendation?”

She froze. Looked at me. Her eyes were wet. “I have to go.”

She drove off before I could say anything more. No reassuring hug administered. This was troubling, and I had no idea what to do since I didn’t really know all that went down.

Laura suddenly appeared beside me, holding a lumpy ceramic bowl, agitated, and blurted out: “He told her she’s ‘hiding her light’ and that ‘women like her’ need to be more assertive about claiming their space in the art world. Then he said most of his successful former students had ‘personal mentorship relationships’ with him. I heard it all.”

“Personal mentorship relationships.”

“His exact words.”

I pulled out my phone and added Gordon Lichter to my spreadsheet. Under “Tactics,” I typed: “Negging disguised as mentorship. Implies access to opportunities contingent on private ‘studio time.’ Frames refusal as a lack of ambition and confidence.”

All of this was leading to a bad place.

I heard nothing further from Isabelle.

Thursday, 6:30 PM: Isabelle was supposed to be at her friend Kaira’s house for dinner with Basti.

I had just been sitting at the dining room table taking notes on the various manosphere sites I’d been perusing, and which had likely permanently damaged my psyche. My phone buzzed.

It was a text from Basti, Isabelle’s on-again-off-again boyfriend: Is Isabelle with you? She’s not answering.

I called her. No answer. I texted: Where are you?

Three minutes passed. Then: Home. Just got here. Phone died.

To Basti, I texted: She’s just gotten back to her apartment. I’m heading over and will let you know what’s up.

I drove over. Her car was in the car park, but when I let myself in, I found her sitting on the couch in the quasi-dark, still wearing her jacket, staring at the wall.

“Isabelle?!”

She didn’t move.

I sat down next to her. “What has happened?”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“Baby girl —”

“I said nothing happened!” She stood up, paced in front of the window, briefly pulled back the curtain as if there was something to see out there, then wrapped her arms around herself. “I just... I was at the coffee shop on Main Street, and Caden was there. With Zane. They were just sitting there, and when I walked in, they both looked at me, and Caden smiled, and I just... I couldn’t stay. I left.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. He didn’t have to. He was just... there. Like he knew I’d be there. Like he was waiting for me. Mom, I broke up with him over a year ago. Why won’t he leave me alone?”

I pulled up Caden’s Instagram. His most recent story, posted forty-three minutes earlier: a photo of a latte with the caption Best coffee in town and a location tag for Main Street Brew.

He knew she’d see it. He wanted to crash her out.

“How often is he showing up places you are?”

She won’t answer.

“Isabelle. I need to know. How often?”

“I don’t know, Mom. A few times a week? He’s always just... around. At the grocery store. At the gas station. Outside the college. It’s a small town. It’s not like he’s following me.”

Except he was. That’s exactly what he’s doing.

I opened my laptop and pulled up Caden’s Snapchat — the account I’ve been monitoring under my fake profile. His location history showed he’d been within a quarter-mile of Isabelle at least nine times in the past week. The grocery store. Starbucks. The community college. Main Street Brew. And multiple times at the hiking trailhead where she goes running.

He wasn’t even trying to hide it. His unspoken message to Isabelle: “So what are you going to do about it, bitch?”

I screenshotted everything and added it to the folder.

Friday, 11:00 AM: I was at Laura’s house. We’d spread out documentation on all of Isabelle’s ex-boyfriends across her dining room table: screenshots, timelines, location data, testimonies from other women we’d met who’d had encounters with these men. Added to the same: Javier Saldivar, Howard Blink and Gordon Lichter. This is getting to be a lot of men.

“This is coordinated,” Laura said, tapping the printout of the timeline we’d built. “Look at the pattern. Howard escalates on Tuesday. Gordon on Wednesday. Caden Thursday and Friday. It’s like they’re taking turns.”

I stared at the evidence. She was right. The timing was too precise to be coincidence.

“They’re talking to each other,” I said slowly. “They have to be.”

Laura nodded. “I’ve been digging into their social media. They all seem to be connected — not publicly, but through private groups. Telegram, mostly. Encrypted. Hard to access unless you’re invited.”

“Can you get in?”

She gave me the look. Duh.

Saturday, 8:00 AM: The farmer’s market was crowded — families with strollers, dogs on leashes, vendors hawking overpriced heirloom tomatoes, artisanal goat cheese and kefir. Isabelle came along because I insisted. Because we weren’t going to let them erase her from public spaces. Because the alternative was watching her disappear into her apartment and never come out.

We split up. Off Isabelle went to forage, hunting for her favorite berries and veg, maybe a rotisserie chicken and some salmon. I shadowed my girl from three booths away, pretending to examine handmade soaps while keeping her in my peripheral vision.

Out of nowhere, Javier Saldivar appeared, a pair of expensive cowboy boots in hand. We’re not talking “cowboy boots,” we’re talking blond alligator leather, with hand-tooled sterling silver detailing, stacked-leather heels cowboy boots. A nothing-short-of-four-thousand-dollars pair of cowboy boots. Lucchese.

Javier was good-looking in a slick sort of way — close-cropped, curly jet-black hair, slim-fit designer jeans, an expensive set of veneers, and a smile that he’s practiced a hundred times in front of a mirror.

“For you,” he said, holding the boots out to Isabelle. “A little pick-me-up. New beginnings, you know?”

Isabelle took a step back and assumed a defensive posture I’d seen more than once this week. “I can’t accept those, Javier.”

“Why not?” His smile didn’t falter, but something shifted in his eyes. There was a hardness. “I know you and Caden broke up. That must be tough. But it’s been a long time, and I’ve always been there for you, Isabelle. I could be there for you now. We’d be great together.”

“I’m not interested, and this is not the way.”

Her words were clear. Unambiguous.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, lowering his voice and bringing his head closer. Intimate. Threatening. “You’re just upset right now. You’ll come around. Everyone does eventually.”

Javier didn’t move. He stood there, holding out the boots like an offering, like her refusal was just a negotiating position. A crowd was gathering. An intriguing scene was unfolding: two beautiful young people — a debonair Latino, a golden-haired princess, and an expensive pair of boots. A real-life fairytale, right here at the farmers market. How would this end? Would she try on the boots? Would they fit? Would they kiss?

Isabelle set down her bags, right where she was standing, then abandoned them. She excused herself, apologizing to the vendor, then quickly wove her way through the crowd to the parking lot. I watched Javier’s expression as he watched her go — there was no disappointment, no embarrassment. No — the look on his face: Victory. And then the look of him calculating his next move.

Javier tucked the boots under his arm and coolly walked in the opposite direction. Once he was out of view, I swooped in and grabbed Isabelle’s bags of provisions, then made a beeline for her car. We’d come to the market together. I was hoping that in the frenzy, she hadn’t forgotten that.

And there she was, in her car. Not crying, but visibly shaking. I knocked on the liftback, which she released, and put everything in the trunk. I then got into the seat next to her and put my hand on her knee.

“He won’t take no for an answer,” she whispered. “None of them will.”

That evening, Isabelle stayed at my house. She was too unsettled to be alone.

After dinner, Laura and I headed out for an evening stroll around the neighborhood. We had some pasta alfredo to work off, and we needed to discuss what was going on out of earshot of Isabelle.

As I stepped off the front porch, I saw them. The boots. On my stoop. No note. No explanation. Just sitting there like a threat. I was too late in hiding them. Isabelle had seen them from the window.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo, posed as they were on my stoop, then I picked up the boots, walked to the curb, and hurled them into the recycling bin I had set out for the next morning’s trash pickup.

I liked to imagine one of the workers at the sorting plant wearing those Lucchese boots at the next quinceañera. Hopefully Javier would be there.

Sunday, 7:00 AM: Laura called. “I’m in,” she said. “Check the link I just sent you. Password is the year you were born.”

I opened my laptop, clicked the encrypted Telegram link, then entered the password. The chat loaded.

High Value Brotherhood. Eight members. Eight men. OK, nine “men,” now that I was a member. A non-voting member. Just an observer until I’d been properly hazed.

I scrolled through the messages, my coffee going cold in my hand.

Caden: Blonde is getting bougie. This needs correction.

Lichter: Agreed. I’ve been working on her in class. Softening her up. She’s scared.

Blink: Had quite an encounter with Blonde this week. It did not end well. She quit working at the market. I let her know this was not the end of things.

Javier: Hey. I just gave Blonde the boots we all went in on. She refused them. Lol. Not unexpected. Am I right? I went ahead and escalated. Left them on her doorstep.

Alexandros: She’s perfect for the protocol. Blonde, submissive-facing, thinks she’s special. I’ll handle the final correction. I have a perfect setup in mind.

Mark: Standing by. Let me know if you need backup.

Zane: This is what happens when they think they can say no to us. Glad we’re all in agreement on this.

Unknown: The Correction Protocol works. We’ve done this before. Either she falls in line, or we break her. Either way, problem solved.

I read it again. And again. There were only two men I didn’t know in the group: Alexandros and “Unknown.” I was going to make it a priority to find out who they were because they were the worst of the bunch. There had to be clues in those hundreds of messages. And clearly all of these guys were locals.

The Correction Protocol.

They had a name for it. A system. A methodology. This wasn’t random harassment. This wasn’t individual predation. This was organized. Coordinated. Ideological.

They were hunting my daughter. And each of her rebukes was just a problem in need of a solution.

My hands shook as I screenshotted every message. Not from fear. From rage so precise it felt like a scalpel. It was sharp. It was precise. And it was deadly.

I pulled the folder from my bag — manila, thick, already fraying a tad on the edges, and organized in the way I organize everything when I’m trying not to lose my mind. Inside: screenshots, dates, times, names — evidence of a coordinated assault that the police would never touch because these men were woven into the town’s fabric. They were the grocery store owner, the art professor, the landscaper, the plumber, popular young men who were, as a rule, liked in our community. They were the men who showed up at church every Sunday. And they were the men who hunted down women on Mondays.

I called Laura back.

“Did you see it?” she asked.

“I saw it.”

“What do we do?”

I stared at the screen. At the eight names. At the casual cruelty in their language. At the way they’d turned my daughter’s autonomy into a glitch in their system.

“We’re going to burn these fuckers down,” I said. “All of them.”

Sunday, 8:30 PM: It was late when John and I arrived at The Bullpen. Adam was already there, sitting in the back booth with Laura. The restaurant was thankfully closed — chairs stacked on tables, lights dimmed, the kitchen quiet for once. Our table was full of food and cold beverages.

Adam ran The Bullpen like a man who’d learned early on that respect is the only currency worth anything. His staff, when they were present, moved with the precision of people who knew they were valued. He paid well, promoted on merit, and didn’t tolerate the ego-driven bullshit that defined most kitchens. In short, Adam treated his staff like he actually gave a shit.

I slid into the booth across from him and Laura. John, next to me, let his hand find mine under the table.

“Thanks for meeting us,” I said.

Adam nodded. “Laura said it was important.”

I pulled out the folder and spread its contents across the table. Screenshots. Timelines. Location data. The Telegram chat logs.

“I need to know what you know about the manosphere,” I said. “The forums. The ideology. The networks. And which, if any, people in town are bought into this bullshit. Have you been hearing anything?”

Adam leaned back, his jaw tightening. “I know enough. I’ve been watching it spread through town for years. The podcasts, the YouTube channels, the private chats. It’s not just online anymore — it’s in the local construction industry, vineyard management, the gyms, the churches. These guys think they’re owed something. They think women saying ‘no’ is a personal attack. Many of them imagine it’s against God’s will, whatever the hell that means.”

“Do you know any of these men?” I tapped on my list of names.

He scanned it. “Howard, yes. We source most of our produce from Blink’s. Caden did all of our landscaping at the restaurant last summer. Gordon — I see him from time to time, and we’ve a trptych of his paintings at the entrance to the restaurant. You just passed them. Javier often comes in with his crew after a big project is done.” He looks up at me. “Why?”

“Because all of them are hunting Isabelle. And they have no intention of stopping.”

The words land like a stone in still water.

I walked him through it. The escalation. The coordination. The Telegram chat. The Correction Protocol. Isabelle’s deterioration — how she’d stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped leaving her apartment except when cajoled.

“She’s disappearing, being absorbed by fear,” I said quietly. “Right in front of me. And the system isn’t helping us. The police know Caden’s family. The college protects Gordon. Howard’s family owns half the town. The other men are friends with all of Isabelle’s girlfriends, most of whom seem clueless about these goings-on or don’t imagine them to be as threatening as they are — you know, referring to all of it as “locker room talk.”

Adam’s expression hardened. “So, does that mean you’re taking this on yourselves? Is that what we’re looking at?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s our only alternative,” I confirmed.

Laura leaned forward, directing all of her pent-up upset at Adam. “We need intelligence. You see these people here. You must hear things. You know who talks to whom, what they’re worried about. We need you to listen. And document. To pay attention to patterns. To share what you hear.”

“I can do that,” Adam said without hesitation. “And my staff can do that as well, if you give me permission to share some of these details. I trust all of them implicitly. The women on my staff — many have been dealing with this shit for years. It’s one of the reasons they work for me. As you can imagine, no one gives me shit. Ever. These women will know exactly what to look for. And they know how to play the game with these entitled narcissists. It’s the same game they play to get great tips. Hey… if it puts your kid through college, I say, ‘Go for it!’”

“What about consequences?” John asked quietly. “What if this goes sideways — if they figure out what we’re doing — what then?”

That question hung in the air.

“They could sue us,” I said calmly. “They could threaten us. They could try to intimidate us into stopping.” I paused. “But here’s what I know: the alternative is watching Isabelle disappear completely. Not into a new identity, but into herself. Into trauma. Into the kind of broken that takes decades to repair, if it repairs at all. And she won’t be the only victim. She will just be their first — their first as the Brotherhood.”

I leaned forward. “I’ve spent my entire career telling women how to survive in systems that don’t protect them. I’m not going to watch my daughter become another statistic while I do nothing.”

“So we’re really doing this,” Adam said. It was not a question.

“We’re really doing this,” I confirmed.

“Then we need to be smart,” Laura added. “Disciplined. We document everything. We don’t make accusations we can’t back up. We don’t break laws — we use them. The good part of all of this: sociopathic behavior is incredibly predictable. We need to use that knowledge to craft our strategy.”

“Exposure,” I said. “That’s our #1 weapon. These men operate in darkness. They think they’re untouchable because no one’s watching. We watch them, but they don’t know it. We document everything without putting it in their face. Once we have gathered up all the evidence, we expose them. In a most public way. In the light of day.”

“And then?” John asked.

“And then the system does what it should have done all along,” I said. “Their employers fire them. Their licenses are revoked. Their reputations are shattered. Their wives are humiliated and leave them. Their communities reject them.”

Adam nodded slowly. “We don’t have to lay a finger on them. We just have to make sure everyone sees who they are.”

“Exactly,” I said.

The four of us sat in silence for a moment. The weight of conspiracy settled on us — not the criminal kind, mind you, but the kind that changes everything. We were ordinary people making an extraordinary decision. We’d be crossing a line we could never uncross. But the other side of this was the only place to be.

“I’m in,” Adam said finally.

“Me too,” Laura said.

John squeezed my hand. A gesture of commitment that I already knew was coming. A gesture from my normally cautious John that said: I understand what we’re doing, and I’m doing it anyway.

I looked at each of them — and all of it became clear: these people had chosen to stand with me and to do the thing that was right and that needed doing.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”

We sat in the quiet of the empty restaurant, four people bound by the rage we felt, not just toward these men, but toward the society and culture that had made them who they were. We were refusing to watch another woman disappear.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something other than helplessness.

I felt dangerous.

Read: Overpaint, Chapter 1

This is fucked. I’m standing in the produce section at Blink’s Market, watching my daughter placidly select avocados, when there is an unmistakable shift in atmospheric pressure. That unsettling feeling — the air heavy, static making the hair stand up on the back of my neck. There is no storm rolling in. This is my daughter getting unwanted male attention. Neanderthal bachelors and husbands oblivious to me, her mother, are mentally undressing her.

Isabelle — she doesn’t see it, she doesn’t feel it. She’s not yet developed a sense for these things. She’s focused on those Haas avocados, wrapping her beautifully manicured hands around each one, checking for that ever-so-slight softness that indicates ripeness — is this that perfect piece of fruit for slicing into her salad? Isabelle’s long blonde hair catches the fluorescent light in a way that makes her look like she’s been dipped in spring honey. She’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and Reef flip-flops, a souvenir from our last trip to Santa Cruz. Tiny gold hoops. No makeup. A farmer’s tan from helping me in the garden. Nothing provocative. Nothing whatsoever that should register: “This is an invitation.”

But it does register as an invitation. Her being beautiful and healthy. And blonde.

Blonde hair is the invitation. Plain and simple. A fact made so obvious by those in the president’s circle. Think Karoline Leavitt, Sonny Joy Nelson, Kieghan Nangle, Ivanka, Tiffany and Lara, Riley Gaines, Pam Bondi, Kelly Loeffler, Kellyanne Conway, Kirstjen Nielsen, Carrie Underwood. And even Melania, some of the time. Then there are all his fans on FOX, the female commentators that stroke his ego: Kayleigh, Carley, Shannon, Dana, Tomi, Laura, Martha, Ainsley.

Fuck me. That’s a lot of blondes, especially considering less than 5% of the population is naturally blonde. Republican Hair is the uniform: a classic blond blowout, long, soft, flowy curls. Add loads of makeup in a heavy, high-glam style. Lips plumped up with hyaluronic acid fillers and smoothed with Botox. Labia lips. We’ve all seen it: Mar-a-Lago Face.

This is not my daughter. The only vestiges of Mar-a-Lago on her person: longish blond hair. And she’s had hers since birth. Still, for some, this is enough to be considered an invitation, especially for those who would drive Dodge Rams and are experts in backyard meat preparation.

Back to planet produce. Three men have stopped in their tracks in the last thirty seconds. One pretends to be examining organic kale, while not actually looking at it. Another has abandoned his cart mid-aisle to study a citrus display with oddly intense interest. The third — a guy in his forties wearing a Carhartt jacket and a wedding band — has manspread himself at the end of the aisle, blocking the exit, phone in hand, pretending to text, while glancing furtively at Isabelle, with some expectation that she will, eventually, have to make her way down this aisle.

I know what they’re seeing. I’ve watched this happen since Isabelle was fourteen.

They’re seeing the uniform.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Feminine softness. In this town, at this particular moment in history, these physical traits are like an SMS text. They catch your attention. They deliver an important message in as few words as possible. Available. Submissive. Traditional.

Vulnerable adult on the loose.

Men generally don’t have the self-awareness to know they’re reading her in this way, and they’d be offended if you suggested it. They’d insist they were just appreciating beauty, just being friendly, just making conversation. But I’ve been documenting this pattern for months now, and the data doesn’t lie. They are predators. Entitled fucking predators.

To them, my daughter’s appearance is a promise that she’ll be all that. The perfect lover, girlfriend, wife, servant, hausfrau, masseuse. Punching bag.

But that’s a promise she never made to any of them. The fuckers.

Laura, thank god, pulls me out of this dystopian reverie by lightly punching me in the arm — an emotional inoculation, of sorts — something she does whenever I’m losing my cookies. Laura’s got a big basket of heirloom tomatoes, and seeing that has me reminiscing about the NY Times recipes I explored over raisin bran this morning. Heirloom tomato season. Better than Christmas, that’s for sure. Gazpacho, marinara sauce, caprese salad. My basil is going crazy — time to use it for more than a border in my veg garden.

Laura follows my gaze, clocks the three men, then looks back at me. “How many have you seen so far today?”

“Three visible. Probably more.”

Laura’s a microbiologist whose side hustle is doing research for some pretty famous true crime podcasts. She’s got the same observational discipline I do — the same refusal to look away from uncomfortable patterns. We’ve been friends since elementary school, and lately, we’ve been conducting an informal study on male behavior in public spaces. A real eye-opener —behavior egregious enough to drive Carrie Nation to drink. For those of you who slept through Mr. Dixon’s U.S. history class, imagine a slight, old woman in granny glasses wielding a massive hatchet. Unhinged is a word I have often seen used in describing her temperance-fueled rampages through illegal saloons at the turn of the century. We could use a woman like her about now.

“Carhartt guy’s been following her since dairy,” Laura says quietly. “I saw him turn around when she walked past the yogurt.”

Laura moves toward the bagged salads, inserting herself between Carhartt guy and Isabelle. Carhartt predictably shifts position to maintain his sightline. The kale examiner abandons his post and drifts closer. It’s like watching sharks circle.

This is the part that makes my blood pressure spike: none of this is illegal. They’re not touching her. They’re not speaking to her. They’re just... present. Hovering. Tracking. Creating an ambient pressure that makes her shoulders tense even though she can’t articulate why.

I’ve asked her about this numerous times. “Do you notice the men watching you?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But I don’t want to be paranoid. I don’t want to be one of those women who thinks every man is a threat.” Please, baby girl. Think every man is a threat. Be pleasantly surprised when one isn’t.

I know, I know. I am partially responsible for this because we’ve spent her entire life teaching her not to be rude. Not to overreact. Not to make a scene. Not sure what I was thinking. You have no idea how difficult it has been to change this behavior. It is ingrained.

In addition to our observations in the field, Laura and I have spent the last three months discovering exactly what it is these men do online. What they watch, the images of women they pass back and forth, the long discussions on what women want and how they should be treated. And then mindless banter about workout routines and what peptides to take for looksmaxxing and body optimization. Whatever thought process allows a person to buy into this bullshit opens up a path for other loony tunes to insert their counterpoint into the score for the Collective Psychotic Symphony. Composer: Andrew Tate.

My morbid fascination with all things manosphere started when Isabelle mentioned, casually, that her ex-boyfriend Caden had started talking differently, using expressions like “high-value male,” “body count,” and “pair bonding.” Isabelle laughed when she talked about it, but her unease was palpable.

So, rather than exploding about what I was learning, I took to exploring. It helped me dissipate some of this anger, and to harness the rest of it to something good, something that would affect change. Exactly what that might be had yet to reveal itself, but the goal foremost in mind: put these men where they belong and where they can no longer hurt women. Put them in jail. Put them out of business. Put them down — hey, I’m talking a verbal put-down here — make no mistake on that. I’m not looking to take a page from manosphere playbook, which has been turning more and more toward violence.

Anger is not something for women to shove off, put away, repress. Hell, no. Women need to understand how important it is, vital to their well-being, in fact. It signals an injustice has been done. It is the energy we have been given to right injustice. I am certainly not going to fucking waste that.

So, here I am at 3:00 AM last Tuesday, deep in the manosphere forest —“manosphere” being a term I’d only learned of six months prior and now a concept I cannot escape. SlutHate. The Red Pill. Roosh V forums. It’s everywhere, everywhere, Andrew Tate’s face, his voice, his gospel of male dominance and female submission.

Tate’s got 15 million followers. Fifteen million men and boys absorbing his message: women are property, rape is the victim’s fault, violence is correction.

Pretending to be a 20-some-year-old male from NorCal, I found Caden’s Snapchat. Then Milo’s. Then Javier’s, Mark’s, Zane’s. All of them — boys I’ve known since they were in elementary school, when they were classmates with Isabelle — all of them posting Tate quotes, sharing links to banned videos, using coded language to discuss women.

They had a nickname for my daughter: “Blonde.”

Their posts were carefully done. Though Snapchat’s word filters are idiotic, if not entirely useless, the boys were using cleverly disguised language to avoid any chance of getting kicked off the platform. This was home base. Their batcave. And they were highly protective of it.

Though their terminology was a bit cryptic, the meaning in these posts was inescapable. There was crude speculation about Blonde’s body. Complaints about her “attitude.” Suggestions about what she “needed.” Oh, god. No mother wants to read this shit.

One post from Milo, the art student Isabelle had mentioned having coffee with, read: “If you put yourself in a position to be raped, you must bear some responsibility.” The quote had no attribution, and most would likely assume Milo had come up with that piece of sage advice. But I knew this after only one encounter with the boy: he was not that smart.

That was Tate’s line. Verbatim. Thank you, AI.

I screenshotted everything. Built a folder. Started cross-referencing names with local businesses, family connections, social networks. What I found was an ecosystem — not just individual predators, but an interconnected web of men reinforcing each other’s entitlement. And these men were being given the equivalent of Miracle-Gro by Tate and other manosphere influencers. The gurus were feeding their followers some fiercely fertile propaganda about how dominant men should act and what they should put in their mouths if they wanted to be in charge of the world. Many of their carefully guarded recommendations include taking SARMs, anabolic-androgenic steroids, and peptides, and engaging in unregulated testosterone regimens. Imagine what all those hormonal changes do to the brain. Much of the damage is permanent. Aggression and irritability. Blunted empathy. Anxiety and paranoia. Granted, the men look bigger and more muscular, but they are also ready to punch out anyone standing in their way at Taco Bell.

The bit conveniently left out when these products are touted is the fact that he-man cocktails will shrink your testicles forever, cause infertility and ED, and give you the libido of a man who drives a Mitsubishi Mirage. If you thought these manosphere dudes were already beaucoup angry, wait until they discover their two amigos are now the size of Reese’s Pieces. They will not be happy campers. Many boy scouts will want mommy to come pick them up in the middle of the summer, but even she will not be able to fix problems like these.

And most of these campers own AR-15s. I’m going to stop right here.

To be clear, I’m talking about the landscaping guys. And the plumbers. The contractors. The teachers. The youth pastor at the Pentecostal church. College kids. Local politicians. A judge at the family court. The guy who owns the grocery store. A young man who gives guitar lessons in his garage. Uncle Eric.

My fucking neighbors.

And their wives? The women at church who preach submission and modesty and “biblical womanhood”? They’re not innocent bystanders. They’re enforcers. They’re the ones who tell their daughters that male attention is flattering, that modest dress prevents assault, that a woman’s value is in her purity and her deference.

They’ve built a system where my daughter’s blonde hair and blue eyes and feminine presentation read as consent. She should have expected all that would come to her. That bad stuff. She’d asked for it. Anyone could see that.

Isabelle is now moving toward the checkout. I’m about to get right behind her when I see Howard Blink emerge from the stockroom. I hold back so I can watch the show.

Howard’s the store manager and owner of Blink Market. Mid-sixties, married thirty-five years, deacon at the Baptist church. He’s wearing his standard uniform: khakis, polo shirt with the Blink Market logo, wedding ring that he touches constantly like a talisman against accusation. Boy, is he stiff. In the spine, that is.

He spots Isabelle and his face does something I’ve learned to recognize — a micro-expression of ownership. He changes trajectory, intercepting her near the registers.

“Isabelle! Haven’t seen you in a few days. Everything okay?” Oh, god, those greasy glasses and clammy-looking skin. He looks like he lives under a rock. Howard brightens up as he approaches Isabelle, as if. As if he is Adonis. They need to put mirrors in the men’s room. Full stop.

Isabelle smiles politely. Trained since birth to be pleasant to authority figures. “Hi, Mr. Blink. Yeah, just busy with classes.”

“Well, we miss you around here. You know, if you ever need extra hours, I can always use someone with your... customer service skills.” His eyes drop to her chest for a fraction of a second. “Customers really respond to you.” Ah, so now he’s a “customer.”

I’m ten feet away. Close enough to hear all of this bullshit. Close enough to see Isabelle’s smile tighten.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Actually,” Howard says, “I’ve got some new inventory in the back I’d love your opinion on. You’ve got a good eye for display. Could you take a quick look?”

Laura’s hand closes on my arm. She’s listened to the same true crime podcasts I have. She knows what “come to the back room” means. This guy checks off every serial killer box from the FBI Behavioral Science Unit.

Isabelle hesitates. I can see her calculating. She works here part-time. Howard’s her boss. Saying no might cost her the job. Saying no might make her difficult. Saying no might be rude.

“I’m actually in a hurry today,” she says. “Maybe next time?”

Howard’s smile doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes goes dark. “Sure, sure. No problem. But hey—” He steps closer. He touches her arm. Lets his hand linger. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I like having you around.”

By some miracle, Isabelle extracts herself. Moves toward the exit. I watch Howard watch her go, and I see it clearly: he believes he has a right to her attention. To her time. To her body in that back room. He’s mesmerized by her being traumatized. He can smell the blood, though it’s only a small wound, and it strengthens his resolve. He won’t make it so easy for her the next time.

And if Isabelle refuses? Well. There are consequences for women who don’t play along.

I pay for my groceries in silence. Laura and I walk out together, Isabelle ahead of us. We watch her load her car, I throw her a kiss, and off she goes.

“How long has Blink been doing that?” Laura asks.

“I don’t know. She’s not mentioned it to me once. But I guarantee Isabelle’s not the first. He seems to have a gift for coercion and comes across as very sure of himself.”

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“And say what? ‘Your boss is a predator, quit your job’? She needs the money. And even if she quits, there’s another Howard at the next job. And another. This town is full of these shitheads. All of them married, church-going guys.”

Laura’s quiet for a moment. Then: “So what do we do?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?

That night, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and my folder of screenshots. I’m a syndicated advice columnist with a few million followers, for god’s sake. That’s got to carry some weight, right?

The best part of my gig is that no one in town knows that Louise Finch is Louise Falco of “Letters to Louise.” No one except for Laura. I’ve built a career on helping women navigate difficult situations, and that required I go incognito. Be invisible. But this manosphere shit — responding to it goes way beyond anything an advice columnist should be offering up in the way of solutions. Incognito or no. It’s complicated. It’s organized. It’s violent. And it has reached critical mass.

This has got me thinking. Maybe I need to have a chat with my editor, Tim. He’s one of the good guys, and I have a feeling a project like this might be right up his alley. He’s been a fellow shit stirrer of mine for over twenty years. Time to give him a call.

All of this — it’s going to require: Strategy. Documentation. Precision.

I open a new document and start typing.

Subject: Pattern Recognition

Men involved: Caden Galt (landscaping), Milo Ross (art student), Gordon Lichter (art professor), Howard Blink (grocery manager), Javier Saldivar (flooring), Mark Gedge (plumber), Zane Blalock (Caden’s friend).

Common threads: All follow Andrew Tate. All active on manosphere forums. All are old boyfriends, bosses, acquaintances, or teachers of Isabelle. All have targeted her at some point. All believe her appearance signals availability/submission.

The ideology: Women exist for male pleasure. Blonde/feminine = submissive/traditional. Refusal to submit = deception requiring correction.

The network: These men know each other. They share tactics. They reinforce each other’s entitlement. They operate with impunity because the system protects them.

The complicity: Wives/mothers/churchwomen who enforce “modesty” and “submission” rhetoric. Police dismiss complaints. Courts blame victims. The entire town operates on the unspoken assumption that men’s desires supersede women’s autonomy.

I stare at the screen.

This isn’t just about protecting Isabelle. This is about dismantling a system.

And I have no idea how to do that without potentially destroying her in the process, but I’m going to figure that out.

Here’s what I know about predators: they rely on silence. On shame. On women’s fear of being difficult or paranoid or rude. I am terrible at all of those things. Thank god.

And they rely on us looking away.

I’m fucking done looking away.

Our mom had been gone for a long while. We thought she was just going away for the summer, but we weren’t really sure how long summer was — did it end when there were no more leaves? Whatever it was, it seemed like forever, and I was tired of waiting. And yesterday it snowed.

I just wanted to see her and for her to make blueberry pancakes again, and to go back to doing our tuck-ins with Eskimo kisses at night. All of this waiting was hard, and I was feeling pretty mad about it.

The best I could do, in lieu of pancakes, was to open that last can of blueberries, the one I’d found in the back of a moving box on the pantry floor, next to the whisk broom and dustpan. My brother and I were starving that night, and I was pretty sure that if I could open that can (while my father was dozing on the couch), our hunger problem would be solved. It took many tries to get the dull blade to pierce the lid, and then all the strength I could muster to hold the grips while also turning the handle. My hands were pretty small back then, but I did it! And without too much sloshing.

I often thought about what would happen if our can opener broke. We would starve, surely. There was nothing else in our apartment that could open cans, and practically everything we ate came out of one — that weird ham and lima bean loaf, tuna, peas, spinach, salted peanuts, fruit cocktail, corned beef hash, coffee creamer, powdered milk, date pudding, even crackers — all of my Dad’s National Guard rations. The few things we actually bought at a grocery store and that were stored in the fridge were dill pickles, hot dogs, milk, Cool Whip, mayonnaise, bologna, ketchup, yellow mustard, a tub of Parkay, and the occasional block of Velveeta cheese. And once in a while, there was a styrofoam carton of eggs. I had it memorized — I knew every food item in there.

But that wasn’t as much as the list might suggest. The refrigerator shelves always seemed empty, minus the condiment storage on the inside of the door, which was packed. Condiments for what, I wondered. You needed hot dog buns or bread. That seemed obvious. In the freezer were a few cans of orange juice concentrate and a single box of frozen strawberries, and sometimes a one-pound packet of hamburger. In the cupboard were boxes of Jell-O and pudding mix, Kool-Aid packets, Quisp, Quake, and Captain Crunch — variations on the same cereal recipe. Quisp was for my brother, Quake for me. These were our special cereals for Saturday morning cartoons.

On the counter was a loaf of Sunmaid Cinnamon Raisin Bread, and, representing the fruit kingdom, were two overripe bananas. Always a lot of sugar when our dad was in charge, and no fresh veggies. That would be too hard, having to clean, cut, and cook vegetables. Oh yeah, and actually pick them out at the grocery store with two squirming kids in tow. Sometimes, though, Dad would buy a can of mushrooms, which he would pan-fry in Parkay with lots of salt, but that was for special occasions, whatever those were. I also remember having a baked potato from time to time. I loved those, though I think the adult in charge forgot they needed to be washed because they were always a bit gritty.

Minus scrambled eggs, hamburgers, hot dogs, and fried mushrooms, pretty sure my dad couldn’t cook. That didn’t really matter, as it turned out. We figured out how to eat without his help. He was often too busy to put dinner on the table, so when we got hungry, we just stood in front of the open fridge, made rolled-up bologna with yellow mustard, and took bites of Velveeta cheese right off the block. And if there was leftover orange juice, we drank it straight from the pitcher. The juice at the bottom was especially sweet as the dense frozen concentrate had settled there.

Some nights, we waited for what seemed like hours for Dad to finish typing a paper for class — I mean, the sun would be going down for god’s sake, and he’d still not put out any dinner. We complained and complained, but it was like he couldn’t hear us. When I think of that now, I think “fuck you!” — I can’t imagine having done this to my own kids. But bless his heart, Dad finished his ever-so-important doctorate, and going forward could be addressed as Dr. So-and-so. The big degree: that would be something to brag to the family about, in addition to being the first of his siblings to produce grandchildren. You win, Dad!

Those summer nights in Missouri were something. I loved them, and I hated them. They were unbearably hot, humid, and mosquito-filled, but it was exciting to be on campus. There was always music in the distance, people laughing outside on their patios, and the smell of BBQ. The neighborhood kids would ride their bikes around the perimeter of the playground in the center of the married student housing complex until it was nearly pitch black, and the sound of tired parents calling them in for the night could be heard. We didn’t have bikes, so we just sprawled out on the living room floor in front of the box fan, making cities with Lincoln Logs, Legos, and the antique wooden blocks from Grandma Grace. My dad worked at the kitchen table, typing, reading, and writing in spiral notebooks, his textbooks and periodicals piled on empty chairs on either side of him. Pretty important stuff, surely.

But on that particular evening, Dad was snoring away on the couch, and I was feeling especially sad for my mom and determined to have those blueberries. We deserved them. We missed our mom, and we were hungry, and I was way too tired to care about getting in trouble. So, I gathered up my little brother, and we stood over the kitchen counter on our respective stepstools, putting away the entire can, a spoonful at a time. First, I held the can, then it was his turn, and we each used our own spoon so we wouldn’t get kooties.

Hans and I were good about sharing most things, except the Matchbox cars, as we had figured out long ago we really only had each other, what with our parents coming and going willy-nilly. When we weren’t at the babysitter’s (which was every single weekday year-round), our parents paid no attention to us. They were always doing stuff, like studying for their classes or smoking a cigarette with the neighbor on the front stoop. Only my mom smoked, actually. My dad could be found fiddling with his fishing gear or trying to fix something on the car. Most of the time, my brother and I were left to our own devices. Were anyone to take notice of two small children (age four and five), they might have found us wading in the river two blocks over (yes, unsupervised) or taking excursions into the woods down the hill from our apartment, or, kid you not, hoofing it on the 4-lane highway that ran along the backside of our apartment complex. This was the route to Kentucky Fried Chicken, as I remembered it, and I was fairly certain we could walk there. I was, perhaps, a little off on exactly how far it was to the Colonel’s, as we never managed to get further than the first exit before some random adult stopped to pick us up in their car and take us back to the apartments.

Frankly, it was fun doing whatever we wanted, and we were oblivious to any of the perils that might await us. Hey, we’re both still alive.

That summer, we still had a father, but our mother, well, hopes of seeing her again were beginning to fade. August came, and when she didn’t turn up at the train station, as Dad had promised, we began to panic. And it was after this I had my last phone call with her. During that conversation, I mentioned Dad had a new friend who stayed overnight with us on weekends. Carolyn. That was the last time my mom called.

In my five-year-old’s mind, it seemed inevitable that one day, the other shoe would drop — that my dad would disappear, just like my mom. This was obviously something adults did. They didn’t talk about leaving. One day, you just woke up, and they weren’t there to help you get dressed or to put toast in the toaster. My dad was showing the telltale signs. Hans and I were becoming increasingly invisible to him. He was preoccupied with his schoolwork, spending time with Carolyn, and hanging out with his buddies, like Tony, from the university. He would drag us along to things, but didn’t notice what we were up to, and accidents started to happen. One night, at Tony’s house, Hans and I and Tony’s kids piled into the car sitting in the driveway at the top of the hill, pretending we were going on vacation, and someone (probably me) accidentally put the car into neutral, at which point it rolled backwards down the drive, across traffic, and into a ditch. Scary, yes, but by some miracle, no one was hurt. Another night, my brother was lost on campus for hours. My dad didn’t notice he’d left the apartment until it was dark outside. I was the one who figured out he was probably watching the outdoor movie on the hill a block away. Sure enough, there he was, with a baby bunny he’d captured, watching The Music Man.

It was a little scary, the thought of our being out there on our own, but I’d thought things through, and I had some plans. I was keeping track of the places we could live — places where there was a covering, and we could be out of the rain. The playground near us had really good cement tunnels and a covered tower with rope ladders. And I’d kept track of the households where people seemed to enjoy feeding us, like the East Indian family that lived across from us in the apartment complex. They had huge bags of rice and beans in their kitchen, and I loved their food — the smell and taste were heavenly. There were always pots of beans and chicken stewing away on the stovetop, and for some reason, Tara’s mother loved to give us food. Whenever we came by to play, she would make us bowls of rice and yellow lentils, even when it wasn’t lunch. So, it seemed we had meals buttoned up if we were in a pinch.

And every time I found coins, I saved them so we could eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken, if we needed to. Other preparations included making a neatly folded stack of our baby blankets, the ones with the satin edging, so they would be ready to go. I repaired some of them with safety pins from the sewing kit in the bathroom. The blankets were small and easy to carry and would be perfect as covers and as pillows. And then I put our coats and hats in order, and some toys and the Dr. Suess books, our crayons from Aunt Joni, and our drawing pads. I still needed to find something to carry all of this in, but it was coming together. Having everything ready made me less worried.

This was our reality. Without any explanation of what was going on, and with our days spent largely without adult supervision, minus my Dad occasionally peering out the front window at us on the monkey bars, we lived in limbo. We had no idea anything was wrong or even unusual. This was all we knew. In those days, Hans and I protected each other fiercely — whether we were at the babysitter’s or on the playground. Though Hans was small for his age, he knew how to bite, and word got around not to mess with that kid.

Waiting was the name of the game for us. We were waiting not just for our mom, but for everything. We waited for dinner, waited for our dad to wake up on Saturday mornings. We waited for the next episode of Batman, for our turn on the swings. We waited in line at Dairy Queen to get a Dilly Bar, waited in the crabapple tree at the babysitter’s for our dad to pick us up after his classes, and we waited for our Fuzzy Wuzzy soap to get fur. There was a lot of waiting.

And we were waiting for some things we didn’t even know we were waiting for. Like kindergarten. What was that even? That weird word had come up in some discussion I’d heard between the other parents and our babysitter. Toward the end of summer, everyone was talking about it — kindergarten, that is. Everyone, except my dad. How were kids going to get picked up in the afternoon? Did they need to send a sack lunch? Did girls have to wear dresses? Oh yes, and the dresses had to go down to your knees and be worn with knee socks. Those were the rules. Clearly, adjustments were necessary, and considerable planning involved with this kindergarten thing. And shots. These kids had to get shots at the doctor’s office. I was sad to hear that my friends wouldn’t be around to play with, but glad I didn’t have to get those shots.

Then one afternoon, our German babysitter asked my dad, in her stilted English, what he was going to do about my getting to school. Hands on hips, she gave it to him. Why hadn’t he bothered to sort any of this out? I’d never seen her like this, and clearly neither had my dad. He was really taken aback. Usually preoccupied with a bit of flirting every morning, I could see his focus shift from Anna’s beautiful waist-length, brunette hair, and stylish miniskirt to her furrowed brow and scolding. She was pissed and told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to get over to the school and take care of business. Now. Though my dad seemed resistant to taking instructions from a woman, especially this pretty, young thing, I sensed he was scared of her. She was tough as nails, and woven in the conversation was a threat — that other parents would find out he’d screwed up. What would his colleagues think of him?

So, straight over to the school we drove, and while Hans and I sat in the car, my dad made his way to the office, where apparently, he signed me up for school. Out he came, striding, in his Sansabelt pants, without his usual smile, a big manila envelope in hand. And back to the apartment we went. Nothing was said. I was still in the dark.

That evening, my dad holed himself up in his bedroom, a stack of books on his bed. He had exams to study for. He was not to be bothered. Out to the playground we went.

Partway through the evening, Tara’s mom came out to gather up her kids, and there I was, the last kid on the playground. My brother had already gone upstairs to get food.

Mrs. Singh, who was dressed in a colorful sari, asked if I wanted to go to a party with them. There would be lots of food and dancing. But of course! How could I resist? I had only to put on a clean dress and some shoes, she said, as bare feet were not allowed. Off I raced, up to the apartment. When I got there, Dad’s door was closed, and Hans was occupied with his Matchbox cars on the living room floor. I worried that if my dad found out about the party, I wouldn’t be allowed to go, or he’d make me take my brother, or worse, that it would take too long to get ready, and the Singhs would have left. I couldn’t have any of this, so into my room I scurried to look for the required dress and shoes. Only one dress remained on the rack. The others, dirty, lay in a pile on the floor.

Mrs. Singh had been clear about the clean dress. And then there were those shoes — the Mary Janes I’d had from the year prior. I pulled them out. The dress went on, but barely — I couldn’t get the zipper all the way to the top. I must have grown. And the shoes. I could no longer fit into them at all, and there were no others. Just a pair of flip flops, one of whose Y-shaped strap had come unmoored from the sole earlier in the day. The only foot covering remaining: my big, ugly black galoshes. The ones with buckles. Galoshes were meant for rain and snow, and this pair was designed to go over one’s shoes. They looked awful and made squeaky noises when I walked. These were for winter, not August, and to be paired with snow pants. But they fit. And that’s all I had. I stepped into them, buckled them up, then off I went, quietly closing the front door behind me as I departed.

All four of the Singhs were dressed in colorful Indian attire and heading out to their car when I arrived. I was right on time, thank goodness. But I could not have been more embarrassed; the contrast between how I was dressed and how their children were dressed, well, it was not just about cultural differences — their parents had taken the time to polish their shoes and brush out their hair. Clothing had been neatly ironed, and tops carefully paired with bottoms. The whole family sparkled. Mrs. Singh took one look at me, and I saw the expression, though it flashed only briefly across her face. She felt pity for me. But immediately, she tucked that pity far out of view, flashed a huge, toothy smile, then wrapped her soft arms around my shoulders and whispered that we were going to have so much fun and that my boots were perfect because she was going to let us play in the big fountain at the hotel after the reception was done.

The evening was magical, though my tummy twinged throughout the party whenever someone gave me that look. We ate, we danced like whirling dervishes, we ate some more, and we sprawled out on the oriental carpets. And although I was the only white kid at the reception, I melded right into the swirl of colorful saris, the curry smells, and bendy, vibrant sounds of the sitars, happily stuffing myself with garlic naan and rice kheer as I sat cross-legged next to Mrs. Singh. It was just about the best night of my life.

As promised, Mrs. Singh took us to the fountain afterward. It was lit up, its refreshing spray a welcome relief on that hot August night. Tara and Jared took off their shoes, and I took off my boots, and in we waded. Mrs. Singh encouraged us to soak ourselves to the skin under the mini waterfalls, laughing heartily at the sorry state of our clothes afterward. Into the backseat of their car we piled, making a wet mess, then up to their apartment we went for a quick drying off. Mrs. Singh then walked me home, my small hand in hers. With a smile, she delivered me to my father, who seemed surprised to see me on the wrong side of the door — he had not realized I’d been out.

That night, I slept as never before. A full tummy, cooled from the fountain, and my senses full of every beautiful thing. I could have written The White Album, so inspired was I.

The next morning, it was back to the babysitter grind, though I felt like a new person. I was so happy that even Anna’s dreaded liverwurst sandwiches and tomato soup at lunch tasted delicious to me. I asked for seconds.

Then, two days later, it was the first day of kindergarten, something I learned upon waking up. There was no ceremony to the day. It was the usual bowl of cereal with milk and a small glass of juice. Every last ill-fitting dress of mine lay on my closet floor, dirty. I picked the navy one with strawberries, the last dress my mom had made for me.

I would be breaking the rules at school from day one. All of my dresses sat way above my knees, and I had no knee socks. As if to intentionally make things worse, my father decided to cut my hair with my craft scissors at the breakfast table. My bangs were in my eyes, he said. Fortunately, there was no mirror, or I might have fallen to pieces in seeing how crooked his result. And there were still no shoes. So, I threw on my magic black galoshes, the ones I had danced the night away in only two days earlier.

We got in the Rambler and drove to Shepard Elementary, my school, the place with that mysterious word: kindergarten. My dad, embarrassed by me, by his car, by his incompetence, and his general lack of planning, dropped me off at the end of the block to walk to my first day of class alone. I was the only kid without a parent. And you guessed it, the only kid wearing galoshes.

At the entrance were Tara and Mrs. Singh. They had lunch for me. It was in a brown paper bag.

This would turn out to be my second-happiest day, ever.

Around the age of seven, a good thing happened. The mother of my classmate, Katy, was on to things. With my stepmother, that is. Or so it seemed.

To be clear: Katy was my classmate, not a bosom buddy. Why were we not best friends? Who knows? We were both voracious readers and got good grades, yet neither of us was the teacher’s pet. And we both had awful wardrobes, bad shoes, and lousy haircuts. We loved horses, though neither had ever met one in person, and we were fascinated by Queen Elizabeth and had made a secret list of all the nicknames one could have if, in fact, Elizabeth was one’s name. And then there was Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. The most glamorous Elizabeth ever, with the world’s most beautiful horse. There was a book in our school library that had hundreds of pictures from the movie (which neither of us had seen), and for months, we took turns checking it out. And as there was no internet back in 1969, we had to ask random people (who knew about these sorts of things) what nicknames were acceptable for Elizabeths. Our list grew to 17 names, then we got stuck. On to arguments about who was more handsome… Cary Grant or Gregory Peck? Clark Gable was decidedly too dumb for us. And Fred Astaire was really yucky. I voted for Gregory Peck.

The main attraction in our soon-to-be friendship: we were both as smart as a whip. And because of that, we had respect for one another. I knew Katy would never be looking over my shoulder to cheat on spelling tests because she already knew how to spell all the words. And vice versa.

Katy was pretty discriminating about everything — from what books were worth reading, to which boys in class were the best looking, to whether our teacher’s shoes paired appropriately with her ensemble du jour. Quite often it did not, and Katy would not hesitate to say so to whoever would listen at recess. In describing Mrs. McCoy’s wardrobe, which she hated, Katy would use terms that required a look up in the dictionary: “hideous,” “god-awful,” and “capricious.”

My standing as class clown was really the only monkey wrench, and it was a big one. Katy wasn’t a fan of my Marco Grouch routine, and being funny was the thing that got me through each day, what with the situation at home. But Katy liked most everything else I did, so, eventually, we got along anyway. When I hung out with her, I just turned the humor spigot off. Frankly, it was a relief to do so, as there was a lot of pressure in having to entertain my class through math and social studies every day. The other kids in class fell into one of two categories: they were either falling out of their chairs laughing at my antics, or they gave me a wide berth. The wide berthers were not the smartest kids in class, and I suspected some of them couldn't make heads or tails of my wisecracks. Regardless, there was power in either reaction, sort of that “bad publicity is good publicity” thing.

Those who chose to be my friends were often drawn into whatever pushing-the-limit (or outright breaking-the-rules) scenario I had conjured up for the day. Their association with me landed many in the principal’s office, or relegated to the hallway as penance, where they were forced to sit for half an hour, no talking, no moving about — the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment. Apparently (to some), this was but a small price to pay for the high-quality comedic entertainment I provided, because time and again, these friends came back for more, and with a twinkle in their eye. Had Miss White, our principal, taught them a lesson? No, she had not.

Katy, who always got my jokes, invariably responded with a stone-faced expression, as if to discourage my bad behavior. Seeing her across the room with that practiced air of I-don’t-care only made me laugh harder. I loved it that she thought my jokes were sophomoric. Mission accomplished.

So, how did our friendship blossom, you might ask? Well, it never really did. It was always just there — a relentlessly tight, unopened bud. The person who tried to realize the bud’s anthesis was Katy’s mother, Sally. One day after school, as Mrs. Hodgden’s class burst out the back exit like soda shooting from a just-shaken bottle, Sally grabbed my arm as I was whizzing by and blurted out: “Hey, slow down! Might you like to hang out with Katy this weekend?” Before I could protest, she proceeded to list ten crazy good things we might do together, half of which required money, something I didn’t have. Sally said not to worry; she would take care of everything, including making sure I had pajamas and a toothbrush for the overnight. And she was hoping I would consider staying all weekend, as she had work to do and Katy needed some companionship.

I was confused… was I suddenly Katy’s friend or something? Who told Sally we were friends? Were we? It felt a little like Sally had picked me randomly out of all the girls in our class, and that if I had been running just a tad faster, she might have snagged Rebecca or Darlene instead. Ah, what the heck, going to Katy’s sounded much better than having to watch my brother all weekend, or eating that nasty chipped beef with white gravy on toast — a delicacy we had to endure every Friday at my house. So, off I went with Katy and Sally, back to their house, which was less than a block from school. As soon as we set foot in the front door, Sally was on the phone with my stepmother, and from what I heard, as I eavesdropped on Sally's half of the conversation, Carolyn had been caught off guard, which undoubtedly left her short on reasons to make me come home. The girls didn’t have any homework or art projects due, Sally noted, so why not let them be together? No socially acceptable excuse popped into Carolyn’s head, and so the deal was made: I could stay all weekend.

Hallelujah! I was free! From a weekend of folding laundry, doing dishes, polishing silverware for next week’s dinner for my dad’s boss, and watching my brother. And just maybe Sally would let us stay up late. I really hoped for that. For once, I wanted to see all those late-night shows the other kids talked about, like Svengoolie and Saturday Night at the Movies, or those Shirley Temple movies they played into the wee hours.

Sally wanted Katy to have a friend — someone kind, and smart, and with decent manners, something I actually had, when I felt like it. In retrospect, I think Sally noticed that underneath all my mirth-making was a really sad kid. And her kid was sad, too. Sad for being teased about her weight, and sad because no one could touch her in the smarts department. Not even Tim Nelsen, who always got 100% on his math tests. It was pretty lonely up there, on the penthouse level of our second-grade class. But was it as lonely as being a Rockefeller and living in that 40-room apartment at 740 Park Avenue in Manhattan? That was something Katy and I explored in Life Magazine.

So what does a person do when there are no more SRA reading cards to tackle, and you’ve aced every quiz and writing assignment? Time for some much-deserved fun, right? And with whom? That’s where Sally entered stage left. She was the one who brought us together, then she gave us everything we needed in the way of food and entertainment. She was a smart lady. Sally was dialed in. Rotary dialed, that is.

And so it was done. Sally had called my stepmother and told her they would like me to visit for the whole weekend. The whole weekend. Not just an overnight, or for a Saturday afternoon. Nope — two full days and nights, five meals, a trip to the movie theater (holy toots — The Prime of Miss Jane Brodie!), and the opportunity to ride our bikes all over the community college campus. My stepmother, who was rarely comfortable with anything more than a two-hour get-together, seemed incapable of saying no to Sally — she was very persuasive. That woman could talk a blue streak. It was likely that Carolyn couldn’t get a word in edgewise and just gave up. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t have to deal with family obligations for an entire weekend. I was thrilled.

Once we got to know each other outside the classroom, Katy and I discovered we shared many common interests, including Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels, and Madame Alexander dolls. Though I had never had any Madame Alexander dolls of my own, I frequently (and secretly) rode my bike down to Meyer’s Toy World, where the dolls were featured prominently. There were new ones every time I visited, and I prayed I would get one of them for Christmas, preferably Glinda the Good Witch. They were very expensive, however, and none ever managed to find their way under our tree. Katy had twenty-two of them, and most were characters from movies, like Scarlett O’Hara and Shirley Temple as The Little Colonel.

Sometimes we wrote letters to our pen pals, or pretended to be a rich lady and her maid, or we rode our bikes all over the neighborhood pretending they were horses, or we hung out on the monkey bars on the playground at school when it wasn’t in session. Much energy was expended hammering out chopsticks on the piano, making it go faster and faster until it mashed into a tree and was totaled. And we loved pawing through all of Sally’s Christmas decorations from Germany on the living room coffee table. Then there were all those smell-goods in the bathroom cupboards. Sally would let us run the bath and pour whatever we liked into the water to make it fragrant — lotion, bath salts, perfume, Old Spice, even shaving cream. Then we would soak in our concoction for a good hour, reading our respective library books.

My favorite thing at Katy’s was staying up all night, or at least until the TV screen was filled with snow. We would watch movies for hours, and somewhere in the middle, we would start feeling a bit peckish. One night, we pulled out the leftover leg of lamb from dinner and stood at the kitchen counter, picking off every last bit of meat. Partway through our extravagant midnight snack, Sally popped her head into the kitchen. “Perhaps you’d like some mint sauce with that,” she said quietly as she pulled it out of the fridge. We hadn’t heard her come in and nearly hit the ceiling from surprise.

Sally was a large, forthright woman, an intellectual and an editor at a publishing house. I had no idea what to make of her demeanor — she was not like any mother I had ever met. But she was, by far, the coolest mom ever, even though she was a terrible housekeeper and a chain smoker. And Sally could cook like Julia Child, whom she revered. A well-worn, greasy copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” always sat open under a lamp on the kitchen counter next to a mile-long spice rack, on which sat exotic things like Droste’s Cocoa and Madras Curry Powder, whatever that was. A lamp in the kitchen — now that was a bit of an oddity, except considering how very much time Sally spent there, it seemed appropriate. Sally deserved some soft lighting as she spent hours spatchcocking chickens and making puff pastry.

Dinner at Sally’s house was always out of this world. What had any of us done to deserve duck l’orange with creamed spinach and scalloped potatoes? Nothing! Sally just loved feeding people and making them happy. We could smell the food cooking for hours (or so it seemed) as we poured over ancient issues of National Geographic in the basement. By the time dinner was served at 8:30 p.m. — way past my usual bedtime — it was all we could do to keep from rudely snarfing it down in two seconds. Sally taught us to savor each dish and take our time, serving us Shirley Temples in highball glasses to sip on between soup and entrée courses. Never would you have found food like this on the children’s menu at Bill Knapp’s. And accompanying all of this was music from Bob’s collection of vintage jazz albums. What a happy time dinner was at Sally’s. No one argued. We ate delicious food. And we laughed about every stupid thing, and listened to stories of Bob’s week at work as a civil rights attorney. I felt like part of the family. I learned all about politics, and I felt understood.

That first weekend I stayed with the McCauleys was an especially happy one, and many more would follow. For the first time in two years, I quit pining for my mother and worrying incessantly about my brother. I began to hate my stepmother a little less, and I stopped imagining my father would ever pay attention to me. I accepted that wasn’t going to happen. I let it go.

At Sally’s, I got to be a kid, and I got spoiled. She and Bob listened attentively to my anecdotes about school and asked my opinion on the Vietnam War, and what did I think of Richard Nixon. Bob talked about the rights of all people and how important it was to respect everyone, that you never knew what someone had been through. We talked about the other kids in our neighborhood and discussed our classmate Carole, who lived on Harvard Street. What had happened to her after her father disappeared?

Sally showed me how to cook, and she helped me with my writing. She took the time.

And it was made clear that Katy and I were meant to share all things, as sisters should, and that meant the Madame Alexander dolls and all of the Nancy Drew novels. And occasionally Katy had to be the maid, so I could be the rich lady.

Hi, to all of my wonderful readers. Not sure I have ever properly thanked you for taking the time to read my stories, satire, and commentary. I genuinely appreciate having all of you to write for. Yes, I do put it all out there, but somehow you’ve survived it.

Eau de Vie is my first novel, and it’s a good read for a day on the deck in a butterfly chair. You’ll get a nice tan that isn’t orange and convert some of that cholesterol you’re carrying around into vitamin D3, which is good, right?

The story is about Vie, an older woman, an artist, wife, and mother, who is dying, unbeknownst to those around her. She is seeking out the truth about herself and looking to fill her final days with authenticity and true joy, while savoring memories and feasting on all the world has to offer. She’s had a good life and wants to die on her own terms.

Since many of you have not yet explored Fictionalized, I thought I would bring all the chapters of this story to you on a silver platter, through the links below. Eau de Vie is free, though if you like it, I hope you will consider contributing to my Fictionalized page. There are many more pieces on the way.

Eau de Vie: chapter one, Pas de deu

Eau de Vie: chapter two, Une chemise

Eau de Vie: chapter three, Balade à cheval

Eau de Vie: chapter four, Jardin en ruine

Eau de Vie: chapter five, Redonner le jardin à la terre

Eau de Vie: chapter six, Eau-de-vie

Eau de Vie: chapter seven, La cage aux folles

Eau de Vie: chapter eight, Par terre parterre

Eau de Vie: chapter nine, Lettres d'amour abandonnées

Eau de Vie: chapter ten, Pot-au-feu

Eau de Vie: chapter eleven, Une promenade inoubliable

Eau de Vie: chapter twelve, Le lavage rituel

We had just returned from Missouri. It had been a miserable trip with oppressive heat and the constant, headache-inducing smell of car exhaust. This was 1973, and half the cars on the road were burning oil. Back then, all exhaust had a color, a palette of wispy white to bluish gray — the latter color indicating oil had entered the combustion chamber. This bluish exhaust was accompanied by an acrid aroma that could be smelled for miles, noxious fumes far worse than those in the bathroom after my dad ate a half gallon of Neopolitan ice cream. Lactose intolerance — not a recognized affliction in the 70s. We just thought all dads were this gross.

It was difficult to sleep on these long road trips, especially when traveling through Indiana — Gary, in particular. As exhaust from our station wagon wafted in through the back window, it co-mingled with the rotting eggs smell of the steel mills that butted up to the highway. Unfortunately, it was always in this corridor that traffic came to a dead stop, sometimes for an hour. And on this particular August day, it was over 95° (probably 105° in the cramped confines of our car). Rolling up the windows — not an option as air conditioning wasn’t a standard feature on most cars, and certainly not in the cheap, used vehicles my father favored.

After passing through Gary, it took more than an hour of driving with all windows down to flush out the car with fresh air, and two hours later, we were finally, thank god, back in Battle Creek. I felt a wave of relief when we hit that downtown exit ramp. As if by magic, my head cleared and I could think again, and in my revived lucidity, I found myself ravenously hungry, as was my little brother. My baby sister was still on jarred toddler food and had more than she needed, so I shared bites of her mini hot dogs with Ben as I fed her in the backseat. Besides that wee bit of food, my brother and I had not eaten since 1:30 p.m., and here it was 8:30, though it had really only been six hours since our last meal, as we’d just crossed into Eastern Standard Time. Boredom had a way of focusing all of our attention on our empty stomachs, and we were ready to eat anything, even the horrible, tasteless food at Howard Johnson’s in Benton Harbor or more graham crackers and boxes of Sunmaid raisins. Anything, please, and water.

Crossing the Michigan-Indiana border also meant we were now an hour past our hard and fast bedtime of 7:30 p.m. Yes, my stepmother thought this was when all 10-year-olds should be sleeping, even in the summer when there was no school, and even when all the other kids in the neighborhood were outside playing hide and seek until dark. This far north, darkness didn’t arrive until nearly 10:00 p.m., and since I couldn’t sleep while it was still light, I lay awake in bed every single summer night for nearly two and a half hours. It was torture. I would count the cottage cheesy bumps of the plaster on the ceiling and try doing as many situps as possible (perhaps I would beat Cindy Roddy in situps next school year). I would try counting to 5000, but never got beyond 2116. It was just too dull, I would lose my concentration. Sometimes I would hide a notepad and pencil under my pillow and draw pictures of horses and Olga Korbut on the balance beam. It took talent and patience to draw a realistic picture of a horse and I was pretty damn good at it, if I do say so myself. And some nights, especially after reading my stepmother’s copy of Fear of Flying, I would dig for clams, if you catch my drift. That was a great way to while away the hours.

It was like this every summer, dare I say even into high school — my brother and I were the only kids left out of the evening fun. And beyond making us incredibly sad, it was embarrassing. How were we to explain that to our friends, my stepmother’s reasoning? If there was any, it was beyond my comprehension. We lived in a city —there were no cows to milk or pigs to feed at the crack of dawn. Ours was a crime-free neighborhood with a plethora of grannies who left their doors unlocked day and night. We left our doors unlocked day and night.

No matter how much I begged, my stepmother would not budge. It didn’t matter if there was a sleepover, or a concert in the park, fireworks, relatives visiting, or even if the Born Free series was playing on TV. Everyone was watching Born Free, except us. Ditto for the Miss America Pageant, Archie Bunker, Columbo, Sonny and Cher, and Star Trek. We missed all of it. If a thing took place after 7:30 p.m., my brother and I were simply out of luck. At 7:30, we were to have our teeth brushed, jammies on, in bed, and under the covers. And I was to help get my tiny sister in order, as well. And to read her books. There were no exceptions. Ever.

Discreetly, my friends tried to include me in their nighttime summer schenanigans, sometimes hiding under my open window, relaying the pranks they’d played on the Dearings and Van Winkles and anyone else who deserved them. I was dying. Pranks were my specialty. During the day, I was the ringleader. At school, I was the class clown. But on these long summer nights, I was just a spectator with nosebleed seats.

Eventually, I figured out to hide a Nancy Drew book and my transistor radio between the mattress and box spring, along with the class picture of my favorite boy in school, Vance. There was always something interesting to listen to — American Top 40, Bob Sirott on WLS, Word Jazz with Ken Nordine, or Radio Mystery Theater. Sophisticated (i.e. “old fogey”) stuff for a ten-year-old, yes, but nothing else was on in the evening, at least on the radio. And thanks to the mono earpiece from my grandma, no one was aware of my nearly-every-night radio routine. Pretty sure that’s why GG gave it to me — she was on to my stepmother and her strict ways. She also secretly gave me a stuffed dog to cuddle. During the day, I hid him under my bed, which conveniently had a dust ruffle. Stuffed animals, real animals — also not allowed in our house. They cluttered things up, they pooped. No way.

Since I was the one to make all the beds in the morning, as well as outfitting them with clean sheets every few weeks, there was no chance anyone would discover my secret stash of nightly amusements, which in addition to the radio included Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, Bram Stoker’s “Dracula,” anything by Stephen King and “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret” (which is now sadly banned in most red states). I was never short on books, thanks to our excellent public library and Sally Coash, my friend Kit’s mom. Some evenings, when I was feeling especially romantic, I would just stare at my picture of Vance, imagining how his lips would feel on mine — soft and warm. Sadly, a real kiss never transpired (I was only 10), and I would soon learn that my best friend, Rose, had actually kissed Vance, though I’m not sure it really counts when it’s underwater at the pool at the YMCA. I was devastated.

Finally, we were home in Michigan. I was grateful to be back in our state, my state — a place full of beautiful forests, lakes, and hills. There was solace in being back amongst living things and away from the barren landscapes of Indiana and Illinois, with their hundreds of miles of soybeans and feed corn interspersed with hardened, gray urban areas. As soon as we hit the state border, I rolled down my window and gulped in the fresh air, my lungs getting a much-needed bath after all that pollution I’d inhaled. I had been imagining my lungs were black as a smoker’s after that longer-than-an-hour rush hour in Gary — lungs like those that sat in formaldehyde at our community museum, their owner long dead from cancer.

I truly hated these trips to Missouri. They were long, and in my boredom, I had too much time to stew about things I disliked. During the year, at the school farm, we learned about the harsh corporate farming practices in the Midwest. Our counselors pointed out that there were few fields of vegetables and fruit trees, because in the Midwest, farmers had chosen to grow only soybeans and corn. Then there was all that fertilizer, weed killers, and insecticides. All were like poison. Why did we need so many soybeans? We never ate them, nor did anyone else we knew. And in science class, we learned that feed corn was bad for cows, that they needed to graze to be healthy. Yet, feed corn was everywhere in the Great Plains.

As we drove past endless miles of deforested farmland, I wondered… what kind of person thought it ok to chop down every last tree and plow under every meadow? Where did all the animals go that had lived there? And what about the native plants? Were there any left? It seemed to me, even as a child, that most farmers were selfish. They seemed unwilling to share. When they bought land, they considered it theirs and theirs alone, never mind all the other creatures on our planet, the ones who had no means to take out a mortgage. They were just shit out of luck.

In my superstitious child’s mind, I imagined something bad coming for these farmers, something of their own making, something like the Dust Bowl we had studied in our history lessons. Midwest farmers were contributing to the decline of the environment, and someday they would pay the price. This I knew.

And from what I could see, my stepmother, who had grown up on one of these farms, shared a similar attitude toward all things wild. She wanted everything to be controlled, predictable, and tidy, and for all creatures to be obedient. To her chagrin, I was none of these things. I was a wild animal that needed to follow its instinctual nature to thrive and she was scared of that, of me. She was jealous of my artistic and musical talents, though she pretended otherwise. She disliked my love of politics and my desire to watch the Watergate hearings, she disapproved of the way I parted my hair. But I never took any of this personally because she was stupidly afraid of everything, not just me — even the tiniest living things… spiders, frogs, snails, squirrels, mice, you name it. All animals were a threat to her, especially cats. She would not leave the house if, after looking out the living room window, a cat was within view. A critter-free world was the ideal world — one with beds of water-hogging annuals that blossomed all summer long, lush uniform lawns at an exactly 3.5” height, and tastefully manicured bushes. She aspired to live in a palatial mansion, a castle. In short, her ideal was Disneyland. It was surely just another, more beautiful and safe version of nature, right?

Back to that god-forsaken Midwestern landscape. One positive exception to its vast nothingness was the Amish communities. They were like tiny oases. Variegated fields of vegetables interspersed with thick groves of maple, oak, elm, and poplar trees were an indication we had entered another world, and softly pulsing through all this greenery were horse-drawn carriages and families traversing on foot. The slow pace was a relief, and there was much to enjoy in addition to the bucolic scenery, namely the Amish restaurants, with their hearty, home-cooked fare. If one had a hankering for chicken pot pie or pork and sauerkraut, it was important to plan one’s itinerary carefully, as restaurant hours were dictated by religious goings on and the rhythm of the daily farm chores. The 70s were Google-free, so it was anyone’s guess as to the actual business hours of these establishments, which also lacked Yellow Page listings and billboards. The few times our hungry tummies dovetailed with an open restaurant, it was a meal to remember, every delicious thing served family-style, and a seemingly endless supply of food. Usually, our timing was off, however, and we were relegated to Stuckey’s or Colonel Sanders.

This particular evening, on the drive back from Missouri, we’d missed our window of opportunity for Amish cuisine and Dad decided we would just keep going and get home. Since we’d be returning to a refrigerator that had been empty for three months, we swung by the Lucky Steer Steakhouse for dinner, a rare treat. I knew not to get my expectations up, as the usual routine was for my father and stepmother to order prime rib, while my brother and I were relegated to chopped “steak,” which was basically ground round with gristle thrown in for added texture. A thick layer of A1 Sauce improved the flavor, and the massive baked potato, which was loaded with butter and sour cream, did not disappoint.

When finally we landed at home, at nearly 10:00 p.m., chaos broke out. The house was musty and beds unmade, all the furniture covered in sheets. And there was all the unloading — a summer’s worth of clothes, bikes, pots and pans, canned food, linens, shoes, pool gear, and more. My stepmother was cranky and upset by our late arrival, chewing out my father for every last thing until he threw their suitcase down the steps from the landing, then stomped up to the bathroom and locked himself in. The tub could be heard running, which meant he would be in there for an hour, despite all of us needing to use the restroom. There was one other toilet in the house, in the corner of a dark, cobwebby room in the basement and it was no doubt dry as a bone on account of its leaking and not having been used for months.

I grabbed my little sister, she threw her legs around my waist and off we went to Doris’s, which was right next door. I said nothing to the parents — we just headed out, as I didn’t want to have to argue my case. My bladder, which was about to explode, was making all the decisions. Thankfully, the light was still on in Doris’ kitchen, and although the window was too high to see if anyone was there, we could hear the clanging of her washing pots and pans. There was life on Mars. Sheepishly, I knocked on the back door, and when she answered, asked if we could use her restroom, explaining that our father occupied ours and we really had to go. She was obliging, of course, and suggested we knew where it was, to just go help ourselves. The powder room was off the kitchen and Polish-Catholic-mama clean, and well-stocked with toilet paper, Kleenex, Q-tips, feminine hygiene products, and that nice-smelling Yardley soap. Doris went right back to her pile of dishes. She was used to having kids milling about. She’d had eleven children and now had over twenty grandchildren. We blended right in.

When done, we snuck quietly out the back door, crossed the side-by-side driveways, then entered the house through the back door, where we were confronted by my stepmother upon entering the kitchen. Hands on hips, she wondered why we hadn’t used the spare toilet in the basement. That was a rhetorical question, of course — she knew exactly why. That toilet was disgusting, the water rust-colored, and it never flushed properly. Also, it leaked, making the floor around the base slippery from mildew. Having to pee (or god forbid poop) on that toilet after three months of disuse would have meant making multiple trips down the steps with buckets of water to fill its leaky tank. Even then, it was a crapshoot as to whether the toilet would actually flush. And I don’t need to tell you… when you have to go, you have to go. I didn’t have time to deal with that, so it was off to Doris’s. I’d do that again in a heartbeat.

By the time beds were made and teeth brushed, it was nearly midnight. No time for bedtime stories tonight. For once, I was glad to be climbing under the covers, and in no time, I was fast asleep.

To read Surviving Darkness, Chapter 1, see Hole in the Floorboard

I spread out my well-worn Hudson Bay blanket under the broad branches of the coast redwood in the front yard, a tree teeming with birds, the occasional red-shouldered hawk perched on the crown. The sky was thick with clouds broken and scattered by bullying gusts of wind, which encouraged everything around me to dance — the trees, the tall and tender new grass, and the wildflowers, whose delicate beauty belied their tenacity. At the top of the mountain, air rushing through the thick boughs of the redwoods imitated the sound of massive waves, and expelled the scent of the ocean (though it was nearly an hour west), as it mingled with the spicy, sweet fragrance of cypress.

It was really too cool to be outdoors and lying in the open air, shoes off — at least for a Californian. But my roots were in Michigan, and this crisp, moist air felt exactly like end-of-winter melt-off, a cue to throw on some Bermuda shorts and stoke up the charcoal grill. I wanted to soak up every bit of the ocean’s wetted, briny breath, even at the cost of my comfort. I had traveled a long way to live in this place, to imbibe this life-sustaining mist. After all these years, it was familiar and soothing, and the cool of it permeated my soft tissues and settled deep into my bones. I could barely smile, so cold were my cheeks — the muscles numb, my amalgam fillings aching.

Back indoors, I thawed out, dense tingling unfurling from the tips of my ears down to my toes. Stripping down to my underwear, I buried myself deep under my duvet, then drifted off to dreams of the ocean, its primordial perfume lighting up my brain with calming imagery — places known, yet unknown. For a good long while, I lingered in this preconscious state, trying to wake myself so I wouldn’t miss my usual dinner hour. But my head was heavy, and I hadn’t the strength to lift it from my pillow. Then there was a loud thud, so strong it rattled the bookshelf next to my bed. Strong winds had thrown a heavy branch across the side of the house. Now I was awake.

Though it was now early evening, I put on a pot of coffee as I had a long night of work ahead. I sipped a first cup as I warmed up my dinner: matzo ball soup and a slice of toast slathered with butter and honey — my honey. I devoured this concoction as I planned out my setup for the following day’s farmers market and applied labels to jars. The market was held each Saturday, and the one before Easter was typically the busiest of the year. Ironically, late winter and early spring were the least productive time for the bees, which meant I was often short on product. Every jar of my honey would get sold in the first two hours of the market, the last hour bringing disappointment to all but those looking for bee pollen and honeycomb.

My winter honey, harvested in early spring, was popular for its intense flavor, the dark amber liquid tasting strongly of buckwheat, with hints of redwood and manzanita blossoms near my hives. Though too heavy-handed for high tea, winter honey was perfect on a hot, crispy slice of sprouted multigrain bread or on almond-flour pancakes just off the griddle. If Northern California had a flavor, this would be it. The chaparral ecosystem on the ranch defined the head and bass notes of this nearly opaque honey’s perfume.

After working well past midnight, I enjoyed a short but deep slumber, awaking around 4:00 a.m. to the sound of barred owls duetting in the redwoods outside my bedroom window, their extended bel canto nudging me to consciousness and bringing a smile to my face. I made my way to the bathroom in the dark and did my usual ablutions, then it was on to the kitchen, where I chugged down a large mug of the cold brew I’d made the night prior, adding a generous pour of half-and-half to soften the acrid flavor resulting from its oxidation. Amped up, I headed down to the storage room, hand truck in tow, to gather my products of the hive: jars of winter honey, as well as star thistle and black sage from the previous fall, stacks of boxed honeycomb, and packets of bee pollen. Then, a few framed recipes and a stack of my cookbooks. All else resided in my crusty old SUV — tent, tables, cash box, and linens. I loved that vehicle, whose once bright paint was now a matte pear green. Mine was one of those early SUVs, equipped with manual window and seat adjustments, an analog radio, and a rear-mounted spare. It still had spunk, and in its rustic state, one might have imagined it had seen its share of rugged terrain. Reality was a bit different, as the vehicle was prone to rollovers, like all the SUVs of its day, so it had been relegated to transporting my products of the hive to farmers’ markets throughout the Bay Area and taking the occasional camping trip with friends.

Off I set for my local market, which was held in a vacant parking lot across from the courthouse. I arrived to a flurry of vendors setting out overflowing crates of fruits and vegetables, pantry products, baked goods, yogurt, eggs, butter and cheese, and assorted Mediterranean dips. There were always a few vendors with hot food items who had arrived an hour earlier. They served up everything from rotisserie chicken, pupusas, and breakfast burritos to dim sum, fresh pasta, and fruit smoothies. Within an hour, it was showtime, with hundreds of locals arriving promptly by bus, bike, and car, and on foot.

I cued up some Edith Piaf on my mini Bose speaker and struck up conversations with passersby, many of them familiar faces. Those who frequented the market were loyal to their farmers and purveyors. They came every week, rain or shine. I had my own set of regulars — folks who stopped by weekly for a jar, apparently enjoying honey on their oatmeal every morning. Others told me that they kept a large jar in the pantry for cooking or tea, or in the medicine cabinet for allergies. In the fall, many bought in bulk, packing their larders with honey for the upcoming months of hibernation. There was an understanding that cold weather sparked a craving for sweets, and since the supply of honey in the hives would dwindle in the cold months, it was best to stock up, right? Add to that the fact that I had to hold honey back as the solstice approached, as much of it would be needed for the bees themselves. They formed winter clusters to keep warm and stayed in their hives for nearly four months to be near their main source of sustenance: their honey.

Of all the regulars at the market, none intrigued me more than an elegant older couple, who, like clockwork, appeared at nine each Saturday. Both husband and wife spoke with elegant Parisian accents and dressed with the effortless precision of people for whom appearances were less vanity than courtesy. Arm in arm, they would swing by their favorite booths (mine among them), offering a bit of polite conversation, then tasting the seasonal offerings. They sampled each of my honeys with liturgical seriousness. Eyes closed, lips pursed, they murmured quiet notes of approval, lingering over each spoonful as if coaxing out a familiar melody from an exotic reharmonization.

Invariably, the couple would purchase large jars of every varietal available that week. Lèa Lelouch and Samuel Lelouch were the names on the credit cards — both true honey connoisseurs, and by far my best customers. I did wonder how this very fit couple, who appeared to be in their late 70s, could consume some 96 ounces of honey from one week to the next. It was a lot of calories, and you’d have to be putting honey on or in just about everything. Where exactly was all this honey going? My curiosity was getting the best of me, so I decided to put the question to them. Politely, of course.

That Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel approached the table, I greeted them cheerfully, engaged in a bit of chitchat, and as usual, admired their attire. Samuel favored impeccably pressed shirts in cheerful Mediterranean colors; that morning it was a blue-striped linen shirt from Façonnable. Lèa wore a silk-and-linen dress in soft taupe and periwinkle, her auburn hair gathered into a loose chignon, bangs gently held back by a pair of oversized Vuarnet sunglasses. Together they looked less dressed for a farmers’ market than for lunch on the Left Bank.

As a couple, they stood out, though not in a flamboyant way. Their well-considered choices drew attention, especially at a farmers’ market where sweaty customers swung by after a long run or early morning bike ride, attired in athletic wear, and where families with little ones showed up in quasi-PJ ensembles. I applauded the effort the Lelouches put in — they were a beautiful and distinguished-looking pair. I imagined that the effort they made daily to dress attractively and stay in shape was surely a factor in their enduring relationship. They clearly revered one another, and as I would soon discover, had been married fifty-eight years.

Today, the Lelouches brought a red Radio Flyer wagon, the old-fashioned kind with wooden-slat sides. This particular wagon was raggedy and had clearly seen a few trips around the block. Though many of the market-goers brought wagons, this was unusual for the Lelouches. They simply weren’t the type of people to have accumulated the cheerful clutter of having raised children. Something about their demeanor, their fastidiousness, and the methodical way they went about their shopping led one to believe they’d never experienced the chaos and messiness of parenthood.

It was these characteristics that pleased everyone with whom they came into contact — their quiet and polite ways, their patience, their graciousness, and their enthusiasm, and, as I would soon discover, their generosity. Children, usually shy around unfamiliar accents, gravitated toward the Lelouches. Samuel spoke to them as though they were peers, asking thoughtful questions, then offering them small tastes of honey on birchwood spoons, if their parents were amenable. Samuel was keen to know their opinion on the flavor — did they like it? Was this something to put in their oatmeal or on their toast, or perhaps on some vanilla ice cream? The children would try the samples with solemn concentration, then offer frank impressions. This delighted Samuel — honey tasting was serious business, and he carefully considered their opinions.

Many wondered, as I did, how the Lelouches had come to be in our small town—what path had carried them from France to northern California. Whatever their journey, Samuel and Lèa possessed a quiet genius for belonging, weaving themselves like bright threads into the fabric of our community.

Over the years, this devoted pair became a familiar, comforting presence in our town — walking their dogs along the quiet, tree-lined streets south of the municipal buildings, lingering after concerts in the park, browsing the aisles of the local hardware store, and exchanging warm greetings with the waitstaff at a favorite breakfast spot. They carried themselves with the easy familiarity of people who had deep roots in our community.

Judging by their ages and accents, one could reasonably surmise that the Lelouches had grown up in postwar France, though their impeccable English and effortless ease with American ways suggested they had lived in the United States for most of their adult lives. And though they were clearly more affluent than many at the market — their tailored clothes and well-kept Land Rover hinting as much — they wore their prosperity lightly, treating everyone they encountered — farmers, artisans, fellow shoppers, and me, the beekeeper — with warmth and considered respect.

On that particular Saturday, when Lèa and Samuel arrived at my booth with their rickety old wagon, they were especially animated and talkative — something was in the works. For starters, they wanted to try all the honey varietals I had in stock, and since there was no one else in line, I allowed them to sample everything. The winter honey fascinated them most. Dense as molasses, almost mahogany in color, it tasted of cold mornings and evergreen hillsides. Where was this terroir, they wondered. Then out came my phone — together we wandered through photographs of the ranch, tracing the bees’ winter foraging from chaparral shrubs with subtle blooms, to vast wind-swept hillsides with colorful waves of wildflowers.

We then worked our way through the star thistle and black sage honeys, accompanied by more pictures — one of the cow pasture, another of my flower garden full of herbs, with a huge patch of black sage. Rounding out the tasting was a crystal-clear clover honey — perfect for high tea. It was a sweet synthesis of nearly a dozen types of clover, all of which grew on the ranch. Its delicate, flowery essence darted from the palate as swiftly as a hummingbird, leaving a pure sweetness in its wake.

“Are there any other, more unusual varietals we could try?” they inquired. Why yes. Blackberry, lavender, and avocado. Each spoonful seemed to carry the Lelouches to a place far away. No longer were they standing beneath my white canopy, but wandering, instead, through a Provençal village, a place visited in their childhood — a gustatory memory mingling with the dopamine rush from the sugar.

Aiming to bring this leisurely tasting to a close, I offered the Lelouches a bit of hot Earl Grey, poured into small paper cups from my insulated carafe. As they drifted back to earth, the sugar buzz replaced by a hit of caffeine, it was decided, by Samuel, that they would purchase all of the honey I had on hand. Yes, every last jar.

This was not a small purchase, as you might imagine — larger, in fact, than most of my bulk orders. Under my tent were 48 large jars of the winter honey and 336 small jars of assorted varietals. The grand total: $7800. I offered the Lelouches a 10% volume discount, but Lèa insisted on paying the full price. “Whatever will this honey be for?” I inquired, surprised both by the size of their purchase and their insistence on paying full retail. Lèa, smiling, said simply, “We take joy in sharing what we love with those we love — our neighbors, and everyone in our community. No discount, please. You’ve earned every cent.” Without hesitation, Samuel pulled out his Platinum card. The deal was done.

I helped the Lelouches take the first two batches of honey to their car, then we returned to the booth to fill the wagon a third time. On this go-around, the Lelouches requested I unseal all the boxes containing small jars. Once everything was situated in the wagon to their satisfaction, off they went to resume their usual shopping.

The Lelouches quickly became the day’s curiosity as they wandered the market, their red wagon piled high with jars of honey, a magnificent spray of dahlias tucked in between boxes. As they wove their way up and down the aisles, their bountiful haul drew curious glances from fellow shoppers. What on earth was all that honey for?

The Lelouches stopped to purchase their usual fruits and vegetables from favorite vendors, all the while chatting with young couples and their children, a group of ladies who’d just finished a game of pickleball, and an indigent man pushing a well-worn bicycle, all his worldly possessions piled into its jerry-rigged trailer. Samuel studied everyone with quiet attentiveness, discreetly noting what they had purchased and their attire and demeanor, as if to ascertain which honey they would most enjoy. He would then reach down into one of his many boxes and pull out a jar, offering it up with enthusiasm — a precious gift, he noted — nectar collected by so many bees, from this very region. A place all of us were lucky to call home.

“So happy you’re my neighbor,” he would say.

Lèa, her hand resting lightly in the crook of Samuel’s arm, delighted in watching faces brighten with surprise.

The quiet labor of the bees, the sweet nectar they gathered, and the aromas they assembled — these gifts were meant to be free.

Stories like this aren’t beautiful, and that’s why they rarely get told. They’re also a bit too fragile to support a vigorous plot, one with a satisfying and clear ending. At the heart of this story is something so ugly that most people instinctively feel the need to look away.

Without question, not all of the people responsible received their much-deserved retribution, which is more often than not the case when it comes to child abuse. Perhaps it was because their religious community chose to pretend everything was okay and never did the thing it ought to have done: to shun the person who had harmed the child or to turn them over to the authorities. There was no question the thing had happened, the bad act. No one doubted that. But it was shrugged off, swept under the carpet — “Hey, life goes on,” “Jesus forgives the sinner,” right? But never did Jesus set things straight for the victim, the child. Instead, he gave her charismatic mother a free pass, as evidenced by the pastor’s dismissal of the concerns raised by his congregants. His decision to dismiss the allegations of abuse came after much prayer and soul-searching, or so he said. In his mind, each of those gossiping female congregants had likely come to him because they were jealous — Susan was attractive and talented, and she commanded his attention, as well as that of his male congregants. This was not Susan’s fault — her beauty, the pastor postulated. The scenario the women described, well, it didn’t add up to him — he had a difficult time envisioning Susan bearing down angrily on her daughter Emily with words and hands. Even those few among the elders who weren’t blinded by religious dogma seemed blind to reality in this particular situation. Perhaps they, too, were under her spell. Otherwise, they might have seen these allegations for what they were. There was trouble in the House of the Lord, and it needed rooting out. But not a single one of them spoke up.

So, nothing was done, as is often the case in these stories, and the abuse continued. The perpetrator continued to walk among us, singing in the choir for Christmas services and conducting the church’s youth band. She was sexy, often dressed in coquettish ensembles, her faux blond hair in a partial updo, and always the polished nails in eye-catching colors. Desirable. Impeccable. Unassailable.

As her family walked to their pew in church that Sunday, Susan’s right hand possessively gripped her husband’s flaccid bicep, her other arm lovingly draped across her eldest daughter’s shoulders. The three younger children followed behind like ducklings. On the surface, things seemed better than good with the Robertsons — a righteous, god-fearing family. They were sharply dressed, children well-behaved, husband in charge. Out of view: Susan’s nails digging sharply into her daughter’s tender armpit — an exigent reminder she was to act normal. “Stand up straight and smile. And don’t drag your feet.” No one was to suspect anything was wrong, or there would be hell to pay. The brutal, backhanded strike across the face would come when least expected — often in the middle of a meal in front of the entire family, but never in public, of course. The tiniest sister, Jordan, who sat at the end of the dinner table in a high chair, would hold her breath for a moment, then wail in sympathetic pain. Susan would then come round to the back of Jordan’s chair and matter-of-factly clap her hand across the 2-year-old’s mouth and nose, sending her into a panic. While all of this was taking place, Susan’s husband kept his head bowed and focused on slicing his pot roast, then alternating bites of meat and potatoes. And if there were marks on Emily’s face or arms following the assault — and yes, that was what it was — a doctor’s note to the school would be forthcoming. Susan had a close relationship with their family physician, who, like her pastor, believed Susan to be the consummate mother and wife. Dr. Peters would see to emailing the school, excusing Emily for however long her mother determined it would take for the bruises to fade and the contusions to heal. The doctor’s understanding was that Emily had taken a spill off her bike.

That morning in church, Emily was numb with grief. She had listened to a litany of insults after breakfast, about her attire, how she’d brushed her hair, and the quality of the breakfast she’d prepared for the family: “I could have done this better myself; clearly you don’t care about your family — the pancakes were cold and the eggs overcooked.” Emily was just eight years old and trying to manage a task that might have been a challenge even for an adult. As was so often the case when Susan gave Emily a difficult task, she would berate her in the kitchen, away from witnesses, when it didn’t meet her standards. She would throw the full force of her anger at the child — growling, cheeks and neck flush from anger, spittle flying, her face just inches from Emily’s, and always the grabbing of Emily’s wrists, which she twisted until it felt her skin would rip. It was terrifying. Time and again, Susan set up these situations for Emily to fail, giving her tasks that were beyond the child’s capabilities, tasks inappropriate for someone of her age. Susan seemed to get off on her daughter’s imperfect efforts and her distress.

That morning, Susan added more insult to the emotional and physical injuries she had just inflicted: “Go put some makeup on your arms. I think we can all agree we don’t want anyone seeing your bruises.” As Susan gave Emily a hard shove toward the stairs, her father stood nearby, silently taking in all that transpired. Tight-lipped and clearly upset, Elton said nothing, not even when he was finally alone with Emily in the hallway and witnessing up close her despair. He was a coward. Elton could not even bring himself to give his daughter a reassuring hug or to provide some words of comfort. He was afraid of Susan, and selfishly, he chose to protect himself at the expense of his child’s welfare.

Emily had not one parent; she was a child alone in the world.

Barely able to go through the motions, even in church, a place where she usually enjoyed camaraderie and a reprieve from her mother’s criticisms, Emily offered up only the slightest smile as she processed down the aisle with her parents. Her shoulders sagged, and her feet barely left the ground as she walked. She worked hard at keeping her gaze down, fearing what might happen if she looked up and made eye contact with someone. What if they saw her anguish? What would they do? These worries plagued Emily, but even so, her eyes stubbornly refused to participate in this happy family charade. They expressed the despair she felt. And so it was “eyes down, eyes down” — Emily continually reminded herself. Any sympathetic expression directed her way was sure to elicit a severe punishment from her mother once the family returned home.

Sorrow was bringing Emily closer and closer to death. Just how she would accomplish that death, she had not yet sorted out, but she walked through possible scenarios every night before falling asleep. She knew this much — her siblings must not find her. And, before she was gone, she had to alert someone to the fact that her brother and sisters were in danger. Emily had yet to find that someone — a person she could trust who would not run to her mother.

Once Emily had these final details buttoned up, there was nothing remaining for her to do. She could be done with things. Everything. Her life.

Susan and I got to know each other in college as we worked our way through a highly competitive music degree program. The curriculum was such that we ended up in many classes together, including concert band, and that’s where the animosity began.

From the mid-70s through the mid-80s, flute was the most popular instrument to play, and invariably, there were too many of us at every audition. Sometimes, a hundred too many. It was a daunting time to pursue a career on the instrument, and those who rose to the top and secured positions in major orchestras had spent an inordinate amount of time in the practice room. Successful flutists were notorious workaholics.

Susan and I were both flutists, and each of us had the tenacity and chops to cut our way through a dense forest of competition to win an audition: strong technique and tone, an understanding of classical styles, confidence, and a keen ability to sightread. Whenever an audition was weighted on sightreading skills, she and I were neck and neck, and it was anyone’s guess as to who would nail the principal flute position or first chair.

The stylistic differences in our playing, however, put us in vastly divergent categories as performers, and over time, I became, hands down, the favored flutist among the conductors. While Susan was strong in the basics of technique and a competent section player, she lacked finesse and artistry, and no amount of practicing seemed to bring those talents to the surface. It was as if they simply weren’t in her. Her frustration over this circumstance led her to act out — toward other flutists and me in particular. Susan became aggressive, even vindictive. Weekly, her name could be found next to mine on the challenge board for band seating; she was not content to sit in the middle of the flute section, even if that was where she belonged. She truly believed she was better than everyone else, and it infuriated her that the sectional coaches could not see that. Determined to overtake anyone higher in the lineup, Susan repeatedly challenged all of the top flutists. These antics set our entire section on edge and frustrated the band director, who preferred continuity in the ensemble from week to week.

In an attempt to counteract that which didn’t come naturally to her, Susan could be found wading through recordings at the library and attending every masterclass that came to campus. When the proper interpretation of a piece or an emotive turn of phrase on an orchestral excerpt eluded her, she cheated. She would find someone to imitate — someone respected for their artistry, whose performance was beyond reproach. Sometimes, it was a famous soloist; other times, it was an upperclassman who played principal flute in the orchestra.

But listening repeatedly to recordings and eavesdropping on her competition in the practice rooms did little good; Susan had a tin ear. The desired phrasing was never convincingly achieved, nor was she able to properly reproduce the performer’s vibrato and tone color, or their variations in tempo and nuances of articulation. Susan couldn’t conceptualize the many layers that converged to express a particular thought or emotion. Worst of all, she could not play in tune. Never could she ascertain whether her pitch was sharp or flat, no matter how long she rehearsed with a chromatic tuner. Fixing these gaps in her playing and finding ways to compensate for the native skills she lacked proved an insurmountable task.

Sometimes, Susan would progress just far enough in her playing to get a taste of how it felt to be on top — but within days or occasionally on the first rehearsal after moving up in the section, she would be sent back down to the middle. She was not up to the challenge of leading the section, nor were her renditions of the all-important solo passages inspired. The conductors were frustrated at her persistence, especially when a concert was imminent. They could not have her constantly turning the section on its head, nor could they risk having her in first chair on a recording session.

Not being first — well, that was completely unacceptable to Susan, regardless of whether it was band, music classes, or in her circle of friends. She competed with everyone, and her untoward behavior extended well beyond the music school. In the dorms, at meals, and during social activities, she was bragging constantly about herself, typically a humble brag, but nonetheless a transparent solicitation for compliments.

Susan would also nudge other students for answers on homework assignments and take-home exams, using flirtation or flattery to get in good with those who excelled at a particular subject. In her mind, she was also meant to be first in her classes, and thus, it was fair to use whatever means necessary to achieve that.

And Susan thought nothing of taking things she wanted, and this without paying for them — from the library, the cafeteria, the campus bookstore, or a friend’s practice room. This pillaging was justified in her mind — someone had done her wrong, she was being overcharged, or this would teach a colleague not to be so careless, etc. Behavior the average person would find wrong, even criminal, did not faze Susan — in fact, it fit perfectly into her evangelical Christian paradigm: she was one of God’s chosen, and as such, her life was meant to be bountiful. She deserved to have the best things. She deserved the top honors in school. And if those things didn’t come to her through hard work and talent, then she was right in taking them. Susan applied this same rule to the people in her life. It was her choice who her friends would be. Those who didn’t fall in line would pay the price, and it was steep.

Over time, it was these shortcomings and displays of selfishness that thwarted any chance Susan had of studying with the head flute professor or moving up into the performance program. She had not properly read the room, so to speak — our flute professor was not swayed by her good looks and assertiveness, nor was he impressed by her technique, and he found her artistry flawed. Like her exaggerated femininity, Susan’s playing stood out awkwardly in every ensemble, and she was considered one of the weakest performers; this was because she was incapable of blending in and finding common ground with other players. Either they followed her lead, or... nothing. Her failure at being one with the group would cause a disconnect in tempo, pitch, and phrasing. Susan simply didn’t get music — the point of it, what was being expressed, how to communicate with sound. These gaps in her playing paralleled her inability to relate to people generally — to empathize. There was Susan, and then there was everyone else; the world revolved around her. Either a person served Susan, met her needs, and showered her with admiration, or they were a non-entity.

Much to her chagrin, Susan had been relegated to the second-tier program in the music department: a degree in music education rather than performance. This infuriated her, and at first, she rejected it, even though she really had no say in the matter. On registration day at the beginning of the school year, Susan boldly signed up for classes available only to students in the performance program, lying convincingly to those tasked with enrollment. When she was subsequently turned away from some of her classes on the first week of the semester, Susan grew enraged and took her upset out on the entire flute department — challenging her colleagues in the large ensembles and bullying them into talking to the flute professor about making a spot for her in his studio. She also made a point of competing with those on the festival and masterclass circuit, though she really had little interest in attending either. Her satisfaction came from keeping others in the department from getting the spot. A favorite strategy was to interrupt a colleague’s warming up prior to an audition — effectively unnerving a person who might already be on edge.

Similar tactics were used in classes that were part of the core curriculum — subjects required of everyone in the music department: theory, history, composition, and the like. If Susan wasn’t going to be first in the flute class, she intended to at least have a leg up on her colleagues academically. In this endeavor, her toolbox for the male professors included a cache of short skirts, dying her long curly hair blond, and applying a thick layer of war paint for encounters in the classroom or during office hours. For the benefit of female professors, brown-nosing was the weapon of choice, and that often included fresh flowers, compliments on attire, and doing numerous extra-credit assignments.

Yet, for all the effort exerted, Susan remained just middling in terms of class rank. Her obsession with being first, rather than doing a thing artistically or competently, was not only off-putting to professors, but it prevented real learning from taking place and kept her from enjoying her studies and playing.

It was this miserable person, Susan, who was persistent in trying to befriend me. Her desire to be friends was for all the wrong reasons; her hope was that I would help her in reaching a higher rank in the ensembles and flute studio — this, as she was causing trouble for me in every class we shared. Susan mistook my bland responses to her challenging me in band and her competitive attitude in class as my acquiescence to her superior talents and skills. In reality, I could not have felt more indifferent — Susan was this only: annoying. I had been a performer and student in many competitive environments; none of her sabor rattling frightened me. She was not the threat she imagined herself to be.

But the more I tried to put space between myself and Susan, the more determined she was to reel me in. She started joining me, uninvited, at meals in the cafeteria, dominating discussions I was enjoying with friends or disrupting a writing project in which I was immersed. She also seemed to derive satisfaction from interrupting my listening studies at the music library and my technical work in the practice room.

Regardless of whether I politely explained to Susan I was busy or that I was on a deadline for an assignment, she would come back time and again. And ignoring her or acting irritated — neither had the desired effect of discouraging her. She was oblivious to every cue, be it body language or things said. Add to this her belief that it was her right to enlist my help, whether it be with homework or in preparing for an audition, and one likely to put her in competition with me or one of my flute friends. In her mind, I should want to do this. It was the Christian thing to do — to help someone who needed it. What Susan could not wrap her head around was that I was not a Christian and did not share her values and that I did not, for one second, believe she needed or deserved my help.

Susan wielded her religious beliefs like a weapon, imagining she had the moral high ground in all things. Her antics and her need to always have her way were not only annoying but also distracting and hard to circumvent, as she lived right down the hall from me. Avoiding her would take careful planning, but I was up for the challenge. Susan treated all the people in her life like pawns, so why not fight this battle on her terms, as if it were a game? How then could she complain? I decided to reverse the tactics she employed when stalking me — I switched up my study and practice schedules and started taking meals at another dorm. I made a point of leaving my room at the crack of dawn to avoid running into her. After implementing these changes, I rarely saw Susan, except in class.

And so things continued for a good while, until Susan once again turned her focus on me. It started with renewed attempts at taking my position in band. Her thought was to play principal flute for at least one semester before graduation — this would be a good addition to her resumé. Surely I could understand how important that was, and I wouldn’t mind giving her this opportunity, right? She could not have been more mistaken in this assessment. There was no way I was going to hand her my hard-earned position in the ensemble. She became incensed by my resolute position on the subject, calling me selfish and uncaring. But her complaints fell on deaf ears — mine and those of all the other flutists in the section.

And so this was how Susan’s final semester on campus went, the one prior to her heading off to student teach. She devoted those last four months to trying to one-up everyone in our class academically, all of which made her extremely unpopular. That final semester of the school year (the one where she was off-campus student teaching) was an especially collegial time in the flute section. Our ensemble sparkled without Susan’s negativity and brazen, out-of-tune contributions.

Seven or so years later, I was living and working as a musician and teacher in Chicago and had become well-established in the community, doing orchestral and chamber music work and teaching at several colleges and private schools around the city. I enjoyed my work as a freelance musician and found myself collaborating with a number of the people I’d known in college. At one point, I heard through the grapevine that Susan was living in a suburb just south of the city. She was a band director at a private Christian school at which her husband was the principal, and she had three children, a fourth on the way. There was no surprise in hearing any of this — it seemed she had found her niche in being a mother and wife.

Susan also came to know of my whereabouts from this mutual acquaintance and had asked them for my contact information, which they gladly shared, unaware of our less-than-friendly relationship in college. A few days later, I had a call from Susan — might I like to come to her house for lunch? She would love to catch up. Though I had never intended to see her again, curiosity got the best of me. We scheduled a date, and she emailed directions.

When the day of our lunch arrived, I had a bad feeling I couldn’t shake. I wasn’t sure what to expect — would Susan still be backstabbing and arrogant, or would she have outgrown all of that and moved on to doing more important things, like being a parent? I was hopeful for the latter and, despite my trepidations, decided to be optimistic. Before setting off, I packed a couple of my flute method books into my briefcase, intending to give these to her as a gift, and also brought along my flute and some duets, in case we felt inclined to do a bit of playing.

It was odd to discover that Susan lived so close to my house in Hyde Park, a neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. In fact, she lived only twenty minutes south of me. I was a bit unnerved at this realization, and to find that her home was just minutes from two of the schools at which I taught. As I would soon learn, Susan had graduated from one of those high schools as their valedictorian. Post-college, she had returned to Roseville, her hometown, and had married her high school sweetheart. What I hadn’t understood previously was that Susan was also the private music teacher who had been barred from giving lessons at Ridgewood High School — this because she only made room in her studio for White students. Ironically, it was her former nemesis, me, who was now filling her shoes at her alma mater.

Susan’s house was on a residential street — three blocks of adorable, well-kept cottages, all with identical architecture but in distinctive colors, each owner putting their stamp on the neighborhood with eclectic landscaping. It was a modest, kid-friendly neighborhood, with a soothing backdrop of the white noise from the steady stream of traffic on the highway two blocks over. Also within view of Susan’s house — a massive water tower with a mural of praying hands on one side and an image of a cross on the other. And at the end of the block could be seen the megachurch Susan and her family attended.

I parked on the street immediately in front of Susan’s house and, after ascertaining that no one was peering out the living room window, I brushed my hair and freshened up my lip gloss. I then grabbed my briefcase and flute and headed to the front door. Not surprisingly, Susan’s yard was a riot of colorful flowers, and interspersed were planters of cherry tomatoes and herbs, all enclosed within a freshly painted white picket fence. Her house stood out for its tasteful decorative touches and well-cared-for garden. A quaint wrought iron table and chairs were tucked out of view behind potted shrubs. Perhaps it was in this spot we would enjoy some coffee and catch up.

As I knocked on the glass-panelled front door, I could see small children gathering in the living room: two girls and a boy. All were perfectly dressed, the little girls in colorful matching frocks, the boy in trousers and a miniature button-down shirt. They looked ready for church or an important family gathering, even though it was just an average Tuesday morning. Then, from behind them appeared their mother, Susan, perfectly coiffed and dressed in a bright turquoise A-line skirt with a crisp white blouse and black leather ballet flats. There was a hint of roundness to her belly, and as I would soon find out, her fourth child was due in four months.

Susan’s children obediently stood back to make room for their mother as she glided toward the door, a huge smile on her face. For a fleeting moment, I imagined this beautiful woman might become my new best friend and that perhaps, in my previous immaturity, I had misread who she was — that I had grossly underestimated her. Now that we were both grown women and had found our respective paths in life, perhaps we could finally be friends.

To this day, I can recall every detail of our reunion — the overly bright midday sun, which had teased a headache (as I had not slept well the night prior), the charming suburban house and yard, the perfectly behaved children, the neatly set lunch table, and the abundant cooked-from-scratch meal. Then there was the tall curio cabinet filled with bisque porcelain Precious Moments figurines, the unblemished cream colored carpeting that ran through the entire house, and the perfectly pressed, ruffled Priscilla curtains. Minus the booster seat and high chair at the dining room table, there was no indication that children actually lived in the house. It was immaculate and free of clutter, not a toy in sight. And nowhere was taped the impulsive and colorful artwork one might expect to see.

Also missing were the animated movements and quacky voices of happy children. In their place were three beautiful, impeccably dressed children — children who obeyed every command and who did not speak unless spoken to. Susan was proud of her children’s adult-like behavior. She was also proud of her house and of her church, and she was proud of her cooking. And she was still very prideful of her flute playing, as demonstrated by her having set out the impossibly difficult Jacques Ibert Concerto. There it was on the music stand in her living room. And on the fireplace mantel was her Powell flute.

One had to wonder how Susan found time to perfect all those difficult technical passages with three little ones to watch over. A large gated playpen at the far end of the living room answered that question. Within its confines was a padlocked toy box and a low shelf with children’s books, most of them religious in nature, plus a few pillows. A very dark picture was beginning to emerge — one that belied the visual of the quaint cottage. The house, its décor, and its contents were not for children. All of it was for Susan.

After welcoming me into her home and as we made our way to the kitchen, Susan directed the children to go upstairs until lunch. On the stove, a hearty chicken noodle soup was simmering, and in the oven, homemade bread was getting crusty and brown. On the counter — a plate of fresh-baked cookies. Together, we assembled bowls of soup, adding ice to the children’s bowls to bring down the temperature. I sliced the bread as Susan set all else on the table. She then called the kids down to lunch. Together, we got them situated in their seats, then she did up the two youngest with bibs. The oldest daughter, Emily, who was eight, sat closest to her mother, who was seated at the head of the table. I sat directly across from Emily, Ethan sat between his sisters, and Jordan was at the other end of the table in her high chair.

What failed to register in my mind as we all sat around the dining room table was the purpose of the riding crop positioned across the top of Susan’s table setting, its braided handle near her right hand.

Before starting in on her lunch, Emily’s eyes fixated on the crop. Her expression became detached and distant, as if she was going to a far away place in her mind. Then, abruptly, Susan raised her voice and shouted, “Emily, pass the bread!” Emily, startled out of her trance, glanced around the table for the wicker basket. Finding it, she quickly handed it to her mother, who in turn, passed it to me, as I was their guest. A bit taken aback by all of this protocol, I sheepishly took the first slice, then extended the basket out to tiny Jordan in her high chair, who took a few discriminating looks at the options, then chose the largest slice. Next, I handed the basket to Ethan, who, after taking two slices, passed the bread to Emily. Emily’s face once again exhibited a troubling expression, this time confusion. What next to do with the basket of bread? Take a slice? Or hand it first to her mother? She was truly unsure and panicked at the possibility of making a mistake.

Out of caution, Emily handed the bread to Susan — clearly the right choice. Her mother tersely thanked her, then proceeded to set the basket well out of Emily’s reach. An expression of defeat filled Emily’s eyes, as she knew exactly what her mother’s gesture meant, and she knew better than to ask for the bread, the smell of which was irresistible. Resigned to not being able to enjoy her meal as everyone else might do, Emily looked expectantly into her soup bowl, picked up her spoon, and started in.

What would follow was beyond the pale, a scene that would forever stay in my mind. The moment Emily began eating her soup, a cruel and angry expression crossed Susan’s face, and in that instant, Susan went from being the radiant expectant mother to being a raging monster. She grabbed the riding crop off the table and raised it high above her head, and only after she caught her daughter’s eye and saw her look of terror did Susan bring the crop down, full force, across her daughter’s right hand, the hand holding a spoonful of hot soup. As she retracted her bruised hand, Emily knocked over her bowl, hot soup spilling across the tablecloth and into her lap, spoiling her neatly pressed dress and burning her legs. Susan bellowed, “How dare you start eating when we’ve not said grace,” her eyes bulging, face reddening, blood vessels popping out on the sides of her neck as her fury grew. She ordered Emily to go clean up and put on fresh clothes, then to return to sort out the mess she’d made. Tears of shame streamed down Emily’s face. She rushed up the steps, embarrassed, hurt, afraid — and hungry. It was 2:00 in the afternoon, and the children had not eaten since breakfast.

Emily knew what to expect when she came back down: there would be no lunch, and after cleaning up her mess, she would be relegated to spending the rest of the afternoon on her bed in her locked room. Yet another horrible, miserable day. Nothing she ever did was right. She deserved this.

To say I was shocked would have been an understatement. Watching Susan hit her child — it felt as if the riding crop had stung me. Then, the gut punch came as I turned in my seat to check on the other children. Ethan’s head was bowed, his hands in his lap. He looked at no one. Jordan, however, was transfixed, her eyes open wide. This tiny girl had witnessed the entire violent scene. Though at first she appeared unaffected, the moment her sister burst into tears and left the table, Jordan shoved her bowl of soup to the side and buried her face in her hands, hiding from her mother and the horror of what had just happened. Eerily, the minute Emily left the room, Susan snapped back into her cheerful persona, as if unaffected by the drama that had just unfolded. She went back to being the polite hostess — seeing to everyone’s needs and making pleasant chit-chat.

At first, I pretended to listen attentively to Susan’s matter-of-fact banter about music lessons and doctors’ appointments, conveyed as she calmly returned the riding crop to its appointed spot above her plate. I surveyed the table to see how the two remaining children were handling things. Not well. Ethan sat bolt upright, hands in lap, eyes downcast, waiting for his mother’s instructions. Jordan quietly sobbed. Susan’s response was to offer up her hands to both sides of the table and suggest we pray together: “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

When she finished, I released her hand from mine, stood up, and went to Jordan. I put a warm arm across her shoulders, then gently put the bowl of soup back in front of her and gave her a fresh slice of bread, which she nibbled tentatively. Ethan expressed not being hungry, and when he failed to resume eating, even after a stern look from his mother, Susan took his bowl to the kitchen and poured the contents into the garbage disposal, the racket of which informed Ethan that any chance of having lunch was now over. Upon returning to the table, Susan instructed the boy to go to his room and take a nap. She told him she would be up later to check on him and let him out — as if he were a prisoner.

Susan, oddly energized by shaming her children and depriving them of food, became remarkably cheerful, and headed into a long-winded, one-sided discussion about projects she was doing at church, her exercise routines, and her thoughts on healthful cooking for her family — none of whom, I might add, had eaten their lunches. Through all, baby Jordan remained in her high chair, quiet and sad, continuing to pick at her bread, eyes gazing dully into space. And then there was that disturbing silence in the rest of the house. One might have thought it was just the two of us… Susan and myself.

Ten minutes of Susan’s heartless banter was more than I could handle. My blood pressure was spiking, and then suddenly, I found myself abruptly and angrily getting up and out of my chair, cutting short Susan’s soliloquy. I stared hatefully at her, my eyes half-closed, and under my breath, I said: “I cannot listen to another word of this. You are a horrible mother, a sadist. I feel nothing but sadness for your children.” Susan was stunned. It was clear — no one had ever spoken to her in this way.

Furious, I pushed back my chair and then rushed up the stairs to the bathroom to gather my composure. I was afraid I would punch her — I nearly did. While up there, I snuck across the hall to Emily’s room, popping my head through the doorway to make sure she was OK. I let her know I understood why she was sad, that I was angry with her mother, and was sorry no one had helped her. I was going to help, but she mustn’t say anything to her mother or father. I would see to her siblings as well.

Sensing she could trust me, Emily pulled up her sleeves, revealing deep bruises on both arms. Then she pulled off a sock to show me terrible contusions and swelling on her left foot. Apparently, Susan had brought the full force of her weight down on Emily’s foot at the grocery store earlier in the week. I asked Emily’s permission to take pictures of these injuries with my phone, and I also took snapshots of her harrowed expression and her bruised right hand, the bedroom, and the padlock on the outside of her door. I let her know that someone would be coming soon to help and that they would also see to her brother and sister. Emily’s eyes, brimming with tears, told me everything I needed to know. She desperately needed to be rescued. She was losing her will to live.

As I came down the stairs, Susan was there at the front door, holding my briefcase and flute, an unpleasant, hateful look on her face. “I guess things have not changed since college,” she said, to which I replied, “You’ve got that right. You’re as cruel as ever.” I walked swiftly to my car, then got out of there, speeding mightily to get home as quickly as possible. I felt no relief in putting distance between myself and the children, however. I would not sleep until I knew they were safe and away from her.

For the next two days, I tortured over how best to help the children. I called therapists and child abuse hotlines, and I connected with state social services. I was worried the abuse I had witnessed might be considered minor. Surely, what I’d seen was not the worst of it. Susan had no doubt toned things down for my benefit, and that worried me greatly. On Friday, I met with a social worker from the Department of Children and Family Services, bringing with me pictures of Emily’s injuries and giving them an account of what I’d seen transpire the day I visited Susan’s home. I provided as much information about Susan as I knew: where she worked, her husband’s name and place of employment, etc. — most of this information was garnered from my brief lunch with her. My hope was that the social worker could find and interview other adults who suspected abuse was going on in the family.

The Sunday following my report of the abuse, four Roseville police officers and a social worker intercepted Susan and her family as they exited the sanctuary of their church following the service. I had also informed the local newspaper of the impending arrest. A reporter and photographer were on site to document all that went down — Susan’s shock and subsequent resistance to getting handcuffed was captured for posterity, as was her husband’s impotent expression. Elton seemed unsurprised at his wife’s arrest and, for once, made no pretense of being protective of her. Nor did he come to her defense during the debacle that ensued in court.

Off Susan went, in her Sunday best, handcuffed — defiantly marching past hundreds of parishioners, who earlier that day had considered her a leader in their community. Susan would be booked at the local precinct, in her hometown, and the district attorney, who had for many years worked with her husband, would be seeking a no-bond hold. His case was solid, and he wanted her behind bars, out of reach of her children. Numerous members of the community would come forward as witnesses, as did her brother, but no one came forward from the church.

Following Susan’s arrest, Jordan, Ethan, and Emily were placed in the care of their father’s sister and her husband — Aunt Louise and Uncle Tony, who lived near their school and neighborhood friends.

Susan remained in jail and delivered her fourth child while in custody. The baby joined her siblings following the birth.

At dawn, the day after the long walk with Vie, Carl stood at the kitchen counter, putting back a large mug of coffee and a scone. There, in the kitchen, he stripped off his night clothes and left them pooled on the floor. Naked, he grabbed his jeans, a canvas work shirt, and his down vest from the adjacent mud room and dressed for the day.

Next, it was up to the barn to saddle Vie’s horse. That morning, the two of them would be making a trek up the mountainside to her resting place. Carl needed Aster to bring her home.

The barn had been closed up most of the week and was dank. Carl turned on the lights, but they were situated so far above, at the highest point in the rafters, that they failed at illuminating the dark corners below. Somewhere behind the alfalfa was the pack saddle, this he knew, though it couldn’t be seen for the darkness. Carl shoved his hips between the bales until he reached the back row, where he searched blindly for the saddle with his hands, in the process roughing them up in the shards of hay, which felt worse even than wood splinters.

Eventually, his hands recognized the stiff and dusty feel of old leather, and once oriented to the saddle’s full shape, he determined the best way to lift it off the stand to prevent it from becoming entangled. Crossbuck saddles being heavy, and the space between rows of hay narrow — Carl was forced to drag the saddle across the tops of the bales, occasionally lifting it up when it became caught on baling twine.

Once he’d wrangled the saddle to the center of the barn and hoisted it onto a stand, Carl wet a handful of rags and wiped it down thoroughly, in the process making sure the underside was smooth and working out a few rough spots with a metal file. He then whipped the dust out of the felt blankets and checked them for burrs. Today’s ride would be a difficult one, and he could ill afford to stress the horse.

Carl then, with some alfalfa, the halter, and the lead rope in hand, coaxed Aster from the coral to the north side of the barn, where he haltered her and tied the lead to a fence post. Prepping Aster for the ride, Carl worked out the debris in her hair with a stiff bristle brush, then unknotted and smoothed her mane and tail with detangler, finishing the grooming with a soothing wipe down of her face with a soft, moist towel. The final touch — using a pick to free chunks of dried mud and pebbles from her hooves. Carl returned to the barn for the pack saddle under which he took care to put a double layer of blankets. He then tested the straps and girths to ensure nothing was prone to slipping. Into the saddle’s pouch, he packed a water bottle, his phone, and some nuts and dried fruit. Halfway up the hill, he planned to stop at the stock tank so the horse could drink and to refuel himself, if needed.

The weather was dismal — cool and damp, moisture dripping from tree branches and a thick marine layer blocking most of the sun as an ethereal fog emerged and expanded from the wet soil. Though initially chilled, Carl and Aster warmed quickly on the uphill, both bathed in sweat an hour into the pilgrimage.

By 11:30, the pair were one hairpin turn from where Carl had left Vie the night prior. Carl stopped briefly to catch his breath, closing his eyes and focusing his attention on the sounds around him, bracing himself for what he would see. As he emerged from his daydream, stage curtains opened onto a new scene — the marine layer burning off, the sun peeking through — there was nothing more beautiful than that, in his estimation. The vibrant light gave Carl a sense of hope, the warmth of it reminding him that he was still very much alive.

Vie might not have appreciated that garish brightness, the inelegance of her death illuminated by the universe’s spotlight, an audience looking down on the stage, passing judgment on her circumstances, considering the meaning of it all, when it was really none of their business.

But there was no audience. And Carl had to remind himself that the lead actor, Vie, was gone. She could no longer care about these things. He could, however. And he chose to enjoy the beauty of the day.

At this pause in the ascent, Carl thought to call Greta. He had not yet shared the news with her, and though he would have preferred to convey this information in person, there was no time. He needed her to prepare for her role in the next act, le lavage rituel—the ceremonial washing of her mother’s body. Greta was to meet him with the supplies shortly after he signaled that all was in order in the house.

Vie had wanted her body washed, as was the custom in her family, a ritual to be done by those with whom she had the most intimate connections — her daughter and husband. She had reviewed these details with them many months back, and a difficult conversation that had been.

Though the news of her mother’s death should not have come as a surprise to Greta, she was, in fact, taken aback by the actuality of it. And she was confused by the tone of her father’s voice on that last call — it was distant and flat, almost without affect.

But Carl was not without feeling. He was simply doing all he could to survive the hike and could not let his emotions rule the day. Vie needed to come down the hill. It was that simple. Once that was done and his other obligations met, Carl would allow himself the deep sadness he longed for. He would, in fact, let it fill every part of his being — revisiting every memory, torturing over the things he should have done, marveling at the beautiful moments they had shared. But not now.

Finally, Carl and Aster arrived at the rocks. And there was Vie — shocks of blond hair peeking out from the top of the quilt, gnarled toes in wool socks from the bottom. Vie had pulled her body tightly into a fetal position.

Carl gazed at Vie in her cocoon, his mind absorbing only the periphery of the scene—the greens and blues interspersed with gray rock. Vie herself was missing, though she was right there, in the center, in plain sight. Carl was taking pictures, recording every last detail, but the images were being transported somewhere deep before he could actually process what he was seeing.

Shifting to the task at hand, if somewhat mechanically, Carl tied Aster to a nearby oak and vigorously stroked her neck and shoulders to calm her down. Vie’s horse sensed things weren’t right; her agitation had manifested itself in flattened ears and a swishing tail. Once Aster was settled, Carl tended to Vie. He pulled back the quilt and looked at her full on—his wife, in death. Carl could no longer look away.

For just a moment, Carl raised his head. He looked beyond the rocks, the mountains, and the valley, far into the distance, and Carl saw Vie. They were on their honeymoon. She was beautiful and tan, with long, shapely legs and strong arms, her skin smooth as silk. She was skiing in Switzerland, her cheeks like roses in the frigid air, her blue eyes sparkling as they teared up from the cold. Her melodious alto voice, with its haughty German accent, was clear as a bell.

Carl got down on his knees and knelt close to Vie’s face. Her eyes were closed, her skin cold as porcelain. As he’d recently done when she fell in the garden, Carl brought his ear within inches of her mouth, listening for breathing, anticipating her warm breath on his neck. But there was neither. He placed the palm of his hand between her breasts, searching for even the slightest rise and fall. All was still.

Carl rolled Vie onto her back, stretched out her legs, then grasped her hands to pull her into a sitting position. She had become so frail over the last two months that it took little effort for him to lift her to standing and hoist her into a fireman’s carry, after which he draped her over Aster’s saddle. Bent midriff, Vie’s body straddled both sides of the horse, head and arms dangling. Aster dutifully accepted her load and remained calm.

Carl then proceeded to secure Vie to the saddle, making adjustments that would ensure the load remained balanced and unable to shift even over those spots on the trail that were grossly uneven. Once Vie was situated, Carl led Aster down the mountain. It was a long descent, and both horse and husband felt the weight of it. Carl, lost in thought, was oblivious to everything around him, needing most to ignore Vie’s lifeless body swaying back and forth on the horse. The bright afternoon sun, the hawks, the ground squirrels, the carpenter bees, and Vie, his wife — Carl could not take in any of it. Gaze down, he focused on his feet and where he placed each step.

By 3:00, Carl was back at the house. Exhausted and distraught, he was no longer able to hold back the grief that had been welling up. He clumsily hitched the horse to the fence near the bedroom’s sliding glass door, then went inside to unlatch the handle and straighten the linens for Vie.

Bringing Vie down from the saddle, then carrying her to their bed, took every last ounce of Carl’s energy. He released her weight, for the last time, onto the sheets that she had starched and ironed for just this occasion. Carl felt a rush of relief; it was done. He would never again have to carry Vie’s rock.

Carl positioned Vie across the length of the mattress, as she had so carefully dictated: legs together, forearms across her stomach, hands gracefully one atop the other, her head resting on a small pillow. Carl then picked leaf debris and bits of dirt from her clothing, brushed her hair back and away from her face, as was her style, then kissed her forehead as if tucking her in for the night. Vie was ready for her daughter.

In the kitchen Carl gathered up his pajamas, which he’d left strewn on the floor, hung up his work clothes, then headed to the outdoor shower. For half an hour, he let the steaming water do its work, and with eyes closed, he dreamt of Vie, this as he washed himself with her balsam shampoo and herbal soap. He then toweled off and slipped into a long-sleeved white T-shirt and the khaki pants Vie had never let him wear. And he donned his favorite terrycloth slippers, as he would not be going out anytime soon. Carl was ready for Greta and prepared for the ritual bathing they would perform as a family.

Greta, who only a couple of hours prior had been summoned by her father, had instructions to take Aster up to the pasture. When she returned to the house, she came in through the side door to find her parents’ home cloaked in silence. Greta called out several times for her father but got no answer. Fearing the worst, she opened the door to her parent’s bedroom. The scene was as heartbreaking as it was endearing — her father fast asleep next to her mother, his head resting on her shoulder, arm stretched across her chest. His large, graceful hand gently grasped her mother’s upper arm as if keeping her warm. They looked as they so often did when sleeping together: content, at peace. But it was only her father’s chest that rose and fell.

Hearing Greta’s footsteps, Carl looked out through half-closed eyes. He could see her, but exhaustion and grief had taken what little reserve he had left and rendered him incapable of even a greeting. He gazed at Greta, expressionless, ashamed to have been found in this state of vulnerability.

Greta sat on the bed's edge, holding her father’s hand in silence. After a few minutes, Carl successfully got on his feet and then stepped out to give Greta some much-needed private time with her mother.

With loving eyes and gentle hands, Greta undressed her mother. She marveled at her body — a body that had carried a child and survived a C-section, that had raised a daughter and run after playful grandchildren, a body that had skied and hiked and that had daily done chores and taken care of a menagerie of pets and horses. It was a body that had also endured hip replacements and heart surgery. Vie’s body, a thing of beauty, flawed and worn — was not unlike the black walnut tree she loved.

As Vie lay lifeless on the bed, her body spoke to all that she had been and all she had endured. It was a body that had faithfully carried her through a good, if difficult, life. A life riddled with moments of overwhelming joy.

Greta set her mother’s soiled clothing in the closet hamper, then tucked her bare body under the quilt. Carl returned with a shallow tub of warm water, scented with a sachet of herbs from Vie’s garden, and two washcloths — one for each of them. Together, they washed Vie’s face and every part of her body, then gently worked her favorite pomegranate oil into her skin. When their work was done, Vie looked radiant — just as she would have wanted. Father and daughter then put Vie into her gray knit dress with the black velvet vest and her opaque black tights. She was ready for her final journey.

Carl made his calls — to hospice and the funeral home, to Vie’s family in Fulda, and to Kate.

Kate arrived within the hour and, after spending time privately with Vie, met Carl in the kitchen. They wrapped their arms around each other and wept until nothing remained. Then, hand in hand, they watched as Vie was taken from her home.

They would spend that endless, sleepless night in each other’s embrace, enveloped in darkness and the abiding scent of the woman they loved.

The evening’s dinner ended happily, but exhaustion set in before the table could be cleared and dishes done. Carl and Vie had gone straight to bed, ignoring for the first time in their marriage their nightly routines.

When Carl awoke in the early morning, he was greeted by the lingering smell of pot-au-feu, and dishes and pans strewn everywhere between the kitchen and dining room. He had neither the energy nor inclination to tackle any of the cleaning and putting away. He set instead to brewing a large pot of coffee and warming some scones in the toaster oven. Carl texted Kate for help, not something he would normally have done, but the day ahead was a monumental one, and he needed support. Chaos was not part of the plan. Things needed to be in their prescribed places so that every bit of his psyche could be focused on Vie.

Kate, unaware of what lay ahead, though finally in the loop about Vie’s terminal illness, came over within the hour, happy to help. At 9:00 a.m. Carl and Kate sat down for a quick breakfast at the end of the table not littered with dirty dishes, and Carl laid out all he needed in the way of assistance. Kate sensed his need for privacy and asked no questions.

After Carl drove to town to run errands, Kate cleared the breakfast dishes, then headed downstairs to start laundry and touch up with an iron an outfit Carl had laid out for Vie — a rib knit dress in soft gray, with long sleeves and a turtleneck. Kate then came up and put the kitchen and dining room to rights, divided the dinner leftovers into single-serving containers, cleared the table, washed and dried pans, took out garbage, and made all surfaces spotless. Permeating the stagnant air in the house was the lingering aroma of last evening’s cooking, so Kate cracked open windows and boiled a pot of spice-infused water. She then tidied up the bathroom, gathering spent towels and washcloths and putting out fresh ones. After ironing, Kate quietly hung Vie’s fresh-pressed dress and black velvet vest on the back of the bedroom door.

Carl had returned and was unpacking groceries: a few of Vie’s favorite cheeses, some prosciutto, a baguette, a hazelnut milk chocolate bar, and some fresh strawberries. Carl had laid out the wicker picnic basket, and in it placed the bottle of Eau de Vie, cloth napkins, and a small plastic plate. He then began the task of cutting the cheeses into bite-size pieces, wrapping bits of melon with prosciutto, and slicing the baguette into wafer-thin slices. All would go into one of their ancient Tupperware containers, the bread into a zip-lock bag.

Even as the household was abuzz with activity, Vie slept soundly. At noon, Kate departed.

The day prior, Vie had packed some quilts and three pillows into Carl’s thru-hiking pack and set it in the hall next to the front door, along with her walking sticks and their hiking boots. Also in the backpack: a collection of her medications and a thermos of water.

The time was near for Carl to wake Vie. He toasted and buttered an English muffin to which he added two generous spoonfuls of orange marmalade and made a large mug of coffee with steamed milk and a bit of sugar. He put all on a tray and took it into the bedroom. Vie, though groggy, was aroused by the smell of the coffee and, with Carl’s help and a few pillows, propped herself up in bed. Carl set the breakfast tray on the side table next to her.

Vie was remarkably hungry despite her rapidly growing weakness. In no time, she had consumed half of the muffin, and all of the coffee, and that was enough. With Carl’s help, she got up, then decided to proceed with her normal morning routine. She would be ready for their hike in a half hour. Before heading into the bathroom, Vie laid out her favorite cargo pants and softest lavender T-shirt, the same clothes she had worn when she met Kate, though on this cool winter day, she would be adding a navy fleece jacket, hat, and gloves.

Carl also got himself outfitted for the hike, then helped Vie with her wool socks and boots after getting on his own. At 1:30 p.m., they were ready to set out. The goal was to reach Vie’s favorite spot, Picture Rocks, in time to enjoy their picnic provisions and watch the sun set over the ranch.

It was to be a long and arduous hike — one that would have been difficult even for a more youthful hiker. The congestive heart failure made every step a monumental effort. Yet, despite the pain, making it to this location one last time, a location that had witnessed so many of the turning points in Carl and Vie’s lives, was crucial to her. This last journey was Vie’s promenade inoubliable.

At every turn in their slow walk, Vie felt she could go no further. She stopped frequently to gather strength, taking time to fill her lungs with oxygen. The pauses also gave her the opportunity to breathe in for one last time the beautiful smells of the mountain: earthy soil, the damp of moss, softly acrid animal musks, and the minty, woody scent of white sage — all of it part of her bittersweet farewell.

Vie did not want to leave the ranch or her life with Carl, but she could not stay. Her body sang a lament, the downward trajectory of its melody pulling her toward that chosen spot at the big rocks.

It was at the outlook that Carl prepared Vie’s resting place against the boulders. On many occasions, they had stopped there to enjoy the scenery and eat. It was also where they wept about their miscarriage, celebrated the completion of their house, and where they rekindled their connections to the ranch after an emotionally draining trip to Germany.

Before Vie was the vast expanse of their property — the mountains and forests, the chaparral, and all manner of birds flying overhead. Carl laid out a thick quilt on the ground, then helped Vie get down, positioning the pillows to make her as comfortable as possible and to keep out the damp from the rocks. He gently wrapped Vie in the last quilt, the one made by her grandmother, with faded squares of fabric from Vie’s childhood dresses. Carl then hand-fed Vie small bites of her favorite foods, but left her to take by her own hand the medications that would transition her seamlessly to that next place.

As the sun began its descent, Carl held Vie in his arms. Slowly, she drank the special draught she had put together, then followed it with a sip of the Eau de Vie. Her final taste would be of pear, so like the taste of Carl’s warm mouth.

Carl kissed Vie on the forehead one last time, then gathered up the picnic remains and Vie’s walking sticks. She would no longer need them.

He then made his way down the mountain, arriving home just as the sun set behind the mountains and the ranch was enveloped in darkness.

Vie was cheerfully tucked into her studio space, looking out at the bright green landscape. The week’s rains had transformed the dry, dead-looking field and hills into a tender nursery of new growth. Light and fluffy tufted hairgrass had woken up. Fresh shoots emerged between the spent stems of the red amaranth and Matilija poppies, as trees and shrubs pumped out new buds, tight and strong, protective of the vital forces needed for their leafing out in the spring. All of this gave Vie hope — the world would continue on. And there was not the burden of her having to be there to make it so.

The cows had done their damage, yes, but there was really no damage. Where once old, weak, and overgrown plants had been, fresh growth had emerged, enjoying the nutrients left by the older plants, which had been integrated into the earth by cow hooves. Their absence opened up the space, allowing light to find its way to young plants, which in turn showed their gratitude by thriving. In the field, dry seed pods, perched on impotent stems, held the power and poetry needed to inspire spring’s renewed life force.

Today’s ceramics project would be a hand-built bowl, wide and shallow, with the outline of two oak leaves, one smallish, the other large, like hands, both hers and Carl’s. The bowl was destined for the kitchen counter — a place for putting colorful vegetables, which would always be on display to remind Carl to eat well and take care of himself. Vie set to work wedging the clay to remove every air bubble. The texture was to be perfectly smooth and unblemished on this, her last piece. Excruciating pain shot through her arthritic hands — working the clay was arduous, a punishment Vie felt, for continuing on when she was more dead than alive. Her body’s unambivalent message: it was time to go.

After three hours, the bowl was done. It was beautiful but would require several days to dry, which meant Vie would not be around to see it finished. She grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted down instructions for its completion and an explanation of its purpose, then tossed the note in the bowl. Next to it, she laid out the glazes and brushes that would be needed.

On a second piece of paper, Vie made a neat shopping list for Carl, not an easy task for her right hand after three hours of working clay. Carl had always loved her handwriting, and she wanted this list to be eye-catching — something he would be drawn to and would want to keep and reuse.

For the pot-au-feu they would make that evening, Vie needed veggies and meat from the farmers market: one medium white onion, three leeks, six large carrots, one bunch of celery, three parsnips and three turnips, a rutabaga, four medium red potatoes, shallots, and a Carl-sized handful of shiitake mushrooms, as well as 2 lbs. of oxtails, and 2 lbs. of beef short ribs from the meat stand. They would be making a large stew — enough for dinner and to put up several additional meals for Carl. He was going to have a difficult week, and feeling uncared for would complicate things. He needed sustenance, food that was comforting and familiar.

List in hand, Vie slowly and cautiously made her way down to the kitchen from the studio, where Carl was scrabbling together sandwiches, his favorite tuna salad with Worcestershire sauce, capers, and mayo on toasted English muffins. Side by side, they sat at the dinner table, looking out onto the verdant hills, a silhouette of the black walnut tree in the foreground, distinguished in its old age by its gnarled branches, some dead, some alive, all equal in beauty during winter months when the tree was devoid of foliage.

They rounded out the meal by feeding each other spoonfuls of their favorite Häagen-Dazs coffee chip ice cream. Then Vie sent Carl off to the farmers market, and she laid down for what would be her last nap.

In the late afternoon, nearly at sunset, Vie woke from her deep slumber. She had had the dream again, the one where she is hiking alone on the ranch on a night devoid of moonlight. Suddenly, she steps into an empty space, a field flat and clear of trees and shrubs, something she can’t actually see, but that she senses. There is nothing to define the path, nothing to orient her in a particular direction. Each step she takes is guided by instinct.

The air circulating around Vie is shockingly cool and strongly fragranced by crushed bay laurel leaves, which soothe her nasal passages and lungs. The moss-covered ground on which she walks cushions her bare feet.

As Vie traverses this dark landscape, she is without hindrances. Though moving blindly, she has no worry or anxiety, and there is no longer any pain — it has been replaced by a feeling of relaxation and warmth.

In the real world, Vie could hear Carl returning from the market. As the side door clicked shut behind him, she could hear him plopping heavy canvas bags on the counter. Quietly, he unpacked all the goods and assessed his purchases. The market had had everything needed for the pot-au-feu — fresh and colorful produce and especially meaty short ribs, Vie’s favorite. Carl also thought to pick up some fresh herbs to supplement the herbes de Provence they typically employed, and, in anticipation of their usage, he had procured a cheesecloth bag for the steeping. He was excited to start preparing the feast as it was getting late into the afternoon, and soon he would be famished. He could feel his hunger building.

Into the bedroom, he went to wake Vie. There she lay, eyes already open, a sweet grin on her face, arms buried under the thick down quilt, which was up to her chin. Carl slipped in next to her and nuzzled her neck with his prickly beard. She closed her eyes, taking in the sensation of his warm hands and cold nose as he plastered her with rough kisses and slipped his right hand into her armpit. Soon, it was enough; both of them were wonderfully touched out.

They exited the warm bed enthusiastically, putting on bedroom slippers and donning wool sweaters, Carl helping Vie with both as she was stiff and feeling unbalanced. Vie suggested they work on dinner together, as she was not up to doing the task alone. Truth be told, she had planned long ago that her last evening would include the two of them cooking together. She wanted to show Carl how to prepare at least one of their favorite dinners. And she needed to show him how to use the washer and dryer.

This was to be an evening Carl would remember with affection. Vie was determined to do all she could to keep the focus on their enjoying each other’s company, not on her pain. It would take a superhuman effort to do so, she knew, but Carl deserved it. She took comfort in knowing the ultimate release was near.

Carl’s kisses after the nap had given Vie a momentary reprieve from the pain, but soon, the winter chill crept in and grabbed sharply Vie’s now-slight frame, triggering pain in places she had never felt it before. Into the bathroom she headed, closing and locking the door behind her. Under the sink was the bottle of Eau de Vie from Kate. She opened it and took two long draws straight from the bottle, savoring the delicate, perfumy pear brandy. She then left the bottle sitting in the open, on the bathroom counter. No longer did she feel the need to hide her addiction. This was her last day, and she was intent on enjoying this seductive beverage, for once without guilt or concern.

In addition to vanquishing Vie’s chill, the Eau de Vie left her with a gentle buzz, and a bit of Dutch courage as she made her way into the kitchen. She needed to put on a good face for Carl; that would take some fortitude. But all it took, actually, was seeing Carl there, organizing and prepping every last ingredient for their feast.

It was a beautiful sight watching Carl work, his tender, curved shape bent over the sink, cleaning and peeling root vegetables, preparing everything she needed to make her magical stew. She slipped in and positioned herself between him and the sink, taking his face in her hands and kissing him fully on the mouth. She drew in a deep breath and gently moistened his lips with her tongue, savoring the taste and smell she knew so well, filling her mind with tender memories. Carl had given her so much: his love, intelligence, his hard work, and loyalty. He had believed fully in her creative talents and generously expressed gratitude for all she had done as a mother and grandmother, and as his wife. When she was with Carl, Vie felt secure and loved. And often, Carl carried her heavy stone.

As they lingered at the kitchen sink, Carl smelt the liquor on Vie’s breath. At some level, this cheapened her expression of affection. He wondered — were the feelings sincere or fueled by the drinking? Carl said nothing, as the right thing to do that evening, which he had intuited to be her last, was to give himself fully to her, no conditions attached. His beautiful wife was dying, and all that mattered really was this evening be everything she envisioned. Carl’s only desire was to be near Vie, and to witness her performing one of the tasks she had done with so much grace over the years, namely cooking.

For the next hour, Vie and Carl assembled their stew, Vie teaching Carl how to build a flavorful, clear broth with the meats, garlic, and herbs, then how to properly sauté the vegetables and let them simmer slowly in the broth, in the process building the flavor while allowing the vegetables to remain al dente. Together, Carl and Vie blended their three favorite sauces, chopped up fresh parsley for garnishing, and sliced thick chunks of pain de campagne.

By 8:00 p.m., the pot-au-feu was ready to enjoy, and had filled the entire house with its irresistible aroma. Vie, exhausted, retired to the dining room and relaxed on a Windsor chair Carl had set up with soft throw pillows. There, Vie slowly sipped her herbal tea, gathering the strength she would need to properly enjoy this last meal.

In the kitchen, Carl was artistically plating the pot-au-feu components in broad ceramic bowls, the whole assemblage of vegetables and meat nestled in rich broth. The trio of sauces, in petite miso bowls, was set between them on the table, along with the basket of bread, which was warmed and ready for dipping. This was Carl’s first stab at replicating one of Vie’s best dinners and serving it properly. Pot-au-feu was a dish they had enjoyed many times over the course of their marriage.

Carl was excited to know Vie’s reaction — was he up to snuff? More than anything, he hoped she could, one last time, find pleasure in eating a favorite meal and that it would bring back memories of the things that had made their life together extraordinary.

And for the first time in years, Vie refrained from pouring herself a glass of wine.

It was a gloriously gray, damp day in Nuremberg. A perfect day for Hilda. She loved staying at home when it was cold outside and the streets had a fine dusting of snow. On days like these, Hilda would hunker down and cook — filling the entire apartment with delectable aromatics, which no doubt rose up to the apartment of the smart-looking widower above. She intended to make him a tin of thin-sliced seed cake before the day was out. It would still be warm when she left it on his doormat, made her polite knock, then quickly, in slippered feet, made her way back to the apartment below. Shy, she would be out of view before Heinrich opened his door.

Hilda often thought of Heinrich, though her husband had only been MIA for eleven months. Heinrich was the type of man she wished she’d married when she was young. He had a neatly trimmed silver beard and smooth olive-colored skin, which belied his age. Heinrich always dressed stylishly — for an important desk job perhaps, and he smelled wonderfully fragrant as if inviting close contact. She could well imagine kissing his soft, pink lips and feeling his warm, gentlemanly embrace. He was not the type of man who would be brusk and talk crudely, as her husband had done, though admittedly, she sometimes enjoyed his rough ways.

Hilda was lonely for men, hers, in particular, portraits of which sat framed on the credenza in the dark, unwindowed dining room in the center of her rowhouse flat. The heavy wood paneling and red and gold flocked wallpaper, dulled by the room’s single white glass ceiling fixture, gave the space a dank, mysterious feel. When her family dined there, their brassy voices and agitated discussions about the Tausendjähriges Reich and Germany’s progress or lack thereof in the war, crowded further a room already oppressively warm from the heat of radiators and Hilda’s heavily seasoned stews.

Where were her men? No one had heard from Gerhard for the better part of a year, and though he was presumed dead, the Army would not declare him so until ten years had passed, unless, of course, his body was found and could be properly identified. In the meantime, Hilda was expected to carry on as if he would be returning, and in his absence, she continued to receive his meager benefits. Her son Aldo, on the other hand, periodically sent postcards from remote locations, but his leaves, and thus his visits to see her, grew further apart as the war progressed.

Back in the days when things were less chaotic nationally, Hilda’s husband and son would return home on prescribed holidays and, on those occasions, would relax in the parlor, exchanging stories and, in animated voices, talk about the Nazi cause and whether the Third Reich had the ability to carry out their noble mission. It was a rhetorical discussion, of course, as both men were heavily invested in the war (and positive Germany would be victorious), to the point of wearing their eye-catching Nazi regalia at the dinner table, minus the hats, gloves, and overcoats, which Hilda had carefully hung on the rack and set on the shelves in the foyer.

The rhetoric they parroted gave the impression they were high in the ranks, among those leading Germany to its destiny as the homeland for the master race. Even Hilda was convinced of their importance, despite the fact that neither man had the means to pay even the most basic of household bills, resulting in Hilda’s having to take on weekly cleaning for a wealthy couple several blocks over. Even this work and income stream was tentative, as it was rumored that the Katzensteins might soon be losing their home. Already, the Nuremberg Chamber of Commerce had taken possession of their department store and was in the process of Aryanizing it.

Alina and Josef Katzenstein had been wonderful employers to Hilda for the last five years, helping the Müllers financially on numerous occasions, in particular when Hilda had medical issues that needed addressing. Now, they found themselves strapped for cash, and part of Hilda’s pay of late was items from their food pantry. They assured her they would catch up on her hourly wages as soon as they shored up new work to replace what they normally earned from the store. Hilda was fine with this arrangement, as none of her local food sources had what she needed to prepare a proper meal. Food from the Katzenstein larder, in exchange for her time and hard work, was more than an even exchange, in Hilda’s estimation.

On this frigid winter day, Hilda set to work in her tiny galley kitchen, preparing the weekly pot of lentils. The Müllers had not been allocated a nice pork roast for a couple of years now, nor was one expected anytime soon, so this would be a mostly vegetarian stew. Little did that matter now that the men were off serving in the Wehrmacht. This stew was for Hilda, and she preferred a lighter version of the dish.

On the previous Wednesday, Hilda had miraculously scored half a chicken and with the bones, made a lovely broth, adding to the flavor with parsnip and potato peelings she had squirreled away. All of this and a half head of cabbage, a few carrots, and a yellow onion would do the trick. There was also plenty of vinegar at the bottom of the sauerkraut jar, and she had one container of tomato paste left that had been put up the summer prior. Hilda set to chopping, then sautéing the vegetables in bacon grease. While periodically tending to the sizzling skillet, Hilda also worked on cleaning and sorting the Ukrainian lentils, a large bag of which she had been allocated at the army surplus. From Alina and Josef’s house, Hilda had procured a canister of flour, another of sugar, and a smallish bag of poppy seeds. Eggs, though in short supply, could be had from the corner grocery, though they were rationed out in threes, so it took careful planning if one was thinking to make sweets or bread.

Hilda loved making lentils; a pot’s worth would feed her for a couple of weeks. Once cooked, the large stew stayed fresh in her unheated kitchen simply by being kept on the unlit stovetop. Add to that the seasonal chill that eased its way through the leaky window frames, and the entire kitchen was transformed into an icebox, at least during the winter and early spring. Hilda’s splurge this week: an accompaniment to her pot of lentils in the way of homemade spätzle. Thanks to the Katzensteins, she now had the flour and an egg for putting it together.

Today’s big celebration, however, was in Hilda’s acquisition of everything needed for making her favorite seed cake: flour, eggs, poppy seeds, sugar, butter, and baking powder. She’d not enjoyed sweets for over a year as baking supplies had been unavailable. And now here she was on this gloomy Tuesday, making a cake, something she would enjoy noshing on for many days, as well as sharing with her neighbor Heinrich. What an extravagance!

Once the lentil stew was done simmering on the stove, Hilda turned off the flame and covered the ancient pot with a lid. She then lit the pilot for the oven, set to work putting together the seed cake batter, and prepared a bundt pan. After many months of abstinence, whipping together these simple ingredients in less than ten minutes proved to be a bit anticlimactic, yet into the oven the mixture went. Within no time, the irresistible smell of seed cake permeated the apartment, driving Hilda out of her mind and causing a salivary reflex so strong it stung. Hilda had at least 45 minutes to wait and so decided it best to walk to the corner grocery to pick up a nice herbal tea, something that would make a worthy accompaniment to a warm slice of cake. Hilda had her mouth set on Dr. Richter’s Frühstücks Kräutertee, her favorite. She prayed there would still be some in stock at the local store.

After pulling her hair tightly into a bun, Hilda put on her watch, and tucked her rations card into her wallet, then wriggled her house shoes into black galoshes. Next, she put on her winter overcoat, some wool gloves, and a matching hat, and off she went. Hilda had exactly thirty minutes to go two blocks, get her tea, and make it back in time to pull the seed cake out of the oven. Today, there would be not one minute for idle chitchat.

It was a bracing walk to the corner grocery, as the wind had picked up and was biting Hilda’s cheeks. Very soon, however, she was within the warm and steamy environs of the brightly lit store. Briskly, Hilda walked to the back of the center aisle, where she could normally expect to find her favorite tea. Relieved to find two containers remaining, she grabbed a tin and popped open the lid to ascertain its freshness. The heady smell of fennel, spearmint, licorice root, and rosemary awakened her senses, taking her back to her grandmother’s parlor at the farmhouse. There was no more time for dawdling, so straight to the checkout Hilda marched — all the while, her mouth anticipating the cake that would be waiting for her when she reached the top of the stairs at her apartment building.

Up front was one cashier and a thankfully short line: an older man with a few dry goods and a young mother with two children, who was clutching four cans of condensed milk. The two transactions took all of five minutes before it was Hilda’s turn to approach the counter.

Suddenly, at the moment Hilda had begun rummaging her handbag for Reichsmarks, there was a deafening boom. Following, a hot, powerful wave of air shot across the back of Hilda’s legs. She raised her head to look forward and saw the cashier tightly scrunch her face, squeezing her eyes shut, her hair suddenly blowing straight back, at which point she fainted and collapsed, disappearing altogether behind the counter. Hilda grew dizzy and nauseous watching all of this go down. On the wall behind the cash register, a shelf of cigarettes swayed, cartons, matches, and lighters tumbling to the linoleum floor. On the roof and against the outside walls of the grocery, bricks could be felt raining down in a heavy, uneven rhythm.

Within the confines of the grocery store, customers and staff remained safe from harm, though a fine layer of dust had filtered downward and accumulated on everyone’s shoulders, in their hair, and on their hats. Dumbstruck, not a soul spoke, until a small child’s shrill voice cried for his mother, which unleashed a cacophony of panicking adult voices. Hilda, her mouth involuntarily clenched shut in silence, held the tin of tea tightly against her chest and fled the store.

Outside, the sun was peeking through the thick cloud layer, casting a cheerful aura on the scene as if a pastoral setting. Piles of dust, bricks, and rubble took the place of what had once been someone’s beautiful parlor with a Bösendorfer and a shelf full of piano scores, a baby’s nursery with a crib and toys, and the room where an older gentleman, with a full tummy, had lain on top of a neatly made bed, curtains drawn, as he took his post-Mittagessen nap.

On top of Heinrich’s unresponsive body was a jumble of bricks and part of a window frame with its scalloped lace curtains intact. He lay on his back, hands gently clasped over his belt buckle, eyes peacefully closed. His journey to death had likely been imperceptible — from deep slumber to eternal sleep. Hilda took comfort in that.

Then she remembered her beautiful seed cake. She could still smell it, or so she thought. She searched everywhere amongst the rubble, imagining the cast-iron stove had survived the blast and thus her cake, too. Instead, near the remains of her belongings, steam could be seen rising through an opening in a pyre of broken framing lumber. There was her lentil pot, its contents still hot, though co-mingled with plaster and shards of wood. She picked it up by the handles, then flipped it upside down, dumping the contents onto all else that was spoiled forever.

Filthy, exhausted, and homeless, Hilda made her way down to the Pegnitz, where she sat on the riverbank and washed her pot, all that remained of the life she knew.

Vie, though well-recovered from her fall, had entered a new phase in her deterioration, one in which her body rebelled at every turn, in its weakness encouraging her to climb back into bed, in its exhaustion and irritation seeking to focus only on tedious final tasks. Vie’s overriding need was to button things up. She was no longer interested in spontaneity. No more spur-of-the-moment junkets to exotic locales, lunch out with friends, or even an afternoon of abandon in her ceramic studio.

These days, whenever Vie looked into the fridge or pantry to consider what to gather up for lunch, she was also clearing away expired condiments and food staples so that Carl wouldn’t accidentally consume them when she was gone. As she finished the week’s gardening, she thought to mulch with alfalfa to thwart the next round of weeds that might emerge if she was not there to tend to things.

Following a soothing shower, Vie would explore the bathroom cabinets, which were filled to the brim with lotions and tonics, most of which were of no interest to Carl. She gathered up the bottles and jars, putting trios of product in the paisley gift bags she always kept stockpiled, then left the bags on the porches of her best friends where she knew the beewax hand salve or the lavender body wash would be enjoyed. In some bags, she also included a few pieces of her handmade costume jewelry, remembering which items had piqued one person or another’s interest.

Then there was Vie’s wardrobe — of which she was very proud. Vie was the consummate shopper, always choosing items of quality, seeking out beautiful colors and luxurious fabrics, searching for components that were comfortable, practical, and durable. And whenever possible, she enjoyed having custom clothing made: knitted pullovers and cardigans, sundresses, and linen trousers. It was unlikely that her family or friends would appreciate wearing her clothing — that would be far too intimate, odd, in fact — so Vie took all but a handful of her ensembles in for repairs and dry cleaning, after which she distributed the tasteful, ready-to-wear cast-offs to the women’s shelters around town. It pleased her greatly to imagine someone else enjoying her clothes and finding comfort in them.

The path forward could not have been more clear. There was to be no more looking back, no clinging to her daughter and husband for affection and comfort, no more doting on the grandchildren. The time for going through old photo albums and revisiting letters from friends had past. It was time to shove this life to the side and hard. Vie was leaving; it was time to go. She did not want anyone or anything pulling her backward nor did she want to be followed. No more lingering kisses and hugs at the door, no more heartfelt discussions, no more tears. Absolutely no tears. This was no longer her life, nor her place on earth. She refused to give mixed messages to those she loved.

Vie was headed to that selfish place, a place meant only for her. A place where she could finally lay to rest her misery, and pain. Death.

Left behind would be the birds, and the hillsides of sagebrush and scrub oak. The blacktailed deer and mountain lions would have to remain, as would the pair of red-tailed hawks with their offspring. Vie could not take any of them with her, nor did she want to. And she most certainly did not want Carl following along to wherever it was she was headed. He’d given her his all, and that was enough.

This was a peak moment for Vie, as there was nothing she loved more than putting every last detail in order, making sense of chaos, and finding purpose and meaning in mistakes. Vie was intent on savoring this intensely bittersweet pain. There was beauty in every nerve ending singing out, each voice a slight variation in pain and pitch, some voices louder than others. Was it cacophony? No. When one listened carefully to just a few pitches at a time, what could be heard was organum, that primitive polyphony of the Middle Ages — a melodic meandering where pitches intersect, then diverge, creating a primal tapestry of consonance and dissonance.

One night Vie had the dream, the one she had buried long ago when she was in Gesamtschule. In it, her father, a Catholic who had avoided detention in a concentration camp by making himself invaluable to the Third Reich as a firefighter and by making nice with his Nazi informant neighbor, makes a daring surrender to the Allied forces on behalf of his whole community. As part of his and the town’s surrendering, Franz directed Allied troops to those neighbors and town leaders known to have sworn fealty to Hitler. His valor, while commendable, was also startlingly frightening to his family, who on that day could easily have lost him, and their own lives to either side. Their city of Fulda was deeply divided politically, and Franz’s valor would not soon be forgotten, by either side. Franz would be both revered and despised and for years his whole family had targets on their backs, even after V-E Day. This heavy stone Vie carried to her new life in NYC, then to her home with Carl in California. Now, with a body weakened by chronic illness, these long-held fears began to resurface as nightmares.

Amongst Vie’s layers of terrifying memories — that hurt, desperation, and shame of WWII — were the incredible releases she had experienced. Carl’s soft and welcoming chest and large rough hands, the intensity of his lovemaking, his warm mouth. There were the beautiful children: Vie’s daughter, granddaughter, and grandson, and the gathering weight in her arms as they fell asleep. There were long hikes into the mountains, lunch on a rock at the top, and the joy of making it home before dark. Then, the aroma of delicious, bountiful meals and the warmth of the cat curled behind Vie’s knees during a long nap on a wintry Sunday. And there were the romantically thrilling rides down Highway 1 to Big Sur in the Porsche 911 in the early days of Carl and Vie. But the release that dominated was the wine, which over the course of decades destroyed all else in its wake.

Unsure of the time remaining, Carl set to writing a love letter to Vie each day before bed. He had much to say and could no longer put it off, as he sensed Vie’s fading. Each morning, as Vie lay sleeping and before he headed into work, Carl left his handwritten letter on her nightstand, each note tucked into a linen envelope and tied, if somewhat awkwardly, with a blue satin ribbon. Sometimes, also on the nightstand, he left a favorite pastry and some sparkling water, other times a jar of cannabis cream for her arthritis. And every evening after a long day of work, he was rewarded with one of Vie’s inviting home-cooked meals. Their loving routine gave Carl great comfort. At least until its abrupt end.

It was a Friday evening, after a long seminar in Sacramento, that Carl returned home to find a stranger in the kitchen, and his wife fast asleep in their darkened bedroom. The cook, as she appeared to be, spoke little English and had a difficult time explaining her role at the house. Carl had no option but to wake his wife to learn what was going on. He turned on the lamp next to his nightstand to find Vie comfortably propped up on her side of the bed, tucked under two thick duvets, and fast asleep. Next to her was the antique wooden box from Fulda and an array of medications, all of them new to Carl. The instructions were detailed and concerning, and listed were the symptoms that would warrant a trip to the ER.

Carl sat down on Vie’s side of the bed and gently stroked her forehead, needing to arouse her for more details and to understand the role of the stranger in their kitchen. Groggy, Vie opened her eyes, at first not recognizing her husband, then coming around enough to explain she now had a hospice worker who would be staying at the house to help them with everything and that Carl was not to worry. All was in hand.

Esmeralda was kind and affectionate with Vie, as well as Carl. That evening she laid out a gentle dinner of stewed chicken and vegetables over rice with fruit salad and yogurt for dessert after which Vie and Carl retired to their bedroom to talk and relax. Vie then took her medications and slipped into a deep slumber, with Carl left wide awake to contemplate what lay ahead on his own.

Before retiring for the night, Carl peeked into Vie’s wooden box to see what treasures it held — there, within arm’s reach. In addition to pictures of Carl, their daughter and the grandchildren were Vie’s favorite See’s Candies and all of Carl’s letters, neatly filed, and unopened.

The flower garden was always beautiful in the early fall, everything having returned to a lush green after only a couple of days of light rain, deciduous trees poetically punctuating the garden with gold and red leaves, none of which had yet fallen to the ground. Sprinkled amongst the few flowers whose blossoms endured this far into September were pots of fragrant herbs and a large raised bed of greens — colorful chard, lacinato kale, bok choy, and various heirloom lettuces, all of which seemed to relish the cooler, moist fall air and shorter days. All of the edibles planted had been the handiwork of Kate and Vie after the demise of the ornate flower beds. Plump and full of fresh new foliage, the herbs, and greens readied themselves for adding to fall soups and stews. And fortunately the plants were now protected on all sides by tall redwood fencing strong enough to keep out the bovines and deer.

Especially beautiful in the dappled sunlight under towering coast redwoods were the remains of Vie’s purple agapanthus clusters, which were still drawing dozens of hummingbirds to the garden, even in the early evening, during this — the golden hour. The birds animated the blossoms with their magical fluttering and high-pitched trills, sucking up as much nectar as possible before sunset. And there beneath the agapanthus and darting hummingbirds was Vie, lying prostrate atop a cluster of crushed rhizome blades, her body unmoving and situated at odd angles, knees to one side, one arm stretched above her head, the other at her side, partly buried under the weight of her torso. Vie’s eyes were closed and restful, her mouth slightly agape in an expression of surprise. The cool evening air had painted her lips a purplish hue, her bare arms textured in goosebumps. Next to Vie was the ornamental boulder on which she’d struck her head, rendering her unconscious. A small trickle of rust-colored blood had made its way down her neck, pooling thickly in the deep crevice above her collarbone. This was how Carl found her body when he arrived home from work at dusk.

Upon seeing Vie, Carl threw down his briefcase and rushed to her, putting his face close to hers. Though Vie was not moving — arms limp and all of her cold to the touch, as Carl leaned closer, he could feel a warm puff of breath not his own and could hear the ragged crackling of Vie’s asthma. Carl touched his cheek to hers, cradling the other with his rough, warm hand, furtively whispering in her ear, trying to ascertain whether she was conscious or no. Slowly, Vie opened her eyes, and looked straight up to the darkening sky, seemingly unaware of Carl’s presence. Her attention was then drawn to the ruby-throated hummingbird confidently sipping nectar from the blossoms immediately above her head. Vie smiled gently.

Resting on the ledge of the redwood wall that contained Vie’s garden were two empty bottles of Sauvignon Blanc with a botanically themed silver label that glistened invitingly in the day’s last rays of sunlight, and one stemless wine glass, also empty. Vie’s bright yellow gardening clogs were tucked beneath, under the ledge, her fleece jacket neatly folded and resting on top, and next to all was an ancient butterfly sling chair and a book of Robert Frost poetry, opened to Birches, facedown in the seat.

Vie had clearly been gardening barefoot, as evidenced by the impressions surrounding the raised beds and her filthy feet, which were awkwardly splayed as she lay prostrate in the dirt. All of this was so unlike Vie, the capriciousness, the careless disregard, the inelegant posture of her unresponsive body. Losing her balance, be it figuratively or literally, and falling down was something Vie had spent her entire life trying to avoid. Yet there she had been, trying to navigate the soft, loamy soil in her inebriation, lumbering about the garden, then tumbling, the full weight of her body falling into the welcoming arms of a half foot of new soil and compost, her head grazing the large rock on the way down. The fragrant dark blanket of earth had caught and held the sun’s rays all afternoon and provided not only a protective cushion for Vie’s weak body, but it enveloped her in its warmth. In her unconscious state, Vie dreamt of being cradled in her mother’s arms, her cheek nestled against a warm breast. And such was Vie’s garden to her in this time of distress, mothering and protecting her as Vie had done for it over fifty years.

Carl was well aware of his wife’s drinking and its connection to, and exacerbation of her health issues, but it took his seeing this portrait of vulnerability, Vie lying unconscious and unmoving in the dirt, for him to grasp the severity of her addiction and her denial of the situation. His heart ached for his wife as nothing else he had ever felt, for the beautiful and vital woman she had been, for her endlessly creative mind and her brilliant native intellect. In that moment, when he arrived to find her in the garden, Carl knew her to be dead — her body surrounded by oblivious hummingbirds. There was no other conclusion to be drawn, until Carl put his head next to hers, in his distress longing to smell her smells, and to feel her soft cheeks one last time, but in doing so, he also experienced her gentle breathing. Vie was alive. And this meant Carl had his chance — to write Vie a love letter, the one he might have written years ago had he realized the extent of her most pressing illness: her alcoholism. No longer could he put this off; the need to tell her how he felt was vitally important, toward saving her life or, at a minimum, improving the quality of the short life she had left in front of her. Carl needed her to stop drinking. He wanted these final days to be with the wonderful woman he had married, not with the angry and unhearing person Vie became when she was intoxicated. He needed to say the words, to express how he felt, and for Vie to understand the impact her illness had on him and the whole family.

Vie was still alive. She still had the potential to hear what Carl had to say, to know that he shared in the knowledge of her terminal illness and that he loved her dearly and wanted to be at her side through all of this.

How to get Vie into the house became the challenge. She was injured and sore, bleeding and stiff from the cold. Carl was infused with adrenaline, and strong from all of his farm work, and he was motivated. Carl squatted next to Vie and encouraged her to wrap her arms around his neck to first get in an upright sitting position. He then stood up, firmly took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. Vie could barely stand, nor did she seem to want to. It was almost as if she were paralyzed, as there had been little blood flow to her limbs and extremities as she lay immobile for several hours. Carl stooped and asked Vie to swing her right arm over his shoulders. He firmly grabbed her cold hand that hung over his chest, then slowly raised the two of them to standing as he assumed the brunt of Vie’s weight. They then cautiously negotiated their way through the uneven ground of the garden, stopping briefly to slip on gardening clogs before Vie’s having to cross the stony cement patio to the sliding glass doors of their bedroom.

Once in the house, Carl gently delivered Vie to the edge of the bed, where he tenderly took off her shoes and soiled clothing, one piece at a time, being careful not to exacerbate her pain. He then wrapped her frail figure in a down quilt before making his way to the kitchen to collect up warm, wet towels so he could clean her and tend to her injuries. He came back to find her tipped over on the bed and curled into a fetal position, asleep, her soiled feet sticking out at the end of the quilt. And so it was there, at her feet, that he started the long process of cleaning her, carefully washing her cuts, then treating them with triple antibiotic ointment. Once he completed his cleanup on the lower half of her body, he warmed her favorite sage CBD cream in his hands and massaged it well into her sore muscles, warming her up as he went. He then slipped her into a pair of wool socks and his softest sweatpants, then pulled back the quilt to perform similar tasks on her torso, neck, and head, her head and face having suffered the most damage.

Somewhere midway, Carl returned to the kitchen to rinse the towels stained with dirt and blood and to warm all in the microwave. He also thought to bring her a mug of a favorite herbal tea, as she was no doubt dehydrated. When Carl finished with Vie’s top half, he lifted her into an upright position, then attired her in one of his soft tank tops and his well-loved workshirt, the one she secretly (or so she thought) slept with when he was away. Finally, Carl brushed out Vie’s hair, then covered her head in a favorite cream-colored wool hat, one knitted by her sister in Germany. Regaining warmth, Vie sat at the edge of the bed, sipping her now lukewarm chamomile tea.

As she mindfully drank her beverage, Carl pulled the dirt-covered duvet off her bed, carefully folding it inward to prevent its polluting the room, then put it in the closet out of view. After situating Vie’s favorite pillows at the head of the bed, he helped in scooting her weak body toward the waiting nest, then took the clean quilt off his side of the bed and tucked her in, right up to her chin, finishing what would now become his nightly ritual by adding a second layer — an impossibly soft, hand-woven blanket from a friend. Vie’s eyes met Carl’s, and in them was relief and resignation. She asked Carl to please read the poem she had intended to enjoy in the garden before her fall. And it was to this that she fell into a deep slumber.

Birches
by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Early the next morning, as Vie woke to an orchestra of creatures warming up outside her windows, she thanked the hummingbirds for encouraging her to get out of bed each day. Though sore and a tad woozy, she swung her legs out to the side of the bed, where her bandaged feet met the cold hardwood floor. She gingerly made her way to the closet to find clogs and a down vest, and there, taped to the mirror above her armoire, was a letter from Carl.

Vie had not left the ranch for nearly a week and was glad to be heading into town. She desperately needed a change of scenery and to people watch. The mountains were beautiful and full of life, and the ranch house a peaceful respite, but the reality was that Vie was isolated, and she had too much time on her hands to obsess about the news and politics, with no way to decompress or at least share her worry and angst. Carl had been working until late nearly every evening as there were only eight weeks remaining until election day, and his office was burdened with many last-minute details. He was barely making it home in time for dinner, a few pleasantries and then he sat on the corner of the couch reading the paper until his eyes closed, remaining bolt upright with the paper in hand. One had to look closely to understand why he was no longer contributing to the conversation.

On this particular evening, Carl was dead tired, and Vie most definitely was not, as she’d had the benefit of a late afternoon nap. Sad and dissatisfied, Vie had waited all day for his return, and now, even though Carl was back, she was still left to her own devices. After their favorite shows ended, Vie decided to leave Carl on the couch asleep. She poured herself a glass of wine and then enjoyed the rest of the bottle on the deck as she took in the sunset alone. She then made herself a bath and completed her nightly ablutions before heading to bed.

By the time Vie was done, it was late, and Carl had still not made his way to the bedroom. Vie was well beyond caring at this point. She turned off the lights and climbed under the duvet, immediately falling into a hypervigilant dreamlike state. Vie was walking across a long footbridge that spanned a deep, rippling, moonlit pond. The end of the bridge delivered her to a pitch-black tree tunnel where it was impossible to see her way forward. She walked blindly, tentatively putting one foot in front of the next, not knowing what to expect from step to step. There was an occasional rustling of something small amongst the dry fall leaves; a snake or mouse? Then something larger in the branches of a tree, one of which snapped and fell to the ground immediately in front of her. As her muscles began to burn from climbing an unseeable steep hill, the air grew eerily still, and Vie was left without a single sensation on which to gauge her whereabouts — just a premonition that she was now in a wide open space that was not fully knowable on this dark, now cloudy night. The only thing Vie knew for certain was that she was no longer on a path.

Vie emerged from her dream semi-conscious and attuned herself instead to the weight of her heavy stone. It was no longer next to her bed. It was now inside of her, in her chest cavity, the weight of it drawing her deeply and helplessly into the mattress. Akin to drowning, the weight of it was oppressive, making her breathing shallow, her pulse thready. The stone crowded out dreams and angst, worry, and the pining she felt for her husband. Vie could no longer resist sleeping any more than she could escape the heaviness of the thick layer of dread that hung over her. She headed unwillingly into a state as close to death as a sentient being can approach.

If only these thoughts could have been telepathically conveyed to Carl so that he might sense her anguish and slip into bed next to her. But Vie’s thoughts could not reach him because Carl, overwhelmed by Vie’s alcohol-fueled anger and frustration, had built an impenetrable wall around himself. Had he not done this, Vie’s decades of repression and the release of her pent-up fury, which was coming about now that she was in a weakened state, would have finished them.

On that very dark night, Carl was not there to comfort Vie. She had fallen asleep in their bed, alone with her stone. He, too, was alone, on the couch, surrounded by his stack of required reading, his mind processing the previous day’s work and creating a checklist of the next day’s tasks.

Vie’s heart ached unrelentingly from the weight of her stone. She had grown too weak to lift it and cast it to the side, her thin and useless arms clenched to her sides under the duvet, her right hand painfully gripping her left as they rested on her flat, hollow stomach.

Vie woke at the crack of dawn to find Carl had finally made his way to bed. Her night of darkness had passed and the sun was bright, the garden full of birds. She felt relieved at having made it back across the bridge. In the light of day, the mountains and woods and the paths carved into the hillside beckoned her. She had every reason to get out of bed and make a strong cup of coffee.

Vie had a voracious appetite that morning — this after not eating the day prior due to her anxiety over an especially upsetting news cycle. She texted Kate to see if she had any interest in meeting for breakfast and then joining her for an afternoon hike and overnight at the ranch. They could cook dinner together and watch movies.

Kate loved the idea and suggested breakfast at her house, then perhaps a stroll through the farmers market for a few provisions — some heirloom tomatoes and basil, a rotisserie chicken, and some purple potatoes for the evening’s meal. It all sounded perfect, and so their day was set. No more worrying about Carl — he had a full day of work, and being with Kate would keep Vie from obsessing about not having his company over the weekend.

Vie returned to the bedroom, quietly threw on her favorite cargo pants, a black turtleneck, and Ray-Bans, and then off she went. She quickly made her way down the hill, her zippy SUV shooting her into the heart of downtown, which was full of early risers — tourists and locals alike, some jogging and riding bikes, others sitting at café tables enjoying coffee and pastries in the crisp fall air. Vie was glad she wasn’t missing any of this — the bustle, the bright sunshine, and blue skies did her a world of good.

Kate’s house was just a few blocks off the square, where the farmers market vendors had their tents. Vie arrived at the cheery, compact bungalow to find Kate had already laid out a simple breakfast for the two of them: almond croissants, soft-boiled eggs, French press coffee. They scarfed down the food, grabbed some canvas bags, and off they set for the market, exchanging political banter as they walked. Already Vie felt the weight lifting. In fact, after an hour in Kate’s presence, it was nearly gone, as was the pressure behind her eyes. She was no longer focused on things over which she had no control, instead envisioning what they would assemble for dinner from the market. And because Kate was not privy to the details of Vie’s illness and her previously dark frame of mind, Kate carried on as she might have with any other close friend — a huge relief to Vie, who was not interested in anyone’s sympathy or pulling them into her dark place. With the little time she had left, Vie wanted to dwell in the functioning world, to see things with eyes that looked to the future. The only way to do that was to step out of that godforsaken place she was wont to travel and to be with people who were happy and had purpose in their lives.

The two women enthusiastically took in the sights and smells of the market, picking over pyramids of fresh produce to find the perfect herbs and a colorful array of fall tomatoes, some tiny and sweet as candy, others in variegated reds, greens, and yellows that were so large as to require two hands to hold. At the back of the market were vendors selling prepared foods, the most alluring emanating from the rotisserie truck where porchetta and whole organic chickens rotated on spits, their drippings flavoring the garlic-roasted potatoes below. Though they had originally thought to do chicken, Kate found the stuffed pork roast smelled irresistible, so dinner plans were altered slightly — the purple potatoes and tomato salad still on, but now a bottle of Sangiovese might be in order. Vie had the goods; problem solved.

As the morning wore on, Vie thought of Carl — of all he’d gone through as of late and how hard he’d been working. She imagined that his gentle and patient demeanor made him more vulnerable to her mood swings and that perhaps all of this was beginning to wear on him. It didn’t matter that she’d kept the worst of it from him. Carl was sensitive, and he had, no doubt, picked up on the deeper issues, even if he didn’t know the specifics.

Vie needed to take back something special for Carl, preferably something to satisfy his sweet tooth. Kate recommended the Italian vendor with the homemade pasta — he had killer tiramisu. Vie ended up buying an entire flat of the cake and requested two spoons. Before walking home, the women sat at a picnic table, cracked open a corner of the container, and dug in. The creamy espresso mascarpone concoction was heavenly, and within minutes, they’d eaten nearly a third of the cake. Vie didn’t worry for one second about her waistline — she was determined to enjoy every delicious thing she craved, while she could.

Back at Kate’s, the women packed their combined farmers market haul into a wine box. Kate then packed a few things for the weekend into her bright green duffle bag and off to the ranch they headed in Vie’s car.

As the women made their way up the hill to the house, the mountain scenery spread out before them in every direction. Wide expanses of chapparal flourished on slopes that were especially sunny and had outcroppings of spikey white rock. The impenetrable bushes of evergreen and manzanita, with their burnished red bark, were interspersed with woodlands of coast live oaks and valley oaks on the more softly rounded, grassy hills, ancient-looking trees whose craggy branches spoke to the challenges they had endured over the decades. There was nothing the women wanted more to do than to get out into this scenery and be one with it. They brought their things into the house, then set to work in the kitchen, whipping up a picnic lunch. The trail they would be taking was bright and sunny, also very rocky, so both donned wide-brimmed hats and proper hiking boots and off they went.

A few miles up the trail was a good place for picnicking, a grassy spot near a tall blue oak where the early afternoon sun at the right angle provided a nice patch of shade. The grass was tall, dry, and crunchy, but Vie had come prepared with a large square of tent canvas, which she spread over an area she had stomped down with her boots. She pulled out their salad and salmon, and ravenous, they put it back in minutes. Dessert was the small, tart apples Vie had gotten from her favorite vendor at the market and a couple of chunks of sharp Irish cheddar. After lunch was polished off, it felt too soon to leave this beautiful spot on the hill, so Kate rolled up the fleece jackets they brought for the return walk and made pillows of them, and the two of them stretched out under the clear blue skies, drinking in the coolish autumn air, enjoying the birds overhead. Both fell into a deep sleep.

Kate woke first, prompted by the chill of the early evening breeze the tide was pulling in through the estuary on the other side of the hill. The entire slope was now shady, the sun setting behind the mountains on the other side of the valley. Kate glanced over at Vie, who was lying on her side, deep in sleep, softly breathing, peaceful, and relaxed. It was an opportunity for Kate to take in her beauty, the sharp angles of her face, her prominent nose and high cheekbones, her coppery weathered skin and bristly, short cropped hair in golds and silver, her thin plum-colored lips with their gentle downward pout. It all went together, a symphony of subtle colors, shapes, and textures, perfectly orchestrated. Vie’s shoulders sloped downward, emphasizing her long, slender neck, below which her firm, small breasts and softly flat abdomen were outlined by a form-fitting, faded purple T-shirt. Her arms were tucked in close to her sides, forearms crossing over her chest, likely because she was chilly. Her knees were bent upward into a fetal position, all of this an unconscious attempt to stay warm now that the temperature had dropped precipitously.

Kate closed her eyes, creating an imprint of Vie’s beautiful face, then leaned in to gently kiss her awake, warmly cradling Vie’s face in her hands. It was getting late, and they needed to hit the trail or risk getting caught in the dark.

Vie woke, a bit startled and not remembering where she was. It took her a couple of minutes to orient herself, but once she did, she panicked, realizing they likely would not make it down the hill before being enveloped in darkness. Neither had brought phones or headlamps nor walking sticks. Kate quickly gathered up the picnic components and stuffed them into her backpack, then both women threw on their fleece jackets and together folded up the canvas covering. A few quick stretches, then down the hill they went at lightning speed, though cautiously on the gravelly bits. As predicted, they were soon in complete darkness, but they’d reached the footbridge that crossed the stream. They were near to home and could see the lights blazing.

Safely back at the house, Kate and Vie went directly to the bedroom to shed their sweaty hiking gear, with the goal of showering before putting together dinner. Neither had noticed Carl’s early return, though Vie knew that on Fridays, his office typically closed right at 5:00. Nor did Carl notice their return, as he was already decompressing with a hot outdoor shower and was not within earshot. Soon, there would be a not-so-unpleasant encounter — as two nude, laughing women headed his direction toward the shower. Carl looked up, and there they were in all their glory — an eyeful and then some.

Vie was the only one unprepared for this mixup. Kate, on the other hand, didn’t miss a beat. She boldly turned on the second showerhead and got right into the double stall, positioning herself immediately across from Carl, who had a difficult time averting his eyes, especially when she vigorously began lathering up every part of her body. Vie shot Carl a look of embarrassment, and he immediately took her cue, grabbing his towel and quickly throwing it around his waist, though his growing erection was difficult to hide. He then retreated to the bedroom, and when next they saw him, he was comfortably attired in sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, no longer visibly aroused. All had a good laugh, Kate making light of the ranch’s clothing-optional ambiance.

In short order, dinner was laid out, the crusty porchetta gently warmed, roasted purple potatoes steaming and garlicky, with thick slices of heirloom tomatoes and basil on the side. Vie generously poured everyone a glass of Sangiovese, though Carl did not touch his. Only that afternoon he had discovered a stash of empty wine bottles in the back of Vie’s closet as he was putting away clean laundry. Any taste he’d had for wine was gone and unlikely to return. It had begun to sink in, the damage the drinking had done to his wife’s health.

Looking into Carl’s eyes, Vie recognized his revelation about her drinking, and she angrily, yet silently, decided he was wrong in judging her on this. It was right and normal to enjoy wine — this confirmed by her friend’s enthusiasm for their Italian varietal — the Sangiovese that would go perfectly with the porchetta. Vie was going to enjoy it, regardless of anyone else’s thoughts on the subject. As it turned out, it also paired beautifully with Carl’s tiramisu, which he would have enjoyed had his enthusiasm for his favorite dessert not been doused by his discovering evidence of Vie’s addiction earlier in the day. Carl silently and deliberately finished his dessert, then, without explanation, abruptly left the table for the bedroom to read and listen to Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony.

After dinner, the women cleaned up the dining room and kitchen, jabbering while washing and drying dishes by hand. They then proceeded to the guest room to put on soft clothes for their evening of relaxation. Vie had several soft-knit sleep dresses and two white terrycloth robes — hers and Carl’s. Kate chose the sleep dress in taupe; Vie picked her favorite periwinkle. They then brushed out each other’s hair, washed their faces with Vie’s favorite milk soap, brushed their teeth, then headed into the living room with a list of potential movies scratched out on a dinner napkin. After watching trailers for everything from Melissa McCarthy’s “Starling” to “Something’s Gotta Give,” with Diane Keaton, the women settled on “Carol,” starring Cate Blanchett, knowing somewhere in this film were deep connections they would soon be making.

As Vie worked up a blaze in the fireplace, Kate organized quilts and large pillows on the floor, configured so they could rest their backs against the couch while also stretching out their legs. And she’d set to the side some lavender CBD balm for their sore muscles, as the hike had been strenuous. Kate noted that Vie’s hands were also aching — she had been relieved to put her hands in the sudsy warm water as they washed dishes. Vie cued up their movie and, with an intriguing half smile, joined Kate on the floor, not hesitating to sit so close their shoulders and arms made contact, and each could feel the other’s warmth.

Partway through the first love scene in the movie, in part to diffuse the intensity of it and the implication that Carol and Therese were, in essence, them, Kate reached for the jar of lavender balm and suggested massaging Vie’s hands. The room was toasty warm, and Vie obliged Kate’s request by loosening the belt of her robe, letting it fall off her broad shoulders, and then pulling her arms from the sleeves. As Vie extended her bare arm in Kate’s direction, she gazed at her profile, taking in her expression as she took her hand and caressed it gently with just the tips of her fingers. Kate then took a small dollop of the thick cream, warmed it in her palm, and worked into the fleshy mounds at the base of Vie’s hand, firmly kneading all the way to the tip of each finger. She followed by working the balm into the muscles on the insides of Vie’s muscular wrists, and as she felt Vie’s hand and arm relaxing, she used her full hand to stroke and knead Vie’s forearm, front and back, then all the way to her elbow. Entranced, Vie leaned back her head into the thick pillow and closed her eyes. Once done with the left hand and arm, Kate hiked up her night dress and climbed across Vie’s extended legs to position herself for massaging the other side, in the process, her soft and furry mons pubis made contact with Vie’s smooth legs.

Following hand and arm massages, Kate moved down to Vie’s feet, where she sat gazing upward at her beautiful, long legs. After giving Vie’s feet a similar treatment to her hands, Kate worked her way up Vie’s legs without losing contact — first massaging and flexing her ankles, then applying more cream and vigorously massaging her calves. Then, more gently, she focused on Vie’s outer thighs, slowly working well-lubricated thumbs and palms to her inner thighs, where just below the pubic bone, she fanned out her fingers, curving them outward toward Vie’s hips, then under to her buttocks, which she kneaded deeply, her fingertips then dipping into Vie’s perineum, doing the lightest double time, though never penetrating.

Finally, Kate rested her warmed, outstretched hands gently across Vie’s hip bones, her thumbs making gentle circles on her lower abdomen, just above her mons pubis. She then worked her thumbs ever so slightly downward, caressing the soft pubic hair with her fingertips, then slowly and softly parting Vie’s labia, bowing her head down to kiss Vie intimately, her warm mouth open and inviting, her tongue exploring Vie’s wet and fragrant vagina.

Peering out from the dark corner of the stone fireplace was Carl, who watched in awe as his wife succumbed to the powerful sensations of Kate’s lovemaking. It was one of the most beautiful scenes Carl had witnessed in his life — his wife was in another place altogether, free finally from her angst and frustration, released from all of her pain. Her face said it plainly, as did the soft cooing sounds she expressed. Carl was overcome with feelings he would be hard-pressed to put a name to. He embraced with his whole heart what he was witnessing, joining in Vie’s deep arousal, ablaze himself with the same sexual flush the women had, breathing as they did, though doing all he could to restrain himself, to keep from disrupting this precious and delicate intimacy — a peak experience for both women. He wanted this for Vie, for them.

Kate and Vie’s noisy, happy lovemaking continued for many hours into the night, and somewhere along the way, Carl discreetly slipped back into the bedroom. He lay on top of the duvet naked, then closed his eyes, the image of these beautiful women imprinted in his mind. He pleased himself with more intensity than he had felt in years, tears of joy staining his cheeks as he fell into a deep and soothing slumber.

Carl had gone away on a business trip, and in the days prior to his departure, Vie sensed his happy anticipation. A tax workshop was not something Carl ordinarily looked forward to, yet there he had been, enthusiastically planning out his wardrobe for the week, deciding which books to take and whether to hitch his road bike to the back of the car.

To be clear, Carl had never expressed verbally that he was looking forward to the trip; this was just Vie’s impression. Outside of his cheerful travel preparations, Carl had been tired as of late, stooped over his desk after dinner, his furrowed brow hinting at exasperation, this as he mouthed the words, “I’m doing great” whenever Vie asked how work was going. The inflection in Carl’s voice was strained, though so slightly that it might have been imperceptible to an outsider. But Vie was tuned in to the nuances of Carl, and she was not taken by his repeatedly calling her Darling and fussing over her breakfast and vitamin regimen, which he prepared daily. These gestures failed to mask the changes going on. Carl’s domestic endearments had become mechanical.

Nor did Carl’s peppering her with kisses and spoon-feeding her espresso ice cream before bed each night convince her things were normal. He had performed these tender routines for years, yet now, there was a subtle difference — it felt as though he was ever so quietly taking back and reclaiming some of what should have been his long ago. And he was doing this by disengaging emotionally, as fatigue from protecting and nurturing her had set it.

Vie understood Carl was not being withholding toward her when he offered smaller-than-usual bites from her favorite Häagen-Daz tub. Nor was he snubbing her choice of flavors when, from time to time, he chose a scoop of butter pecan instead of dark chocolate and espresso for their midnight snack. Carl, for the first time in their marriage, was taking what he wanted and desired, both in the quantity of things consumed and in the choice of what was being shared. He’d quietly quit compensating for Vie’s weaknesses. It was his turn to have his way, to do things as he liked, to choose what to put in his mouth, to decide when he wanted to do a thing.

For a brief moment, Vie thought him wrong in doing this; it was not gentlemanly. Then, one afternoon, during a long nap, Vie dreamt of Carl — of him walking into the wilderness alone. It was a sign — she could not continue blaming him for her unhappiness. He was not the cause. He was just the most gentle and forgiving target for her angst and anger. He understood her, and he never took her tirades personally, but it was wearing. If Vie continued on as she had for the last decade, and she didn’t make things right, and soon, Carl would be gone, as there was only so much any person could shoulder. Vie’s turn at being the victim needed to end, regardless of her current medical crisis. It was time to put her current travails in a different context — Carl had done all he could to make up for the bad turns in her life, none of which were his fault, and it was a steep emotional toll he paid. Now, these many years later, Carl was wrestling with his own demons and disappointments, and he needed to put himself first, to enjoy life without restraint and her rules — to be a joyful prankster, a homebody, someone who ate far too many sweets and who secretly avoided the farm chores and fixing things because he hated both. It was his turn to do as he pleased. Vie knew this day would come, and she accepted it.

That evening, Vie spread her strong potter’s hand across Carl’s furry chest, then buried her nose in that spot where his neck met his broad shoulders. It took her to that other place, the place she had discovered the first night they slept together. It was an ethereal place where there were no bad memories, and she was free, if but briefly, from her unending hypervigilance. She lost herself in Carl’s sweet smell of blackberries.

Regardless of Carl’s evolving feelings, what Vie felt for him remained steadfast. She recognized he might now be headed on a different course — especially as he’d become aware the drinking had been there the entirety of their marriage, hidden from view. The hard, cold truth: alcohol had colored every part of Vie’s life, and she would not, could not give it up. These revelations warranted a complete rewrite of their history as a couple — almost every life event, accident, argument, and trauma had a different origin than previously imagined.

The paradigm shift was already taking place. Instead of soft hands gingerly exploring Vie’s lithe body and a rough beard tickling her neck and breasts, Carl was offering up careless kisses, too rough and too many. Carl had also gotten in the habit of abruptly grabbing, then massaging every fat spot on her body, affectionately, yes, though it felt more like he was wishing her imperfections away. This made Vie furious, especially when Carl’s playful gestures failed to lead them back to the bedroom (or the couch, or the shower)—to enjoy that thing she most looked forward to, that filled her with joy and made her feel like a beautiful and worthy woman.

So where did Carl go, in his mind, when he had sexual hankerings? That was hard to know. But from what Vie could tell, he was not thinking of her. His expressions, his touch, now seemed distant, inaccessible.

As Vie and Carl navigated the changes in their bodies, Vie’s long-held shame began rearing its ugly head, finding a weak spot in her psyche — shame that she was not beautiful enough or intriguing and certainly not as witty and intelligent as the women with whom Carl worked or as educated as the spouses of his closest colleagues. Even worse – she worried the words she spoke and the thoughts she shared might be annoying him, that she was not at his level. And when it came to her sexual power, especially as it related to him, even that seemed to have vanished. Conversely, Carl marched on as he always had, in many ways growing more distinctive and appealing in his old age, his silver beard attracting more admiring looks than the thick black one of his youth.

Though Vie knew she shared these feelings of shame with other women her age, she still felt a sense of isolation. There was no comradery in these indignities older women endured, the feelings of rejection and powerlessness, of no longer being relevant or desirable, and thus unneeded. These feelings were overwhelming and smothering. And unlike men, who, at a minimum, left a legacy, their last name carried down, their wealth passed on, and the history of their prestige and accomplishments remembered in words — it was a rare woman who enjoyed this satisfaction and the tempering effect adulation and gratitude had in softening the grieving one experiences for an aging body — a grieving that rebelliously comes about even through what is every human’s natural and predestined decline. Vie knew she would never benefit from this balm that Carl enjoyed. Vie’s victories and accomplishments were cloistered behind the walls of their home, beautiful as it was, while Carl’s were in full view of their community and wider family.

Vie envisioned that at the holidays, after she was gone, the family’s memory of her, as Oma, would only be of her seed cake with the lemon glaze and that she set a beautiful and perfect holiday table, or that her crown pork roast was cooked to perfection. In her imagining, there would be nothing remembered of Vie the woman, a person who survived a difficult pregnancy to triumph in the birth of her daughter. Nor would she be remembered for the house she single-handedly rescued when the stove caught fire or for the hundreds of trips made down the mountain to deliver their daughter, then grandchildren, to school. All of this effort would be forgotten or, at best, glossed over — thousands of days of her life taken for granted. And she knew that even her grandchildren would be hard-pressed to remember her maiden name.

These thoughts and those of her shame were the huge stone she carried from Fulda. She poured much of this shame into her art — her shame at being German, though she was just a little girl during WWII, shame of never having gotten a university education, and shame for being a woman and not having made a career for herself. Vie did her damnedest to bury these insecurities in her creation of beautiful ceramics, but invariably the demons would surface, the more delicate pieces giving way to weighty and dark raku reminiscent of places and things seen from her youth: dwellings with bars on the windows, rippled abstract pieces with the coppery texture and drape of rotting flesh — imagery that was profoundly impactful to those who visited her art shows.

Vie saw in Carl a psychic conflict between what he truly and deeply desired and his loyalty to those with whom he had long ago made commitments. Carl followed the star of loyalty above all else, and its bright light often blinded him to those richly important other things — sexual passion, the attainment of beautiful objects, artistic, creative, and expressive outlets, intellectual meanderings, and more. Carl often thought of these pursuits but, in the end, left them quietly simmering on the back burner for another day, as his life was full to the brim with commitments.

The changes in Carl’s body never diminished Vie’s desire for him — his silvery beard and wiry chest hairs, his slightly waning sex drive and reduced stamina, man parts that periodically did not rise to the occasion, loose skin here and there, and his ever-so-slight paunch — she loved every bit of his fading patina. It was soft and beautiful, worn in all the right ways, and operated at a slower pace — a perfect fit for her. But Vie’s passionate feelings toward Carl put a fine point on his perhaps-not-reciprocated sentiments toward her. And that didn’t always feel fair, the way he recoiled ever so slightly to the inevitable changes she was going through, all the while oblivious to his own. Yes, Carl worked harder than most not to show disappointment, but it was there.

This repulsion men felt toward women as they age infuriated Vie, especially when coupled with the hypocrisy of how they perceived their own body changes as normal and expected. She wondered — did Carl perceive her age-related changes as an indication she was letting herself go? Vie worked hard to maintain her figure and dress stylishly. She took meticulous care of her skin, hair, and nails. Other than her drinking, Vie was, in no way, letting herself go. She surmised that it was the assessments men made, critically flawed in multiple ways, yet backed by pop culture, that led them to believe they were in better shape than their female counterparts and therefore deserving of younger women, women they deemed, stupidly, to be on their level physically. Many of these same men felt justified in tossing to the side women their own age, even lifelong partners. Though Carl did not seem to follow the herd on these issues, Vie could never be absolutely sure. And perhaps she was being grossly unfair to him in entertaining these thoughts.

As Vie’s frustration with her physical decline grew, Carl began retreating, returning home later and later, then planting himself in front of his computer and reluctantly coming to the dinner table, often arriving after the food had gone cold. Vie imagined this was a sign that he was no longer in love with her, and she began to panic. She imagined his feelings waning while hers, most certainly, were not. Watching him dress in the morning still brought roses to her cheeks, and in their home, where Vie was constantly bumping into Carl’s smells, the feel of his skin, his voice, his laugh and smile, the way he sat at the end of the couch reading —all of this got the blood coursing through her veins. Above all else, Vie loved Carl’s intellectual brilliance and his high standards at work, at home, and in his relationships. And while Vie did all she could to meet his expectations, or at least what she perceived those to be, she never felt she’d quite measured up, though certainly there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Carl ever said or did that should have made her feel beneath him in intelligence or ability. Vie’s feelings of inferiority had deep roots that were well-established before she’d left Germany, caused by family and societal expectations and the influence of the toxic culture in which she’d grown up.

As Vie’s worsening health spread her thin emotionally, childhood scars resurfaced, causing irritation and reminding her of things she’d preferred to have forgotten. Constantly fighting off this inner turmoil was leaving Vie visibly exhausted and cranky, which she assumed, made her unappealing to her husband and everyone else around her. Memories of the war were becoming a regular occurrence in the form of nightmares and the only way she could find to turn them off was by imbibing her beloved sauvignon blanc.

Vie’s gut, though now compromised by copious amounts of booze, told her all she needed to know — Carl’s animation at meeting up, solo, with colleagues and constituents and quietly planning excursions and evenings out for dinner with cousins and colleagues without her — all of this was an indication he no longer wanted her by his side. Carl could not risk bringing an intoxicated spouse, and Vie’s drinking had become obvious to all, especially when the topic of politics arose. Invariably, someone ended up deeply offended.

After Carl headed off to Tahoe that evening, Vie sat at the dining room table alone, nursing a cup of coffee, which would no doubt keep her awake all night. She considered what to do with her time over the next few days. The thought of taking up a project or doing housework could not have been less appealing, especially in light of her medical prognosis. Every day counted at this point, and she was unwilling to take on anything whose completion would extend beyond her death.

Vie sat on the deck looking out onto the ranch, her eyes drawn to the rocks near the summit of the mountain. They were beautiful - striated layers of rose, gold, and terra cotta in the shape of totem poles. Over the years, Vie had spent many an evening watching the sunset on this formation, contemplating a way to reach the spires that rose straight up from the side of the cliff. It was on this unreachable spot that Vie wanted her ashes placed. But who could she tell when she’d not yet told anyone she was dying?

Vie sat alone with her fear and upset until Saturday morning before caving in and calling Kate. It felt so wrong to be calling her — they hardly knew one another, really, yet there was no one Vie wanted more to be with. There was a physical draw between the two of them — already, they had touched one another, held hands, and kissed. All of this — oddly innocent and spontaneous — something neither had anticipated. With Kate, Vie felt uninhibited. Their kiss in the shower had been sensual to the utmost. The sensation of Kate’s warm, wet lips took Vie outside of herself, disengaging her from the chronic hurt and fear in a way that the alcohol could not. When they kissed, there was no Kate and no Vie; it was just two women expressing their physicality without care or judgment, softly gliding into a space where all things were connected, expectations dissolving in the warm water.

Was Vie being unfaithful to Carl in all of this? Curiously, no. Carl was well aware of what was happening, and he not only accepted but welcomed it. He watched Vie’s transformation with rapt interest, admiring her ability to draw this beautiful younger woman into their orbit. All anyone could do, really, was to lay oneself bare — to gently receive the feelings, sounds, and scents that would be forthcoming. Anticipation had Vie vibrating from the top of her head to her fingertips. With eyes half-closed she feathered all that was in her mind with what was happening around her, chalky pastels blending the real and imagined to make all things bearable, if not pleasing.

Kate arrived at the ranch shortly after 5:00 p.m. bearing Chinese carryout and a bottle of pear Eau de Vie, a little gift to celebrate their four months as friends. The early fall air was deliciously cool and moist, so they bundled up in fleece jackets, stuck forks in each of their respective carryout containers, then headed out to the deck to enjoy their feast and the sunset. Once satiated, Vie went back into the kitchen to grab two grappa glasses and the beautiful bottle of Massenez Eau de Vie, with its “prisoner” pear in the bottle. Kate had boldly gone into the master bedroom to gather up the twin comforters from Vie and Carl’s beds, which she used to soften and warm the Adirondack chairs on the deck. Vie placed the Eau de Vie on the side table between the chairs and then filled their glasses. For a good hour, the women relaxed and sipped the delicate pear brandy, all the while enjoying the lights of the town below and the spectacle of bats swooping between the rafters on the deck. They talked at length about everything under the sun, including Carl, whom they both loved, Vie overtly, Kate secretly. He was very much on their mind as they stood to stretch, then embrace, each imagining his soft stomach and chest on their breasts, his heart-shaped lips gently sucking their nipples, his scratchy beard tickling their areoles. Even as they kissed one another, each thought of Carl’s welcoming mouth.

It was a beautiful night, the new moon and clear skies making it especially good for stargazing. Vie suggested they drag the mattress from the guest room out to the deck so they might comfortably lay on their backs while attempting to identify the constellations. As it turned out, neither woman knew anything about the night sky except to appreciate its beauty, so they turned their attention to one another, each slowly and gently removing the other’s clothing. With an index finger, Kate traced the curvature of Vie’s delicate breasts, stopping briefly to brush the back of her hand against nipples hardened by the cool night air. Vie reciprocated by delicately dipping a middle finger into Kate’s labia and holding it there, absorbing the warmth and moisture as she felt for the delicate nub of her clitoris.

The women were soon oblivious to the night sky and the bats and to the sounds of coyotes in the hills. They did, however, become very much aware of every path to pleasure on each other’s bodies. And for the better part of that dark night, Kate and Vie found themselves happily lost in the hills and valleys of each other’s tender, exquisite womanhood.