Also all of these designs are now available in classic tees, long-sleeved, women’s v-necks. tanks tops, hoodies, crewnecks, zip-ups and more! Oh also mugs and tote bags too. And if you guys use code SUBSTACK15, you’ll get 15% off your entire order :)

Oh, and as always, 10% of every purchase goes to one of a handful of really great causes, and before checkout, you get to pick which charity you support, so that’s pretty cool too!

And of course, all of the classic designs are still there too! And if you guys use code SUBSTACK15, you’ll get 15% off your entire order :) Love you!

Oh and we’ve also got Winterset Hollow stuff, if that’s your thing

Here’s that link again if you need it…

Good strong INK!

Chelsea was a lovely walk just as she remembered. Overstuffed with pretty little things and happy to have them. A few blocks that felt bigger than the rest, and all of it gossamer and granite. All of it mint. Every last window. Every crisp lapel and whitewashed stone too. Lovely, but not hers. Not Caitlin’s. She was no stranger, but even after so many years there, she didn’t feel like she knew it. Not really, anyway. It was just somewhere she’d lived. Another somewhere she used to stay.

She turned down Beaufort Street where her flat used to be. Not hers. Juliet’s. Where she used to stay. Her family had purchased the entire fifth floor just for her. For Juliet. The very top. Took it apart and put it back together to their taste, because it was near enough to the university and still had a good address. 9 Beaufort Street. Because it was something they could do, and Caitlin knew she was lucky to have lived there. The big pretty place right by the river.

The smell of it. Even just the smell of The Thames sent her. Sent her to something old that never seemed to fade. A voice. A mother. The you’re no better than they think you are. You need to make them want you. All of them. You need to make them look. Worthlessness like it was a season. The if you’re going to be daft, you better be pretty. Lean meals and how to keep your skin soft. The way you sit so they can see just enough to make them wonder. You have to make them look.

It was always with her, so she wasn’t sure why the river turned it fresh again. Why the thought of her years in the big pretty place on Beaufort Street made her remember herself so small there. A voice. A father. The don’t you ever say no to me. The you’re nothing without me. You stupid little wretch. Something against her cheek. Something she hated and sharp and the thought of going home. The don’t you ever forget it. Don’t you ever forget who gave you your name. Anyone on the other side of the door. Anyone. Even that.

Caitlin hurried to the water’s edge and found a little patch of nothing where she could watch the houseboats bob along with the tide, and held onto it with every kick of the river. Away but never too far. Away but never too far. Back again and she breathed. There was something about the thought of a life like that in the middle of the city. Something tethered and small enough to keep it all in front of her. About the old water and choosing what moved her. Even the smell of it.

The breeze blew and Caitlin wrapped herself in her coat like second skin. The fine wool. The wool that wasn’t hers. Khaki with the blue plaid and grey and plenty soft. She felt warm then and did a little twirl for the houseboats and no one else, and a second one at that. And after she’d turned again and come back around to where she’d been all this time, Caitlin reached into the bag she’d brought from the hotel and took from it a box. A hat box and fine at that.

It was nice enough, but its corners couldn’t hide that it was nothing new. Dog-eared and scuffed, and she opened it to find what she knew to be inside. What had always been inside. Robin’s egg blue and banded with flowers. Peonies and cherry blossoms laced with baby’s breath and more, and a single black orchid to make sure the other colors meant more. Just one to make them shine as they should.

She’d had it since her first year at school. Her first year in Chelsea and London too. She’d had it since she first lived with Juliet in the big pretty place on 9 Beaufort Street. The very top. A gift from their very first tea together. She’d had it since then. Since she was lucky to have a friend during the days when the weight of it all became too much and she felt so small. No taller than the grass by the river, really. That’s how long she’d had it.

* * *

The Egerton House was lovely too, but that was no surprise to anyone who’d ever been there. It had been lovely for a hundred years, and Caitlin had never seen a breath of it change except the flowers that were always fresh. The flowers that guarded the window boxes and grew above the entrance and hung over the door like willows. Blue and purple and everything from orange to red. Lily white and perfect pink too.

The ones in the atrium and the ones that lined the halls like good strong paper. That were set on the tables and pinned to every vest and had made the place famous. That were grown just for the tearoom where all the fine things were waiting to be seen. All of them with such smiles drawn in red, as if they’d never seen a sour day. As if there was nothing on their heels but fortune and the grace of it. And Caitlin felt cold without the sun then, even in her coat with the good wool. Even in her hat with the black orchid to help the others shine as they should.

“Caitlin Krum! How are you?”

It was Juliet, of course. Juliet at her favorite table, of course. Where the servers buzzed around her like she was the only light at all and threw themselves at her service. Where they watched her carry herself halfway across the room just to give her friend a hug. And they all saw it. Of course, they all saw it.

“How long has it been?” she said as she held Caitlin at arm’s length. She was so polished. Even her words. Even the sound of it. Every punch and every pause and every bit of red lipstick too. Her dress through to her skin and her back unnatural straight. Even her accent was just the right amount of posh. Just enough to make them wonder.

“I don’t know,” said Caitlin. “Five…six years? Christmas maybe?” She was unsure of even her own voice now. American and unfine in Juliet’s shadow.

“Yes! Christmas in New York. That must have been it.” Juliet led her to her table in the corner by fireplace. It was big enough for six, but it was just the two of them today. And the very moment they sat down, their tea was poured and three little towers of treats were set between them, and it wasn’t another moment before the scones arrived. The ones that were just as famous as the flowers. The ones on all the tables.

“How was your flight?” said Juliet.

“Slept most of the way honestly.”

“Only way to travel across the Atlantic these days,” she offered as she flagged down a server. “Can’t get good clotted cream back in the states, that much I do remember.”

“Can’t get good scones for the most part, either.”

“Less of a shame then, I suppose.” The cream arrived and they dressed their scones with heaps of the stuff, and Juliet took a bite and washed it all down. Even the way she ate. The way she tore away the perfect bite and knew it was just for her. How she cared for nothing but the taste of it and closed her eyes as if it was some missing piece.

“Can you believe all of this?” Juliet asked as she leaned in. “I mean, did you have any idea? All these years? Do you think they met when we were in school? Is that what—”

“Yes. I mean, they definitely did.”

“How can you be sure? Just seems like—”

“Because she told me…when I asked her. Haven’t you talked to your father about any of this? Have you even—”

“We haven’t spoken much lately,” said Juliet. “He’s just been so busy with everything plus the divorce plus the wedding plans. Life as an Amberly and all that.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be,” joked Caitlin. And even Juliet thought it was funny. But as Caitlin reached for her scone, she stopped short of a taste, because she found herself less than hungry. Maybe just a sip of tea instead.

“It’s just…my father and your mother? It’s just so unexpected, don’t you think?” They were the right words, but that didn’t make them easy on Caitlin’s heart, because she knew too well what they meant. Unexpected in so many ways. A sudden divorce and another woman from another world. A shakeup of a family that wasn’t used to being shaken. And all of it for some unfine thing.

“Well, I wouldn’t have put the two of them together either, if it makes you feel any better,” said Caitlin.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter much now. My father always gets his way,” Juliet continued between sips. “I hear the wedding will be during the holidays. Should be just lovely. We can get you fitted for a dress at Halden’s while you’re here. It’s where I’m getting mine, and they do the most wonderful—”

“Julie, you don’t need to—”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s the least I can do. I mean, it’s just so good to see you again. How’s New York these days?”

“Busy and loud,” said Caitlin.

“Mmm. Never quite got the hang of the place myself. Bit much.” She took another perfect bite and they all saw it. Of course they saw it. “Tell me, do you ever see Meghan anymore? She still in the city? Haven’t spoken to her since we left school.”

“We have lunch every few months, actually. Sometimes tea. Depends.”

“Well, at least you have the hat for it,” said Juliet as she wagged her chin at the thing atop Caitlin’s head. Robin’s egg blue with the one black orchid to make the others shine as they should. “You remember that day. Our first tea?”

“Of course I do.” Caitlin smiled and tried to keep it drawn, even as she could smell the river. A voice and another. Something against her cheek. Years of it until Juliet broke through again.

“And how is she? Meghan?”

“Busy and loud,” said Caitlin, and they shared a laugh then.

“She used to be so much fun.”

“It has been a long time since you’ve spoken to her, huh?”

“I’m trying to be kind,” offered Juliet.

“Well, you are being very kind.”

They each had another laugh and another sip, and soon Juliet arrived at something that seemed to be on her mind. “I know you love New York, but you know…there’s always London. Not quite so busy. Not quite so loud. Not quite as available for lunch. Better cream.”

Caitlin smiled because she felt she ought to. “I don’t think…I couldn’t.”

“You could though.”

“I just can’t pick up and move to—”

“You’ve done it before.”

“But I was eighteen,” said Caitlin. “I had nothing. No job. No apartment. No—”

“Your mum will be here. I’m here. You could even move back into the old flat. Father still owns the place, you know. Hasn’t been anyone there in years.” She saw Caitlin stiffen at the thought. Saw her feel no taller than the grass by the river. And noticed she hadn’t touched her scone at all. “Maybe a change wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“What do you mean?” Caitlin asked.

“It’s just that…” Juliet glanced around the room to make sure nobody was minding them too closely. “You’ve always seemed so troubled. So far from here. From everyone. Ever since I’ve known you, really.” Caitlin turned away, surprised that Juliet saw her so clearly, and a little embarrassed to be known like that. “You deserve to be happy. You know that, right? After all, you’re practically an Amberly now.”

“Oh, yes. The famously happy Amberlys,” Caitlin quipped as she wiped the corner of her eye. And even Juliet couldn’t help but laugh.

“Point taken. Just saying, it does have its perks.” There was silence between them then. And though it wasn’t agreement, it wasn’t refusal either, and Juliet was glad to have it. “So, Monday? Dress? Yes?” Caitlin nodded. “Brilliant. And as for the weekend, I booked you a spa out in—”

“You really don’t—”

“Please. It’s nothing, really. I was going to go myself, but something came up and it was too late to cancel. It’s a fabulous little place. Very exclusive.” She could sense Caitlin’s pride swelling. “Cate, this is a once in a lifetime thing. The massages alone will change your life. I’m not letting you say no.”

Caitlin considered it until her tea was refilled and a fresh plate of lemons was set just next to her cup. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” she said finally. “Why not, right?”

“Wonderful. And I see you already have the perfect jacket.” Juliet nodded at the khaki thing draped over Caitlin’s shoulders. The grey plaid with the blue. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in Burberry before.”

“That’s because you haven’t. It’s my mom’s, actually. I’m not above a hand-me-down, particularly a cashmere one.”

“It’s my mum’s, actually,” said Juliet.

“What?”

“My mum’s,” she said again. “Was, anyway. Wasn’t a gift from my father, was it?”

“Oh my god.” Caitlin melted.

“You’re just lucky he got to it before I did. Love a good plaid.” Juliet ate the last of her scone and rolled her eyes as it melted delicious on her tongue. “Doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re family now, Cate.”

Caitlin nodded, even if she didn’t believe it. Even in some borrowed coat and a gifted hat. Robin’s egg blue with one black orchid. Even where nothing ever changed but the flowers and the scones. The ones that made them famous on all the tables. The tables with all the pretty things and their smiles in red. Fortune and the grace of it.

* * *

The next morning, Caitlin took the high-speed line right to the Gare du Nord. It was nothing new, as she and Juliet had taken that same train dozens of times during their years at school. It was nothing for her to trade a weekend in Chelsea for a trip to her family’s flat in Paris, and it was nothing for Caitlin to tag along. Those were fine days in the city of lights, and even the cobblestones felt different and the bread fresh. An ocean away with the good butter and crooked streets. Away but never too far. Back again and she breathed.

Caitlin didn’t know where she was going, but she was sure that was very much the point. Juliet and her little secrets were nothing new, either. Little things that weren’t for everybody. Not Caitlin, anyway. It was a short ride from the station into the city, and she felt freer in the thick of it. An ocean away where she couldn’t smell the Thames and might find some easier sleep.

The Amberlys’ apartment was properly in the heart of the sixth arrondissement just along the river Seine. Some beautiful old penthouse. Some perfect spot in some perfect place. It had been so long since she’d been there that it shook Caitlin like the very first time. When she barely knew Juliet at all and was lonely and far from home. When she was grateful for a friend and thrilled to be invited anywhere, let alone Paris. Let alone some perfect place by the good river.

She almost said no, because Juliet was sour then. When they first met at school. Shaken and bent up. Silent on the train and so far from anywhere on the drive in. Tucked away inside her big coat and darkest sunglasses. Caitlin always wondered how she managed to let it all go. How even that seemed easy for her. How she found herself again somewhere outside the city that weekend. Somewhere during their first days together. Days when she first sat with her at the Egerton and knew she had a friend.

The days when Caitlin came to understand just how big the world was and how old a family could be. A name. A name in a life where she barely even knew her own grandmother and found herself in another place every few years. Another address and everything in boxes again. Found herself an ocean away on scholarship and borrowed time. Days when she first saw how deep some roots could grow, and how fiercely they hooked themselves to the earth. The portraits and the old maps. The antique furniture and the family crests too.

She could feel it even now as she ran her fingers along the balcony rail that kept her from falling into the good river. As she watched the dinner cruises roll by and the street performers play their games until the sun set good and heavy over the city. Until the lights came up and there were a thousand stars on the ground too and she needed her coat again. The grey plaid with the blue. A name. A name and sturdy thread. And things that had never been in boxes at all.

* * *

Caitlin woke early and took her breakfast in the little café across the street. She knew precious little about the day, but the thought of a weekend away was sweet enough to tame her coffee, which was just as strong as she’d hoped. Strong enough to keep her there by the good river. It was lovely and romantic there, but even Caitlin knew the truth was surely far from that. Knew the street performers probably thought otherwise and heard their voices too. And just as she finished her last sip of the stuff, a limousine pulled to a stop in front of her table. It was beautiful and bespoke and older than the rest. Different and made of real steel and wild lines, and the windows were clear glass and pure like crystal.

The driver walked around to the curb side to present herself, and she wasn’t at all what Caitlin expected. She was young and beautiful with her hair pulled back, and her sharp black suit fit her just like her driving gloves. She was so stunning that Caitlin couldn’t help but catch her eye, and as if to answer the only question she cared to ask, the chauffeur dipped her head.

“Madame,” she said with a thick French drawl. She opened the back door and stood still like old stone. “Madame, we must be on our way.” And with a wave of her hand, she ushered Caitlin inside, and watched her settle into the quilted leather and wood that was waiting just for her.

They were quickly on their way, and as the big limousine took the cobblestones with ease, Caitlin asked, “Where are we going?”

“To the country, Madame.”

“The country?”

“Yes, Madame.” The chauffeur caught her unease in the mirror and smiled. “Are you comfortable?” Caitlin nodded, though she was far from it. She felt lucky again and the weight of it. Of being picked. She had a hundred questions on her tongue, but she knew it was no use asking about little secrets and names and strong thread. Not for Caitlin, anyway. Not for her.

* * *

They took the back roads, so there was none of the witless grey that stained the highways that ran between the bigger cities. Only comely farmland and ragged little streets through the hamlets on the countryside like molehills. Only sun streaking through the canopies and fields of old vines and patchwork stone churches. And though they were moving faster than the roads should allow, none of it felt wrong or rushed. Back again and she breathed.

Caitlin had never seen this side of France before. Everything seemed so permanent, as if it was grown from the same simple seed. It was all so beautiful, and part of her hoped she could stay there on the other side of it all with the trees and the good hills and never need anything badly enough to stop. But after some hours, they pulled to the side of the road, and she heard the engine fade. Some road or another. And though it was still beautiful and she was glad to have it, Caitlin couldn’t see anything that looked like a reason at all.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yes, Madame,” said the chauffer as she opened Caitlin’s door and ushered her out. It was all forest and grass. Thicket and weeds and sky. Everything but a reason.

“Where are we?”

“Just outside of Avignon, Madame.”

“Is this…where we’re going?” The driver only nodded. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” said the Chauffeur. “This is an old place. Much older than Paris.”

It was less than an answer, but it was enough for Caitlin to look for one. And as her gaze fell back along the trees, she caught the very edge of a shape. Something unnatural. Two straight lines and a curve that surely weren’t made by the earth and the sun. An arch.

It was there, but it was just another piece of the woods now. Covered in moss and vines and patterned with lichens. Stones that had seen so much wind and rain they’d been rounded smooth like river rocks. She was sure it was young and sharp once, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was always meant to be this way. More itself with every storm. And when she looked back at her chauffer, she was sent on her way with another wave of her hand.

Caitlin stepped through and found a wooly path. It was hopelessly overgrown, but the vines overhead gave her shelter from the sun, and the weeds underfoot cushioned her heels. And good god, the air was sweet. Sweeter with every step, even. Soon, she came upon a home, or what was left of one. It looked to be just a single room, but even that wasn’t certain, as the walls had been worn down to little nubs by time and more. And the earth around them was rotten with sand that was once good stone.

But Caitlin was sure it wasn’t for her. The house, anyway. Something from another time. Something for another soul entirely. It was nothing now. A ghost. And as she looked clean through it, she saw a great tangle of branches just beyond. And in that tangle, she saw an opening. A doorway. And on the other side of it all she saw sun and golden fields, and the sky and the earth seemed at peace. At peace just for her.

It was an endless garden, brilliant and wild. Fiery blooms and rolling green hills. Ragged little hedges and great trees to give just the right amount of shade to the plants that didn’t crave the sun. It was fields of sunflowers and it was seedheads thick along the shores of every stream, and it was dandelions in the wind too. Carrying their little secrets away. It was wild, but Caitlin wouldn’t have changed it for anything. As if every piece of green and brown and more had fallen just where it was supposed to grow.

There was no end to it. No boundaries, yet Caitlin was sure she was properly in the middle. Like it was growing around her, and she let herself sink into it and felt fortunate. And she knew she was seeing something for the very first time again. And in very moment she stopped wondering where she was, she heard a rustling. And saw a stranger tending to a rosebush.

It was big and burly and dotted with pale pink flowers. And it had been left wild for ages, so it had grown knotted and impossible, and much of it was dying. And the stranger was caring for it as best she could, on her knees with her hands on its heart. And without even looking behind her, she said, “You must be Caitlin.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“I have been expecting you. Come,” said the stranger, beckoning with a wag of her chin. “Are you a gardener?” she asked. “Do you grow many things?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t even keep a weed alive let alone a rose.”

“There is little difference in the end. Roses are hard to kill, but also hard to grow strong and red. Come, look,” she said. She held a branch that was rich with little offshoots, and took her time stripping it clean with her hands. And when she was done, there was nothing left but a single bud. One lovely thing to grow and nothing else.

“You must choose,” she said. “There is only so much sun, you see. Only so much rain. The rest will take it if you let them, so you must choose. This is the work we do in the garden. This is our work.” She reached into the bush again and snapped off a smaller branch that was growing too near the other. “The closer to your flower, the better. You must cut close to the bone, you see?”

She stuffed the trimmings in her satchel and rose to meet her guest. “I am Margaret.” She was on in her years and young at the same time. Grey hair and porcelain skin. A strong back and deep smile lines that somehow didn’t age her a bit. Like she too was grown from some old seed.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Caitlin.

“And I you. Come. Let us walk.” Caitlin fell into stride beside her, and the two of them were alone with the rest of it and there was no path at all. And as Caitlin brushed the very top of the tall grass with her fingertips, she found a strange peace. A peace that was met only by Margaret’s pride. “It is a wonderful place, no?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It is my life’s work. It will never be finished, but that does not mean I’m not pleased with it. We do our best, here in the garden. I could teach you, if you like. It’s not as hard as people think. But you must be willing to choose.” Margaret stopped and turned to face her. She took both of Caitlin’s hands and smiled deep and honest. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it? You’ve come to shed a burden, no?”

That wasn’t at all why she’d come. But Margaret seemed so sure that Caitlin believed it. Like she’d spoken some truth she just hadn’t seen until the words left her lips. It was the way Margaret saw her. The way she looked past her eyes and down into her heart, and didn’t balk at what she found there. And as Caitlin felt her eyes grow glassy, she said only, “Yes.”

Margaret nodded. “Come,” she said again.

They walked without another word between them, because it had all been said. And by the time they found themselves deep in the sunflower sea, Caitlin wasn’t sure if they’d traveled meters or miles. Seasons or seconds. The tide was up to her waist, and she would’ve let the undertow take her if she could. Pull her out to some wonderful other that was surely just beyond the meadows.

In time, they came upon a cluster of elder trees that had been bent crooked and twisted together by the winds. A great dome. Their branches were one impossible nest after all this time, and Caitlin couldn’t tell where one stopped and the rest began. It was beautiful architecture, but also nothing of the sort. Broken and perfect. Away but never too far.

Margaret motioned for Caitlin to enter, and inside she found a cathedral made with no stone. Some sacred thing. Branches that spidered through the walls like old lead. And where there should have been lovely stained glass, there were orchids of every color, and so thick she wasn’t even sure of the sun anymore. Rose pinks and whites. Yellows and fiery reds. Little secrets.

She reached for the wall to touch the truth of it, and heart swelled to feel the orchids were still alive. All of them. The violets and lively greens too. Alive and growing from the branches, as if the trees themselves were made of good rich soil. Caitlin leaned in, and the breeze kicked up to help her breathe them in. And before she even felt herself move, she plucked a pure white flower from the wall, and put it to her nose.

“Very good,” said Margaret. “White. Yes.”

She led Caitlin to the middle of the place where a clay pot was set over a fire. Margaret sat her down on a bed of leaves and made sure she was comfortable. And once the fire had been stoked and the pot was boiling, she reached into her satchel and set the trimmings from the rosebush inside. And soon, the scent of strong tea filled the air, and Caitlin found herself again in some lovely place among the flowers.

“Has…has Juliet been here? My friend. She’s the one who—”

“Yes,” interrupted Margaret. “Yes, of course. Your friend is from a very old family. Older than even they remember. When the world was so much smaller. When our gardens were still sacred and we didn’t need their help to keep them safe.”

“You know them? The Amberlys?”

“Yes, of course,” she said again. “As I know you. As I know the roses, too. Strange thing, families. The way they choose. The things they hold onto.” She dipped a whittled wooden cup into the pot and handed it to Caitlin, who sniffed it and found it sweet. But when she raised it to her lips, Margaret stopped her. “Not yet.” She waited for the wind to whistle through the branches and cool the steaming brew. “You must speak it,” she said.

“Speak it?”

“Yes. Why you have come. You must understand, they already know. There is nothing you can teach them. Nothing new you can show them.” The wind came again, and the walls came alive as the flowers danced. Oranges and deep purples too. Caitlin did feel some comfort in that. In how they saw her. And as she looked down at the little white orchid still in her hand, she spoke.

“I want to be free of it.” Even the smell of the river. Even that.

Margaret smiled again, but there was no joy in it this time. There was only understanding and reluctant grace. She put her hand under Caitlin’s cup and guided it to her lips, and once it was empty, Margaret laid her down on her bed of leaves, and whispered to her some little secret.

* * *

She lived years of it that night. Since her first time at tea. Since even then. A voice. A mother. The you don’t want to be lonely forever, do you? The if they don’t want you, you’re nothing. A voice. A father. The you’re nothing without me. My name. You stupid little wretch. Something against her cheek. Something she hated and sharp and the thought of going home. A voice. A boy. The you don’t know what you want anyway. The just relax. You’re always all done up so nice and a weight on her chest. Sour breath and loneliness like it was a reason.

She lived years of it that night. And when she woke, she was still in the cathedral, and Margaret was still at her side. She wasn’t sure how long it had been, but it was long enough for the orchid in her hands to wither and turn black. It was sickly now, and heavier than it had any right to be. And the sight of it took her breath.

“You have seen such a flower before?” asked Margaret. Caitlin nodded, because it was all she could bring herself to do. A single black orchid to make the rest shine as they should. “Tell me, where have you seen it?”

“It was…it was given to me,” she managed.

“I see.” She smiled strangely proud. “Then you know the truth of it.” Margaret dug her hands into the earth and smothered the fire with it, and wiped what was left on her apron. “This is the work we do in the garden. There is only so much sun. Come.”

They left the trees and stepped back out into the light, and Margaret seemed to grow ten years younger just by finding the garden’s rays again. They walked for a season or a moment. A meter or a thousand miles. And in time, they came upon the rosebush again, and Caitlin saw something new among the pale pink bloom. A flower strong and red.

“Do you see? This is the work we do. This is the choice we must make.” Margaret took her by the hand and helped her raise the newly black orchid to her nose. “Heavy, no?” And without another word, she waded back into the sunflower sea, and disappeared below the tide. And it smelled so rotten sweet.

* * *

New York was just as she remembered. The bustle of it. It had only been a few weeks since she’d left, but already it felt like she was only visiting. Another somewhere she used to live. Even the Marion didn’t feel like hers anymore. Not Caitlin’s, anyway. It was artless compared to the Egerton and the flowers weren’t as bright, but the service was fine enough, and the tea was mostly fresh. And there were pretty things there too, but they didn’t have the same spark of red to their smiles.

It was Caitlin’s turn to wait then. At the table by the window where she could watch them all scatter from the rain and curse their luck. Where she could stay dry and know a secret as they felt it through their coats. And even Meghan was just one of them then. Wet from head to heel when she found her way into the tearoom. And when Caitlin carried herself halfway across the room just to give her a hug, they all saw it. Of course, they all saw it.

“It is so good to see you,” she said.

“Good to see you too,” Meghan answered, surprised by the affection. “How was London?” They settled into their seats and Caitlin poured them both some tea.

“Fun but exhausting. Was really good to see Juliet again though.”

“How’s she doing? Haven’t really talked to her since school,” said Meghan with something bitter on her tongue.

“Same as ever. Why would she be any different?”

Meghan rolled her eyes. “Must be nice.”

The scones arrived, and Caitlin spread hers with jam and heaps of it. “The jam is just so good over there. I’m sure you remember.” And as she set her knife down, Caitlin’s gaze fell to the box at her feet. And even its corners couldn’t hide that it was nothing new. Dog-eared and scuffed.

“Guess you two will be seeing more of each other with your parents getting hitched and all,” Megan managed as she took her first sip. “I mean, you’re practically an Amberly now.”

“I don’t know about all that.” Caitlin stirred her cup for nothing. “Actually, I did want to tell you something though. I…I’ve decided I’m moving at the end of the month.”

“Moving? Where?”
“London.”

“London?!” Meghan barked as she choked back her tea.

“I know, I know. It sounds crazy, but my mom will be there and—”

“No, it doesn’t sound crazy. It’s just…unexpected.” There it was. And it settled strange on her heart again. “You have so much here. Do you have a job lined up? Do you—”

“I’ll find one,” interrupted Caitlin.

“Do you even have a place to stay?” Caitlin left it unanswered, and Meghan sat back in her seat and left her tea on the table to grow cold. And the bend in her brow said everything she thought better of. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through? Just seems like you’re leaving a lot behind.”

“I know.” Caitlin looked away to the flowers that weren’t as bright as the ones at the Egerton. And the pretty things that weren’t as fine too. And as she did, the rain faded away and the sun broke back through the sky, and a single ray fell through the window and across their table. “Sometimes you just have to choose, I guess.”

Meghan was still uneasy, but gave herself a moment to soften. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she said. “You always were the lucky one. The best friends. The best flat. I mean, that place right by the river was just…” Even the smell of it. Even that.

“Lucky,” Caitlin said, almost to herself. “You know, the lucky ones don’t always deserve it.”

“Of course they don’t. That’s what makes them lucky.”

“I suppose that’s true.” They sipped their tea and tried to smile, and when the silence turned too loud to bear, Caitlin set her box on the table. A hat box and fine. “I brought you something.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did.” She opened it and it was such a pretty thing. Robin’s egg blue and banded with flowers. Peonies and cherry blossoms laced with baby’s breath and more, and even two black orchids to make sure the other flowers were as bright as they ought to be. Two rotten things and heavy. Two little secrets.

“It’s beautiful,” said Meghan.

“For tea.”

Meghan put it on her head, and it sat just right. And she made a show of picking up her cup and taking the daintiest little sip. And as she set it down again, she heard something strange in the clink of the porcelain. Something new that had always been there. A voice. And even though her throat ran dry with it, all she could think to say was, “Thank you. I love it.”

“It was nothing,” said Caitlin. “Really.” She broke off a perfect little piece of her scone, and took a perfect little bite, and closed her eyes as it melted delicious on her tongue. Back again and she breathed. And when she came round again, Caitlin Krum dipped her hand in the only bit of sun that had found its way through the window, and it was warm like summer and lovely.

I’ve been screaming/crying/throwing up about it for weeks now! Which is so much fun! And not to put too fine a point on it, but preorders are so so important to a book’s success, and on a completely unrelate note, I love each and every one of you so so much 👉👈

So if you’re thinking about picking up a copy when it gets released, why not preorder it now? That way you’ll almost certainly forget all about it and then BOOM you’ve got a nice little surprise waiting for you on October 6^th! What could possibly go wrong?

Now, you don’t need to order a copy to enter this super awesome giveaway, but you DO need to sit through this short timeshare sales presentation first. So, what’s this book even about? Have people read it? What’s with the rabbit? Did they enjoy it? Well…

A few years ago, I self-published a scrappy, weird, twisty little story with a bunny on the cover because the industry just couldn’t figure out what to do with it. Well, I guess they finally figured it out, because a fancy big-city publisher (hi, Hachette) is releasing it in October!

A.M. Shine, author of THE WATCHERS, called it “The rarest kind of masterpiece and one of the most original works of horror that I’ve ever read.”

Diana Gabaldon, Author of OUTLANDER, called it “Astonishingly powerful and multilayered! One of the most unusual things l’ve read in years!”

Indies Today called it “A symphonic masterpiece of literature! An exquisite blend of horror, suspense, and fantasy!”

My grandmother called it “That rabbit book you wrote”

My editor called it “The thing that finally convinced me to use my vacation days”

Talking rabbits everywhere called it “Another baseless exploitation of our culture from another sad human.”

And other people had words too!

But what’s it actually about? Great question!

Winterset Hollow follows a group of friends on a pilgrimage to the abandoned estate of the author of their favorite book, a timeless old story about a community of animals scrambling to save their yearly Barley Day feast.

But when they arrive to pay their respects to the book that changed their lives. They discover the story isn’t done with them yet, and that so much of what the world has always believed to be fiction, is actually fact. And that the history behind this book, and the man who wrote it, and even the characters on the pages, is far darker than they ever could have imagined.

Great stories live forever, but their readers don’t. And Barley Day just wouldn’t be Barley Day without a hunt.

And if you’ve already read “Winterset Hollow,” don’t worry! There’s something in this new edition JUST for you, because I’ve written the ENTIRE book-within-the-book, and it’s included as an addendum in this new version! That’s right! Not only do you get MY version of Winterset Hollow, but you get Addington’s version of Winterset Hollow too! That’s like TWO whole books! And what’s better than that?!

So if you’re thinking about picking up a copy, it would mean a lot to me if you’d consider preordering from your bookseller of choice! It’s available in paperback, E-book, and audio book too! Oh, and I thiiiiink it’s available as an ALC from LibroFM right now? So that’s cool! And if you’d like a handy-dandy link to make your life easier, well here you go…

Preorder Winterset Hollow Here!

Now, as for that timeshare, er, giveaway…just comment HOLLOW on this post, and next week I’ll pick three of you at random and send off your signed posters, and I’ll even personalize them if you want. And don’t worry if you’re not in the U.S., I’ll cover the shipping!

Love you guys. And thanks for everything. And Happy Barley Day!

“FROM WAY UP HERE”

It should’ve been such a simple thing. A visit. A drive through the beautiful bits where she never lived. Not Sarah, anyway. All she ever knew of the place were her mother’s mentions of the farm or back home or upstate. Little words. It was never anything more than that, so when she finally saw its edges and found them beautiful, Sarah couldn’t understand why there weren’t stories and memories and pictures too. Why she never heard about the patchwork hills and strong old trees set crooked by the winds. Or the sky, big and broad-shouldered and wild.

It should’ve been such a simple thing. A drive. But there was something strange in the car with them. Something that wasn’t there until they were good and gone from home and on their way to wherever they were going, and Sarah’s mother, Claire, was running herself ragged trying to stay out of its way. She was exhausted then, her knuckles white on the wheel and her eyes glued north and red. Exhausted with her lips pursed and dry, and her skin oily from the stress of it. And even when she caught herself looking sour and smiled and tried and make it all feel different, neither of them believed it.

So Sarah did what she always did when things felt strange, and filled whatever space she could with lines and color. Little things to draw. Things to stay her hands and more. She wasn’t precious about it, because she’d learned how useless that was, so it was just a cheap spiral notebook and whatever pens she found lying around their little apartment. Blue, black, and red pens. They weren’t fine like the colored pencils she’d sometimes get for her birthday, or bold like the markers she’d sneak away from school, but Sarah understood there were blue, black, and red times. Even at her age, she understood.

Claire was all babble and unsilent stuff. All speak first. She had said so much since they left home, but none of it stayed beyond the moment. None of it settled anywhere that mattered. None of her hopeful, nervy little things anyway. She hardly took a breath until they found a corner store that looked kept enough for a quick rest. And once she cut the engine off and even its constant rumble was gone, it was just the two of them and the scenery and things she should’ve said. The unlittle things.

“That’s very pretty,” she said to Sarah as she looked over her drawing. It was a girl in blue, black, and red. A girl with a long braid tucked over her shoulder just like Sarah, and behind her were wild hills and a wide-open sky. “Is that you?” Sarah only shrugged as she began to draw a second figure just next to her. “And who’s that gonna be?”

“A friend. So she doesn’t get lonely. It’s not done yet though.”

“Oh yeah? Like a brother and sister or something?” Claire didn’t even wait for an answer before she rolled her window down and tucked a cigarette between her lips. “You know, when I was your age, my mom used to tell me a story about a brother and sister. Famous ones too. You ever hear about Julie and James Crumb?” Claire lit the thing and took a grateful drag, and she didn’t even see Sarah shake her head.

“See, they lived together in this little house. And there was this storm, right? Bad one.” She began digging in her purse for something, clumsy and frantic, and was only paying anything else half her mind. “And they got scared and didn’t wanna see it anymore, so they closed their eyes. And then the roof started leaking, and they didn’t know what to do and it kept getting worse and…” Claire trailed off when she realized Sarah was long past listening. “Been a long time since I heard it, actually. Maybe we can ask your grandma how it goes when we get there. Maybe she’ll even take us to see the horses, wouldn’t that be fun?”

Sarah nodded and Claire left her to her pens. She took her time in the restroom like always, and while she was gone, Sarah wandered over to a picnic table on the edge of the lot, and was glad to find a sturdy desk after so many hours on the road. Something stable in the sun. And when Claire returned and sat down beside her, she seemed somehow brighter and healthier than when she left. Adjusted, even. And not at all the person she was back in the car.

She seemed herself again. Herself from years ago and moments since. Gone were the nervous edgy bits, and gone was the need to be unsilent too. Instead, Claire sat there in the sun and stroked her daughter’s hair. Combed it with her fingers and braided it again. And it was lovely then. And for a moment, it didn’t feel like they were on their way to anywhere else at all, and she was sure she would’ve stayed there forever if she could. She would’ve given anything to stay. And the only words she said were, “You know I love you, right?” And Sarah nodded. Because she did know. Of course she knew. And that should’ve been such a simple thing too.

* * *

The orchard looked nothing like Sarah imagined it would. It was far larger, and even from a distance, she could see it was all very squared away. Big long lines in the earth and countless rows of trees. Big machines to farm them too. It looked like different days, all red and green and brown. All hills and fields and sky. Like so much more than just back home. Than just a few little words.

It looked nothing like she imagined, right down to the little sparks of white. The apple flowers that covered the canopies like some late-spring snow, stark pale and perfect. It never occurred to Sarah that trees had flowers. Not like this, anyway. And it was all she could see, even as Claire pointed out the window and answered a hundred questions Sarah never asked. Even as they drove past the barn and the tractor shed and pulled to a stop in front of the old farmhouse on top of the big hill. Even as Claire sat there silent with her hand still on her keys.

There was somebody waiting for them on the porch of course. She was kindly and on in her years, and she welcomed them with a smile and a friendly wave. “That grandma?” Sarah asked. And Claire only nodded. And it wasn’t long before a boy about Sarah’s age slipped out the front door and joined her, and he seemed kind enough too.

Marion wasted no time in hurrying over to the car. She was gray and unashamed of her days in the sun, and wore them in every wrinkle and every wispy-white hair. Every bit of threadbare denim too. She smiled easy and her eyes beamed blue, and she opened the passenger door and crouched down to get a better look at Sarah. “You are so much prettier than in your pictures, you know that?” And only after she brushed some loose hairs back from Sarah’s face did she think to ask, “How was the drive?”

“Fine,” said Claire. “Missed the traffic getting out of the city.”

“Bet you are just aching to stretch your legs,” Marion said as she helped Sarah out of the car. “And a tall drink of water too.”

“Where do you want the bags?” asked Claire.

“Spare room is fine,” said Marion. “Your father should be in soon. Told him you’d be here about now. Been out fussin’ with the bees all day.”

“Bees?” asked Sarah.

“Yup! Bees! See, we need a little help with the trees sometimes. So we make a little phone call to a few thousand of our closest friends, the bees! Wanna meet ‘em? They’ve been askin’ about you all week, you know.”

And of course she did. Of course she wanted to meet the bees. And Claire gave her a little nod, because of course it was okay. And she smiled a little smile that soon faded into something else. And as Sarah took her grandmother’s hand, Claire waved goodbye. And she said it more to herself than anything this time. Nervy, unsilent little words. “You know I love you, right?”

* * *

They talked about things that didn’t matter at all, and neither of them wanted for anything different then. Marion seemed warm and wise and present, and Sarah felt calm in her shadow, just as she did in the cool of the trees. They walked up over the big orchard hill and down the other side, and even though it was the very heart of the day, the leaves were so thick they hardly saw the sun at all. And hardly felt a breath of wind either.

It was all so different than the city. The sky and the land and the people too. The workers, anyway. They were some other thing entirely, weather-stained and strong. They were careful with their business, but somehow free about it too. Unbothered about what the day or the month or the year might bring, because it was all the same as it ever was. As it ever would be. Seasons and harvests. Fruit and flowers and dead trees too. Old and new, it made little difference. Old and new and old again.

Even the bees seemed to like it up here on the farm. They weren’t shunted into little nests like they were back home. They weren’t made to be villains and run from either. Rather they lived in big stacks of hives that were built just for them, and tended by keepers who treated them like precious enough things. They calmed them when they needed to be calmed, and let them fly when they needed to fly, and of course they had their pick of apple flowers too. The stark white ones on all the trees. And it wasn’t until the walk back that Marion finally asked Sarah a question that mattered. And even that seemed easier way up here.

“So, what do you think?” she said. It was such a simple question, and Sarah gave a simple nod. “Pretty great, yeah? Been in your granddad’s family a hundred years, give or take. Best apples around, of course we’re a little partial. And it’s all yours for the summer. Well, you and the bees anyway.” They arrived back atop the hill and looked out over the valley. And Sarah was sure she could’ve seen all the way back to the city if only she was a little taller. “You know, your mama used to love it up here. Could barely keep her in the house when she was your age. Always somewhere else she’d rather be.”

Sarah’s shoulders fell at the thought, and Marion put her arm around her. “She’s gonna be fine, I promise. Just needs a little time to get better. Some things you can’t figure out at home, you know? It’s the best thing for her. For you too. For all of us.” Sarah looked up at Marion and found sincerity and more. Strange grace and comfort too. And for a moment, the bees and the flowers and the strong old men didn’t seem so unfamiliar. And the thought of a summer didn’t feel so long.

But when they arrived back at the farmhouse, Claire’s car was already gone. And Sarah’s bags were already in the spare room on the bed. And dinner was already in the oven. And though it smelled better than the dinners at home and the house was ten times bigger than their apartment, Sarah felt like she had missed something along the way. Some season entirely. And at the end of it was a place she didn’t know. And a room she’d never slept in. And a bed she was told was hers for a while.

And her sketchbook was already waiting for her too. She wasn’t even sure who brought it in from the car, but it was right there on her bed with her pens. Blue, black, and red pens. And she was happy with her picture, even if it was messy from all the bumpy roads. And she was glad the girl with the braid had a friend now, even if she still wasn’t sure it was her. But Sarah didn’t feel much like drawing anymore, and dinner was almost ready. So she tucked the thing away under her bed with her empty bags, and left to join the others at the table. And that should’ve been such a simple thing too.

* * *

Sarah rather liked her cousin, Teddy. He was funny and free and over the moon to have someone his age around for the summer, and Sarah felt very much the same. This wasn’t his first time on the farm, so he was happy to show her the finer points of wasting time way up here. The good machines to play on and the trees with the best branches for climbing. The perfect place to sit and watch the storms when they rolled in, and even the little pond behind the house just before the tall grass. Even the shady spot under the big oak where they could listen to the frogs and dangle their feet over the water. Even that.

“Your toes are weird.”

“Your toes are weird,” she shot back.

“Not like yours.” Teddy pointed, and they did seem strange next to his. Her two biggest ones long and bony and crooked just at the end.

“Just ‘cause they’re different doesn’t mean they’re weird.”

“Does your mom have ‘em?” he questioned.

“I mean…no.”

“Well, my mom doesn’t have ‘em either. And neither do I.”

“So?” she snapped.

“So, that means they’re weird. No big deal. Just got weird toes is all.”

She stared daggers at the water until Teddy bumped shoulders with her and smiled, and Sarah found herself disarmed in a way that made her feel foolish in the best of ways. Teddy wasn’t above a little teasing, but he never left it there to rot. He never let it settle too heavy on her heart, because it just wasn’t in his nature to be mean. Teddy was a gem and plenty hard to tarnish. Forever taking her by the hand and rushing her out of the house to somewhere new. Somewhere brighter. Somewhere without the creak of old wood and the bother of other people’s dust. And after the sun had tucked itself away, it was Teddy that showed her the brand-new sky.

She’d seen stars before, of course, but not without the light from the city to tame them. Not way up here where they were unafraid and too many to count. Not like this.

“See the bear?” said Teddy, tracing a figure in the sky.

“No. Where?”

“There. See the thing that looks like a big spoon? That’s the body and the tail. And then—”

“Bears have tails?” she said.

“Little ones, I think? I dunno. Never seen one.” He studied it all for a moment before pointing somewhere else. “There’s another one, look! That’s a way better bear. See, he’s roaring and everything.”

“That’s just a bunch of stars,” said Sarah.

“Nah, you just gotta fill it in a little.” He painted for her then. Brushed his finger through the black of it until he saw the seed of a smile. “See. Way better bear.” He showed her every creature he could find until his finger was too tired to paint anymore, and with a splash of his foot, he said, “You think it’s deep?”

“Deep? I don’t…”

Teddy jumped in the pond, clothes and all. And then there was nothing. Nothing but the wake of his impulse rippling out to the edges. And even that began to fade. And grow quiet. Until Sarah wondered where he had gone.

“Teddy?” she said. “Teddy?” she asked again. But again, there was nothing. She peered over the edge, but the water was too brackish and it was too dark for her to see anything beyond the surface. “Hey, if you’re just—”

Teddy erupted from below, and Sarah shrieked. And when she had settled herself again, she thought it funny to see him standing there with the water not even up to his waist. “Not real deep,” was all he said. And she was sure even the frogs were laughing with them.

* * *

There was plenty of fun to be had on the farm, but plenty of work to be done too, and Marion was always sure to cut away a little piece of it to keep them all busy. Once the bees had done their jobs, the little flowers began to fall, and the fruit began to grow. And it was time to cut some of the new growth back so the rest of it had room and sun enough to turn sweet and big and red.

Each day, Marion picked a tree, and the three of them worked it until it was ready for the growing season. Sarah and Teddy up in the higher branches and Marion on her ladder. And soon enough, the ground would be covered in clippings and what was left of the little white flowers. It was good work and they were happy to do it, and at the end of the day there was always a treat waiting for them back at the house. A piece of zucchini bread or a bit of apple crumble. Berries and cream and all.

But that was only a taste of the work, and there was so much more they simply couldn’t do. Harder things and toil. Grownup things. And if Marion was the heart of the farm, Sarah’s grandfather, Robert, was surely the roots. He was no bigger than she was really, but he carried himself as if he was ten times her size, and acted like he was forever pulling ten times the weight.

He worried about the things the others didn’t, because it was his crop and not theirs. His farm and his name. Simple things that wouldn’t make a bit of difference anywhere but land that kept him fed. Harvests and yield. Water and wind. A single night’s frost or a beetle from the next county over. Even a week of rain where there should’ve been sun. Simple things.

He was self-serious as they come and wore it like a challenge. Dangled it from his lip like a cigarette until they all made room for it. Until the men straightened their backs when his truck kicked up dust from the hill, and the others grew quiet when they heard the floorboards whine under his weight. Until they all said nothing about the nicotine stains his fingers left on all the doors, and knew they never would.

“Back here for lunch and supper. Every day, rain or shine. And your time might be free, but mine isn’t, so be in your seat before I am. And don’t be trackin’ nothing through the kitchen. Your grandma doesn’t need to be cleanin’ all that up.” Marion smiled an uncomfortable little smile and poured herself some tea, and Sarah could only glance nervously at their lunch, which was still in the middle of the table waiting for them to take what they needed for their plates.

She only looked up when Robert blew one last breath of smoke her way. And once he was sure she was paying attention, he smothered the rest of the thing in his ashtray. Pressed it long and steady into the glass, and held it there as if he was trying to burn a hole clean through to the other side. And when he was done, he served himself some chicken and rice and a spoonful of greens too. And Marion poured his tea for him. And Sarah tucked her feet away under her chair, because she was sure her shoes were still dirty from the day.

Sarah was careful not to test her grandfather, but Teddy could never help himself. He never pushed him on purpose, but he was just a boy and never had any designs on being anything else, so he was often forgetful and clumsy and loud. Messy and unwise and boorish too. And often when Robert had a sour day, and they didn’t know any better from way up on the hill. And there were sharp words then. Words Sarah didn’t understand and knew she wasn’t meant to. Words she was glad she didn’t know.

There were silences then too, but only when Robert wanted them. Only when his seasons changed from outburst to apology and he needed room to feel better about it all. Robert often grew sorry too, though he never said as much. Never said it at all, really. Rather, it was always just time on the porch and a sunset after the day was gone. A cigarette on the rocker bench where there was room enough for Teddy too. And once it was proper dark and the rest of the place was quiet, there was always hand on his shoulder. And a rub of his back. And an arm around his waist. And even that was sharp. A sharp little touch.

That was a long night and hot, and it wasn’t easy to sleep with the air so heavy and the wind so still. And the covers seemed a hundred times thicker than the night before. And even opening the window didn’t help. And when Sarah grew tired of waiting for Teddy to come to bed and didn’t feel much like being alone anymore, she snuck out for a glass of something cool to wash it all down, and found the house quieter than it ought to be.

There was nobody in the kitchen, and even the rocker bench out on the porch was empty now. And when Sarah poked her head outside, there was nothing but bullfrogs and lightning bugs. Katydids and evening birds. She found Marion in the den, but she was already asleep on the couch with her arms tangled up underneath her, and the sour smell of whisky or wine still on her lips. So she was quiet too.

Sarah asked her where Robert and Teddy had gone, but Marion only mumbled back. And when she tried to shake her awake, her head just rolled from side to side, and she seemed so uninterested in opening her eyes. But Sarah didn’t feel much like being alone then, so she climbed up beside her anyway, and tucked herself away under her arms. And she was sure she would have held her if she could. Sure of it.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the fruit began to grow, and everyone’s attention turned to keeping it strong and sweet. The younger men soon found themselves up in the canopies cutting away the cover so the sun could keep things healthy and the wind could keep it dry. And the older men stayed on the ground to spray the trees after it rained to keep the disease away. And all that was left was to find the bad apples taken by the wind. The dead fruit fallen. And snatch them up before they were rotten enough for the maggots to make them theirs.

They were like spoiled gold. Bad, beautiful treasure. And for every basket Teddy and Sarah filled, Marion would give them a bit of caramel candy or taffy she’d brought back from the seaside, and send them right out again. It was good work, and they were happy to do it. And of course they felt like heroes then. And of course the mid-summer days were long and built for hero things.

“Eat it,” said Sarah, brandishing some rotten thing.

“No way.”

“Do it.”

“You eat it,” snapped Teddy.

“I don’t wanna eat an apple with worms. You can get sick from that.”

“So you want me to get sick?” he asked.

“No, I just want you to eat it.”

Sarah stood her ground and held the thing in front of her, and after a moment’s pause, she was surprised to see Teddy take it. He turned it over in his hands and saw it was infested, but there was something less than disgust in his spirit. Some curious turn of his brow. And when he brought it to his lips, it was all Sarah could do to swat it away.

“I’m just messin’ with you,” barked Sarah.

“What?”

“I said I was just messin’ with you.”

“Aw come on, what’s the worst that could happen? You think it’ll give me weird toes or something?”

Sarah frowned and Teddy smiled, and everything was right again. And they gathered their last bushel and drank what was left of the sun, and with treasure in tow, they headed in for the night. But as they headed up the hill with the basket between them, Sarah couldn’t help but notice that Teddy was favoring his leg. Some tenderness. Something wrong.

“You sure I’m the one with weird toes?” she said, nodding at his leg. She was plenty pleased with herself to have the upper hand for once, but Teddy said nothing back. No wit or little punch on the shoulder. No wild tongue or screwface either. Instead, he just gave a little nod to nobody in particular, and set his eyes up the hill. And another step later, he made sure his little limp was gone.

That was the first night Sarah remembered missing her mother. She’d thought about her plenty, of course, and even wished she was there from time to time. But there were enough distractions and wild new things to keep the distance from settling where it should have. And even that didn’t feel so bad at first.

She loved her mother, but that didn’t mean she was easy to live with. Claire was unsteady and impulsive, and always searching for the next thing. This time it’ll be different. This time for sure. It was a difficult thing to be in the middle of sometimes, but there was something about the way Teddy tried to hide himself that day that made Sarah want to go home. Something that made her grateful she never had to tuck herself away like that, even if things back in the city weren’t as peaceful as they were up here.

And as the others settled in for supper, Sarah set herself down under the old oak tree by the pond, and watched the lightning bugs take over for the sun, and listened to the crickets and the lazy chatter of the evening birds. And when she heard Robert holler for her to come in from the porch, Sarah began to cry, and did her best not to let the crickets hear it.

And whether Marion heard or saw her made little difference, but it wasn’t long before she joined Sarah, there under the tree. She held her, and was careful to be good and present. And it wasn’t until Sarah held her back that she said anything at all.

“I know baby, I know,” she said, and Sarah cried louder then. Long until she was well tired and the evening birds grew quiet. Until even the frogs had lost their voices.

“I’m sorry,” said Sarah, her head still on her grandmother’s breast.

“Sorry? Sorry for what? You got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I don’t know,” she managed between gulps of air. “I don’t know.”

Marion lifted her chin and dabbed her tears away with the corner of her sleeve. “I used to feel that way too, you know. All the time, really. I was an only child, just like you. Just like your momma too. Feels like it’s all your fault sometimes, doesn’t it? The bugs and the bad apples too.” Sarah nodded, and Robert’s voice cut the dusk again, this time louder and sharp. But before the wind could even carry it away, Marion’s eyes strayed from Sarah’s attention to a lighting bug just next to them, and she waited for it to flash big and bright.

“You can catch ‘em, did you know that?”

“Really?” Sarah asked.

“Mmhmm. Just gotta be sneaky about it. You really never caught a lightning bug before, huh?” Sarah shook her head, and Marion reached out and snatched one from the sky, and held it there in her fist. “I know she’s far away. But wherever she is, I’m sure she’s shining.” She opened her hand, and the little bug glowed big and bright, and Sarah smiled as the rain came. It was heavy and sudden, but the old oak kept them dry enough that they didn’t have to run, so they stayed a while longer. Just because they could.

“You ever hear the story of Julie and James Crumb?” Marion asked.

“No,” said Sarah, though it sounded familiar.

“Well, they lived in a little house, you see. Brother and sister. And they only had one window in the whole place.”

“Just one?”

“Mmhmm, that’s right. Well, one night there was a bad storm,” she continued as they listened to the rain batter the house. “And they were so scared of the lightning that they pulled the curtains over their window, and so scared of the thunder that they covered their ears real tight. And they felt better that way, but soon the roof began to leak. And they were sure the whole town had flooded. And that their house was under water, because they’d never seen it leak before. And the walls began to shake from all the thunder, but they couldn’t hear it, so they were sure the sky was falling too.

“What did they do?” Sarah asked.

“Nothing. ‘Cause they were scared. So they stayed put. And the leak in the roof got so bad that the whole house filled with water. And it wasn’t until they could hardly breathe at all that the door finally burst open. And Julie and James spilled out onto the street. And you know what they saw?” Sarah shook her head. “They saw a storm.”

“And they got wet?”

Marion chuckled. “Well, yes, I guess they got a little wet. But they almost drowned back in the house, you see? Because storms are scary. But pretending they’re not there can be worse.” Sarah crawled deeper into her arms then. “It’s okay to cry. And you got nothing to be sorry for. We all draw those curtains sometimes, even if we don’t mean to.” And Sarah loved those little words then, and hoped even the crickets heard.

* * *

Sarah woke before the others, which was a rare thing on the farm. And the moment her eyes found themselves open, she knew she was well past closing them again. Teddy was still asleep on the other side of the room, so she was quiet about untucking herself. And she was careful not to set her weight on the old floors at once too. But as she crept to the door to go wash the taste of the morning from her mouth, she saw something that didn’t belong. And wanted to gather it up like so much bad fruit.

Three marks on Teddy’s sole. His foot was sticking out from under the covers, and on the bottom of it were three black marks about the size of a dime and round, clustered together like ashy little seeds. They were ragged and hard to look at, like the worst of both a blister and a scar. And though in her heart, she already knew what they were, Sarah stepped closer because she needed to be sure. And stopped only when she smelled the sourness of still-burnt skin.

There were sharp words from the hallway then. A groan from the old staircase and a string of gripes meant for nobody. Mean little words. And at the sound of it, Teddy shook himself awake. And even his first breath was panicked. And even his first glance around the room was wide-eyed and wild. And as Robert’s voice faded into the kitchen, Teddy steadied himself, and saw Sarah at the foot of his bed, and tucked his feet away as quietly as he could.

He smiled a little smile, though neither of them believed it. And he stretched his arms to the heavens and said, “Don’t worry. He’s not talkin’ about us.” And though Sarah nodded, she was far from at ease, so Teddy slowly put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Get your shoes.”

* * *

They snuck out the back and cut down through the hills to the south edge of the orchard. They were quick and quiet about it, as if so much depended on their escape. And neither of them said a word until they broke out from under the trees…and found themselves belly to belly with the main road. The way to anywhere else.

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

“You’ll see,” offered Teddy.

“Is it far?”

“Far enough we can’t walk.”

“Well how are we gonna get there then?”

Teddy stopped and so did she. And he looked her in the eye like he had some great secret to share. “You ever hitchhike?”

“Hitchhike?! Isn’t that…dangerous?”

“I don’t know. Never done it.” Teddy toed the edge of the road and raised his thumb, and several cars passed with no takers. “Come on, you gotta help,” he added. Sarah sidled up next to him and did the same, and it was all nervous glances until someone finally took notice and pulled onto the shoulder with their window lowered.

“You alright?” asked the stranger.

Teddy took a step towards the car, and Sarah followed until they weren’t standing on the grass anymore at all. “You okay?” he asked again. But neither of them said a word. Just another step. Then another. Until Teddy gave his cousin a nod, and Sarah reached for the door. And just as the tips of her fingers brushed the handle, she heard only footsteps and wild laughter.

She chased Teddy back into the orchard, and though he was plenty fast, he was laughing too hard to keep up his pace, and she soon caught him up. “You… you didn’t really think we were gonna…hitchhike…did you?” he huffed.

“Course not.”

“Well, what were you doin’…out there with your thumb in the air then?”

“I…I wasn’t gonna…”

She was red about it until Teddy bumped her shoulder and smiled, and then she could only shake her head. “Come on,” he said. “We’re almost there anyway.” And he took her hand just like always, and let her down to the lower barn where the men were loading the fallen fruit into the back of their pickup trucks. “We’ll just catch a ride with the rest of the bad apples,” he said as he hopped up onto the bed. And sure enough, Sarah followed.

Soon, they were out on the road and well past the farm. And as the endless rows disappeared behind them, they both felt freer and were happy just to let the wind whip by. And Sarah didn’t even ask where they were going, because she wasn’t sure she cared. And Teddy didn’t tell her, because he was proud she didn’t want to know. And when they turned back onto some other gravel road, Sarah opened her eyes at the rumble of it, and they glowed like lightning bugs at the sight of all the horses.

“This is where the apples go,” said Teddy.

“Really?”

“Yup. People don’t want ‘em, but the horses sure do. They’ll eat ‘em right out of your hand.”

She smiled an endless smile then, and Sarah didn’t even wait for the truck to stop before she jumped over the side and found herself back in the lovely dirt. They helped carry the baskets over to the stables, and the workers thanked them and asked their names. And after they were sorted and washed and the truly bad bits had been set aside for compost, they were allowed to stay as long as they liked. And Sarah fed the horses right out of her hand. And when they were done and the stables had been cleaned and it was time to head back, Sarah took Teddy in her arms and thanked him. And was glad not to be so alone.

* * *

It was all but dark by the time they returned, and even from the bottom of the hill, they could see Robert and Marion waiting for them out on the porch. And of course, Marion rushed out to make sure they were okay. And of course, they were. And of course, she was beside herself anyway.

“Oh, thank god,” she said. “You had me worried sick.”

“I just went to see the horses,” Sarah offered. “They were taking the apples down to—”

“The horses? Down at the Masons’?! All the way down there?!”

Marion Grabbed her arm and pulled her into the house. She collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and pulled her close, and it was her turn to cry this time. Wild and honest. “I thought you ran off like your momma did. I thought…I thought you were gone.”

Marion never held her so tight, and Sarah stayed in her arms for ages. Long enough for night to fall good and dark and for the katydids to sing again. Long enough for Marion to fall asleep there in the kitchen with sour stuff still on her breath, and for Robert to say things Sarah didn’t understand to Teddy out on the porch. Sharp little things. And long enough for Sarah to watch them both slip away back down the drive, and turn up the path to the old barn.

Teddy climbed into bed without even changing that night. Without even taking off his shoes or bothering to tuck himself away under the covers. He just laid himself down like some fish on a butcher board, and hoped Sarah didn’t notice him coming in so late. And Sarah hoped he didn’t know she had. And neither of them moved at all that night. And the air was still heavy and still. And it seemed like it might never be morning.

* * *

It was newly August when the rains came unending and the blight on their heels. Even the extra help couldn’t keep the trees sprayed, because the next day’s storm would only wash it all away again. And it didn’t seem to matter how much growth they cut away, because there was just no wind to keep anything dry. And even when the sky was rare and clear, the air was still wet, so there was just no time for the orchard to heal. And it spread like wildfire.

White moldy stuff and hardy black fungus. Wood and fruit alike. Even the older roots that had seen a dozen seasons and more began to swell in so much standing water, as the rain had carved little gulleys in their ground. Began to burst and crack. And the trees were laid open to the worst of what the wind could carry.

Teddy and Sarah stayed up at the house most days, because the last thing they wanted was to find themselves in the way. It was all cards and cribbage while the rest of them broke their backs for what was left of the September red. It was the porch when the weather was calm enough and the kitchen table when it wasn’t. And every afternoon when Robert turned up for lunch, it all seemed a bit more dire. And his boots tracked more of it across the kitchen.

Robert hardly said a word during the growing season, but the way he went about his silence was sharp enough. The way he closed the front door and cleared his throat. The thwack of his coffee cup against the counter after his last sip, and how he couldn’t be bothered to look anyone in the eye until it was the very last thing they wanted. It was even in the smoke he blew across the table at breakfast. It was even in that.

Robert came to hate the rain, and so did the rest of them. It wasn’t long before the very sight of gray would turn their blood and find Teddy tugging at his sleeves with his jacket pulled up over his ears. And every morning found them both glued to the window like moths in the dark, wondering what kind of day it would be. After all, there were no more apples to gather and no more trees to climb, so Teddy sat inside. And Sarah sat with him. And she could do nothing but watch him go the way of the crop.

And soon enough, they were all late nights, and he stopped changing into his bedclothes altogether. And he didn’t even bother to take off his shoes anymore, because he knew he’d only have to put them on again. And there sure was a lot of it for uncommon rain. And as soon as the old staircase groaned, Teddy was awake. And as soon as the door eased open, he was on his feet. And gone before the hallway light could even shine on Sarah’s side of the room.

* * *

It was no surprise the sweet apple harvest was lean that year, but it was another thing to see it spelled out in baskets and bins. To count it and know it was too little. Those were quiet days, and for strange reasons. And soon, it was all questions nobody cared to ask and still the sound of storms. And not even Sarah and Teddy talked much. Not anymore, anyway.

It was a Tuesday when Claire finally called. A Tuesday afternoon. She only spoke to Marion for a moment before the phone was handed down to Sarah, and though she was glad to hear her mother’s voice after so long, she was surprised it sounded very much the same. The same unquiet babble. The same unstill spirit. It was like some season past. And if she was supposed to be better, and better was supposed to be different, then Claire sounded no better at all.

Sarah wasn’t sure what she was waiting for, but she was certain it never came. It was all how are things up there anyway? All did you ever get to go see the horses? It was just little words and nowhere to put them, and none of them settled anywhere that mattered. And at the end of it all, there was still so much space, and nothing to fill it. So neither of them even tried. “Well, I don’t wanna keep you away from all the fun, so let me talk to your grandma again. You know I love you, right?” And Sarah did know. Of course she knew.

And when Sarah went outside that day, the hills didn’t seem so wild, and the Orchard didn’t seem so big anymore. And even the strong old men didn’t seem like some other thing. Because the sweet red apples had already been taken away, and it was already time to worry about the greens ones, and save them from the weather too. Old and new, it made little difference. Old and new and old again.

She and Teddy were already in bed when it started raining that night, and it was more than just the usual business. It was wild and thunder and more. Wind and torrents. And even with the curtain drawn, it was loud as anything against their window, and Teddy pulled his jacket up over his ears again, because he just didn’t care to hear it anymore. And Sarah turned her head away, because she couldn’t bear to see him like that. Tarnished. And it seemed like forever since he’d rushed her away to somewhere better. And if felt like she’d just left him there to rot.

It startled her when the ceiling began to leak. Something new she had no ear for. It fell plumb in the middle of the floor, just between their beds. Once, then twice. Three times and more. It was louder than she thought it should be, and Sarah rose from her bed and held out her hand to keep it quiet. But it filled her fast, and soon the stuff ran over her palm and down her wrist until it was wicked away by her night shirt. And at the sound of even that, Teddy only pulled his jacket tighter.

But none of it was as loud as the old staircase had become. And in time, it wheezed like they knew it would. And in time, the door eased open too. But Teddy didn’t roll out of bed this time, and he didn’t shuffle out into the hall either. Because he was already gone, and so was Sarah. And their window was wide open. And Marion was glad to see it.

* * *

They were under the oak tree then. And though the sky was gray, and the cover was plenty thick, Sarah had never seen the stars so bright. Not even way up here where they were unafraid of the city lights.

“That one’s a rabbit,” she said.

“Where?” asked Teddy.

“Right there.” She pointed up at a little collection of lights, and Teddy squinted to see it.

“If you say so.”

But they weren’t the only ones under the great tree, because the lightning bugs had taken shelter there too. Every branch was teeming with them, and the whole canopy was alive then. Stark perfect and white. Beating like pure hearts and moving about like the evening birds.

“Look! A Dragon!” Sarah painted it for him. Brushed her finger through the black of it until she saw the seed of a smile. “See, he’s breathing fire,” she said as the bugs beamed brighter. And Teddy did see. Of course he saw.

* * *

Marion had never seen the great oak glow before. And as she watched it from the bedroom window, she was sure it was just for Sarah. It did her heart good to see her out there, even if she was still alone. Even if she was pointing up at the lightning bugs for nothing and nobody. At least she knew she hadn’t lost her yet. At least she knew she wasn’t hiding away with her jacket over her ears like she’d done since the rains came.

It was the leak that turned her away from the window again, but it was Sarah’s notebook that caught her eye. It was still on her bed, and Marion hadn’t seen it since she brought it in from Clarie’s car all those months ago. She was glad Sarah had been drawing, and knew the orchard at a glance. The hills and the trees and the endless blue sky. She knew Sarah too, because she saw her braid tucked just over her shoulder. But she couldn’t place the boy who was standing next to her, and wondered who he was. They looked so alike, and he seemed kind enough. And even if he wasn’t anyone at all, Marion was glad to know he was there with her. There in blue, black, and red.

She went to get something sweet from the kitchen, and left it there on the spare bed for when Sarah came back in from the rain. A piece of zucchini cake or a bit of apple crumble. Berries and cream and all. And she left the window open, and made sure the light was still on when she closed the door. And though she knew she shouldn’t, Marion poured herself a glass of something strong and set herself down on the couch. And while the house was good and quiet, she picked at the wispy white hairs on her face, and listened to the katydids sing farewell to another season.

* * *

“You got weird toes,” said Sarah.

“You got weird toes,” Teddy fired back.

Not even her mother had them. The two biggest ones were long and bony and crooked just at the end, and they seemed so different next to Teddy’s. They were dangling their feet over the water, of course, and there under the cover of the great oak was the only bit of the pond that was still calm and glassy. And there in the glow of the lightning bugs was the only part of the farm that was still bright like the heart of the day.

And in that perfect surface in the middle of the storm, Sarah saw herself as she was. Her soles, anyway. The black marks that pocked them like ashy, awful little seeds. Round and ragged and burned into her skin. She saw them then, and wiggled her toes to feel the pain of it. And as Teddy wiggled his toes in kind, she said, “Do you think it’s deep?”

“Deep?” said Teddy

“Yeah,” she said. “Deep.”

“I mean I don’t—”

Sarah jumped in, clothes and all. And then she was gone. And there was nothing until she popped up again, floating on her back like a lily pad and drifting away from Teddy. “Not real deep,” she said. And they were sure even the bullfrogs could hear them laugh.

Sarah drifted beyond the canopy of the great tree, and felt the rain good and strong on her face. And she could see the clouds flash white and wild from where she was, and hear the rumble of the thunder too. And when the wind kicked up ferocious, it rattled the great oak’s bones, and shook it from toe to tip. And the lightning bugs grew timid, and didn’t feel like shining anymore. And as Sarah drifted further out into the storm, Teddy disappeared into the dark.

It should’ve been such a simple thing. A drive and a summer way up here where she never lived. Not Sarah, anyway. After all, it was just a season. Old and new again. And even that should’ve been so simple. Even that.

Long story short, because after all, this is a photo essay…Bethlehem Steel, like so many other steel plants, shut down when I was too young to remember it being anything but a fossil. And that’s what it was for most of my life. Something that used to be. And every day at school I would see the bones of this monstrous things in the distance, and hear the stories about what is was like when it was still breathing.

Well, that area and the old factories themselves have undergone something of a re-engineering/repurposing recently, and a while ago i got a chance to go back and take a closer look at what was left. And these are the things I saw. Hope you all enjoy this, because I’m starting to remember how much I enjoy taking pictures. So maybe there will be some more of this in the future. Love you guys!

As some of you know, my husband and I recently moved back to the town where I grew up. A place I left high school, never to return again. Now, to be fair, it’s not terrible place to live. Depending on the area, it’s even downright nice. But my younger years were complicated, and that definitely colored things for me. I was in the closet, and struggling with some un-diagnoses. So my memories of my time there aren’t exactly sunshine and roses.

So I was extremely nervous about moving back there with 30 years of history in tow. Not because I’m ashamed of any of it, mind you. To be clear, I am not. But anybody who’s been in that situation will tell you that playing ‘catch up’ after such a long time can be exhausting. Especially when you have to do it day-in and day-out. And double especially when it’s with people you haven’t spoken to in decades.

I was in a pretty stormy headspace during the whole process, and the day after we moved, I went to play pickleball, because that’s what I do to blow off steam (come for me in the comments if you want, i dare you). And I happened to mention to somebody I was playing with that I recently moved back into the area years of being away. And of course, he asked me what my last name was.

And of course, when I told him, he recognized it. And I was like, “Oh HERE we go.” And then the very next thing he said was, “Is your Dad’s name Fred?” And I said yes. And then he said, “Oh, I’m his physical therapist.” To which I said, “omg I’m so sorry.” My dad can be a little stubborn lol.

So, obviously I expected questions. What do you do? Do you have kids? Are you married? Where’d you move from? Why haven’t you been back in so long? But to my surprise, he didn’t ask me any of that. None of it, actually. Instead, he said, “You know, I really enjoyed your book.” And then, unprompted, he asked me how my husband was adjusting to the area.

To be clear, I didn’t know this man at all. But, as it turned out, he knew ME a little bit. And that’s only because, apparently, my Dad brags about me during their appointments. And only because my Dad gave him a copy of my book. And only because my Dad is proud of me in all the ways a father should be, even when I’m not exactly proud of myself. And only because my Dad doesn’t care what anybody thinks of his son, because he knows none of that matters.

And that was the day I realized maybe I’m not quite the stranger to this place I thought I was. And maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. That was the day I realized maybe I have more support here than I expected. And there was a piece of me that felt like maybe this could actually be home after all these years. Maybe. And that’s all because my father is who he is. So happy Father’s Day, Dad. And thanks for the homecoming. Love you.

That’s right, I did a little book tour! From Pennsylvania down to Maryland and Virginia, south to North Carolina, and then even further south to (believe it or not) South Carolina and back. There and back again. Again. It was like a whole Civil War battlefield trail experience, except with more confederate flags this time around. Somehow. And I know it seemsweird to go do a book tour for a book that’s not even technically published yet (Winterset Hollow in stores everywhere October 6^th, preorders live now) but if you keep in mind that I should really be at home writing instead, it actually makes a lot of sense. It’s the most writer thing I could possibly do other than actually write. And like, I already cleaned my entire house and retiled my kitchen and arranged all my bookshelves in order of emotional damage, so what would you have me do? Write? I think not. One bottle of chewy tums and a three-piece, please.

So, I have some thoughts on the whole travel experience in general. And before I tell you those thoughts, I would just like to state, for the record, that literally everybody I met during this little sojourn was absolutely wonderful. Especially Moose, the corgi, who came out to say hi in Maryland. And I love you all unconditionally. And you are all the tomato soup to my grilled cheese cut diagonal. One of you even gave me a potato. A single potato. And if you think about it, there’s really no greater expression of love than that. Except for two potatoes, I guess. Somebody else gave me a 3D-printed effigy of their fat fat cat as Godzilla, and I was asked to sign not one, but two different Golden Girls coloring books on completely separate occasions. And of course I signed them “Thank you for being a friend,” and if I’m being honest, I’m still very pleased with myself for that. So let me say again that I love you all. Truly, madly, deeply. And I would eat the greasiest, gnarliest gas station fried chicken just to come see you tomorrow if you wanted me to.

However…

This traveling shit is for the birds. And that’s not even really fair, because for the most part, I like birds. I mean, I have an entire app on my phone called Merlin whose only purpose in this world is to tell me which birds are nearby just by listening to their songs. And it’s glorious. And necessary. And if you’re ever trying to buy alcohol and forget your ID, you can even just show them it’s installed on your phone, and legally they have to accept that as proof of age. Oh, by the way, they have a sister app called Sperlin, which uses the same technology to tell you how many spiders are nearby, and I do not recommend it at all. No, I genuinely like birds. Except for Geese. And if you’re wondering why I capitalized “Geese,” I’m just covering my bases because they’re always watching and I don’t want any trouble. So, more correctly, this traveling shit is for the Geese. Because it’s mean and scary, and I still have a lot of associated trauma I haven’t really figured out how to work through yet.

Like, there is just no good way to get from point A to point B anymore. Honestly, I don’t even really like traveling for vacation’s sake these days. It’s all pretty awful, but like somebody who wasn’t talking about actual physical travel at all once said, it’s about the journey, not the destination (derogatory). And that goes double for air travel, which is extra disappointing, because air travel is essentially magic, and should be an inherently amazing experience. And yet. And so much yet. It’s my understanding that traveling by plane used to be classy and enjoyable, except probably for all the chain-smoking and sexual harassment and endemic class warfare. Which, by the way, is the very same way I always describe Madmen to anyone who hasn’t seen it. But hey, I’m a sucker for a John Hamm vehicle, as long as it isn’t sitting on the tarmac for no reason with me inside it.

But I digress. Again. Air travel should be amazing. Getting on a metal tube and then getting off that same metal tube five hours and 3,500 miles later is as close to a miracle as anything I’ve ever seen. It’s enchanted wardrobe type stuff. Sell your sister for a bit of Turkish delight type stuff. It’s brilliant. And you get to drink. And you can even take a nap. And you have someone to bring you snacks and clean up your trash? And you know what? It still sucks. Like, a lot. And I don’t like it. But that doesn’t really seem to matter anymore, so get in the tube. And take this James Patterson book that wasn’t actually written by James Patterson with you. Big Edmund energy (derogatory).

It should be a great experience. Even the airport should be amazing. You mean I get to walk around in sweatpants and binge-buy books and drink away my anxiety at 7:30 in the morning and not have anyone judge me for it? Sign me up. But no. No, no, no. The airport is somehow the very worst version of all of those things. First of all, I have to wear my public-facing sweatpants instead of my couch sweatpants, and like, I might as well be business-casual at that point. And secondly, $27 for a bloody Mary is outrageous. I mean, I’m still gonna pay it, but for that price, it should really come garnished with a second cocktail I’d actually enjoy. Like, it’s just soup. In a glass. With vodka in it. But that’s just how bad the vibes are at the airport these days. You’ve made me regret soup.

It’s just not a great scene. Like, it just feels like something somebody should apologize for. And yet. And you’re gonna have a bunch of dogs in there I’m not even allowed to pet? Oh, so anybody with drugs or bombs on them gets to play with the dog but the rest of us law abiding citizens have to go through this humiliation ritual completely dogless? Do you even hear how crazy that sounds? Let me pet that dog.

And as much as air travel sucks, and it does, I’m not sure water travel is much better. Water travel? Sea travel? Ocean travel? Those don’t seem right. Anyway, whatever you wanna call it, I’m just not into it. Sure, it seems romantic. I mean, I like a Billy Zane vehicle as much as the next guy. To a point. To be fair, I do like the ocean. I do. I like looking at the ocean. I like listening to the ocean. And all jokes aside, I even like the motion of the ocean. But do you know what I don’t like? I don’t like being in the ocean. Full stop.

What goes on down there is just none of my business unless David Attenborough is talking me through it. And even then, I’m 50/50 on it. And I cannot stress this enough, I sure as hell don’t need anything weird brushing up against my foot. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Like yes, our oceans are a truly precious resources, and filled with the most unimaginable examples of life’s little miracles…but they’re also just like the biggest nope. And as much as I don’t want to be in the ocean, I also don’t want to be on the ocean. Because that’s really a very fine line, and we don’t talk about that enough.

Let’s be clear here, nothing good has ever happened in international waters. Not one thing. None things. And that includes every single cruise that has ever cruised. And you can call me bitter and jaded and a product of the Bermuda Triangle Generation if you want. And you’d be right. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Because if I wanted to lock myself in a dirty hotel for a week with a bunch of other people’s kids and eat at five different restaurants that serve the same mid food with slightly different shit on the walls, I could do that for half as much on dry land. And I wouldn’t even have to fly into Florida first. I’m just saying, part of the point of hotels in general is that you can leave them whenever you want, and also there’s nobody steering them with your life in their hands. It’s the very same reason I’ll never ever go skydiving. Because somewhere out there is the world’s worst parachute packer, and the number of potential candidates probably isn’t all that big.

And if that’s not enough reason to be wary of the sea, I want you to think about the most famous ship you know. And now I want you to think about why it’s famous. And now I want you to think about the second most famous ship you know, and now I want you to think about why that one’s famous. And if your answers to those questions were the Titanic and the S.S. Minnow, we’re friends now. And now I want you to understand that even a hundred years after that first one sank, it’s still killing people left and right. Because somewhere out there is the world’s worst submarine maker, and he’s probably not long for this world. And this is alllll to say that the ocean will squash you like a bug without a second thought. And you mean nothing to her. And that’s why I stay out of her way. Because I’ve got enough problems here on land, thank you very much.

Now rail travel, on the other hand. That’s something I can get behind. The convenience. The efficiency. The affordability. The murder solving. It’s the very best mode of transportation out there, and it’s been the backbone of entire countries, and even continents for over a century now. It’s the very best argument for not needing a car at all, and to this day, is still one of the most brilliant examples of common-sense public engineering. Unfortunately, I’m an American, so I don’t know what the fuck any of that means.

Rail travel is just not really a thing here, even though it should be. It’s like HP Sauce, or you know, an effective and affordable system of healthcare. And that is to say, nobody’s invested in making it matter at all. It’s almost like as soon as we used our trains to shoot all the buffalo and then there were no more buffalo left to shoot, we just kinda stopped caring about both buffalo and trains. So I’m about to solve your relevancy problem for you, Amtrak: Geese trains.

So I guess that leaves just me and my car. Where I feel safest of all. And can lock all my doors. And you know what? I don’t really mind driving, except when there’s other people on the road. But hey, at least the temperature is perfect. And the music is perfect. And according to my Sperlin app, there’s not a single spider in here with me. Which is nice. I like my car very much actually, because it’s truly my space. And it’s where I do my very best crying. Honestly, I’d sleep there if I could, because crying alone in your car is the American way, and at least I don’t have to check out by 5:30 in the morning.

Which brings me to hotels. The proverbial point B. The harbingers of late-stage Monopoly. Hotels are just…I don’t know…they weird me out. They’re like the uncanny valley of lodging. Like they’re convenient but they’re also not. They’re comfortable but they’re also not. They’re clean but also…they are not. At all, really. So I don’t ever really know how to feel when I’m at a hotel. Like yes, I appreciate the fact that you have provided drawers for my clothes, but I am not, under any circumstances, going to actually put my clothes in there. And thank you for all eight of these pillows. I’m not sure how you managed to find the only eight pillows in existence where there is no possible configuration of said pillows that will actually support my head, but that’s honestly impressive in its own strange way.

It feels like paying to stay at your in-laws sometimes. Like I know they want me to make myself at home, and they’re very very nice and always make sure I have all the towels I need, but I also still kinda can’t wait to leave. And I have no idea how to work the shower. Looking at you, Doubletree. I shouldn’t have to solve an ancient riddle just to get the water to the temperature I like. And listen, if you think you can buy my loyalty with some gimmicky little freshly made cookie from the custom cookie warming drawer behind the check-in counter, you are five huge stars. But that’s just life in the post-Airbnb era. Because I refuse to be both an unrepentant people pleaser and pay a $250 cleaning fee. Honestly, you should be giving me a discount.

But let’s be honest, even when traveling is good, it’s all very exhausting. An odyssey, if you will. And like Odysseus before me, I am finally back on familiar shores. And also like Odysseus, I think I’m gonna get Greek food tonight. Because let’s face it, there’s no place like home. A place with drawers for your clothes. A place with a minimum of one (1) supportive pillow, and most importantly, a place with creatures of your choosing. And where you can wear your realsweatpants while you drink your anxiety away at 7:30 in the morning. And though I’m about five hours south of Ithaca, my house is also a mess. And I know a gift from the gods when I see one. So if you’ll excuse me, I have anything but writing to do.

Just wanted to take a moment to say THANK YOU to everybody who took some time to go check out and offer their input about GoodStrongInk.com. It was invaluable. And also to everyone who ordered something, I hope you’re enjoying your stuff!

So, the site is now live, and thanks to you guys, all of the kinks should be worked out…size guides, color swatches, and those kinds of things. Oh, and we also added Women’s V-necks and different sizes for the mugs too, because those were common suggestions!

So to thank you guys for your help, I’ve set up a discount code THANKYOU15, which will get you all 15% off of anything you want literally forever. So tuck that away. And if this is your first time hearing about all of this, feel free to use the code too lol. Oh, and if you purchased something, you might get an email asking for a review, so if you have time to do that, great! And if not, no worries at all! And if you don’t know what I’m talking about…

I sat down to create some merch for the book I have coming out in October and got SUPER fixated on the whole thing, and now I have a whole website called Good Strong Ink that’s filled with stuff based on my content and general introvert/bookish vibe lol. It’s got some really cool stuff (tees and mugs and hoodies and things), and the best part is that 10% of every purchase goes to help a worthy charity (and that 10% comes out of our end, not yours, so it costs you nothing extra) which is awesome. And before you checkout, YOU get to pick where that 10% goes. Which is *also* awesome.

So, anyway it’s up and running if you all wanna take a look. And thanks again for all your help! Oh, and here’s the link again if you need it…

GoodStrongInk.com

Onward!

Life comes at you fast. One day you’re young and fun, then next thing you know you’re literally dreaming about clever storage solutions and wondering if those mini-totes you saw at Home Depot come in clear so it’s easier to see what’s inside without wasting a label. They do, by the way. They do. I’m just saying, getting older is a funny thing. And the funniest part of it all is watching bits of yourself slowly turn into your parents like an American werewolf in, well, America, I guess. Again, not ha-ha funny. More like “my left arm feels funny” funny.

For instance, when I was a kid, my mom used to drive herself crazy trying to keep the house clean. And now that I’m the adult in the room, I’m also driving my self crazy trying to keep the house clean. And you know what? I’m starting to think that cleaning up after me isn’t really all that enjoyable. Turns out she was really on to something. And not only do you start acting like them, you start understanding the crazy shit they used to say too. Well, you start understanding some of it. Because a lot of it deserves to stay on the cutting room floor of progress like all those early Disney films we don’t talk about anymore and Eddie Murphy’s stand-up specials.

Turns out, they were right about a lot of that stuff. Like when my mom would ask me to turn off my comfort show because I “need to eat to live,” or made me get up for school because I’m “legally required to go” and I’d give her the stink-face and she’d say, “If you keep making that face, it’s going to stay that way.” And she was right. It did stay that way. And now everybody asks me what’s wrong a hundred times a day because I have a permanent case of unpitted olives in my salad face. And I’m sure you’ve all heard, “When you pay the bills, you can leave the lights on all night long if you want.” And they were right about that too. Because I do pay the bills now. And I do still leave the lights on all night long. Because I can’t unsee Poltergeist at the tender age of eight years old, okay? Talk about paying for your trauma.

And when they said, “You don’t have to worry about that stuff until you get older,” they were not kidding. There is somuch to worry about now. All of the things all of the time. And honestly, if they had maybe let me worry about some of that when I was younger, I might not have been in such a rush to grow up. Now look at what’s become of all us Toys r Us kids. Paying $200 a pop for LEGO sets and then being too stressed to even put them together. Geoffrey would be so disappointed.

And every time we’d get upset, they’d be all, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” And then they up and destroyed the middle class forever. Really followed through on that one, actually. You have to respect it. And honestly, as much crying as I did as a child, that one’s probably on me. Trickle down, indeed.

But that’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? When you’re young, you don’t understand adults. And when you’re an adult, you don’t understand anything, and that includes everyone younger than you. I believe they call that a generation gap. It’s an established concept, but if I’m honest, I’ve never put much stock in the idea. Like yes, obviously different people from different eras are going to experience the world differently, but the way I’ve seen some people weaponize it always felt a bit reductive to me. To steal a phrase from this generation, it gives me the ick, and I’ve tried not to buy into it.

Now, maybe that’s because I’m right on the border of younger gen-x and elder millennial, so I’ve always lived a very generation-fluid existence. That’s right people, sometimes it’s just about what I’m in the mood for, and it’s not much deeper than that. Like yes, sometimes I’m ready to strap on my Doc Martens and acid wash the shit out of my jeans and rage about AI stealing my em dashes and semicolons. But the very next day, you might catch me sprinkling lol’s at the end of every text message like Johnny I’m-about-to-snappleseed, and singing High School Musical at the top of my lungs while I wait for my Mickey Mouse waffles to be done. All I’m saying is I’ve had to teach people older than me andpeople younger than me how to use a printer, and that’s its own special kind of hell.

I’ve been between generations my whole life, so I never really understood the whole us vs. them mentality. But I also don’t have kids, nor do I have to deal with them on a daily basis, so maybe I should check my privilege a bit here. Because the day I have to google what some child just called me in front of his friends so I can figure out how insulted I should feel is probably the day I check back into this argument swinging. But I digress. It never made sense to me. It just didn’t seem like a worthwhile conversation to have. And then my husband and I went to our local theme park last week. And as the Ferris wheel took us high above the crowds, I looked around and thought to myself, “Why the fuck is everybody’s hair like that?”

Like…every male between the ages of 12 and 20? All of them? Why do they all look like labradoodles? Why do they all look like alpacas on picture day? I’ve never seen such assimilation. Not even during the flannel epidemic of the 90s. Not even during the great affliction affliction of the mid 2000s. Not even frosted tips or the Rachael cut or whatever George Clooney was doing with his bangs while he was on ER. It was impressive, honestly. I can’t even get three of my friends to agree on where to eat let alone which haircut to get. I really didn’t know what to think about it. And then I heard myself say it for the very first time. “The hell is wrong with these kids?”

Now, I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t even mean to say it. And even as I did say it, I didn’t really have time to process it. But for the rest of that day, it was all I could see. The differences between us and them. They were all live-streaming everything all the time, and like, I think they were just doing it for each other? Which was weird because they were all physically there? They were all calling each other “chat” and drinking Prime like it was non-data center wastewater in the desert, and I even caught a herd of them playing hacky sack in crocs. Crocs, for God’s sake! And…and they weren’t even stoned! Posers. And don’t even get me started on all the Nirvana T-shirts, I bet you none of those kids could even name two of the pillars of enlightenment.

I mean, I was already in full old man yelling at clouds mode, and then…and then I heard it. Something I’ll never forget as long as I live. It was like the first time I heard Natalie Imbrugia’s Torn. Clear and crisp and wild, and it cut straight to my heart. We were in line behind a young woman who became very confused when one of the adults with her mentioned the time was “quarter after 2.” You see, she didn’t know what that meant. Then after it was explained to her, she laughed it off and said, “Oh, yeah, I don’t do cursive time.” And I’m pretty sure I’ll never not think about that for the rest of my life. Cursive time. Sorry, but if I have to live with that burden, so do you.

For the very first time, I felt like I didn’t understand an entire generation. And it felt funny. Like “does this chicken smell funny” funny. And not just because it made me feel genuinely old, but because it felt like my world mattered a little less. Like my piece of the pie was getting smaller, which is weird thing to be angry about, because let’s face it, it’s not even very good pie. So, why was I feeling this way? After all, this was no surprise. We’re all aware this world won’t be ours forever. Time marches on. Aunt Vivs get recast. Beloved cartoons get mediocre live-action reboots. Beckys on Roseanne get changed. Twice. It’s the way of things, so why was this such a shock to my system?

So, here’s the thing. I don’t know.

Or at least, I didn’t. Actually, I’m writing this conclusion about a week after what you’ve just read, because I legitimately didn’t know. I didn’t understand why I suddenly felt any type of way about any of those kids at all, and it bothered me in a very real way. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just shake it off, because I was sure there was something there. Something that mattered. So I did what any good writer would do, and made a list of critically important things I’ve been putting off for ages now. And sure enough, as soon as some free time to actually do those things rolled around, my brain was like “no, no, here is something you need to write about immediately.” So…

As some of you know, I worked retail sales for a very long time. It seems like another life now, but I learned a lot of lessons during my time in those trenches. And lost a lot of good men and women. And if you’re wondering where my signature simmering disdain for the human race comes from, well, now you know. In any case, I was an assistant manager for a number of years, and eventually got rewarded/punished with a promotion to general manager. But there was just one catch…I had to move, because the only store that was available wasn’t local.

So, on my very last day before I left, I happened to be working the opening shift. And man, the place was a wreck. The floors were unvacuumed, the bathrooms weren’t cleaned. There was old coffee spilled under one of the counters, and even a cash drawer left in a register. And as anyone who’s ever worked retail will tell you, that is a mortal sin that should probably even get you fired, let alone written up. It was a real “Who the fuck closed last night?!” moment, and I was heated about it. Because this was the last thing I needed to deal with on my last day. So I marched into the office, and I said those words to my manger. “Who the fuck closed last night?!” And he looked me right in the face and said, “You did.” I don’t know what to tell you. Retail burnout’s a bitch like that.

That was supposed to be a good day for me, but it wasn’t. Instead, I spent the whole day feeling guilty and even a little angry. Why should they have to clean up my coffee? What was the point of working so hard for so long only to leave them with a bunch of unfilled receipt printers to remember me by? And it wasn’t really my fault, mind you. I mean it was, but I was under a lot of stress. I was moving stores. I was about to pack my whole life up and go live in a different state. And I could barely afford to do either of those things at the time. But that probably didn’t matter to the people working that opening shift. And it probably shouldn’t have either. Because their shift was sure to bring them enough bullshit to deal with…without them having to worry about mine on top of it.

Negative rizz, I know. Total NPC behavior. But I’m pretty sure that’s why my first real taste of a big generation gap made me feel such big feelings. I wasn’t angry that they seemed so different or that I didn’t understand them. I wasn’t even angry that I was being replaced. I was angry that the morning shift was here, and I’d left them a mess to clean up. That I’d left them cardboard to break down and trash to take out. And everybody knows how gross it is when that garbage juice leaks out of the bag and into the little holes in your crocs. Skibidi Ohio, indeed.

And despite that very well-drawn metaphor, I still don’t understand this new generation. And I probably never will. And I’m sure they don’t understand me either. I still see far more differences between us than I see similarities, but you know what? That doesn’t make me sad anymore. It doesn’t make me confused, and it doesn’t make me angry either. Except when I hear someone say, “cursive time,” that still makes me hulk out a little. Oh, and when they talk about the “old Lion King” and it’s just the regular Lion King. I don’t like that shit either.

The differences between us don’t even make me cringe anymore. They make me smile. Because maybe that’s the very best thing they could possibly be. Different from us. They make me smile, because isn’t that the point? For a new generation to come along and grow up into something else? Because for all of us apples that fell not so far from the tree, our orchard isn’t doing so great. So maybe it’s not about what’s wrong with them. Maybe it’s about what’s wrong with us. Lord knows the list is long enough. So maybe one day, maybe even while we’re still alive and kicking, things will be ha-ha funny again. And if it starts with the rest of us laughing at some haircuts, then so be it. Because it’s gotta start somewhere.

Is the future cool or are we dealing with a Bladerunner type situation where it’s all just robots hunting other robots? Also, spoilers for both Bladerunner movies. How many butterflies do I need to kill to stop them from making a live-action remake of Disney’s Robin Hood? When does “it” happen? Like, soon? Please, tell me it’s soon. So many questions!

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve never met a time traveler. Or any of their wives, for that matter. And sure, that’s a little disappointing because I’ve seen all of their movies (big fan). But on the plus side, I guess I’m relieved that I don’t turn out to be all that evil. Because if anyone ever introduces themselves to you as being “from the future,” you can be sure you turned out to be somebody very important, and not in a good way. Important like a #2 pencil is important. Important like a DNR is important or an emergency slide on an airplane is important. You know, like underground bunker important.

So that’s good to hear, because honestly it was a little touch-and-go there for a bit. It’s pretty much all been downhill since they switched Beckys on Roseanne, and then when they took away my Choco Tacos, I was sure that was gonna be it for me. But then they released (parts of some of) the Epstein files, and I found out just how much emailing is actually involved in being truly evil, and honestly, I just don’t have it in me.

I mean, there’s people I’ve long suspected of being from the future. David Byrne, for instance, is definitely from the future. Also, Gary Larson, I’m pretty sure. And I’m on the fence about Paul Rudd, though I have my suspicions, because there’s no way that skin care routine isn’t centuries ahead of our time. In fact, he might very well be a replicant who’s been sent back in time in some sort of replicant witness protection program because he’s gonna blow the whistle on “big robot” (spoilers for Bladerunner 3). But I can’t prove that, despite my tireless research and no less than three (3) court-issued restraining orders. I see you, Paul. I’m no less than a hundred yards away, but I still see you.

Oh, also anybody making money on Polymarket or Kalshi right now. They’re definitely from the future, because I know the old Back to the Future sports almanac scam when I see it. I see you too, Biffs. I mean, there’s simply no other explanation for all of these people making incredibly accurate and lucrative predictions about the state of global affairs. I refuse to believe anybody involved in government at any level would ever be that unscrupulous. A public servant? Ragdolling millions of Americans day-in and day-out like some idiot Greek God just so they can buy a little tiny yacht that fits inside their bigger yacht so they can still go ashore when their helicopter is on the fritz? No sir, I won’t hear of it. Those people are definitely from the future unless I’m wildly off base about the ethical fabric of our nation’s politicians (nervous laughter).

The point I’m trying to make (eventually) is that I’ve never met a time traveler, and neither have you. And while it’s tempting to say time travel therefore doesn’t exist, I’m not sure that’s the case. Actually, I think it’s possible that time travel becomes a very real thing at some point. Potentially even a very accessible thing. Potentially even an everyday type of thing like city buses or capping off your lunch break with a nice little car-cry.

I think it’s entirely possible that time travel is real and is widely used, and also for none of us to ever meet anyone from the future. And do you know why? Because nobody wants to come here. Because we live in a shitty part of town. And you know what? I don’t blame them. I don’t blame them for locking their doors as they drive by and telling their kids not to make eye contact. I don’t. Because if I could move to a nicer neighborhood, I would. But my job and pets and hardcover books are here.

Because why would you want to come here? For what? Bad news tourism? To see where it all went wrong like some civil war battlefield? Given all the different eras you could visit, why would you come here? That’s like spending August in Arizona or going to Buffalo for the winter. Even the people that live there would tell you that’s a bad idea. I mean, you could be having an aperitif in Paris with Ernest Hemingway while you talk shit about F. Scott Fitzgerald. You could go buy a painting from Vincent Van Gogh and ruin his career forever. You could drop some brown acid at Woodstock or even go see Romeo and Juliet live at the Globe Theater, so why would you come here? You wouldn’t. You just wouldn’t. Because these my friends, are the flyover years. And I’m not exactly sure where the coasts are in this metaphor, but I sure as shit can’t see them from here.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of “flyover states,” which are, ostensibly, states you “fly over” on your way to somewhere more exciting. Now, as aloof and reductive as that concept is (looking at you and your glorious cheese, Wisconsin), it’s nonetheless intriguing from whatever the opposite of an academic perspective is. Because that’s where we are. The flyover years.

Let’s face it, the nineties were the last decade. The last stretch of time with any redeemable defining characteristics, and everything since then has just been a characterless collection of soy sauce packets and dead batteries and gift cards you’ll never use. We are truly living in the junk draweriest of times. And like, I don’t even know what’s in there anymore, but I’m pretty sure I’m not taking any of it with me when I move.

“But Jonathan,” I hear you cry. “What if time travel isn’t a tourist industry? What if it’s a sacred tool used for the greater good? What will become of your metaphor then?” First of all, calm down. And secondly, if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that any revolutionary new technology will always be deployed for whichever purpose helps regular people the least, and rich people the most.

You’re telling me I can’t get an AI to do a little bit of laundry or help me with my crippling executive disfunction? No? Oh, they’re all just all gonna write screenplays and put out country music albums and make it impossible to use an em dash without being called a bot? Okay, great. That’ll definitely be worth it when I’m fighting some Boston Dynamics robot for clean drinking water in a few years. Can’t wait. Fucking clankers.

And look, if time travel was actually used for the greater good, namely, to change the future for the better…then this place (glances around) would either be swarming with time agents, or things wouldn’t be so (glances around again) right now. And our jaws wouldn’t all be permanently clenched. And we all wouldn’t be using shampoo when we run out of body wash for a week just so we can afford the paper towels that tear nicely along their perforations. Sorry, but life’s too short for cheap paper towels. It just is. And that is something I would absolutely fight a robot for. I mean, listen, if time travel could really help make things better, don’t you think some hero from the future would’ve done “it” by now? Don’t you? Think about it.

Trust me, as soon as that becomes a reality, some billionaire is going to snatch it all up like it was a syndicated media outlet and be all, “Sorry peasants, it doesn’t actually work like that. I’d explain but you wouldn’t understand. Sorry, no greater good for you. But hey, if you wanna go share a hooker with Sinatra at The Golden Horseshoe while Dean-o watches, there’s a Delorian leaving in an hour. Money, please.”

And that, my friends, is why neither you nor I have evermet a time traveler. And if you think you have, they were probably just here for a layover. A quick stop to change time machines on their way to 1997 for a night of Kudos bars and Sobe drinks and Natalie Imbruglia on repeat. But maybe I’m just all out of faith. Maybe that’s just how I feel. I don’t know. Hard to tell anymore.

Because honestly, what’s the last tourism-worthy thing you can even remember happening? Okay, the summer Pokémon Go came out was pretty rad, but then you’d also have to be here to watch Harambe, David Bowie, and Prince pass from this earth, and that’s just too much to deal with. And the first few seasons of “Lost” were awesome, but I assume anyone from the future is aware of how that show ended, so like why would you do that to yourself? There was that time a few years ago when a whole new generation found out who Tacy Chapman was. I was very much here for that. And then maaaaybe Tom Holland’s drag debut performing Rihanna’s Umbrella? But other than that? I don’t know, Barbenheimer? I got nothing.

I just don’t see it. I mean, in the first Back to the Future, they went back to the fifties. Then, in the third Back to the Future, they went back to the old west. Now, those are places that might be cool to visit, you know? Those are time-tourist destinations. They weren’t perfect, but at least they had character. But this? This is the second Back to the Future where Biff Tannen is running things and it’s raining all the time, only our sneakers don’t lace themselves and I still don’t have my hoverboard. I mean, can I get a great deal on handbaskets? Sure. The handbasket industry is alive and well, but that’s beside the point. The point is they spend that entire movie trying to make sure our reality never happens. And that sure seemed like a lot more fun at the time. Guess it didn’t take (nervous laughter).

The point is you don’t come here unless you’re from here. And if you’re from here, you’re stuck here. Because, like I said before, this is where your pets and hardcover books are. And also your family or whatever. People from the future just aren’t coming. They’re not. They’re not coming to save us, and they’re not even coming to gawk at us as they cruise by in a double-decker open-air time bus while some tour guide with a megaphone is like, “And if you look closely, you can see them all muttering under their breath as they scroll.” Sorry, but Bill and Ted aren’t coming to scoop you up in a phone booth, because good luck finding one of those. And also, you’re just not that interesting. And also, George Carlin is no longer with us, because he has almost certainly returned to the future from whence he came.

So, what do we do? What do we do when we’re stuck here in the flyover zone and nobody’s coming to save us and there’s no way out? Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m sure as hell going to complain about it. A lot. Like, all the time. And then…then I’m gonna cope. I’m gonna buy myself little treats (as long as I don’t also need paper towels), and I’m gonna play my little word games in the morning and watch my little murder docuseries at night. And like all flyover situations, I’m gonna let my life revolve largely around food. And not just any food, but the kind of food that will immediately end my suffering by being delicious, and also probably eventually end my suffering by being delicious. (Looking at you and your glorious cheese again, Wisconsin.)

And I know it’s easy to feel like we’re all doing something wrong in times like these. Or rather, to feel like we’re not doing enough. Because sometimes that’s probably true, and it’s good to have neighbors to remind us of that from time to time. But also, sometimes we have to work, because those top-shelf paper towels don’t pay for themselves. And sometimes we have to read. And sometimes we have to play word games and watch murder shows. And sometimes we need time, and sometimes we need space, and sometimes we need some modicum of peace, however manufactured it might be. Because life in the flyover zone isn’t easy, and some days we just need to get through it.

So maybe we’re not always the towering sunflowers of change we’d like to be, though some of us surely are. But maybe sometimes we’re the seeds. And maybe sometimes we’re the rain. And maybe sometimes we’re the good strong earth just by doing what we can to get by, and helping those around us to get by too. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why you’ve never met a time traveler from the future. Because maybe the future doesn’t need fixing. Maybe things are gonna be okay. Maybe even better than they used to be. And maybe you’ll only have to fight a robot if you really really want to. You know, for funsies.

So remember, if you do happen to see a time traveler out and about, just let them eat their cheese or friend Oreos or whatever in peace. And I know it’s tempting, but try not to ask them when “it’s” going to happen. You don’t want them getting all excited and chatty and missing their flight to 1997. And try not to hold it against them that they’re not spending their long weekend here, because if you could have your pick of Sobe flavors again, you know damn well you wouldn’t be here either.

Junie was short for Junior, which itself was short for Lyle, Jr. It was an odd nickname for a boy, but that was very much the point. Closer to June than anything else, and just enough to turn everyone’s brow. Just enough to let them know he wasn’t nearly Junior.

It was a brand in many ways. A mark. Junie was quiet and mild, and all tangled up in himself in a way his family never cared to understand. It wasn’t even a terribly tricky knot, really. It just wasn’t the knot they wanted for him. It just wasn’t the knot they expected, and they certainly weren’t interested in helping him untie it. It was bad rope to them. Rough flax and frayed. And every time the world ran thin of air, they made a point of feeling it around their throats. And told him as much. And they had no problem talking about it then, of course. But that was very much the point.

It wasn’t the things Junie did, but rather the things he didn’t. It was the friends he didn’t have and the way he didn’t talk about girls like the others did. The same friends Lyle used to have. The same words Lyle used to speak. It was the young man he wasn’t, and the way they just didn’t know how to talk about him. The places he should’ve been mentioned. Because Junie was a difficult thing, and he just didn’t fit, and even they could see it. So they called him by his name, and said nothing more about it, and hoped that would be enough for everyone to understand. And really, that was very much the point.

“Junie!”

Junie was asleep, of course. He was slumped over a corner table with a dishrag still in his hand, as if he’d been plucked right out of time. It should’ve been strange thing to see at a place like the Hamilton Diner, but it wasn’t. It was almost décor. To any of the regulars, it was just as familiar as the bell above the door or the old pictures of the city cluttering the walls. Charming only because it was always there. And as always, Mr. Hamilton could only look on from behind the counter and shake his head, But there was no disappointment there. Nothing worth a damn, anyway. Nothing beyond just a moment of the stuff, and even that was half-hearted. Because even though Junie was very much asleep, he was the furthest thing from lazy. And the regulars knew that too.

Junie was true and dependable, and even though he was sixteen and green, Mr. Hamilton had come to trust him. He even let him work the register from time to time, which was a job he otherwise reserved for his son and two daughters. Junie was never late. Never quick with his lip and never sour about staying after when the windows needed to be cleaned or the menus needed changing. And he never shirked his duties. Not once. But sleep was a precious thing and bold, and it had a habit of finding him when he least expected it.

Junie hated himself for it most days, but there was little he could do. He just couldn’t get any sleep at home anymore, and that only made his nights longer than they ought to be and his days tiresome. It wasn’t even the yelling. Not anymore, anyway. It wasn’t the fighting or even the awful expectation of some shadow darkening the light under his bedroom door. Not anymore. It was the knowledge that they were right. That he didn’t fit after all. And it burned him so badly he could hardly convince himself to close his eyes at all anymore.

“Junie! Junie! Can you take this!?” It was enough to shake him awake this time. And after rubbing the shame of it from his eyes, Junie snapped his head over to the counter to find Mr. Hamilton waiting with a delivery in hand.

“Sorry! Sorry,” said Junie. “I was just—”

“Mmhmm,” lamented Mr. Hamilton. “One more sorry and this’ll be cold.”

Junie sprang to his feet. And in a flurry of youthful purpose, he emptied his bus tray and hung his apron by the kitchen, and after he waved goodbye to the cooks, he slipped himself inside his winter coat. And as he took the order from his boss, he asked, “Do you need anyth—”

“That’ll be it for the day.” The answer came quick and sharp. There was nothing mean about it, but rather Mr. Hamilton just didn’t care to let his words linger, because he hated hearing them too. It was simply a Friday, and the dinner rush was barely half of what it should be, and Junie was being let go early. And they both understood why it had to be that way. Junie was never glad to be short of work, and Mr. Hamilton was never glad to send him away any sooner than necessary. But one last delivery on the walk home was something, at least. A little more change in Junie’s pocket. The grace of a little more time.

Junie opened the bag. “Did you get his—”

“Yes, Junie, I got his ketchup,” answered Mr. Hamilton with a little roll of his eyes. There was no name or address on the order, but there didn’t need to be. After all, it was Friday. And on Friday, Mr. Jay ordered meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup. It was a tradition so old that it was just a standing order now. No phone call needed, and Mr. Hamilton never let it slip his mind. Not even once. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup. For Mr. Jay down in Union Park.

“You watch yourself out there now,” offered Mr. Hamilton.

“You act like I never seen snow before,” said Junie as he buttoned up his coat.

“I know you seen snow. Just don’t want you fallin’ asleep in the middle of the street.”

“Well maybe I should just stay inside then.”

“Well maybe you should,” Mr. Hamilton fired back with a playful scowl. “See ya tomorrow,” he added as he held open the door. “And bring some customers with you, huh?”

It had been a season of wicked, unkind stuff, and Friday was only more of the same. The holidays had already come and gone without so much as a break in the storms, and Junie could hardly remember the last bit of blue sky he’d seen. The last fine day. It had been a season of endless white and gray, and the very moment he stepped outside, he caught a kick of wind so fierce he felt it through to the back of his chest.

It was uncommon cold, and the snow was sharp and sleety. The kind of weather that had a way of finding every last little moth hole in his coat, and he could already feel it worming its way through his bones and down into his shoes. But even in the best of weather, it was hard for Junie to leave The Hamilton. Always sour steps. He had been there his whole life, in one way or another, and always counted that time among the good bits. Even as a boy, he would slink through the door after school, and Mr. Hamilton would find him a quiet booth in a corner away from the windows. And there, Junie would do every last bit of schoolwork he could find, because that too was a reason to stay. That too was the good grace of more time. And if a stray plate of French fries happened to find their way to his table, he’d smile and say thank you. And Mr. Hamilton would only shrug.

“For what? I didn’t see nothin. And you didn’t see nothin, either,” he would say, leaving a bottle of the good ketchup and pressing his finger to his lips. And even though Junie was still all tangled up and difficult, his name just sounded different when he was there. And he almost didn’t mind hearing it. Even when the cooks screamed it across the counter. Even when it woke him up to the shame of stealing some sleep.

The night had only grown colder by the time Junie passed 75^th Street Station, and he could feel his toes begin to sting. He wanted nothing more than to take his time, but for the sake of the food he was carrying and so much more, Junie was all scurry. Quick and quiet. And as he made his way through West Central, he noticed the city around him growing darker too. There were streetlights there, of course, but it had been ages since they had been tended to, and the moon seemed just as broken behind the clouds. And by the time he got to Union Park, the only warmth Junie could find at all was from an order of meatloaf addressed to nobody, and the only light was from a third-floor window down at the end of the block.

Mr. Jay’s building was a ragged little thing, just like the rest of them. Boxy and unspecial. It had been a dozen different shops over the years until somebody finally turned it into three unremarkable flats, and it would surely be something else in time. Something better or something worse. Something it was before maybe. The city was littered with a thousand places just like it. Forever temporary and unproud. Places with yellowed newspaper covering their old shop windows, and packing tape on all the cracks in their glass doors.

The entranceway was a familiar mess of puddles and leaks. The city just wasn’t built for a winter this wild, and there was simply no escaping the water. The stuff was streaming in from the ceiling, and the buckets that had been set out to collect it were long past full. It was an uncomfortable chorus, the sound of it. Some space between squalor and circumstance. A mark too. And the want of silence that would have to wait for another season and more. But Junie was spry and keen to keep his order warm, so he sloshed his way across the slick old tile to the stairs just the same, and took them two at a time to where Mr. Jay’s apartment was surely waiting.

Junie always liked Mr. Jay, though he didn’t really know him beyond a nod and a thank you. A smile and a word. Even when he was still healthy enough to walk down to The Hamilton on his own for Firday dinner, Mr. Jay always kept to himself, and that was just fine by Junie. He was older and sickly at a glance, and Junie often felt forward for even noticing. It was in the way he moved about all stiff and unnatural, and the care he took to sit himself down and stand himself back up again. It was how his chest heaved after just a short walk across the dining room, and it was in the pills he took when his food came too. Colorful little things. Colorful little things in some old matchbox. And though Junie never cared to ask, he couldn’t help but stare every now and then. And even when he’d stare too long, he’d still get the same smile and the same nod in return. And the most Mr. Jay would ever say about it all was, “My heart,” as he sorted his medication.

Mr. Jay was pleasant enough. Nice, even. And though he never said much, there was always some little kindness falling from his fingers. The neat stacks of plates at the edge of his table when he was done eating. The care he took to wipe things down with a napkin when he found them dirty or wet, and how he waited patiently to be seated, even though he knew there was a corner table waiting just for him. He seemed like a good enough man, and Junie knew so few of them. And the very last thing he wanted was to understand him well enough to think otherwise.

So he never asked why Mr. Jay came to The Hamilton every Friday by himself, and why he sat in the very same booth and ordered the very same thing. And he never asked why he wore his best suit and finest hat, and why his white leather shoes were always polished just so. And he never asked why he looked about the place as if he lost something he’d never find again either. Because that seemed like a complicated thing too, so a nod and a smile would just have to do. A word or two and nothing more. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots, and some of the good ketchup please.

And it was all very fine for a Friday until Junie knocked on Mr. Jay’s door, and it eased away under the weight of his fist. He’d never even seen it open before, let alone left that way, and suddenly there was so much more that Junie didn’t know. It was always just a knock and a muffled thank you from the other side, and Junie would take the money that was left on the landing and leave his order in return. But there was no money waiting for him that day either. And as much as he didn’t care to pry, Junie cleared his throat just the same.

“Mr. Jay!?” he asked. “Mr. Jay! I have your food!” He waited for an answer, but no answer came. He knocked loudly on the door frame and repeated himself, “Mr. Jay!” But again, there was nothing. Nothing but the television, loud and unapologetic. Nothing but the bits of another life leaking out into the hall. “I’m just gonna leave it here, okay?!” It wasn’t really a question, but Junie asked it anyway. And the only answer ne received was the whine of old hinges, and the feeling of something strange against his leg.

It was a cat, of course. A little gray housecat, which was just the thing to pull a sigh and a smile from Junie’s nerves. Junie didn’t know him, but he liked cats well enough, and he seemed like a friendly thing, so he was careful to scoop him up before he made a break for the stairs. “Where’s your daddy at, huh?” he said as he gave his little chin a scratch. He checked the tag on his collar to find his name was Hamilton, and chuckled at the thought, but even he couldn’t deny it was an objectively good name for a cat.

But Hamilton soon began to wriggle, so Junie set him down. And as the cat slinked back through the door, he pushed it open just enough for Junie to properly see what was on the other side. He wasn’t trying to be nosy. Quite the opposite, really. But he didn’t turn away either, and his gaze was quick to fall on a kitchen phone dangling from its cradle. It was a simple thing. Almost nothing at all. But it struck him odd in a way he didn’t understand. Something new and wrong at once. A mark. It was like some awful little thing had gone rotten in the small of his gut, and when he tried to speak, it stoned his tongue. And it thumped his heart something terrible.

Junie pushed the door open then. He pushed it wide to see. It felt strange to look in on someone else’s life without their blessing, even with the permission of concern. Backwards, even. It felt wrong to collect so many memories that weren’t his, and to hear the answers to so many questions he never meant to ask. And yet, his eyes were open and his ears were too, and his feet carried him forward until he was right in the middle of it all. Down in Union Park.

It was a small apartment. Cramped, to be kind. It was barely one room, but there were still little pieces carved out of it for the things any home should have. For the good bits. A corner for a kitchen and another for a den. A bit of floor by the stove set with a little bistro table and a pair of chairs for a dining room. And on the north side, there was even a bump-out for a bed, and next to it was the only bathroom, which was separated from the rest of the place by nothing more than a curtain.

It was modest at best, and the things that filled the place were no different. The couch and the coffee table. The dresser and the shelves and even the little TV stand. They were cheap by any other word, and even Junie could see it. There was nothing desirable or well-made about any of it really, but somehow it all felt correct. It was all so nicely squared away, and everything seemed to be in its place. And that was still lovely. The walls were peeling and sickly yellow, but they were still cluttered with pictures. And the only window in the place looked out on the plain brick of the building next door, but it was still home to a family of healthy plants. And it was all very fine for a Friday until Hamilton gave a desperate cry.

Junie found him standing over an empty water bowl in the kitchen, and after leaving Mr. Jay’s order on the table, he hurried over to help. It was a second strangeness. A second thing that shouldn’t be, but Junie still didn’t understand until he was already at the sink with the faucet running and saw them on the counter. Colorful little things. Colorful little things and some old matchbox torn open.

Pills scattered and sloppy, and little plastic bottles and lids to match. They were even spread across the kitchen floor like hail from some strange sky. Like rotten little seeds. And there had been no attempt to make any of it right. No time for it. It was panic and more, and Junie could feel the weight of prayers still heavy in the air, and a tightness in his chest. And wished then that he had been asked to stay late. My heart.

But Junie knew it shouldn’t be that way, so he flew to his knees to fix it. He scraped the things from the ground and tried to hide them away again. Blue pills with the blue. White pills with the white and shapes with shapes. And when he was done, he set them all back on the counter next to the salt and pepper and an empty bottle of the good ketchup. And he put the phone back on its cradle, and made sure Hamilton had his water too. And only after the little cat had his fill and set himself down under the table for a nap, only then did Junie remember how little he’d slept that night. And felt his legs hanging heavy from his frame. And his eyes grow tired of the light. And just as he agreed to let it take him, he was shaken back awake again by the din of the television. By the noise, good and sharp.

It was nothing Junie would be interested in. It was nothing he’d watch, and even the picture was too staticky to see anything but the colors, but it sounded so dire, as dramas do. It sounded like it meant something. Jumbled medical jargon and the beeping of machines. Orders and tears. Something something distress. Something something desperation. But Junie was well tired, so he didn’t pay it much of his mind, and he didn’t even turn it off when he sat himself down on the couch to give his bones a rest.

It was more comfortable than he expected. All of it, really. The walls around him and the things inside it. The little pieces of the life that everyone else had. And though it wasn’t much, it was more than nothing, and the ceiling was keeping the water out. It struck him then that maybe he didn’t need much space at all to fit. Nothing like the others needed. Because even this felt like enough, and Junie didn’t even find himself wondering what shadows might darken his door. And as he felt Hamilton against his leg for the second time that Friday, he saw the strangest little nothing out of the corner of his eye. A little flash of white.

It was a pair of shoes, of course. His very best shoes, in fact. Tucked under the coffee table and freshly polished, and shining just as bright as finer porcelain things. It had been ages since he’d seen them. More than a season, to be sure. But try as he might, he just couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually been down to the Hamilton. Couldn’t see it clearly. An hour or a day. A month or a year or more. It was such strange calculus to think about life in those terms. The days when I wore my white shoes. The days when I no longer could. The days when I polished them anyway for nothing and no one to see.

Junie reached for them. Lunged for them. But when he did, his hand found something else tucked under one of their tongues. A stack of photographs. Dozens of them, all yellowed with age and worn along the edges. They were pictures from all over the city. Every corner worth a damn, anyway. Downtown and East Bridge. Wesley Row and the theater district and Springhouse Square. Time and purpose. Moments and decades and the passage of it. And as he looked through them, the lines on their faces spread and deepened in kind. And their hair fell gray and thin. And their backs took on the same slumps. And their skin began to hang loose from their bones just as it should.

They were all tangled up, the two of them. And even Junie could tell. Always next to each other in the same modest pose. Always there. Mr. Jay and the same dapper stranger. Somebody he never thought he’d know. They were never dressed in anything less than a suit, though it was the very same one in every picture. The only one they had, he was sure. And as if he knew just where to look, Junie swung his gaze to the bed, and saw the thing still laid out there. Waiting. Brown with white pinstripes and a vest to match. And even from his spot on the couch, he could see how frayed it was at the edges. How threadbare the elbows had grown. The long work of it.

They were often in front of some landmark or another. Some street sign or movie marquee and more. And even Junie knew the grace of a reason when he saw it. But more often than not, the two of them were right in front of The Hamilton. Right there on the steps. Suits and hats. White shoes and smiles. And sometimes they were even at their table. The one in the corner. The one away from all the windows. And written in the margins of every last picture was just one word. Friday. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, carrots. And some of the good ketchup please.

They looked happy then, and Junie was glad to know there had been days like that. Days when he hadn’t polished his shoes for nothing and no one to see. Days when he wasn’t alone at his table praying for the grace of a little more time. They looked happy then, and he was glad to see it. And they looked happy still at the end of it all. When the stranger began to grow thin and wither away. When the bags under his eyes turned too heavy to hide under a hat, and his face turned sunken and pale. And they looked happy still when their Fridays went no further than waiting rooms and hospital beds, and the stranger’s suit no longer fit right, and there were no more reasons at all. They looked happy then too. And he was glad to see it.

Junie wanted to wear his shoes again. To feel them one last time and see the little flash at his feet when he walked. Quick and quiet. Friday shoes. He wanted to wear them again, but he knew he couldn’t, because he knew he wasn’t there anymore. The good bits. He knew he was instead somewhere among the beeping of machines and the big life-and-death scurry. The noise, good and sharp. And when he closed his eyes to hear it better, he could even smell the things they used to keep it all clean. The disinfectant and the curtains around the beds. The tired musk of whichever doctors were huddled around him then. He knew he was there now, even as he opened his eyes to the stuff he had managed to cut away from the bone. Even as he held so many memories in his hand.

But Junie was well tired, and he couldn’t help but think about how little he’d slept that night. And his legs hung heavy from his frame, and his eyes grew tired of the light. And as he felt himself being taken by it, he laid his head down, and was glad to have a place to sleep besides some old corner table. Even if he could still feel the dishrag damp in his hand, and he was sure he was being plucked right out of time.

He missed his Fridays dearly. And though he’d give anything to have them again, he didn’t want to chance them being any different at all. Not even if they came without sleepless nights and too-long days. Not even if he knew he’d be untangled by tomorrow. Not even then. So Junie put his pictures back where they belonged. And tucked his shoes under the coffee table just so. And was glad to know they were once his.

It was all dark and heavy air. Enough to hold the musk there good and sour. It was bare earth on all sides save for the timbering that was set every few feet like the bones of the place. Rotten ribs. Even the stairs were cut from the ground, their edges long and lazy, and no two of the ragged little things the same. It was a space below. A space away from the light. And he took every step slow and savvy. Each one its own little leap of faith.

He had a lantern in his left hand and a plate of food in his right, and on his hip was a revolver that had seen better days. Iron and old Ivory, yellowed and worn. It was nothing fancy. None of it was. Even the food he carried was little more than a helping of meat and veg all rough chopped and heaped on some tin plate. It was artless, but plenty enough for one good pile. Plenty enough to see it wobble with every little tremble of his hand. Louder now. The awful noise of it ahead. Louder now, the savage song.

It was wild unending. Rage. It was wretched war cries and the rattle-and-chime of chains. Iron and blood and more. And in the space between, there were drums, deep and raw. Something thunderous. Something in his chest. Something crashing against the bare earth walls, again and again. Again and again, no better. And with each wretched stanza, he could only swallow it, and close his eyes, and hope for something different on the other side of the dark. And know he was a fool.

And when he reached the bottom of the stairs and felt his boots on good ground again, he walked no further, and seemed uninterested in his light. Happy enough to let dark be dark up ahead. Noise be noise. He sat himself down on the very lowest step and set the plate of food at his feet. And after he took his pistol from his hip, he put the hammer to cock, and set it just beside him on the stairs. He was sure it would be foul, but he breathed deep of the air anyway, and there in the space below, he forced himself to recall a tune. And though he was sure he’d never hear it over the noise in the dark, he sang it anyway. For want of something better.

“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there
Which seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met elsewhere”

* * *

December 17, 1873

I assure you they are not mindless. Far from it. I assure you they feel and think, and even understand what is happening to them, though they are powerless to stop it. And really, that is the true horror of it. Like fire and rotten trees. Rooted and waiting. I assure you they remember too. And feel sorrow. And the shame of it. And want only to be free again. To be allowed to choose something other than the most vile sin. And we can give them that freedom with death, just as we can with life. But if there is no other way. If there is nothing else. Then this will be our end. It will ruin us, just as it has ruined me. It will destroy us, just as it has destroyed me. I assure you of that too. This cruel joke. The devil’s rub.

* * *

Silas Tilghman settled a short walk from the river because he was no fool, and he made his home deep in the thick of the forest for much the same reason. He found himself a patch of land as far from the city as his legs would take him in a day and made sure it was flat and clear, because he wanted no part of raising a cabin on some hill. He was no builder, but he was stubborn and plenty strong, and those things had already served his homestead well. And in the end, it was all fine enough. Fine enough and far from the others. A day away from their cruel countenance.

Silas hated washing up. He found it a waste of time, as his days were only so long and there was plenty to do. But his clothes had become too rank for him to ignore any longer, so he took to the River Crow at first light, and waded out wearing only a thin grimace. He carried only his threads and a lump of good lavender soap he’d kept from his last trip to the city, and something close to a washboard he’d cobbled together from timber scraps. And that was all fine enough too.

But it was an unpleasant task, and not just because he thought it wasteful. Not just because he thought it daft. It was confounding and fiddly, and every minute it seemed he would find himself digging some splinter or another from his hands or chasing his bit of soap downriver after it had slipped away. And all for a set of clothes he knew would be rotten again by sundown, sure as the late summer sun was strong. Silas Tilghman hated the washing up, so he was almost glad to hear the screaming.

Wild and uncalculated. Distant and plain. After a season in the western woods, it had become a familiar thing, but it still seemed strange as well. Something that didn’t belong. Something other. Something twisted in so much beauty. Silas steadied himself and closed his eyes, and in the quiet moments between the rolling of the current, he heard it clear enough to be sure it was coming from the east, just as the river was. And feared it was following the water.

He hurried back to the bank where he snatched his rifle from the trunk of some weary oak. And there he waited, naked as the dawn, his heart racing nearly as wild as the Crow. He waited until his hands were steady and his breath had run itself dry of being ragged. Until he was just as silent as anything else the forest had seen fit to plant. And there we waited. And knew it was all he could do. And in time, their wild songs faded. In time, they were gone. And the only thing raging his way was a burly old buck who had surely heard the same horrors, and wished to be free of them too.

* * *

Silas was well spent by the time he returned home. He had dressed the deer in the same spot it fell by the banks of the Crow. The stench of an old buck’s guts was nothing to take lightly, and it was far safer to float them down the river. But it was still a heavy thing and cumbersome, and after raising it up on the butcher hook fixed to the side of his cabin, Silas set himself down and took the world into his lungs.

It was a modest home but good and finished in a summer. He’d built it from stem to stud himself, and though it wasn’t much to look at, it kept the rain out and the firelight in, so Silas saw no point in fit and finish. Needs must and nothing more. Continuance.

There was a firepit towards the front of the property and a shed around back for anything that might rust. There was a pen for pigs he hoped to be one day raise, and a little half-stable that still sat empty and dirtied only by the winds and the rain.

There were gardens too, but nothing grand. Enough land to grow potatoes and carrots and turnips and such, and a few rows just for cabbages, though they were slow to come in the shade of the old trees. They were nothing like the root vegetables, which grew strong enough that Silas had to cut a cellar behind the cabin just to store the harvest. And the same could be said for the acorn honey he took from the bees he kept just up the hill.

He took his deer down swift and seamless. A butcher’s brawn and a painter’s touch. And once it was over, he set the bones to boil and hung the skins up to dry, and wrapped what was left in thick burlap and hoisted it high over a tree branch to keep it safe. And soon there was nothing left but the tenderloin. The very best bit. And he was quick to wrap it in some brown paper and stuff it away in his pack. And though he had done good work that morning and deserved a rest, Silas Tilghman was stubborn and plenty strong, and the late summer days were long, and there was endless work to do.

* * *

Silas wasn’t sure how far he’d walked, but it had been hours since he’d crossed the River Crow, and had just now reached the River Red. It was far enough for the sun to see the tip of the sky and begin to fall back down again, and far enough for his heels to come rubbed raw from the sweat against the leather of his boots. And just as his legs began to moan and he felt his back take on an unnatural bend, Silas finally came upon a clearing. And saw a house on a hill just up ahead. And had never been so glad to see another man’s home in all his days.

But as he broke through the tree line, there was no friendly voice waiting to welcome him, and no good long whistle either. There was only the report of a rifle, and it split the late afternoon clean in two.

The crack of it echoed to the river and back, and before Silas could even throw himself to the ground, it was followed by a sharp snap and a storm of little splinters from the tree just next to him. And only after he was flat against the dirt with his rifle in his hands and his heart in his throat did Silas hear a voice.

“You well!?” shouted the stranger.

“Wh…what?!” he managed.

“Are…you…well?!”

“Not nearly as well as I was ten seconds ago!” Silas offered through the clench of his jaw. The stranger’s laughter landed welcome on his heart, and Silas took it as permission enough to find his footing again. He brushed the indignity of it all from his clothing and picked the burs from his hair, and once he was done, he turned his gaze uphill to find a man on his porch with a repeater at his side.

“I…I was told there’s a doctor lives out here,” he said, catching his breath.

“That so?” returned the stranger. Silas looked him up and down from his unkempt beard to his wild mustache to the strange civility of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Said he’s a bit of a strange bird. Said he doesn’t take kindly to visitors unless they bring him whiskey or a week’s supper,” he boomed as he took the tenderloin from his pack. “Couldn’t find no whiskey barrels to shoot this mornin’.”

“Skittish little buggers,” said the man. “Well, you better come on in then. Might be a doctor around here yet.”

* * *

His home was mad with the hope of discovery. Lousy with it. It was a magnificent nest of books and diagrams and laboratory equipment, every bit of it looking as if it had been freshly read or used, but also somehow frozen in time. The sum of it felt endemic, as if it had always grown there and always would, and nothing could be done to cut it back. Wild weeds of the stuff.

Every table was cluttered with tubes and beakers of every shape and size, and every windowsill was set with a box of herbs to catch the light. There were pails of raw earth sprouting wild mushrooms, and knot after knot of dried flowers hanging from the rafters, and every last cabinet in the place was positively stuffed with bottles. Blue glass, clear, and brown. Bitters and tinctures and more.

“You Doc Stevens, then?” asked Silas as he wiped his boots on the mat.

“Was,” the man replied.

“Was?”

“Don’t see patients anymore, I’m afraid. Not sure they’d have me anyway.” Silas set his pack down, and the doctor took it as an invitation to fill a nearby glass with liquor and gulp it down. “Besides, I always enjoyed the…medicinal side of things more. Just me and my tonics now. Me and my little experiments.” Silas watched him fill his glass again. He was untidy as they come, but wore it well. And though his clothes were finer than most, they were bursting at the seams and threadbare, and what he could see of his skin had turned thick and greasy from the years of drink.

“Well, lucky for me I ain’t ailin’ much,” said Silas.

Doc Stephens looked him up and down. “You sure about that?”

“Hard to say these days, Doc.”

The doctor grimaced at the nickname but allowed it with a turn of his head. And in a show of good faith, he found another glass among the rubble and poured a drink for his guest as well. “And you are?”

“Silas Tilghman.”

“And what brings you round my neck of the woods, Silas?”

“Built myself a little place just past the River Crow a few months ago. ‘Bout half a day’s walk. Just west of the big bend before the pass. Figured it was time I got around to meetin’ my neighbors.” Silas took a long swallow of the stuff, and though he tried to stifle it, he coughed much of it right back up. “Pleased to meet you,” he said between hacks. “Sorry, I never been much for drinkin’.”

“Well, if I would’ve known that, I would’ve given you the cheap stuff.” The doctor brandished the bottle he was holding, Old Royal Putnam written on the label in fancy script. “Can hardly even get this in the city anymore,” he said as he took the drink back and finished it himself. “Well, Silas Tilghman, what can I do for you?”

“Like I said, I’m in good health—”

“But…”

“But I can’t sleep. Not any good anyway. Been that way for months now. Can’t seem to…I don’t know…quiet my thoughts. Still my heart.”

“I know the feeling,” said Doc. “All too easy to have too much on your mind these days.”

A howl pierced the air outside. Shrill and desperate. Something monstrous that made its way through the walls like wild wind. A second soon followed it. And a third. Each of them a different timbre of pain. A different shade of ruined.

“Heavy flu this year, huh?” said Silas.

“Looks that way.” A pointed silence followed, and neither of them were keen to break it until Doc took the matter upon himself. “Honestly, if you’re sleeping well, there’s probably something wrong with you.” Doc puttered about his home, sifting through the chaos that was once surely so intentional. Looking under charts and opening cabinets and inspecting bottle after bottle. Braids of dried herbs and little tins of this and that, every turn followed by a shake of his head and a grumble.

“Seems like you keep yourself busy enough out here,” offered Silas.

“I’ve found that if you don’t pick something to occupy your mind, the world will pick it for you.” Doc lined several different bottles up on a clear bit of workbench, and seemed pleased with his selections. “And there is little that frightens me more than that.”

Silas flicked his brow in agreement and left him to his business. But his attention soon began to wander, and landed on the only book in the place that seemed to have any space to itself at all. It was like something freshly planted in a garden, lying open on a table and filled with handwritten script. And next to it was a pen and an inkwell, and even a scratch pad covered with stormy markings. And though Silas knew it was no business of his, his curiosity quickly got the better of his nature, and he leaned in for a closer look.

August 31, 1873

I’ve seen more of them than most. Observed them. Written about them. Stark raving mad and infected. Eaters. Not a mild case among them. I was asked to treat them, but what could I do when I feared for my life? When they meant to tear me apart? I had to wait for them to die for even a cursory physical inspection, though more often it was after they were killed. Shot down. That was the only way I could study it. To see how it presents with time enough to try and understand it. And even that revealed precious little, because the symptoms looked different every time. Changed like the wind. Seemed to evolve as species do. And I fear we’ll never know it well enough to be rid of it. It is attached to us as we are to it. Stranger to stranger. Lover to lover. And together we fall towards something else entirely.

By the time Silas looked back up, Doc was holding a little bottle up to the light and sloshing it about to make sure the mixture looked just right. “That should do it,” he said, delivering the little jewel.

Silas turned it over in his hands. “What’s all in here?”

“Little cocktail of mine. Alcohol, Laudanum, Paregoric, Godfrey’s Cordial, extract of Chamomile and a little Willow bark to take the edge off. Take one spoonful before bed, and make sure you don’t have anything to do until the next afternoon. That bit’s important.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Sorry I can’t spare more. Afraid my stock isn’t what it used to be. But that should give you a few good nights.”

Silas retrieved the tenderloin from his pack. “This should give you a few good nights too. Fresh from this mornin’.”

“Much obliged,” said Doc, feeling the weight of it. “Care to stay for supper? Don’t get many visitors these days. None that can string a sentence together, anyhow.”

But Silas had gathered his things, and was already half a step towards the door. “Appreciate it, but I gotta get back.”

“Got someone waiting on you?”

“A few cabbages I ain’t seein’ eye to eye with.” Doc chuckled. “Just don’t care to make that walk in the dark, if I’m honest.”

“Why? Haven’t you heard? It’s nice and quiet out here in the country.”

“Maybe one day. Maybe even tonight,” said Silas, jingling his little bottle of tonics.

“Well, here’s hoping,” replied Doc. He refilled his glass with the last of the Old Royal Putnam, and raised it toast his new friend. “To safe travels and silent nights.”

* * *

It was dusk by the time Silas set foot on his homestead again, and even then, he didn’t take a moment for himself. There were still some embers deep in the fire pit, so it was nothing to get it roaring again. And once he moved the kettle off, he melted some deer fat and fried up some of the meat he’d carved away from his kill that morning. And though he was plenty hungry, he ate no more than a piece or two, and the rest he cut into bits along with a carrot and some hardtack he used to sop up the juices. And when that work was done, he heaped it all onto an old tin plate, and sat with it like it was some stranger he didn’t care to meet.

He seemed so unsure about something so plain. So normal and so necessary. And as an uneasy grimace grew across his face, he poured half of the tonic Doc had given him over the food he’d just prepared. And sat with it. And kept his distance. And thought it bad company, low-down and sour.

Silas made his way past the cabin. Past the butcher hook and past the empty pigpen. Past the half-stable he’d built for nothing and no one, and past the shed for rusty things too. He stopped only when he came upon a sheet of iron lying on the ground. A simple thing, four feet square and plain. It was a simple thing, and simple enough to move aside, but from the moment he opened the mouth of it to the world, there was nothing but screaming, wretched and electric.

It was almost dark, but dusk was still throwing its last light down the cellar stairs, so he needed no lantern. Silas was deliberate with his steps, careful and canny. Each one a greater journey. Each one taking him closer to the great loud dark again. Agony again. Chains again. The thumping. Again and again and again and more. And though he was stubborn and plenty strong, every piece of him fell at the noise of it. The devil’s din. He sat himself down and set his pistol beside him, and as he slid the old tin plate of food towards the darkness, he knew it would only be moments until he could see her again.

It came with a crash of iron and a snarl. With vile purpose. It came with the scent of food, good and fresh, and wild hunger. She charged, but her chains were plenty thick, and they kept her far enough from the stairs. They were plenty thick, but just long enough to let her taste the light. For her face alone to make its way out of the dark. Long enough for Silas to see, and for his heart to break raw and red at the sight.

Caroline. She was no older than twelve and still a small and wispy thing. And even though her eyes were shot with blood and yellowed, and her face was swollen and discolored from the things she’d done to herself, Silas could still see her. And even though she wouldn’t stop gnashing her teeth and raging violent and furious, he was sure he heard her voice as it once was. Bright and gossamer. Happy by any other name. The songs she used to sing and the questions a girl her age should ask. The sweet nonsense and lovely things lost.

Caroline. Her clothes had been torn to rags, and really, the rest of her was no different. Her wrists and ankles were bloodied raw from the shackles, and it didn’t seem to matter how loosely they were fit or how much soft leather Silas lined them with. She was simply too strong. Too tireless. And she cared nothing for herself anymore. Only the hunger now.

Caroline. He had to keep saying it to himself. Had to keep believing it, even as he knew he was losing her. Even as she screamed at him like some dying banshee, and her blood peppered his face. Even as she hated him, as she did every other piece of the world. And feasted horrible and ravenous on the food he made. Even as she was surely lost to the other. A wild one. An eater. Caroline. Caroline.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the tonic took her. And like some strange blessing, Caroline set herself down on the floor and lost her way long enough for Silas to take her in his arms again. And though she’d been tamed, he could still feel her trying to scream. Trying to storm and trying to eat. But she just couldn’t manage it through the chemical haze, and it was all she could do to bob her head about and mewl like some newborn thing. Some bloody lamb. And Silas Tilghman was grateful for it.

He sat with her on the bitter earth and wanted for nothing but better days. He stroked her hair and rocked her. Talked to her about how the cabin and how the crops were faring despite the shade of the forest. About how she would’ve loved it out here. The river and the room to be free. The whisper of the rain every afternoon and the way the light weaved itself through the trees in the morning. He talked to her about the hogs they would raise once it was safe enough again, and what they might name their horse once it was wise to keep one outside.

He sang her songs too. The same things he used to sing when she was younger and mild, and there were things to look forward to. Old things. And hoped it would do her good.

“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there
Which seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met elsewhere”

He wept then. For the things he’d lost and the things she might never find. For a pure creature in so much pain. But above that, he wept for the wish that she was still there. Still alive. Still Caroline among the other. Because he was sure it would be easier if she was gone. Easier for her. And he felt callous for praying she wasn’t.

“An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again
The birds singing gaily that came at my call
And gave me the peace of mind dearer than all”

And when he’d run himself dry of tears, he washed her down and cleaned her wounds, and shuddered at the shade of red it turned the basin water. He rubbed her ankles and wrists with phenol and wrapped them in rags, and set her nose back into place with a crunch he knew he’d hear for the rest of his days. And once she’d been tended to, Silas did the same for himself. For under his shirt lived a host of scratches and bone-deep bites, and he could never find rest enough to let them heal.

And even then. Even when she was clean, she wasn’t. Because Silas knew he could never wash the rash away. The devil pox. It covered her like some horrid gown. Some gruesome fabric, rough and red. And though he hated the cut of it, and thought it fit her poorly, he knew she was meant to wear it. And could do nothing but try and make her ready.

He trimmed her nails and cut her golden hair to keep her from tearing it all away. And once he was done, he washed what was left, because he couldn’t remember the last time she smelled of lavender soap, and thought she might think it nice. And when it came time to clean her teeth, he did what he could, though most of them were broken from chewing at her chains or worn down to sad little nubs. And for the thought of her smile, he wept again. And held her again. And somehow kept up his song.

“Home, home
Sweet, sweet home
There’s no place like home
There’s no place like home”

Caroline. He found her clean clothes. and even brought her up to lie by the warmth of the fire. He turned her chin towards the night sky, and though he wasn’t sure she knew the stars from the rafters anymore, he could at least see them shining in her eyes. And that felt like more than nothing to him. Like something well worth their time.

And when the night fell cold and heavy, he wrapped her in a blanket. And when the rains came, he brought her inside and set her on her bed. And when the sun began to chase the morning, her eyes grew wild again, and Silas knew their time was almost up. And so, he gave his daughter back to the dark, and hoped it would have her again, because it was far safer than the light. And as he slid the cover back over the place below, Silas said those very words to himself again and again. Again and again and more. And hoped he’d believe them.

* * *

January 7, 1874

I do not wish to tell you how it felt, because it is my torment, and I shudder to even think of it. But I shall try, because what else is the point of this pen and this paper? Of confession? What else is the point of this life I’ve been regiven? I destroyed the best part of myself. Charlotte. The woman I love. I showed her pain unimaginable and cared nothing for her cries. Felt no desire to offer her mercy. To even make it quick. And if I’m to confess it all, it was like cool water and crisp in the summer. Like mother’s milk and drunkard’s whiskey. It was blessed purpose, and the worst of it. And when it was done…I was whole again. And she was in pieces. Bones and the puddles beneath them. Bits that used to be my everything. And if I am the first to tell you this, I am truly sorry. And if you’re wondering how I’m here to tell you this at all, then you’re beginning to see it, and for that I am sorry too.

* * *

The city was a full day’s walk from the western woods. But after not more than an hour, Silas was lucky enough to come across a wagon headed the same way, and they were glad to offer him a ride. The kindness of strangers had become a funny thing, because it seemed to have grown alongside their cruelty. Distilled by the same rolling fire. But it was nonetheless welcome when it was ripe, and Silas, just like the rest of them, was in no shape to disregard it.

He was carrying half a dozen buck skins, and his pack was stuffed with bone and honey, and the moment he set his things in the wagon bed, he knew where the strangers had been. The smell of blood and bile was strong and well sour, and the five fleshly lumps covered with an old tent tarp were just as unmistakable. Little landscapes of noses and feet. Chins and rigored arms. Five things that used to be eaters. Five things that used to be men.

“Good huntin’ today?” Silas asked as he climbed aboard, doing his best to sound casual.

“Swear they’re gettin’ faster by the day,” said the first man.

“Mining camp just north of the pass,” added the second. “Been havin’ problems all month.”

“I know the feelin’,” said Silas. And the others could only nod. And nothing more was said at all. But that was very much the way of things, because there was so little new to speak about, and nobody wanted to hear it anyway. And so, they rode in silence, and none of them wanted for anything different. And ever when they neared the city, there wasn’t so much as a word, because they could all smell the burn pits clear as day. And when they turned off the main road to add their kills to the pyre, Silas only nodded his thanks, and set off towards the gates on foot.

The city itself didn’t look much different than in years past, but the space around it was hardly the same. The trees had been cleared for a quarter mile on every side, and lookout towers had been built every hundred yards or so. And in each of those towers was at least one man with a rifle, no different than the guards at the entrance to Main Street. And every wagon that came through was searched. And every man, woman, and child was looked in the eye and asked their name. And even if they seemed lucid enough, they were made to roll up their sleeves and show their skin just the same.

And on the other side of it all, the people were different too. Their shoulders were all slumped at the same sad angle and their lips sewn purse-tight with worry. And they all had the same hurried hitch in their steps too, as if they were keen to show there was no time for pleasantries. No time for each other. And as Silas Tilghman made his way towards the general store, he walked no different than the rest.

He handed over his buck skins and emptied his pack of handlebone and honey, and with the owner’s help, he set about gathering the things he needed. Salt, coffee, lamp oil, soap, and sugar. Candle wicks, disinfectant, tobacco, a handful of candy, and a bit of extra ammunition. And after adding a few bundles of fresh rags, the owner set about tallying his purchase.

“How’s life out by the pass these days?” he asked.

“Quiet. Except when it’s not.” The owner gave a chuckle between swipes of his pencil. And somewhere in the scratch of it, Silas spied a fancy bottle of whiskey behind the counter. Old Royal Putnam. “Much call for that around here?” he asked, wagging his chin at the label.

“Not really. Plenty of cheaper ways to drown your sorrows. Mostly keep it stocked for one customer. Doctor fella. Comes in every few months and trades for my whole stock.”

“Tonics?”

The owner looked up from his ledger. “Yeah. You know him?”

“Do now.”

“Used to have his office down the way here, but…left town after his wife passed,” he said, turning back to his tally.

“Was she…” Silas trailed off before he could finish, but the owner heard him clear enough.

“That’s my understanding. Here one day, gone the next. He just wasn’t the same after that. Don’t blame him for movin’ on.” They both understood in their own way. And neither of them even thought to raise their heads again until the dust from some commotion began to shade the sun outside.

Silas stepped out to find men in the street. Three of them. And even from across the way, he could see their fingers were twitchy on their rifles, and could feel their throats running dry with worry. They were lined up like little headstones outside some bootmaker’s storefront, and when the front door burst open, every one of them flinched at the sound of it.

He was thrashing violent and tireless. Devil things and noise to match. He charged towards the street, but was stopped short by a rope around his neck. Some horrible leash held by a fourth man with a badge. And soon, a fifth followed them through the door. And he too threw a rope around the wild one. And he too pulled it tight. And they held him there like some rabid dog for everyone to see. And even though he was well stuck, it did little to set them at ease, because he was still dying to eat the world. And even though his eyes were empty and his skin was covered in infection, Silas was certain he was no older than fifteen.

They drug him into the middle of the street, and the three of them put their rifles to their shoulders. And as they let their sights sway until they were trained on his heart, two more people emerged from the storefront. And they too were wailing. And they too were wild. And though they reached out for the thing that was once their son, they didn’t follow him past the porch. They only held onto each other. And watched. And even then, the young one didn’t seem afraid. Even then, he was filled with awful purpose. And even when they fired, he didn’t close his eyes. And even his last moment was wrath.

“Second one today,” said the owner, who was standing in the doorway. “Seems like we’ll never be rid of ‘em all.”

But Silas only nodded, because he could find no words that felt right. It was all in a knot too fresh. And as he looked back at his pile of goods on the counter, all he cared to offer was, “I’ll take that too,” and pointed at the bottle of Old Royal.

* * *

February 17, 1874

The very moment I awoke again, I knew I’d never live another day of peace. Knew I’d spend the rest of my time cursing myself. Spitting on my own name. Knew I’d question forever why I couldn’t satisfy my tongue until it was run red with my deeds. And knew I’d never know the answer. Because while I loved her, and will until my dying day. My Charlotte. That love, like the rest of me, was diseased. I was not myself then, and rotting from the bones out, but I’m sure she knew it was me. Because I heard her say as much. And I still hear it. And though I’ve tried to end my life time and time again, I simply can’t. Potion, bullet, or otherwise, it makes no difference. Because it was her gift to me. It was what she died for. And as much as I wish to, I can’t bring myself to throw that away.

* * *

There were no gunshots this time, but that didn’t mean Silas wasn’t scared, because he could hear Doc belting Dixie from halfway up the ridge. He was on his porch, singing for every last thing in the forest to hear, and even after just a verse, Silas was certain he was drunk, or at least well on his way.

“Well, that’s one way to keep ‘em off your property,” he said as he made his way up the hill.

“Silas Tilghman! So good to see you alive!” Doc was still on his feet, but far enough in the bottle to be unbothered by shame. And Silas shook his head at every dramatic wave of his hand and each big sharp bark from his lips. “Have you come to borrow some sugar?”

“Come to invite myself in for supper, actually.”

“Supper?” crowed Doc. “Supper!? Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s not even noon!” He swung his arms about, gesturing at the midday light.

“That mean you’re not hungry?” Silas took the bottle of Old Royal Putnam from his pack, and Doc’s eyes glowed at the sight of it. And for just a moment, he was stone cold sober again.

“On second thought…I could eat.”

* * *

They found themselves a little corner of the porch with two chairs and a table to hold the bottle. And by the time the sun reached the quarter sky, they had already waded through memories of being back east and life during the war. And this time around, even Silas found himself agreeable to drinking, as Doc was sure to start his glass with two sugar cubes and a few dashes of bitters.

“How’d the city treat you?” asked Doc

“About what you’d expect. Just…more of it, I guess.” They both took a sip while they let his words settle. “Saw them drag a flu bird right outta his house. Shot him dead in the street. In front of his parents too. Couldn’t have been older than fourteen…fifteen maybe.”

Doc’s expression melted. “Didn’t even take him away?” Silas shook his head. “No grace in it anymore,” he continued. “River’s run dry. Patience too.”

“Nah, they wanted everyone to see. Proof that somethin’s being done, you know?” offered Silas.

“Like a hanging in the square.”

“Yeah. Just like that. After it was done, you could see how, I don’t know…relieved…they all were. Everyone. Everyone watchin’. Everyone holdin’ a rifle. Shit, even I was breathin’ a little easier. Even his parents.” He swirled his glass with one eye on Doc, waiting for his answer.

“You see enough of it, you can’t help but want it gone. Goes double for seeing it up close. Not even sure it matters who after a while.”

Silas nodded. “Heard you used to have on office in the city. Sure you’ve seen more than your share.”

“Now, where’d you hear a thing like that?”

“Little birdie,” answered Silas, nodding at the bottle of Old Royal. Doc only grimaced, knowing full well some of his history had been laid bare.

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” he said, his gaze trailing off to something distant and unwelcome.

“I’m…I’m sorry about your wife,” said Silas. “Lost mine too a year back. Nobody deserves to go like that.”

Doc sunk away into the memory of something dark at the mention of her. Something more than loss. More than grief. Something that rattled his bones, and colored even the reddest corner of his heart some other shade. And when he felt himself choking on it, he made a point of coming up for air, and filled his glass uncommon high, and wet his lips again to speak.

“The going isn’t even the worst part. Death’s a blessing at that point. It’s the living bit they don’t deserve.” He finished his drink in one long swallow and poured himself another. “They’re just as afraid as we are. Terrified. You imagine what it’s like to lose your morals? Your conscience? To sit there and watch yourself disappear? To turn like that?” Silas could only watch the trees. And as they swayed in the late summer breeze, a wild cry echoed in the distance, and Doc added, “A blessing.”

“There nothing can be done? Nothing?” he asked. “Forgive me, I just don’t know many—”

“You wanna know what I saw during my time in the city, Silas? I’ll tell you. I saw something different every time.”

“Different?”

“I examined more of them than I care to count. And almost every one of them presented with a different rash. Different color of the eyes. I’d even open them up and find different organs all calloused up. Different tissue infected. Different areas of their brains withered. It’s like it changes from town to town. Schoolhouse to schoolhouse. Even family to family. I’d be lucky to find two brothers sharing a room with the exact same symptoms.” He downed the rest of his drink. “How you gonna cure all that? How you gonna solve a problem when you don’t even know where it began…and the question keeps changing?” Doc set his empty glass on the table. “We ain’t nearly quick enough.”

Silas was still watching the trees. And for the first time, he emptied his glass in one swallow as well, and he too set it on the table. Doc’s head fell back against the back of his chair, and his lids began to grow heavy over his eyes.

“And even if we were,” he continued. “Who’s to say they don’t remember? Who’s to say they wouldn’t have to live with the things they’ve done? Imagine? The feel of it. The taste. That saving someone? That a cure? Or just a different disease?” He paused and settled deeper into his chair, and waited for sleep to take him. “Nothin’ but a bullet fixes that. A blessing.”

Doc’s words struck Silas heavy and sunk him low. And his face turned twisted at the taste of them. “You really think they remember?” he asked.

“Of course,” slurred Doc, his head bobbing about his neck. He licked his lips one last time, and his eyelids shut themselves for good. “Of course we remember.”

Silas couldn’t be sure of what he’d just heard, or even what was just said after so much whiskey. But it was enough for the late afternoon sun to wash everything over with a new light. And when Doc’s mouth fell agape of heavy sleep, Silas could see several of his teeth were broken, and several more were worn down to almost nothing. And just as his thoughts drifted back to Caroline’s smile, Doc woke with a start, as if he’d been thrown clear of some bad dream.

“You alright” asked Silas. But there was no answer, because the whiskey had already settled deep into Doc’s bones, and he was in no shape to talk. He was gone again in moments, and Silas was somehow glad for it. The next thing to fall was his hand, which slipped from his chair and landed loosely at his side, and Silas could see the tips of his fingers were dark with ink, and knew he’d been at his journal. And before he could even wonder if it was still sitting freshly planted on the table, Silas saw a little corner of red leather peeking out from the pocket of Doc’s vest, and was glad to see he kept it close to his heart.

* * *

It was early evening when Silas crossed the River Crow again. He was always careful to keep his attention keen around the water, as both good things and bad know thirst, and before his boots could even walk themselves dry again, he heard something strange weaved into the wind. The rustle of leaves and the snap of twigs.

It was just on the other side of the hill, and Silas moved off the trail and into the brush, creeping swift and quiet. And as he climbed the little rise in the earth, he took his rifle from his shoulder and chambered a round as gently as he could. And stopped. And listened. And when he set his eyes over the ridge, he saw three dark shapes making their way through the trees. Horses and men to ride them. Horses and gear to hunt.

Silas could see they were heading west. Towards the setting sun and the bend in the river. Towards the little patch of land where he’d left his life. He gave a sharp whistle, and the three men wheeled to find Silas giving a friendly wave. “You boys lost!? Don’t get much company this deep in the woods!”

“No, sir!” the man in front returned. “Just out for a ride! Fine country out this way!”

Silas could hear the jangling of irons in their saddlebags with each hitch of their horses, and saw a rifle and a shotgun each by their sides. “You ain’t gotta lie,” he said. “I ain’t mad about what y’all are doin’.”

“Well…much obliged,” said the man in front. “You have yourself a good one.” And with that, they set back off through the woods. Westward. And a hundred words caught themselves in Silas’ throat before he found a few that might do.

“Wouldn’t bring those horses with you next time!” he shouted. The men stopped, and the man in front turned back around.

“Pardon?” he said.

“Those horses…get you killed out here.” He nodded up at the canopy, adding, “Gets dark as pitch soon as the sun goes down. Gonna rain tonight. And when it does, you won’t be able to hear nothin’ either. Eaters can smell a horse for a mile if the wind is right.” He let the breeze speak for him. “They move fast out here. Quick enough to spook those horses. And when they throw you, and they will, well you ain’t got a chance.” The men whispered amongst themselves as Silas took one more look west, adding, “Why you think they called in new blood?”

There was some discussion, all while Silas tried to keep it all inside. All while he let his finger creep ever closer to the guard around his trigger, and his heart began to race. There was a quick exchange and a glance up at the sky, and after a string of breathless moments, they each tipped their hats. And Silas tipped his in return. And the three of them trotted back the way they came. And only after they’d covered enough trail to disappear again, only then did Silas Tilghman take off running.

* * *

The meat was raw. There was no time to start a fire, and Silas’ head was still buzzing with a thousand unwelcome thoughts. It was raw, but at least it was fresh and still smelled sweet. And as he cut it to bits along with some bread and a bit of pickled pumpkin, his hand shook so bad he could barely hold his knife. And by the time he added the last of Doc’s tonic to the mix, the rest of him was just as undone. Because he was sure he could hear Caroline screaming clear as day. Even through the earth and iron.

She was waiting for him this time. Waiting at the end of her chains. Endless. Mad frenzy and venom. And though he’d seen her like this a hundred times before, she was somehow different. And so was he. Because for the very first time, he wondered if she understood. If she understood the young blood running red from her cuffs. If she understood the darkness. And when he put her supper down, she only kicked away, and stained the very walls with the last of her peace.

She raged savage and fiery at it. At the insult. At the notion she should be something else. And it tarred him with hatred for what had taken her. And in his own anger, Silas stormed back upstairs and took a bridle from the stable wall, and checked to make sure the bit was still strong. And as he held it in his hand, and listened to his daughter’s wild noise, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine fitting her like some animal. Like something other. And couldn’t. And so, he sat on his step. And sang her his song. And when that work was done, she was no less sick. And he was no less undone.

That night, Silas felt cold in all the ways a man can, so he built himself a fire. He built it strong and hot, and even cut himself a good side of meat, but had no appetite for food and only felt a further fool about it all. And even when the rains came, he sat and watched the water melt the flames, because his gut was simply too twisted to stand. And in the last of the light, Silas took Doc’s journal from his waistband. And as he opened it to the very first page, he hoped the ink would prove strong enough to weather the rain, and stubborn enough to stay with him well after.

* * *

July 7, 1873

Today, I awoke to a nightmare unimaginable. I rose a devil. Pure animal. I am a monster unthinkable. The very same thing the world has ran from, and rightfully tried to rid itself of. Today, I saw the things I did when I was other. Flu-blind and wild. I saw her in pieces like some lame mule deer. Scattered and broken. My Charlotte. My everything. So much of her was gone, and yet I am whole. And healthy. Twisted tongue and hunger unquenchable. Demon things. And I am sure I am not the first. And now I am supposed to live among the rest, and somehow think that fine. Eat their food and wear their clothes. Speak their words. Sing their songs. And all while I carry this. All while I still taste it. What detestable grace.

* * *

It was the thunder that rattled Doc awake, but rather the stuff in his head. And with the storm still raging outside, he was glad to see he’d had the presence to see himself to bed before the whiskey took him for the night. He found his feet, but they found the floor wobbly, and when he reached for the bottle of Old Royal by his headboard, he was gutted to find it empty.

There was little room in the place already, and the expletives did nothing to help. And as he rummaged about his cabin looking for anything at all to drink, the strange smell of some animal freshly wet begged him to stop.

“Roll up your sleeves,” came a voice.

“Silas?” he said before he even looked up. Doc turned to face him, and found Silas standing by the door with his revolver at his side. He was wide eyed and humorless. Strung out and ragged and soaked through from the storm, and toeing the edge of something far worse. “Silas, I—” Silas raised his pistol. “You really wanna shoot me?”

“No,” he offered as he drew back his hammer. “Go on.”

Doc unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves up past his elbows. And with a resigned sigh, he let Silas see every heinous little scar his rash had left him. Hundreds of them striping his skin like railroad tracks. Horrid little memories. And at the sight of them, Silas’ chest began to heave, and his face turned flush with revelation. And as he let his revolver fall back to his side, he wiped his face as if he was dripping mad with sweat.

“Now what?” asked Doc.

“I…uh,” stammered Silas. “I need this. These, I mean.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket. A page from Doc’s journal. And handed it to the man who had written the very words. “At the bottom there.”

May 27, 1874

I cannot remember yesterday, and that is a fine thing, because it means my recipe is perfected, or well close. I cannot remember what I did, and yet, I did many things, for I have seen the leavings of them. I can recall nothing. Not even the words I have written in this book, mad as they were. Not even the whiskey still wet on my lips. And that means I’ve had a day of peace. A day where I did not wish myself dead. A day where I did not let the memory of the pull of skin and the snap of bone consume me. Perhaps then, this is how I’m meant to live with it. A valve to ease the pressure. A bit of water in this endless desert. Three large flesh-of-the-gods mushrooms, tincture of hashish (a thimbleful), three drops of opium extract (uncut with alcohol), one mescal button ground to dust.

“You took my journal?” His eyes flashed to his vest, which was slumped over a nearby chair. “For what?” asked Doc.

“Just go get—”

“For WHAT!?” he boomed. “You sick? Because if—”

“I ain’t sick,” said Silas.

“Then what? What are you trying to forget so bad you—”

“It’s my daughter,” he said finally. “Been months now.” They sat with the echo of it until it deafened them both. “Why we moved out here to begin with. So they wouldn’t find her. She’s getting’ worse every day, I…I can’t help her no more. She don’t deserve to live like that.”

It broke him then. The crush of it. The known and the unknown. But somehow, he kept it all stitched up inside his skin. Somehow, he kept his spine straight and his feet on the ground. And the only thing that gave the game away at all was the revolver rattling in his hand. The clatter of his fears. The sum of it. And Doc did his best not to stare overlong.

He glanced at the page in his hands, if for no other reason than to remind himself of what Silas had read. What had been written and what had been done. And when it was all fresh enough to burn white hot and bright again, he walked over to one cabinet in particular, and took a little blue bottle from the back. “Distilled,” was all he said.

He took three sugar cubes from a jar and set them in a little tin. And with a dropper, he loosed a bit of the liquid onto each cube and let it settle. “Take all of them. I can’t promise you’ll do what you need to do, because most of you will be elsewhere. But if you manage, there’s a good chance you won’t remember the worst of it,” he instructed as his gaze fell back to the pistol still shaking in Silas’ hand.

Silas took the tin and nodded his thanks. Gratitude, glorious and unwelcome. “What you wrote. It all real? All of it?” he asked. Doc said nothing, but it was honest silence. And Silas understood every last word. “I can’t have you following me,” he added.

“I won’t. Gonna need that book back though.”

Silas nodded. “I know.” And before the next drop of rain even fell, Silas struck him with his pistol, and sent him crumbling to the floor. He crouched low and checked for a pulse, and feeling fine he was still alive, Silas Tilghman left Doc’s ruined graces once more, and hoped he’d never see him for the rest of his days.

* * *

It was the thunder in the sky that woke Doc this time. And he didn’t even feel the pain in his head until long after he took to his feet and steadied himself against the table. And through the growling and the bleeding of the light, he was somehow able to see the remains of the day for what they were, and remembered what had become of his journal. And what Silas had made him party to. And knew the storm would whip him.

It was a treacherous country in the rain, and the urge to vomit every quarter mile only drove Doc to curse himself louder. It was all mud and slick trails. Newly bare roots and skin-thrashing thicket. And all with the taste of bile and stale whiskey still strong in his throat, and the chime of ivory on bone still ringing in his head.

He was already tired by the time he crossed the River Red, and an hour past wasted when his boots splashed down in the waters of the Crow. And just as his legs began to seize and his tongue had grown tired of profanity, Doc came upon a clearing in the woods. And in that clearing was a cabin. And next to that cabin was a modest little garden. And a hog fence built for nothing.

It all seemed quaint enough and quiet, even in the rain unending. It was almost a bit of normal in a world that had grown tired of the stuff. Peaceful even. But as Doc made his way to the cabin, he spied something under a grand old oak just past the fire pit. Something other. Something not planted by the rains.

Caroline. Still and bloody. She was a mess of it. Soaked clean through her clothes and red from toe to tip. Doc flew to her side out of some buried instinct. He reached out to feel the life in her neck, but his own heart was already wild, and his senses were anything but keen. So instead, he took his knife and cut away her dress to tend to her wounds, but as the rain washed her clean of blood, he was surprised to find nothing of the sort.

Instead, he saw something cruel and familiar. The leavings of both hope and regret. He saw the seeds of scars where her rash had been, covering her like some new gown. And though her wrists were still rubbed raw, and her teeth were still in bits, she seemed healthy, or at the very least on her way. And as he began to cry for her, he saw the strangest thing. A breath. And though it was weak, it was less than death. And that seemed like something well worth their time.

“Silas!” he yelled, as he carried her through the cabin door. “Silas!” he yelled again as he set her on her bed. But there was no answer. There was no answer, even though there was a fire in the hearth and fresh candles to light the place. There was no answer when he found a basin of clean water and rags already next to her bed and washed her. There was no answer as he wiped her wrists with phenol and dressed her in the fresh clothes that had been laid out on the chest against the wall. And nothing as he was sure he smelled lavender in her hair.

And when he searched the cabin, he found that his own words had been left behind for him to read again. His journal. Still on the table. And still open to the world.

March 2, 1874

But I have taken others. I ran wild and free before I returned to Charlotte and did not die of hunger. I still recall it in some backwards way. The ingrace. The feel of it warm on my face. The fatty bits. And yet, it did nothing to heal me. THEY did nothing to heal me. So why then was it her? Why then was it Charlotte who made me well again? I can only think it was love. Not the thing itself, but the proximity that love brings. The closeness. The life we shared. After all, we drank the same water and ate the same food. Breathed the same air and met the same people. And yet somehow she wasn’t taken by the thing that took me. Somehow, she grew something pure from the same seed that grew my madness. My wildness. She was my cure. And if it truly could only have been her? How wretched. How wretched indeed.

And there on the table next to those words was a bit of brown paper with a single name scrawled on it. Caroline. And when Doc looked back at her, still in the throes of some other consciousness, he began to see what Silas saw in his writing. Saw them as a father would. And called his name no more.

It wasn’t long before he came upon the entrance to the cellar, the iron cover pushed aside and the mouth of it still open to the rain. He had no lantern, but the sour musk of the place was light enough to see, because he knew it well. Rotten blood and more. Leftover bits.

Each step was some more sour memory. And before he even reached the bottom, Doc knew what he’d find there in the dark. In the space below. Bones and the puddles beneath them. The leavings. The things that used to be Silas Tilghman, and the open shackles that took him. So much of him was gone, and yet Doc was still whole. And healthy enough to see the point of it. Somebody’s everything. The gift she’d been given.

Caroline. She was all that mattered once Doc climbed back from the dark. Some blessed thing. And as he put a cup of rainwater to her lips, she drank it and sighed a grateful sigh. And Doc did the very same. And as she settled back against the bed, he couldn’t help but see Silas in her. Strong and plenty stubborn. The long work of love and more.

March 3, 1874

I’m sure I will never be redeemed. How could that come to pass? How would I ever make up for what I took from this world? For the light I snuffed out? She is gone, and now I see nothing but the dark. Nothing but the absence of things good and bright. I cannot even in good conscience practice my craft any longer. Cannot heal or make well or care for others like I used to. I have no substance. No purpose. And the only reason I’m here is because she is not. And I am in pieces jut as she is. What then is the point of it? What gift is this? What piece of this life is truly left to live? What awful bargain. The rub.

Emmitt Grey was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name. There was nothing he couldn’t build, and he did it better than the rest with an ease that twisted their guts into jealous little knots. They said it was something close to a gift. A calling. But Emmitt hated that notion, because every day he chose it above everything else. Every day he chose it above fishing and farming. Above tailoring and bookkeeping and shoe shining too. Emmitt Grey was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name, so there was little to do but build.

Even as a young man, he built the most splendid toys, and was glad to see the other children love them. Carriages for little wooden horses and knights with swords to challenge little wooden dragons. And every time he heard a clamor of little voices, he was tickled to know it was over some little something he had made. A little joy and a little smile. But the very best toys are the most well-loved, and they make for fair-weather friends. And sooner or later, they all ended up in pieces, no matter how finely they were made.

But like all young men, Emmitt grew, and so did his savvy. And in time, he tried his hand at time pieces, which suited him well. He loved the measured grace of their complicated little mechanisms and the simple little faces they often hid behind. And he loved that they looked like magic to most, and that he understood them in a way they didn’t. He loved being a wizard to them, and he made their little clocks better than the rest. Stronger and sleeker and more exact. Better and bolder and filled with more grace. And there wasn’t a single man about town with a waistcoat to his name that didn’t want one tucked away in his pocket.

But watches were for show, and fashion is a fickle thing, and Emmitt Grey was but a builder. They always wanted something new, of course. Something better and something finer, and something only they would have. And while it made for good business and bought him a fine enough shop, Emmitt didn’t see the point in helping play such games, and he hated how temporary it made all the beautiful things feel. So he left them behind too.

He turned to beds and tables and the like, because at least those things were used and kept and passed down through the years. But the trees in his corner of the world soon turned diseased and gnarly, and he couldn’t find a straight meter in the bunch. He built carriages too, but in time, they clogged the streets like driftwood, and there was hardly any room to walk anymore.

He built bridges, but there were only so many rivers to cross. And he built tunnels, but there were only so many mountains to mine. And when he turned his eye to shops and churches, it all seemed so empty, because there was just no room for the expense of quality. And they all just wanted it quick and cheap. He even built a castle once. It was a grand thing, and money was of no concern. And every last bit of it was just as it should have been from chapel to keep. But lovely as it was, it fell the very next season, as all castles do. And someone who cared for nothing for its design was soon walking its ramparts.

Emmitt Grey was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name. But still, he felt unwelcome. Still, he felt misused. He often dreamed of something different. Of a place that lived for beauty where fashion wasn’t quite as fickle. A place where there was room to walk and room to ride, and where nobody had to choose between cheap and correct. But there was no such place, and even Emmitt Grey knew as much. So there was little to do but build one.

In time, he found a ship. And traded his skills as a fixer for passage across the great sea. And every time the sea took its share during their voyage, Emmitt replaced it. And every time they strayed from their course, Emmitt made sure the ship was truer, and that its sails would hold more wind[AP1] . It took ages to find land again, but when they did, Emmitt didn’t settle by the coast with the rest, because they had brought too much of the old world with them. And he was sure they would just build more of the same.

He left in the deepest hour of the night with only his axe and his hammer in tow, and he walked until he could no longer count the days. Until the landscape turned strange and back again. Until the rivers carved great canyons in the earth, and the mountains stretched right through the very sky. He walked until the wetlands turned dry, and found the very end of the endless plains, and only there, where gold turned green and back again…only there did Emmitt Grey find what he had sought.

A great tree. Wild and peerless. It stood alone, and it looked so strong and so complete that Emmitt was sure its roots reached the very heart of the earth and held it tight. Its branches were broad like cannons, and its canopy was so grand that it blotted out the sun for acres to both the east and west. North and south. Emmitt was sure it was an oak by the cut of it, but the ground was littered with leaves of maple and poplar, and at times, he was certain it smelled of pine and spruce. It was tall and mighty like a redwood, and yet it wept like a willow too. And its bark was both white like a birch, and dark and craggy like some old cedar.

A seed once, and a seed again. It was a beautiful thing, but it was so much more. It was a free thing, too. Unencumbered by the world. Blind to its whims and ignorant of its fashions. It was like nothing else he’d ever seen, and somewhere in that spirit, Emmitt saw his dream. And somewhere in that dream, he saw a home. And somewhere in that home, Emmit Grey saw himself for the very first time. Content. And so, he set down his pack and took up his axe. And as he ran his thumb over the edge to be sure it was still sharp, the great tree groaned in the wind.

The first branch came away cleanly. It fell easy as if it was always meant to, and Emmitt took that as a blessing. It was big and burly, and just straight enough for four good beams. And when he cut them, they were true and good, and there wasn’t even a scrap to spare. He joined them together and set their corners on four sturdy rocks, and to his surprise, the thing looked plum level from the start. It all felt so correct, as if he was putting them back where they belonged. As if he was following some old and perfect design.

The second branch fell to shore up the foundation, and the third for a good set of stairs and a solid front door. It was a fine day’s work, but at the end of it all, Emmitt found himself achy, and his joints stiffer than they usually were after such a thing. He had been harder on himself than most, but this was no time to rest. This was a time to build if there ever was. And so he paid the pain no mind, and turned a blind eye to the callouses growing over his palms and along his heels, because such things were a price he was happy to pay.

He took what he needed to fashion frames for his walls and boards for his floor. And though the great tree groaned with every kick of the wind, he paid it little mind, because he too was feeling the pangs of progress. And he could see it all so clearly. And when the floor was done and he finally had something firm to stand on, Emmitt Grey looked out over the great nothing that surrounded him, and knew he was just where he needed to be. A seed once, and a seed again.

That was the first night he spent in his home, albeit naked under the stars and bare to the rain. That was the first night he tasted the new world he was building. And as he fell asleep with crumbs of the stuff still on his lips, he felt his hands against his head, and saw that his callouses had grown cracked and gnarly. And when he kicked off his boots, he only found more of the same. Dark and wild like something more than skin. But Emmitt Grey was a builder, and there was so much still to build, so that night he slept soundly, and dreamt of things to come.

And his dream did grow. And so did his home. But so too did his pain. And soon, the rough skin turned to sickly scales that covered everything up to his elbows. And by the time the first two walls were finished, they were well past his ankles and onto his knees. It wasn’t long before each step became harder than the last, and it was all he could do to cut his boots away. He grimaced at the sight of it—patches and fissures like dead desert clay. It felt dry and hardy, and as the wind grew more unkind, it began to burn as it whipped him over.

But Emmitt’s hammer still cried to be swung, and he was still keen to swing it. And his dream had grown no dimmer. But as he wrapped his hand around its handle to fix a further wall, his skin split itself in two. And where there should have been strong, red blood, only sweet sap flowed. It stopped him cold, but it didn’t change him, because it was just something more to fix. And with the sharpest of his blades, he cut it all away, and littered the ground with the makings of whatever madness he’d sown.

He let sleep take him early that night. And when the morning breeze shook him up, it had all grown back, only thicker and more twisted than before. And it had taken even more of him during the night. It was so strong now that his feet may as well have been in irons, and his hands may as well have been in stocks. And as he looked up at the tree from which he had carved the beginnings of his world, Emmitt knew he could no longer climb it to take what branches were left. But still he chose to build, because there was little else to do. And one swing or a thousand made no difference to Emmitt Grey.

It was a great tree. And it was a season entirely from first cut to last. And when it finally hit the earth, the very rumble brought Emmitt to his knees, and he was as tired as he’d ever been in all his days. And parched in a way he’d never know. And as if the heavens were suddenly keen on charity, the skies opened up, and the rains washed him over. And he too fell grateful to the ground.

And in some strange way, it was lovely then. It was good to feel the water against the rugged bark that held him now, because he knew it needed drink. And somewhere between the promise of a dream and the end of his great tree, Emmitt Grey wept for it all. He cried until he could no longer tell his tears from the rain. Until his body gave out from the strain. And after it was done, and there was nothing more to say between him and the earth and the clouds, the sun offered a word. And there in the shine of it, a seedling grew from his chest. From the very center of him. As if its roots reached his very heart. And held it tight.

He tore it away, but another just took its place. He ripped that away too, but a third only grew from the very same spot. And only then did Emmitt understand how strange he’d become. And how far he’d traveled from the world he knew. But Emmitt Grey was a builder, and even the paupers knew his name.

By the time Emmit Grey set about cutting shingles for the roof, he could hardly tell his leg from a young poplar anymore. And by the time he fashioned frames for the windows, his arms had grown crooked like some wind-twisted pine. Each day there seemed to be less of the man that set off across the great sea, but there was still enough left. Enough left to dream his dream.

There was still enough to finish four walls, and enough to seal a roof. There was enough to stack a chimney and enough to dig a cellar too. There was even enough to build a table and a single chair. And a little bed with four little feet turned by hand. And as he stood where the great tree once did, he thought the things he made were beautiful. Lovely, even. He thought it was a fine dream, or at the very least, a fine beginning.

And even as the clouds began to gather, it mattered little, because he had a roof for shelter, and a firm bed for rest now. And a vision of everything to come was still black in the white of his mind. And as the rain began to fall, he took it as permission to step inside. And with his heart full and his head high, Emmitt Grey took his first stride towards his dream, and went nowhere.

It was a root, of course. It had sprouted from his sole and burrowed itself in the earth. And no matter how hard Emmitt tried to pull himself free, the earth only held him tighter. He looked for his axe, but it was too far for him to reach. He clawed at the little vine with his fingers, but his arms had turned so clumsy and wooden that it was no use at all. There was nothing to do now but turn to the sky and wail. And as he opened his jaws to the heavens to scream devilry, he felt a second root grow from his other foot, and knew nothing he said would matter a whit.

Emmitt Grey cried then too, slow and sweet and awful. And these tears saw many more seasons than the rest, and carried away snow and rain and sun alike. And as they blessed the ground beneath him, the bark that had become his skin began to grow towards the sky. And he felt his roots bury themselves deeper and deeper in the earth. And through it all, Emmitt watched his dream sit empty. And cried for that too.

He watched until his body grew strong and wild in the face of even the fiercest storm, and until old, spindly vines wrapped themselves around his trunk like good bailing twine. He watched until generations of this and that settled among his branches and took shelter under his canopy. And he watched until everything he had built turned rotten with age. And crumbled. And was carried away by the winds, as all things are in time. And even after it was gone, and there was nothing there that hadn’t been there before, he watched. Because Emmitt Grey was a watcher, and there was little else to do.

And in time, he forgot the paupers and the princes alike. He forgot the toys and the ticking of the watches and the endless rumble of the carriages too. And the lands and the seas he had crossed. In time, Emmitt Grey forgot even his own name. Even the world he needed so dearly. And the things he was sure would one day live in his dream. And in that nothing, he found the strangest peace. And was alive just as he was dead. And empty just as he was full. And that was how the great tree lived until the stranger came.

He was big and broad, and carried with him a pack bigger than most. And as he ran his fingers over the bark of the great tree, Emmitt could tell from his touch that he was a builder. And that his hands had made lovely things. The stranger’s eyes grew wide then, as he’d finally found the very thing he’d sought. And in those eyes were whole worlds and endless wonder. A dream, big and blue. And so, the stranger set down his pack and took up his axe. And as he ran his thumb over the edge to be sure it was still sharp, the great tree groaned in the wind.

A little story about my mom on International Women’s Day. Because the women in my life built our family brick by brick, and I don’t tell them that often enough…

I know I've talked a bit about my family with you guys before. I've shared some stories about my grandmother and my grandfather and my dad too. But today, on International Women's Day, I'd like to tell you all a little story about my Mom, Patricia. Because she's probably the most important person in my life, and I think you all deserve to know why.

I've said before that I come from a family of strong women, and I mean that with my whole heart. My grandmother, both of my aunts, even my stepmother Cyndi are all strong and wonderful and wise as can be. And if it wasn't for all of THEM, the rest of us fellas wouldn't be anywhere close to where we are now, I can promise you that. Miles and miles away, in fact. And my Mom is a shining example of just that kind of strength.

Her story obviously begins before I was born, if you can believe that, but THIS story begins in her college years, which interestingly enough, were in her 30s. Needless to say, she went to school later in life. Late enough that she had two children of her own already, both of whom were also in school at the time.

And anyone who's ever had to juggle a full-time higher education AND a full-time family will tell you it's the furthest thing from easy. Almost impossible, in fact. It's an endless exercise in stress and scheduling nightmares and guilt and feeling overwhelmed every moment of every day. But she did it anyway.

And we made do. We had help from my grandmother and the rest of our family when they could spare it, of course, but I still remember going with my mom to campus, and sometimes even to class. And when she had to study, I remember hanging out with her at her college library to do my own homework. And when I was done, I would go bury my head in a book, or sometimes I'd spend hours on the microfilm machine looking at old newspaper articles. It's no wonder i still love libraries like I do.

And she didn't stop at college. Turned out she was a very good student, and she got accepted to dental school at the University of Pennsylvania. And after Penn, she specialized in orthodontics at Temple University. And both of those programs were wonderful opportunities, but they came with a whole new set of challenges for her, and for us, because both of those campuses were about a two hour drive from where we lived. And the workload was sure to be twice as intense. But she did it anyway.

And I can tell you first hand that those years were hard. They were early mornings and they were late nights. They were leaving the house at 5:00 in the morning, and not getting home until 7 or 8:00 at night after sitting in Philadelphia traffic for three hours. And then, she would still pick up dinner on the way home, and spend time with my brother and I. And after that, there was still more schoolwork to do. And even though she was so exhausted I could hear it in her voice, she did it anyway.

She never stopped. And I still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember her with her nose in a pile of books every free moment she had. I remember models of teeth in every junk drawer in the kitchen and even between the cushions of our sofa. I remember coming downstairs at 2:00 in the morning for a glass of water, and catching her sitting on the living room floor with hundreds of crooked little bits of orthodontic wire scattered all around her. And I remember seeing her in tears, because she couldn't quite get her bends to look exactly like they did in the books. Or because she couldn't get them to fit her models. And that didn't only happen once. In fact, I can't even count how many times it happened.

And I'm sure there were times when she doubted herself. And I know for a fact that there were times when the rest of the world doubted her, because I heard them say it with my own ears. Heard them say she'd never amount to anything. And I'm sure she heard them too. But she did it anyway.

And despite all the late nights, and all the stress, and all the five hour commutes and all the tears, she graduated. With honors, in fact. And went on to work at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia caring for kids with facial birth defects. And now, now she lives in Phoenix, and runs one of the nation's most respected clinics for children born with severe craniofacial irregularities, many of whom are also disadvantaged in many other ways. And every single day, she makes an enormous difference in their lives.

But this story is also about the difference she made in mine.

My mom has told me before that she sometimes regrets those years when she was maybe not quite as present as other mothers with less on their plate might have been. And even though I've always told her I never felt that way at all, and the truth is I didn't, I understand her misgivings. Because that's just how good mothers feel. Like they never did enough. Like they could have been there more. But while those years were hard, they were also important. Because I got to see them with my own eyes. And not everybody gets that chance.

I got to see that it's never too late to do important things. And that it's okay to struggle on the way. And for people to say you're crazy. I got to see that those things are worth sleepless nights. And that they're worth tears too. And I got to see that there's no such thing as the right time to do *anything* in this life. So you might as well get around to it when it feels all kinds of wrong. You might as well do it anyway.

There's a reason I wrote my first book when I was forty. And it's her. And I sure as hell would not be sitting here writing this for a few million people without those late nights. And without those tears. And without alllll those doubts.

So, Mom, I just want you to know how proud I am of you. And what you've done. And who you are. And to tell you that you've helped more people than you know. i love you. And thank you. And I promise I'll call later 🙂

Honestly, I could use a few extra hours just to relax, because I’m sure most of my stay is just gonna be spent trying to figure out how the shower works anyway. And I’ll probably spend the rest of it trying to determine which combination of the eight pillows stuffed with nothing you’ve put on the bed won’t leave me hobbling around all bent up like a peel-n-eat shrimp in the morning. And really, that doesn’t leave any time for a three-margarita “are we best friends now?” yap sesh with the Star Wars Cantina-level assortment of weirdos down at the lobby bar, which is objectively the best part of staying at any hotel.

Like, I don’t even care how good the blackout curtains are. I don’t. That is not the point. A complimentary robe? Okay? Definitely not gonna put that on my naked body, that’s for sure. Honestly, I don’t even trust your dresser drawers enough to use them, let alone some strange robe. The truth is I can go stay at a Doubletree for $800 less and get a freshly made cookie from the custom cookie warming drawer that they have behind the literal counter as soon as I walk in. And if you think some giant, multinational conglomerate can buy my loyalty with a perfectly warm cranberry chocolate chunk walnut cookie, you are FIVE HUGE STARS.

But I digress. I’m not here today to talk about hotels. I think. I’m here to talk about the actual four seasons. No, not the concerti by Vivaldi. Last thing I need it the Vivaldi subreddit on my ass, believe me. And no, not the 1981 romcom written and directed by Alan Alda, because I stay a Hawkeye stan. I’m talking about the four seasons. Winter, spring, summer, and fall, and for some reason, winter again. Now, it should come as no surprise to you all that people tend to have strong feelings about seasons, but for the most part, they all have their good bits and their bad bits. And really, that’s the problem. Because if I want to hate a season, and I do, I want to hate the whole season.

They’re just too poorly defined. They’re too big and amorphous, and I think there’s room for improvement here. Frankly, I think four is just lazy. I mean, this is 2026. This is the age of nuance (glances around nervously). You’re trying to tell me that September allll the way through to the end of December is one season? I don’t think so. Nobody should have to deal with hay fever and seasonal affective disorder in the same arbitrary collection of months, and honestly, I’m tired of the gaslighting. Four? Nah. Not on my watch. Not anymore.

I’ve identified no less than eleven (11) separate seasons, and I will explore them with you here today. Because my meds have just kicked in, and this coffee is hitting juuuuuust right, and there’s a cat sleeping on my lap, so I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. So, I’m gonna type a bunch of stuff now, and you’re gonna read it, and hopefully we’ll all still be friends when it’s over. So, let’s begin at the most natural place to begin…the beginning. And in the beginning, there was, for some reason, January…

The year’s first season is objectively one of the worst. And that season is “winter but not the good holiday part of winter.” If December is lovely white snow falling outside your window while you sip hot cocoa, then surely January and February are the oily gray slush that you kick off your wheel well before you head into work to be circled back upon by pack after pack of corporate hyenas. And also, it’s a brand-new year. Already. So like, that’s not great. I don’t now, it just seems irresponsible to always start another year so soon after the last one. Like borderline reckless.

“Winter but not the good holiday part of winter” is the worst. It’s cold, it’s gray. And you can’t tell whether you’re sick or broke or depressed or exhausted, or whether it’s some awful Long Island iced tea-style cocktail of all four of those things. And guess what? It’s all four of those things. So, bottoms up. And you want me to make resolutions? Now? With all due respect, I don’t fucking think so. Talk to me in October when I’m knee-deep in cable-knit cardigans and the air smells like hope and cinnamon again. And even then, it’s just a strong maybe.

Then, of course, after “winter but not the good holiday part of winter” is about a week of “holy shit, spring is finally here” which is always immediately then followed by “just kidding, it’s still totally winter, idiot.” Now, that’s usually no more than two weeks, but for some reason, those two weeks always include the worst snowstorm of the entire year, and you’ve already moved all of your big puffy jackets to the guest room closet. Idiot. And then, and only then, after winter has well and truly had the last word, do we get the four weeks of pre-spring known as “the thaw.”

Now, this might sound like a good thing, because thawing is good, right? Of course it is, because freezing is bad. I mean, if it wasn’t for thawing, we wouldn’t have wooly mammoths or Captain America or microwave burritos. After all, thawing is how we got Han Solo back for Return of the Jedi, for god’s sake. It’s how we get turkey for Thanksgiving…sometimes. Other times, a few hours of tumble dry low on Thanksgiving morning is how we get turkey, but that’s neither here nor there, because we don’t judge people for having attention issues around here.

“The thaw” is loosely defined as the period following second winter where everything is wet all the time. Everything. All the time. Grass, roads, dogs, carpets, jackets, socks, martinis, you name it. And as the piles of snow dwindle, the potholes bloom. Ah, the state flower of the northeast. Easily the most embarrassing way to slip a disc. And if you’re not careful, the quickest way to a brand-new set of tires. And if you think I’m just being dramatic for comedic effect, I am not. Because there’s nothing funny about any of this. It’s a big problem. I mean, just the other day, I hit a pothole so deep that I had to fight a Balrog on my way out. And that’s great, but once again, what am I supposed to do with this robe?

Now, you might think that after the thaw comes the glory of spring. But you’d be wrong. Very wrong. Because in order to get to spring, you first have to weather the three-week trial I like to call “turns out that’s the wrong jacket.” And that is, as you may have guessed, twenty-one days where no matter what jacket you pick to wear in the morning, it turns out that’s the wrong jacket.

And if you think buying more jackets is the answer, trust me, it is not. Though I understand the temptation. Look, I m a gay man, which means I have more jackets than I could ever wear. I am also married to a gay man, which means he also has more jackets than he could ever wear. And here’s the kicker, we can even borrow each other’s jackets, which is really one of the best perks of being gay in the first place, and we still can’t figure it out. So I don’t know what to tell you, except you’re wearing the wrong jacket.

But what about spring? Then do we get to spring? Spring is great! Yes, children, then you get to spring. And then you get to wear your light jackets and be totally comfortable. But they won’t do you much good, because spring is god’s cruelest little joke, and every time you step outside, you’ll only be reminded just how allergic you are…to spring. To rebirth. To beauty. To perfect weather. And if that wasn’t enough, every time you step inside, you’ll be reminded just how allergic you are to kittens. And really, what good is spring without flowers and kittens? Oh, and let’s just throw peanut butter in there for good measure because existence is pain. But happy spring or whatever.

And after spring, of course, comes summer. But summer is not one season. Summer is two seasons. Two very different seasons. There’s a good half and a bad half. It’s like the Wicked movies but with less cringy codependent promotional tour energy. Summer is like a four month mullet: perfectly enjoyable up front, and a total fucking shit show in the back. It’s like any nice restaurant where the part you walk into is full of people having a great time and incredible food, but by the time you get to the kitchen, it’s all prep cooks trying to score painkillers form the dishwashers, and half of the servers are in line waiting to have a turn crying in the walk-in cooler.

And really, summer is all of those things. Because the first half of summer, summer #1, is perfect in every way. And the second half, summer #2, is a rudderless hundred-degree hellscape filled with the screams of other people’s children. And I’m sorry, but I just don’t like it. I don’t like sleeping when it’s hot, and I don’t like being sweaty on somebody else’s schedule, and I really don’t like being depressed about the state of things, which I almost certainly will be, in a stupid t-shirt. That’s what hoodies are for. And everybody knows those are illegal in August.

And yes, I know there are ways to have fun in the heat. I get it. There’s lakes and streams and water parks and pools, but some of us have a lot of latent pool trauma, okay? Need I remind you of the summer of 1990 when Super-Soakers first came on the market and only the rich kids could afford them? Well, the rest of us got mowed down like crabgrass at the public pool that year. It was horrible. Bodies as far as the eye could see and not enough otter pops to treat them. Swedish Fish littering the concrete. Children using their younger siblings as human shields. Horrible. Our water balloons were no use. I still have flashbacks every time I use any bathroom cleaner with bleach in it.

And as much as some of us wish it would, summer does not stop on a dime. No, summer fades riiiiight into what I like to call “weird fall.” Now, weird fall starts in late September, and is largely defined by the doing of traditional fall things while it’s still 95 degrees out, because you just can’t take it anymore. Am I way too hot in this black, shawl collar cardigan right now? Yes. Yes, I am. I am miserable. And I want to die. But am I spiritually the right temperature? You’re goddamn right I am. And that’s what’s important about weird fall. That we’re trying our best, even if we’re still very sweaty.

Weird fall is about dedication to the right vibes despite the weather. It’s about drinking piping hot lattes when the ‘real feel’ is still 95. It’s about rocking scarves and big hats when we’ve been told to stay indoors on account of the extreme heat advisory. It’s about the fact that we’re out here being our very best basic selves when the world is still primed for flip-flops and tank tops. And you might think we’re just being weird, but really, we’re being smart. Because any day now, nay, any hour now, it’s gonna be autumn. And we’re not going to miss a moment of it. Because mentally, we’re already there.

And when that day arrives. Ooooohhhh. It’s like the middle brownie. The crunchy corner piece of lasagna. The burnt end of the brisket. The perfect bite of the perfect sandwich. The…okay, you get it. It’s the very best part of the whole year. The beautiful little pearl in the overpriced, slimy oyster that is modern life. “Actual autumn.”

Shhh. Quiet. Do you hear the flannel? Can you see the geese flying south? Can you feel the Hallmark Channel coming alive again? It’s time. Sure, the days are getting shorter. Sure, you’ve had to set your clocks back an hour and you’ve switched your seasonal affective disorders to ‘on.’ But if you think about it, now that the sun is setting earlier, at least the implication that you should still be doing things until 7:30 is gone. So that’s a win, right?

And even if you don’t wanna go out, you can cozy up in your little hobbit hole with a book and some snacks and maybe even a cat or two…and actually open the windows and still be perfectly warm under a blanket. And if that’s not paradise, I don’t know what is. And I haven’t even started talking about soup yet. Because actual autumn is the beginning of soup season, and that’s reason enough to love it. Eating soup when the weather is just the right amount of chilly is like reading during a thunderstorm. It’s just the best way to do it. And I’ll be taking no questions.

And I guess that leaves winter. Again. But at least it’s the good part of winter. The holiday part. You know, the marketable part. The part we’ve all trained ourselves to romanticize, because if we didn’t, we’d almost certainly drown in the blessings of the season. Sorry, I don’t mean to be a downer, but I worked retail sales for most of my adult life so, you know, it’s like hearing the thump-thump-thump of a Blackhawk helicopter every time Mariah Carey opens her damn mouth again. I just start checking for extra rolls of receipt paper and feeling the crushing weight of store keys on my belt again.

There are things I like about the holidays, but there are also things I don’t, okay? Firstly, I am a last-minute panic buyer, so this time of year is like the Olympics for us, only at the end of your grueling event, you get nothing but shame and debt, and maaaybe some deviled eggs if you’re lucky. And secondly, I am so tired of you people rolling up to my door and demanding some of my figgy pudding. Like, has that ever worked? Has it? Please stop singing at me! Honestly, I just want a nice, quiet holiday. No parties, no feats, no worrying about gifts. Just me and my dog in our quiet little home overlooking Whoville. Wait a sec. Oh, and as far as the things I enjoy, those are pie and a Muppet Christmas Carol. And not in that order.

But Jonathan, I hear you say. This list seems geographically hyper-specific and doesn’t apply to the area in which I live at all. And to that I say…yeah, probably. Look, I don’t know what you want from me. You want me to do Phoenix? Fine. It’s paradise for eight months out of the year and then attempted murder for four. You want me to do Los Angeles? It’s perfect all year round, which it why the concrete grows so well there. Listen, this is my life. This is my experience. These is my third cup of coffee, and there is still a goddamn cat on my lap, so this is just how I live now. In the wrong jacket.

That last story is completely true, by the way. I once walked out of my local Wawa with a bag of beef jerky, a Celsius, and a grape uncrustable only to get home and think to myself, “Wait, did I actually pay for any of this?” So, I checked my account balance, and sure enough, it turns out I had committed a crime. By accident. Which was alarming, to say the least.

But I’m no criminal, or so I thought. So, I vowed to atone for my mistake. And the very next day, I returned to said Wawa and gathered the exact same items and went to the self-checkout with the intention of paying for them and then leaving them behind, thereby bringing balance to the force. But when I rang up my purchase and turned to leave, one of the employees was like, “Hey you forgot your items,” and of course, I was too embarrassed to explain what I was actually doing there in the first place. So instead, I just said, “Oh, thank you,” and took them home anyway. And thus began my life of neurodivergent crime.

And that’s just one of many, many stories that have defined my life’s many, many disorders. Which are many. And varied. And many. And frankly, pretty obvious. And many. So, I guess I’m just trying to say…there were signs. Many, many signs.

Take, for instance, the time I let my insane and unchoosable hyperfocus singlehandedly take down Napster. Yes, thatNapster. The Napster. The music file sharing site that made allll the headlines in the early 2000s. That one’s on me, guys. See, like so many of my people, I had a giant binder of CDs that I kept on the passenger seat of my car at all times. You know the one. The one you spent your best years building. The one you spent your hard-earned money from after school jobs filling with the very best songs from the very best bands. The one you could hand to somebody you just met like, “Here is my whole personality for you to browse.” That one.

Well, in a cruel twist of fate, my beloved CD binder got stolen right out of my car during my freshman year of college. I know, I know. A truly sad day in the life of a Xennial. I was heartbroken. Devastated, even. I was beside myself with rage and guilt and sadness and all the bad feelings, and the worst part of it all was that I didn’t have the money to replace any of it. And that’s when a friend of mine whispered a sweet little nothing in my ear. “Napster,” he said. “Steal it all back,” he said. “You download them and I’ll burn them for you,” he said. And if you don’t know what I mean by “burn them,” ask your parents or maybe even your children.

Now, I’m no crook. Except for that other time. But I had already paid for all this music, so in my mind, it was already mine. I already owned it. And so, I brewed some coffee. And put my roommate to bed. And put on the montage music. And locked in for the night. It was go time.

And that night, I was greeted by the ghost of blessed hyperfocus. And I proceeded to download every single song that was stolen from possession. All 100 albums worth. And maybe a couple extra, but that’s not really the point. Anyway, I had apparently used so much bandwidth that campus IT took notice, and banned access to Napster altogether. This, of course, sparked something of a debate among the student body that eventually reached our campus newspaper, who wrote an op-ed that gained some national attention, and led to similar bans at other universities. And this, of course, gained Napster itself national attention, and a few months after that, Metallica was testifying before congress. So yeah, I did that. But at least I got my CDs back. And then three months later they were stolen again. Which is fair.

And then there was the time that my pathological (some would say compulsive) disdain for fingerprints on shiny surfaces got me a job that I forgot to quit for ten years. Let me tell you something, an air bubble on a screen protector hates to see me coming. And a tangle in a landline phone cord…forget it. But I digress. I was browsing a guitar shop once. Like you do. And I may or may not have been a little stoned. Like you do. And to my abject horror, there wasn’t a single guitar in the whole place that wasn’t diseased with greasy little fingerprints. Horrid little things. And of course, I had a completely normal reaction to all of this.

So I went to the counter and bought a polishing cloth, and for the next five hours, I asked to see guitar after guitar, played them each for a minute or two, then polished them all to a perfect shine before handing them back. And I did this until every last guitar in that store was sparkling clean. And then they asked me to leave. And then they asked me to come back the next morning. And they even promised to pay me this time. And of course, I had a completely normal reaction to all of this.

So fast forward three years and I was managing that store. And then a year later I was managing a bigger guitar store. And then a year later, well, you get the picture. And that went on for about a decade until I suddenly remembered that I hated dealing with people for a living, and that I hated customer service even more. And so, I cleaned my last fingerprint, and walked off into the sunset, and thought to myself, “maybe I should do something more geared towards the absolutely insane.” So here we are. Writing for a living. Which makes a lot of sense, really.

And if you think that’s the worst of it…it is not. That’s just the stuff that got past the network censors. Because that’s not even to mention the time I made waffles for lunch for a year and half straight. Or the time I bought a new car based solely on how satisfying the ‘door lock’ sound was. Or the time I didn’t register my vehicle in California for seven (7) years because it was just a whole thing and I wasn’t into it. Now, did I eventually register my car? No, I did not. I moved instead. And that is also a true story.

They’re all true stories, as a matter of fact. So, like I said, there were signs. A lot of signs. Like, more signs than an ASL symposium. So, obviously I went and spoke to a doctor about all of this, right? Because that seems like a reasonable thing to do, right? Well…that’s not exactly how it happened.

Firstly, Doctors are one of my no-go zones, much like the DMV or Costco on a Sunday or an animal shelter. Like, don’t ever take me there or to a bookstore unless you want to see me full-on ugly cry until I get to take something home with me. There are just places I refuse to go, and you can call that executive dysfunction if you want. And you should. Because that’s what it is. But I say that because I think it’s important to acknowledge that sometimes we get in the way of our own health. And whether that’s out own ‘fault’ isn’t really the point. The point is that’s it’s a reality, and like most realties that mean anything at all, sometimes we take a while to come to grips with that. And that’s not always our own fault either.

So, what did I do instead of going to the doctor for all those years? Well, I joked my way through it, and I will continue to do that today. Why? I don’t know, it just seems to be my generation’s chosen defense mechanism for dealing with trauma and/or difficult issues and/or anything that’s happened over the last twenty-five years. Is it occasionally annoying and cringy? Sure. But at far as defense mechanisms go, it could be worse. Like, I could be spitting poison at your eyes or puffing myself up to appear larger than you. But I won’t. I will, instead, continue to blind and confuse you with self-deprecation until I feel comfortable enough to get earnest again.

Now, where were we?

Of all the letters in ADHD, I think it’s the two Ds that are the big problem for me. It’s really the deficit and disorder parts that are my big issue. Like, I just don’t ever seem to be able to lock into the things I really need to, and when I am able to focus, it’s almost always on the wrong things. Like, I don’t need an HDTV, I need an ADHDTV. I need a TV that understands when I break eye contact with the show I’m watching to play around on my phone for no reason, and then has a button I can push to rewind my show right back to that point. I can’t tell you all how much time this would save me.

And if we ever happen to be in conversation with each other, please don’t ever ask me to repeat myself, because I probably wasn’t listening either. Like, that ship has sailed. I have lived several lifetimes since then, and I know not the man I once was, let alone what he was talking about. Don’t ask me to elaborate or extrapolate, or God forbid, expound. Honestly, what comes out of my mouth is between my lips and your ears, and really, that’s none of my brain’s business. So, it’s not that I refuse to pay attention to what you’re saying, I just can’t pay attention to what anyone is saying, including myself. And that goes double for whenever anyone tells me their name.

To be clear, when I say I’m bad with names, I mean I’m bad with your names. Like, I pretty much always remember mine. So, I apologize in advance if I forget yours. Which I almost certainly will. There’s honestly no rhyme or reason to it, which might actually be part of the problem. Because I can list all 36 kings of Gondor in chronological order to the tune of Mambo #5 while also somehow forgetting that you’re called Dan. And for exactly half of that, I’m very sorry.

But I feel like this is a problem that technology should have solved by this point. And why we don’t have a Shazam-style app that tells me the names of people I’ve already met by recognizing their voices yet is beyond me. Talk about a gap in the market. Like, I know we have the technology for this, because all I have to do is mention the word sunglasses and my social media feed is immediately filled with advertisements for forty-dollar frames. Like, if our phones are gonna be eavesdropping on us all the time anyway, the least they could do is make themselves useful.

And I still contend that most older alien abduction stories are just people with undiagnosed ADHD. Oh, you can’t account for five hours of your night and then next thing you knew you were in your kitchen and couldn’t remember why and there were mysterious bruises all over your shins? Like, around here that’s just called Thursday. And I’m still pretty sure that’s how I’m going to die eventually. Just accidentally bumping into too much furniture one day like a little human pinball until it kills me. So, if they ever find me dead in an Ikea, you all know what happened. But at least I went out with a belly full of meatballs.

And while ADHD is probably the most relatable thing I deal with, there are other things in the mix as well. I’m like a Long island Iced Tea of neuroses. I can’t tell you how difficult it is to be both completely reliant on a predictable schedule and also almost completely incapable of sticking to said schedule. It’s not a great way to live, much in the way that Microsoft Word is not a great way to type. It’s terrible and endlessly frustrating, but at the end of the day, it’s really all I’ve got to work with. And if you’ve ever tried to move a photo around in that godforsaken program, that’s exactly what it feels like any time even the tiniest bit of my schedule gets changed. Abject chaos followed by extended sobbing. And that happens every single day. Because of who I am as a person. To be clear.

And that’s barely scratching the surface of it all, which leads me to my next point. I still think you should be able to call out of work when your clothes just don’t feel right against your skin. And while I almost never want to be touched by a human, I almost always want to be touched by a dog or a cat. And if you all could keep it down a little, that would be great. Because if there’s too much of your chosen noise, which is awful and distracting and awful and distracting, then I can’t hear my chosen noise, which is lovely and necessary and soothing. Obviously.

So, yes, the humor helped. But in another more accurate way, it didn’t. Because it led everyone in my life to believe that I was actually pretty high functioning, when in fact, I wasn’t. And I guess that was kind of the point. There were a lot of those indicators, actually. I was always a good student, I never had trouble holding down a job, and I always had what I would consider a relatively normal compliment of friends. So, to anyone looking in from the outside, I was doing just fine. Great, even. But behind the scenes, I was falling apart. In secret, I was barely functioning for years and years. And eventually, I just didn’t have the energy to keep that all hidden anymore, and my private struggles became very public.

I lost friends, relationships with my family became strained, and sure enough, I began to have trouble performing at work to the extent that I quit my last job before they fired me. Which they surely would have. And should have. And for some reason, I thought that would be the perfect time to write a book. And for some reason, my family supported me in doing that. And somehow, that book turned to be a very good book. A book that many of you have read. A book that I’m still very proud of, and that you can purchase the second edition of in bookstores everywhere this October (winky face).

And that is not the happy end to this story it might appear to be, because I wrote that book in the unhealthiest way possible.

I found a cheap room in L.A. and barricaded myself inside. And I let in only the things I wanted to let in, and I kept everything else out. Everything else. For two years. I spoke only to the people I wanted to speak to, and I ate only the things I wanted to eat. I consumed only the news I wanted to hear, and I went outside on my terms, and only on my terms. I smoked like a chimney, I drank myself to sleep just to get three hours of uninterrupted rest when I needed it, and somehow, through all of that insanity, I was able to carve out enough horrible peace to write. And it almost killed me. And in some strange corner of my heart, I was sure I’d never be able to do it again.

But with that book came something strange. Success. Now, this was only success relative to what I’d know before, but it was still something different. And scary. And with that success came something even stranger and scarier. A life. A home. A husband. A world I had to live in that wasn’t of my own design. And things I had to face that weren’t of my choosing. I didn’t have control anymore, and so all of those struggles came flooding back. And before I knew it, I was drowning in normalcy. In good things, even. In positive things. But I was still drowning, because I wasn’t equipped to deal with them. And the jokes didn’t help anymore. And now that I was sharing my life with somebody else, I couldn’t hide it either. And unfortunately, it came at a time when everyone, including myself, was asking me for more.

For years, I couldn’t write. Not well, anyway. And certainly not consistently. It would come in little bursts every now and then, but anyone who’s ever made a living as a writer will tell you that’s just not enough. And it wasn’t. I wrote and re-wrote the first half of the same book three times over. That book was called Jonah the Giant, and every time I read it, it was just so obvious that I wasn’t in a good creative place. It just wasn’t right. It felt forced. Strained. It felt like I was fighting something, and I was. I was fighting real life for the very first time. And real life was wiping the floor with me.

What followed was a year and a half of deep depression. A thing I felt had no rhyme or reason to it at the time, but looking back on it today, it seems obvious. And as a writer, the only thing you really ever want to do is write. And when you can’t, you feel like a fraud. Like a liar. You feel like you’re stealing from the people who admire you. Even from the people who love you. And that feeling is so dark and so horrible, that you’d do almost anything to stop it. And if you think that was finally the thing that convinced me to get some help, well, you’d be wrong again. Because I still didn’t know how to do that.

That’s a crazy thing to say after 40 years on this planet. I just didn’t know how to get help. It’s crazy, but it was true. Why? I still don’t really know. Was it embarrassment? Was it pride? Was I scared? Did I not want to admit I was imperfect? Was I afraid my delicate creative sensibilities would be forever altered by the medication? It was probably a bit of all of those things, to be honest. But for years, it just seemed like a hill I didn’t know how to climb. And then one day…it just looked a little less steep.

And that’s the craziest part of all of this really. Because if I were writing this story, this is the part where there would be some blinding moment of revelation or some wild epiphany. This is the part where there would be a sermon or a chance encounter or an ultimatum from a loved one that changed it all for me. Something fated. Something brilliant. But there was none of those things. Not for me, anyway. For me, it was just a Tuesday.

It was just kind of a good day. A day when I felt loved. A day when I felt less broken than usual. And on that day, I happened to find a list of doctors that my husband had put together in our area that specialized in severe adult ADHD. He had given it to me before of course, but I had ignored it. He had even offered to make an appointment for me before on several occasions, but I told him I wasn’t ready again and again. But on that Tuesday, for some reason, I picked up the phone. And on that Wednesday, I spoke to a doctor. And while that first medication we tried didn’t really work for me, and neither did the second, the third one turned my whole world around. And that is in no way an exaggeration.

It turned my lights on in a way I’d never experienced. It was a very “Holy shit, is this how I’m supposed to feel?” moment. “Is this how other people live? Is this what it’s like?” Like, you can just…do things when you want to? You can work for hours on end? You can pay attention when you want to and then just…not pay attention when you don’t want to? You can actually look forward to the next day? And the day after that? What do you mean?

And since that Tuesday, I’ve never been so productive. And I’ve never felt so engaged or so at peace. I’ve never felt so balanced and in control, and while I know that’s probably not the only aspect of my mental health that needs attention, the rest of them don’t seem so scary now. All of those hills seem a little less steep.

And today, as I’m writing this, it occurs to me that it probably wasn’t just some magic Tuesday that did it. But a few thousand days before that. A few thousand days of support. A few thousand days of grace, even when I hadn’t earned it. A few thousand days of putting up with me, even when nobody should have been asked to shoulder that burden. It was a few thousand days of the people in my life not making me feel like “this” was all my fault, and because of that, I was able to find one little day where I felt like I didn’t deserve it. And that one little feeling on that one little day changed my life.

And while I was sure I’d spend so much of my newfound energy wondering about what could have been over the last forty years, to my surprise, I haven’t done much of that at all. Because these days, I’m too busy wondering what’s going to happen tomorrow. And that kind of wonder doesn’t leave much room for much of anything else.

So, I guess this is a big thank you to all the people in my life who got me through to that Tuesday. Because I know the ones that came before it weren’t always easy. It’s hard for me to put into words just how much I appreciate you all, but hopefully this is a start. I would surely not be here without you. Now, do any of you happen to know why I walked into this kitchen?

Let’s face it, weddings are many things, but no matter which side of the aisle, or even which side of the pulpit you’re on, they’re…a lot. They’re a lot of stress, a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of things that sound great ten months in advance. Do I want to celebrate your union? Yes! Do I want to be there to support you as you embark on the next phase of your lives together! Absolutely! But do I feel like trying to squeeze myself into this suit after stress-eating for a year and a half? *frantically searches phone for old positive covid test picture* I mean…

Listen, I love the idea of weddings. Who wouldn’t? It’s one of the most important days in the lives of your loved ones, and that’s a beautiful thing. I just don’t always like the reality of weddings. You know, the dancing, the people, the mediocre food, the people, the cost, the people, the pictures, the people. To be completely honest, half of me didn’t even want to be at my own wedding because of those very reasons.

And that’s exactly why we did the short short version and fucked off to Vegas with two, and only two, of our good friends in tow. And it was great! Short and sweet and not a moment of wasted time, just like movies used to be. We even had it catered by Gordon Ramsay himself! And by that, I mean we went to one of his restaurants for dinner after we got hitched. Now, I know that’s not exactly the same thing, but it’s still probably better than the food you had at the last wedding you went to, so there. And he was actually there, by the way, so like, the elements of having it catered by him were all present. See, this is us having our picture taken together…

Weddings are a lot, and at this point in my life, I’ve been to a lot of them. In fact, just this week alone, I’ve received three (3) invitations, two (2) of which were invites to second weddings, and one (1) of which for a third wedding. So that should give you a pretty good indication of just how far down I have to scroll on the wheel of life to find my year of birth these days. In any case, I have some thoughts about the whole wedding situation in general, and I’m going to let everyone know exactly what I think. And frankly, if I had been doing that all along, I probably wouldn’t be getting invited to so many second weddings right now. So, consider this making up for lost time. And lost money. And lost bonus airline miles.

So, I guess we should start at the beginning: the invitations. First thing’s first, I don’t really pay attention to the mail anymore, so you’re not really doing yourself any favors there. And when I do check it, which at this point, is maaaaybe on a bi-annual basis, I’m always careful to sort everything into two separate piles: junk mail I’ll never open, and critically important mail I’ll never open. I don’t know why I’m like this, but it’s probably equal parts residual past-due notice trauma and the fact that I’m still technically on the run from Columbia House. And if I’m honest, it’s not really a great system when the mail consists of both useless garbage nobody ever needs…and also legally binding actionable items that might land you in jail if you ignore them for too long. Sorry, but I play by own rules, and it is very obvious.

And even on the off chance that you catch me during a particularly manic episode and I do decide to open my mail, I have no idea what kind of mood I’m going to be in in ten months anyway, so like, I really don’t want to commit to anything, let alone a whole-ass wedding. And on top of that, you want to me to pick what I’m going to be hungry for too? You want to know my thoughts on dinner ten months from now? As far as I’m concerned, there should be a universally recognized no-guilt-trip amnesty for cancelling plans you made more than a week ago these days. But ten whole months? Ten? I have lived several lifetimes since then, and I know not the person I once was. And I don’t really know who this new guy is, but he does not feel like doing the electric slide tonight.

But can you really blame me for having commitment issues these days? Honestly, I’d much rather just get a text from you the day-of like hey bro, you wanna come over and watch me get married tonight? Should be fun! That way, if I feel like it, I’ll be there. And if I don’t, I just won’t answer your text for three days like usual. Hey dude, sorry for the late response, if I don’t completely disconnect from the earthly constructs of space and time for 72 hours once a week I will literally just explode, anyway, what’s up?

Also, how on earth do some of you even know 200 people to even invite to your wedding? And if you did, why would you ever want to see all those people on the same day!? Like I can’t even talk to my barber and my husband on the same day without needing a Xanax and another Xanax. And you and I both know that not all of those people need to be at your wedding, you’re just padding your stats after 50. And I know this, because I, as one of those people who probably shouldn’t be there, am often sat at the “leftovers table” with the rest of the filler you didn’t really have a plan for.

And by the way, we know we’re the leftovers table. You’re not fooling anybody, because it’s always the same crowd. It’s almost always several gay people (ahem), an uncle who’s been to jail for something we still don’t talk about, the sloppiest drunk in attendance, somebody’s slightly witchy aunt, one of the couple’s vets or something, and then an older female relative who knows all the juicy family drama and doesn’t care to keep any of it a secret anymore. And let me be clear, this is the very best place to be at any wedding, and you should find these people and embrace them, because when you looked behind you and saw six or seven sets of footprints in the sand, that’s when the leftovers table was carrying you through god-awful reception after god-awful reception.

And boring speech after boring speech. A speech? Nobody wants that. Nobody wants to listen to it, and nobody wants to give it, and nobody wants to have it given to them either, so what are we really doing here? At this point, they’re all either inside jokes that nobody understands besides the maid of honor, or it’s just straight from the lips of ChatGPT anyway, so let’s just give the microphone back to the DJ Cake Smash or whatever. Honestly, weddings are loud enough as it is without all that feedback. And if you’ve had enough of all the noise at your next reception, here’s a pro tip for you: if you clink your fork against your glass enough, everybody will shut up, and then you can just sit back down and finish your salmon like the big ole grumpy bear you are.

And if you really must have a speech at your wedding, then at least let the worst man give it instead of the best man, because I promise you that would be a lot more interesting. I might actually buy a ticket for that. And if we can swing a maid of dishonor double feature, I might even have a good time. Shit, I might even slip a few more hundreds into that envelope, who knows? Dinner and a show? Count me in. Or count me out, I’m fine with that too.

And that’s another thing, I don’t mind a wedding gift. I really don’t. I think it’s a nice gesture, but you only get one. That second wedding, that’s on you. And by the time the third one rolls around, you should really be getting me something. I need flatware too. Like, I am out of spoons in all the ways a man can be out of spoons. And also, if you opt for one of those destination weddings, then I hope you’re registered with Delta, because I am giving you the gift of my ass flying all the way out there when I should be at home on the couch with my dogs. So, enjoy.

If anything, I’d rather attend a destination divorce, because at least I know the drinks and the speeches will be way better. And after all these years of listening to both of you bitch about the other one every time you’re alone, I kinda wanna see how it all shakes out. I need closure too, and honestly, I think seeing two people argue over who deserves my friendship more might fix a sad little piece of me. And hey, if you wanna put alllll those gifts back on that little table and let us each take one home as a thank-you, I wouldn’t say no. My crock pot just shit the bed anyway.

But not even a public divorce would be as awkward as some of the more enduring wedding traditions that don’t ever seem to go away no matter how badly we wish they would. Like, please keep your garter belts safely fastened at all times, I don’t want to sprain an ankle trying to dodge that sweaty thing. And if you’re going to smush a bunch of cake into your partner’s face after they’ve spent a year and a half stressing about their hair and makeup, then please discuss it in advance, and please make sure all of your photos have already been taken, because I’ve seen that go sideways more than once.

And there will never be anything more awkward than the bouquet toss. Mostly because when they call all the ‘single’ women to the front, everybody who brought their situationship to the reception has to make a snap decision about where they stand, and that alone can raise the temperature of the room enough to melt even the hardiest mascara. But in my experience, the bouquet usually goes to the slightly witchy aunt from the leftovers table anyway, because she’s always game for it, and that’s just how she rolls. She loves ‘em and leaves ‘em, and I am here for it. More power to her. And if you wanna throw an elbow or two, I didn’t see nothing. We leftovers stick together. Go get ‘em, Sharon.

Now, if you want to do a bouquet toss at a funeral, that I’d be down for. Oh, now y’all don’t wanna know who’s next, huh? I mean, what’s the harm in forging some new traditions? Or even reviving some really old ones? For instance, did you know that bridesmaids used to dress exactly like the bride in order to confuse evil spirits? It’s true. But now, their dresses are just meant to confuse those in attendance, and I think that’s a big downgrade. I’m already confused. I don’t know why I’m here, and I have no idea where this bartender learned to make a drink.

Also, did you know that rain on your wedding day used to be good luck because it was thought to symbolize fertility? Also true! And now, now it’s just used as a way to misdirect the general public about the correct definition or irony, and there’s just no need for that. We’re already lost enough as it is. And if you get that reference, then we can be friends by the way :)

And then there’s the most obnoxious traditions of all… the bachelor and/or bachelorette party. Good god, somebody kill me. Do you have any idea how much pressure it is to make sure somebody has a good time on their last night as a single person AND make sure they don’t do something so dumb that they remain single? It’s nigh impossible. Like, I’m sorry, but I assume you also know how dumb your fiancé is, so why is this all on me all of a sudden?

And I’m sorry, but there is nothing more terrifying than a gaggle of women staggering towards you with matching penis necklaces and sashes. It’s big “It’s my birthday moooooooonth” energy, and I’m just not built for it. Like, if you want to day drink until you feel better about your decisions, then that’s fine, but don’t bring the sanctity of marriage or the month of November into it, okay? November has enough shit to deal with already. Looking at you, election years.

And while we’re on the subject, what has happened to traditional marriage? I mean, how far have we fallen? What, people can just marry whomever they want now without the approval of the general public? What is this, America!? Ridiculous. What’s next? Taxation with actual representation? This is madness!

In my day, marriage was a sacred covenant between one person who falls asleep in literal seconds, and another who lies there and resents them for it until the sun comes up, and that’s how it should always be. An unbreakable bond between someone who puts their keys in the exact same place every time they walk through the door, and another who can’t even remember what year they left them in. Marriage should be “I do” on day one, and “you’re breathing like that on purpose, aren’t you?’ on day 2,374, and that’s just the way it is.

It’s a lifetime of deciding what to have for dinner, and also telling each other every little blessed disgusting thing that’s happening to both of your bodies at all times, because that’s just God’s design. And it’s beautiful. And horrible. And there’s nothing you can do about it but keep your heads down and wait until you’re both hungry for Mexican food, because those are always good nights.

Okay, so maybe weddings aren’t all bad. I did go to one that was catered exclusively by all the best food trucks in the area once, and that was pretty cool. And it was outside in early autumn and there were cantina lights strung between the trees everywhere, and I’m sorry, but that’s my basic bitch access code. All aboard, I guess I’m having a good time now. Rocks, no salt please. And then there was one that had like one of those melted chocolate fountains, but for cheese fondue, and I still have actual dreams about that. And all sorts of bread to dip it in too. Maaaaan. I literally don’t even remember who was getting married, but that’s beside the point.

And then there was my grandmother, who got married at the age of 88 to her high school sweetheart after originally reuniting at their 50^th high school reunion. That really happened, by the way. You may have read about it in The New York Times. She’s literally still glowing from all the press coverage ;)

In any case, that was the only wedding that ever made me cry. Well, the only one without a cheese fountain that ever made me cry. So, that one was pretty good too, I guess. Maybe they’re not all that bad.

But they’re not all that good either. So next time you get hitched, try to remember that it’s not all about you, okay. It’s about me. So have a little respect. And ffs hire a decent bartender.

Couldn’t be happier with how it turned out, and I think it’s a really great read, so give it a look if you have some free time, and maybe pour yourself a glass of wine beforehand, because it’s about 20 pages. Anyway, enjoy! Love you guys!

“The Rose Knight”

Hob was born into nothing, and from the very moment he could feel the muck beneath his feet, he hated the stench of it. He hated the dirt floors and the scraps on their table, and he hated the rags on his bones, just as he hated the roaches that dragged their disease across his face while he slept. He hated the very thought of it. The plain truth. He hated that he could see it, and that the rest of them could see it too. But above all of that, he hated the whispers, and the awful little stains they left on his name. But Hob was nothing, and his father was nothing too, and those things were forever in The City of Roses.

There were barely any streets to walk in their part of town, let alone ladders to climb. Barely any weeds, let alone flowers. In was a slum by any other name, but the people had come to call it The Stews, and for good reason. It was a hopeless, sloppy jumble of things. All leftovers and fatty bits. Stems and gristle. And the whole place seemed forever dark and muddy, even when the rains were slow to fall.

It was a far cry from the manor houses and hightowers of The East Bend, but it had been that way for as long an any of them could remember. It had been that way for as long as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers could remember too. It had been that way since the King of Roses first came to rule, and the city grew from nothing in the grace of his shadow. And whether that was a hundred or a thousand years before their day, it made little difference. Because the King of Roses was forever, and their hopeless little hearts would beat for just a moment in time.

The city itself felt like it was forever too. It was the jewel of the land—ancient and strong. There were other cities just as large, of course, but none of them as stately. None of them as grand. There were three, in fact, strung along the banks of the river that flowed south from the rose gates. To hear the others tell it, they were dangerous, undesirable places, and for all this and more, they were forever called the thorns. And though conflicts came and went, the thorns could never seem to make themselves into anything more, and The City of Roses would never think themselves anything less.

But Hob was never satisfied with his place in the slop. Never numb to being nothing. Hob of The Stews was a dreamer, and his heart simply couldn’t be stayed. He dreamed of a better life, though he was told he would never have it. And he dreamed of a body, big and broad, though he was born with a twisted leg and sour breath in his lungs. And with every gasp for air, and every crooked step, he both feared they were right, and prayed they were wrong.

Hob’s father would often catch him staring off at the great hightowers in the distance when he should’ve been mucking the stables, and at night, when their house was quiet enough, he could hear him trying to practice his peasant accent away. And anytime Hob was told to take the horses for a turn about the fields, he thought himself some great knight on some great conquest, even as his sickly little chest could barely hold its share of wind. He heard whispers then too, though this time they were thrown with flowers, and he could smell them sweet as anything through the stew.

And sometimes, when the horses were already tended to and the weather wasn’t fit for riding, Hob would find a carriage heading east and hitch a ride until mud no longer covered the streets, and coal smoke no longer filled the air. He would drag himself up to the gates of The Bend and sit and watch the richer folk come and go, and lose himself in the straightness of their spines and the lovely scents that seemed to follow them like sunshadows.

And one day, when his clothes were clean enough and his nails were trimmed and his courage was particularly strong, Hob snuck through to the other side to gawk at their shop windows and walk their cobblestone streets. To be among them and know it was good. He felt alive then, gossamer and bright. He was a moth and all the world a flame that day, and when he happened upon the great cathedral that towered over the city center, he even saw the King of Roses himself appear to address his people.

He was man and myth at once. He was a thousand stories and a hundred statues, and he was somehow more than all of those things, even at just a glance. And while his clothes were of the finest threads and his crown was gleaming gold, Hob was sure he would’ve thought him a king even without those things, because it was written on his very spirit. He was a monument. A stone unmovable. And his voice was big and blameless in the way a storm rolls in from the sea. Hob was certain he was everything a king ought to be, and there on his tunic, as always, was a lovely fresh rose held by a golden pin.

Hob saw how his people adored him. How they fawned and waved. And he saw the endless awe in their eyes at simply being allowed to feel his grace. He saw how they were rewarded for it too, how the loudest among them were thrown the most gold from his pockets, and how the women with the brightest smiles and sharpest squeals were allowed to touch his hand. And as Hob looked down at his own palms, calloused even at his young age, he bent his brow in shame, and tried to rub the grime away like rotten fur.

But the weather soon turned to rain, as seasons do. And that meant the horses at the stables needed more cleaning that usual, so Hob’s trips to The East Bend became few and far between. And somewhere in that absence, the thoughts of what he might have been took firmer hold in his heart. And though he could no longer travel close enough to taste it, he would still climb up to the roof at night, no matter how many times he’d falter. And he would still watch the tower fires burn bright hot and white in the distance, no matter the chill it gave his broken lungs. And there, he would still wait for the good whispers to be carried his way by the winds.

It was one such day, wild and rainy, when the best kind of misfortune fell Hob’s way. There was another young man out for a ride that day, of course. A son of the court, as they all were at his stables. And while most of them were pleasant enough most of the time, this boy had always been a particularly loud and ungentle thing, and not above being cruel when it suited him. And by the end of the day, they had all grown tired of it, and so had his horse. And as he brought him back from his ride, he gave his mount one kick too many, and the thing rose up and threw him to the mud.

Hob hadn’t meant to laugh, but it came straight from his belly and landed heavy on the other boy’s ears. And as his face turned red as they clay that now covered him, he pulled himself to his feet, and spat on Hob’s chest. It was pure righteousness that moved him to strip down to his undergarments, and his lips were foaming with deep disdain as he pushed his fine and muddy clothes into Hob’s arms. “Have these ready by sunrise, or I’ll have your head,” was al he said. And Hob could do nothing but nod.

Hob was scolded fiercely for his gaff, and he knew he’d been foolish. And so, he washed the boy’s threads without complaint, and hung them on a line to let the wind sing them dry. And once they were almost ready, he picked some lavender and hyssop and rubbed them into the lovely fine cloth until it smelled just as he thought it should. He folded it all as carefully as he could muster, and wrapped the duds in brown paper, and after he begged some money from his father, he tied it all up with a bow of ribbon, and set it by the door to wait for him in the morning.

It was all very tidy, and Hob knew he’d done well. But as he turned for bed, some greater thing tugged at him. And as he stood over the neat little parcel again, knowing all too well what was inside, he could almost feel the cobblestones beneath his feet. Next thing he knew, Hob was tearing the paper to bits, and the clothing seemed to find its own way onto his crooked bones. It felt warm and necessary against his skin like the summer sun, and as he tugged at the fabric, he was pleased to see it fit him with a tailor’s touch.

* * *

That morning, Hob of the Stews walked through the east gates without a care, and even his limp seemed somehow less noticeable in his new clothes. And as he strolled through town, the rich folk nodded when he nodded, and to a man, they smiled at him when he bid them good day. He felt free and easy for the first time he could rightly remember, and if it hadn’t been for his empty pockets, Hob of The Stews might even have felt like he belonged.

He made his way past the inns and the shops, and even strolled down to the port where lovely things were being unloaded from lovely ships to fill them. He found an orchard where he picked an apple, ripe and sweet, and every bakery smelled more delicious than the last. There was even a patrol of knights cutting their way towards the keep, and Hob lost himself in the way the sun glinted off their armor, and the sweet smell of the flowers the people threw at their feet. He followed them as far as his legs would allow, and when he finally took a moment to breathe, he found his was properly near the palace, and far from alone.

The street was filled with hundreds of other boys his age, all of them heading in the very same direction. It seemed like every high-born lad in the city was there, and when he arrived at the palace gates along with the rest of them, he could see them all straightening their lapels and making sure their shoulders were free of lint. And to a man, he could hear them practicing something under their breath, as if they were about to take some great stage from the wings.

Hob folded himself into the crowd, and was pleased to see their nerves were too sharp to notice he was even there at all. And soon enough, the gates were thrown open, and they were led into the great palace hall, which was the grandest space young Hob had ever seen. It was simply cavernous, and just as elegant. And though the throne of flowers itself was empty, the rest of the place was filled with more rugs, tapestries, and statues than he could rightly count. And adorning every entranceway and every pillar, every frame and every fountain, was rose after rose after rose trimmed in gold.

Hob was in his highest heaven then, but was quickly brought back down to earth when a senior usher joined them. And one by one, the usher called each boy to the front of the hall. And one by one, he asked them all the very same questions. “And what is your name? And what is your father’s name? And why do you wish to serve the King of Roses as his dressing boy?” And one by one, they gave him their very best answers.

Some were so nervous they could barely string two words together, and still others were proud and poised, and Hob could tell they had spent their days around important people doing important things. He could see they had been coached to speak clearly and with confidence, and to look their elders in the eye. To stand up straight and carry their names well. To be something better than the rest.

“Because my father is the best tailor in all the land,” said one.

“Because I need to learn the value of hard work,” said another.

“Because I’ve always wanted to see the palace,” said a third to a chorus of chuckles.

They were all fine answers, as were the rest, but Hob could see that none of them so much as raised the usher’s brow. And when he dismissed them, one by one, with a simple nod, he knew they had come all this way for nothing. And when it was Hob’s turn to present himself, he limped his way to the front of the hall amid familiar snickers, and the usher addressed him in turn.

“And what is your name?”

“Hob,” said Hob. They laughed at his answer, as the others weren’t used to hearing such a simple name in such a place, but the usher was quick to quiet them with a wave of his hand.

“And what is your father’s name?” he asked. But Hob gave no answer this time, because he was sure the truth would give him away. “And what is your father’s name?” he asked again, this time with a turn of his head. But Hob was silent once more. And as the crowd began to murmur, he could feel their judgement, and longed to make them eat their wicked whispers.

“My father is dead,” he boomed. “And his name was Robert.”

A pall fell about the room, and a breath of sincerity grew across the usher’s face. And after that, he made no further mention of Hob’s family, and asked his next question instead. “And why do you wish to serve the King of Roses as his dressing boy?”

Hob paused just long enough to be sure his words would matter. And as he raised his gaze to meet the usher’s, he spoke loud enough for them all to hear it. “Because I love my king more than anything. And I’m grateful for all he’s given me.”

* * *

They whisked Hob down a series of corridors, and soon, he found himself in a dining chamber where there was but one man at the head of a great table, and a feast for a dozen laid out before him. Hob knew the King of Roses at a glance, but he still had to look twice to be sure of what he was seeing.

“Come, come,” said the King. He waved them closer as he finished cleaning some succulent piece of meat or another from the bone. And as he licked his fingers clean, the usher delivered Hob to the table, and whispered something in the King’s ear.

“Very well.” He sent the usher away with a flick of his hand and turned to Hob, whose eyes were as wide as the golden trays on the table. “So, you wish to be my dressing boy?” he asked.

“Yes, my King.” Said Hob. “I wish it with all my heart.”

“And why should I pick you over any of the thousand other boys in my hall? What makes you so special?” He raised a goblet of wine to his lips and emptied it with one swallow.

“I’m not special,” he said. “I simply love my King more than anything. And I’m grateful for all you’ve given me.”

“Yes, yes. That’s what I hear. A fine answer.” The King of Roses wiped his mouth and took his time picking some bits of this and that from between his teeth. “Your accent. It’s…unusual for The East Bend. A bit crude.” The insight took Hob’s very breath away, and his face turned ripe and red like the rose still pinned to the King’s chest. “Where are you from, boy? And you’d be wise to be honest.”

Hob swallowed his poise and let his shoulders fall just enough to reflect his candor. “I’m from The Stews, my king. I’m from the muck.”

“And how did you come to wear these clothes? These are from the High Street, no?”

“I stole them,” he said with an immediate honesty. “I stole them. And it was wrong. But I knew I’d never come to serve you otherwise.”

“I see.” The King refilled his glass with something rich and red and swirled it about. “And your father, what does he do?” Hob had no immediate answer, and the King only grabbed his hand and turned it up to see that it bore the marks of a laborer. “A smith? A builder?”

“He was a stableman,” offered Hob.

“Was?” asked the King.

“Yes. Was.”

“Did sickness take him?”

“No, my King,” said the boy. “He died fighting against the thorns not two seasons past.”

“I see.” The King tore off a hunk of brown bread and began to chew at it. “And you think…that just because your father died fighting for me, that you should be allowed to steal those fine threads, and lie your way into my keep, and interrupt me in the middle of my supper, and ask to be my new dressing boy?”

“What I think matters not,” was all that Hob could say. “For I am not the king.” And after the King of Roses had swallowed the last of his bread and washed it down with the last of his wine, he sat alone with his thoughts, and licked his teeth clean of indecision.

“Well then,” he said. “Fetch me my cloak.”

* * *

That was the last day Hob saw his family, but there were no tears when he said his silent goodbye, because he knew he no longer belonged in their world. He belonged somewhere else now. Somewhere far grander and tucked away behind great gates. Somewhere lovely. And with each passing moment there, he thought about home less and less, until he could hardly remember it at all anymore.

Hob was given his own room in the keep itself, and served at the King’s pleasure. He was a dressing boy in name, but in truth, his duties had no limit. He was there to run errands and deliver orders, just as he was there to draw a perfect bath and make sure the King’s room was well stocked with wine at the end of the day. He was there to wake him in the morning, and to slink into his chambers at night to make sure his breath was still strong after an evening of drink. And though the work was hard and often thankless, Hob was sure his reward at the end of it all would be well worth it, and could already smell the flowers at his feet.

But as Hob grew from a child into a young man, his boyhood troubles only grew with him. And his leg never untwisted itself. And his lungs never learned to understand how sweet the air could be. And no matter how badly he wished to, he still couldn’t run like the other boys could run, or fight like they could fight. And he knew even a king’s grace could never change those things. Not even the King of Roses. Not even a forever king.

Hob found him warmer than he expected, and more genuine than he thought royalty ought to be. It was clear he cared for his people, and the King always seemed to take his decisions with enough heart to keep him wise. But Hob also found him a lonely thing, and in private, he seemed deeply unhappy with his circumstance, though he would never think to say it. And though the King of Roses seemed to have everything, Hob never knew him to take a wife. And he had no children to speak of. And he couldn’t remember the King even speaking of anybody he might call a friend.

Hob loved being a piece of it all. A cog in the beautiful machine. He was by the King’s side every moment of every day, and knew so much depended on the cool of his shadow. Because as hard as he tried, his accent never faded, and neither did the sideways glances from the others. The lords and their children still sneered, and the advisors who would have given anything for half as much time in the King’s ear still wished him banished back to The Stews. And that was to say nothing of the knights with their gleaming armor, for they still treated him like the ragged little stableboy he once was.

“I asked for vermillion, this is really more of a ruby,” said the King of Roses. He was standing before a great mirror struggling to get his new tunic to hang right from his bones.

“Yes, my king,” said Hob.

“I suppose it matters not, fits like a sack of flour anyway.” Hob adjusted the fabric around the King’s shoulders and smoothed his back, but nothing seemed to matter.

“Yes, my king.”

“Are you quite alright?” he asked of Hob.

“Yes, my king. Why do you ask?”

“You seem…sullen.”

“Not at all,” replied the young man. He retreated to a nearby cabinet to retrieve a bottle of sweet perfume which he sprayed on the King’s new garment. “Any day I’m able to serve you is a day I’m happy to—”

“Oh, come off it, Hob. You needn’t lie to me.” Hob was lost for words, but the hang of his head alone said everything about how he was feeling. And in a rare break from his duties, Hob left the King’s side and sat the whole of his uncertainty down in a nearby chair.

“All my life I’ve wanted to be something…great. To hear them all whisper my name and throw flowers at my feet. And I know I’ve come farther than I was meant to already, but…there are things I know I’ll never have. Things I’ll never do.” And as Hob broke into a fit of coughs, the King couldn’t help but notice his gimpy leg turn in all the ways a leg should never turn.

“Ahh,” said the King with a sideways smile. “The dream of the knight. He stepped down from his dressing pedestal and walked over to a gleaming, rose-tinted suit of armor that he kept displayed next to his wardrobe. “If you’d like to know the truth, most knights are just as fickle as the rest of us. And I’ve known more than I can rightly count. I’ve seen them fight with honor, but I’ve also seen them do the terrible things to people who deserved their mercy. To people who begged them for it. Cried at their feet. Unspeakable things.”

Hob rose from his seat and joined the King, and as he saw his reflection, warped and wild, in the steely red armor, he said, “But do their people still speak of them well?”

The King balked at Hob’s remark, and his brow fell. There was silence then, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the King of Roses was lost for words, as if he’d forgotten how sweet the ignorance of youth can taste to the young.

“I was nothing once,” continued Hob. “And soon, I will be too old to be here. With you, I mean. And I fear I’ll be nothing again. And it eats at me.”

The King of Roses set a tender hand on Hob’s shoulder, and let a resigned sigh slip from his lips. “Would you like to hear a story, Hob?”

* * *

The King’s strides were particularly long and powerful that day, and as he barreled towards the grand palace stairs, it was all Hob could do to try and stay abreast of him. “I was a young man too once,” said the King. A traveler. A wanderer. I had no interest in farming or raising livestock. No patience for fighting or family in those days. I simply wished to see the world. To know it better.”

But once they arrived, the King didn’t lead them to the floor above. Instead, he took them around to the back of the steps where they found an unassuming little door cut seamlessly into the woodwork. And when the King pulled it open, they were greeted by a rush of cool air and a staircase that spiraled downward until it disappeared into the darkness below.

“One day, I was sitting by a river,” said the King as he started his descent. “I don’t remember which river, but that’s beside the point. But I do remember watching it flow. And I remember wondering where it might take me. And in the same breath, I wondered how it came to be born.” Hob felt a greater chill with each step, and as he steadied himself, he could only look back above him as the light from the door slowly faded away to nothing.

“A strange question, how a river comes to be born. But I thought it important at the time, so I followed it. And eventually, I came upon a second river. And a third. And I followed them as well. And in time, I found countless others, and followed them all until I could follow them no more.” At the bottom of the stairs, they found an ancient looking door secured by an ancient looking lock. And the King took from his pocket an ancient looking key inscribed with an ancient looking rose, and did with it what all keybearers do. “I followed them until my beard was long and gray, and my feet were raw and calloused and raw again a hundred times over. Until I couldn’t even remember where I’d started.”

They stepped across the threshold into a long, dark corridor. And though the ground was still bare earth, the walls were made of domed brick like the catacombs that ran beneath the city streets. “And in that time, I saw many things. War. Famine. Cruelty, disease. I saw empires rise and empires fall. And I saw Gods born from nothing, and still many more turn to dust.” And though it was dark, it wasn’t long before they saw some light up ahead. And though it was quiet, they soon heard the sound of gentle water flowing.
“But I saw good things too. Wonderful things. Unspeakable beauty. Love. Kindness I had no index for. Art that made my heart burst a thousand times over.” It was then that they came upon a stream. A skinny little thing that seemed to flow from the darkness ahead until it disappeared back under the ground beneath them. And the light that now showed them the way wasn’t born of a torch or a candle or a signal fire, but the water itself. Each ripple and every little fold of it glowing with the strangest starlight.

“And do you know what I found at the end of all of those rivers?” Hob, of course, was too lost in the wonder of it all to even attempt an answer. “I found the heart of it all.” They walked in silence for a moment before Hob could no longer contain his confusion.

“I…I don’t understand, sire.”

“Neither did I, Hob.”

And just as Hob’s brow turned dubious, they happened upon a withered old bush at the mouth of the stream. A ragged thing that looked as if it longed for better days when it could still sip the sun and feel the breath of the wind. But it was here now, locked away from the world, and only kept alive by the grace of the glowing water bubbling up around its roots.

“The great gift. And there I found a single red rose. Just one. And as sure as we’re standing here now, it called to me. And it asked me what I wanted. Asked me what I needed, as if…as if it could tell I was incomplete.” The King paused, and Hob saw a strange reverence wash over him. Something old and complicated. Something still raw.

“What did you ask it for?” said Hob after some time.

“I saw many worlds on my travels, Hob. More than any other man, I’m sure of it. But at the same time, I felt as if I’d seen nothing at all. Because time itself is the wildest river, and I knew I’d never reach its end.” He paused to be sure Hob would hear the next bit clearly, and gave the boy’s own words right back to him. “And it ate at me.”

It was a strange reckoning for Hob. The legends and the stories of the forever king. His endless wisdom and his pure young heart. And as if he knew the King wanted nothing more than to finally speak the truth, he asked him, “How long have you been king for, sire?”

The King balked, and swallowed something jagged before he spoke. “I don’t remember.” He let his answer hang in hopes the waterlight might let him see it better. And when it failed him, he continued, “Long enough that I don’t remember what I was called. My name. Long enough that I don’t even remember my old tongue. My words, Hob. Long enough that this city was nothing but a flowerbed for a single rose when I found it. And long enough to have watched it be built…and burned to the ground…and built again a hundred times over.”

Hob had never seen the King cry before, but as he recounted his history, his eyes welled the stuff of life, and Hob felt his own do the same. “I have watched a thousand of my wives die. And loved them all. And ten thousand of my children. Buried them myself, every last one. I’ve watched a hundred thousand friends fall to the sword, and a hundred thousand more wither away from more diseases than I care to count. And somewhere along the way, they put a crown on my head for it. And I still don’t have the heart to take it off, because it would only be taken by somebody less wise.”

“And every day I want nothing more than to tear this…gift…from my chest,” he cried as he thumped his rose with his fist. “And every day, it refuses to let me go. And night after night, I lay down my head, and I make the very same wish. And do you know what that wish is, Hob?” Hob could only manage a silent swallow. “I wish to wake up and be nothing again. Because I was never happier then.”

And with that, the King of Roses left Hob with his thoughts, which were many and hopelessly tangled. But as soon as he found himself truly alone, Hob stooped over the water and watched it sparkle, for he had never seen anything like it in all his days. And there, he thought about the things he wished for when he laid his own head down at night. And with his next ragged breath, Hob was sure he could smell the flowers at his feet. And when he turned his ear to the gentle tide, he could already hear the wild whispers.

* * *

The very next day, a familiar storm started to gather south of the city. It was some force of men from some thorn or another, and which of the three cities had sent them this time made little difference. War was a season in itself, and like winter or summer or spring, it would always come around again in time. It was an old story, and the King of Roses was well tired of it, even as he understood every word better than the rest. Men who had less. Men who had more. Men who had grown tired of drinking the roses’ wastewater, and sick of eating only the fish they saw fit to throw back.

He had watched their armies gather in the fields of green a hundred times, and listened to them shout their grievances at the city gates a hundred more. And from the other side of it all, the King would shake his head, and know no brand of diplomacy could stop it, because he’d tried that a hundred times before too. And so, he would call his banners, and send his own men to die on the very same field, because in the end, they wanted the very same things their enemies did, and he could hardly blame them for it.

Many of them were more than willing, of course, but that never made it any easier. And after so many seasons of the same wind and rain, the King had taken to locking himself in his chambers when rotten weather rolled in. It was a constant parade of messenger boys and wine-bearers, and in the hours when he felt moved by responsibility, the King would stand out on his balcony and watch his forces gather on the plains just behind the palace. But that was as far as he cared to venture anymore, even if it didn’t feel like enough.

So there were no speeches and there were no inspections. No council meetings or prayers. There were none of those things, because it had all happened before, and he was sure it would happen again, and so none of it really mattered at all. The King of Roses simply wanted to be left alone, and for the first time he could remember, that included his faithful attendant, Hob.

It felt strange not to be by his side, but Hob respected his wishes, and apart from sneaking into his chambers at night to be sure the endless wine hadn’t drowned him, Hob of the Stews left the King to his sorrows. And so, he did the things he used to do when his duties were buttoned up. He strolled around town and gawked at the shops, and he ducked down to the port to watch the ships come and go. He sat by the east gates just to watch the people again, and when all of that was done, Hob went to watch the parade of knights as they marched towards the fields to fall in with the rest of the King’s ranks.

Even on their way to war, their spines were straight and their heads were high and their plate was freshly polished. Even their horses seemed to have some greater sense of pride in their step. Even their squires were aware of the moment. And there were flowers and there were tears, just as there always were. But this time, it felt different, because even though they were hidden away inside their helms, Hob was sure he knew their faces.

Boys he knew by name. Boys he knew by reputation. The same boys, in fact, who sat with him in the great hall the day the King chose him and him alone. He felt he had bested them that day. Showed them his worth and silenced their wicked whispers. But as he heard the crowd giggle and gossip at the very sight of them, none of the names on their lips were his. And on that day too, Hob was sure there were some things he would never have. And it ate at him.

That night, Hob found the King of Roses slumped in his chair with his eyes welded shut and his hand still wrapped around his cup. It wasn’t anything unusual, but the mighty draft from the balcony doors was. And when Hob moved to silence it, he saw the King’s forces had already left for battle, and all that remained on the palace field were the leavings of preparation. Smoldering fires and disused tents. Spare lumber and rodents scavenging for scraps.

Hob quietly closed the doors on it all and turned his attention back to the King where it belonged. He was glad to feel his breath still warm and strong, and after taking his cup from his hand, he found a pillow to wedge under his head so his neck wouldn’t feel so wrenched when he awoke. But as he made sure his King was well comfortable, something sweet and springful filled the air. Something lovely and honeyed and lush. Wild and necessary.

It was so wonderful that Hob couldn’t help but want to taste it better, and when he pressed his nose against the King’s rose and breathed deep and wild, he felt the strangest something in his chest. Strength. And for the first time, he felt his lungs open their gates and gulp hardy and fearless at the air. And where there was once desperate wheezing, there was now a voice. Where there were limits, there was now the promise of permission. And when Hob glanced back down at the thing, alive and red, he noticed the pin that had forever kept it on the King’s chest had come undone.

He took it then. Held it to his breast. He studied it and breathed its marrow and wondered where it might take him. What he might become. And the moment he hooked it to his tunic, Hob felt his leg untwist itself, and his eyes turn bold and savvy. And as he stood in front of the King’s gleaming rose armor, he saw himself clear as day, and was sure it too would fit him with a tailor’s touch.

* * *

Hob was late to the field and wasted no time in lining up with the rest of the cavalry. It was odd to see a knight in rose steel, but the rest of them had too much on their hearts and minds to care beyond a glance and a snort. He looked down the ranks to see the same faces he’d seen in the parade earlier that day. Boys he knew by name. Boys he knew by reputation. And though he badly wanted to lift this visor and let them all see his face, he knew he hadn’t proved a thing beyond his place in the King’s shadow, so for the moment, Hob stayed his pride.

The enemy’s ranks were ramshackle, but they were wide and plenty deep. And even from his place across the great field, Hob could see their lips foaming white with mad hatred, and he could hear them thumping their chests like great beasts. And as he looked down his ranks again, he saw none of that from the young knights at his side. Only pursed lips and wide eyes. Only the nervous shuffling of hooves.

It was then that another season came to pass, and the skies opened up in torrents. Their nervy silence gave way to the relentless drumming of heavy water on steel. And just as that was settling on their hearts, they heard sudden cries of courage from the men across the field, and saw them break into a fearless charge. But there was little time to be rattled, because their own march was soon called, and Hob followed the rest of the ranks as they set off, slow and steady, towards their waiting war.

The men of The Thorns moved with savage speed, fueled by something the people of The Roses had never felt, and it wasn’t long before their lines broke as they tried to match their wild energy. First one knight moved ahead, then the next. First one lowered his pike, and then a dozen more. Soon, they were all jockeying for space in front of it all, even as the ground beneath them grew slick and muddy from the rains. And as the gap between the two armies closed, it all turned chaos and savage circumstance, and they all broke away in turn.

They were all experienced riders, but few of them had as much time in the muck as Hob of the Stews. And while most struggled to find their footing, young Hob surged ahead through the driving storm, and drew his rose-colored sword, and let the call of flowers and sweet whispers fuel him. The first clash shook the very earth, and Hob was sure his bones had turned to dust in the wild crunch of it. It was deafening and irreversible, and for so many, it was over just as it began. Hob’s horse was cut down like some stalky thistleweed, and just as quickly, Hob found himself in a familiar place—the mud.

The slop was no place for a knight, and Hob quickly learned how unwieldy armor could be when he wasn’t on his feet. He tried to right himself, but he couldn’t. He willed himself to stand, but the mud beneath him was too treacherous, and the frenzy around him knocked him back down time and time again. And the more he struggled, the more they noticed his rose red armor, and the more hated the very sight of it.

They encircled him and screamed war at the boy. And every time Hob tried to pick himself up and fight, they only kicked him back to the muck. And when they had enough of toying with him, the biggest among them swung his hammer, and struck Hob square in the helm. He fell limp and useless, and the others wasted no time in taking their daggers to him. And as they pulled their blades free, they hoped it would be slow. And to their credit, it was.

And there in the mud, Hob waited for the end, and thought it might even be welcome. And in time, he could no longer hear the clanking of steel and the muffled groans of men leaving the world behind. In time, it grew quiet, and he waited for the pitter of rain on his visor to carry him away to some other place. But the slop simply wouldn’t let him go. And neither would the rose on his chest. And somehow, through the black stench of things that were once held back by skin and leather, Hob smelled it, ripe and red, and he felt it mend him once more.

And when he took to his feet again, he saw only slaughter. Boys he knew by name. Boys he knew by reputation. Their fathers and uncles too. There were thousands still standing, but all of them thorns, milling about and taking what they wished from the fallen. And it was then Hob realized he was the only rose. The last of them. And as he plucked his sword from the stew, he could already hear his name on their lips.

* * *

The Rose Knight. That’s what they called him as they carried him through the streets. That’s what they shouted as they fought one another for just a touch of his steel, and wept at the very sight of him. He was the only one left at the end of it all, the lone victor in a sea of fallen roses and dead thorns. And as Hob walked back through the rose gates that day, his heart had never felt so full, and he lifted his visor so they all would see his face.

The city was his in so many ways, and even though they had lost many of their fiercest defenders, they felt safe under The Rose Knight’s watch, because there was legend. There, was a rose that couldn’t be felled by a dozen daggers. By a thousand thorns. There, was a hero worthy of stories and song. There, was a talisman. Something to pray to. And when the children of The Stews played in the slop, they fought over who would be the lucky one to take him name.

And to the people of the city, the timing of it all seemed divine, because the King of Roses had taken ill, and was fading quickly. It was as if each hour was another year in his march towards death. Every breath another curse. And through it all, he didn’t send for Hob, and Hob didn’t care to visit him, and their history seemed to mean nothing at all. But there was no anger in it. There was no spite, even though only one could wear the rose upon his chest. Rather, they both simply knew the truth of it, and there was just so little left to say.

But even though the great hall was filled with whispers when Hob sat the throne, and even though the floor was covered in the sweetest flowers, he grew restless. Because he was sure there were others who didn’t know his name. Sure there were lands left unconquered. And so, Hob donned his armor once more, and gathered the last of the city’s young men. He took with him all the supplies he could find, and he said his goodbyes to his people, even as they cried for him. But Hob of the Stews was a dreamer, and his heart couldn’t be stayed. And he knew there was more to the river than just the rose shores. And so, he let them weep.

When he arrived at the hills of North Thorn, their armies met him on the field, as he knew they would. They were many and rightly rabid, but Hob’s sword had already seen a thousand men fall, and he knew this lot would be no different. He broke them like stale bread that day. Like he had been born to do nothing less. And to anyone watching, it looked like art. Song and portraiture. And they fell around him like rotten leaves.

And after he had taken the very last of them down to the bone, he needed no rest. And drank no water. And his armor felt like second skin. Like it weighed nothing at all, and he would surely die without it. And as he looked down to wipe his chest plate clean, he noticed the very steel had molded itself around the red rose still pinned to his chest so that it might sip the sun again. So that even in battle, they could see his true heart.

He took what he needed from that city in turn, and let what remained of his men have their way with the place. And the very next day, he marched them for West Thorn, because the call of the river was still strong. Their armies were ready for him too, but it made no difference. And for so many of them, the rose now stamped on his armor was the very last thing they saw before they were taken from the world.

And when it was over, Hob walked the city streets just to hear them gasp. And he sat upon their palace steps to let them gather and gossip about who he truly was. And once the throng was good and thick, he grasped his helm to show them, only to find it wouldn’t budge. It was well stuck, and no matter how hard he pulled, his helmet wouldn’t come free. He tried to peel away his gauntlets instead, but Hob found them just as unmovable. And his greaves and his chest plate only proved just as stubborn. And there, on the steps of some strange palace, Hob understood they were part of him now. Wrapped around who he used to be like some great rosy callous.

But Hob was a dreamer, and his heart couldn’t be stayed. And by the time he left for South Thorn, he had only a dozen men left at his heels. And after he was through savaging their finest soldiers, there was no one by his side at all. He stood outside their city gates then, and commanded them open, for he needed supplies and more. But none of them heard a word of it, because Hob’s voice no longer carried beyond his skin of steel.

He marched alone then. Without men and without water. Without food and without a roll to sleep on. And with no more thorns to prune, Hob followed the rose river until he could follow it no more. And when he found a second river, he followed that too. He followed river after river until he could follow them all no more. Across endless plains and purple hills. Into deep forests and across even the most unpassable mountains. And every life that challenged him, he took with ease. And every child who saw him named him monster or god.

And at the end of it all was the shoreless sea, and no reason left to swing his sword. And when he hung his head to find there was no more earth to paint red, the rose on his chest was the only thing he recognized at all. For he had come so far that even his memories had faded with time. And knowing there was nothing more, the Rose Knight turned for home.

* * *

The rose gates were already open when he arrived, and even from inside his steel, Hob could tell the City of Roses was quieter than it ought to be. Silent, even. There was no welcoming party and no parade when he set foot upon the streets. No flowers at his feet and no children begging to touch his armor. In fact, the people of the roses seemed to care nothing for his homecoming at all. Nothing for his conquest and nothing for his legend. They sang no songs and told no stories. And even in the quiet moments, there were no whispers. Because they had all been put to the sword.

Their bodies were stacked in the streets like sacks of lime and left on their doorsteps like firewood. Every pauper and every prince. Every man, woman, and child. Every last rose from the High Street to the muck. Everybody Hob had ever known and more, they were all gone now. Their throats laid open for the wind to lick dry. And on each of their chests was carved a rose, red and ripe, just as it was on his armor. And he knew then the people of his conquest had come for him, and together, they took his very heart. And made sure there was no one left to whisper his name.

The city itself was just as dead. Looted. Stripped of its belongings, as if they wanted to be sure nothing good remained. There was no bread left in the bakeries, and no clothing in any of the shops. Even the boats in the harbor were gone. It was all bitter stew now, and that was to say nothing of the stench. The sour sting of so much death. It was thick and grizzly, and almost as hard to walk through as the blood that covered every street and every patch of lawn. A tide so heavy it flooded the sewers, and rolled out to stain the very sea.

And so, there were no fresh flowers left to smell, and no more gilded roses waiting inside the palace, because those had been taken too. And deep under the grand hall where he first made his ambitions known, the water that once sparkled with so much light turned a deeper shade of red with every passing moment, as nothing could escape the leavings of what had been done.

And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Hob felt the strangest thing. He felt tired. More so with every breath, in fact. He felt spent, and sat himself upon the throne to rest. And as he did, his armor grew heavy, and his back slumped under the weight of it all. His sword grew unwieldy and fell from his hand, and his head hung forward, as if his neck could no longer support his great helm. And stories beneath where he sat, the heart of it all began to wither from the red water bubbling up around its roots. And as the rosebush turned brown and brittle, so too did its knight.

The rust spread from the rose on his chest, and didn’t stop until it swallowed him whole. And soon, there wasn’t an inch of red steel that wasn’t pitted and diseased. Rotten and indecent. It covered every rivet and every hinge, and froze him there like some wicked monument. And inside it all, Hob could feel his skin sag from his bones and his fair fall away from his head. He could feel his face turn leathered and gray, and his teeth crumble to dust. And as he wheezed and struggled for just one more gulp of poison air, he felt his leg twist itself crooked again, even as the rest of him was rusted shut.

And there, he sat for the rest of his days, and the days beyond that too. The city would be rebuilt in time, just like it had a thousand times before, but the roses would never return. And even though they spoke a different tongue, they would still talk about the Rose Knight, because there wasn’t a soul in the land who didn’t know his story. And when they found him, they could hardly believe he was real. And so, they left him to his rose, there on the throne of flowers. One relic and one sad statue. One promise and one fool. And even then, they whispered his name. And even then, they told stories and sang songs. And even then, the Rose Knight could hear them. And they never knew he was once called Hob at all.

If you’ve ever been curious about my more earnest, non-humor writing, this is a really great place to start, because it’s full of my typical tone and atmosphere, and it’s also a really twisty, dark little story that hits all the notes I love in a short piece of fiction.

Fair warning, there are some difficult themes here including self-harm and some references to serious childhood trauma, but as always, I try my best to deal with those things tactfully and non-exploitatively, because I think they deserve that respect.

In any case, I really hope you all enjoy this one. Love you guys :)

Remanence

Remanence | rem·​a·​nence | noun – the residual magnetism left in a substance after the external field has been removed, also known as “magnetic memory”

She knew it would change her. From the moment it happened, she was sure of it. It was still happening, in a way. Even as she was back on the line listening to the familiar din of the kitchen. The clang-and-scrape of it. The shuffle of feet and the rustle of clothing and the endless jargon. Lena knew every piece of it, and she was plenty glad to have it back, but it wasn’t quite the same as she remembered. There was something else there now. Something that didn’t belong. The sad little thump. The deafening thing.

That was the strangest part of it all, really. It was plenty loud now, but at the time, it seemed so dull. So toothless. After all, there were no tires screeching and no screaming. No sirens and no rush to anyone’s aid. It was quiet. Boring, even. It was nothing like it was supposed to be, because from the very moment it happened, it was already settled. Because he was plenty drunk, and she was on her way home from work, and everyone could see it. Because it was late and already snowing, and they all agreed it had been a long day.

Because once they saw him lying there, they understood. Once they saw him crumpled ten feet from his do-nothing shoes and plum in the middle of the street. From the first time they turned their brows up at his sad, baggy clothes, they knew. The first whiff of his sour stink. The uniforms and the gawkers, they all understood then, and so did Lena. After all, she agreed with them. Everyone who cared to speak about it, anyway. She agreed with them because it was exactly that. A shame. And even now, she could do nothing but shake her head.

It was a tiny little shame, and it didn’t even make the papers. Didn’t even feed any whispers. They didn’t even ask her to sign her name to her words after they questioned her, because her words didn’t seem to matter all that much. He just came out of nowhere, and they all understood. They could all see it. And they even let her drive her car home that night. And as if she thought there had to be more to it, she asked them what his name was. And they told her it was Danny Wise, and that meant nothing too.

“You good?”

Lena looked up from her station to find her chef hovering over her. He was wearing a bright white coat and an expectant look, and when she followed his gaze to the hopelessly overcooked piece of fish in her pan, she understood why.

“Sorry,” she said. “That’s on me.”

“It’s okay,” he replied tenderly. “Start another one please.”

Lena smiled at the courtesy, which wasn’t always a given in the world of kitchens and cooks. It was a fine enough place to be, but it was often filled with sharp tongues and shallow patience. The gruesome camaraderie. The meager little dramas that kept each kitchen warm. It was a language in its own right, and they all spoke it, even the best of them. It was late nights and later mornings. It was weekends and holidays too. It was that and heat and pressure, and it was evergreen.

Lena took another piece of fish from the tray. It wasn’t like her to burn things, least of all good fish. She had always prided herself on being a consistent cook, but since the accident, she’d become so distractable. So absent-minded. Even in the middle of service, her thoughts would wander back to that night. To the intersection. To the tire tracks in the snow and the sad little thump that used to be Danny Wise. But they wandered elsewhere too. To strange places and strange things. Little gray things she found herself wishing away. Needy little things.

But Lena knew it would change her. Even from the moment it happened, she knew it. And as she laid a new piece of fish in the pan, she promised herself she would look after this one better, and hoped she could keep her word.

* * *

It was almost midnight by the time Lena tore her station down. It was unglamorous work, but a clean kitchen was the best kind of cork in the day. An unimpeachable end. And once it was done, she was free to clean her knives and slip them back into her roll, and take one last look out into the dining room before tucking her checklist away. Free to trade her kitchen shoes for boots and bundle herself up in her heavy coat and knit hat. She was free to leave. Free to step out into the wild after-shift nothing of the loading dock and let it fix a little piece of her. And when she did, she smiled as if she had forgotten it was ever there at all.

It was forever the same, and she was glad for it. The drinking. The smoking. The war stories and the echoes of things that weren’t to be said inside. It was a place for scoundrels, and they all knew it. Necessary scoundrels. The cooks and the dishwashers. The servers and the hostesses. They were all in their little cliques, just like they always were, and she was glad for that too. Lena felt like she ought to know more of them better than she did, but she had learned just to let them come and go. She had learned that somebody else would soon be standing where they stood. And saying the same words they said. All of them, that is, except for Jay.

“Hey, girl.”

“Hey, Jay,” she returned with a smile.

Jay Reyes was a beacon. Good energy and more. He had been at the restaurant almost as long as the ovens, and after so many years, he felt just as necessary. He was glue in a world that only seemed to care for the pieces, and was often the only thing Lena looked forward to seeing on the other side of those doors at all. Jay was always ready with a sincere word. Always present. Always colorful and strong when the rest of them were so weak and weary. Jay was balance, and he was comfort. The only well-adjusted thing she knew.

“Good night tonight?” Lena asked as she sidled up to him.

Jay was sharing a little bottle of something strong with a few of his fellow servers. “Good now that it’s over,” he quipped, taking a deep drink of the stuff. “Like the whole city forgot how to tip or something.”

“It’s the weather,” offered Lena. She threw her chin toward the wind, which was whipping the snow around their little piece of the alley. “People get stingy when their socks get wet.”

“Yeah, well my heating bill’s going up too. They ain’t special.” Lena chuckled as Jay handed her the bottle. She took a swallow and recoiled at the taste of it.

“Ugh. You should really be into better booze working at a place like this.”

“I am into better booze. I just can’t afford it. You can ask these Rebooks right here.” Jay flashed his off-brand sneakers as he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offered them up to the group, but balked when Lena herself reached for one.

“What?” she asked. But Jay only shook his head and offered her a light. Lena took a practiced drag, and the moment the stuff settled inside her, she threw her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. “Fuck,” she said, almost to herself. She drank of it. She let it flow through her like young blood, but when Lena opened her eyes again, she found a sideways look from Jay.

“What?” she said again.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Lena paused as if she was unsure. She felt confused and misaligned, and in the very next moment, she felt sheepish, as if she had let some secret slip. “Just been a shitty week,” was all she said. It was a simple answer, but there was something soft and sincere about the way she said it, and Jay nodded, because he knew it was true. A shame, really.

“Hey, we’re goin’ over to The Rafters after this if you wanna come,” he offered. “I think Molly and them from Parkland Grill are gonna be there. Should be fun.”

“Tempting,” said Lena.

“Oh, come on. You and I both know you don’t have anything else going on.”

“I didn’t say no.”

“But…”

“But no. Maybe next week. Things are still a little…fresh. I don’t know.” Lena took another sip from his bottle before handing it back. “You girls have fun though,” she said with a wink.

Jay left Lena with a hug, and she started towards the storm. It was almost enough, the embrace of a friend like that. Community, however squalid. It was almost enough, but as she stepped into the weather, sharp and sleety, she felt the little gray things clawing at her again. Crowding her. Sitting ready in the wings of her heart, and leaving strange feelings at her doorstep.

And at the end of her walk was the beginning of it all. The sad little thump, and the do-nothing crack in her windshield that came along with it. Lena tried not to see it as she climbed into her car. She tried not to feel it as she sat with the gift of the heater and rubbed her hands together like some little frozen cricket. And she tried not to think about it as she pulled out into the street with her hands shaky on the wheel, but it was still there with every turn of her head, and every flick of her attention.

She leaned into the drive, desperate to stay her focus with the storm dulling so much of the city. It was a route she’d driven a thousand times. Home. It was a simple enough thing, but tonight, it felt endlessly complicated. The little prayers. The pointed whispers. Just take your time. She felt she had to say it, because there was just no other way to hear herself through all the noise. And as she opened her window to better see where she was, the cold ushered in more of the gray, and she quickly buttoned her car back up.

But as she drove, so did the snow, and soon enough, it was nothing but nameless streets and snow-white city blocks. Lena gave herself over to her instincts then, and was glad she knew the city so well. And after some time, she felt herself pull to the side of the road, and when she did, she could only breathe and be still. And be thankful the winds and the hour had driven most everybody else inside for the night. After all, it was late, and it had already been a long day. After all, it was just a little crack, and they could all see it.

She sat there until the silence wore thin and she could no longer stand to be alone with it. Until she hated it. Lena pulled her collar up around her face and threw open her door, but as she hurried back outside just to feel anything else at all, she stopped and bent her brow at the sight of where she was. Because it was anywhere but home.

It was some darker corner of town where the train tracks stitched the roads together and the stench from the gasworks stained a little piece of everything it touched. It was bodegas and rowhomes. Streetlights and circumstance. Lena wasn’t sure how she’d come to be there, but for some reason, she didn’t feel lost. And when the wind kicked hard enough to cut through her coat, she spun away from the brunt of it, and found she was parked in front of some old forgotten dive with a single word painted on the door. Breaker’s.

The cigarette stink was thick and rotten, and looked to be the only thing still holding all the regulars upright on their worn-out stools. She was sure that’s what they were—regulars. Because it all seemed so rote. So quiet and comfortable. Their spines were all slumped with the same wicked curve, and as Lena stepped through the door, their brows all sharped at the sight of her.

It was an empty stool next to the trivia machine that found her, and as soon as Lena sat herself down, the bartender found her too. He was portly and unkempt, and she was sure he was just as gruff. And sure enough, in place of a friendly question, there was only a nod in her direction.

“Sidecar, rocks,” she said. It was an odd thing to order, and as the bartender reached for a clean glass, he stopped himself.

“Sorry, what?” he asked.

“Sidecar. Rocks,” she said again, trying her best to sound like she meant it this time around. “It’s just cognac and…”

“I know what it is. That your usual or something?”

“Uh, no.” She said, almost sure of it. “If you don’t wanna make it, it’s fine. I’ll just have a—”

“Sorry. No, it’s…”

He gave a resigned sigh, and Lena could see his edges soften as he dragged his considerable frame over to meet her. “It’s just that nobody orders a sidecar in a place like this. Cognac? Really? Why would I have cognac?” He took a bottle of the stuff from under the bar and set it in front of her along with a rocks glass.

“Nobody’s ever ordered a sidecar here, actually. Nobody but you…and one other person.” He reached down once more and set a bottle of orange liqueur next to the cognac. “And that person sat in that same chair you’re sittin’ in now. Every night for thirteen years, and most of the days too.” He looked at Lena like he wasn’t sure she deserved to know the rest of it. “And he was a friend of mine. Until last week. When he passed.”

It was almost clear to her then, but she did her best not to see it, just like the do-nothing crack. Instead, she only said, “I’m sorry,” and watched him make her drink, because at least that was uncomplicated and easy meat. It was just as clumsy and artless as it should have been. Perfect sloppy. It was just a pour of this and a pour of that, but it was enough to fill her glass. And as it all settled around the cheap crushed ice and day-old wedge of lemon, Lena asked what his friend’s name was, because she was sure there had to be more to it.

“Danny,” he said. “Danny Wise.”

And when she heard it, she wished it had meant nothing, just like it did the first time. Just like it did that night. But she knew it would change her, the sad little thump. She knew it from the moment it happened. And when she raised her glass to her lips and took her first sip of what she’d asked for, it tasted simple and sweet for the first time again.

* * *

It was a Wednesday when Lena decided she didn’t feel like herself anymore. Her pieces were still there, but they were so much quieter than they used to be. Toothless. It was like everything had some strange new shadow now. A second color and a second name. A second feeling attached to it. Every street she walked, she walked both ways. And every decision she made, she both agreed with and didn’t understand. Coffee, large. Sugar please. And a pack of reds. And with each cigarette she smoked, and every night she spent at Breaker’s, Lena felt more like herself, and more like somebody else entirely.

She had taken to walking to work, even though the winter had only become more cruel. And even though she had grown a pointed hatred for the cold, she also felt like she deserved it, in a way. To feel her lips cracking and her bones rattling and her skin being whipped red by the wind. She felt like she deserved it all. The was so much fear now. Worthlessness and anger. The urge to flee and the resignation to stay. So much that was freshly hers. Gifts, by some strange name.

And the little things that were so gray at first were less so now, though she still couldn’t see them clearly. There was a place. A house. Some mean little thing. She could see the paint peeling from the old, worm-eaten wood, but she couldn’t see beyond it. There was a window too, and a tree just outside of it. It was old and grand, and she felt like it didn’t belong. And though she couldn’t see what it was, the tree held something in its arms. Something secret. And every time the winter felt like it blew right through her, she even saw a face.

It was just an echo at first. Something old and rotten that somebody had tried to rub away. Something that had been colored over by a different stain but was too dark to disappear. Stern and empty. Old skin leather and pursed lips. It was hers now too, just like the rest of it, and it opened her up and made itself at home in a corner of her heart. And as hard as she tried to see past it, she couldn’t, because it was a season in itself.

It was thin, ugly snow, and it was endless rain. It was blistering heat and it was heavy, ragged hail too. It was a tireless storm, and it battered Lena from every direction, and left her searching for a shelter she knew she had left behind. There was no quarter from it, indoors or out. And even the familiar chaos of the kitchen couldn’t keep her warm and dry.

Lena was half of what she used to be in so many ways, and she was certainly half the chef. She had half the attention and half the poise. Half the patience and half the instinct. They all saw it, but nobody cared to speak about it. Not on the line, anyway. After all, they all knew what she had been through, and they were sure she was doing her best.

They were downright kind, in fact. Picking up her slack without making her feel embarrassed. Taking over her station when the tears came so she could step outside and collect herself. But their support didn’t change the fact that her knives felt halfway strange in her hands now, and her tongue could no longer tell good enough from great half the time. And it didn’t change how undeserving she felt, as if she was sure they were all just wasting their time.

It was a mistake the first time it happened. In the rush of it all, she’d simply grabbed the wrong pot, just like she’d done a dozen times before. But this time it felt different. It felt like something new, and she was sure it blistered more than just her skin. And when she was given something to ice it, she said thank you, and took it to the coat room. But once she was alone, she set the ice pack aside, and let the hot kitchen air lick at her wound as it bubbled up and turned red. And there, Lena sat with it, because it just made sense. And because that was something she felt that she deserved.

* * *

It was a Tuesday when her chef saw it. She was reaching for a plate above the broiler, and by the time she tried to pull her sleeves back down to her wrists, it was already too late. It was beautiful, in its own way, because it was just how a chef would burn herself. Perfect little one-inch stripes evenly spaced down the inside of her arm, each of them a slightly different shade of pain. Nice and tidy. Everything in its place.

Lena had no answers when he questioned her, but she had none for herself either, so it felt somehow less than dishonest. “I don’t know,” was all she could offer. And at the same time, she knew it was both true and not good enough. And when he sent her home, she only nodded, because she understood. And so, she tucked her knives away in her roll, and bundled herself up in her heavy coat and hat, and hoped the loading dock was empty at this strange hour.

It was Jay Reyes who found her in some forgotten corner with her hands wrapped about her knees and her head down. He wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, but when Lena looked up at him, he was sure she’d already cried herself dry of tears. It was Jay who sat down beside her, and it was Jay who knew better than to ask her about any of it, because he knew she’d speak when she was ready. It was Jay who brought her a cup of water and a clean kitchen towel for her face, and after Lena began to feel half-human again, it was Jay Reyes who invited her home.

It must’ve been the warmest place in the city, and Lena could swear she saw the very snow melting on the little patch of lawn in front of their old brick rowhome. There was warm, yellow light in the windows, and the scent of delicious things being cooked was so strong that it floated right through their front door and out into the street. And from the moment Jay led her inside, Lena felt welcome in a way she didn’t understand.

There were hugs and there were smiles and laughter and conversation. There was a cooler full of drinks chilling out back, and a stove full of wonderful, bubbling things in the kitchen. And though there were plenty of couches and chairs in the living room, it seemed that everyone had abandoned them for the two mismatched tables that were shunted up against the wall across from the fridge. Brothers, sisters, aunts, and cousins. Children picking at pots, and even a grandmother there to swat their hands away.

“Are you guys celebrating something with all of this?” Lena asked as Jay handed her a beer.

“Yeah, it’s called dinner,” he replied.

“Damn. You all do this every night? You need someone on meat?”

“You touch that stove, I can’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

His grandmother shook a spoon in Lena’s direction, and she gave a chuckle so genuine it startled her. It was all a bit strange to Lena, who never had a fabric so tight-knit. It was strange, but she couldn’t deny that it was beautiful. It was plain and imperfect and wild, and though she knew she’d never be a part of it, she was happy enough just to be near it for a while.

They played cards and gossiped and ribbed each other until enough food to feed a group ten times their number was brought to the table. It was all rather unfussy, but that somehow made it even sweeter. And after the games were over and the table was cleared and the dishes were piled up in the sink, there was nothing left but family, and Lena understood then why Jay had always seemed so different to her. And as the two of them shared a cigarette on the little deck out back, Lena watched the lovely commotion through the sliding glass door, and couldn’t help but speak about it.

“You’re a lucky guy, you know that?” she said.

“I do, believe it or not. Rich in all the ways except the one that makes my car payment.”

“Your family seems…they seem really wonderful.”

“They are. For the most part. I mean, they can’t all be winners, right?” They shared a laugh and another drag of his cigarette. “I don’t know. Some people are givers and some people are takers. Guess I’m just lucky to have more of one of those in my life than the other.”

Lena looked Jay up and down, and almost felt like she saw him for the very first time. It was like he was cobbled together from the very best pieces of them all. His laugh, his posture, even the little things he was so fond of saying. They were all there. They were unevenly stacked and crudely spackled together, but they had built something stronger than it ought to be. And as the weather gusted cold and callous, she couldn’t help but think of all things that were part of her now too.

“What if…what if you don’t like the things you’ve been given?” she asked. “Like, what do you do?”

“Fuck if I know.” He took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it away into the snow. “I guess…I guess you just hold on. And wait for someone else to come along and give you something better.”

Lena wanted to feel better after a night like that, but as she sat in her car and watched the shadows inside Jay’s home dance in front of the warm yellow light, she knew it made no difference. She knew it meant nothing, because the do-nothing crack was still there. And so was the sad little thump that used to be Danny Wise. And so were all the things that came with it.

And there in the glow of something better, Lena felt rage and didn’t know why. And she felt hatred and didn’t know why. And she felt the tireless horror of circumstance, and knew it was old and rancid, even if she couldn’t see it. And as she took her first sip of her usual glass of something strong and sweet at Breaker’s that night, it mixed with the cigarette stain still on her lips, and she found herself shaking from the weight of it all. And the little lines striping the inside of her arm burned fresh and bright again. And more than ever, she wanted to be free of it.

* * *

Lena woke with a start. She didn’t know where she was, but she was sure it wasn’t home, because she felt the kind of sore and musty and strange that only came with spending the night in some place not made for sleeping. She rubbed her eyes and found them crusty and frozen, and as she massaged the bridge of her nose to soothe the war drums in her head, she realized she had nodded off in her car.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

It was something less than a proud moment, and she was loathe to sit with it. But it was still early enough to be dark outside, and she could feel the winter bold and tireless through the glass and steel around her, so Lena only turned her engine over and waited for the heat to soften it all. She had come to hate moments like this. The quiet ones. The ones with no distractions and no purpose. The ones with room for the little gray things to grow roots. It ran through her like a wild shiver. The emotions. The memories. Up her spine and into the strongest piece of her heart without consent.

She did her best to ground herself, to look for the reminders. The white of her chef’s coat peeking out from the sleeve of her jacket. Her knife kit, which was still resting on the passenger seat. Lena breathed then. Purposeful and deep. She breathed and she waited for clarity, but when the warmth of her car finally chased the frost from her windshield, she saw no streetlights. And no people. And no towering buildings. And when she rolled her window down, she heard the strangest nothing.

It was quiet and dark. Brittle, even. She was somewhere else. Somewhere away from the avenues and intersections. Somewhere beyond the sprawl of it. And without another thought, Lena reached for her cigarettes, and stepped outside to face her shame with the blessing of sweet smoke. And as she watched it swirl in the air all brackish and muddled with her breath, the moon broke through the cloud cover just enough to give her a taste of where she was.

She was somewhere in between. Some place where yards were free to be left overgrown, because the city was too far away to see them, and people minded their own business, because they were there to be left alone too. Some place where the homes sat askew on their lots, and the roads faded from asphalt to grass without any curbs to keep them tidy. The bones of it were plain, but it wasn’t until she turned back to her car that she saw its marrow. A mean little house sagging with history. Peeling paint and worm-eaten wood. And a mailbox with a last name painted across the side. Wise.

It meant something to her then, and all of a sudden she felt every patch of bare ground in the yard, and every piece of clutter on the little front porch. She felt the years and the days and the endless nights too. And she felt herself hate them all, even as she stepped through the pitted old gate that guarded the front yard. Even as she made her way along the buckled concrete pathway. Even as she tried the front door to find it unlocked.

It smelled sickly and dank, and with every step she took across the warped wooden floor, she wished the tired groans didn’t ring so familiar. The place had been decorated once, and with a woman’s touch, no less. But it looked as if it had been left to rot for a lifetime, and now it was just filled with disease. Cobwebs and crooked things. Dust and disuse.

It was all very stale until Lena came upon the kitchen, and then it was so bright she almost had to look away. She could see the old range from the doorway, rusty and pitted and rotten. She could see it was just a fossil now, but as a chill snapped at the nape of her neck, it came to life again. And in the next moment, she could hear her skin sizzling. And she could feel someone a thousand times bigger than she was pressing her hand against it. And as she traced her fingers along the ridges that now striped her arm, she could smell the sour funk of it, and choked back the sickness that was climbing her throat.

A rotten rush ran through her, and Lena found herself scurrying to the end of the hall until she found an unremarkable door with an unremarkable scar. The knob had been removed, and the hole where it used to be had been left unpatched. And when Lena peered through the horrid little porthole, she saw what looked like a bedroom, and when she eased the door open, she found just that. A child’s bed. An old, splintered desk. A cheap plastic filing cabinet-turned-dresser. And taped to the wall were five sheets of notebook paper, each with a single letter scribbled in marker. D-A-N-N-Y.

She saw it from the hallway, but she also saw it from under the bed, watching for any shadows that might dim the light under the door. She saw the inside of the little half-closet too, staying still enough to better hear the clinking of bottles from the kitchen and the creaking of the old wood under some giant’s boots. And on the far wall, she saw a window. And outside that window, she saw a grand old tree.

It was stately and strong, and didn’t seem to belong there among so many ruins. And as if the tree itself was trying not to seem so out of place, it was holding something tired and broken. It was a little wooden fort, and if it had been built with any care at all, it might’ve passed for a treehouse. Lena saw that, too. And felt herself shivering inside of it with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head down. And heard herself wishing the wind would come along and carry her away. And knew even the coldest night in her tree was better than the cruel comfort of what was supposed to be her home.

Away. It sounded necessary then. Away. Lena beat a path back down the hallway, fueled by a familiar need to be anywhere else. But as she was but a few wild strides away from tasting it, she stopped. Because suddenly there was music, and the flickering white light of a television leaking from the den. And in that den was a chair. And in that chair was a face.

Skin leather and pursed lips. Jagged stubble and oily hair. And though his eyes were closed, Lena was sure they were profoundly empty. And as if he was built for little else, his hand was still clutching a bottle of something wicked, even as he slept. It was all so bright then. Nuclear white. It was endless and somehow silent, and by the time the bottle fell from his hand with a clank, Lena wasn’t sure if she should be counting her time there in moments or millennia.

She wanted to panic, but she didn’t. She wanted to slink away and find herself somewhere better, but Lena didn’t do that either. Instead, she simply watched as he stirred from his slumber and ran his fingers through the matted mess on his head. He reached for the fallen bottle, but it had rolled too far for him to grab it from the safety of his chair. And so, he just leaned himself back against the cushion, and groaned, and put a cigarette between his do-nothing lips.

It was then that Lena saw the lighter on the side table, and it was then that the old man reached for it. And if it hadn’t been for a strange turn of his head to loosen the kink in his neck, he might never have seen her standing there at all.

“The fuck?!” he spit. She didn’t speak a word as he rose from his chair. “The fuck are you doing in my house?!” Lena had no answers, because she was hardly sure herself. And in the searing sulfur white of the den, she barely even saw him march towards her. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, you little bitch, but I’m gonna—”

She didn’t even realize she was clutching her chef’s knife until it was already in his gut. And as she pulled it free again, she watched his eyes grow wide and bright with the worst kind of wonder. There were no more words then, only grunts and helpless gurgling. Only the end of something she barely knew. Only one last groan from the old floorboards under his weight as he crumbled.

* * *

Lena threw herself down in the snow. She covered her knife in the lovely white stuff and tried to scrub the blood away with her sleeve. It was mad and frenzied, as if she was sure it would eat the very blade away. And even when the thing was bright silver and gleaming again, she didn’t stop. And even when her hand curled around itself in a hopeless cramp, she was sure the stain of it was still there. And somewhere in that endless manic moment, Lena looked up to see the sun rising over the city in the distance, and was heartbroken to find it confused and gray.

* * *

It was a Friday when Lena couldn’t find a piece of herself at all anymore. She had taken two lives, and felt like little more than their echoes now. The things they gave her. There were twice as many shadows and twice as much noise. Twice as many storms and two unbreakable seasons fighting for one sky. One summer and one winter, each of them filled with the worst memories of the other. And each of them bolder with every passing day.

Lena would have given anything for a moment of her own peace then. Even a moment of her own sadness. Of her own pain. Of torment. Anything that was truly hers. And where there was once just worthlessness and hatred and confusion, now there was also callousness and selfishness and more. Some far darker thing. Twisted and wrong. And still worse, there was love for it. A need for it. And it clawed at her. The things we take.

She simply couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen anymore, because she was far too unstable to deal with the chase of perfection there. She asked to work as a server for a spell, but she didn’t even finish her very first shift before she said something so vile to a customer that she was immediately taken off the floor. It was vulgar and unspeakably loud, and it cut deeper than a stranger ought to be able to. And while every other soul in the place was aghast, Lena was unmoved. Because she cared nothing for this person, and would just as soon have seen them on their plate than in their chair.

If it was anyone but Lena, they would’ve been fired on the spot. But Jay took up for her and explained what she’d been through, and they let her to stay on to wash dishes, which was no small bit of charity. It was a lonely place, the dishwashing station, but that was very much the point. It was removed and it was isolated, and the noise of the plates and steam cleaners was enough to drown out almost anything anybody working there cared to say.

So nobody heard her saying wretched little things to herself. And nobody cared when she slammed stack after stack of bus trays hard enough to shake the wine glasses in the dining room. Nobody gawked when she cried big, bitter tears for things they would never be able to see, and nobody showed any concern when she left her hand in the steam long enough to punish herself, and screamed again and again. Lena was left alone to rot. And rot, she did.

They all came to treat her like it too. Like something that had festered beyond its use. Something mushy and gray that was bound for some bin or another. It was all nods and no eye contact. Hushed whispers and rumors. Even the loading dock seemed to have its own opinions, and Lena felt it with every hurried step towards the waiting wind. But that was fine, because Lena cared nothing for them either. Not anymore. The faceless things.

The only one who thought to lend her a word at all was Jay, of course. And of course, it settled sweet and necessary on the wicked weather in her heart.

“Hey, girl.”

“Hey, Jay.”

He knew a night with his family would do her good, but even he was too nervous about her state of mind to invite her home. So instead, he suggested a movie and some take-out at her apartment, and was happy to hear her say yes.

Jay Reyes was a beacon. He was good energy and more, and that night at Lena’s was no different. He sat with her and ate, and when the movie dipped into a lull, he talked with her about anything that might bring her some peace. Server gossip and the management shake-ups at the other restaurants in town. Family drama and his plans for the holidays. He was sure to keep it light and funny, and proved himself the perfect sweet to balance her reckless brand of bitter.

And when the credits finally rolled and the food was finally gone, she asked him about all the things she wished she had. She asked him about his good memories. About the things he was given. And Jay told her every last story he could remember, and every lovely thing that was in his heart, because he was sure she needed to hear it.

That night, Lena felt something she hadn’t felt in ages. Hope. She saw good things in the world, and knew she could have them too. It had become a strange feeling to look forward to tomorrow, but she welcomed it. Drank of it. She let it flow through her like young blood, and knew that soon she wouldn’t feel so lost.

She knew it would change her, the sad little thump. From the moment it happened, she was sure of it. And there in her little corner kitchen, Lena unrolled her knife kit, and took the biggest blade from the bunch. And for the first time in far too long, it felt right and ready in her hand.

Now, before you come for me in the comments, I don’t dislike all people. That’s just ridiculous. It’s mostly the people who are not in my house, and then anyone who’s ever given me banana bread gets a pass. Pretty standard terms. No, I don’t dislike all people, just like I don’t dislike all months. But some of them are just…harder to love than others. April, for instance, can go kick a bunch of rocks on its way out of town. Because any month featuring a day dedicating to tricking and/or gaslighting and/or torturing people for sport with near legislated impunity can kiss my entire neurotic ass.

So, it’s really just April…and also the summer months, I guess. I don’t know, they’re just really not my thing. It’s not that I hate them, per se. It’s just that if I’m going to be constantly depressed about the state of things, which I almost certainly will be forever, it seems. Then I’d just rather not also be all sweaty. It’s not much deeper than that. Okay, okay, I mightstill have some residual trauma from summer of 1990 when super-soakers first hit the market and all the rich kids at the pool brought their brand-new water cannons to mow the rest of us down like crab grass. We lost a lot of good men that day. There just weren’t enough otter pops to save them all.

I used to be into September, but it’s basically just three more weeks of August and then one week of October now. And sure, I like that one random weekend of spring sandwiched in there somewhere, but really, what are we doing here? You’re not summer, you’re not fall, and I used to work commission retail sales, so these Labor Day scars run deep. You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen. Not even a built-in excuse to listen to Earth, Wind, and Fire can wash that stain away.

As for May, I do appreciate the weather, but May is also mental health awareness month, and at this current juncture in my mental health career, that’s about that very last thing I’m looking for in a month. So that’s gonna be a no for me. November and December are just wall-to-wall holiday stress now, and while I do love their “anything goes” attitude towards carbs, it’s really just barely enough to break even emotionally at this point, so it’s whatever. And March, well, March is national celery month. And I just don’t know what to do with that information.

And February can fuck right off. And it can take its weird little quasi-silent R with it. I hate that R. I really do, All 28, and sometimes, 29 days of it. Honestly, make up your mind. I don’t think you have any idea how much it hurts my smooth little brain to have a month that is sometimes odd and then sometimes even. This is the same reason I don’t let anyone else choose the volume level on my TV. Some of you are really out here watching your shows on 37, and I’m sorry, but it’s unacceptable. And sure, Valentine’s Day is great (for some people), but the romantic little piece of me that likes Valentine’s Day is the same one that dies every time I have to pay 31 days of rent for 28 days of renting. So, yeah. October’s pretty rad. Unless it’s an election year.

I guess that leaves January, which as we all know, is the Monday of the year. The thirty-one-day unskippable ad. The August of months. January is the all the worst things about winter and none of the good things about winter, and that will forever be its legacy. If December is the pretty white snow outside the window while you sip hot cocoa in front of the Christmas tree, then January is the hunk of greasy gray slush you kick off your wheel well before you head into work to get circled back on now that the holidays are over.

But Jonathan, I hear you cry. January’s not all bad! After all, it’s a chance to start fresh. To turn the page. A chance to steel your courage and get back into the fight and pull yourself up by your bootstraps. And you know what? You’re absolutely right. It is. Fun fact: the term “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” is actually something of a sardonicism, as it is literally impossible to pick yourself up by your bootstraps, because in order to do that, you would have to be standing in your boots. So, in that way, you are correct about January. Because that’s exactly what January is. It’s thirty-one days of “bless your heart.”

A clean slate? A new leaf? Resolutions? In January? No, no, no. January is not the time for resolutions, because we’re all too busy playing everybody’s favorite game: Am I actually sick this time or am I just broke and hungry and ten pounds heavier than I should be and depressed and crumbling from the sheer weight of all this inescapable environmental stress again? Plot twist! You’re probably all of those things, because that’s just how January rolls, and I’m sick of it. I mean, we all just survived one of the worst years in recorded history, and what’s our reward? More things to do? And hard things at that? Cardio? Cardio? I don’t think so.

I mean, we’ve all just been through two months of short, dark, cold, awful days, and not one but two full-family gatherings, so I think we’ve had enough stress for a while. January shouldn’t be dedicated to activities. It should be dedicated to rest and recuperation, and frankly, we just don’t know how to do that anymore. Not like the Victorians did. They had their self-care game down to a sweet science, and I think we could learn a thing or two from them. Sorry, but I don’t want to go get a gym membership. I want to take a turn about the seaside to stir my vapors. I want to have a lemon water in the parlor to flush my organs and fascinate myself with a piece of cheese to ease my agonies. Now those are January things.

But in January’s defense, it’s probably pretty nerve-wracking being the first month. That’s a lot of pressure. You have to set the tone for the whole entire year, and like, how can you possibly pack that much pointed disillusionment into 31 little days (nervous laughter)? It can’t be easy, right guys? Right? I’m just saying, it’s a lot to ask, so maybe we should give January a break after all these years. Because if you ask me, our calendar is allllll out of sorts, and it could do with a little reorganization. And don’t even get me started on the days of the week, or we’ll be here until second Tuesday.

First of all, the year should start in the spring. I feel like that’s a no-brainer. Like if we’re gonna start fresh, then let’s start fresh. Rebirth, warm weather, flowers. Puppies and rabbits and eggs and all of that happy horseshit. It just makes sense, you know? Seventy degrees and sunny? Now that’s resolution weather. That’s circle back weather. That’s get-your-shit-together weather. And I mean, sure, a lot of us will be sneezing our faces off all season long, but if your house is full of enough pet dander, you’ll hardly even notice, so kind of a wash.

Then hear me out: right after spring comes autumn. That way you get like five or six straight months of uninterrupted sweater or sweater adjacent weather, which is ideal. Listen people, I’ve got a closet full of cardigans and I’m tired of having my vibe interrupted by summer of all things. A nice, classic cable-knit shawl collar situation waits for no season. Also, this way Halloween falls riiiiight in the middle of the calendar instead of being all jammed up in there with Thanksgiving and Christmas. It would be like a little palette cleanser for the year. A spoonful of peanut butter cup sorbet. A halftime show by your favorite band during a Superbowl between your two least favorite teams.

Then comes summer, because it has to go somewhere. And apparently some people enjoy it or whatever. And that makes sense because all the crunchy leaves from autumn can just stay crunchy. Though there’s a huge difference between “we’ve given ourselves for the spirit of the season, plucked from our trees by the perfect autumn breeze, may your dogs and children revel in our gift and may the rest of your year always smell like hope and cinnamon” crunchy leaves and “we have met a cruel and unexpected end, and the summer sun has taken the last of our once precious water and plunged us into unending darkness” crunchy leaves. Then, as soon as we’re all sick and tired of the heat and humidity and everybody’s kids not being in school, here comes winter to cool everything down and lock all those little urchins back up in school where they belong. Forever. Sorry, that was over the line. I’ve been reading Dickens again.

So yes, January has been dealt some difficult cards to play. But it’s also not doing itself any favors either. Like, would it kill you to throw a holiday in there somewhere? And no, New Year’s Day is not a holiday…it’s a threat. So that doesn’t count. And sure, I’m into Martin Luther King Day, but other than that, it’s like January isn’t even trying. Can I get a costume party? Some fireworks? An advent calendar? An egg hunt? My kingdom for an egg hunt. But no, January is the opposite of a holiday. It’s more work and less carbs, and I think that’s a succinct but powerful character sketch.

And in January’s defense, it’s given us some really wonderful people. After all, it’s the month that birthed Dolly Parton, JRR Tolkien, Isaac Asimov, Stephen Hawking, Elvis, Isaac Newton and Alexander Hamilton. But it’s also the month that killed Davie Bowie and Bob Saget, so like, don’t think for a second that we’re all just gonna let that slide. We know what you did, January. And we won’t soon forget it. For shame.

But despite its shortcomings, which are countless and unforgiveable, I do try to give January some grace. Because even though it’s not easy being first, somebody has to do it. For instance, I love mushrooms (take that any way you want to) and at some point, somebody had to figure out which ones were delicious, which ones were hallucinogenic, and which ones will kill you almost immediately. So like, thank you, and RIP probably. And while I’d love to say both of those same things about January, I won’t, because January is still alive and kicking. And punching. And yelling and screaming. And pinning me to the ground and telling me to stop hitting myself. Because that’s just what January does.

So, happy January to each and every one of you. And in the immortal words of Edward R. Murrow, who did not die in January, “Good night…and good luck.” Because this year, we’re gonna need it.