 
### (Dis)Ability: A Short Story Anthology

### Stories by:

Catherine Alexander

Jenny Andersen

Tracy Auerbach

Katrina Byrd

Ann Chiappetta

Sara Codair

Catherine Edmunds

Anita Goveas

Marilyn June Janson

Matthew B. Johnson

Jake Lovell

Christine Lucas

Ashleigh Meyer

Treva Obbard

Jon-Paul Reed

Jennifer Lee Rossman

Terry Sanville

Megan Seitz

Sophie Sparrow

Erica Verrillo

### Compiled and Edited by Emily Dorffer

with help from Jon-Paul Reed

Copyright 2018 by Emily Dorffer

Smashwords Edition

This book is fictitious. All references to ancient, historical events, persons living or dead, locations and places are used in a fictitious manner. Any other names, characters, incidents and places are derived from the author's own imagination. Similarities to persons living or dead, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Each story is owned by the original author and has been included in this anthology with their express permission. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

### Table of Contents

### Foreword

### Neural Plasticity by Anita Goveas

### After First Contact by Terry Sanville

### Thunder Carts by Sara Codair

### Baby and House by Catherine Alexander

### A Perfect Score by Jenny Andersen

### Lessons Learned by Ann Chiappetta

### Getting Unstuck by Marilyn June Janson

### Change by Katrina Byrd

### In the Smog by Catherine Edmunds

### Conscious by Megan Seitz

### A Rare Condition by Sophie Sparrow

### A Pinch of Chaos by Christine Lucas

### My Fight with Sam the Man by Tracy Auerbach

### Oliver in Progress by Ashleigh Meyer

### The Moth-Man by Jon-Paul Reed

### The Karma Bug by Erica Verrillo

### Foresight by Treva Obbard

### Daisy by Jake Lovell

### The Falling Marionette by Jennifer Lee Rossman

### Wounded in Providence by Matthew B. Johnson

### About the Authors

### Permissions Acknowledgements

### About the Editors

Foreword

According to the World Health Organization, approximately 15% of the world's population lives with some form of disability. Despite this, characters with disabilities are quite a rare sight in fiction. When they do appear, their representation often leaves much to be desired. It is distressingly common for characters with disabilities to be relegated to serving as little more than tools for the development of other characters. Whether they are portrayed as burdens other characters must take care of, saintly fountains of inspiration with all the personality of cardboard cutouts, or unhinged horror villains, characters with disabilities tend to get the short end of the stick.

Needless to say, this needs to change.

Like nondisabled people, we are dreamers, we are achievers, and, most importantly, we are people too. And we have our own stories to tell.

This anthology contains 20 short stories written by people with disabilities. Every story features a main character that has one or more disabilities. These stories aim not only to entertain you, but also to teach you more about various disabilities and the disabled community as a whole. In addition, I sincerely hope that this anthology will inspire more writers to include diverse casts of characters in their works. Even if you do not have a disability yourself, do not be afraid to write about characters with disabilities. As long as you do your research and think through the implications of what you write, you'll do fine.

That's enough soapboxing from me. Now, enjoy these stories!

Emily Dorffer

March 2018

Neural Plasticity

By Anita Goveas

It started when Vo Thi Mai was attacked by a giant hornet.

A bus approached Lovelace Gardens. Her watch beeped for 8:22, but there was a car parked close to the stop, obscuring the edge of the vehicle with its all-important identifying number. She stepped back as the bus stopped anyway and hugged her long, white cane to her chest to cause less disturbance. Then something from behind pushed up at her elbow, saying "It's ok, I'll help you," and she was over the gap and on the bus.

A dark streak was talking at her in a husky, penetrating voice like the buzzing of a bee. Or a hornet. They're hard to tell apart. Loudly and slowly, the voice said, "There's a seat just there. I can show you."

Then she was sitting down. Her knees slammed into a hard surface, confirming that she was in the disabled seats at the front. Her left elbow buried itself in soft fluffiness, hopefully someone's coat and not a meringue. A dark blue blob swam at the edge of her vision. Probably a coat.

Hornet-woman was still talking.

"They're so brave, aren't they? I wouldn't leave the house! She must be going to the hospital. This isn't the quickest bus, but it gets there eventually."

The hospital was where she had visited Jason almost every week for four months, reading him Roddy Doyle and Kurt Vonnegut. Then, after the hemorrhage, playing Val McDermaid audiobooks and AC/DC after he woke up. Perhaps that was where it had started.

In a creamy high-pitched whisper, brushing past her wiry hair, meringue-person says

" _Are_ you going to the hospital?"

She smells of newly budded geraniums, and her voice lilts like breeze-trapped trees.

"No, I'm going to the university. I've got to meet my tutor," Mai whispers back, focused in conspiracy. Hornets become agitated by direct action.

"I'm sorry, this is a K4, did you think it was a K3?"

Unfortunately, hornet-woman has very good hearing. "Oh dear, she thinks she's on the wrong bus. But this goes to the hospital anyway. I'm sure they won't mind if she's a bit late. They ought to make allowances."

The hospital is where Jason taught her the dirty poems he recited at the nurses when they came to change his catheter. "The best way to lose your dignity is all at once," he said. The hospital is where she held his hand when they explained he would need intensive rehabilitation if he was ever going to walk again. The hospital is where she was rushed when the spreadsheet she was looking at filled with crimson streaks, and where she woke up with only outlines, no details. Perhaps this was where it started.

Meringue-person is shifting, sloth-like but with intent. The creamy voice steams out behind her, shifting the short hairs on her neck.

"Listen, lady, we're just trying to chat here, sort out if there's a problem. Give us a minute?"

Hornet-woman crackles, her coat or bag is leather. The whir of thwarted well-meaningness is audible to even those who aren't listening for it. The crackles move farther away.

"Thank you," Mai says, unsure if she is grateful. Attention means questions means fractured narratives she can't fill. Her brain has supplied the gap in the meringue-person's blue edges with fluffy turquoise clouds. Where was her neural plasticity? She was a turtle that couldn't flip itself back over, even as the eagle approached.

"Nah, couldn't hear myself think. It was no problem." This is kindness. Of that there is no doubt.

The bus jerks, about to stop. Mai could get off now and ring her mother who'd close her cafe immediately, drive to get her, and feed her refreshing iced coffee and savory pho. But the braille code and the Windows keystrokes and the six-week long course that taught her how to tap a cane for bat-like echolocation were about earning back her independence. That could be where it started, in the trail of insignificant activities that covered up the gaps. Falling back into her old life was easier than thinking about what was missing. Flowing with the expectations was simpler than starting with nothing.

Hornet-woman has not flown away. She has regrouped with new passengers who have not witnessed her rebuke. Her tale of helpfulness is swelling with the suspicion of ingratitude.

"It's so sad. She's pretty. Such a waste. She thinks she's on the wrong bus, but I'll tell her when she's at the hospital." Mai is entangled in her certainty. Hornet-woman will never go away. She has latched on to Mai's yearning, her disquiet, her guilt and is feeding on the sticky mass.

This was where it started. When she was a person, not an object. Looked at, not overlooked. When her eyes worked, when she should have seen the truck before it hit them, before their car and her world flipped over. Jason taught her AC/DC lyrics and acceptance. She hasn't talked to him since the hospital, he might need to take the tiny steps back on his own, and she would weigh him down. But no one can teach you about all the ways you'll have to lose your dignity.

Mai breathes in, deep from her diaphragm, a brief sustaining gulp like a flying fish. She is Vo Thi Mai, trainee accountant, aquarium lover and part-time florist, daughter of Vo Tan Trai and Vuong Thi Han, optician and train driver, who started with nothing but themselves. Not all fish go with the flow. Some of them swim upstream. She pulls herself up to lean on the rail in front of her and turns toward the buzz.

When you lose your dignity, it's better to lose it all at once.

"There once was a barmaid named Gale

On whose breasts was the menu for ale

But since she was kind

For the sake of the blind

On her arse it was printed in Braille."

The buzzing stops. There's just the rumble of the engine, the growl of the traffic, the unabashed chuckling from her seat companion. In her hard-won quiet, she makes it to the bus driver, and asks if this is a K4 as she needs a bus that goes to the university. She says "Yes, love, you can get off at the next stop and change."

As she makes her way to the doors, a blue blob swims at the edge of her vision.

"Can I wait with you? That's the most fun I've ever had in the disabled seats. I usually get asked to move 'cause they see my eyebrow piercing and not my heart condition. I'm Sheryl."

"Thank you. I'm Mai." Dignity seems changeable, fluid, like tide surges and mercury. Jason will love this story.

After First Contact

By Terry Sanville

Dear Paul,

I have so much to tell you. It's hard to know where to begin. Typing this email on my laptop while the Number 6 rattles down Anacapa Street makes for slow going. But we have SOME time now . . . at least I hope we do. I'll start with when my life took its second major twist.

I was in the seventh grade then, and the kids called me Coffee Bean because my skin is dark, and they said I smelled funny. But I ran faster than most and was a scrappy little fighter, so they didn't say it to my face. Then I got sick, and they didn't call me anything. By the time Mom pulled me out of school, it was as if I'd already gone. Maybe I should back up.

I was on the junior high baseball team. Played center field. You should have seen me chasing down high flies, like Say-Hey Willie Mays, snatching the ball with a quick swipe of my glove. I could hustle, and that's when I first noticed it. I'd be running the bases when my right ankle would give out, and I'd slam face down into the dirt. Everybody laughed and called me a spaz. Coach ordered me to the bench to rest up and drink water. One day after practice, I was climbing the stairs to our tiny fourth-floor walkup on Valerio Street when my ankle failed. I grabbed for the railing, but my right hand wouldn't close. I bounced ass over teakettle down the stairs, breaking my arm and getting pretty banged up.

At the hospital, they put my arm in a lime-green cast. It became a big hit with my classmates. Then the tests began. Mom wouldn't leave it alone. She kept pestering the doctors to discover what was wrong; you know how she could get. I was content to stay ignorant. For the next month, I took the bus to Cottage Hospital and spent Thursday afternoons sitting alone in a drafty hallway, trying to do homework while waiting for the lab techs to draw my blood. The first time, this barely-out-of-high-school chick stuck me five times in the crook of my arm with what looked like a hollow nail. Finally, she gave up and called her supervisor. He jammed a syringe into the back of my hand. People stare at my hands now, not just because they're crooked but because my veins stand out like blue rivers, like ropes binding this strange-even-to-me body together.

When the test results came back, Mom took time off from waitressing, and we had a long talk with Dr. Spenoza. I can't remember much of the technical stuff. I do remember Mom crying on the drive home and snatches of his low monotone voice, the one they must practice in med school: ". . . still lead a productive life . . . some cases progress slowly . . . new advances always being made. . . . "

At least I wasn't a little tyke when I got muscular dystrophy — those kids don't make it past age 10. They said I could survive for decades. For a while, I didn't think that was necessarily something good. Mom blamed herself because Dr. Spenoza said MD is passed on through the mother's genes. How the hell could she have known? I was her first and last, was all she had.

After the initial shock and days of crying, she got stronger and charged forth on her last great crusade — making sure I could survive on my own. By the time I was diagnosed, I was lurching around junior high with a steel brace on my right leg. As I lost control of that side of my body, I had to learn to be a lefty. I couldn't write worth a damn, and my leg made getting around school hell. The Vice Principal insisted I leave and get special training at the Hidden Valley Academy. I remember playing against their baseball team in a practice game. They all seemed to have fun, but they were terrible players. They had retards and crips all mixed together. I was scared of becoming one of them, as if my weakness should make me content to sit drooling on some bus bench like the old men down at the Vets' Hall with their tin cups and sad eyes. (Sorry, didn't mean to slam old guys. When I was a kid, they looked creepy. Now they seem, well, lucky.)

Depression hit me hard for a couple of years. Hey, I was way too young to accept a finite existence. I took it out on Mom. Seeing her at night in her soiled waitress uniform with her hair coming undone made my life seem desperate – and remembering you didn't help. More than once I thought about blowing out our stove's pilot light, turning on the burners, and just fading away. I'm not sure what stopped me.

I couldn't climb stairs anymore, so we moved to a studio apartment in that rundown project on Modoc Road. It was full of families and single mothers with kids, some of them crippled like me. Mom said it was cheap, and with her wages and the SSI payments, we got by.

Hidden Valley Academy, now that was a weird-ass place. It seemed like half the students were MD, MS, or Polio sufferers whose bodies were falling apart but whose young minds were just coming alive. The other half never had minds, and were taught how to physically survive. I felt luckier than some. At least I could talk, although the right side of my mouth drooped, and I couldn't control the pitch of my voice.

I attended that school for seven years. They taught me the three Rs, how to use an electric typewriter, how to maneuver my wheelchair, how to set up our apartment so that essentials were within reach, and how to get around Santa Barbara on my own.

I was 24 when Mom died. The flowers you sent were beautiful, but you should have at least called. As usual, I was glued to the TV that whole day, soaking up the latest from Vietnam and watching whatever sports were airing. I hadn't noticed that Mom wasn't home at her regular time. The doorbell rang. Two somber police officers greeted me, their leather gun belts squeaking in the damp night air. There'd been an accident. There'd been some asshole who couldn't tell a green light from a red one. Now there was one less mother on God's good earth.

A week later, the county sent out a social worker who decided I could stay in the apartment until they figured things out. The SSI checks kept rolling in and I lived there for another ten years. Some of the project's other crips reached out to me, and we became close. Sally was gorgeous from the waist up with large breasts and a pretty face, but polio had turned her legs into twisted matchsticks. Leroy was as ugly as me, but he couldn't speak as well and was older. On summer days when Sal wasn't working at the post office, we three amigos hung out at the picnic area, circled our wagons around a table, and played monopoly with Sal helping Leroy move his race car around the board — he'd always choose the car.

Sally and I would sometimes pool our resources and have dinner together, sometimes fool around. You know, crippled people aren't necessarily incapable of sex. And yeah, it's awkward, but it still can be good. Besides, I never knew anything different, and it made us both happy. Then Sally's aunt freaked out and whisked her off to an OB-GYN to see if she was pregnant. The social workers gave me the lecture about always using rubbers and provided sample packs. I tried explaining how Sal already helped me with that — Jesus, talk about embarrassing! They treated us like children.

Finally, Sal's aunt stole her away. I'd still see her sometimes at the post office if I asked at the window. After a few years, she quit and nobody would tell me where she lived. I hate it when people I love just up and disappear. Leaves me wondering what I did wrong, blaming myself. And that whole thing with Sally made me furious. I realized if I wanted to be considered something more than a half-wit, I'd have to get out and do something, and I don't mean begging in front of the art museum. I've got a friend who buys his groceries that way. But he can blow a mean harmonica, and people will pay for music.

When I wasn't watching TV, I'd read _The Times_ and study the sports pages. Baseball season became the highpoint of my life. The Dodgers had been in Los Angeles for more than twenty years, and I followed their every move. They'd always sign the best pitchers, and I'd memorize their players' careers: where they'd been traded from, their batting averages, favorite pitches, ERAs, annual salaries, and their personal idiosyncrasies — like how they got their nicknames, marriage situations, drinking problems, and, later, troubles with drugs and steroids. I have a knack for remembering that stuff and talked about it with Leroy, although by then he was in pretty bad shape. His sister finally moved him to the same nursing home where you eventually landed. I took the bus out to visit a few times. Near the end he didn't know who I was, and speech had become difficult for both of us.

Right after Leroy died, the public housing people told me I'd have to leave. I couldn't really blame them. I'd lived at the project for twenty-two years and seen whole families grow up and move on. But I guess the county had a long waiting list for apartments. So they moved me to a housekeeping unit at the California Hotel in downtown, only a few blocks from Tad's Liquor Store.

After six months of rolling my chair back and forth to Tad's, I knew most of the restaurant managers and never paid for coffee. Even Ed at the Calypso Bar & Grill slipped me bottles of Miller. I hid them under my blanket and snuck sips on hot summer days.

I rode the bus out to Ridgeway Park to watch our town's AA farm team. After a while, the ticket sellers let me in free. I'd sit in back of third base and use my own personal hieroglyphics to record each player's performance. I like keeping track of these kids, and it's exciting to chronicle their progress throughout a season – almost like they're my own short-term children.

After a while, I couldn't read my own writing, so I stopped drinking, saved my money, and bought this laptop complete with wireless Internet connections and a triple battery pack. I think I could launch the space shuttle with this thing.

I began keeping files on each player, and that's how it got started. I was reading a piece in the Gazette about Pablo Sanchez, our new lefty pitcher. The newspaper had screwed up his ERA, said he was from the Dominican Republic, which was bunk, and that he threw a great curve ball. Everybody knew Pablo's main weapon was his slider. I looked up the sports editor's e-mail address and sent him a nasty-gram full of Sanchez's background info from my file. I just about fell out of my chair when Dan Hagerty showed up at my hotel room. When he left, I held a signed contract that said I would cover hometown games and e-mail him a copy by the following morning.

Jesus — me a sportswriter? You can believe I was scared shitless. I hadn't done any real writing since school and was up all night piecing together my first story. Took me seven hours to write ten column inches because only two fingers on my left hand are functional.

I'm much faster now, which lets me focus on the particulars of a game, find drama that might be lost among the physical mechanics of hitting, throwing, and running. I try to paint a vivid picture for my readers. They're only small stories, but I get fan mail, and people stop me on the street to talk about whether this or that kid should be kicked upstairs.

For the first time in my life, I feel like I have a stake in something real, something important. I wish you had felt the same way about us so many years ago. We should have tried...but there are way too many "should haves" in this world, and I don't want to add more, especially now, with you and the cancer. I just want to make our remaining time good.

Ah Christ, I've got to go. Andy just got on the bus, and I know he'll want to talk. This guy has the Encyclopedia Britannica stored in his brain, and every last word wants to come pouring out. I envy him; he can let the words flow between his lips while I have to peck around this keyboard. Well, anyway, this is already way too long an e-mail, especially for only our second. Sorry about the typos. I'm still amazed you saw my byline, and I'm glad you reached out. There are some good people at your nursing home. Between them and me, you still got a kind of family. Take it easy, Dad, and I'll visit you soon.

Thunder Carts

By Sara Codair

Too big and proud to stand on their own, the cumulonimbi topple like a Jenga game interrupted by a cat. Pieces drop to Earth, saturating her parched pores with life-giving rain. Water surges to low places, and storm drains bubble like witches' cauldrons. Shoppers pull up their hoods and rush to their cars. It's a miracle none of them slip and crack their skulls open on the slick, frost-heaved blacktop.

Sheltered by the roof of Market Basket, I grab a cart and pray the storm will pass before I have to trek from the store to the furthest parking spot where my loyal Jeep waits to spirit me away to the safety of my porch.

Lightning forks across the black sky.

An arm brushes my shoulder, causing the lightning to ignite a tesla coil in my stomach. My insides are squirming like electrified maggots as I glare at the arm's owner. Her pink lip-gloss and sky-blue eye shadow are smeared from the rain, accentuating the wrinkles she was trying to hide.

I want to push her, to shield myself from her creased eyes, or run away as fast as I can - anything to stop the electric squirming.

"Sorry," she shakes out a mop of frizzy ringlets and pats my shoulder with her withered hand, acting under the false assumption contact will comfort me.

Her hand draws the maggots to my shoulder, so it feels like the skin and muscle are all wriggling underneath. I force my lips into a smile, but my teeth are clenched. I probably look like a demented clown. I don't know what to say or do, so I just stand there, frozen, until she finally leaves.

Clutching the handle of my cart hard enough to make my hands cramp, I close my eyes, imaging the maggot infested bolts traveling through my hand and sparking across the metal until they are grounded and crushed by the cart's wheels.

I take a deep breath and press on to the gauntlet of shoppers.

Slim women in designer sweatpants clog the dairy aisle. Hosts of screaming children flank them. Old men hide behind pallets of yogurt, struggling to unload their goods.

I glance at my list:

-eggs

-Greek yogurt

-lemonade

-milk

-butter

-water

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

I dive in like a contestant on a ninja challenge game show from Hell, leaping over obstacles and dodging swinging logs as they try to knock me into electrified water. Each flashing ring is a spike waiting to impale me. Each child is a monster waiting drag me off to its dark lair. They can jolt me with squirming voltage, leaving me incapacitated in the middle of the aisle, so I can't touch any of them.

I'm half way through the gauntlet. I skid around a brown-haired, freckled monster who screams as an exploded tube of Go-gurt drips down his face only to wind up nose to nose with a 300-lb woman whose hair thinks it's still the 80's.

"I'm sorry," she squeals as my hands fly to my face, fingers shivering and shaking like electric eels absorbing her glare's lightning.

The curl of her lip, like a snarling dog, tells me that her apology wasn't genuine.

I force my trembling hands back to my cart's handle, curling them around so my nails dig into my palms. My lungs are aching, poisoned by the stench of the woman's mint-masked garlic breath. I push forward, all but running past the deli to the meat department.

It's quiet there, just a shriveled man and me. He doesn't take up much space as he hunches over to look at the steak tips, so I take my time staring at the red slabs of dead cow, picking one that has just enough white swirling through it to be tasty but not so much that I will feel like I gained ten pounds from eating it.

The part of my cart meant to hold a child is stacked with rib-eye, 93% lean ground sirloin, chicken tenders, and thin-sliced breast. I try to think of something else I might need, any excuse to stay in this oasis of protein, but I can't, so I glance at my list and dive back into the aisles. It's a blur of pasta boxes, cat food, and cookies. I weave around people, barely breathing faster than normal. I pick up a bag of popcorn and cross another item off of the list.

Bam!

I stop just in time to avoid getting run down by an aging turkey vulture with a shopping cart. Her beaky nose crinkles. I imagine her snarling something like "kids these days" as she invades my space further. Lightning forks in my chest, making my heart cramp and convulse.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Find a bubble of empty space.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

I'm just starting to catch my breath when I get to the produce department.

It's a war zone.

The moms from the dairy aisle are fighting over the best apples while their kids run wild.

I grab a bunch of green bananas, whirling around a screaming mop of golden curls before sidestepping two moms who are too engaged in gossip to notice their boys having a mock gun battle with papayas.

I squeeze between two more.

It's like playing Operation: reaching between them, grabbing three honey crisps, and removing them without getting buzzed by the women.

I dash to the oranges, grab two, drop them in my cart, and proceed to the peppers.

There's no one in the aisle. I breathe deeply, wondering if it's worth the extra dollar to get orange instead of red.

A shiver slithers through me as a woman leans over my shoulder. Her squishy, dangling breast brushes my shoulder.

The squirming maggots are back, traveling from the first point of contact all the way down to my toes. Muscles contract. I can't breathe. My skin crawls. I scratch and scratch, trying to keep my skin still.

Then she's gone. I expand back into the open space. I move. I listen to my footsteps, the rattle of the cart, and the wheels grinding on tile, pretending I'm the only one in the store.

The onslaught eases. I slowly calm down. By the time I get to the onions, my hands are still shaking, but I am breathing normally. My skin is red, but I'm not scratching or bleeding.

I move on to the last thing on my list: water.

In this store, it's hidden in an alcove - an oasis from the chaos. I savor the burn of lifting two jugs at a time, take a minute to check my email and just breathe.

By the time I'm ready to check out, I'm calm like a lake on a windless day.

Despite the chaos of the store, the lines are short. The cashier is friendly but not too talkative. Soon, I'm outside. The ground is wet, and the clouds are broken. Rays of heavenly sunlight trickle down between the clouds, bending at different wavelengths as they pass through evaporated water. I smile at the rainbow. I survived the grocery store this time. I'm good for another week.

Baby and House

By Catherine Alexander

Imagine a yoga studio with pale yellow walls. Corduroy pillows piled under windows shaded with rice paper. Beige carpet, the texture of felt. Ginger incense, harmonic chimes. Wall sketches of the Raj of Aundh in each of the 12 postures of the Salute to the Sun. On the wall opposite, a charcoal drawing of Gandhi.

I lie on my back in the corpse pose, feet spread apart, arms straight out from my body, my cold palms upward.

"Breathe," says the yoga instructor to four rows of six students spread-eagled on teal mats.

Notice me at the end of the last row, trembling. "Close your eyes and relax your body," she says. "Relax your toes . . . the soles of your feet . . . your ankles. Relax your calf muscles . . . your knees . . . your thighs . . . inhale deeply . . . be aware of your abdomen and thorax. Relax the muscles of your hands, arms, waist, back, and shoulder. Loosen your spine. Breathe."

***

Not very long ago, my husband came home with a yoga book. The cover featured the author–a lady named Gaia–in the cobra pose, a white yogatard pulled taut against her nipples. The first chapter explained how yoga is a form of mental control. Techniques like _Emotion Culturing_ help to transform negative states into positive ones. You can learn to cope with the strains and stresses of life. Acquire poise, grace, a sense of harmony, and peace. All that's required is a little time to add a completely new dimension to your life.

***

So I am in yoga class. While I'm here, my husband vacuums and cleans up the kitchen. He probably thinks he won't have these chores much longer. Because a good course in yoga, says my husband, could lessen my mood swings and help me sleep. I just might take care of the house, go back to work, even get the Silky Terrier I've always wanted. Right now, I just wish the ants would stop crawling into my brain.

The teacher's yogatard shimmers in pink. "Breathe," she says. "Feel the surge of energy each time you inhale and the waves of relaxation as you exhale."

The ants trail downward. As I exhale, they drop out of my mouth and crawl down my neck. I try to raise my right hand to smash them. I can't.

"Calm your mind," says the instructor. "Note how your abdomen rises and falls as you breathe. Count ten cycles, watch how the movement becomes regular and slow. For the next ten, feel your breath going into your abdomen as you inhale. Relax as you exhale. Feel your body sink into the ground."

Ants reach my chest, moving fast. I don't hear chimes or smell incense. I don't watch the Raj worship the sun or study Gandhi's face. I arch my back when the ants scour my belly. Screams start from my root chakra and explode out my throat.

***

I don't recall the ambulance or arriving at the emergency room. I do remember being wheeled into a room with two other women with dazed expressions.

At first, no one says much. After a couple days, we start to complain about the industrial strength sheets and how they make us itch. Then we ask each other how we wound up in the hospital.

Baby, well over thirty, sucks on a blanket, even has a pacifier. Repressed childhood memories have surfaced; she's regressed to age three and seems to be stuck there. "I want my turtle," she says. Turns out her turtle died the day after her mother walked out.

House, the only black patient in the unit, is beautiful, never mind that her hair is out to there or that she takes up all her bed and then some. Her skin's the color of cinnamon, and her teeth are white as piano keys. Tiny dark freckles on her face scrunch up when she laughs. And believe me, when she laughs, pretty soon you're laughing just as hard. Other times she's all locked inside herself and won't get out of bed. Bandages cover her left eye where she's gouged her face. Doctors aren't sure she'll regain vision in that eye.

Baby, House, and I move from group therapy to behavioral therapy to occupational therapy. We make little calendars and learn to knit. Baby and I play ping pong. I have to show her how to serve, but she smashes the hell out of my return ball. Not bad for a three-year old. House and I find a couple of decks for Canasta. For some reason, she draws all the red threes. When I catch her dealing herself extra cards, she laughs, and I come down with the giggles. But then, looking right at me, she tries to sneak the top card from the discard pile. "Oops," she says. Starts me giggling all over again.

We can no longer tolerate the sheets on our beds. We find the key to the laundry room and search for something better. Way in back on the top shelf, House spies some soft blue ones. House gets down on all fours. I climb on her; Baby climbs on me and grabs them all. No problem, we have our sheets and hightail it outta there.

But time's up. We're on day nine of ten that our insurance pays for, so says the lady from the financial office.

Baby keeps sucking on her blanket and crying about her turtle. House can't fit into her hospital gown, so she dispenses with it. She likes to sing at all hours. At 4:00 am, nurses find her in the TV room, naked and singing her heart out. A diet is not in her plans.

I'm having a bad reaction to the meds. Until I'm stabilized, my doctor refers me to a place for women who're discharged from the hospital but not ready to go home. Baby and House get the same referral from their doctors. My husband thinks more yoga is all I need. The doctor insists on a residential half-way house.

So Baby, House, and I end up at Claire Hall, a residence for women, near a couple of missions, shops, some blues joints, and a famous bookstore. We each have our own room. We can go out during the day, even see a movie. I check out the bookstore and take Baby to visit a gospel mission. However, there's a curfew and some rules. After breakfast is group therapy. Missing even one therapy session is not an option. After all, we must learn how to take life on life's terms. Acquire coping strategies. Heal ourselves. Not get too hungry, angry, or tired. How are we going to manage the holidays coming up? What are our plans for the future? On the other hand, we must take it one day at a time.

House says to Baby and me, "Screw it all! How 'bout checking out one of the blues joints around here?"

"Don't even think about it," says Baby.

"Why not?" asks House. "You got something against blues?"

"No," Baby says. "Remember our ten o'clock curfew."

"We can sneak through the back," says House.

Baby asks, "How do you know that?"

"Let's say I have some privileged information," boasts House.

"From who?" Baby inquires.

"Well, now, if I told you it wouldn't be privileged, would it?" House answers, winking her good eye.

Baby just shrugs.

***

So the three of us head out one night to this dive. On a little stage is a guy playing blues on a beat-up piano. Baby, House, and I stand by the door. After we adjust to the smoky candlelight, House, with a black patch over her eye and a dress cut way too low, leads us to a table. Baby trails behind, sucking on her blanket. As soon as we're seated, House orders three beers. Baby and I want cokes. So we get three beers and two cokes. Before we slurp half our cokes, House has downed the three beers. I'm beginning to get a little nervous.

The blues player finishes a song, and the small crowd applauds. House bangs her fist on the table. Stands up. "Who's that nigger up there?" she yells. "Can't sing worth shit."

The audience gasps. I'm shaking. Baby sticks her pacifier in her mouth.

The blues guy gets up and looks straight at House for a long time. Not a sound in the joint. All of a sudden he smiles. "Hey honey, that you?" he says. "Well, I'll be goddamned. Come on up here!"

House lumbers onto the stage.

"Ah darlin', so good to see you," he says. He hugs her, pulls away, holding her shoulders. "Hey, what'd you do to your eye?"

"It ain't nothing, Sammy D.," she says.

"Hey everybody," says Sammy to the audience. "This here's House McCall. Me and her used to work together ten years ago. Yep, I played the blues while she sang. And out of nowhere she reappears. House, whatcha been doing all these years?"

"Goin' fuckin' insane," says House.

Sammy laughs. "That's no excuse for not singin'."

"Just got too tired, honey, that's all."

"Well, I ain't gonna let you give me that excuse this time. You gonna sing for us tonight!"

"I can't, Sammy," says House. "Not tonight. Some other time."

"There may not be another time, sweetheart."

"Sure there will," House replies.

"House, darlin', do it for old times. Do it for love. Do it for Sammy D."

Sammy tries to put his arm around her but he can't quite reach, so he rubs her back instead.

"Honey," says Sammy. "How about singing, _I Want A Little Sugar in My Bowl_?"

"Nah. Ain't gonna happen. I hardly remember the words."

"Ah, c'mon," says Sammy. "Do it for me. Who knows when we'll be together again?"

With that, he starts humming and playing some chords.

The audience starts humming.

Then Sammy sings:

I want a little sugar in my bowl

I want a little sweetness down in my soul

I could stand some loving oh so bad

I feel so funny, I feel so sad

In almost a whisper, House repeats:

I could stand some loving oh so bad

I feel so funny, I feel so bad

House moves a little closer to the floodlight. She wrinkles up her nose, so her freckles bunch together, squints her good eye and looks straight at the audience:

I want a little steam on my clothes

Maybe I can fix things so they'll go

I want some sugar in my bowl

She lifts up one side of her dress, kicks out her leg, expands her ample chest and purrs like Nina Simone:

Watsa matter Daddy, c'mon save my soul

I need some sugar in my bowl

I ain't foolin'

I want some sugar in my bowl

She stomps, quivers and shakes. Her hair gets bigger and wetter. Her teeth sparkle in the floodlight. She beckons the audience to sing with her:

You been acting different, I've been told

Soothe me

I want some sugar in my bowl

Now House is dancing and I'm worried. She's gonna come outta that dress. She's all over that stage; but the only things wiggling are her hips. Somehow, she's straight-jacketed her boobs. Thank goodness.

Then, just like that, she's done.

Sammy fingers the last piano chord, jumps up, and kisses House twice on both cheeks. They hold hands and take bow after bow. The audience's on its feet. Baby and I clap and scream.

We slip in the back door of Claire Hall late, about 2:00 a.m. No problem at all, and we sleep through breakfast. Group therapy, too.

At lunch, House looks different. Her lips are painted purplish red and her hair's slicked back. Her eye is brilliant. Might be the blue eye shadow.

I'm still in shock over her radiant voice. "Why, House I had no idea you could sing like Nina Simone. How come you haven't sung in ten years?"

House just laughs while I cut up Baby's pork chop.

In the afternoon, House takes a nap. Baby drags me to a toyshop where she insists on conversing with a stuffed parrot. She won't cross the street unless I hold her hand. At the bookstore, we find a huge music section. Shelves full of blues books. We can't find one that mentions Sammy D. or House McCall. We notice some pictures that aren't identified. Could easily be Sammy and House.

When Baby and I get back about 3:00, my husband is there to greet us. The counselor stands with him. We've violated two rules– missed group therapy and ignored curfew. No second chance; we're out. Baby's told to move uptown with another girl. She might, however, be allowed a little turtle.

I run up to our rooms. No sign of House. I dash down to inquire.

"She walked out of here singing and all dolled up," says the counselor.

***

I'm back at the yoga studio with the pale yellow walls and rice-paper shades. Someone is chanting.

"Breathe," says the yoga instructor. "Relax your calf muscles . . . your knees . . . inhale deeply . . . be aware of your abdomen and thorax. Breathe."

Yoga is all about letting go of the past and being fully present in the moment. But I miss Baby and House. Wish they were here. Baby'd be in the child's pose, with her pacifier tight in her fist. House'd be doing some serious thoracic breathing while in the upward dog. I'd be giggling.

A Perfect Score

By Jenny Andersen

They think I don't understand.

They lead me to this room, this institutionally perky room, and plop me at the table, the same table, the same seat, every meal, every day. And then the tray. Plunk, on the table in front of me, its surface covered with plates and bowls, little dishes and packets, everything covered so there's no way to tell what they hold.

"Ready for breakfast, Lorrie?" the attendant chirps. "Ready for lunch?" "Ready for dinner?" "Hungry, Lorrie?" Every day, every meal. Only the identity of the attendant changes.

I stare at the tray. Yes, I'm hungry. But not for a little box of cereal, a single-serving box of milk, and rubbery scrambled eggs. I want steak. I want homemade apple pie. I want my mother's macaroni and cheese.

I want my mother.

I want a comfortable chair. I want real people to talk to. I want to be able to get up and go to another room instead of congealing in this uncomfortable chair waiting for an institutionally perky attendant to lead me around.

Dutifully I take the spoon and plunge it into the nearest pile of food. "Yes," I reply. "Hun...gry." And I smile. Dutifully.

The attendant leaves. I sigh, grateful for the moment of peace. But she returns, leading a tall, cadaverous woman with vacant eyes. "Here you are, Miss Hanson. You sit with Mrs. Ledunne. Ready for breakfast?" Chirp, chirp, chirp.

I sigh again, this time without gratitude. Miss Hanson talks. Interminably. At first I couldn't understand her, but gradually I came to realize that she talks about going home. Every day she talks about going home later that afternoon. I eat my breakfast and let her words wash over me.

Home. Somewhere I have a home. And a husband. He comes every day to sit, to walk, to talk. Amused, I watch the gazes of the attendants and nurses follow him as we pace the endless corridors. Yes, he's handsome. Yes, he loves me. Yes, he'll wait for me.

Please.

Miss Chirpy Enthusiasm decides I've finished eating and leads me back to my room. I sink into the chair beside the bed and fumble with the TV remote.

I don't turn it on. I look at the bed, its beige blanket pulled smooth, with longing. I could sleep. Maybe if I could sleep enough, this would be a dream.

But no. Physical therapy includes staying up all day. "Have to get your strength back, dear." So I sit in my chair. I look at my flowers. I wait for Mike. I try to think of ways to make them understand. To make my body do the things my mind tells it to.

Today, Sharra, the therapist, comes with a stranger. "This is Jeremy, Lorrie. He's our Recreational Therapist."

I hide a grimace under my social smile, wondering what these people consider to be recreation.

"Hello, Lorrie," he says. "We have a treat today. We're going to go bowling."

My head snaps up. Bowling? I can do that. I stand, pretending it's easy. Pretending I did it quickly, the way I used to. Jeremy grabs my arm to steady me. Sharra wraps a safety belt around my waist and the three of us trudge along the pale green hall, the mottled grey carpet soft underfoot, like any suburban couple walking their pet on a leash.

We turn left into the long corridor that runs past the therapy rooms. At the far end, I see a plastic sheet with ten plastic bowling pins sitting on it, and my enthusiasm drains away. Just another therapy session. Not a trip outside.

Five people wait at the end of the hall for us. I recognize two women from the dining room with two more therapists hovering over them. An elderly woman in a volunteer's uniform holds a plastic bowling ball.

How exciting. I can't wait. I shuffle to a chair and try to sit, but Sharra's grip on the belt stops me.

The volunteer hands the ball to one of the others. Jeremy positions her about ten feet from the pins and shows her how to hold the ball. She flings it at the pins, missing completely. The next player knocks down four pins and the volunteer sets them back up. They wobble.

Eventually, it's my turn. I grip the ball. It's battered black plastic, hollow and light, punctured by half a dozen different sets of finger holes. Nothing like my own, custom-drilled ball with its shiny black surface and dazzling turquoise marbling. I'm wearing runners, clumpy and sturdy and so unlike my own perfectly fitted black leather shoes, but I take the ball in both hands.

"Like this, Lorrie. Like this!" The enthusiasm of the therapists is annoying. Unconvincing.

I take a few steps, swing my arm back, and...

"Let go, Lorrie. Let go of the ball."

I told my hands what to do. They know, but I told them anyway. I see the command dissolving into tiny firework sparks as the neurons hiss and crash and die on the long path from brain to hand.

Jeremy helps pry my fingers from the ball. It dribbles a few feet toward the pins. One of the other therapists kicks it along, and two pins topple.

The game goes on forever.

When it's my turn again, I cradle the ball in my hands, sighting down the alley toward the pins, visualizing a polished wood lane instead of dusty, institutional carpet. My body knows what to do, and I move lightly into an effortless approach. As my arm goes back, I sink toward the ground, one knee bent, the other skimming the glossy wood. The ball meets the smoothness of the alley as gently as a lover's kiss and whirls toward the pins in a spinning wonder of black and turquoise.

The crash of the pins goes on and on, reverberating over the fallen carcasses of all ten pins and my teammates cluster around me, in a frenzy of cheering congratulations. "Another strike!" "You did it!" "Oh my God! A three hundred!" "Good job, Lorrie." "Good...job...Lor..." The shiny wood, the cheering, the voices fade, until there are only Sharra and Jeremy and the lumpy plastic sheet with its wobbly tenpins.

"Let go, Lorrie. Let go of the ball. You did great. We're all done for today." Sharra gently takes the ball from me and leads me back to my room.

I sink into the chair and search my mind, search those unfriendly neural highways, for ways to get past the impenetrable wall of my body, to make them understand.

Lessons Learned

By Ann Chiappetta

Sloan held the small clay sculpture and traced its surface with her first two fingers. The flat, black paint and misshapen facial features looked and felt as if a toddler had made it.

She felt her son watching her and asked, "What is it?"

Josh shrugged as if to say it was no big deal, but didn't reply. Sloan tried again, wishing that engaging Josh wasn't a regular workout.

"It's a head, right?"

"Yeah, it's a head. The teacher called it a bust."

Sloan nodded, hoping for Josh to say more, but he didn't. "Did you have a model?"

She knew a little about the art program in the middle school, having toured the art room on back-to-school night. Art had been a way for Sloan to excel in school, and she encouraged Josh to participate.

"Yeah," he said, not even glancing at the piece. It was a really sorry looking thing, she decided. The thought was just making way for another when Josh's reply brought her brain up short.

"It's supposed to be me."

Sloan blinked. Even with her poor sight, she couldn't deny what she was holding; her throat tightened as she realized the impact this made not just in her mind but also in her heart. She examined it even closer, retracing the lumpy, hairless dome, the mismatched eye sockets, and the barely detectible nose and lips. She felt no ears or chin. It was, she had to admit, ugly. She said, "Sweetie, you don't look like this."

Josh turned away and logged onto his computer.

"Josh, do you think you look like that?"

"No," he said, his attention on the monitor.

"Then why did you make it look like that?"

"I don't know. I just did it cause I didn't want to get a zero" he said, then started playing a game.

Sloan sighed and left the room, leaving the sculpture on Josh's desk, trying her best not to overthink the black and ugly thing her son had created. She started dinner, her mind going to other things.

***

A week later, Sloan found the little black head in Josh's garbage. She plucked it out from under the used facial tissues and held it, then put it on the bookcase in the living room. She made a mental note to keep an eye on it and see if it found itself in another trash can in the future. She was worried about Josh and had already tried and failed to bring him out of his shell. He had been withdrawn most of the time since he had entered middle school. He wasn't making new friends either. Her mind was the worst, questioning whether or not he was being molested or bullied or getting high. She just couldn't accept that he was choosing not to make new friends and only hung out with some of his martial arts buddies. The most troubling thought was that somehow Josh was embarrassed to tell anyone she was going blind. The idea that her disability was responsible for her son's social reluctance made her gut wrench with guilt. She would never ask him if this was happening, and even if she did ask, he would never tell her the truth.

Sloan was still pissed that her husband had left after finding out she was losing her vision. It was years ago but felt as if it had only just happened.

***

She came out of Josh's room that evening and began washing out his bottle before going to bed. Emilio entered the narrow kitchen, handing her an envelope. She dried her hands and took it.

"What's this?"

"Some money."

Sloan opened it and realized it was a few hundred dollars, a large amount of money now that she had lost her job, and they were living on only one income.

She looked up at him, confusion on her wholesome face. "Emilio, I don't understand..."

"I'm leaving," he said. "It's all I can give you until we get a divorce."

"What do you mean?" she asked, feeling her entire body going numb.

"I can't be with a woman who is handicapped. A kid is enough, but a blind wife?"

Sloan felt the blood drain from her face, and she dropped the envelope to steady herself on the lip of the sink.

"Hey, it's not you. It's me. I need someone who can keep up with me, you know, driving, working, paying bills, things like that." He didn't even attempt to pick up the dropped envelope and went in the fridge for a beer instead.

Sloan felt like sinking to the floor, but she made herself stay upright. Every word he said felt like a cut in her skin.

He went on, "Hey, you're still pretty and young, Sloan. You'll find someone who likes being with a blind chick."

He reached out to tap her on the chin, usually an endearing gesture. When his finger got close, she slapped it away.

"Get out," she said. She felt tears brimming in her eyes, "Get out and don't ever come back."

Emilio laughed, then stooped to pick up the envelope and placed it on the counter before turning away.

"Have a good life, Sloan. I'll send you some money for the kid," he said, picking up his duffle bag and leaving.

***

Thirteen years later, Emilio communicated through his "attorney", and while he made sure the child support checks came on time and never bounced, he did not want or ask for his son. The abandonment hurt, and Sloan avoided talking about it. It was all her fault; if she could see, Emilio wouldn't have left, and Josh wouldn't be struggling. She finished cleaning and sat on the couch. Now Josh was floundering, and she didn't know how to handle it. All she ever wanted was for Josh to be happy and to not have to face the reality that his father never wanted a child and, worst of all, a wife with a disability. She didn't want to face it either, she realized. The little black statue made it clear to Sloan that she had to find a way to talk to her son.

***

Josh stepped onto the bus and took the first available seat, doing his best to block out the noise. He looked out the window and mentally tried to close out the chattering, rap music, and laughter. It seemed like today was a good day: he wasn't being harassed, and he was glad to be left alone. His mom was having a cow about the clay sculpture he'd brought home last week, and he had to find a way to explain that it was just a stupid project and that he had just poked a few holes in it to satisfy the teacher. Art wasn't his thing. What he really wanted to do was apply for the ROTC program and one day become an army officer. He was afraid to tell his mom because right now she needed to not worry about him. If he told her he wanted to go into the military like his uncles and grandfather, Mom might not sign the application for him, and he wasn't sure how to approach the whole thing.

Kids his age were not thinking about the future, not like he did anyway. Josh wasn't a nerd or a jock; he didn't really fit into any group and instead chose to hang out with his Judo classmates as often as he could. Most of them were in private school, and they hung out on weekends or online. He didn't like public school and did his best to avoid the bad influences.

The bus turned onto the street leading to the huge middle school. It resembled a castle, complete with four pointed turrets and a grand staircase to the main doors. Tonight he would talk to his mom and give her the recruiter's number. He knew he wouldn't be eating lunch because the butterflies in his gut took up all the room inside.

***

Sloan ordered Chinese, a treat since they were on a fixed income. Josh loved it, and his smile upon seeing the containers made her day.

After clearing the dishes and stowing the leftovers in the fridge, Sloan noticed Josh watching her.

"Josh, what is it?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, honey." She put her hands in her lap to hide her nervous fidgeting.

"Mom, now that I'm in eighth grade, I've been thinking about what I want to do after high school."

"You mean, like college?"

"Kind of. Not really," he said. "Mom, I want to join the military."

Sloan stopped fidgeting, shocked. This wasn't how the conversation should go, she thought. He was supposed to say something different. The military? Sloan must have looked confused because she saw the barest flick of an eye roll from her usually respectful and stoic son.

"The military?" she said.

"Yes, the Army. Reserve Army Training Corps, actually. It starts in 9th grade."

Sloan didn't know how to respond. Part of her was relieved, and the other part wasn't happy at all.

"That means you'll be going away a lot."

"Not until after high school," he said. "Besides, Juan and Mark are joining ROTC, too."

"Sounds like you've done your homework on this one," she said. "I've tried my best to raise you to make good decisions and be practical."

They sat at the dining table, quiet. Sloan couldn't help finding the irony in what was clearly her own inaccurate thinking. Josh wasn't even thinking of her as an embarrassment or of himself as the only son of an abandoned single mother who was going blind.

"It could be dangerous," she added. "I'll worry a little."

"Mom, it's what I want, and there are kids who got all screwed up just crossing the street."

Sloan shook her head in defeat. There was no arguing with the invincibility of youth.

***

Sloan entered the parade grounds, her right hand in the elbow of the female army officer in full dress uniform. The woman was her guide for the ceremony. Sloan's guide dog was off duty for now, heeling at her side.

"Ma'am, you must be very proud of your son."

"Yes, he's worked very hard. I can't believe he's the Valedictorian."

"I hear his grandfather was a West Point graduate and graduated in the top ten, too."

Sloan smiled, sending up a high five to her dad. Until Josh entered the army, she'd never thought much about her dad's career. Now she gained a better sense of pride and joy realizing just how much Josh had accomplished, and it was his calling, like it had been for past generations.

***

After the ceremony, Josh found her and swept her up in a big bear hug. She tried not to cry, but a few tears rolled down her still wholesome cheeks. She found his hand and put something in it. He looked down, surprised.

"Mom," he said, looking at the little black head he'd made all those years ago, "You really need to explain this one." he said.

"I want you to know that until the day you told me you wanted to join the army I was caught up in myself and my own problems. You don't know this, but I kept that ugly thing to remind me that self-doubt is bad and self-pity is the worst."

Josh was looking at her with a very serious expression but said nothing, so she went on, "I want you to take it and make it a target and blow it up."

"Mom, I get what you're saying." He laughed. "It would be a pleasure." He put the head in his pocket and placed her hand on his right arm, "Now, ma'am, it would be my pleasure to escort you to the refreshments because I can't wait to show you off."

***

Two days later, Sloan got a text from Josh. It read:

Done. 'One shot'. Proud to be your son.

Getting Unstuck

By Marilyn June Janson

Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, I look like any girl about to leave on vacation. Spittle isn't seeping out from my mouth, my eyes aren't glazed over, my speech does not slur from too many meds. I live among you undetected.

Walking through the supermarket parking lot, my eyes dart, looking for dogs. Car keys click. Thinking the sound is a jangling leash sends me into a sweaty, heart-pounding panic. Where can I hide? Who will protect me?

***

When I was nine, my friend's dog bit me. Running home, I found my daddy and told him what happened.

"The neighbor's dog bit you?" He laughed. "Stop being a baby and grow up."

"I'm going to die, Daddy. Please take me to the doctor. Call the police."

"You don't need a doctor. Mom will put something on it. I have better things to do than to take you anywhere."

As a child, I was anxious and afraid of death. The smallest things set me off. When I was 16, I had a breakdown and spent the summer in my bedroom. My parents called our family physician. Visiting our home, the doctor laughed at my fears, said they were 'growing pains.' He wrote a prescription for Valium. I returned to school in the fall. I was far from cured.

After my second breakdown at 23, I was diagnosed with OCD, generalized anxiety disorder, and depression. During this time, my boyfriend, Ed, took care of me. Since I was afraid to leave the house alone and unable to drive, Ed drove me to therapy for three years. Depressed, I could not eat, brush my teeth, or move. I fought hard against checking into a mental institution. I worried about the stigma, and I feared I might never be able to leave. One day, Ed lost his patience with me and squeezed his hands around my neck. I broke from his grip but could not leave the house.

After couples therapy, Ed and I got married. For the next ten years, various psychiatrists experimented with dozens of anti-anxiety and depression medications until my condition stabilized. Still, I am not cured.

***

The night before going on vacation, I stare at the knobs on my stovetop. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." Counting to 60 is my self-imposed limit. _The stove is off._ "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." _It's not on. All of the switches are in the off position._ "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." _Enough. Stop it. Eddie is waiting. We have to go. If I watch the stove for one minute and it doesn't explode, it's not on. It's going to be fine._ I stare at the knobs _. All I have to do is touch the stovetop to feel if it is hot. But what if I touch it and it is hot? I would not be able to leave. I could turn the stove on just by touching it._

I hear Dad whispering in my ear, "While you're on the flight, your house is going to explode. Dusty will be barbecued. The cops will be waiting at the gate to arrest you. Behind bars for the rest of your useless life."

Dad, stop it! Leave me alone.

"Remember when the lamb chops caught on fire?"

How could I forget?

***

Dad sits at the kitchen table reading the newspaper while I play on the floor with my toy oven. Mom cooks the lamb chops. The sizzling meat makes me hungry.

I hear a swooshing sound, my face flushed with heat. Angry red and blue flames reach out like octopus tentacles. Puffs of smoke fill the kitchen.

"Oh no!" Quickly, Mom grabs a bucket, fills it with water, and tosses the water into the broiler.

She swiftly scoops me up and sets me in the family room. I hear Dad yell to Mom, "You are such an _idiot_! You can't put out a grease fire with water."

"If you know so much, then you do something!" she screams.

The oven door slams. Dad says, "You're supposed to suffocate the fire by shutting the oven door."

Silence.

"Everything's okay, Linny", Dad says to me. "Your mom could have burned down the damn house." Crossing to the bar, he pours himself a double scotch.

***

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." _The oven is off._ _I haven't turned on the stove since we moved in 10 years ago._

"You're to blame when the house burns down, Linny," Dad says.

_Go away!_ _You've been dead for 23 years._

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10..." I move my focus away from the stove. The sound of Eddie's feet shuffling in the hallway makes me feel jittery.

I struggle to peel my fingers away from my SATURDAY VACATION CHECKLIST I hold tightly in my fist. My pen lingers over the space next to STOVE OFF. I cannot bring myself to put a checkmark next to this item.

Last night, I marked off items on my FRIDAY NIGHT VACATION CHECKLIST: MICROWAVE UNPLUGGED and OFF, DVD UNPLUGGED and OFF, ED'S LAMP UNPLUGGED and OFF, ED'S CLOCK RADIO UNPLUGGED and OFF, TV UNPLUGGED and OFF, PATIO DOOR LOCKED, FRONT DOOR LOCKED, COMPUTER OFF and UNPLUGGED, PRINTER UNPLUGGED, ELECTRIC PENCIL SHARPENER UNPLUGGED, and COPY MACHINE UNPLUGGED.

Again, I try to check off the blank space next to STOVE OFF. "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10..."

I take a shallow breath, and feel like I'm suffocating. Exhausted and thirsty, I pick up a bottle from the counter and gulp some water.

The bottle of water was open. I could have tipped it over, and the water could have spilled into the electrical outlet. That could have caused a fire, couldn't it?

I come back to the stove after checking off everything else on the list. Moving on to the kitchen faucet handle, I remember that several times my husband had neglected to turn it off completely.

Before leaving the house, I always take the strainers out of the drains in both sinks and push down the faucet handles. "1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10..."

I feel Eddie's eyes boring into me from behind.

"It's time to go," he snarls.

It is only 6:00 AM, but the Arizona heat is baking the roof of our apartment.

I can see through his soaked tee shirt.

Eddie pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He mops the perspiration from his forehead.

My husband is also on the list. Last night, he was required to take a shower. I check to be sure the faucet is not dripping.

"It's 90 friggin' degrees in here," Eddie says, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch, a warning that he is going to lose it.

Our cat, Dakota, creeps into the kitchen. Carefully, I move out of the kitchen to avoid bumping up against the dishwasher. In the family room, Dakota lets out a meow. "Come here, boy," I say.

The cat comes to me. I place my hand on the smooth skin under his front legs. Feeling his heartbeat comforts me.

"Why bother going away if leaving the house is so tough for you?" Eddie says.

I look up at my husband. "I can't let my OCD win. I want to go places and see things. And I'll never forget when you went to Europe without me."

"Could you blame me? I had to get away."

Dakota squirms in my arms.

"I'm better now. With the meds, I can drive and leave the house."

Eddie bends down and opens the cooler that is sitting on the floor. Last night, he was required to take the sodas and ice packs out of the refrigerator and put them in the cooler. After we go to sleep, the refrigerator is off limits. I worry that if the refrigerator is not closed, Dakota will jump inside and get stuck if the door slams shut behind him.

My husband pops the top of a soda can. Taking a drink, his lips curl into a frown.

"Warm?" I say.

"Yeah."

Dakota squirms and meows.

"I wish I could take you with me, boy," I say, giving the cat a hug.

"We've got to go, _now_."

"Okay, okay. I'm almost finished." I reluctantly let go of the cat. "Goodbye, boy."

Krista, our pet sitter, takes care of Dakota when we are away. I will call her every day. She will tell me if the house is still standing.

Eddie picks up the cooler, takes the soda, and goes into the mudroom. "I'll be in the garage."

"But you have to watch me shut the door to the mudroom," I call after him.

On any other day, Eddie would have dumped the warm soda into the sink and tossed the can into the recycle bin located outside the front door. But this morning he is not allowed to open that door.

Last night, he took out the trash, newspapers, and soda containers so that I could check off GARBAGE OUT, CANS OUT, NEWSPAPERS OUT, and FRONT DOOR LOCKED on the list.

Ed forgets I have OCD. I am careful not to overwhelm him every day with my fears and phobias. Although my husband made fun of these lists, he writes one, too.

I go through the house, checking off the last items. Dakota is also on the list. Last night, I filled the cat's bowls with water and put food in his dish.

I stuff the vacation checklist into my handbag crammed with meds, tissues, my cell phone, pens, mints, gum, money, an extra pair of glasses, my iPod, a small notebook, and a bottle of water.

Entering the mudroom, I open the door leading to the garage and yell, "Eddie, you can come back in now."

He looks at me wearily, "Come in here," I command.

Following me through the mudroom to the family room, I point to the cat. "Dakota is in here, right?" I want to make sure he doesn't follow me to the garage and escape.

"Goodbye, boy." Eddie says as we head out to the car.

"Watch me lock the door." I close the door and turn the lock.

"It's locked," he says as if repeating a mantra.

Eddie opens the door leading to the garage. He pushes the remote. The garage door makes a scraping sound moving along its hinges.

"Come back here. You have to watch me lock the door that connects to the garage."

He turns and sighs.

I insert the key into the top lock and turn it. I do the same in the bottom one. "The door is locked, isn't it?" I say.

He reaches toward the doorknob.

"No! Don't do that." _If he touches the knob the lock might open._

Dammit! Did he or didn't he open that lock? Can I trust him to tell me the truth? Now, I'll worry about this on the ride to the airport and on the plane. How can I let this go?

Therapists have told me that I use these repetitive behaviors as way to avoid facing my fears.

It's true. I'm always stressed when flying. Not even the meds help. I suffer from panic attacks when there is turbulence. The plane is going to crash. I'm sure of it. I listen to music, play scrabble, and work on writing projects to calm my nerves. I refuse to allow these fears to stop me from flying.

We get into the car and shut the doors, but we're not finished yet. Eddie backs the vehicle out and presses the garage door remote. I watch as the door closes. Eddie steers the car toward the gate.

Turning my head, I squint to catch a glimpse of the garage door. It appears closed, but maybe I'm wrong. I bend over and plant a kiss on Ed's cheek. "I'll take another spin around," he says wearily.

When we reach our house, he slows down and stops.

"Is it...?"

"It's closed." Driving back to the gate, we are on our way to the airport.

I repeat this mantra a million times: _Let it go._ _Nothing bad is going to happen._

***

After ten years of cognitive therapy, I function in this world. Learning to recognize the negative thought processes that occur during panic attacks and taking anti-anxiety meds, I can curb my fears of dogs and new situations. It's tough to turn off the memories: Dad's anger, his unwillingness to protect me, and Mom's inability to stand up to him leave me feeling unworthy. I second-guess myself. I battle these feelings every day.

I have learned not to take life too seriously, to laugh and enjoy life more.

Although uncomfortable and stressful moments seem like they will last forever, soon they will pass.

Being me is just fine.

Change

By Katrina Byrd

The taxi driver could say what he wanted, but Philip knew the difference between quarters and nickels.

"You gave me $1.05," Philip said.

"$1.25 is your change," the driver said. "And a buck twenty five is what I gave you."

"Nah, man," Philip said. He kept his hand extended toward the driver. "You need to give me a quarter or cough up two dimes."

"Let it go, Phil," Janet said from the back seat. He could tell she was still mad. She always called him Phil when she was upset.

"What's it gonna be?" Philip said. "A quarter or two dimes?"

The driver took the nickel from Philip's hand. "Well," he said as if he were about to break out in song. "I'll be damned." The driver dropped a quarter into Philip's hand as he mumbled, "A real hard ass."

"Thank you, sir," Philip said as he stuffed the bill and the quarter into his pocket and exited the car. With his white cane with a red tip extended, he moved toward the back door and opened it for Janet. Janet was blind, too. Lost her sight three years earlier. Car accident. He lost his from a brain tumor that damaged the optic nerve. The difference between the two was that he accepted his loss. She didn't.

In the restaurant at a table near a window, the couple sat in silence. Nothing between them but the occasional hard breath (hers) and light, nervous toe tapping (his).

"You still mad?" Philip asked. He had a lot on his mind, and he didn't want a stupid slip of the tongue from the other night to get in the way of their lunch.

"No." She spat the word out like it was a sour lemon seed.

"You sure?"

"Phil, I'm not mad," she said.

He placed a hand on the window, letting the warm glass soothe his nerves. "I always like this table," he said. "It's warm and cozy."

"It's hot," Janet said matter-of-factly. She shifted in her chair, bumping his knee with hers in the process.

Philip usually ordered a beer, but today was different. He got a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. She had her usual glass of iced tea.

"Let's just forget about the other night," he said.

"Fine," Janet said. She took a drink from her tea. There was a light smack of her lips when she was done. There was a brief silence, then the conversation started the same as it usually did – with her complaining about her vision loss.

"The worst thing," she said after taking another sip of tea, "is not being able to drive."

Philip tried to listen attentively, but he was, as the teenagers say, all up in his feelings. His mind was on the future: what he had gained and what he could accomplish. Janet was still in the past, whining about how bad things are and wallowing in defeat. A surge of anger rose in him, and before he could stop himself, he spoke out.

"You need to accept that you're blind." The words slipped from his lips before he realized the weight of them. _Damn!_ He leaned back in his chair, rocking it onto its back legs. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to calm himself.

She took in an audible breath, then said, "I accept it!" She spat the words at him like they were bitter to the taste. "I use my cane. I read braille. I just..." her voice trailed off, and then there was the restaurant noise. Light chatter, fastidious footsteps, and clinking dishes. A blanket of quiet settled over them like a suffocating cloud of smoke. Philip lowed his chair to the floor and tapped his toe on the tiled floor. Phillip rested his hand on his folded cane as he suffered the guilt of his words again. Why couldn't she see that she would never move forward with such a negative attitude?

"I'm not like you," Janet said finally.

_Damned right!_ From where he sat, Janet hadn't done anything but complain. Suddenly, his arrogance bit him like a band of fire ants on exposed skin. He loved Janet, but he'd grown weary of her self-pity. Something had to be done. Philip let out a breath.

"Janet, we," he said, then there was the waiter with the food. Salmon for her, seafood omelet for him.

They fell into an awkward silence. Nothing between them but the clink of ice from her drink glass, light chewing of food, and the scraping of forks against ceramic plates.

Six months they'd been together. Met at a restaurant during a gathering with mutual friends. She was shy. He was bold. Asked her for a date after he learned her name. They got to know each other, fell in love, and now the next step weighed on Philip's mind like a brick on the back of a snail. He jammed his hand into his pocket and ran his finger across the quarter.

"You were saying?" Janet asked. She was still angry with him, but her voice waivered a bit, as if she was afraid of something.

"It can wait," Philip said nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was piss her off again. Janet was a nice person when she wasn't complaining about her eyes. She wanted him to feel sorry for her, but he refused. _Time to grow up and accept reality._ He slid the money from his pocket. The quarter landed on the table near his plate. He kept the dollar in hand and folded it back and forth. Working with his hands always calmed him during stressful situations.

Philip and Janet were good together. They were just like any other couple. They went to movies, restaurants, hung out with friends, and they were practically living together. But she couldn't do anything by herself, and that frightened Philip. Did he want the burden of her helplessness for the rest of his life? He couldn't organize his words. He knew what he wanted to say. He didn't know how to say it.

"Go ahead. Say it!"

Phillip shifted uneasily in his chair. His voice cracked when he spoke. "I was going to ask...do you like origami?"

"What?" She said. "You talkin' about that paper art?"

"Yes." Phillip took her hand. "Janet, things aren't the same between us anymore."

"You could've broken up with me over the phone," she said angrily snatching her hand from his grasp.

An awkwardness came between them, pushing them further apart. Changing a relationship wasn't easy. One day you're together, the next you're apart. _Apart._ The sour taste of fear crept into the back of his throat. He took her hand again. She tried free it, but he held it firmly.

"Let me say what I came here to say," he said softly. He ran his hand across her long, smooth fingers until he held only one. He took the dollar bill that was now in the shape of a perfect circle and slipped it onto her finger. "Janet, will you marry me?"

A deafening silence. His heart skipped a beat.

"Yes!" she said. "I ain't perfect, you know."

Philip took a deep breath then said, "Neither am I."

In the Smog

By Catherine Edmunds

She'll have difficulty speaking today. Yellow air claws at her lungs, but that's okay. She likes the way it promises she could die at any moment.

St Paul's Cathedral towers above her, monstrous in its cleansed state, now yellowed by the smog like everything else. Should she be sad? No, this is retribution, damnation for all the men in this city who look through her or away from her; all the women who are made uncomfortable, who try to be her friend; women who collect cripples as badges of compassion.

She won't go inside the cathedral today, preferring to stay wheezing outside. Someone shoves a flyer in her hand for a singles club, a special one for special people, the halt, the lame, and the downright peculiar. She accuses the cathedral for a few moments longer, then shambles toward the river, through the square which bristles with 'Keep Out' signs. The road feeds straight onto the bridge. A huge barge is trawling the river below for rubbish, brown, sluggish.

A grinning man leers at her. Oh good. Someone has noticed. Some halfwit. The crowd parts around her and sweeps by. No barge comes to collect her up, but someone else is standing still – a small man in a brown coat, round glasses.

Swirls of smog and choking dust, and Lord, you send a small brown man to me? Why? Walk on, stay. Meet his eyes, ignore him. Explain, yes, I was born like this, curse and spit, flap and roll eyes, become the archetypal Bedlam inmate. Find somewhere for a coffee, get to know each other, discuss brass bands and the demise of the steel industry.

He's still here. He's a Jehovah's Witness. He'll try to convert her. She'll start speaking in tongues. No, that's the Pentecostals. She'll dribble when she speaks, tongues notwithstanding, and will dab at her mouth with a damp handkerchief. He'll vomit. She'll feel shame, then guilt at the shame, then horror at the guilt for the shame.

She'll go home, murder her parents, be locked up, and be done with it.

A gull swoops by, close to her head. Its wings stir the smog, and she imagines the small man in the brown coat smiles. The smog closes in again, but something has changed.

She moves toward him carefully, one step at a time. The crowds adjust to accommodate her; they can cope with slow movements.

He's a white slaver. He's a dealer, needs a courier, someone nobody will want to touch, someone customs will wave through. He's kind; he breeds newts.

She's weeping, and it's the smog and not the smog, and please, dear Lord, let him be the newt breeder. She stops. The mist swirls. She's Celia Johnson, and he's Trevor Howard, and they're at a railway station, glimpsing each other through the coal smoke, except he's more Alec Guinness. A short Alec Guinness at that, and she's lopsided, curved as a question mark.

He smiles. He has a stick. He's blind. That's why he can smile.

No, the stick isn't white. Isn't even a stick – it's an umbrella.

Oh God, she wishes she'd met him somewhere else, Huddersfield or Halifax, listening to a band playing the Moorside Suite. Her dad plays cornet. She wants to tell this small brown man that her dad plays in a band. She wants him to know what that is, what it means.

One of them must speak. Is he thinking the same thing? Could they get by with telepathy and not have to speak at all?

"Arabella?" he says. "It is Arabella, isn't it? We were in school together."

Oh. Shame. Mistaken identity. She wants to be Arabella. She wants to nod and grin and say, "Tony!" or whatever his name is. "Long time!"

She aches to be Arabella, to have a beautiful name, to be able to live up to it.

She shakes her head.

"No?" he says. "Sorry. I thought – no matter."

"I'm Vivienne," she says, and she enunciates it as clearly as she can, hoping he'll understand.

He frowns. He can't.

They'll walk away in opposite directions. She'll trip and fall, and because he's nice he'll turn round, help her up, but then he'll be revolted by her twisted body, will wipe his hands on his coat, appalled at having touched her. He'll walk away quickly.

She'll be left standing there, crooked, the people passing in a river, never touching. She makes a long speech in her head about Arabella, how strange that they should look alike, and what a good view you get from the coffee bar in Tate Modern, and it's just across the bridge—does he fancy? The smog is clearing and they... She should at least ask him if he wants a coffee. What's the worst that can happen? That's what Dad used to say. The worst is he'll say no thanks, move on, but she'll have committed his face to memory, and she can write about him in the words she can't speak.

How long have they been here? No more than a minute. A lifetime. He's moving. How soon a lifetime ends.

"I don't suppose," she starts to say.

"You wouldn't?" he says at the same time.

***

He buys her coffee, black; has the same, and a piece of carrot cake, which she declines. Hard enough to drink coffee, impossible to eat cake 'nicely'. He carries the tray, and they sit near the window with the view across the river to where St Paul's lies hidden. She catches occasional glimpses, and it looks different—more like the old cathedral, before the Fire, squat and sturdy with a good strong, straight tower, not curved and weird and too pale.

The small brown man talks about himself, his shop which sells antiquarian maps. Wednesday is early closing—he fancied a stroll, that's why he was on the bridge. Her dad's shop in Rastrick used to close early. Custom lost, freedom gained, good trout fishing.

He asks what she does. No, please don't ask. Can't say software engineer. Can't articulate the words. Could write it down. Can't hold pen well, but can certainly write. Clever, you know. Intelligent. Don't be fooled by appearances. Have to speak.

'I.T.'

Phew.

Don't ask any more questions, please. Just drink coffee, watch the mist, talk about your collection of pet newts.

Silence. He wants her to say more. He waits. Patient, smiling, sipping his coal-black coffee. St Paul's was once coal-blackened, dark and sullied – but they cleaned it up, made it presentable, taught it how to program, gave it hope, showed it a small brown man like a wren.

She puts her cup down, grateful cardboard doesn't clink like china, can't break, and can't earn her a telling off.

Mother's voice: Clumsy girl!

Gran: leave the child alone, Mary.

Where's Dad?

Band practice.

Can't I go?

No, you'll be in the way.

She gets up from the table, pushes her chair back, it falls over. He picks it up, looks concerned. She doesn't want his concern.

Stand on your own two feet, my girl.

What, this one, sort of straight, and that one, curved in, weak, wobbly? Topple on your own two feet more like. She takes the escalator—stairs too difficult, lift too crowded. The man follows, close behind.

Outside she coughs, gasps for air, and bends double. He stands a little apart, doesn't move away.

"I know," he says. "Air's terrible at the moment. Not quite like the old pea-soupers, I don't suppose, but not far off."

His voice is kind.

"Do you keep newts?" she tries to say. He doesn't understand, but his face lights up. "I'd like to see your shop, your maps. I'd like to see where you live. I want you to take me home with you. I want you to marry me."

Sometimes the way she can't be understood is a blessing.

He has kind eyes. She hooks her hand in the crook of his arm, and they walk slowly along the south bank towards Waterloo. She wants to be in a railway station, wants to be Celia Johnson, just for a moment.

It takes forty minutes. There's a busker playing a cornet. She needs to go and see Dad again, halfway between Halifax and Huddersfield. She wants the small brown man to take her there. He can go fishing while she stays home and tells Mam, see? I can get a man.

He's saying goodbye. He needs to get the tube back. He doesn't invite her to come with him. He takes out a card, but her hand is shaking, she's going to drop it. He sees, slips the card into her coat pocket and kisses her on the cheek.

"Email me," he says.

She will.

Conscious

By Megan Seitz

Here I am standing in line at the Starbucks, studying the other coffee addicts as they yawn, tap their feet, squint at the overpriced menu and pretend not to check out the ass of the person in front of them as the sun is barely starting to peek through the giant glass windows, blinding us all as we wait for our legally manufactured stimulants. And then, as it _always_ does at the most inconvenient of times, it hits.

Stifling blackness. I can't feel my limbs. Do I even have a face anymore? Come to mention it, I don't have any of my senses. No sounds of spinning blenders full of Frappuccinos, sharp scents of dark coffee, sun assaulting my eyelids, taste of morning breath, or weight inside my shoes. I'm not sure where I am or what I am anymore.

"Miss, are you alright? Can you hear me?" a man's voice fades in slowly, and I feel as if he's been saying it over and over for a while now.

I regain consciousness, looking upward at a hazy collection of unfamiliar faces with piercing lights behind them as my stomach wrenches and my head spins. If I could formulate an answer I would, but my lips, as well as the rest of my body, still lack a good connection with my nervous system.

"She's still unresponsive, but her eyes are open," a man beside me says, and I think I feel his fingers crushing my wrist, feeling my pulse.

I become more aware of my body splayed on the cold tile of some place I know I recognize but can't quite put my finger on and see that I'm wearing a dress, the blue one with white daisies all over it. I just had a full-on seizure in that dress in front of a dozen strangers. I can feel the cold air slapping the bottom of my left foot where my ballet flat should be strapped, but at least my dress is still covering all the important stuff.

"I'm fine," I finally say, my voice a croak. "Please don't call 911. An ambulance, I mean."

"What year is it?" A woman's voice soars over the crowd. All the faces above me are still swirling blurs. A pause switch is flipped as the faces wait for my response.

Shit. The year? They always love that question when you're half-conscious. 20... It's 20-something, I know that. "It's 2012." I know it's wrong the second it comes out, but I cannot think of a single other number.

There's a collective sigh from the audience as I've just incorrectly answered the million-dollar question.

"Are you calling?" someone mutters. Another voice replies with an "mmhm."

My limbs feel like they semi-exist now, so maybe this is a good time to show them that I'm in fact _fine_.

"What's she trying to do?"

"Didn't she just smash her face into the counter?"

"Why doesn't she just wait for the ambulance?"

A million hands appear to position me upright against the counter as my limbs slip out from under me like the floor is greased with butter. I soon realize my mistake in trying to prove myself so quickly. My head hurts so bad that everything spins around me like I've just been chucked over Niagara Falls. The twirling dive over Niagara seems to last a lifetime as I listen to the strangers whisper about me while their hands continue to hold me in place, and I force my eyelids to stay open.

Suddenly there is something rough under my cheek, holding my skull upright.

"Miss, can you tell me your name please? Your _name_?" There is a man's chubby face fading in and out of focus in front of me, and I just know he's a paramedic: black uniform, Emergency Medical Services plastered in the upper-right sleeve, come to take my vitals and wheel me in that goddamn van to the useless ER.

My tongue refuses to cooperate with my brain and lies like a limp ragdoll between my teeth. "Heather Emerson, and I don't need to go to the hospital," I say with about as much ferocity as a sedated house kitten. "Please," I add, but it just sounds like "pwis."

As expected, the interrogation begins.

"Heather, do you know where you are?"

"A coffee... something." I can finally smell it again, but it's making the nausea worse.

"Heather, what day is it?"

"Well, I can tell you it's not 2012." I try to laugh.

He waits in unamused silence for me to elaborate on the date, but my mind is drawing an absolute blank, so he continues, still beginning each question with my name. "Heather, do you remember what happened?"

"I think I had a seizure. I have epilepsy. But I'll be alright. No need to take me to the hospital. I'm really starting to feel better. I promise."

He picks up my wrist. "No medical bracelet," he tells someone behind him.

Then I finally remember what day it is. "Saturday," I blurt out. I was supposed to meet Michael for a coffee date. That's why I'd been brave enough to wear a dress, knowing very well the risk I was taking. Why hadn't I thought to wear shorts under it? "Shit," I mumble, bringing a hand up against my forehead. What if he was standing there watching the whole thing? What if he was about to see me get wheeled off in a stretcher? If so, then there was definitely not going to be a second date...

The paramedic shines a light in my eyes, squeezes a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and even snaps an oxygen mask onto my face.

"Look, I don't have a thousand dollars to ride in the ambulance," I say quietly, hoping no one other than the paramedic can hear. I'm not even sure he can understand what I'm saying: my speech is excruciatingly slow post-seizure, and it's an ongoing battle with my tongue and jaw muscles to formulate full sentences. "I was just in the hospital four months ago, and I'm still paying for it." With each word, the oxygen mask against my face fills with fog.

The paramedic nods, furrowing his fat black eyebrows. "Heather, I'll tell you what, if you can stand up on your own, then you don't have to go. How does that sound?" He towers above me at his full height, finally extending a hand.

I feel exhausted just looking at it.

"Heather, you've got to stand up."

With an exhale, I grab it and channel all my strength, trying to ignore the fact I'm wearing a dress and all these onlookers, eager to ingest the drama, are going to see my hot pink underwear underneath. My bare feet slip out from under me like a cartoon character stepping on a banana peel, and the back of my head smacks against the counter again, which makes my stomach almost launch bile straight out of my mouth onto the paramedic.

"Heather, you're going to have to come with us," he says, giving me an apologetic grimace.

"Great." The crowd begins to split as a stretcher clamors its way toward me.

***

I can't remember who my emergency contact is. The last time I went to the hospital, we were celebrating Christmas with Mom's whole family, and even my roommate, Nia, was there. I dial Nia first. After a few rings, it goes straight to voicemail.

"Hey Nia, this is Heather. I'm fine, but I'm in the emergency room. I guess just call me back when you get this."

I feel a surge of anger at her lack of response. It's a Saturday. What is she even doing other than hanging out with her fiancée, Jackson? But in a matter of seconds, my irritation is replaced with a pang of guilt. Throughout my entire life, she's been with me in the hospital more times than my own family. I delete the message before it has a chance to save. Nia deserves a break this once.

My phone buzzes between my fingers as I'm about to dial my brother, Sam. Michael's name pops up in green.

Hey, I'm at a table in the back. Where are you?

I sigh and close his message. _I'm in the ER_ or _Whoops, sorry I passed out! Haha!_ Don't really seem like good responses to a guy I hardly know, and my brain is still too fried to come up with any other reasonable excuse to stand him up that won't mean never speaking to him again. Hopefully Nia will be able to smooth things over for me. Michael is good friends with Jackson after all.

"Please tell me the paramedics called you," I say from the confines of my hospital bed as my brother's voice finally echoes through my iPhone.

"No," Sam says. "But are you okay? What happened?"

"I passed out at Starbucks. I'm just waiting in the ER."

"Oh, that explains it," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got to send you something. And you're not going to like it."

My phone vibrates as Sam sends me a screenshot. My stomach wrenches as I recognize a hideous picture of myself lying in a hospital bed. Above the picture is a status posted by my mother:

"My darling baby Heather is in the hospital again. Prayers would be much appreciated for the entire family. It's so hard to be a single mother when your child is so sick and you don't know how much time she has left. #theuniverseforHeather #prayersforHeather #supporttheEmersonfamily #singlemomsunite"

"Oh my god." I immediately close the picture, not allowing myself to read the plethora of comments people had already left. "When did she even take that photo? Or learn what hashtags are?"

"I don't know, but it's gotten fifty likes in the past twenty minutes."

"She's acting like I'm twelve and dying of leukemia." While in fact, I'm just twenty-five and suffering from epilepsy and depression.

"You know how much she loves attention."

I let out a sigh. After my parents divorced ten years ago because of "irreconcilable differences," her life has been flooded with new drama after new drama and new boyfriend after new boyfriend, all displayed on Facebook. Even statuses describing my father's "new whore" were posted on the internet.

"Heather, do you want me to drive down and visit you?" Sam asks.

I know I should feel touched by his offer, but it feels more like a courtesy. Sam is sucked into his own Wall Street world complete with a corporate wife, and that world surely doesn't have room for his sick sister so many hours away.

"No, it's okay. I know you're busy. And I'm really fine." It's the correct response in this paradigm we've created.

I barely hear him exhale from the other side of the phone. "Thanks, Heather. You know that I'm always here for you, right?"

Bob Barker's voice sails through the air, drawing my attention to the television that I forgot I'd turned on. I know I'm supposed to say something reassuring to Sam, but I let myself lie there and watch a huge bald man try to win a new car instead.

"Oh no." I groan, hearing a loud, distinct voice from the hallway. "I've got to go."

After hitting the end call button before Sam has a chance to answer, I toss my phone under the sheets.

Mom charges into the hospital room like a rhino on speed with a booming shriek and an explosion of colors from her ridiculous gypsy skirt.

"Oh, Heather." Mom's voice breaks as her hand flies to her mouth and a tear drags her eye makeup down her cheek with it. She really should've gone into acting rather than hairdressing.

My mouth curves into a frown as I shift uncomfortably beneath the hospital gown and blankets that never seem to be warm enough. "Mom, can you just...?" I raise a hand to my temple, feeling it pulsing again. Asking her to delete her Facebook post about me is out of the question, but the least she can do is refrain from exacerbating my headache.

"I swear to God, every time I get a call from some strange number I half expect someone to tell me you're dead." She flings herself over my body, squeezing my shoulders.

"Well, I'm fine," I reply under the thick cloud of her hair. It reeks of vegan hairspray.

"You could've died." Mom stands back over me, running her fingers through my sloppy mess of brown tangles, fixing my part.

"I was buying coffee." I leave out the fact that I was about to go on a date.

"You could've been riding a bike, or crossing a street, or—"

"Or buying coffee. Ow," I yelp as she pulls out a clump of my hair by accident. Mom unceremoniously dumps it by the heart monitor and IV. "I could just live in a bomb shelter," I say. "Then nothing bad will ever happen."

Mom ignores the sarcasm that she believes I so "unfortunately" inherited from my father.

"Where's the doctor?" she asks.

"Hasn't been in yet."

"Hasn't it been an hour already?"

"Welcome to the hospital."

"Damn useless." She groans and falls backward into the shiny blue chair beside the door.

I click off the television. I guess I'll never know if the bald man wins the brand new car on _The Price is Right_. "I told them not to bring me here."

"What'd they do?" Mom crosses her bony legs and begins to furiously kick her top foot up and down. Her bejeweled sandal smacks her heel, pulsing almost in time with the heart monitor. "Chest X-ray? Lying, sitting, standing blood pressure? Blood tests?" I can already see the list of medical exam costs adding up into the thousands of dollars in her head.

"Even if I'd come in to the emergency room for stepping on a nail, they still would've had to put me under that damn chest x-ray machine," I say with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but I'm compiling a list of the climbing medical bills in my mind as well. Really, why did they always insist on a chest x-ray when you passed out? "And you forgot about the urine sample and being asked the same questions five million times."

"Got to make sure you're not on drugs and not pregnant." Mom cracks a smile.

"Let's face it, Mom, of the two of us, you look more likely to be on drugs."

The room descends into silence except for the shuffle of feet outside the door and the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor reminding me that I am, in fact, still alive.

"I haven't heard from you in two months," Mom finally says.

"I haven't heard from _you_ in two months."

More silence.

"Nia is getting married in December," I say.

A smile spreads across her face as she untangles an earring from her hair. "I always liked Nia."

There weren't many other people for Mom to like. Nia had been my friend since we were little, and we had continued to live together even after college. It never used to bother me how many more friends Nia always seemed to find, until she had gotten engaged. It was like an official eviction notice had been stamped on my place as her closest friend. Once Nia gets married, my ship will be adrift.

"How's Sam?" I ask, even though I was just on the phone with him. I can't think of anything else to say.

"Taking part in corporate evil just like your father," she says. "It's a good thing that boy has a heart of gold and such a sweet wife, or he'd get his soul sucked out of him on Wall Street. Just like your father."

I bite back a sarcastic comment about praying to the Mother Goddess for the protection of Sam's soul in Hell's territory, but I'm sure Mom would assign authorship of my ingenuous comeback to my father. So I say, "Yeah," like a moron.

I stare at the blank gray wall across from me with a container of hand sanitizer plastered to it. It's probably what I saw the last time I spoke to my mother. There's always a hospital wall or pine needles fallen from her Christmas tree littering the carpet when we're in a room together. When did we become that family that only meets for sickness and Christmas?

"How're you doing?" Mom asks.

"Fine." I stretch that rehearsed smile across my face and feel shooting pain throughout my right cheek. My smile is lopsided.

"Oh my god, what's wrong with your face?" Mom gasps, leaping out of her seat to inspect it. "I didn't even notice how swollen it is." She pokes at my cheek, making me wince.

"Awesome." Being a moderately attractive young woman who can deal with drunk assholes and remember drink recipes are about the only qualifications for my job as a bartender, and that first detail is where I get most of my tips from. Maybe they would at least hit on me a little less.

"Really dear, it almost looks like you got into a fight."

"Thank you, Mom."

"Have you called your father?" It's always the same tone with those last two words: _your father_. It's as if I must call Bill O-Reilly himself.

"Can I just not right now?"

"It's _your father_." Read: _Mitch McConnell_.

Each conversation with him is usually the same collection of words anyway: _Sorry, you're having (insert medical issue here), Heather. Probably stress. I'm sure you'll be fine by morning. Sorry I couldn't make it in for (insert holiday here) because of (insert excuse here). How's the hippie (stifled laughter)? Did you get my check for (insert dollar amount here) in the mail? How's Nia? Bartending going well? Got a jet-setting sugar-daddy yet (more laughter)? Proud of you. (Insert some excuse to end the conversation before discussing anything past surface-level)._ Click.

How my parents ended up together in the first place blows my seizure-prone brain. I think it had something to do with what Mom calls the "magic of the 70s." Whatever that was didn't have the strength to stand up against Dad's corporate dreams. Much like Sam, Dad's life lies in a land far away, filled with skyscrapers and office assistants and corporate meetings and bagels, things Mom and I have been deemed incapable of understanding.

"I'll call him when I feel better," I lie, knowing I won't be calling Sam or Dad any time soon. My world may not be filled with meetings and skyscrapers but instead with quarters slung together to make rent, bottles of prescriptions, and mixing drinks every night under a strobe light. It's already brimming full.

I click my phone to see if I've got any messages. Still nothing from Nia, but there's another text from Michael that I ignore.

***

"Well, the good news is all your results are normal," a cookie-cutter white male doctor with all the confidence of having just rolled out of his residency tells me.

"How useful," Mom murmurs from across the room, arms folded tightly over her chest, squashing her bra-free boobs.

I break open my usual spiel. "What my mother means to say is that I've had more tests than you can imagine." In fact, I could list them on command like they're tonight's drink specials. I stretch my right elbow crease, stabbed through with an IV, toward him. "Look, I've got a permanent bruise from ten zillion blood tests. It's just epilepsy and a really weak immune system." I wiggle the needle in my arm.

He scrunches his rat-like nose as he skims a clipboard filled with the information someone wrote down and he didn't bother to read until now. "Are you taking your seizure medication as prescribed?"

"Of course she is," Mom snaps. I shoot her a glance.

"How many different medications have you tried?" he continues.

"Four," I answer. "I just saw my neurologist a couple months ago."

"I see," he says. "Well, thankfully, all your tests are completely fine. So just keep monitoring your condition and talking with your neurologist. Oh, and please wear your medical bracelet.

I glance at my wrist, usually clad in silver but instead wrapped with a lamented plastic hospital band. I had taken it off so Michael wouldn't ask me about it on the first date. And what a wonderful decision that had been.

"Really?" Mom says. "That's all you have to say when someone goes unconscious and their eyes roll back in their head while their limbs flail around and their lips turn blue?" my mother dramatically exclaims, throwing her arms in the air. My lips turned blue one time three years ago, and now she feels the need to include that in every story retelling. _Heather fell down the stairs, and her lips turned blue! Heather got the flu, and her lips turned blue!_ I'm honestly shocked it wasn't included in her last Facebook post.

"There's only so much we can do in the emergency room." The doctor drops the clipboard to his side, giving us a half-smile. I look at his fingers: a wedding band. Sometimes I can forget that these doctors that slip into my hospital room for just a couple short minutes, leaving me more frustrated and empty than before, are human too.

"I just wish they wouldn't take me in every time." I give him a weak smile back.

"Seizures are very common," the doctor continues. I feel guilty that I don't remember his name. He reopens his paperwork to read off of it for me. "It can happen due to—"

"Stress, caffeine, lack of sleep, etcetera" I finish for him. My lips curve into another lopsided smile that scrunches my eyes along with it. "I know."

He wrinkles his eyebrows and glances at the clock above Mom's head. "Well, since you're at no imminent risk and everything seems to be fine, you're free to go home, Heather. I'll get your discharge papers for you so you can be on your way." Clunk. With less than five minutes of actual interaction with the doctor, the door's already shut again after six hours of waiting on a plastic bed.

***

I look at my discharge papers. There must be some rule that they can't throw someone out of the ER without some sort of diagnosis because there's always some bullshit medical term scribbled on the center of my paper with a few pages of information that look like they're straight off of Google. This time it's _Epilepsy_. Half the time they don't even get that right. I think the best one I've ever gotten was _Menstruation_ followed by five pages of information about periods before I'd been diagnosed with epilepsy. It took almost three years of doctor visits for a confirmation of that.

I snort and rifle through the leaflets filled with information I already know about _Epilepsy_. I toss the packet into the nearest trash bin as I follow Mom through the hallways of the hospital which all seem to look alike no matter what floor of whatever hospital of whatever state you're in.

"This woman that I work with has some type of autoimmune or immunodeficiency disorder or something, and it took them almost nine years to figure out what was wrong with her and find medicine that worked," Mom says, digging through her bag to locate a car key buried under a mountain of gum wrappers. A baby blue wrapper floats toward the tiles as the automatic front doors of the hospital slip open for us. "What I mean is, don't give up."

"Thanks, Mom." I cringe, not meaning for it to sound so condescending, and dig in my purse for an aspirin that I asked for six hours ago and never received. "So I'm three fourths of the way there, then? Only two more years of this?" I laugh, not sure why that's the only reaction my body is capable of. Mom shoots me a glance, but I look away before that conversation can go any further.

Mom packs me into her '99 Nissan Altima, buckling my seatbelt for me like I'm still a toddler, and I lean the seat back all the way since I'm still nauseous, and with Mom driving, I really might hurl or get slammed into the window if I sit up.

***

After Mom has me settled onto the couch with a pack of saltine crackers, a marathon of _Gilmore Girls_ streaming through my laptop, and finally a phone call from a frantic Nia assuring she will be home in just a couple hours, I can sense Mom pulling herself together for departure.

"Don't be a stranger, okay?" She runs her fingers over the top of my head, fixing my part.

"You, too." I smile, and I mean it for the first time today. "Thank you for coming."

As I watch Mom swishing her way to the front door, I feel the word "Wait," fly out of my mouth without me even realizing it. "Why don't you stay for a little bit?"

Watching _Gilmore Girls_ brings back memories of watching the same show together on cable ten years ago. We had always joked that neither of us were like the mother or daughter; Mom was way too spiritual and disinclined to sarcasm to be like Lorelai, and I just wasn't sweet or studious enough to be Rory. But somehow, they still felt like television extensions of us, traipsing clumsily through life.

After we watch the episode featuring the Stars Hollow Living Art Show where the characters are ridiculously painted and costumed to represent real-life versions of famous art, Mom's phone starts going off. When she turns it over, I don't even recognize the picture of the greasy-looking man, posing in front of a motorcycle. "Jeff" it says.

"Jeff? Yeah... fine... the dog? Again? Geez... alright... be there soon." She turns to me already with an apologetic look in her eyes. "Sorry, Heather, Jeff's having problems with his dog again and needs me."

I just nod, even though I can't understand what good Mom can do for this man's dog with her mere presence. But I don't press it.

With just one phone call, Mom is sucked back into her own world. In my mind, I just can't find a way to make all our separate universes collide except for the times that the hospital will take me out and pull us all together for just a few hours. Even through the headaches and confusion, there is a strange relief and purpose.

"Just two more years of this, right?" I say to myself as I watch the door shut behind her.

A Rare Condition

By Sophie Sparrow

When Nina was happy, she would cry. Not joyful tears that seeped out among smiles, but great racking sobs and raw primordial howls that left her shaking, damp, and breathless. When she was angry, her words would sound to others like nurturance, care, and love in their purest, most untainted forms. Whatever feelings stormed about inside her, their very opposites projected from her face, her voice, and her movements no matter how carefully she tried to stop them. Excitement expressed itself as dread. Earnest appreciation came out contemptuous, mocking.

The only people who sought her out were those she could not stand. She found it difficult to lay down boundaries so that people listened.

"Please just leave me alone," she'd say, coy and flirtatious, smiling. It never really worked.

She always felt like a tiny, war-torn nation denied legitimacy.

At various points throughout her life, she had had friends however – good people who took her at her words, who made the effort to understand her and her rare condition. But one by one, they fell away. When they'd confide each triumph or tragedy of their lives, they would know, would understand _objectively_ that her dismay at their new babies or joy at their bereavements wasn't real. But, eventually, some discordant comment would stick, would worm its way beneath the skin, become a canker it was no longer possible to make allowances for.

"We care about you," they'd say, and mean it. "But we can't be in your life. Take care. We'll send you Christmas cards."

They'd choose to take her unaffected magnanimity on these occasions at face value. To make it easier on her, they told themselves.

She was no longer surprised by these excisions, but she couldn't stop herself from being lonely. She seemed the inverse of everyone she encountered, with their friends and family and social ease.

One day, travelling on a train to the shoe factory at which she worked, Nina met someone who said by way of introduction "I like your dress" in a tone most usually reserved for insults.

"Thank you," she spat back, unembarrassed and disgusted. She liked to give the words of others more weight than their sounds, whenever possible.

"My name's Alex," said the stranger, offering a hand to shake with rude disdain and proffering a scowl.

"Nina," said Nina.

They met often in the next few weeks. They shared a slice of cake, exchanging hostile glares, and made the waitress laugh behind her hands. They cried for hours at each other's jokes and walked through the local park where outsiders stared, bemused to see two people scream sweet nothings with such turbulent rage.

Six months later, a miserable and horrified "Yes," was spoken in answer to a question popped by someone very much in hate.

The pews were empty on the day, the priest confused, uneasy. Both tears and laughter were to be expected on an occasion such as this, but what he saw looked wrong somehow.

The couple knew they seemed bizarre, unstable, and disrespectful toward each other. They knew they looked as if divorce were imminent, inevitable. But they did not care because they understood each other perfectly, and what beyond that even mattered?

A Pinch of Chaos

By Christine Lucas

_Starving yourself isn't going to save him_ , Khemes wished he could tell Ankhu. He wanted to grab him and shake his grief away, but no one--not even his trusted servant of many years--dared such insolence toward the High Priest of Anubis. Instead, Khemes offered him once more a simple supper of dried fish, bread, and beer.

"Please, _neb-per_. Please, my lord. You need to eat." When had his face grown so pale, his shoulders so slumped?

"I am not hungry, Khemes." The voice that could command the dead had grown low and weary. "Give it to Ne--" his voice faltered--"to some unfortunate beggar." Give it to Nedjem, he'd almost said. But the poor cat, slayer of frogs and sparrows, would never eat anything again. Not a twitch of his whiskers, not even an inquisitive sniff at the scent of fish. He lay on Ankhu's bed, his breathing labored, littered by the occasional attempt to purr when Ankhu stroked his fur. After a long, pampered life--longer than those of his predecessors--the time to embark on Ra's solar barge and travel to the afterlife had come.

"As you wish _, neb-per_." _You will see him again_ , he wanted to shout, but his tongue was harnessed by an old promise.

Khemes bowed and took the meal back to the kitchen where two of Nedjem's soon-to-be-widows took care of it. There were fresh loaves of bread, baskets of figs, and dates, but even the jugs of Mareotic wine had lost their appeal. Dragging his bad leg--damn that old, stubborn wound--Khemes made his way back to his master's chambers. He treaded slowly, carefully, to avoid tripping over Nedjem who loved napping where it was most inconvenient. He wiped his eyes before entering the room; it would take a while for his body to accept the absence his mind already knew.

The breeze carried the choir of the frogs and crickets all the way from the Nile, along with a whiff of honeysuckle. Outside, Nedjem's usual hunting grounds were bursting with life. Inside, neither man nor cat seemed to notice him as he entered the room. He poured water into a mug from the alabaster urn by the window and offered it to Ankhu who just shook his head. Khemes sighed and sat on a cushion under the window, rubbing his aching leg. It would be a long night.

Troublesome dreams denied him any kind of rest that night; Apep, the Serpent of Chaos, gloated over his fallen enemy with the soft paws and sharp claws, defeated not in combat but from age and disease. Khemes started from his sleep with a gasp at first light. Damned be his tired mind and old bones, he'd dozed off and left his master alone in his hour of grief. Ankhu sat hunched at the foot of his bed, clutching Nedjem's body to his chest.

Khemes cupped Ankhu's shoulder. "I'm sorry, _neb-per_. You did everything you could. Let him go now." Empty words, he knew it. But he had to say something. He had to _do_ something. And he would. In time.

"No. I cannot. Not yet."

Three times Khemes tried to gently remove the cat's body from Ankhu's arms, and three times he failed. This was not good. He'd never seen his master so distraught before. Perhaps he should call someone? Perhaps--

"Fresh water."

"As you wish, _neb-per_."

He sprang to his feet at Ankhu's request, and the sudden movement rekindled the burning ache in his thigh. It didn't matter. He couldn't read or write his own name--despite Ankhu's valiant efforts over the years. But this much he knew: healing always began with water. Cool water from the sacred Nile, to wash away whatever ailed body and soul. He rushed to the kitchen for a fresh jug, and, when he returned, he found Ankhu donning his priestly garb: the long, white robes, the collar of multicolored beads, and the leopard skin over his shoulders. Once the High Priest had quenched his thirst and washed his hands, Khemes helped him apply the kohl around his bloodshot eyes. With the dead cat a tiny parcel wrapped in white linen in his arms, Ankhu left for the _per-nefer_ , the Pure House, for the embalming. Khemes followed him, holding a parasol over his master's head to protect his sensitive skin from the scorching sun.

When Ankhu placed Nedjem onto the stone slab to prepare him for eternity, Khemes leaned by the wall, drenched in sweat and lightheaded. It was too much: the smell of embalming fluids, the incense that failed to cover the stench of putrefaction, the feeling that Duat's guardian demons stared at him from every shadow, from every corner and crevice--he wanted out, out, under the sun, away from all this death. But he gulped down the bile and rubbed his gut to calm his heaving stomach. The High Priest needed no distractions while he performed the ritual. He needed someone to watch over him quietly. Loss of sleep and fasting had taken their toll.

How could Ankhu's hands be steady, holding the scalpel? How could the linen bandages unfold so effortlessly? How could his eyes be dry? This was his trusted companion he was cutting open, since kittenhood to last night. The terror of sparrows and fishmongers, the cat whose paws had trod the paths of the dead beside his master, and the beloved of novice priestesses. His master's guard against intruders, Nedjem had often alerted him of the presence of ghosts and foul entities, even burglars--Cretan thugs who had no idea whose house they'd broken into. The idiots were probably still running.

He too would miss the rascal. Nedjem took great joy in pestering Khemes, who'd lost track of the times he had cleaned up broken pottery and shredded linen, replaced figurines and cutlery and dried fish stolen from the pantry. Then he'd trot at him, purring, and rub his head against Khemes's bad leg, and all would be forgotten. And now he had to take care of his grieving master who'd fast and stay awake and recite prayers that brought no comfort. Ankhu's final service to Nedjem would come to an end once he placed the small mummy into his family's tomb, by his mother's sarcophagus. Then Khemes's own task would begin.

A boring task. At dusk each day he waited by the city gates for the mute priestess to come into town and show him the way. A lonely task--he sat with a jug of beer at the feet of a great granite Sphinx, where he had first met her many years ago. A silent task, for only two others knew of it: a mute priestess and a dead cat. He needed magical skills to start a conversation with either of them. Bast knew he was mute and deaf when it came to magic.

Three months and countless jugs of ale later, Ta-miut, the priestess, hadn't come. Ale lost its appeal, his household duties suffered, the other servants complained. His master barely noticed, sometimes in deep prayer, sometimes reciting incantations that summoned the dead. He lost weight. His long silences and wandering thoughts while in court and temple drew attention. Rumors spread of all sorts of maladies ailing the High Priest: insanity, senility, even magical ailments from consorting with the dead, the undead, and whatever lay between. One night, Khemes found him sitting with his back rigid on his bed, stroking Nedjem's cushion beside him. He hadn't let anyone wash it or throw it away.

"Why hasn't he come to me?"

Khemes almost dropped the tray of food he'd brought. He'd seen his master tired, sad, even desperate, but never defeated.

"The spirits of long-dead pharaohs and sorcerers have come at my command, but not him. Why? Did I fail him?" _Has he forgotten me_? Ankhu didn't speak those last words, but Khemes heard them lingering in the catless room around them.

_Because he's not dead, you idiot_ , Khemes wanted to shout, but he held his tongue just in time. It was not his truth to tell.

"When did Nedjem--or any cat--come when commanded, _neb-per_? Do not despair. He'll come in his own time, as in life."

"Perhaps you're right." Ankhu fixed his gaze on his lap. "Perhaps. . . "

Enough was enough. Khemes dropped everything at the kitchen, grabbed his walking stick and a water skin, and made his way to the city gates. Grief he could deal with. It was normal. Feeling like a failure was not--not for his master. The failure was his and his alone, for waiting so long to take matters into his own hands. He'd track down Ta-miut and get this over with. What if his absence was noted? When he returned, he'd bring Nedjem with him and all would be back to normal. Ma'at--Harmony and Balance--would be restored once more in his master's home.

Even if that required of him to force the hands of the gods.

Ta-miut resided in a remote shrine of Bast half a day's walk south of Thebes. Nothing more than an old, broken-down statue, a worn tent, and countless cats in a clearing by the Nile. No one knew where she'd come from; she'd walked into Thebes one day from the desert, her tongue cut out and her bare feet bleeding. Her talents for healing earned her a place in the Temple, but she preferred her solitude amidst fur and paws. She'd aided noblemen with their wounds, servants with newborns, even an old, crippled servant weeping for his master's dead cat almost two decades ago.

Khemes knelt amidst the reeds to throw water on his burning head. It had hit him hard--he never expected to care for anyone else so much, least of all a cat. The memory of that grief would follow him to his deathbed and beyond. So would the memory of Ta-miut's clear blue eyes--eyes of a princess from a faraway land--on her wrinkled face that day at sundown. As Ra's Solar Barge began its nightly journey, she held her index finger to her lips _. A secret. Between the two of them_. She took out a pouch of ground herbs from the folds of her dress and blew them to the breeze, then pointed at that direction. _Go_.

His thick--and tipsy--head hadn't understood at first. A shove at that direction by her bony hands helped a little. Her kick got him going in search of Bast's blessing. Or Bast's prank--that much was still unclear.

Where was she now?

With his gut in a knot, Khemes started walking alongside the Nile again, picking figs from the nearby trees as he went. Their sweetness brought a welcome relief from the bad taste in his mouth: sand and heat and worry. Ta-miut was old. Old people got sick. Old people died. Nedjem would be lost, if something had. . . A horsefly landed on his cheek and he slapped it away, a little bit too hard. Such thoughts attracted bad luck. Good thoughts only. Ta-miut was well, only distracted with the birth of many litters. Or by aiding some spoiled princeling with his wounds from hunting or sparring. She'd be under her tent by the shrine, just over that cluster of palm trees, with her arms full of kittens. And she'd be well and happy.

Only she wasn't.

She couldn't be, when two of her cats ran past him under the acacia trees, growling, ears twitched back and eyes wild. The sound of metal on stone followed. Men yelling. Cats hissing. More cats fleeing. Khemes fell flat on his belly. Robbers? Deserters? Whatever those men were, he was no match to them. He couldn't be. He should go back and alert the guard. Yes. That's what he should do. If he could crawl around with as little noise as possible, they wouldn't notice him. He'd be safe--

An arm's length away, a sand-colored cat cowered by the trunk of a palm tree under a thick fern. A young cat, barely a year old. The poor thing sat trembling. It looked at him with eyes huge and unblinking, judging him. Not just this cat--all cats, Nedjem amongst them, were judging him through those eyes. Perhaps even Bast herself. Should he leave now, one day his cowardly heart would be weighed and found heavy. His face fell in the dirt. _Damn_. He should have learned by now that forcing the gods' hands came at a cost.

He discarded the water skin and clutched his walking stick tighter--good, sturdy wood. It might crack a few bones. He started to crawl forward, toward the clearing, over fallen palm tree leaves, shrubs, and rotting fruit. More cats were hidden all around him and watched his crawl in silence. Someone yelled in a tongue unknown but vaguely familiar. Khemes hunched behind a thick palm tree and dared a peek around the trunk.

Ta-miut curled up by the remnants of her tent, sniveling. Two bandits. Hairy, dirty bastards. Foreigners, most like it. One paced around cursing, one sat on the ground, leaning against the feet of Bast's statue with a badly wounded leg. Very badly. It oozed stink and black blood. He'd seen such wounds before on corpses spewed by the river. Neither by sword nor axe, neither by man or lion, but from a crocodile's jaws.

Khemes's stomach roiled. _Breathe! Breathe!_ He turned around and sat straight against the trunk, gulping down hard to avoid hurling. _It's not your leg, old fool_. He rubbed the deep scars up and down, hard enough to hurt--to remind his shivering body that he had survived his encounter with one of Sobek's children. Thanks to Ankhu. The High Priest had kept his soul from leaving his body while the healers worked to mend him, cutting off the rot and sewing what was left. That thug over there would not be so lucky. Even Ta-miut's skills couldn't help him now.

"Fix leg! Now!"

The thug spat the command with a heavy accent. That accent. . . hadn't he heard it before in the tavern? Cretans. Could they. . . could they be the fools who'd broken into his master's home several weeks ago? If so, then something much worse than a crocodile had mauled that one. Even if she had the skills to mend it, Ta-miut would never dare to undo the High Priest's handiwork. He was already dead. Khemes flexed his fingers around his walking stick and tightened his grip. If the gods favored him, he could deal with the other one. A good hit would knock him out long enough to let him flee to safety and alert the guards.

Khemes propped himself up with his stick and rose behind the palm tree. In the clearing, the injured thug lay motionless at the feet of the statue, flies buzzing all over him. The other one towered over Ta-miut, brandishing a dagger over her, cursing in his native tongue. With one eye swollen shut, Ta-miut cowered by a broken-down pillar--a remnant of the shrine's past glory--one arm covering her head, clutching her Bast amulet to her chest with the other.

The thug had his back turned on him. If he could sneak up on him. . . Khemes left his hiding place and took slow, careful steps forward, wielding his stick like a woodsman's axe.

"Fix! Or I kill _mau_! All _mau_!"

Khemes froze. What. Had. He. Just. Said?

Ta-miut fixed her good eye on the thug, her face unreadable. Then she screamed. A deep, steady scream. Not a helpless crone's terrified cry, but a warning. Some things should never be uttered.

Hail, Hetch-abhu, who comest forth from Ta-she, I have not slain those belonging to the gods.

His master's voice, joined by the voices of those who came before him and those who'd follow, resonated inside Khemes's skull, reciting the words of the gods. All around him, countless eyes lit up, green, yellow, amber, huge and unblinking. Watching. Waiting. Measuring his steps until his stick crushed the bones of the blasphemer. Khemes tightened his grip. This time, he marched on.

"How dare you?"

He blurted out the words before he could harness his tongue and warned the thug who turned around just in time to avoid getting his head cracked. The tip scraped his shoulder instead, and–damned be his bad leg--the ill-balanced hit almost made him lose his footing. Flailing his free arm, he stumbled past the thug and managed to stay on his feet until the thug rammed him from behind with his elbow and sent him face first into the dirt. He rolled over just as the thug jumped him, dagger in hand. More out of reflex than skill, Khemes's arm darted out and caught his wrist while his other went for the thug's eyes. The thug went for his throat. He squeezed. And squeezed. Air hunger burned Khemes's chest. His eyes watered. _Not yet. Not like this_.

Ta-miut screamed again. Deeper, louder than before, it penetrated the buzzing in his ears. Not a warning this time, but a call to arms.

Cursing and howling, the thug released his throat. Khemes kicked him and crawled a few paces back, panting and blinking tears away. Ta-miut's cats had come to his aid: they pounced on the thug, aiming for his throat and face. On his knees, he tried with one hand to reach the cat that clutched onto his back, while throwing punches with the other. Most of them hit empty air. Some did not. Cats hissed and growled and charged. Some of them retreated whimpering, limping, breathing hard.

Khemes forced himself up and reached for his discarded stick. The cats darted off just in time to allow their would-be executioner a moment of wide-eyed clarity as Khemes swung his stick. The thug bent backward to avoid the hit, but not fast enough. It broke his nose. The second swing clashed with his skull, above his ear. Bones cracked and he fell sideways, blood spilling from his nose. He lay on the ground, his eyes fixed somewhere past Khemes, his limbs twitching and trembling.

For one long, breathless moment, Khemes leaned on his stick. Was it over? Oh Bast, let it be over now. He was too old for this. Now he needed ale. And bread, and a nice hearty supper with roasted perch and radishes and onions and leeks. He needed his bed to rest his old bones and his aching leg. But he also needed that rascal Nedjem back, so his master's soul-sickness would be lifted. He drew in a deep breath and limped to Ta-miut's side.

She sat amidst her cats humming softly, stroking their fur, and tracing limbs and bodies with nimble, careful fingers for fractures. He sat beside her under the watchful gaze of the more suspicious of her cats. The bolder ones just climbed on his lap and shoulders. She flashed him a toothless smile.

"I'll take you to a healer," he said. A few paces away, the thug's convulsions had subsided. Rosy froth came from his mouth. "After I've taken care of those two."

Her grip on his arm was soft but steady. She shook her head.

"You don't want a healer?"

She shook her head again.

"And those two?"

She glanced at the bodies. Then at the cats. Then toward the Nile. Then back at the cats. Then straight at him, her good eye cold and merciless.

Khemes didn't know what her stare meant. He didn't want to know. But he still needed her help.

"Nedjem died." It hurt, having to say it out loud. It hurt, more than the thug's choking, more than the memory of the crocodile's teeth grinding against his thigh bone. Bast had given her children too much power.

Ta-miut stroked his arm as though she stroked a napping cat.

"You didn't come. I waited for you."

She pointed at her left ankle. Swollen and bruised, but the bruises weren't recent; faint blue and fading, they were about ten days old. The poor woman had injured herself while he'd been sitting on his fat behind, drinking ale. His face burned. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

She smiled, then took his right hand into hers and placed a small pouch in his palm.

Her magical herbs? Khemes shook his head so fast his neck hurt.

"No. I can't do magic. You must do it. I can't."

She closed his fingers around the pouch with one hand, then placed her other onto his chest. Her glance darted from her cats to the now motionless thug and back onto him. She nodded.

Yes. You can.

He very much doubted that.

Once back to Thebes after a journey that doubled the pain of every bone in his body, Khemes attempted to duplicate Ta-miut's spell. He blew the herbs to the breeze, and six times they fell at his feet. The seventh time they swirled for a moment over his head, then flew right into his nostrils and mouth. He forced the bitter taste down his throat. Too many curses had reached the tip of his tongue and spitting them out would only enrage the gods. He tried an eighth time and failed. Damn and damn again. Barely a pinch was left of Ta-miut's herbs. He emptied them upon his open palm. What now?

There should be an incantation along with the herbs, one Ta-miut recited with her heart. That's how the High Priest did it, that's how everyone adept in magic did it. He didn't--couldn't. He didn't know how. All he knew was how to tend to his master and clean after that spoiled cat, fetch him his dinner, and treat him with the good fish from the pantry behind the cook's back. He missed that, even waking up to half-chewed sandals. Was this another prank of the cat-headed goddess, forcing him to cast spells? He let out a deep, defeated breath. . .

. . . and the last pinch of herbs swirled and flew away, amidst the scent of jasmine and water lilies. Khemes rushed after it, his bad leg sending daggers up his spine. It didn't matter. Nothing did, but the flowing mist leading him to this journey's end. He found it outside the city gates, by the old cemetery--the poor people's cemetery--in a broken-down hut. In there, a scrawny cat nursed her litter of three. But which one of them was Nedjem?

The one who hissed and puffed up and charged at his feet to shred his sandals, of course.

At last. It was over.

Or perhaps not.

"Khemes, I don't want another cat." The High Priest barely glanced at the kitten in Khemes's arms. He remained bent over his papyri, drowning his grief in paperwork.

"But, _neb-per_. . . " He held the purring kitten out for Ankhu to take a better look at him. "But, look. . . "

Ankhu didn't. "I said, no."

_All this, for nothing_? Khemes grabbed the back of a cedar-wood chair to steady his weak knees. _How can he say that? Is he blind_? He held Nedjem close to his chest. He'd stopped purring.

"Can we at least keep him until I can find him a good home?" Perhaps in time he'd wake up and see who was right in front of him shredding his papyri.

"Only until then."

Khemes licked his lips. _Perhaps_. . . "Would you like to name him?"

"He doesn't need a name. He's not staying."

Damn. "As you wish, _neb-per_."

"I have work to do. Take him to the kitchen and keep him there."

Hadn't he seen a kitten before? For all his intelligence and arcane knowledge, the High Priest hadn't thought this through. Of course the kitten wouldn't stay in the kitchen. Once fed, he'd dart back to Ankhu's chambers and wreak havoc in his path. Khemes followed close behind him to clean up the mess and check for a change of his master's heart. Nothing seemed to change for six days, save for the pottery, the papyri, and the linen that had to be replaced after the kitten got to them. At dawn on the seventh day, Khemes made his way to Ankhu's chamber to clean whatever mess awaited him.

He didn't make it into the room. He barely dared to breathe, frozen in the doorway, fearing he'd ruin everything. Ankhu sat on his chair, facing the bed, where the kitten lay on old Nedjem's cushion like the great Sphinx. Man and cat stared at each other's eyes in silence--that warm, comfortable silence between old friends who have little use of words anymore. Then Ankhu spoke in a low, formal voice. Khemes held his breath and leaned forward to listen.

" _Stand still then, O thou who art in sorrow, for Horus hath been endowed with life_." He patted his lap. "Come here, Nedjem."

Nedjem obeyed for the first and probably last time in this life.

Khemes rested his head against the wall. _At last_. He had the kitten's mess to clean up, but he didn't care. Who knew that a pinch of chaos from a little rascal would bring back Harmony and Balance? But that was a question best left to priests and philosophers. In his own heart, only one thing mattered: in his master's house, Ma'at was restored.

My Fight with Sam the Man

By Tracy Auerbach

They always called me "Twitch" because of my tics, and that was okay for my friends and all, but not for everyone, and definitely not for Sam. She had stared at me all through English class that day, and then looked away real quick every time I looked up. That was when I officially decided I'd had enough of her and wasn't going to put up with her crap anymore. I was usually okay with my eyes blinking and sometimes having to scrunch up my nose or my face, but Sam the Man made me feel like there was something wrong with me.

"That's a stupid name for her," Ethan said, like all the time, just to annoy me. "She's not a man. She's cute, in kind of a weird way."

"No way. She has a boy's name, and she plays sports like a boy and acts like a boy. She calls me Twitch and challenges me to races, and last week she tried to be my wrestling partner in gym while most of the other girls picked gymnastics. Real girls don't wrestle."

That was always my response. Or something like that. I always had new examples of Sam being a pain, so Ethan usually just rolled his eyes and let it go. He had no choice cause he was my best friend, and he knew I was right.

When I closed my locker on Thursday afternoon, Sam was right there, in my face. She'd obviously been waiting for me. Her hair was pulled up really high on her head, like a fountain that had spilled down her neck. She wore denim shorts and a big blue t-shirt. She never dressed like a girl or wore any makeup or earrings or anything like that. Her face was set in a scowl, with her jaw clenched really tight. She made that expression a lot, and I think it was meant to look threatening, but it gave her a dimple on one cheek, and that ruined the whole effect.

"Whatcha doing, Twitch?"

"I'm getting stuff from my locker, Sam the Man. You couldn't figure that out? I guess you're not as smart as you look."

"Oh, you think I look smart? Thanks! That's sweet of you, Twitch."

"I didn't mean that."

I froze, grumbling in my head at my lame comeback. My eyes started to go real crazy just then, almost like my body was trying to get even with my dumb mouth for giving her that one. Like I was trying to justify her calling me Twitch by having mad tics. My face muscles all spazzed out, and I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

When I took my hands away, Sam was still staring at me, and I felt like a sideshow freak in a Tourette's carnival. My ears got hot, and my shoulders started to clench up. I rolled my neck to one side and then the other, to try and loosen my muscles, and when I looked up she was just waiting for me to finish making an ass of myself.
"I don't think you look smart," I said. "I think you look like a beast. An ugly, manly dog."

Sam blinked a few times. It was weird. I thought that maybe she was making fun of my tics, but blinking the wrong way, like more even paced and quicker. I saw her hands ball into fists, then flex, then repeat. She stood for what seemed like a real long time like that, just balling and flexing her hands and blinking her eyes. It was awkward. She wasn't saying anything, and I had to break the moment, so I challenged her to a fight. Like I would with any guy who had screwed with me one too many times.

"I'll meet you by the bleachers after school," I said. "Tonight, at six. Let's finish this."

She nodded, then turned and walked away.

All the rest of that day, I couldn't focus in any of my classes. All I could think about was Sam, and how maybe her bugging me would finally end today. But the strange thing was that I didn't tell anyone. Not even Ethan. Was I ashamed about fighting a girl? I shouldn't be. Sam the Man wasn't really a _real_ girl anyway. I'd been in a few fights, mostly to put people in their place if they made fun of my tics. But this felt different.

I couldn't bring myself to eat much dinner that night, and my mom asked me a few times what was wrong. I told her I had a big English test to study for and that I had to go over to Ethan's house. She muttered to herself about how she never had this much work in eighth grade, but she pretty much left me alone after that. I excused myself to go up to my room at five.

Staring into the mirror, I tried to get ready for my fight with Sam. It was strange. I put on new deodorant and changed into a clean shirt. I told myself that I didn't really think of Sam like a girl, so there was no reason to make myself all presentable just to fight her, but the thought of getting her into a headlock and having stinky pits seemed wrong somehow. I brushed my teeth and my hair, scrutinized myself, and then ran my fingers through my hair to mess it up again. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I left to walk back to school.

The sun was setting when I arrived at the bleachers. Usually, when there was going to be a fight, lots of kids showed up to watch. But I hadn't told anyone about this fight, and I suppose Sam hadn't either. I stretched my arms while I waited for her, trying to limber up. I suddenly felt really stupid. What the hell was I doing trying to fight a girl? She was half my size. That was probably the real reason I hadn't mentioned this to anyone. I was ashamed of myself. I decided that when Sam arrived, I'd keep things to a verbal altercation. I'd tell her to leave me alone and be done with it.

My heartbeat picked up when I saw her enter through the chain-link fence on the left side of the sports field, and my tics started to go crazy. It was probably because I was embarrassed that I'd chickened out of fighting her, and I was already dreading how she'd taunt me about it. I would just tell her it was for her own good because I knew I'd kick her ass and really hurt her, and I was just saving her the humiliation. She should thank me.

When Sam got a bit closer, I saw that her ponytail swayed from side to side as she walked. She had changed into white shorts and a yellow tank top. She kept a steady pace until she reached the bleachers and then stopped a few feet away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out, so I closed it again. She came a few steps closer, and I rubbed my hands over my eyes to block her from seeing my eyes blink like I'd swallowed a strobe light. When I took my hands away from my eyes, she was only about a foot away. She must have also put on fresh deodorant or something because she actually smelled really nice. She put her hands on my cheeks, and my body stiffened. Even my tics stopped in their tracks. I wasn't sure what she was going to do, but her hands were really soft and small and not at all like man hands.

I hadn't planned on it, but when she closed her eyes and started to move her face toward mine, I kissed her on the mouth. Our lips met, and I thanked God that I'd brushed my teeth because her lips were really soft, and her mouth tasted like peppermint. I kept my eyes shut, but I think that at that distance she wouldn't have been able to see my tics anyway.

Her lips moved on mine, and I played with hers as they shifted around, changing the pressure, and we seemed to fit together like we'd been made that way, for this reason. The kiss seemed to go on for a while, but I'm not sure how long it was. Time is funny that way. It was my first kiss, and moments like that sometimes get paused and fixed in my head, so I can play them over and over again in slo-mo to remember them.

When we finally separated, she stood and looked at the ground. She kicked at the dirt with her feet, which was a very Sam thing to do.

"I'm sorry I called you Twitch," she said. "I won't do it anymore."

"Nah, that's okay. You can call me Twitch if you want to. It's alright for my friends."

She nodded and then turned and walked away. I stood there for a while, watching her go, thinking that her shorts made her butt look great, and wondering if we were friends now. I think that in a lot of ways, a fight that day would've been easier and less confusing.

Oliver in Progress

By Ashleigh Meyer

Rileigh crossed the threshold into her six-year-old son's first grade classroom with her hands confidently at her side. There were corkboards on every wall covered with the hand-made art of children. The fluorescent light was harsh and gave an off-putting glow to the colorful posters, borders, and banners. The place smelled like Play-Doh and crayons. Everything was too bright. It was easy to see this average elementary school classroom as the battleground that it was.

"Ah, Ms. Whitman," said Mrs. Lawson, a plump, prudish woman in her fifties. With the bottom of a pen she tapped a stack of papers on her cluttered desk. "I'm glad you came in today. You said you wanted to speak with me? Please, have a seat."

The teacher motioned to a desk built for a six-year-old, with one of those attached table tops and a cubby underneath for storing school supplies. A paper name tag was taped to the upper right corner that read "Jimmy K." Rileigh, thin, pale, and tired, lowered herself into the chair self-consciously.

"Yeah," she began. "Yes. My son-"

"Oliver, yes?" asked Mrs. Lawson.

"Yes. When I got to school today to pick Oliver up, he was soaking wet and didn't have his raincoat. He said that some kids were picking on him, and-"

"Really? Did he say who?" The teacher glanced suspiciously at Rileigh, who picked at the corner of Jimmy K's name tag.

"Yes. Max and Robbie."

"Oh, I can't imagine either of those boys picking on Oliver. They're both very good students." Mrs. Lawson began rifling through the pages of a planner and scribbling things down. She was wearing too much yellow and smelled like coffee and Expo markers, even from four feet away. Rileigh dipped her head to make eye contact with the uninterested teacher.

"Well, Oliver has mentioned them both before. They pick on him all the time."

Mrs. Lawson nodded. "I see." She began organizing the things on her desk.

"Ma'am," the frustrated mother continued, "Oliver said that they made him take off his raincoat and throw it in the trash."

"Now, why would they do that?"

Rileigh exhaled. "It's purple," she said. "Oliver will only wear his purple rain coat. And his sneakers with the purple laces, and carry his purple backpack. And the boys tease him for it."

The teacher looked at Rileigh as if to ask what she should do about it.

"Mrs. Lawson, my son is being harassed by these kids in your class. Have you not seen it going on? It has to stop. It's hard enough already for Oliver to make friends and get along in school. He's struggling. There must be something you can do to help me out here."

Mrs. Lawson slapped some papers down on her desk, removed her glasses, and folded her hands in front of her.

"Ms. Whitman. I understand what stress this must cause you, but please understand. Oliver is very disruptive in class. He makes noises, he does not sit still, and occasionally he whispers to himself. He drums on his desk with his pencils. Just yesterday, I had to take all of his writing implements away. Almost every day, his traffic light is moved to red." She gestured to a corkboard on the wall, full of poorly drawn traffic lights, each with a child's name on it. Red, yellow and green circles were hung in a baggy below the board. Rileigh rolled her eyes at the arbitrary and ridiculous system. She was well aware of her son's problem. In the four weeks since school had started, he'd lost recess eight times. She raised her hand to press on the spot between her eyes where she felt a familiar ache forming.

"You see, Oliver is not adjusting well to the classroom," Mrs. Lawson concluded.

"He's trying." Rileigh closed her eyes. "What does this have to do with the bullying?"

"Ms. Whitman, I'm not so sure I believe your son. He's very creative. He tells a lot of stories. And the other kids are not fond of him. He's a distraction, and he doesn't interact well."

Rileigh opened her eyes quickly and stood from the desk. She felt a rush of heat and anger rise up in her chest and warm her neck. "You're kidding, right? It's okay for these jerks to push him around just because he's different? Does he bully anyone? Has he ever hurt another kid?"

"Directly, no, of course not," said Mrs. Lawson. She maintained her professional, slightly unconcerned timbre. "But academically, he has a tendency to hold the class back."

Rileigh could hear her voice rising. "There's nothing he can do about the movement and the noises, but he's very smart. Don't insinuate that he's not capable of learning in a normal school environment. I was told that mainstreaming him was my best option. His reading abilities are off the charts! Take Oliver and stick him in a room with a book and any one of the students that he's _holding back_ , and I guarantee you that he will out-read that student every time. And if you think-"

"Ms. Whitman," said Mrs. Lawson, standing and returning her glasses to her face. She swiped her hand across the air as if to silence the young woman standing before her. "I understand that Oliver is a smart boy. No one is suggesting that he isn't. I will talk to Max and Robert tomorrow, and we will address the bullying situation. I apologize for any trouble."

She offered a tight-lipped smile, and Rileigh held her gaze for a moment, searching for any sign of compassion. Failing to find it, she turned and walked out of the classroom.

Oliver sat with his head bowed, still soaking wet, on a bench outside the classroom, his curly blond hair matted to his forehead. He swung his feet under the bench and tapped his fingers rapidly on the seat while he flipped through a book about Black Beard with the other hand.

"Am I in trouble?" he asked, without bothering to look up.

Rileigh saw that his purple shoelaces were untied, and she knelt down to tie them. "No," she said softly. "You didn't do anything wrong." She tapped him on the leg, and he looked up at her, his big blue eyes full of frustration and confusion. "Come on, let's go home."

They stood up hand in hand and made their way out of the empty elementary school and into the rainy September day. Once outside, Oliver ran to a trashcan, pulled out his purple raincoat, and looked at it sympathetically.

Rileigh shook her head in disbelief at the cruelty of kids. "Don't worry about it, Ollie. I'll wash it when we get home."

"They said it's a girl color," he told her flatly. "I don't want to wear it to school anymore. It's extremely embarrassing."

Rileigh stopped him on the sidewalk and put her hands on his shoulders. "Look at me," she said to her disheartened six-year-old. His eyes crept upward, but he kept his head down. "I don't care what they say. You can like whatever color you want. I like you for you. And lots of other people do, too."

"No they don't," he told her.

"Oh, yes they do. Aunt Katie loves you, and so does Grandpa, and your cousin Teddy, and all your friends on the soccer team."

"Family doesn't count," he stated. "And everyone on the soccer team hates me. I suck at soccer." His head jerked to the right, and he blinked his eyes hard, before rolling them from side to side. She could see his stomach jumping where he clenched and released his abdominal muscles, one of many tics.

"Come on," said Rileigh. "We've got better things to do than stand here in the rain and be mopey, okay?"

Under an umbrella, they walked two blocks through inner city Baltimore. It was no New York or San Francisco. There were no breathtaking views, no impressive architecture, and no inspiring landscaped parks. Sure, maybe near the harbor or the nicest parts of downtown, one might find a redeeming quality. But in Old Town, it was mostly just abandonment. The entire district seemed to be washed with a liquid gray. Even the oldest buildings, made of crumbling red brick, were shrouded in the gray slosh splattered up from the road. As it was mostly residential, the urban sprawl of the city with its heavy traffic and flashing lights rarely made it to their Old Town neighborhood. Most traffic was foot traffic, and walking down the sidewalk, one could see tired faces peering out from behind dark, cloudy windows. A siren would flare and fade off into the distance, and a dog would bark from behind a chipped wooden door. Otherwise, it was a quiet neighborhood. Once colorful, but now poorly kept row houses stood gazing onto narrow, poplar lined streets. A Laundromat, a corner market, an office supply shop. Not the best place to live, but certainly not the worst.

Rileigh and Oliver lived in a small apartment in an old converted warehouse with Rileigh's younger sister, Katie. The building had been repurposed in the seventies when architecture was purely functional, not aesthetic. White sheetrock had been hung over old brick, and a carpet the color of sour milk had been laid out over the cement floor. The space was cluttered, but not messy. There were no overhead lights, so they stuck lamps in every corner which cast odd low lighting around the rooms. Pictures of family vacations and events hung over the couch. Colored throw blankets livened up the space, and Katie, who loved plants, had adorned each room with something: a potted flower, a spider plant, a carefully trained collection of bamboo stems.

Between the two of them, it was still a challenge to make rent and put food on the table. Katie went to community college and was earning a two-year degree. She held a steady job as a bank teller. Rileigh had never made it to college. After high school, she decided to focus her energies on studio art, but she never got her passion off the ground because at twenty she had Oliver and found herself in desperate need of a steady income. She waitressed at a Cracker Barrel where at least she could count on hours and eventually worked her way up to store manager.

"There's my buddy!" Katie cheered as the two came through the door, wet and tired. "We're going to have a good time tonight. I rented that movie you like, _The Boxtrolls_. I even got some popcorn, and-"

Oliver dropped his purple backpack and purple raincoat from his shoulders and turned down the hall toward his bedroom with all the life and energy of a bowl of cold pea soup. "I'm not in the mood," he stated. "Boomer, come on!" He called, and out of the kitchen, a goofy gray and white husky came running. The two disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door.

Katie laughed. "He's _not in the mood_ ," she echoed. "Bad day at school?"

Rileigh collapsed onto their lumpy couch and rubbed her head above her eyes. "These stupid kids just won't leave him alone."

"Still?" asked Katie, taking a seat next to her sister. The two siblings shared many features; they both had their mother's green eyes and delicate hands and their father's strong jaw and wavy hair. They both had petite frames and a certain femininity in their demeanor. But Katie, three years Rileigh's junior, was spirited and colorful and still portrayed a sense of burgeoning success. She was not a lost cause, and as such, she got the appropriate amount of sleep, paired with the appropriate amount of fun and excitement. This gave her an energy that her older sister did not possess. Rileigh, in contrast, looked sunken and tired, a little ragged, as though she'd been adrift for a while in a world that she'd not entirely gotten a grasp on.

Rileigh leaned back on the couch cushions and rolled her shoulders to try and relieve the tension building at the top of her spine. "Yeah, and the teacher couldn't care less. She says that he's a _disruption_. I don't know. Maybe I should enroll him in another school? But there's no way we'd be able to swing it. I'd need to pick up a second job. Maybe Dad can get me hired at the factory."

Katie shook her head. "No, he's smart! He's doing fine at that school."

"His grades aren't great."

"Yeah, but he knows the material. He just needs to be refocused. I think you should go to the principal. Appeal to the school board if that doesn't work. They can't kick him out of school because the teachers are crappy. He's probably smarter than all of them, anyway!"

Rileigh smiled. "I know," she said. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "All right. I have to go to work. We'll figure something out."

She stood from the sunken, soft couch and made her way down the hallway to her bedroom. Clothes covered the floor; papers and empty glasses covered the nightstand. Cleaning was reserved for the weekends, and lately she hadn't had time even then, between working and entertaining Oliver. She tied back her chestnut hair. Grudgingly, she pulled off her faded blue jeans and Ron Jon t-shirt and pulled on black slacks, a white, collared shirt, and her brown apron; all prepared to pull the dinner shift at Cracker Barrel. When she was hired, it was on the condition that she only work breakfast and lunch, so that she could be with Oliver when he came home from school, but, of course, that hadn't lasted. Tips were better at dinner, so she tried not to complain.

Before leaving, she stopped by Oliver's room. She found him lying flat on the floor, playing with his LEGOs. The ones he wasn't using were still in their color-designated boxes- he'd insisted on keeping the colors separate. Boomer lay next to him, tongue out, with his tail wagging furiously. He was the only good thing that Jason, Oliver's father, had ever done for him, aside from giving him his stunning blue eyes. He had taken off two months after Oliver was born, leaving nothing but his dog, a holey blue t-shirt, and a hole for Oliver to stumble into later.

"Whacha building?" she asked, leaning on the doorframe. The room was dreary, like the rest of the apartment, with walls covered in a ridiculous shade of white. His window curtain was an Avengers bed sheet, and his toys were organized in boxes along the wall.

"A space station," he told her. He cleared his throat a handful of times and clicked his tongue at the back of his mouth. "Next, I'm-" he forced air from his lungs in a quick, stabbing fashion. "Going to build a rocket ship. So these guys can get there." His eyes darted rapidly, and he sucked in a hard breath like an old smoker with emphysema as he held up his two Lego astronauts.

Rileigh pulled Oliver's inhaler out of his sock drawer. Of his many tics, the forced breathing was the most dangerous, and there was really nothing to be done about it. His doctor had recommended medication, and she tried it for a week, but Oliver refused to swallow it. Haldol, the most frequently prescribed medication for Tourette's, is a powerful tranquilizer used in larger doses to control dangerous and combative patients in mental wards and nursing homes. It functions by literally stopping chemicals in the brain from firing. It made him feel nauseous and deflated. Besides, she had seen what medicated kids were like and didn't want to do that to him. She worried that it would wreck his imagination and make him lethargic and depressed. The best she could do otherwise was give him an inhaler.

He took a puff and handed it back to her.

"I have to go to work now," she told him. "I'll have Aunt Katie wash your coat."

"Whatever," he shrugged. "It's not extremely important." While trying to connect two blocks, the muscles in his arm seized, and he slammed his fist down on his space station. Lego bricks went flying.

Rileigh rushed to him. "Let me see," she insisted, trying to pull his hand up. She could see that he had cut himself a little on the blocks.

He pulled away. His wrist was still contorted backward, and his upper body was stiff and contracted. He tried to take a deep breath. "I'm fine," he grumbled, frustrated. "It's no big deal."

Rileigh stepped back, forcing herself to give him his space. She hated seeing him struggle. The noises and tics made it bad enough, but the occasional loss of motor control was the thing that seemed to nag at him the most. He was tough though and used to the tics.

"Okay," she whispered. "I love you. I'll see you in the morning."

"Love you too," he said, rotating his wrists to relax the muscles. She watched through a crack in the door until he went back to playing with his blocks, then she slipped off to work.

***

She got home exhausted at eleven thirty that night and crashed in bed only to be awakened three hours later by a sobbing child. He had crept into her room and burst into tears, Boomer in tow.

She shot up, alarmed. "Hey, what's wrong, kiddo?" she asked, pulling him onto the bed. "Are you okay?" She looked him over and found no injuries.

With reddened eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, he shook his head. "Did they find the missing girl?" He asked through sobs.

"What?" Rileigh asked, confused. "What girl?"

"The missing girl. She was on the news yesterday, and I forgot to watch today to see if she was okay." Tears continued to fall, and he couldn't catch his breath. "I'm extremely worried about her."

Rileigh pulled him toward her and kissed him on the top of his head. This was something that happened from time to time. Oliver was incredibly sensitive. He'd cry when he saw fender benders on the side of the road. He'd tear up when talking about how much he loves Boomer. If he heard a siren from an ambulance or fire truck, forget it. He was a wreck. Strange things bothered him to the core. For instance, he would occasionally get really upset when he saw uneaten food in the garbage, or when an elderly person passed him on the street. There were about a million eccentricities that made Oliver Oliver. Rileigh loved every one of them, but she often found herself wishing she could disconnect him from the world, if for no other reason than to shield him from the pain that every day occurrences sometimes caused him.

She told him that they had found the girl on the news. This was untrue. She didn't even know of the girl he was talking about. It was the only way to calm him down. She made a mental note to tell Katie to keep him away from the TV. It only made his life harder. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep, and she let him stay in her bed for the night. Boomer, who wouldn't sleep without the boy next to him, jumped onto the bed as well, and there they all slept till morning.

***

They both woke up at seven thirty to go about their morning routine. Katie had already left for work. Rileigh made Oliver his toast, crunchy peanut butter, with the crust removed, and cut into four identical squares. Getting dressed was always a challenge. He refused to wear his long-sleeved Baltimore Aquarium shirt (which he had previously adored) because, on this particular day, the sleeves were a little too long, and he didn't like the way they rubbed at the back of his hands. After ripping it off, Rileigh coaxed him out of a panic attack and into his Ravens t-shirt, which was all the better because it was purple. That's the thing about TS: one can't assume that because something was okay before it will be okay in the future. Physical tics are reliable and repetitious, but even those developed and morphed into new and more complex ones. He then pulled on his socks, folded the toe over his toes, as always, and tied up his purple laced sneakers so tightly that Rileigh worried he'd cut off his circulation. "They have to be _extremely_ tight, Mom," he said. "Otherwise, I can't stand them."

On the way out the door, he glanced longingly at his purple raincoat hanging on the rack. Rileigh went to take it down for him, but he stopped her.

"Not today," he told her.

She silently and reluctantly agreed, and they walked the two blocks to school. On the walk, Oliver talked about his plans to hang glow in the dark stars on his ceiling. "They would be great, because they'd do two things." His eyebrows raised and lowered, and he rubbed at his eyes. Rileigh could tell that they were bothering him, but he was unhindered. "One, they'd make me feel like I was in space, which would be extremely cool. Two, they'd give me a night light, which would be great because then Boomer could see if he has to get up for something."

Rileigh laughed. "We will have to get you some stars, then."

"That would be awesome," said Oliver enthusiastically. "Now, I think we should hang them so that they are shaped like constellations. Not all of the constellations, because there are a lot and we would need an infinite number of stars, but a few, like the Big Dipper, which is also called Ursa Major, and Orion." He began to snap his fingers and stomp his feet as he walked. "And maybe we could build a model rocket and hang it on a string from my ceiling fan!"

"Oh, that sounds a little dangerous, but we'll see," answered Rileigh who guided him down the sidewalk with her hand on his back since his awkward steps were causing him to swerve.

They arrived at school, and Oliver wrapped his skinny arms around his mom. "Love you," he said. And then he ran to the building, his purple backpack swinging out of control on his back.

She watched him go, and, though he didn't stop to talk to any other kids on his way in and no other kids said hello to him, she thought, _this is going to be a good day._

She was half way through the lunch shift at Cracker Barrel when the other manager called her into the kitchen. "Oliver's school is on the phone. They say they gotta talk to you."

"Damn it" _,_ Rileigh said under her breath. She dragged herself into the office, picked up the phone, and was told to get down to the school immediately.

***

Before she even made it all the way into the principal's office, Mrs. Lawson flagged her down.

"Finally," she said, exasperated. "You're going to need to take Oliver home. Fighting with other students is unacceptable."

"Fighting?" asked Rileigh in shock. "Oliver wouldn't hurt a flea."

"Well, why don't you go talk to him then." She pointed with a huff to the principal's office, where Oliver sat slouched over in a chair, one strap of his purple backpack torn off, his hair disheveled, his face red and angry, and his hands in tight fists in his lap.

"Oliver, what happened?" asked Rileigh as she took his face in her hands. He was hot and sweaty and wouldn't look her in the eye. He didn't look like himself.

"I'll tell you what happened," said Mrs. Lawson. "Mr. Whitman started barking in class today. He then decided that his desk could not be near the door in case of intruders and attempted to drag it across the room. I was in the middle of teaching multiplication tables, so while I tried to redirect the class after the disruption, Oliver threw himself on top of Max, and the next thing you know, he's punching him!"

Rileigh looked in tired bewilderment at her son. "Is this true? Did you beat up Max?"

"Max is an asshole."

"Oliver!" scolded Rileigh. She turned to Mrs. Lawson. "I'm sorry. I have no idea where he got that. It's not like him to be so-"

"Ms. Whitman?" A deep voice spoke from behind her. She turned to find Principal Wilcox standing with his arms crossed, staring at her, and suddenly, fear and shame crept over her and weighed heavy on her shoulders. He was a big, cumbersome man whose presence occupied a space as much as his large form. She felt like she was six inches tall and back in grade school. "Please take your son home. We will arrange a meeting with the two of you, Mrs. Lawson, his doctor, and myself to discuss our options. For now, he is suspended."

Out from a small office came a boy, Rileigh assumed Max, who was also beet red and had a cut on his lip where he was holding a cold compress. He glanced briefly at Oliver as he was ushered out of the school by an impatient man on a cell phone.

Quietly, Rileigh picked up Oliver's backpack from the floor, and it slumped awkwardly over her shoulder. She tugged on his shirtsleeve and led him out the door. On the walk home, Oliver kept his arms crossed. Every few seconds, his head jerked to the right or left, and he would growl in frustration. Though the sun shone down on them, a chilling wind swept through the streets and trash-lined alleys and blew at their backs, ushering them down the old sidewalk.

"What happened today, Oliver?" asked Rileigh, harsher than she'd intended.

"I don't feel like talking about it," the boy muttered.

"Too bad," said Rileigh. "You can't go around hitting other kids! What's wrong with you?"

He stopped walking. "I don't know what's wrong with me!" He yelled. "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with stupid Max and Robbie? What's wrong with Mrs. Lawson?" He was screaming. Rileigh rarely heard him raise his voice. He reached up and wrapped his fists, white knuckled, around locks of his hair. "He cut the strap on my backpack with scissors!"

She dropped the broken backpack and knelt down in front of him. "Let go," she said gently, trying to soothe his hands. "Stop hurting yourself."

He wouldn't let go. "He was calling me Twitch, and everyone started laughing! He was blinking and twitching his head all around! I wanted to kill him!" His face was in a tight grimace, and his eyes were narrowed. His jaw was clenched in rage, and he pulled at his hair as hard as he could. He began twisting his upper body in a motion that was out of control.

"Oliver, stop!" Rileigh yelled. She pried his fists open and bear hugged him, holding his arms and legs tightly at his sides until he calmed down. After a few minutes, his breathing had slowed, and she could feel his chest quivering against her body. "Mrs. Lawson didn't tell me any of that." She squeezed him and ran her hands through his sweaty hair and scanned the scene. His backpack had dropped a few inches from a brown, shrunken banana peel. The air settled down on them with an unfamiliar hostility. She slowly stood him back up on his own two feet, but kept his hands in hers.

He was tearing up and shuffling his feet on the pavement. "Mrs. Lawson is a big fat whale," he said, trying to maintain his composure.

Rileigh nodded. "I know." He lifted his face, and she looked in his eyes. He was taking deep breaths and trying not to cry. She saw in him something that she'd been trying not to see. He looked defeated. His eyes welled up, and their dazzling blueness was obscured by tears.

"There's something wrong with me," he whimpered. He said it more like a question than a statement, and Rileigh could hear the fear in his subdued voice.

She swept him into her arms as he erupted into sobs.

"There's nothing wrong with you," she urged, cursing herself for her carelessness. "I never should have said that. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. I was just angry, but not at you. I'm sorry." She shook her head, mad at herself for being a coward and lying to him. She should've been stronger, but she wasn't. She felt him nod in acknowledgement, but it was all he could do between labored, hiccupping breaths.

She picked him up and carried him home, fighting back her own well of emotions. How can anyone tell a child that they are not wrong, but different? How does different come across as anything but wrong? Something in his brain wasn't wired right. Not right means wrong. She knew there would come a day when he would make that realization, and for a while, he would feel inadequate. She was afraid he would sell himself short, hold himself back, plagued by this thing that he didn't choose. All she could do was plead silently with God and the universe that he would find in himself the worth that she knew he possessed. That he would not only meet the challenge but rise above it, and use it as a ladder, not as a crutch. She wondered how kids like him get stuck with such crappy lots in life.

At the apartment, she set him down on the couch. He rolled over and curled up into a ball. Rileigh sat down next to him. She rubbed his back until he fell asleep. She knew that some people would just never understand him, and that was only going to get harder as he got older. Her heart sank in her chest thinking about what middle school would be like for him. It had been bad enough for her, and she had been an average student, maybe even pretty and relatively smart. But she remembered very well the savagery of pre-pubescent preteens. For a second, she was glad he had punched that Max kid. There would be more Maxes, and the Olivers of the world deserved a moment of justice.

While he slept, Rileigh made a phone call to her sister, who would be getting off of work in about an hour. She dug into the back of the kitchen closet and pulled out a dusty bottle of cheap red wine. She sipped it from a coffee mug and let the warm, soothing liquid wash away the top layer of her senses, just enough to relax her rigid muscles and allow herself the right to put off her worries until tomorrow.

When Oliver woke up at four, there were eight cans of paint stacked up in front of the couch, three brushes, two pepperoni and pineapple pizzas (his favorite), and two women who loved him standing before him with grins from ear to ear.

"What are you doing?" he asked, rubbing his puffy eyes as he sat up. He cleared his throat and rocked his head and clicked the back of his tongue.

Rileigh and Katie smiled.

"We're going to paint the apartment," said Rileigh, pulling him off the couch. She stood him up, ruffled his hair, poked his ribs, eliciting a reluctant laugh, and handed him a brush.

He looked puzzled at his mother and aunt. "Why?"

"We thought it could use a touch up." Katie picked up one of the cans of paint and popped it open. Oliver's smile was unconcealable when he laid his eyes on a can full to the brim of bright purple paint. He gave his mom a quick hug and sank the brush into the thick, wet paint.

Katie put on Billy Joel's Greatest Hits while Rileigh pulled a big white t-shirt over Oliver's head. They spent the rest of the evening laughing and dancing and covering the walls, and each other, with purple paint. When they were finished, they had managed to paint the kitchen and the living room, and were working on Oliver's bedroom.

"We are so not getting the security deposit back," said Katie, laughing with purple paint on the side of her cheek.

Rileigh looked around their new apartment, and saw her son painting purple stars on his bedroom wall with nothing but happiness on his face.

"We weren't getting it back anyway," she replied.

The principal would call Dr. Tinsley, Oliver's pediatrician. There would be an awkward meeting in a quiet room on firm upholstered chairs with uncomfortable pauses and complicated questions. There would be no easy answers. Rileigh knew all of this. She could see Mrs. Lawson, her nose in the air, pounding nail after nail into the coffin of Oliver's mainstream education. She could see Principal Wilcox towering over her, offering the occasional one-liner, with the power to drop the gavel and make the final decision. Dr. Tinsley, sweet old man that he was, would give an honest opinion of Oliver's chances of success in a normal learning environment. She doubted very much that it would go well. She knew that she would again feel like a shriveled banana peel on the dirty Baltimore sidewalk. She knew that Oliver would feel worse. She knew that purple paint and pineapple pizza were temporary, surface fixes. Tape, not super glue.

She watched Oliver chase Boomer around with the paintbrush and laugh and sing along with songs that most six-year-olds would have never heard. He knew everything about outer space and loved visiting the sea otters at the aquarium and carried books about pirates in his backpack. In that moment, there was nothing wrong with him.

The Moth-Man

By Jon-Paul Reed

In my head, I know science says we came from evolution. In my heart, I know the Bible says we were made in His image, but deep down, past these pesky organs, in the very sinews of my body, I know where we actually came from. I learned it in the Stone Mountain Village. There was a weaver, and as she described her craft, I saw the act of creation for what seemed to be the first time.

We are all weaves, and our mothers are the weavers. Each cord, each thread, stretches and twangs against the next, creating a harmony of colors that only intelligent makers could conjure. This conjuring would become our character. The apparition like designs molded our hopes, fears, and desires. The fabric formed was life itself. These fabrics, our fabrics, were made with as much love as a mother could muster. I learned, however, that no weave is perfect.

As the door swung open, I could immediately feel the cacophonous sound from the middle school hallway violate the silent sanctuary of the study hall. I held the door open as long as I could reasonably justify until two bored faces looked up for an instant, saw it was me, and then returned their gaze to the empty blackboard. Satisfied, I walked past my usual desk, front and slightly off center, towards the back corner of the room. Most of the authority figures in my life, my mother, my teachers, and my myofunctional therapist, all encouraged me to sit wherever I could clearly be seen. My speech therapist had recently insisted that I sit wherever I wanted in order to continue developing my own sense of agency, and today her words won me over. I wanted to see what the classroom looked like from someone else's perspective, particularly that of Mike Crouse. For one brief second, I imagined Mike Crouse beating me to a pulp while trying to keep my blood off of his football sweatshirt, but that would have meant that he cared. Everyone knew that Mike Crouse was too cool to care about anything, especially something as insignificant as me.

The seat's view was marred by the other overstuffed football sweatshirts sitting in front of me. One of them turned, looked at me, and was close to opening his mouth when another shot him an all too familiar look that seemed to say, "Not worth it. This kid is protected remember? We'll fry if we touch him." It was a sentiment that I wish everyone could appreciate, regardless of how demeaning it was at times. I knew that I was safe and free to continue my work. I pulled out my notebook and continued where I had left off.

While my mother sang made up lullabies to her belly to bid my own loom to swell and grow, the moths that lived in her began to stir. These moths hungered and salivated for the prettiness my mother had made and so descended upon my weave and nibbled. "Not too much," the moths told themselves, "Just enough to feel satisfied." One thread here turned into another there until the moths were satisfied and took flight. These severed threads would eventually form into severed neurons, and, no matter how much Mother still sings to me, I can never sing back to her. I simmer and stew in my silence, never forgetting the words she sings to me.

I read over what I have written and am satisfied. Before I could continue, I was interrupted by Mr. Judd taking roll,

"Sarah?"

"Here."

"Jason?"

"Present."

"Jack?"

I nodded to him, but he didn't see me.

"Is he here today?" Asked Mr. Judd again. I raised my hand and frantically waved at the man.

"Ah, there you are. Why didn't you say anything?" As soon as the words left Mr. Judd's mouth, his brow furrowed. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I wasn't thinking when I said that. Next time, though, can you sit a little closer so I can see you?" I tried to sign to show that I accepted his apology, but my fingers were clumsy. My speech therapist had insisted that besides exercising my right to choose, that I not rely on sign language because it would only lead to a dependence on a mode of communication most of the world was ignorant to. "Independence or death" was her M.O. I tried to smile as big as I could to show Mr. Judd I forgave him. It didn't matter if I forgave him or not. I couldn't show my displeasure besides a temper tantrum, and I was far too old for that sort of nonsense. Besides, it wasn't like he did it intentionally. From what I could tell, Mr. Judd was a good man, and I try my best to take good men at their word. My smile was enough to salve Mr. Judd's pricked conscious, and the quiet harmony of the room returned after roll. Mike Crouse didn't even bother to show.

Now that my civic duty had been completed, I swallowed, making sure that I placed my tongue in the correct spot in my mouth this time. The slick muscle brushed against my teeth as Sisyphus must have strained against his stone. I imagined myself in the not so distant future posing for senior pictures while trying to hide the ugliest buckteeth that would have made even the steeliest Orthodontist swoon. I took a deep breath and tried to swallow again, this time with perfection. The future disaster I had imagined seemed to be postponed, for now. I hadn't told my speech therapist yet, but I seemed to mess up my swallows every time I tried and failed to communicate with someone. The burning in my ears distracted me from being able to concentrate. I, of course, would never tell her this because that might mean that progress is slowing down, and there was no way I was going to let her get that idea in her head. I wasn't sure if she dropped slow cases, but I knew I would never find out.

Whenever I thought of such things in school, I liked to rub my hands under the desk. Sure, deep down I knew it was weird, but the cold, hard plastic was a small comfort, like the cool side of the pillow. I am almost always disappointed to discover some thick wad of chewing gum, but this desk was unblemished. I peeked under the desk. Nothing. I couldn't believe it. Mike Crouse chewed gum every day as an act of defiance to Mr. Judd. The desk should have been a minty minefield. Mr. Judd must clean these desks every day. No, I decided. He wasn't the kind of man who would do that. Maybe he was the detention teacher, and he made students scrape the gum off his desks after school. If he did that, then he must make them chew the gum too. I began to wonder what other sorts of punishments Mr. Judd's prisoners had to endure. My curiosity often got the best of me in these moments, but it wasn't like I could just ask him about it. My curiosity grew into a fire, and I was all but prepared to chuck my textbook across the room to be sentenced to detention and finally relieve my agony when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sarah.

Sarah and I had met a few weeks ago. She sat right behind my usual seat of front and slightly off center. She had told me the front row was too intimidating for her, something I could hardly believe even now. The first time Sarah said hello to me, I offered her a pencil. Most times when people spoke to me, it was to ask for a pencil. Sarah, polite as ever, declined my offer but asked to see my drawings. I was something of a compulsive doodler, and Sarah had noticed. I think she liked the fact that I didn't care if it was perfect or not. At first, I tried to shake my head no to her request. I had never been self-conscious of my efforts until that very moment, but the way she looked at me with her green-blue eyes (or were they blue-green? I still can't decide.) stiffened my neck. It wasn't often someone looked at me like that. With my blessing, she poured over the pages. It was the beginning of the best friendship I've ever had.

During lunch, we would sit together, and she would talk while I would eat. I used to laugh to myself over the fact that she talked so much that she never had the chance to eat her lunch. After a while, I noticed that she never brought a lunch, which made me sad, but she never accepted my offer to share. She would tell me she had too much to talk about. I learned a lot about her during these meals. How she likes brown sand more than white sand on beaches because it seems more natural that way, just like bread. I learned that she liked Joe Jonas, but hated Nick Jonas (a distinction I never quite understood). She also told me that even though she knows that statistically Squirtle is the best starter Pokémon, she can't help but pick Bulbasaur as her favorite. It's just too cute. I never told her that I always picked Charmander to try and look cool if anyone had ever asked me. No one besides her had ever asked, so I switched my favorite to Squirtle because I liked how its tail actually looked like a squirrel's tail.

Every day, at the end of lunch, we would write each other a letter in the same raggedy envelopes and promise that we would read them right before we went to bed. This was a lie. I always read her letter the first chance I got. I sometimes wondered if she ever broke the promise, too. They were generally short, just some sort of musing on one issue or another, but I kept every one she gave me.

We used to pass notes to each other in study hall, but every time we did, Mr. Judd looked ready to combust under the strain of his moral obligation. So instead I would let her look at certain parts of my journal. Today, when she tapped on my shoulder, I flipped the journal to my latest creations: The Salvatore Mountains whose snowcapped peaks were so jagged they might well have once been some ancient giant's arrowheads (An idea I was still debating in my head) and the Upauroastrum, slithering, scaly creatures with puss filled sores all about their backs that oozed acid. The beasts had wings that had not yet grown, so they scuttled across the misty rainforest roots with its six legs while atop their head was a pair of arms that would craft a crown made from the bones of whatever living thing their fingers could wrap themselves around. I tried to make them look as gruesome as possible, and Sarah's disgust brought me satisfaction. Sarah had no idea why I drew such horrid beasts. I had not yet told her my secret, but the letter I sent home with her would. Its name was Phoninia. Deep within the journal, past the ink smudges and wrinkled pages, a world full of breath was heaving for its first time. I would not, no, could not, tell her of how Phoninia came to be. That page was tucked away in another journal under my bed. It was a book made inconspicuously to divert any prying eyes should they ever discover its existence and care enough to read it.

In the beginning, I was first of the forgotten. The first of my family, born only to have forgotten the gift of language, and the first to be forgotten by the rest of the world. I looked at the others around me with their subtle jokes and snickers. I used to pray to God to forgive me for whatever sin I had committed so that He would let me join them in their laughter. He never heard me. I felt like both the prisoner and the warden of my own mind. A warden who had misplaced his keys and could only imagine life beyond the closed doors.

As the first of the forgotten, I am nothing. A mere moth drawn to the flame of life who hovers harmlessly above the conversations of lovers, idiots, brutes, and scholars. I saw, I heard, and I stole their words without so much as a swat from them. I hoarded these words as if they could be my own. These words buzzed in my head until they swarmed forth and formed both mountains and monsters within my pages. The world that came forth juked and jived to some hidden rhythm that only I knew. The bass leapt in the air and slapped their tails against the water like a set of four strings. The elephants hoisted their trunks and trumpeted to help support some invisible saxophones. In this way, all things played their part to make the melody of Phoninia. As I heard the music being made, I realized that its beauty had to be shared. I made the Apraxians in my own silent image so they could simply sit and appreciate the music I made for them.

The life they lived was a pleasant one until the Upauroarstrums' wings grew and bid them to take flight. The monsters descended upon the world I had made and began to eat the animals that made their happy music. They hated sound because it agitated their sores and sought to end it altogether. The Apraxians, full of valor and strength, were no match for the Upauroastrum. Their silence proved to be their undoing as they could not communicate and coordinate. When the battle seemed all but lost, I knew I had to intervene. I came down and walked among them and spoke to each of them within their hearts, filling them with courage and secretly whispering the tactics they needed to win the day. The monsters fell under our swords, under my hand. As night fell, the last of the Upauroastrum had been buried. The celebration bonfire roared, and the Apraxians danced and composed songs on two stringed harps that they would use to serenade me for centuries to come, and I was most satisfied.

I knew of course, that I could never show Sarah these words. She was far too worthy to be molested by something so trivial, so insignificant as me or my self-pity. I heard a light tapping from the window in my room. A moth was ramming its head against it, trying to get in. I wondered if moths ever got concussions. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they knew that they did but didn't care. The light they desired was simply too tempting for them.

I stared at the light's reflection in the window, my weight shifting ever so slightly to my toes and toward the window. I blinked. I saw the Moth-Man. A creature who, in the darkness, consumed Tchaikovsky and the Who like agar before turning on its own offspring by stealing their voices. Only then could the Moth-Man feel like he was needed. Silence led to dependency, the Moth-Man knew this well. If the Moth-Man was to be denied its light, then it would have its serenades. In that strange land of Phoninia, it would be loved, and it would be valued. It wanted to forget the light of the world and never leave the darkness found in the ink. I blinked. The Moth-Man was gone. Would the Apraxians ever forgive me? I fell asleep to the sound of invisible moths tapping to find a light that didn't exist.

When I awoke the next morning, I decided nothing had changed. As I was brushing my teeth, I thought of the name for the first high king of the Apraxians, but I decided to wait until after school to write it in my book. I was too scared to go back because the Moth-Man might have been waiting for me to return. Sarah didn't come to lunch. I was worried about her, but, secretly, I was also glad. I didn't feel like writing out what was wrong with me. My hand would have grown tired. I ate in silence and tried to listen to the odd bits of conversation around me, but it was hard to make out what was being said. I pulled out my headphones from the bottom of my backpack and tapped my foot to "Tommy the Who."

In study hall, I grew restless. There were simply too many ideas of action and adventure filling my head. It was distracting, and I needed to relieve myself before I forgot them. I began to write. I didn't look up a single time for nearly the entire period. I paid no attention to the world around me until a tap on my shoulder broke me from my trance. It was Sarah. With a smile, she showed me the Band-Aid on her arm she had received from her doctor's appointment. The Band-Aid was covered in Squirtles, and she said that she had picked it to honor my recent conversion. I never knew what to do with these small moments of kindness, and on that particular day, I cried. Not a lot of course, just enough for the endorphins to kick in. Sarah tried to comfort me, but I nodded no and gave her a thumbs up. She understood and sat with me.

When I finally composed myself, she tried to say something but was drowned out by the ringing bell. Study hall was over. Before we left each other, she gave me my daily letter. I reached down into my backpack to give her hers before the horror struck me. I never wrote her a letter. She must have realized this mistake by my expression. She shot me the biggest smile she could muster and told me not to worry. She had a lot of school work to make up, and it was one less thing to distract her. She suggested if I felt bad, I could just write two letters for tomorrow. I nodded and bowed my head to show her my gratitude.

As soon as I got home I began to write to her. After three pages, my hand began to cramp, and I noticed that I had not yet read her letter. I pulled it out and began to read.

Hello Friend!

I hope this lovely night finds you well. I know you have that physical science test coming up soon, and I know that you will do great. You just have to study. So you better study, or I'll be mad because I know how smart you are! I was talking to my parents yesterday, and they made me really upset. I read your letter and during dinner (I know I cheated and didn't wait until bedtime, I just really like your letters) I told my parents about Phoninia (It's such a cool idea btw). They told me that they were proud of me for being nice to someone who was disabled and needed all of the friends they could get. I tried to explain to them that you weren't disabled, but they don't get it. They don't know how smart, kind, and creative you are, but I do and I hope you do too. I want to read more about your world after my doctor's appointment. Stay awesome!

Sincerely,

Sarah

If I hadn't already cried that day, I would have done so again, but I had a strict rule on that. So I went to the living room and began to make copies of the pages from my journal, even the ones that I was scared to show her. The sections were disjointed and the organization was a mess. I tried to write a reading guide to help her but gave it up as impossible. As I stapled the amalgamation together, I thought about throwing it away. I tapped the glass table thinking of what to do. I couldn't help but be reminded of the moths. After reading it for the sixth time, I went to the very back page and wrote,

"Written by Jack Raulington."

As I held up the manuscript, the corners of my mouth curled into a smile. This lovely mess was mine to share and no one else's. There was no Moth-Man to be seen anywhere in the darkness of the drying ink.

The Karma Bug

By Erica Verrillo

Harriet woke up feeling slightly hungover, bleary from the aftereffects of the bug that was going around. She reached over to her nightstand and flipped up the digital clock. 8AM. The arraignment had been set for 10AM. If she didn't get moving, she was going to be late.

She hauled herself out of bed, slipped into a white silk blouse and gray skirt, and grabbed her make-up kit. A little lipstick could always be counted on to work wonders. There was nothing like a pout to distract a judge: the redder the better. She padded into the bathroom and gazed at her reflection in the mirror: brown hair that fell in soft waves to her shoulders, clear blue eyes, a pert nose. No mouth.

Harriet put down the lipstick. She tried to sigh, but it came out as a snort.

_You never really appreciate a pert nose until you don't have a mouth_ , she thought. She placed her fingers against her cheeks and pressed gently. At least her teeth were still there. She believed she could feel her tongue. Briefly, she glanced at her Lady Gillette. No, if she took drastic measures now it would only make her miss her court date entirely. There was only one thing for it – she'd have to write her response.

Harriet rummaged around in her desk for a white pad and marker, crammed them into her briefcase, and hurried out the door. Fortunately, the subway was still running, and, at this hour, there weren't too many crazies on the street. In fact, there was nobody on the street, or on the platform. She could lean over the pit that held the rails and watch the train materialize from the darkness of the tunnel unencumbered. For once, she didn't have to wait for the M.

The doors slid open and Harriet automatically looked around for an available seat, even though there was only one other person in the car, a man holding his groin and weeping openly. She sat on the opposite end of the car. Without passengers the car felt not just empty, but hollow, as if it too had lost part of itself.

She pulled the briefcase onto her lap and flipped the latches. The blank whiteness of the pad stared up at her. For a moment, she considered uncapping her marker and writing _NOT GUILTY_ on it, but the car was lurching, and she didn't want to waste the effort. This was a court-appointed case, and she hadn't even looked at the file yet.

Fermin Gonzalez, 32, assault and battery. Spanish only. That was too bad. Her Spanish was non-existent, but it didn't really matter; there would be a translator. She skimmed the notes, looking for something that would mark this case as out of the ordinary. Sadly, it was just the same old same old. The wife had been taken to the hospital, again, where she had finally been convinced to press charges. In all likelihood, she would drop the charges once her husband sent her a dozen roses. They all did. She turned the page.

The between-cars door screeched open, and a young man entered. He was carrying a clipboard and had the welcoming, direct stare of a man on a mission. _Scientologist_ , thought Harriet. They liked to pretend the clipboard gave them legitimacy. She immediately lowered her eyes to the file, but he sat down next to her anyway. _Go_ _away_ , she thought.

"Have you heard the good news?" Bright eyes, bright smile.

_Oh, no. A Jehovah's Witness_. If only Harriet could groan. As it was, all she could do was twist her head away and cross her arms. There was no point getting up and sitting in a different seat. These people were dogged, especially now, and he would only follow her. She would just have to let him talk himself out.

"The city is offering free counseling to anyone who has contracted the virus," he said.

Harriet turned back. Now that she took a good look at him, she could see the city badge displayed on his chest. The young man unclipped a brochure from his board and opened it. She leaned over, interested.

He took a pen that was attached to the clip with a little chain and began pointing to red dots that were scattered like pimples on the map. "Here are the clinics that are open every day, and here," pointing to a few black dots, "are the clinics that have evening hours. These are all walk-in clinics, and over here," indicating a flurry of blue with his pen, "is a list of phone numbers in case you want to make an appointment."

"Mmm."

The young man looked at her face. "Well, you can just walk in. The staff are all fully trained, and the services are free of charge, although donations are accepted."

Harriet took the brochure from his hand and noted the location of a clinic close to the courthouse.

"If you wouldn't mind taking a moment to fill out this brief customer service satisfaction survey, I would appreciate it." The man passed her the clipboard and pen. As she ticked off, "satisfied" after each question, she felt his eyes on her.

"Lawyer?"

"Mmmm," she said, handing him the clipboard.

He stood up. "Figures."

She watched as he made his way across the car to the weeping man.

"Canal Street!"

Harriet was already on her feet and waiting. The doors slid open, and she emerged, feeling simultaneously relieved and irritated. It would be nice to talk to someone, a _trained_ someone, even if it had to be in writing, but she really didn't appreciate that young man's attitude.

On the street, she kicked aside a discarded newspaper – _Third Week of Epidemic! City Declared Federal Disaster Area! –_ and nearly tripped over a man lying on the sidewalk. He had a sign on his chest that said, _I'm sorry._ Harriet pointed emphatically at the curb. There was a place for that sort of thing, and it was not where other people, people with functioning _legs_ , were walking.

Canal was crowded, as usual, with all sorts of characters – bearded fanatics shouting that the end was near, bedraggled men holding out tin cans. One of them reached out a dirty hand and said, "Help a crippled vet."

She sidestepped him. _There's nothing wrong with you_ , she thought. _Get a life_. But, the truth was there was no way to tell, just by appearances, what was missing from a person's life.

The pretzel seller was in his usual spot in front of the Courthouse. Harriet's stomach growled. _How long can I go without food_? She wondered. _How long can I go without_ coffee?

She placed her briefcase on the conveyor belt to be checked for weapons of mass destruction, then she walked under the arch. Nothing beeped. The guard returned her briefcase without comment, without sparing her a glance, and she made her way down the hall to the courtroom. On her way, she passed two lawyers from the DA's office furiously gesturing at one another, scribbling wildly on a pad, passing it back and forth. It was too quiet.

As she approached the courtroom, she spotted what looked to be her client, Fermin Gonzalez, sitting on the bench. Apparently, he had made bail. She walked over to him with a firm step, trying to convey confidence. He looked up as she drew near. His face had _guilty_ written all over it. Harriet pointed to her briefcase and held her hand out to him. He didn't take it.

The bailiff called the docket number, and they entered the courtroom, Harriet first. It was only when she had placed her briefcase on the table and taken out her client's file that she realized she hadn't written, _Not Guilty,_ on her pad. She took out the pad and fumbled for the marker.

"All rise!"

Harriet stood. The translator, a mousy little woman with a pinched face, whispered in Fermin's ear, and Fermin stood as well, his arms hanging at his sides like two blocks of wood. Judge Mendelson tottered in with the help of an assistant. Mendelson was a judiciary relic, having outlived most of his contemporaries, and a real stickler for rules that had been established in the 19th century. Harriet was only half listening as the bailiff announced the case and read the charges. She was busy writing the plea in block letters so that the judge would be able to see them clearly from the bench.

"The charges have been read. How do you plead?"

Harriet looked up, her sign almost complete. She wanted desperately to say, "Just a moment," but the only thing that came out was, "Mmm."

"How do you plead?" The judge was facing straight ahead, his eyes closed. Blind.

"Mmm... _mm_... mmm." Did that sound like "not guilty?"

"Speak up!" said the judge.

"Culpable!" Fermin was speaking.

"Guilty," said the translator.

Harriet quickly finished writing and flourished the pad at the translator, jabbing her index finger at each letter.

"Sorry," said the translator. "I don't do English."

"Soy culpable!" Fermin repeated. "Y tengo que irme a la cárcel por lo que hice."

"I'm guilty, and I have to go to jail for what I did," said the translator.

Fermin looked over his shoulder into the courtroom. A dark-haired woman met his gaze. "Sólo quiero que ella me perdone," he said.

"I just want her to forgive – "

The woman jumped to her feet. "Fermin, Fermin! Te quiero! Te perdono!"

"Fermin, I love you," said the translator. "I forgive you."

The judge was rapping his gavel on the bench. "What is all this? Who is loving whom here? I'm not a damned Justice of the Peace! Bailiff, shut these people up!" The bailiff escorted the weeping woman – Harriet presumed she was the wife – out of the courtroom as, all the while, she continued to declare her love.

"Guilty plea entered," said the judge. "Sentencing will be Friday the 17th of this month."

Two officers led the unresisting Fermin away. Harriet looked down at her sign, dumbfounded. She was afraid this was going to be a day filled with clichés. _Justice and love,_ she thought, _both blind in the same courtroom_. _And it's not even noon_."

Harriet gathered up her briefcase and useless sign, and left the Courthouse. As she walked down the street with its menagerie of _Sorrys_ and _The End is Nears_ , a wave of futility washed over her. Her career was probably finished; she might never speak or laugh or kiss again... and she was very hungry. She needed help. Harriet stopped by a kiosk and took out the brochure. There was a walk-in clinic three blocks away.

The clinic was a hole in the wall, not at all what she expected. She almost didn't enter. After all, what was the point of counseling if she couldn't talk? Then she thought of the blind judge and Fermin Scissorhands, and summoned her courage. To her relief, the inside of the clinic looked more professional. Bright lighting, clean floor, a receptionist busily typing away at a keyboard. She made her way to the reception desk and announced herself.

"Mmm."

The receptionist looked up. "Can I help you?"

Harriet snorted, and showed her the brochure. The receptionist handed her a clipboard and said, "Fill this out."

Harriet sat on a chair and filled out the form while the receptionist continued to type. She left one question blank.

"Mmm," she said, pointing to the line where her insurance information was requested. She took out the brochure and pointed to the word _free_.

"Oh, that," said the receptionist. "Even though the service is being paid for by the city, we need your insurance information. Some companies are still reimbursing." Explanation now exhausted, she returned to her typing. "Every little bit helps."

Harriet penciled in her insurance information, then sat down and leafed through back issues of _Home and Garden_. It was odd that nobody else was in the waiting room. After a few minutes, the receptionist said, "You can go in." She pointed to a door. "Don't bother knocking."

Harriet opened the door and entered what she would have imagined to be a typical therapist's office: comfortable chairs, an old-fashioned wooden desk, homey décor in warm colors, even a leather couch. A man rose from one of the chairs and greeted her with a reassuring smile. He was wearing a cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and brown corduroy pants. In one hand he held a pipe. It was Doctor Rogers! Harriet immediately felt better.

"Sit anywhere," he said. Like Mister Rogers, he had a soft, breathy voice. Harriet had to strain to hear him. The couch looked threatening, so she chose a harmless-looking floral armchair that was positioned in front of a low table. The table, she believed, would act as a buffer, in case the man got too interested in her private life. For all she knew, he might be a Freudian. She placed her briefcase on the table and opened it.

"My name is Dr. Bell," he said, taking a seat across from her. He opened up a small loose-leaf book, one of those personal organizers that contains a notepad, daily planner, and address book.

"Mmmm," she said, taking out her pad and a pen.

"I'm a family therapist, licensed in the State of New York," he waved a hand toward the wall, where several diplomas were displayed, "and I also have training in trauma therapy and a Ph.D. in Behavioral Neuroscience." He leaned toward Harriet, looking sincere. "How can I help?"

Harriet thought her problem hardly needed spelling out, but she was here for help, so she pointed to her face and wrote the words, _I have no mouth,_ on the pad. She held it up.

"I see," said Dr. Bell. "When did you first notice that you had no mouth? And how did that make you feel?"

Harriet snorted and wrote furiously. She thrust the pad at Dr. Bell. He read it and colored slightly.

"I sense a lot of anger in you," said Dr. Bell, taking notes in his little book. "I understand how frustrating this must be, but I assure you that you still have a mouth."

Harriet drew a large _?_ on a blank sheet of paper and held it up.

"If you don't mind my getting technical here, the virus you contracted, a member of the enterovirus family, like polio – please don't be alarmed – has an affinity for central nervous system tissue. That is to say, it has lodged in your brain."

"Mmm!"

Dr. Bell went on, as if she hadn't interrupted.

"The virus causes a disruption in your brain's ability to receive afferent signals from various parts of your body, a reverse of a phantom limb, if you will. You've heard of phantom limbs?"

Harriet nodded. This was not sounding good.

Nodding in turn, Dr. Bell continued. "In the case of a phantom limb, the person who has lost, let's say, a leg, still has sensations in the lost limb. In this case, the reverse happens. You don't feel a limb that is actually there."

Harriet thrust out her hands and raised her eyebrows in an unambiguous gesture of disbelief. Then she pointed to her eyes and to the place where her mouth should have been.

"I'm glad you brought that up," said Dr. Bell. "Because this is where psychology comes in. For some reason, the brain's sensory input – primarily vision and touch, although hearing can be affected as well – simply does not register that the missing part is still there. You literally can't see or feel that you still have a mouth!"

Harriet held up the _?_ again and shrugged helplessly.

Dr. Bell leaned forward and adopted a concerned expression. "Now there, you mustn't give up. Just because you can't see or feel your mouth, doesn't mean you don't have one. It can still be accessed through indirect means. In time, you will learn how to cope. Oh, and before I forget, there is a feeding station down the hall."

Harriet wrote, _Thank you_. It was nice having an explanation. She was beginning to feel calmer already, but she still didn't quite understand. _Why my mouth?_ she wrote.

"Well," said Dr. Bell, "that's a very good question. And, once again, this is where psychology comes in." He placed his pipe in his mouth, meditatively. Harriet noticed it was not lit. "In a very unusual confluence of behavior, unconscious motivations, and neuro-sensory injury, the affected body part seems to be related to an emotional state, most likely through a connection with the anterior cingulate cortex. It's very interesting."

Harriet shrugged again and held up her _?_. She didn't see how this was going to help.

Dr. Bell sucked on his pipe. "To put it bluntly, the part that is lost is somehow connected to a feeling of guilt." He paused. "Are you a lawyer?"

Harriet nodded.

"I see a lot of lawyers who don't have mouths." Dr. Bell's gaze was compassionate, wise, all-knowing. "Perhaps you would like to talk about that."

Harriet thought for a moment. Perhaps she would. But, in typical lawyer fashion, another question had surfaced in her mind. Something wasn't quite right with Dr. Bell's explanation.

_Did you get the virus?_ she wrote.

Dr. Bell read the question. "Yes." He put his pipe down on the table and flipped a tab on his organizer.

As Harriet began to write, _Then why aren't_ _you_ _..._ the phone on the desk began to ring.

Dr. Bell looked up at Harriet. "Now, when shall we meet again?"

And the telephone rang and rang and rang.

Foresight

By Treva Obbard

Ana had the unitrigium halfway out of the vault when the alarm sounded. It was delicate work, moving the sample case past the sensor-lasers, and she startled so hard that she dropped it out of the Tongs.

The Range-Extending Athermic Counterluminous Handler, the guys in the lab called them. "Tongs" everyone else called them, because they looked like any other set of kitchen tongs. If kitchen tongs were made with a hyper-light, all-conducting metal and coated in a chemical formula that made them invisible to anything electronic that measured via heat, light, or pretty much anything short of physically touching the things. The perfect tool for casually bypassing any security system known to humankind.

Or so the techies at UNSF HQ claimed. Ana was going to stick their Tongs in the tech lab microwave if they'd just ruined her operation.

The alarm wasn't sounding through the whole building—you didn't rig a nuclear physics lab to panic unless something was about to explode in a bad way. But Ana's earpiece was tuned to the guards' radio frequency, and they sure as hell knew what was going on. Shouting voices and running footsteps jumbled together in her ear. Another moment, and she'd hear them for real.

Plan B: screw delicate.

There was a pile of other things in the vault, mostly papers. A few expensive gemstones that she bet the UC Berkeley administration didn't know their lab director had locked away. Ana didn't bother looking; she just reached in and scooped everything that felt like the unitrigium case into her backpack.

She flicked her eye right as she shoved the window open and climbed out. Around and below her, the spread roofs of the Lawrence Berkeley Lab complex switched from color to very different color. Rose-red was the sill at her feet, close. Shading yellow to green to blue were the other buildings and the ground. Her Oculem's sight faded purple to black at about the road, which meant 500ft.

God she missed good depth cues when she had it in pure camera mode. Damn lasers, invisible in a little color filter. Maybe the guys at the lab could fix that with the next upgrade.

The closest roof was only about tangerine, 30 feet and a little higher than the director's office. But that's what grappling hooks were for. Ana swung, pulled herself up, and started running.

She needed to get out of sight, and she needed to get to the ground. Good thing she was still dressed for the day, and there was a door on this roof.

Half a minute later, Sabrina Rightly, PhD candidate, slipped in through the rooftop door. Hired on to replace someone who had...gone on unexpected leave, she was a cheerful if permanently frazzled young woman. Her ponytail was mussed from the wind, and she had a small black backpack slung over one besweatered shoulder, which was a little odd if she'd just been on the roof. But she was trying to fit a cheap "romance" paperback into it as she went down the stairs, around a spare windbreaker and half a bag of gummi worms, and who was anyone to judge what helped a PhD candidate get through the week.

That was what the defiant look she gave the security guard said, at least, when the woman met her coming down the stairs. A defiant look trying not to reveal its true identity as a guilty flinch, which drew attention to the worn copy of _Frankenstein's Other Bride_ in her hands.

The guard snorted. Ana, in the persona she'd been maintaining for nearly six weeks, blushed bright red and shoved the book hastily in her bag.

"Get back to your lab and close the door, would you?" The guard waved her down the stairs. "We're, uh, looking for a...dog. Little dog. Someone let it loose."

"In the building?" Ana adjusted the sit of the non-prescription glasses on her nose. It was an easy act—she'd been a bright-eyed analyst, once. "Gee, I'll keep an eye out. Good luck!"

She got halfway past the landing before the security guard realized that she'd never seen Sabrina go out onto the roof, and the report came garbled over her radio that they were looking for a "woman, thin, dark hair."

"Hey, wait!"

Ana didn't waste time. The next landing was only a few skipped steps away, and then the next, and the next—

She nearly collided with a figure stepping into the stairwell, a young man with glasses and a mug of coffee in one hand, wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed _Geology rocks!_ Ana caught his drink on sheer reflex before it hit the floor.

"Sabrina?" His nose wrinkled in confusion. "I thought you left early?"

"Suspect spotted, in pursuit!" The guard shouted as she pounded down the metal stairs, half a flight behind. "Culver building, north stairwell!"

Ana spun and threw hot coffee in the woman's face. She shoved past her now ex lab partner.

"Sorry, Caleb, gotta dash!"

She would actually miss him, she thought as she vaulted the railing to the ground floor (persimmon-orange.) He was cute and fun to spend time with. Got really enthusiastic about defined waveforms. If she hadn't been busy, she would have slept with him.

There was a door to the outside at the bottom of these stairs. There were also more security guards rushing in, two out of four drawing guns.

Ana had gravity on her side and a hair-thin screen over her good eye that marked where she had to hit with precise shades of color. It was a quick fight. The sounds of guards crashing into walls echoed up the thin stairwell.

She clicked a "pen" in her pocket as she ran out the door. Back in the director's office, a carefully placed EMP went off.

Now, the real alarms sounded. Backup generators were on within half a second, keeping the particle accelerator steady, but Ana's real goal was met: flashing lights, screaming sirens, guards on call at a hundred different places...and every door in the laboratory complex, hardwired as they were, now locked.

And her vision grayed out. The hum through her skull disappeared, so subtle that she never knew it until it was gone.

Ana froze on the building's front steps and fished the blank lens from her good eye. That was the price of setting off an EMP when most of your vision came from electronics. The plan had _been_ to be out of range, but...

Normally, Ana's world was sharp and wide and tinted rainbow according to how far any given object was. The camera built into her fake, right eye sent digital-quality images to the screen wrapped like a contact lens over her nominally working left. The sonar, right next to the camera, checked depth, and some programming tinted every object onscreen accordingly.

Now the world was in natural colors, except that they blended together like a tipsy dream. Clarity narrowed to her hand in front of her face. Everything beyond was shaky, outlines uncertain and location...it wasn't that her Oculem gave her real depth perception. It just color-coded everything, and Ana had _worked_ to internalize what it meant.

Blurred and flat was enough to get her down the front steps with one hand on the rail. They were familiar steps. More security guards shouted at her from behind the locked door to the stairs and the equally locked glass doors at the front of the building. In a minute they'd figure a way out, or more would come around the corner.

A minute was enough to duck around a corner of her own and pull on glasses that actually did something. The world was still blurry, but not as bad. Buildings had outlines, and trees had leaves.

And one very clever security guard, jumping from a branch with a Taser raised. Ana dodged just in time, and a kick always worked if you just kept going forward until it hit.

She still stumbled, overextended, as the guard fell back. Fucking depth perception. Lack thereof. Time to squint frantically until she found the guard's dropped Taser, suffer a punch to the ribs to get close enough to zap him, and then _run._

He threw a handful of something like buttons at her as she ducked away. Probably trackers. Ana dismissed the problem—the EMP would have shorted out everything as far as the road.

Ana had picked her time because the director was out of her office and the guards were changing shifts, but it was also the best time of day to blend in on campus. 5pm on a Friday, students were everywhere: getting out of class and going home, going to events, or just milling around in the deepening autumn twilight. In an anonymous Berkeley-blue sweater and backpack, Ana hid better walking quickly down the hill, like she had some place to go, than running to get away.

It was also the worst time for visibility. The sun had set below the water, or at least below the buildings between here and there, and everything was gray. People and buildings and walkways faded around the edges, no longer distinguishable even by natural color.

A suspiciously well-armed campus cop came toward her, walkie-talkie to their ear. Ana slipped into a gaggle of students emerging from the Engineering Center and evaded them.

Another saw her by the clock tower, glancing down at their phone and then directly at her. They started forward with intent. Ana turned tail and dashed down the accessibility ramp—zig-zagging down the hill, much slower than the grand array of steps, but she could run it with confidence.

She nearly ran into a third goon as she took a shortcut through a grove of trees, skidding down the bank of a stream. She knew it was a mistake as soon as she passed out of the lamppost's range. The nightstick to her knee was just icing on the cake.

She still had enough reflexes to fall back, soften the blow. Kick out, sweep the guard's feet out from under him—she was finally close enough to see gender presentation.

Close enough to see the punch before it hit her sternum, but not to stop it. Ana gasped, tripping in the dark. She scrambled back from the follow-up blow, out of the water, and it hit her shoulder instead of her spine.

He was quiet, at least. Didn't even shout for his partner. They were trying to keep this quiet from civilians. Still, she only had a few seconds before the one from the clock tower caught up and saw the commotion they were looking for.

She also still had the Taser from the guard up at the lab. It snapped and crackled in her already faltering night vision, and she had to put a hand on a tree for balance amid the shadowed roots and rocks.

The guard chased after her, splashing. But now she had something steady on her blind side, and a hand on the trunk meant she knew where it was. The guard lunged for her. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward, slamming his head into the trunk. A Taser to the back of his neck dropped him like a sack of flour.

Ana froze, listening. Her eye darted around the shadows before she closed it and listened harder.

This was about when she _would_ have activated the EMP, if the alarm hadn't gone off. When the director's meeting ended and she was going back to her office to notice the vault emptied. When the guards were just finishing their shift change. Maximum chaos and distraction, and nobody to notice her getaway.

Crunching footsteps. Ana's eyes flew open, and she hid behind her tree, Taser ready.

The second guard went down as easy as the first, and even quieter. People passed by on the bridge above, students and whatnot, chatting and laughing.

There were no more footsteps, now. But these guards had found her too quickly. The one at the tower had been looking at her phone before she recognized Ana. Did they have her photo-IDed already? (For how long? That alarm...)

She picked the guard's pocket for her phone. There was a map of campus, zoomed in, and a few scattered red dots in a trail down from the cyclotron. It ended in a thick cluster of red dots where Ana stood in by stream.

She gave herself one solitary second to curse under her breath. Curse the world, her own stupidity, and reactivating trackers.

Then she stripped. Nobody was looking, and anyway, she'd lived in training barracks. Sweater, pants...she couldn't risk losing her shoes, not when she couldn't see right, but all she really needed from the backpack was a couple essentials and the prize wrapped in the x-ray-proof "spare windbreaker."

"Sorry! Prank!" she shouted as she burst out of the trees and shoved through the crowd. "Sorority thing!"

Thank _God_ for college students. They laughed and let her run through in underwear and a sports bra with a bundle of clothes under one arm. A few started filming, but they moved aside.

And then moved back into position, blocking the way of the handful of security guards that came barreling after her. Irritated shouts on her heels, Ana ran. She was going to get the Expense department to donate some goddamn money to UC Berkeley when she got back to base. To the Student Union or something, so it'd go where it was deserved instead of getting used to build more hyperexplosive ultra-elements.

She tightened her grip on the bundle under her arm and just barely skidded into a turn instead of running into traffic.

Finally off-campus, there were more streetlights and lights from every restaurant and store along the street. Still, the twilight turned everything to gray nothing, neither the bright light of day nor the clear black-white of night. People milled across the sidewalk, but Ana pushed through the crowd. She dashed across the last seconds of a yellow light and kept hard to the right side of the sidewalk, right side of the street. It was just easier to have the buildings on her blind side and the cars on her left. She knew from experience how much speed sheer confidence could give a girl.

A red light held her up—better safe than sorry. She took a breather to tug the tracker-tagged pants from under her arm, and toss them on a departing bus. The sweater, she dropped in a homeless person's lap, with a twenty for the trouble that would follow.

Green light. Ana took off before the parallel traffic. There was safe, and there was scared, and Ana—

Ana was falling. Her foot went one way, and her ankle the other. The ground was several inches lower than she'd thought, covered in a lumpy storm drain, and pain shot up her leg.

She got back up and kept running. Her joints had screamed louder before.

She had a car up the street—she'd passed it already—but her Oculem would take 40 minutes to reboot, and without it, she couldn't drive. Her mission was to _avoid_ mass homicide.

Thank God for public transportation.

The steps down to the light rail BART train were unavoidable but yellow-painted. Ana took them as fast as she could, one hand running reassuringly down the rail. She had a pass. Only one security guard tried to stop her at the turnstile—not paid off by the Lawrence Lab. Just because she was mostly naked and sprinting like a madwoman.

Her timing was good. The guard didn't have time to catch her before a train arrived. It was even heading the right direction, straight for her rendezvous point.

Ana didn't collapse into a seat as the train kicked into motion. She just...sat. Leaned back on the cheap, rough cushions and decided not to think too hard about how much of her skin was touching them or what had touched them before.

Her ankle hurt. She'd had much worse—in training, in combat, that time with the bomb in Syracuse...hell, that time with the monkey bars in second grade. It was just annoying. The evening chill on her mostly bare skin didn't help.

It was just _annoying_. She closed her eyes. You worked hard. You got recognized and transferred out of a desk job into a Special Forces unit where they actually worked _with_ you and gave you cool experimental tech and the training to go with it. They set you loose on the world to do more good than you ever could have behind a (full-sized) computer screen, and you do—you counter-snipe assassins in Bolivia, you stop the coup in Syracuse, you steal the result of literal mad science before it can be sold for a new generation of nuclear bombs...

And then you screw up one little thing. You run blind and twist your ankle.

It wasn't devastating. It hadn't even gotten her caught. It was just...

Ana hated it when her plans went wrong.

She switched trains at the first station, backtracking south. No need to lead anyone to her safe house.

It might be compromised, anyway. This wasn't entirely on her. She hadn't touched the carrying case to the lasers; she was sure of it. So maybe it was just a technical failure...or maybe someone had set her up, triggered the alarm at the most compromising moment.

She found an empty seat in the last car, away from curious stares, and curled around the sweater-wrapped prizes in her lap. The sky outside the windows was turning truly dark now, and the chill settled into her skin. She needed to find more clothes and not just because she was drawing attention. (She could barely see their faces, not for another twenty minutes, but posture spoke like a displeased PTA mom at a school board meeting.)

Or had she blown her cover somehow? But if that was the case, they should have grabbed her earlier. This had to be a set-up.

As she changed trains yet again, heading in toward the Valley, Ana's burner cell rang. She fished it out of her bra, squinting at the bright screen. It was the woman she _did_ sleep with, this assignment.

Sabrina answered the phone, bubbly as ever. "Victoria, hi! Your meeting's over, then?"

It wasn't the laboratory director who chuckled into the phone. "Ah, Ana. Is that how you so charmed my sister-in-law? She did always have poor taste in conversation partners."

The evening chill found its match in the sliver of ice in her chest. "Salazar. You had enough family feeling when you convinced her to keep her new element rather than reporting it and releasing it to the public authorities."

"Why, when they discovered it so by chance, with so few in the laboratory who couldn't be taken care of?" He _tsk_ ed. "You never did grasp the concept of profit margins, my dear."

Ana could have said several things about what people might fail to grasp. Such as a good thing when they had it or the fact that it was Over with a capital _O_.

"I assume this is a courtesy call," she said instead, "to brag that I haven't gotten all the trackers out of my hair?"

"You absolutely haven't," he assured her. "But really, that's a remarkably nearsighted concern. Terribly behind the times. Or haven't you noticed the bomb yet?"

"Hmm?" said Ana, like she wasn't even listening.

"You know, the one you stole from my sister-in-law's vault."

Ana didn't bother to hang up. She just dropped the phone and stepped on it, already unwrapping the bundle in her lap. There were the jewels she'd grabbed and the tetrahedral unitrigium case no larger than the rest of them—it only took a couple molecules to devastate a city or, worse, be replicated. The titanium alloy case kept the element stable.

There was an identical silver case right next to it. When she picked it up, it buzzed faintly in her hand, and she recognized the building tension of a high-grade, miniaturized explosive. Nothing like its twin, but good enough to take out a BART train.

There must have been a holograph hiding the original, in the vault, and it'd fooled her camera vision. She'd hadn't looked when she'd grabbed things—never did. An old habit, from when there was no point squinting at things she couldn't see.

Like now.

"Joke's on you, jackass," Ana muttered. "Nearsighted is my specialty."

But the fake case was smooth, nothing to pry open and defuse. As she tried, fingers scrabbling over the surface, it buzzed harder. T-minus one minute, she guessed. It was Syracuse all over again. Damn that man.

Ana tucked the real unitrigium case into her bra, stood up and drew her grappling gun—the last saved thing in her sweater bundle.

"Hey!" she called to the civilian passengers. "Somebody tell me when we're out of the city. Over a bit of countryside or something."

The shouting was redundant; all two dozen were already staring at her. Mostly in mute terror and bewilderment, though it took some only a second to raise their phones and start filming or calling for help.

Ana didn't have time to waste. Bomb humming in her fist, she braced herself against a handgrip and shot out the nearest window. It took two hits, but her grappling hook was made for tougher stuff than a little light rail.

"What the _fuck,_ " the man next to her said, over and over. "What the fuck, what the actual—" He'd flung himself onto the floor when she started firing.

"Sir, could you just tell me if we're out of the city." Ana squinted out the window herself. The whipping wind didn't help. There were streetlights below, but they moved too fast, and didn't illuminate enough for her to see.

"Warehouses would also do!" she shouted. "Or an empty highway, a field would be great..."

"Um, there's some trees coming up?" a horrified teenager said, phone to their ear. But they pointed at a patch of darkness to the side of the tracks.

"Great." Ana pitched the bomb out the window.

It exploded in midair, bright orange-white-yellow in the dark blue sky. The train shook, disrupting even the footsteps that had been pounding up the aisle to tackle her down. Ana hung on to her handgrip.

It was a tricky shot, hitting the top of the train from a window below, in the dark with the train still jerking to a stop. And she wouldn't be able to tell for another five minutes how far the jump would go. But the UNSF techies knew how to make a grappling gun, and Ana had some experience at falling into the unseen.

She turned and bowed quickly to her audience. "Thank you for your cooperation!"

And jumped.

Daisy

By Jake Lovell

"BEEP"

"BEEP"

"It - Is - Seven - Oh - Five - A - M," said a robotic female voice.

My head planted on the pillow, I fumbled feebly around my bedside table.

"BEEP"

"BE-click"

Success.

I slid my fingers off of the rubber button, down the smooth acrylic of the clock, before letting gravity take over. My arm dangled over the edge of the bed while I summoned the energy to sit up.

Something cold and wet pressed against my hand.

"Hello, Daisy." I smiled and scratched the top of her head. "Are you hungry?"

Two high-pitched barks and a lick to the palm of my hand.

Yes.

I sat up and moved to the bottom left corner of the bed.

2 paces, 90° right, 12 paces, 90° right, 3 paces. Simple enough.

I pushed myself to my feet, raised my left arm and walked forward. Maybe I could do it by memory, but why bother? If I can't stumble around in the comfort of my own home, then where can I? My hand reached the wall.

I've always had a strange fascination with walls. Each one has its own bumps and crevasses. Every inch is unique yet uniform. As if the person who made it tried to make the texture even, but couldn't quite remember what they'd done before.

My bedroom wall was "smooth" to the eye apparently, but place your fingers on it, and it'd tell you a very different story. I ran my fingers down the wall, enjoying the slight vibration through my fingertips until I reached the strip of wallpaper separating the top and bottom halves of the room.

I didn't like my wallpaper. The smooth, lifeless texture of the machined surface stripped the wall of any character. To rectify this, I'd picked up the habit of gouging parts out with my fingernails. Whenever Mom came to visit, she'd nag incessantly about the state of my walls, although that was her usual approach to anything in my life.

My fingers found the first notch. They lingered over it for a moment before I headed down the hall. Once my left hand reached the corner of the wall, I reached out for the kitchen counter with my right. I felt the cold, coarse face of the fake granite and stepped toward it.

My foot caught on Daisy, and I tumbled forward, slamming down on top of the counter.

Daisy whined. I hadn't hurt her, I was sure of that. I'd gone careening over her too quickly to strike her with any force. I picked myself up, crouched down, and reached toward the sound of her voice. Her soft fur felt warm and comforting. I gently stroked her, and the whining stopped.

"What's wrong girl?" I whispered as I moved my hands along her body, checking for injuries. She'd lost weight recently. Her plump belly was gone, revealing delicate ribs. Her breathing sounded labored, and her heart was pounding. Something was wrong.

I pulled myself to my feet, grabbed the kitchen counter, and followed it to the far end where I'd left my satchel. My fingers followed the seam of the leather up to the clasp and opened it. I reached into the side pouch, pulled out my phone.

"Hey Siri, call vet."

The phone rang once, then went straight to voicemail.

"Hi, this is Jess. My guide dog hasn't been herself lately, and she's lost a lot of weight. If you can call me back with an appointment, I'd be very grateful."

I hung up the phone and cringed as I played back the message in my head. I'd slipped into my work voice without thinking. Had I come across as condescending? Arrogant?

Maybe, but it was done now, and Daisy needed me. I worked my way back down the counter, turned away from it, and strode 3 paces across the kitchen. I knelt down, picked up her bowls out of the corner, dropped them in the sink, and turned the tap on. I reached over to the fridge, pulled out a pouch of dog food, and put it on the side.

While I washed out the bowls, I thought back to when I first got Daisy.

***

I was going to college at the end of summer, and Mom couldn't accept the idea that I might be able to take care of myself. How could a blind girl live alone? I'd need someone to look after me, make sure I didn't fall down a flight of stairs or walk in front of a bus. I was indignant. I'd managed just fine with a cane until now. I could look after myself. Besides, what was the alternative? Live in my parents' house for the rest of my life? Dad stayed quiet, as always, and let us shout at each other until, inevitably, one of us was in tears. Then he'd break it up and comfort whoever started crying, only for us to start all over again the next day.

One morning, Dad made us all waffles. He rarely cooked for us, but we were in for a treat when he did. Everything he said that morning, he said with a smile. Even Mom was in a good mood, although she tried not to show it. After we'd eaten, Dad hurried me into the car. Mom handed me a bag and hugged me through the open window.

"I love you," she said. Her voice wavered. She was crying.

"I love you too, Mom," I said, pulling what I hoped was a comforting smile. What was wrong? I wasn't going to college for another month. And what was the bag for? Dad got into the car and started the engine.

"Where are we going?" I asked him.

"You'll see," he replied, still smiling.

We drove for about ten minutes, listening to Dad's classic rock before I thought to look in the bag. I felt clothes, my laptop, and a couple of books.

"Dad, what's going on?" I said sternly. He chuckled

"We're going away for a few days, just you and me. I've got a surprise for you when we get there." I could still hear the smile in his voice.

I've never liked surprises, but whatever it was seemed to make him happy, and I knew I wouldn't get a satisfactory answer. So I sat back and did my best to enjoy Meatloaf with Dad crooning along.

We arrived at a hotel somewhere near the center of town. I could hear the traffic was heavier than normal. Its constant drone never seemed to lull. Dad carried my bag up for me and went back down to the lobby to "wait for someone". This was related to my surprise no doubt. I stayed in the room reading to hide my enthusiasm and to punish him for making this whole thing a surprise in the first place.

_The Kite Runner_. I felt a connection to Amir, more so than with most protagonists. The way he was isolated from the world around him felt relatable. It was silly really, but I was a teenager. Even though we didn't have the same problems, we shared the same divide. Separate from our peers. Of course, I'd never seen a war zone, but the regret and guilt caused by the pain we caused others I knew all too well. I was a burden. I would always be a burden. Mom was right. I couldn't take care of myself.

There was a sharp rap on the door, three quick clunks. Dad's characteristic knock.

"It's not locked!" I shouted.

"I think you should open it," Dad replied.

This didn't help my mood. First, he drags me to some hotel in town without saying a word. Then when I finally settle down to have a moment to myself, I'm not only interrupted, but I have to wait on him like some sort of butler?

The room was small enough for me to touch the wall from the bed. I put my hand on it and followed it to the door. At least the room had nice walls. Well, by my standards at least. They were coated with a thick layer of paint. The brush had been swirled around with each stroke, creating spiral grooves leading to sharp peaks. I reached the door and swung it open.

"What?" I said, a little more rudely than I'd intended.

A female voice replied, "Hello, Jessica. I'm Samantha. My job is to train guide dogs and to teach blind people how to work with them. Your dad tells me you're going to college soon and will need help adjusting to a new city."

Her voice was deep and soothing. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't think of anything to say.

"I'd like you to meet Daisy."

Still speechless, I held out my hand. Samantha guided it down to the top of Daisy's head. I ran my fingers through short, silky hair and down her soft, floppy ears. I heard her breathing through her mouth before letting out a high-pitched yelp, swiveling her head, and enthusiastically licking my hand.

I started laughing.

***

Still no reply from the vet. I closed the front door and locked it. It was a cold morning. I felt a chill as the wind seeped through the soft wool of my scarf.

"Come here, Daisy."

I felt Daisy press against my leg and reached down to grab her harness. I turned right to face down the road.

"Ok Daisy, forward. We're going to the pole by the lights at end of the road."

I stepped forward a couple paces before I felt Daisy's harness pull ahead of me. We kept a gentle pace. There was no hurry. We were ahead of schedule, and it was Amanda's morning to grab Starbucks.

Amanda was the most clichéd office worker to have ever lived, and I loved her for it. She had 3 cats and regular tales of each of their misdeeds. A boyfriend that she spent all her time with on the sofa, binge-watching Netflix. Except for the occasional Friday when he'd take her straight from work off to some fancy restaurant. She'd complain about not having time to get ready, but I could always hear it in her voice, she loved it.

Her constant state of happiness was infectious. She got so excited over the tiniest things you'd be forgiven for thinking she was a puppy, which is probably why she got on with Daisy so well. But best of all, she treated me like a person. The rest of the office acted like I was made of glass, giving me as wide a berth as possible. When they were forced to talk to me they couldn't, or wouldn't, talk freely. Amanda talked about the "manager effect", where she said people were always nervous and on their best behavior whenever a manager was nearby. She said my lack of sight made me perfect management material because I already had that down. I would humor her with a laugh, but there was truth behind her words. Maybe not that I'd make management, but there was definitely a barrier between me and most people. I'd never have dozens of friends and the ones I did have would choose me. Not I, them.

We'd been walking for about 30 seconds, and I knew the corner was coming up.

"Find the pole Daisy, that's it girl, find the pole," I repeated. She didn't break stride and kept going down the road. I persisted. "Find the pole, that's it Daisy, find the pole." She carried on. I knew we must be nearing the corner. Why wasn't Daisy listening to me? I stopped walking.

"Stay, Daisy, stay," I said. She stopped and stood next to me. I put my feet together facing forward and turned my left foot until it my feet made a right angle. Then I turned my body in the same direction and walked forward.

"Ok Daisy, forward, find the pole."

I barely made 2 steps before Daisy blocked my path. What was wrong with her today?

"Daisy, find the pole."

She turned right and tried to continue toward the far end of the road. I stopped her. We needed to use the crossing on the left of the corner, not the right. Daisy knew that. So why did she keep trying to walk to the right?

"Come here Daisy," I turned left once again

"Forward, Daisy." I tried to walk, but she blocked my path like before.

"Daisy! Walk forward." I was getting impatient now.

"Excuse me ma'am, but the road's right in front of you," said a man's voice from behind me.

"Oh." The blood rushed to my face. "Thank you," I said with a smile. How stupid I must've looked trying to walk into the road.

"You don't err... see err... know err..." I stuttered at him. I tried to ask for directions, but I was too embarrassed to string a sentence together.

"Can I help at all ma'am?" said the voice from behind me. I realized this poor man was having a conversation with my back. I turned to face the voice.

"Can you point me toward the crossing just opposite Mave's Bookshop?" I said

"Sure thing. It's about another 100 yards down the road, on your left."

"Thank you," I smiled at him. The direction Daisy had been taking me all along.

"Ok Daisy, find the pole." She headed off back down the road. I quickly followed.

"You're welcome." He shouted after me. I waved my hand in the air to gesture goodbye. At least hoped that's what I gestured. I'd only ever heard of waving, and I wasn't quite sure if it required any special technique. It didn't matter. I was just glad to have gotten away from that awkward encounter and even gladder that stranger stopped me from dragging Daisy into the middle of the road.

Why had I been so stupid? Daisy knew what I wanted. She knew where to go. She was my eyes. I had to trust her. I did trust her. I always let her guide me, and she'd never made a mistake. I had ignored her warnings, I hadn't followed her directions, and I'd almost gotten us both killed. That was an exaggeration: Daisy wouldn't have let that happen. Why hadn't I trusted her?

It was the trip earlier that morning. I was half-asleep, stumbling around the house, and I had tripped over Daisy, who was just following me to breakfast.

I was a fool.

Daisy was my best friend in the world. Her eyes saw the world around her, and she guided me through it.

***

I spent a week with Samantha, learning Daisy's commands. We worked together perfectly. While we trained, she obeyed my every command, and I felt safe following her lead. When we weren't training, we were inseparable.

She was always exhausted after training and would curl on my bed next to me with her head on my lap while I read. I could feel her breathing slow as she drifted off to sleep in my lap. After an hour or so, I'd notice her breathing speed up again. She would wait for me to move before leaping from the bed and returning with her favorite toy, a thick piece of rope twisted into the shape of an ankh and held in place by a plastic bone. I'd try to take it from her jaws, and we'd roll around on the bed, wrestling until I finally gave in. Then I'd lie back on the bed and put on a podcast to listen to with Daisy curled up by my side, chewing her ankh victoriously.

Before she could come home with me, Samantha wanted me to go out with Daisy on my own. It was our final test to prove that I could direct and she could lead. I knew we'd succeed. We had to walk from the hotel to a local grocery store, buy an apple, and bring it back to Samantha.

I woke up early in anticipation. I was aware this was probably just a formality, but I wanted to prove myself. Daisy felt the same way. She was unaware of what was in store for us, but I think she sensed my anticipation, the purposeful way I prepared myself. Perhaps I was just projecting my own emotions onto her, but her eagerness that morning told me differently.

We were in the lobby half an hour early. I sat on a chair listening to the morning traffic report on my phone, hoping to get clues of what was in store for us. Daisy lay on the floor to the left of the chair.

The elevator door creaked open, and the distinctive sound of Samantha's high heels rang through the lobby. I heard Daisy get to her feet, and I did the same.

"Good morning, Jessica," said Samantha. I didn't like the way she still called me Jessica. It was ok at first when we first met, but now it seemed forced. As if she was trying to keep her distance from me. Maybe it was in case I failed so that she wouldn't feel bad about taking Daisy away from me. Or maybe I was just overthinking things.

Samantha was going through my directions when I heard Dad's footsteps across the lobby. Samantha lowered her voice and quickly finished the instructions.

"Shall we get breakfast?" she said as Dad reached us.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," he replied.

I could hear the smile in both of their voices. They were always smiling when they were around each other. Of course, Dad was always smiling, period. But when they were together, Samantha seemed to let down her guard and let out a more human side to her. Perhaps it was all the time she spent training unruly puppies that gave her that frosty demeanor in the first place. Or was I less friendly than I thought, and it was the way I acted that put her on edge? Should I try harder to emulate the way Dad spoke?

"Jessica?" I heard Dad call from across the lobby. I'd gotten so lost in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed Samantha get up and walk across the lobby with Dad.

"Coming!" I shouted after them.

I sprung to my feet and felt Daisy on my left, pressing up against my leg. She'd stayed with me. I couldn't help but smile as I reached down and took hold of her harness.

"Follow them," I said, and Daisy trotted across the lobby with me in tow.

***

Daisy led me straight to the traffic lights, just like she always did. I couldn't shake the guilty feeling forming in the pit of my stomach.

I placed my hand on the pole and knelt down next to Daisy, placing my hand on her head. She tilted it toward me. I wondered if she was upset with me, but she spun her head around and licked my hand. I wrapped my other arm around her and pressed my head against hers.

"I'm sorry. I love you."

Daisy tilted her head back slightly and licked my nose. Apology accepted.

I got to my feet, suddenly aware that we were still in the middle of the street in full view of passersby. I'd made a big enough fool out of myself already today.

I slid my hand up the pole toward the button, finding its metal box protruding from the pole. I ran my hand down the box. Over the rough plastic rim, across its smooth acrylic face, to the metal cylinder protruding from the center. I pushed it.

"Find the curb Daisy." She pulled me gently forward and to the right. I felt the bumps on the tiles marking the crossing. Reaching forward with my right foot, I felt the curb and lined myself up to cross.

I listened to the traffic. I heard the pitch rise as it came towards me from the left and drop once they'd passed. Some slowed to a steady hum as they circled around the corner. Others carried straight on, the rumble fading into the distance.

The cars stopped passing, and their engines started idling to my left. The signal tone beeped.

"Forward," I said, and we hurried across the road. From here 2 blocks forward, cross on the right, forward 1 block, cross on the left, then on the right, half a block, and there's the office.

"Forward Daisy, on we go."

My stomach rumbled. A muesli bar was not a proper breakfast, but I had promised Amanda that we would go on this diet together. I didn't need it as much as she did, but I wanted to show support. I knew I could get away with cheating on it while she wasn't around, but it made me feel kinda special. Not that it's rare to find a woman in 20s on a diet she doesn't need, but doing it with Amanda felt important. We shared our suffering, a secret from the world except to each other.

Not that I was really suffering, and not that Amanda was able to fully commit. She'd cheated 3 times this month already. I didn't mind though. She always told me the next day, and I'd hear the remorse in her voice. Then she'd try to make up for it by eating half as much for the next 2 days. I was sure that wasn't a healthy solution, but she never listened.

Before I knew it, we were at the last crossing. Daisy led me to the switch.

"Stay," I said as I reached over and pressed the button.

I waited. I heard the passing cars stop, but there was no beeping. Then the traffic started moving. Where was the tone? I waited again, maybe it had missed a cycle. The traffic stopped again. Still no tone. This time, when it started moving, I reached back toward the button. I was further away than I thought and instead of the acrylic face of the button's housing, my hand landed firmly on a woman's breast.

She screamed. I quickly withdrew my hand.

"Oh, I'm so..." I couldn't finish my sentence before I was cut off.

"How dare you!" cried the woman.

"I'm sorry I didn't s..." She interrupted me again.

"You think you can just grope people whenever you feel like it?!"

"No, I di..."

"I've heard men say every lewd comment you could possibly imagine, but not one of them has ever had the nerve to grab me. I would've expected a woman to..." She trailed off.

"Oh," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I am really and truly sorry," I said, "I was trying to find the button."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted like that." She said. "I was so rude. I was lost in my own world, and I reacted on impulse."

I didn't blame her at all. In fact, I was in awe. I wish I had impulses like that. I knew how intimidating it was being catcalled. The immediate discomfort, coupled with a creeping sense of fear. I would become immediately withdrawn, unsure if they were alone, if I was alone, if they were following me; internally paralyzed by a desire to run but unable to see where to go. I'd always managed to stay composed and get away without further incident, but the uneasiness would hang over me like a dark cloud for the rest of the day.

This woman, however, didn't hesitate before tearing into her would be attacker. She was strong and powerful. Any idiot stupid enough to assault her was in for a surprise. Unfortunately, today I was that idiot.

"What did you want, dear?" she said in a condescending tone. She went from thinking I was a handsy attacker to a feeble blind girl in an instant. My esteem for her faded quickly. A familiar, far more insidious feeling took its place. Loathing.

The moment people saw I was blind they'd treat me like a lost child. A helpless thing to be pitied. I wasn't a peer or a friend or a colleague; I was something lesser. One small physical trait, and they dismissed the possibility that I was like them. That I was normal. How could they bond with a blind girl when our lives were so different?

Maybe if they talked to me they'd realize that they weren't. Maybe if they listened to me they'd learn that we both liked alt-rock and indie pop music. That even though I couldn't see, I still watched Game of Thrones. That I knew every pizzeria within 10 miles, and I could tell you the best pizza from each one.

Amanda wouldn't agree, but I could never see the appeal of pineapple on a pizza. I missed her in that moment. If only it'd been her standing with me at the lights this whole mess could've been avoided.

I knew I was being too harsh on this woman. Probably most people for that matter. My high school counselor told me that all I had to do was educate people about what I couldn't do and show them what I could. Easier said than done. If it wasn't for my crippling shyness, perhaps I'd have a normal life. Other blind people did. Maybe that was what made me different after all, and my disability was an excuse I hid behind. I'd been down this train of thought before, and it'd led nowhere. Now wasn't the time to wallow in self-pity.

The woman had been talking to me, but I'd only been half listening. The signal tone was broken, she said. She'd help me get across. I'd barely tuned back into the conversation when I felt sharp points digging into my arm.

I cried out in surprise. She grabbed me, digging her nails into my arm as she did so. I felt a powerful force yank my arm. I tried to resist but, her grip was too tight. I flew forward so fast I lost hold of Daisy's harness.

Panic set in.

I had lost control. My bearings were gone, I had no point of reference, no way to know where I was. Only the stranger clawing into my arm as I was propelled forward.

She stopped so abruptly that I hurtled into her and almost went tumbling to the ground. She caught me, her hands placed firmly on my shoulders, and steadied me.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, a smug smile punctuating her words in a sickly sweet pitch like she was talking to a child.

"No need to thank me dear. I really must be off." I heard her footsteps disappear into the distance.

I was alone. All of the sounds around me merged together into a deafening cacophony. My hands began to tremble, and I remembered something Samantha once told me.

"When you're lost, it's like you're adrift at sea with no land in sight. Daisy is like a beacon: she will guide you back to shore. As long as she is by your side, you'll never be lost."

But she wasn't by my side. I'd lost her when that damned woman dragged me across the road. I took deep breaths and listened. I heard a single bark behind me. I spun around. Relief washed over me.

"Come here, Daisy," I said anxiously, longing to feel her warm body pressed against my leg.

My heart sank as I realized she'd stayed on the other side of the road, exactly like I had ordered.

There was a screech of tires followed by a sickening thud.

***

I ate my breakfast in silence while Dad and Samantha chatted away. I'd realized what a waste of time it'd been listening to the traffic report first thing in the morning when we weren't setting off until 11. Most of it had been about various cues forming and dispersing on the highway, which Samantha would obviously not have put on our route. I tried to commit the route to memory while we ate. Daisy lay at my feet under the table. Her fur tickled the top of my feet.

After breakfast, Samantha said we should play a game of Chinese whispers. I had to whisper the route to Dad, then he'd whisper it back to her. I was surprised; I didn't expect her to turn it into a game. It seemed too fun for the Samantha I'd gotten to know this past week. So I didn't know her as well as I thought after all.

I recited it to Dad perfectly. Then Dad started whispering to Samantha, but not quietly enough so that I couldn't hear. He was doing well until the last corner, Park Street, it was right at the second junction, but he said left at the first.

"Right at the second junction." I cut in. Dad chuckled, and Samantha let out a giggle.

"I'm sorry, right at the second," Dad said.

I felt a smile creep across my face. Daisy rose up and sat next to my left leg, partially leaning her weight on me. I reached down and scratched the back of her head.

Samantha's chair slid back. I heard the click of her heels as she stood up.

"I think we've delayed quite long enough," Samantha said. "Are you ready, Jessica?"

"Yes," I replied, leaping to my feet.

"And you, Daisy?" Dad said with a cheeky grin on his lips.

Daisy let out a short, sharp bark. Everyone burst out laughing.

I fitted Daisy's harness in the lobby with Samantha watching over me. Not too loose around the belly, not too tight around the breastbone. Perfect, or near enough anyway. Samantha handed me a slip of paper.

"That's $5, it's more than you'll need, but I know the owner at the grocery store. You don't have to worry about her shortchanging you," she said.

I put the note into the leather satchel Dad had given me on our second day here and slipped the satchel over my shoulder.

Dad and Samantha wished us luck, and we headed out, just the two of us, ready for anything.

We turned right out of the hotel and headed down the road. I couldn't believe it. We were doing it. This was the first day of the rest of my life. Daisy and me against the world. I was free. Together, we could go anywhere, do anything. I wore the biggest smile I've ever had as we walked. I couldn't have been happier.

I heard the cars turning at the first corner. I ordered Daisy to follow the sidewalk to the right. First corner dealt with, no problem. We made it to the end of the road in no time. Daisy stopped in front of me, and I felt the bumps on the sidewalk under my feet, indicating a crossing. I asked Daisy to find the pole, and she led me straight to it. I pressed the button, and the tone sounded. We were off. First crossing dealt with, no problem.

We turned right on the other side of the road, walked a couple dozen steps, then turned left into the next street. Daisy slowed our pace, signaling a crowded street. She started weaving left and right with me in tow as she guided us through a thick throng of people. I heard the chatter as we passed, the clap of their shoes. I could hear the sounds of the street stretching off to the left, felt the bumps underfoot, and Daisy came to a stop once again.

"Find the pole, Daisy," I said. But as she led me to the right, a child's voice piped up in front of me.

"I've already pressed the button, ma'am."

"Thank you," I smiled.

The tone sounded, and off we went, another junction complete. We continued down the road. The crowd had thinned and we were walking in almost a straight line, only occasionally swerving as Daisy pulled us around passing pedestrians. We reached the next junction and crossed on the right.

Park Street.

***

I sat in the vet's waiting room with Amanda in the chair next to mine. I started shaking again. Amanda thought I was in shock. She was probably right.

I kept replaying the moment over and over in my head. The rapidly rising pitch of the approaching car. The squeak of Daisy's harness as she started to cross. The screech of the tires. Worst of all, the impact.

The car had been too far off in the distance for her to see it coming. She couldn't tell how fast it was moving. The driver had been speeding. The police told me he'd been going at least twice the speed limit.

I tried to tell myself there was no way I could've known that. But I had. As I played it back in my head, I knew I had heard it. Heard the speed he was going. But I'd ignored it. In my panic, I'd acted without thinking, and Daisy had paid the price.

It was bad.

"We'll do all we can," the vet had told me, but his tone told me more than his words ever could.

Amanda tried to comfort me. She told me everything was going to be ok. That the wonders of modern medicine weren't just confined to humans. How one of her cats had jumped off of the balcony in her apartment and she had been certain he wouldn't make it, but her boyfriend rushed him to the vet and everything was alright.

I knew this story was an exaggeration. She was only on the second floor, and the cat only had a slight limp afterward. The vet had put a cast on the cat as well as cone to stop the cat scratching, and that was that.

Daisy was in far worse shape. But still, it made me feel better. I don't know if it was Amanda's endless stream of comfort or just not being alone, but I didn't feel so bad.

I noticed I'd stopped shaking and took long, deep breaths. Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe Daisy would come bounding out of the operating theater and into my arms.

She wouldn't. I knew that much. Even if she made it through, I doubted she'd ever be able to work again. I wondered if I'd be allowed to keep her. If she could stay with me or if they'd take her to a better home. A home where someone could actually take care of her. Not with a selfish idiot who would endanger her life just because they were afraid of being alone for a second or two. Not with me.

I was trying to explain to myself what Daisy was to me, who she was. She was more than a best friend; she spent every waking moment by my side, knew every intimate detail of my life. She was more than a guide through the streets. Her eyes were mine, and we worked together, two minds working as one. I pointed the way, and she led me there. Everything in our path was relayed to me by her movements, her gestures.

I knew how many people were in a room by the way she entered. I knew what obstacles we were dodging by the way she pressed against my leg. A branch. A signpost. A fire hydrant. I knew it was my fault she lay in the other room, fighting for her life.

I heard the door on the far side of the room open. A woman called my name. I felt cold. Amanda helped me to my feet and guided me across the room.

"I'm sorry," said a soft female voice. "She didn't make it."

My eyes stung as they filled with tears. I crumpled to my knees and wept.

***

We made it to the first junction on Park Street in no time. I pressed the button and got ready to cross. The beeping started.

"Forward Daisy," I said as I took a confident stride. But Daisy moved in front of me, blocking my path. Something was wrong.

I concentrated, behind the beeping signal was a low rumble. A rush of air struck me. I stumbled back, steadying myself against the traffic light. A lorry must've run the light when I was seconds away from stepping into the road.

"You saved my life," I said to Daisy, crouching down and reaching into my satchel. I pulled out a bag of treats and poured three into my hand.

"There you go, girl. You earned them."

She wolfed them down, and I held her head in my hands for a moment, scratched behind her ears, got back up, and pressed the button for the lights once again. The signal sounded once more, and we crossed.

I was delighted. Daisy had saved my life. Without her, I would've trusted the tone. I'd have stepped out into the middle of the road. I'd be dead. The consequences of the more somber side of this thought didn't concern me. I had someone I could trust utterly and completely. Someone I loved.

"Daisy," I said absentmindedly. She let out a high-pitched woof in response. I laughed.

We came to the last corner, the second right, and followed the sidewalk. I knew it was the fifth store on my right. But how was I supposed to know when I'd gone past 5 stores? Samantha had stayed quiet on this, telling me that I could figure out a way myself.

I had a plan. Daisy would lead me up to each storefront, and I would count down until we were at the right one.

"Find the store Daisy. Go on, find the store." She led me to the first storefront and stopped.

Five.

I pointed myself back down the road,

"Forward."

I counted 5 paces.

"Find the store Daisy."

Four. We repeated the process.

Three.

Two.

One. We're here.

I licked my lips and stepped into the store, feeling a cool blast of air-conditioning on the top of my head as I crossed the threshold.

"I win." I heard Dad say the moment I got in.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"It wasn't a race." Samantha's voice chimed in behind me.

"Wait, what's going on?" I said.

"Well, I did say take the first left," Dad said ruefully "I just might've said it at the wrong time." The cheeky grin on his face plain to hear. Samantha laughed.

"Have you both been waiting here this whole time?"

"No," replied Samantha. "I've been a few yards behind you this whole time. I wasn't going to put you in any danger for this. Besides, how am I supposed to see how well the two of you work together if I'm not there?"

I didn't know how to react. I wasn't angry, just surprised. I'd spent a whole week with Samantha. I always learned to identify people by the sound of their footsteps. I thought I'd learned hers.

"You were listening for my high heels," said Samantha, as if she'd read my mind. "You're not the first blind person I've met you know." I could hear her smile growing as big as Dad's. I couldn't resist my own.

"How did I do, then?" I said.

"How do you think?" replied Samantha. "You passed."

***

"BEEP"

"BEEP"

"It - Is - Seven - Oh - Five - A - M," said the robotic female voice of my alarm clock.

I sat up and switched it off, not lingering for a moment. I had no energy, no motivation or reason to move, but I did. There was nothing to drive me forward, but there was no reason to stay. There was no comfort in my bed, despite its warmth. Nobody to clamber in beside for a lazy weekend. Nobody to drag me out of bed early for a long day's work.

I sat up and moved to the bottom left corner of the bed. 2 paces, 90° right, 12 paces, 90° right, 3 paces.

I walked to the kitchen. I didn't stretch my hand out to the wall. I didn't run my fingers along the wallpaper. I didn't care.

My future was clear to me now. The cruel fate that I was tied to for the rest of my life. Daisy was my guide dog. She was more than a pet, more than a friend, more than any human sense, yet somehow she was all three. All three rolled into one, and better at each than anything a sighted person could ever experience. They would never have a pet so close to them. Never a friend they relied on so much. They'd never have a living, breathing sense. A sense with a mind of its own that they'd bond with so strongly that no words could describe it.

I would. But I'd always lose them. Whether it be by freak accident like Daisy or age and disease. No dog could outlive their owner. I would suffer through this same pain, this same loss, in a cruel, endless loop for the rest of my life.

My phone rang. I moved over to the counter, fumbled around inside my satchel and pulled it out. Samantha was calling. She told me how sorry she was to hear about Daisy. How she'd heard what had happened and that it was in no way my fault. I thanked her.

There was a moment of silence before Samantha said was making the necessary arrangements.

"I have someone here I'd like you to meet."

The Falling Marionette

By Jennifer Lee Rossman

Stumbling and wobbling, her arms floating out from her body in the lower gravity, Cass took her first steps.

At the request of her brain, the hinges at her ankle, knee, and hip bent in sync, unsticking the gravity boot that locked her feet to the deck of the clinic ship. It came down with a little click a few inches ahead. Joy flooded her body that had never moved with such ease.

And then she panicked.

Too many moving parts, too many directions to bend. Bend a knee, straighten the ankle... Which way do the arms go?

Multitasking at its worst.

The metal skeleton and lack of gravity kept her from collapsing, invisible strings holding her upright, but she folded gently in the vague direction of the ground. She stared up at the puppet master that was not there.

"That's why we do this in orbit," her therapist said, click clicking over to her. "Hurts less."

He wrapped his hand around hers, all the little rods and pistons along his fingers curling with a precision she couldn't match. She stared at her hand, thinking so loudly she was surprised the other patients couldn't hear.

One by one they contracted, squeezing with more strength than she ever remembered having, even before the disease progressed. Once she tried getting her legs under her, however, she slipped and slid, a baby deer on ice, and her hand relaxed its grip.

He had to lift her to her feet, wait for her knees to remember how to stand without buckling.

"But that was good. Try holding onto the bar this time for stability."

Hold the bar? She could hardly hold his hand.

Everyone stared. All the nurses and therapists and even some of the other patients. Crowding at the edges of the room to watch the spectacle, offer too-enthusiastic encouragement, and mutter "Poor girl. So brave." when they thought she couldn't hear.

Cass took another step and fell, tumbling sideways around the axis of the bar. She forgot how to make her hand let go.

***

There was a boy, a few years younger than Cass. He came into the clinic all mangled from an accident while Cass was recovering from her surgeries.

He was going back to Earth, his exoskeleton fully functional. He would still need to get used to the full gravity, but he had been running and riding bikes while Cass was struggling to wiggle her toes.

She watched him stride out of the clinic with an ease she couldn't fathom, casually sidestepping a bunch of balloons while giving a thumbs up to all the cheering people who came to see him off.

"I'd be flat on my face if I tried that," she mumbled.

With a swipe of his hand, her physical therapist turned the window of her room opaque. "You can't compare your progress to anyone else's. He started in a different place than you."

"But he started worse than me. Why does he get to be better before me? Am I doing something wrong?"

His face made her regret complaining. So sad and annoyed at the same time. Even his face was a multitasker.

"His injuries were quite severe," he acknowledged, sitting on her bed. "Shattered bones, torn muscles, damage to the spinal cord. Without the external and neural supports, he would have been paralyzed and possibly lost limbs, but his body took to therapy so easily because it already knew how to work."

Cass tried not to sigh or roll her eyes at another person explaining her disease to her.

"Your brain works perfectly. So do your muscles. But the spinal muscular atrophy affects the way they talk to each other, so the messages don't get through so well." He pointed towards the window. "Ahmed's body already knew how to talk; we just taught it a new accent. Your body is struggling not to forget English, and we want to teach it Mandarin and Hebrew."

Cass just looked at him, watching his fingers drum against his knee. Each gleaming metal support moved like precision clockwork, the joints springing and relaxing at every tug of electronic tendons.

Did he even notice that he was doing it, or did it come so naturally that he didn't have to give any conscious thought to the process?

He followed her gaze and smiled. "You'll get there."

"Or maybe some of us just have more skilled puppeteers."

***

It wasn't the fall that hurt you, people said. It was the landing.

Maybe in a physics sense, Cass thought as she gripped the bar with an unsteady hand, but not in her case.

She'd been falling since soon after birth. Falling behind the other babies, struggling to catch up to milestones. Nearly caught them for a while using motorized chairs and machines that reached for things before she started falling again.

First, she couldn't lift her arms to feed herself, then she couldn't swallow. When her lungs gave out, they sent her into orbit for treatment. Less gravity pushing down on her chest kept her alive until surgery, but muscles atrophy in space.

She fell so far, she needed marionette strings to pull her up. Miracle machines to save her life and improve the quality of it.

She'd spent so many years falling, she didn't know how to stand up, but she had to learn because the worst part of falling wasn't the landing. No, the part that hurt the most was people watching it happen.

The sad smiles, the stares, the being treated like less than a human because she needed wheels to get around. People talked slowly and used small words, if they talked to her at all. More often than not, they talked about her and over her. Like she was too stupid to walk.

A step. Focus. All the joints pulling in different directions.

When she got back to Earth, it would be different. She would walk. She would have value.

Another step. Hold tight to the bar. Don't fall.

***

Cass had forgotten how strong gravity could be. On the shuttle ride from the orbiting clinic, she felt her body sink into the seat, and it took more mental effort to lift her limbs.

But her seat was just like everyone else's, no special supports for her head or straps to keep her from leaning over, and she could scratch her own nose without asking someone for help.

When they landed, she exited with everyone else. No special ramp or waiting for an attendant to unhook her chair.

Just Cass, her brain and muscles finally working like they were meant to. Neurons firing, messages traveling along synthetic pathways to tendons made of pistons and actuators, pulling and pushing her joints like muscles should have.

She walked out of the ship, taller and happier than she'd ever been. Her legs moved stiffly, wobbled a bit, but her strings kept her from falling, and she even waved at the crowd clustered on the edge of the landing pad.

Who, she quickly realized as the other passengers went to hug their families, were not all there to see her. She let out a relieved breath and told her clenched hands to relax as she made her way toward her parents. No more spectacle or pity, just a human among humans.

At first, her parents didn't know how to hug her. Too much metal around her torso holding up her spine. Not enough snuggly daughter to squish. But they hadn't seen her in months, except over video, and the metal skeleton only held up the reunion for a few awkward seconds.

"You're taller than I am," her mother said with a laugh, having only seen Cass sitting. She started crying.

Her father cleared his throat and tried to hide his emotions with humor as they walked back to their aerocar. "Glad it worked out for you, kid. I was worried they wouldn't refund the money I spent signing you up for hockey."

Hockey?

Cass knew he was joking, but... sports? She'd never even thought about playing sports before.

The world opened up before her, full of possibilities. She could play sports now - real ones, not the virtual kind where you throw a pixel ball with the flick of a finger. She could learn piano. She could visit that museum that didn't have a ramp! She could--

"Poor thing."

Cass froze. Her legs wouldn't budge, all neural activity being diverted to two little words. Her stomach felt like it would tumble out of the pit in her gut if not for the metal cage around her body.

She found the source of the comment, an old lady smiling sadly with her head cocked sideways. Her gaze traveled, groping every exposed support and lingering over the ones hidden by Cass's pants and shirt.

Cass opened her mouth, but choked on the tears that stung at her eyes and squeezed her throat.

But I'm better, she wanted to say. These help me not be as disabled, more like you. I'm not something to pity anymore, and I never was.

The woman turned to her parents. "What's wrong with her?"

Her strings were cut, and Cass was falling again.

***

Surgeries, implants, months of therapy, and Cass still lay in bed, afraid to be seen in public.

Nothing had changed. If anything, this was worse.

Before, she did need the help everyone offered, opening doors and picking up dropped items. She was severely disabled - not that they had the right to think less of her for that, but at least she understood their logic.

Now she was free, liberated by technology from the prison of her own body. A lump of wood finally given legs to dance on.

But people saw her and said "Oh, how awful. She can't ever be a real girl with those strings."

Her body almost killed her. She lived in space, and she hurt for months, and she earned the right to walk and feed herself and braid her own hair. To be normal.

But she would never be normal, no matter how hard she tried. Always a freak, falling, falling.

A few months after leaving the clinic, she saw the boy on vidscreen, winning every event in a sporting competition for people with disabilities.

Prerecorded segments told his story. Star athlete in high school, tragically mutilated when his aero fell from the sky because of a malfunctioning thruster.

Look at how brave he was, a voiceover said in a tone that definitely came from a tilted head. Going through all those awful surgeries but never losing hope. He didn't give up! How did he take one look at his hideous metal supports and have the strength not to just throw himself off a roof? So amazing!

And now he was not only competing as a disabled athlete but advocating for the rights of the disabled and building wheelchairs for kids in the Congo.

He was an inspiration. Not to Cass, but to all the reporters and announcers who had never had so much as a sprained ankle in their lives.

She tested her legs, running little laps around her bedroom and jumping hurdles made of kitchen chairs. Her puppeteer wasn't skilled enough yet, maybe never would be. Cass wasn't sure she wanted to be an inspiration anyway.

Were those her only choices? Keep to disabled circles and let people find strength in the misery they projected onto her, or try to integrate into the human world, only to have every person she met try and snip her strings?

***

Like a baby deer, Cass struggled to stand on the ice. Her body was not meant for skates, but the bulky hockey uniform hid the metal bars that ran along every bone, and the goalie wasn't expected to move around as much as the other players.

Her teammates were all real girls. No strings, no disability.

And as far as they knew, so was she.

For weeks, Cass went to practice and taught her limbs to move in different ways than they ever had and taught herself to trust. Pizza afterwards, laughter and fun with the girls. A glimmer of hope for a normal future, if only she could keep her uniform on.

The first game found Cass with thousands of eyes on her, boring through the layers of pads and seeing every misstep for what it was: distraction making her neurons not fire strongly enough.

Focus. One leg, then the other. Hold the stick tight.

The puck came her way. She lunged, sent it skittering from the goal.

In the cheers and exultation, she lost her footing.

Falling. Always falling.

The ice hit her face. Her cheek split. She took off her glove to feel for blood as another girl skated over.

Her hand curled around Cass's, pulling her up. A glance at the exoskeleton, a friendly smile devoid of pity.

Cass wasn't falling anymore.

Wounded in Providence

By Matthew B. Johnson

I broke my neck in 2005. I'll be honest, crippling myself at 22-years-old was not in my life's plans. While that is its own interesting story, that's not what this one is about. Well, not entirely anyway. See, I was highly self-conscious after my accident. Unsurprisingly, there was a period of not just physical but also mental adjustment. By the way, kids and old people have a way of pointing out that which you're most insecure about. Not that there's malicious intent behind it. Not most of the time, at least. It's more that they have no social filters. I mention that because it'll be important later in the story. I promise.

What helped me most with adjusting to my life as a quadriplegic was a therapy program called "Up and At 'Em." We did traditional therapies – physical therapy, occupational therapy, strength training, etc. – but the real benefit of the program was spending time with and learning from people who'd been in wheelchairs for several years. What's more, we all lived together for a month in this giant house in Newport, Rhode Island. We became friends, learned from and encouraged one another, and shared each other's successes. It was there that I first began to feel comfortable going out in public that I began to feel okay with being in a wheelchair.

The summer after I was a program participant, I was asked back to be a peer counselor to help newly injured people the way I'd been helped the previous year. Gilberto was one of the folks I was tasked with helping. A high-functioning paraplegic, he could have been greatly helped by the Up and At 'Em program and my fellow staff members. Only, he wasn't interested in being helped. He was content to let his family take care of him rather than learn how to be independent. Moreover, he didn't seem interested in making friends. Looking back, he didn't seem to want to be there at all.

See, something that's important when you find yourself wheelchair-bound is pressure relief. What I mean is you have to get off your ass regularly. I mean that in a literal sense. If you don't get out of your seat, relieving the pressure that builds up on your ass and tailbone, you can develop pressure sores. Gilberto hadn't been getting off his ass, despite my constant reminders to do so. Consequently, he developed a pressure sore.

***

"Seriously? There wasn't anywhere closer we could take him?" I asked as I transferred out of my wheelchair and into my driver's seat; a once laborious task that, with a lot of practice, had become fluid and easy. Sweat moistened my forehead as the July sun beat down on my car. I wished for an ocean breeze to come cool things off as I began taking the chair apart.

"The closest wound clinic is in Providence," Liz said, pulling her long, brown hair back into a ponytail. "At least we don't have to worry about traffic." She shot me a wry smile, though it faded quickly. That was the summer she was the assistant program director at Up and At 'Em. Liz would later become an exceptional physical therapist. That day, however, she was tasked with ensuring the pressure sore on Gilberto's ass was properly treated before it got worse, much to his annoyance. Due to one of the program's vans breaking down, I was nominated as their chauffeur that day.

"Ready?" she said.

Gilberto rolled up the car's ramp and into the passenger side. "Whatever," he said.

"Uh, that's the spirit?" she said as he positioned himself inside the car. She slid the tie-downs into the brackets mounted to the car's floorboards, then hooked them onto Gil's chair. While my car had a seatbelt that would work for someone in a wheelchair, the tie downs were necessary to prevent to chair from moving around during transit. Functioning much like seatbelts that attach to the chair's rear axle and front wheels, they retracted and locked in place in case of sudden movement. And even though there wasn't much room in my Honda Element for his chair to move around, the program's insurance required us to use them whenever we transported program participants.

"We're all ready here," Liz said. She pushed my chair's frame over and occupied the remaining rear seat.

I hit the button to fold up the ramp and closed the doors. The hydraulics were accompanied by a high-pitched mechanical hum as the automation took over. Before we even left the house's circular driveway, Gilberto was spouting obscenities into his phone. I'll spare you the details of the extended conversation which involved drug deals, drug use, various shootings, horrifyingly frequent use of the n-word, and one solitary mention of his pressure sore.

"How long until we get to Providence?" I asked Liz over my shoulder.

"It's about a forty-five minute drive," she said with a frown.

"Well...shit."

"Yep. Thanks again for doing this."

"Well, technically it's in my job description."

She laughed. "You could have said no."

"Nah, nigga, I ain't got no weed here, nigga. I gots ta get high, nigga," Gilberto yammered into his phone.

Liz and I almost had to shout to hear each other over him, seeing as how he was oblivious to how obnoxious he was being.

"Is it too late for me to say no?" I said as we sped down a secluded highway.

"Yeah, sorta," she said with a half-smile.

"It's alright. I'm glad I could help you out." We locked eyes in the rearview mirror and shared a smile.

Gilberto spouted off another long string of obscenities and racial slurs. Liz's smile faded as she shrugged her shoulders.

Forty-five minutes later, we reached the Providence wound clinic. Mercifully, Gilberto ended his call and put his phone away.

"Let's get you all unstrapped so we can go get checked in," Liz said to Gil as she began releasing the mechanical chair restrains. Her tone said, "Let's get this over with."

"Whatever," he said. You know, I wasn't sure how old he was. Mid-twenties, if I had to guess. Older than I was for sure, but not by much. However, that day he acted like a moody twelve-year-old...who desperately wanted to get high.

Liz removed the last restraint from his chair. "We'll head in now. You good out here?" she said to me.

"Sure. I'll meet you guys in a minute."

As Liz walked beside Gil toward the main doors, I saw her shaking her head as he complained about what bullshit all of this was and how he would rather be at a bar somewhere. And no, he didn't care that it wasn't noon yet. Meanwhile, I was sweating my ass off reassembling my wheelchair. It takes a minute when you have to worry about the tires rolling down the ramp and out of reach...I speak from experience there.

As I rolled toward the main entrance, I hoped Gilberto wasn't bothering the people in the lobby. When I got inside, I noticed two things: how much cooler it was (thank God for air conditioning) and that Gilberto was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Gilberto," I said to Liz as I entered the clinic. "Did they already take him back?"

"No, he's in the restroom," she said.

We waited for a few minutes, idly chatting about that day and the upcoming activities we were planning for the participants of Up and At 'Em, Liz's last year of grad school, and my hopes of re-enrolling in college after that summer when a young lady in pink scrubs opened the door leading to the exam rooms. Looking straight at me, she said, "Gilberto?"

"No. He's in the restroom," I said. "I'm sure he'll be out any minute now. I'll let him know you're ready for him."

"Ok, thanks," she said with a smile. She closed the door, and Liz and I returned to our conversation. Moments later, an elderly couple came in. The wife, who looked to be in her mid-80's, walked with a cane. The husband, who I guessed was about 90, rolled in in a wheelchair. They sat near the main door and were the only other people in the small waiting room besides Liz and me.

Another ten minutes or so went by, and Gilberto was still in the bathroom.

"I'd better go check on him," Liz said. "I'm not sure I want to know what he's doing, but, you know, insurance liabilities and stuff."

"Wait, you want me to go check?" I asked.

"No, it's in my job description," she said with a forced chuckle. "Plus, I'm the one who has training dealing with...well, medical stuff."

"I...hadn't thought of that," I said. "Yeah, you go...take care of...whatever."

She entered the bathroom only to emerge thirty seconds later. "Well, the good news is he shit his pants," she said, sitting back down next to me.

"That's the good news?"

"Yeah. Well, no drugs or anything illegal," she said.

"What's the bad news?"

"We don't have another pair of pants for him."

"Oh. Crap."

"Literally."

"That's terrible."

"The pants or the joke?"

"Yep."

As we laughed, another nurse poked her head into the waiting room. She looked from the elderly gentleman to me.

"Gilberto?" she asked as her eyes met mine. I'll take this moment to point out that I'm a heavy-set white guy. Moreover, I don't look like the Gilberto we brought in, who was a skinny Dominican dude.

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She sounded like my condescending first-grade teacher who used to talk to my class like we were brain-dead apes who snuck candy from her desk drawer. Liz later told me the look on my face was total shock mixed with butthurt. Thinking about it, that's probably what I was feeling. I'm not sure if the nurse was implying that I was screwing around, wasting her and everyone else's time, or that I lacked the cognitive capabilities to recognize my own name. In either case, the implication was that because I was in a wheelchair there was something very wrong with me.

Here's the thing. Well, two things, really. The first is this. Growing up, I was a big, strong kid. I played sports year-round. Not everyone I played with was the same size as me, and occasionally, in the course of a practice or game, I'd hurt someone - never on purpose, and I always felt really bad when it happened. And yet, so many times, I was accused of intentionally hurting the other kids. When I argued otherwise, I was accused of lying. So when the nurse implied that I might be lying to her, with that accusatory, authoritative tone, yeah, it touched on some tender childhood memories.

Second thing, even two years after my accident, I was still adjusting to being in a wheelchair in public. Something I learned the hard way is that your physical recovery post-injury is relatively quick and painless compared to the mental and emotional recovery. One of my fears, or maybe concerns is the better term, was people assuming that I was mentally deficient simply because of the chair. And, yes, that happened a few times before and after this incident.

So I just stared back at the nurse, unable to form any kind of response that wouldn't prove her right on either account.

Meanwhile, Liz, being no help, was laughing so hard tears began streaming down her face, which had turned redder than Rudolph's nose.

"I can show you my driver's license if you want," I said.

When the nurse simply stared back at me, the old lady who'd come in minutes before entered the conversational fray. Important to the story is that this particular old woman had the thickest Rhode Island accent of anyone I've ever heard. Imagine, if you will, Peter Griffin or Ed Koch as an 80-year-old woman. It was in this voice that she said, "Oh, it's 'cause you're in a wheelchair. She thinks it's you!"

Liz fell out of her seat laughing. She later admitted she came dangerously close to peeing her pants because she was laughing so hard.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," was all I could say.

In the years that followed, Liz and I would recall that day and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but also at each other's impressions of the sweet old lady who had pointed out the obvious in her thick Rhode Island accent. Despite the laughter, there's just a twinge of pain at the insult levied by that nurse. I've since had people leap to various unfavorable conclusions about my cognitive abilities, conclusions which were refuted after about fifteen seconds of conversation. Not that they make such assumptions with the intention of being cruel. Not generally, anyway. It's more that they don't know what I've been through. They don't know how difficult it was for me to regain my independence, nor can they fathom the sheer amount of hard work I required to do so. Or, they simply have little to no experience with disability. Sometimes, what little experience people have is based on encounters with guys like Gilberto. I don't know what happened to him, by the way. We never had any contact after Up and At 'Em ended that summer. Despite everything, I hope his life got better. I hope time and experience gave him greater maturity. I hope he gained his independence. Most of all, I hope he stayed away from the lifestyle which resulted in his being shot and subsequently paralyzed. Sadly, the only thing I remember about him is that day at the wound clinic in Providence. But just like I do, life rolls on, leaving such instances in the past where they belong.

About the Authors

**Anita Goveas** is a speech and language therapist by day and a short story writer by night. She is British-Asian, based in London, and fueled by strong coffee and paneer jalfrezi. She was published in the 2016 London Short Story Prize anthology.

**Terry Sanville** lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and one skittery cat (his in-house critic). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, poems, and novels. Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 250 literary and commercial journals, magazines, and anthologies including _The Potomac Review_ , _The Bitter Oleander_ , _Shenandoah_ , and _The Saturday Evening Post_. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes for his stories "The Sweeper" and "The Garage." Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

**Sara Codair** lives in a world of words, writing fiction in every free moment, teaching writing at a community college and binge-reading fantasy novels. When not lost in words, Sara can often be found hiking, swimming, or gardening. Find Sara's words in _Helios Quarterly_ , _Secrets of the Goat People_ , _The Centropic Oracle_ , at https://saracodair.com and @shatteredsmooth.

**Catherine Alexander** , Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, has published stories in 34 literary journals, including _North Atlantic Review, Rosebud_ (two successive issues _), Bryant Literary Review, Rockhurst Review_ and won "Jurors' Choice" in _Spindrift._ National Public Radio has aired her work. Her story, "Backyards," was performed by Jorja Fox (Sara Sidle in TV's CSI) in a Los Angeles Word Theatre production. She has taught fiction and memoir at Edmonds Community College, University of Washington, Horizon House in Seattle, writing conferences, senior centers and to homeless groups. She now leads a private class in Seattle. Living in Edmonds, Washington with her dogs and a Maine Coon cat, she has just completed a novel.

**Jenny Andersen** has been a field camp cook, mineral museum curator, soda jerk, geologist, materials analyst, antique dealer and rehab patient. Writing is better.

**Ann Chiappetta M.S.** is an author and family therapist living in New York. Her writing has been featured in many small press publications and collegiate journals. Ann's nonfiction essays have been printed in _Dialogue_ magazine and her poems are often featured in _Magnets and Ladders_. Ann's poetry is also included in _Breath and Shadow_ 's debut anthology, _Dozen: The Best of Breath and Shadow_ , which was released in 2016. Her first collection, _Upwelling: Poems_ , is available in both e-book and print formats. Visit her blog at http://www.thought-wheel.com.

Since childhood, **Marilyn June Janson** has lived with OCD and Anxiety Disorders. Stable due to prescribed anti-anxiety and medication for depression, she is not cured. Attending self-help group meetings and sharing with others help her navigate the world. She works, goes on vacation, and sees friends.

Katrina Byrd, a Jackson, MS native, is currently seeking her MFA in Creative Writing at the Mississippi University for Women. Byrd, a writer and playwright, has received several grants from the Mississippi Arts Commission and several of her short plays have been performed by Bay St Louis Little Theatre, Vicksburg Theatre Guild and MOJOAA Performing Arts Company. Several of Byrd's short stories have appeared in Black Magnolias Literary Magazine and Inflight Literary Magazine.

**Catherine Edmunds'** published works include a poetry collection, four novels, and a Holocaust memoir. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, three times shortlisted in the Bridport, and has been published in many journals, including _The Frogmore Papers_ , _Aesthetica_ , _The Binnacle_ , _Butchers' Dog_ , and _Ambit_.

**Megan Seitz** graduated summa cum laude from Western Kentucky University with a degree in Creative Writing, Spanish, and Vocal Music. She has been a finalist in the Goldenrod Poetry Festival and Jim Wayne Miller Celebration of Writing and published her honors thesis "Zarzuela! North America's Missing Performance Genre." Her love of fiction and poetry is as vast as her love of music, travel, and cats. She currently lives in Orlando, Florida, living out her dream as a Disney Cast Member.

**Sophie Sparrow** writes speculative fiction, fantasy, and humor. Her short fiction has previously appeared in _Mad Scientist Journal_ and _Helios Quarterly Magazine_. If you're interested in what she's been up to recently, you can check out Twitter @_sophiesparrow or visit her at http://www.writersophiesparrow.com (though she can't promise to make you a cup of tea).

**Christine Lucas** is a former Air Force officer from Greece and is mostly self-taught in English. Her work has appeared in several online and print publications including _Daily Science Fiction_ , _Space and Time Magazine_ , and _Cast of Wonders_ (forthcoming).

**Tracy Auerbach** was born and raised in Queens, New York. She grew up with Tourette syndrome which made for a difficult time in school and drove her to seek an outlet. She began writing poetry and short stories in elementary school as an escape. Tracy's work has appeared in the online literary journal _Micro-horror_ and in _The Writing Disorder_ , a fiction anthology. Her first novel _The Human Cure_ was published in paperback in 2014. When she is not teaching or writing, Tracy is usually reading, performing science experiments, or playing with her children. She lives in New York with her husband and two sons.

**Ashleigh Meyer** is a 25-year-old author from southwestern Virginia. Her poetry and short stories feature topics such as childhood, life in a rural community, family unity, and her experiences with Tourette's syndrome. In her free time, Ashleigh enjoys camping, kayaking, and playing guitar.

**Erica Verrillo** is the author of three Middle Grade fantasies, _Elissa's Quest_ , _Elissa's Odyssey_ , and _World's End_ (Random House). Her short stories, essays, and creative nonfiction have appeared in over a dozen publications. She is also the author of the definitive medical reference guide for treating myalgic encephalomyelitis, _Chronic Fatigue Syndrome: A Treatment Guide_ , now in its second edition (first edition, St. Martin's). Erica blogs regularly about the publishing world on Publishing... and Other Forms of Insanity and on her website http://ericaverrillo.com. You can find her on Twitter @EricaVerrillo.

**Treva Obbard** has wanted to be a writer since she realized books didn't spontaneously manifest on her shelf. Then, she was four; now, she has recently graduated from Johns Hopkins with a Writing Seminars degree and a great love of genre fiction, particularly genre fiction starring people with disabilities. There is not, she believes, enough of it.

**Jake Lovell** works in digital marketing in Oxfordshire, UK. He was born on December 17th, 1993, and is 24 years old. He dropped out of 6th Form (High School) with varied grades, not pursuing academia due in part to learning difficulties. He was able to enter the professional world through an apprenticeship scheme.

**Jennifer Lee Rossman** is a science fiction geek from Oneonta, New York, where she cross stitches, watches Doctor Who, and threatens to run over people with her wheelchair. Her work has been featured in _Circuits & Slippers_, _Spectrum Lit, Expanded Horizons_ , and _Cast of Wonders_. You can find her blog at http://jenniferleerossman.blogspot.com and Twitter at <https://twitter.com/JenLRossman>.

**Matthew B. Johnson** currently lives in Sacramento, CA. He has an MA in English Literature that he earned from Mills College in Oakland, CA in 2016. He loves to read, mostly sci-fi/fantasy, and has been writing most of his life. His goal is to become a full-time novelist, which would be great since that's a job he can do sitting down.

Permissions Acknowledgements

"Neural Plasticity" by Anita Goveas, copyright 2017. Originally published in _Dodging the Rain_. Reprinted with permission of the author.

"After First Contact" by Terry Sanville, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Thunder Carts" by Sara Codair, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Baby and House" by Catherine Alexander, copyright 2005. Originally published in _Bryant Literary Review_. Reprinted with permission of the author.

"A Perfect Score" by Jenny Andersen, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Lessons Learned" by Ann Chiappetta, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Getting Unstuck" by Marilyn June Janson, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Change" by Katrina Byrd, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"In the Smog" by Catherine Edmunds, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Conscious" by Megan Seitz, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"A Rare Condition" by Sophie Sparrow, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"A Pinch of Chaos" by Christine Lucas, copyright 2016. Originally published in _In a Cat's Eye_. Reprinted with permission of the author.

"My Fight with Sam the Man" by Tracy Auerbach, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Oliver in Progress" by Ashleigh Meyer, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"The Moth-Man" by Jon-Paul Reed, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"The Karma Bug" by Erica Verrillo, copyright 2017. Originally published in _Breath & Shadow_. Reprinted with permission of the author.

"Foresight" by Treva Obbard, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"Daisy" by Jake Lovell, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

"The Falling Marionette" by Jennifer Lee Rossman, copyright 2017. Originally published in _Expanded Horizons_. Reprinted with permission of the author.

"Wounded in Providence" by Matthew B. Johnson, copyright 2018. Published with permission of the author.

About the Editors

**Emily Dorffer** is a current undergraduate at Johns Hopkins University who has cerebral palsy. She primarily writes speculative fiction and poetry. When she isn't busy reading or writing, she loves spoiling her cat, baking with her mom, and playing video games. Her works have previously appeared in _Cicada_ , _Breath & Shadow_, _The Lyric_ , and _Blue Marble Review_. One of her short stories won the Baltimore Science Fiction Society's Amateur Writing Contest in 2017. You can read some of her works on Wattpad @sandydragon1.

**Jon-Paul Reed** is currently an English and literature teacher at The Donoho School and recently graduated from Johns Hopkins University with a Writing Seminars degree. He enjoys telling stories, playing games, and reliving his glory days of being a Blue Jay on the football field. His abilities to speak and communicate are some of his most precious gifts. He hopes to spend his life helping those who have not yet found or developed their writing voice, so that they may find joy and power with their words.
