"You'll bring me Muffy," Spike Hannigan said, grabbing me by the collar. His breath smelled like cookies stolen from lunch boxes and cigarettes smoked behind the library — a bully's breath. "You'll bring me Muffy, or you'll be spitting out teeth for a week."

Then he leaned back against his gleaming, cherry-red Mustang, and he and his buddies all had a good laugh.

For as long as I could remember, it had been a Fairfield High School tradition that before the homecoming game, someone would try to steal Muffy. Muffy was the Holy Grail, the crown jewels, cloaked in an air of mystery.

Actually, Muffy was a poodle that lived at McHenry's Pharmacy, and Mr. McHenry watched that dog like a hawk. The student who could successfully dognap Muffy, paint her with the school colors, and parade her around the field during halftime would earn lifelong accolades.

Spike Hannigan was obsessed with Muffy. The year before, Mr. McHenry had humiliated Spike by ejecting him from the pharmacy with a boot to the backside.

This time around, Spike had decided to foist the job on a patsy. Like a handler negotiating a kidnap ransom, he laid down the rules: if I went to the principal or chickened out, I was a dead man.

My mouth was parched as I opened the door to McHenry's Pharmacy.

I could hear my pulse in my ears so clearly, I was amazed its loudness hadn't drawn any attention. I swallowed, listening for the click of poodle toenails on the floor. I wondered whether Mr. McHenry owned a gun. Did I intend to stuff a poodle under my shirt and saunter out like I owned the place? I had no idea. I knew only that I had to steal Muffy or die trying.

"You're in trouble, aren't you, sonny?"

I slowly turned to see a razor-burned face. Mr. McHenry looked into my eyes with something like amusement. Muffy was tucked under his arm, gazing me with her usual blank expression.

"Danny Ferguson," Mr. McHenry said. "Have you come to steal my poor dog and put her in the homecoming game's halftime show?"

I was too terrified to reply.

"Let me guess," he continued, looking thoughtful. "Spike Hannigan put you up to this. Does he still drive that ridiculous red car?"

I nodded dumbly.

He took me by the elbow and walked me over to the counter. I wondered who he'd call first — my parents, or the police.

Mr. McHenry placed Muffy on the counter, then went behind the register and retrieved what looked like a can of dog food from a small refrigerator. As Muffy ate her lunch, I noticed that it had a fishy smell, like tuna.

"You'll have to take her, of course," Mr. McHenry said. "Spike will knock your lights out if you show up empty-handed."

I finally found my voice. "Huh?" I said meekly.

"Go ahead," he said, and I saw it again — that glimmer of amusement. "Take Muffy to Spike Hannigan, tell him you grabbed her when I wasn't looking, and then come right back here. Understood? Make it quick!"

Completely at a loss, I did as I was told. Muffy licked her lips as I scooped her under my arm. Was this a trick? Was Mr. McHenry planning to have me arrested the minute I set foot on the sidewalk?

I listened for sirens as I went down the street to where Spike and his thugs were waiting. They gasped when they saw their prize nestled under my elbow.

Spike put Muffy in the back seat of his Mustang. "If you breathe a word about this to anyone, you'll be sorry, understand?"

I nodded.

"Good," he said, giving me a shove. "Get lost, jerk." I could still hear them laughing as they piled into their cars and drove away.

I hurried back to the pharmacy. Mr. McHenry was waiting just inside the doorway.

"Well?" he said, and now he was smiling. I'd never seen that grouch so much as grin, but now he was chuckling like he'd heard the world's funniest joke. "Did he put Muffy in that shiny red car of his?"

"Yes, sir," I said, and he laughed again at the quizzical expression on my face. He held up the can he'd taken out of the refrigerator. Salmon-flavored cat food. While I was trying to figure that out, he reached out and opened the door. Muffy the poodle bounded in, barking happily.

"Muffy loves cat food," Mr. McHenry explained, petting her, "but I don't let her have it very often. I'm guessing that when Spike got up to the corner, it was right about that time that Muffy came down with explosive diarrhea. How much of it got on his upholstery, do you figure, before he opened the door and turned her loose?"

At this point, I was laughing myself. This was almost worth the skull-bashing I would surely receive.

"Don't you worry," Mr. McHenry said, reading my mind. "If I know Spike Hannigan, the last thing he'll want is word getting around. I wouldn't be surprised if he steered clear of you from now on."

There was a spring in my step as I left the pharmacy, a skinny kid with taped-together glasses, who had walked out of McHenry's with Muffy under his arm and lived to tell the tale.

I could hear Dr. Park’s footsteps echoing in the hallway. Step, slide-step. Step, slide-step. His limp made it easy to tell him apart from the others.

My doorknob turned and I sat a little straighter on the bed. I had to remember what Mother had taught me.

Good girls have perfect posture.

“Good morning, Mary. How are you today?” Dr. Park asked. His eyes appeared especially watchful this morning. I would have to rely on Mother’s teachings even more than normal.

“I am fine, Dr. Park. And you?” I replied. I kept my voice calm yet polite, the perfect balance between friendly and reserved.

“I am fine Mary, thank you for asking.”

Mother would have been proud of my perfect greeting.

“Are you ready for our session, Mary?” he asked.

“Yes, doctor.” I rose to my feet and straightened my dress. It was plain, rather like a nightgown, but good girls make sure they are always presentable. He smiled in encouragement.

“I’m glad to see that you are concerned about your appearance, Mary. That is a very positive sign.”

I smiled back. I don’t know why my appearance was so important, but it looked like Mother was right again.

We walked down the hallway together. It was almost like taking a normal walk, except that my handler was right behind us, just in case I had another “set-back.” It hadn’t happened for a while, not since I’d started following Mother’s advice. I smiled a little as I remembered all of the blood.

“Are you in a good mood today, Mary?” the doctor asked. He’d noticed the smile. He noticed a lot of things.

“Yes, doctor. I was thinking how nice it would be to go outside. It has been ever such a long time.” I let my upper-crust, finishing school accent show through just a little. Mother would have approved.

“You know, Mary, I think that is a great idea.” He nodded to another attendant and a blanket appeared. They wrapped it around my shoulders like a cloak.

We proceeded down the hallway, the doctor and I chatting while my handler hovered behind us. We came to a door that was guarded by another attendant. It slowly opened and revealed a magnificent sight – a beautiful garden.

It was spring, my favorite time of year. The air was on the crisp side, but my blanket-cloak was more than adequate. Tulips in every color bloomed around us. I could smell hyacinths on the air and could see daffodils waving their sunny heads in the light breeze. A loudness grew in my head, drowning out the doctor's words. I realized it was the sound of birds flying overhead. Mother would have loved this garden.

“Mary, there’s something we need to talk about,” Dr. Park said. He seated me on a lovely wrought-iron bench, then looked deeply into my eyes.

“Do you remember why you are here?” he asked. I dropped my gaze; Mother said eye contact with a man would ruin the façade. I nodded.

“I engaged in unacceptable behavior,” I replied. I could feel the doctor staring at me. I wished he wouldn’t do that. Mother always said it was rude to stare.

“Do you remember what that behavior was?” he asked.

“Yes.” I replied. I could feel a warmth growing in me at the memories of that joyful time.

“You have made wonderful progress since then. You no longer obsess over the memories, or try to foist the responsibility onto others. I thought it was impossible, but you have overcome your mental illness and become a charming young woman.”

“Thank you, doctor, for your kind words.” I punctuated my gracious words with an equally gracious smile. Mother was right; the façade became easier with practice.

“Your third sanity and parole hearing is coming up. I never thought I’d say this, but I am considering a recommendation that you be released from Glendale into a halfway house pending reintegration into the community.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“But I have one more question for you. Do you feel remorse for what you’ve done?”

I looked away into the garden. The red tulips reminded me of the girls’ blood flowing through my fingers. The spring breeze was like the soft sigh of their final breaths. Even the calling birds echoed their screams, their beautiful screams of fear. If only I’d listened to Mother and cleaned up when I was through playing, I wouldn’t have been here all these years.

“Yes, doctor, I am extremely remorseful. Mother would have been ashamed of me.”

Thomas Edison was obsessed with Thomas Edison, though he wasn't descended from the inventor. Still, Tom had grown up in the shadow of the great man. As soon as he could read he had been had deluged with books about Edison. Posters of light-bulbs and phonographs covered his walls. Tom hated Thomas Edison with a passion.

So Tom became a luddite. He blamed technology for everything from the deteriorating environment to the collapsing economy. If technology hadn't been foisted on an unsuspecting populace, the world would be a paradise.

Ironically by becoming an anti-inventor he gained a fame of sorts. Unfortunately the quiet voices of sanity were drowned out by the sheer loudness of the modern world. Most people not only wanted technology, but wanted more of it.

The only logical thing to do was to cut off technology at its source. For Tom that meant the destruction of Thomas Edison, the great inventor. That travel through time was impossible was mere detail.

Tom traveled to meet a scientist who had worked on the CERN. Dr. Pearce was so erratic that he had published simultaneous and contradictory papers on the possibility of time travel. The University of Bonn had assigned him a post-doctoral student as a handler so the professor didn't embarrass the University too much.

Tom met with him in a tavern by seating himself at the professor's table with an extra glass of bock in his hand.

“Evening Professor,” Tom said, “I have long been an admirer.”

“You understand inter-dimensional calculus?”

“Hardly,” Tom took a sip of his beer. “I was speaking of your rebellion against the strait-laced scientific community.”

“Hmmmph” the professor drank his beer in one smooth motion then looked at Tom expectantly. Tom obediently fetched another two glasses.

“What do you know of my work?”

“I know that you argue that time travel is both possible and impossible. I think you suggest that it depends on the definition of time travel, and the parameters used to form that definition.”

“Not bad,” Tom wasn't sure if the professor was talking about him or the beer, since the two new glasses had also vanished.

“Come to the lab tomorrow. I will show you something. Don't let Astrid scare you off. She bites, but not hard.”

The next day Tom went to the lab. Astrid sat at a desk working at a computer. She scowled at him, but said nothing.

“Ah, there you are. Look over there.” The professor pointed to a dark corner of the lab. A brilliant flash blinded Tom for a second. He was still blinking away spots when Dr. Pearce dragged him over to a contraption in the opposite corner of the lab. He fiddled with a couple of mirrors and knobs then picked up a camera. The professor pointed the camera at the largest mirror and watched a digital countdown. Just as the numbers reached zero he took a picture.

“Nice picture,” the professor said, showing Tom a picture on a computer screen. It was of Tom entering the lab. The professor was at his elbow pointing at the camera. Tom walked over to the other corner. There was no camera, no mirror, nothing to take a picture.

“Time travel, but not time travel,” the professor said. “I take a picture of you in the past. Did the camera go back, or did the picture go forward?”

“The flash went back.”

“Yes, yes it did.”

“How did you know to make me look just at that moment?”

“I had already decided to take the picture. It was pre-determined. Like quantum mechanics, the observer makes the observed real.”

“That isn't how it works.” Astrid said.

“That is exactly how it works.”

The professor spent the rest of the day showing off. He took pictures of events further back in the past and all over the globe.

“Only pictures?” asked Tom.

“Only light.” the professor said, “The pictures are just proof.”

Tom followed him to another tavern and lost count of the beers that the professor drank.

Tom went to the library and did some research, then to an specialized industrial supply company. The engineers just looked at him and shrugged. A week later Tom was considerably poorer, but he walked away with a suitcase that held a very special laser.

It was late, Astrid was at home and the professor at a tavern. So the lab was cloaked in darkness. Tom let himself in with a key he had 'borrowed' from the professor.

It took a while for Tom to get the equipment set to the co-ordinates he wanted. He checked them with the camera. Sure enough, there was a picture of the young Edison sitting in his room. Tom was sure that the soon to be inventor would investigate the mysterious flash of light. Tom made a slight adjustment to the equipment and set up the powerful cutting laser. The next flash of light he sent to the past was as lethal as a bullet.

The world lurched. Nicholas shook his head. What was he doing here? Gradually it came back to him. He was here to destroy Tesla, the inventor whose name had cursed him since he was born.

“And in that day, the people that the Lord God had created had poisoned the land that He had given them. The air, the land, and the sea were filled with the poison that the people had made. Yea, the entire face of the earth was cloaked in darkness, so great was the destruction that the people had wrought.”

“Have mercy on us, O Lord.” Jalek intoned the required response along with the rest of those assembled.

The priest continued, “But still the Lord had mercy on His people, and He commissioned His prophets to create a great Dome. Then the Lord God called out a remnant and sealed them in the Dome.”

“Bless us, O Lord.”

“And the Lord God commanded His people saying: ‘You shall remain in the Dome which I have created for you. You shall…”

The priest continued reading, but Jalek tuned him out. He knew the entire reading by heart, but still his mind was filled with questions. His parents, his teachers, and the priests had listened patiently, but their answers were always all the same: “Because the Lord commanded.”

As the service drew to a close, the priest recited the words of the liturgy that troubled Jalek the most.

“Therefore you shall remain in Dome which the Lord God has provided for you: Both you and your children and your children’s children to all generations. Do not leave the Dome or you shall surely die.”

He did not join in as the people answered for a final time, “We hear and obey, O Lord.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I just don’t understand!” Jalek complained the next day as he tended his place in the gardens.

Markel sighed. “You have got to stop being so obsessed with this, my friend. It is impossible to survive outside of the Dome”

“How can we know if we do not try?”

“We do not need to try.” Markel was clearly exasperated. “It is commanded!”

Jalek shouted in frustration, “Why do you accept every word foisted on us by the priests without question? They control our lives. We are told when to get up and when to sleep. They select our jobs and our living spaces. We are told who and when to marry, and only those who are approved may have children. Yet, no one dares to speak against them!”

Markel put his hand over his friend’s mouth and looked around surreptitiously. “You go to far. Healthy discussion may be tolerated, but you are verging on blasphemy.”

Jalek spoke more softly as he responded. “I tell you it is not impossible. I have found a place where one can see outside the Dome. Meet me behind the tool shed tonight and I will show you all the proof you need.”

--------------------------------------------------------

Jalek crouched behind the shed, peering through a place where the mirroring had worn thin. He was so engrossed in his viewing, that he did not hear the footsteps until they were almost upon him. When he turned, he was dismayed to see that Markel had brought two priests with him.

Markel hugged is friend and shook his head sadly. “I am sorry. I cannot allow you to continue.”

“If you will just look…”

“There is nothing to look at.” The priest smoothed a patch over the transparent place in the dome. “You will come with us.”

They led him through the city and deep into the temple. Finally, he was ushered into an empty room and instructed to wait. After a few moments an old man in a robe entered the room and sat across from Jalek. “It has been quite a while since I have been called. I am Isak, Handler of Seekers. It is my job to handle those who question and are not satisfied by the knowledge of the priests. You will stay with me until you are satisfied.”

Jalek thought for a moment and then he spoke. “It is true, Isak, that I have many questions; but I will not be satisfied until I have been outside.”

Isak stared at him thoughtfully. Then, seeing the resolution in Jalek’s face, he said, “Very well, come with me.” He led him to a large, metal door. Once they stepped through it, he looked at Jalek solemnly. “The door to the outside is at the end of the hallway. You will not be able to open that one until I close this one.

Isak waited several seconds and then intoned, “But, if any man will not heed the words of the prophet, then he shall be banished from among you and sent outside the Dome.” He turned and strode back into the temple without looking back. The door slammed shut behind him with a loudness that echoed through the room.

Isak stood staring at the closed door. As Handler of Seekers, only he knew the rest, which he quietly whispered. “The Lord, however, will not abandon His children, neither will He forever ignore their cries. When the time of purification has passed, the Lord will raise up a new prophet and he will leave the Dome, yet he will live. And, when the time has come, the prophet will return and throw open the door to the Dome and the people will return to the land which the Lord God has purified.”

Even though he stood alone, Isak reverently gave the response, “Save us, O Lord.”

"That's impossible!"

Now I'd done it. I was an adventurer by trade, one good at avoiding trouble, but I'd just stirred it up here. There were certain things you didn't say around professor Diane Timmons, and that was near the top.

"Nothing is impossible as long as you don't set limits, Rachel!" she yelled, as if loudness equaled truthfulness. "At the worst, something is extremely implausible!"

I kept my voice even. "Still, a vehicle that can move in both time and space. Couldn't that only happen in fiction?"

"Bah. The New World was unknown. Leaving Earth's atmosphere was a pipe dream. Communicating instantly across the world was pure author fantasy."

"I'm just saying what you know you'll hear from the Scientific Council."

"Ah, yes, them," she spoke the last with obvious ridicule. "Yes, they will obsess over every detail. They will demand proof. Very well, then. Let me start with you."

Timmons led me to a workbench which had a large sheet atop it. She grabbed the sheet to reveal a box that was locked on the opposite side. Making sure I wasn't watching, she produced a ring of keys, and opened a regular padlock. The box opened, and she carefully pulled a smaller object out, keeping it shielded from me.

I was used to this. Diane always did have a flair for the dramatic. It always reminded me of watching a snake handler lower a cobra into a basket. That same hint of danger, the non-verbal warning to look but not touch.

As best I could tell without closer inspection, it was a flying machine. It was thin, metallic and had a triangular base that must have housed the hidden power supply. There were two thin metal rods that resembled crossed antennae at the top. I couldn't determine the function of these, and I knew that the professor would never tell if they even had any.

"Very simple and sleek," I said. "The council will no doubt appreciate that you didn't feel the need for unnecessary pizazz. Still..."

"Yes, yes. We both know that without visual proof, they'll treat me like a con man trying to foist some miracle cure upon them. Well, sit back and watch, Rachel, as I accomplish your 'impossible' task!"

Diane pulled a remote control out of her pocket. It had more buttons that your average graphic calculator, though from this distance I couldn't read what they said. She pushed a sequence of buttons, and the vehicle was propelled slowly and fairly steadily two feet straight in the air. This wasn't a bad feat in itself, but I knew that there was more, and gave a look that said exactly that. The professor simply smiled and entered another sequence. A shield of energy started at the top and formed a circle. Soon the vehicle was partially cloaked in a dark blue field.

I had to resist an urge to touch it, and make sure it was still actually there. Timmons pushed another button or two, and a small hum emanated. The shield crackled a bit, before there was a small burst inside. Quicker than I could blink, the vehicle was gone without a trace.

"Where did it go?" I asked.

"Ah, where and when, you should say. It is in Italy, during the midst of the Napoleonic Wars. The departure is a success -- now to bring it back."

I wondered how the professor would prove that the vehicle went farther than the next room, but held my tongue. There was a part of me that wanted to believe that she'd done the impossible, and couldn't wait to see what was next.

Timmons confidently pushed one button near the bottom. Nothing happened. She pushed it again, harder. Still nothing. She gave it a few more hard pokes before stopping and looking at the display with frustration.

"It went back too far," she announced. "Still in Italy, but to the 1480s. I fear the power failed after going about 500 years. It may recharge eventually, but I can't bring it back now."

--

I departed soon after. I didn't want to upset Diane further, and I knew she'd go back to work.

I never did hear more about this project. I suppose it and other prototypes never came back. Either that or the professor got distracted by other endeavors -- last I knew, she was talking about working on space elevators.

Personally, all I took away was a sudden urge to visit Italy myself. It turned out to be a wonderful trip, full of the sense of adventure I craved. It did leave one answered question, however, when I saw an object similar to Timmons' craft in da Vinci's design for an ornithopter. But I guess who inspired whom will always be a mystery.

James jumped up suddenly. An idea had crossed his mind as he sat there going over the numbers for the thousandth time, his tired eyes blurring as the numbers jumped all over the page.

“Maybe if I …,” he muttered as he rushed over to the corner of the garage

“Ow,” he hissed as his knee struck a paint can. He knew he should get this garage cleaned up, remove all the clutter, but he had other things on his mind.

He maneuvered around the lawnmower and bumped into the shelves which sent a box hurtling down towards his head. He dodged it just in time, picking up the box. It was a fondue set he couldn’t even remember buying. Perhaps Laura had bought it.

“She always seemed to get this kind of thing foisted on her,” he thought and chuckled softly to himself as he balanced it precariously back on the shelf.

He reached the contraption and stepped inside. It looked almost like a telephone booth but inside it was filled with cables and wires of all kinds. A huge digital display was attached to one wall. He punched in some numbers and then pushed on the lever. A whirring sound jolted him and he looked around wildly.

“What the…..?” James let out a breath slowly. Was it actually going to work? After all this time? He punched some more numbers into the machine and waited, holding his breath. The whirring sound grew louder and then stopped. Just as he thought that it wasn’t going to work, everything went black. His stomach did somersaults and the dizziness made him close his eyes. A loud thump forced his eyes open again.

He was still in the garage. But it wasn’t the garage as it looked today. Parked inside was his wife’s red Toyota Corolla and a lot of the clutter was missing. In the corner was Jessica’s bicycle. He couldn’t believe it had worked.

The sound of his wife’s voice startled him. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he crouched down and hid behind the car. He watched as his wife walked into the garage looking for something on one of the shelves. He ached to reach out and touch her smooth skin.

Suddenly he felt that disoriented feeling again. His stomach did somersaults and he was whisked back into the present. He opened his eyes and looked around the garage at the clutter surrounding him. It had worked, it had actually worked. And the data processing handler he had set up to respond and automatically bring him back after two minutes had done its job. He went over to the computer and adjusted the time span for his jaunt. It was time to put in that date. The one that would change everything and bring his daughter back.

He punched in the date that was engraved in his memory and the coordinates he needed. He closed his eyes as the dizziness hit him and when he opened them he was standing at the corner of George Street. People were milling around everywhere. Directly across the road was the Metro Theatre. He looked up at the event board and saw it printed there - Loudness . His daughter’s favourite band. He didn’t have much time. He had to get in there and find her.

He didn’t notice it until a young guy in a black cloak , eyes ringed by black eyeliner, bumped into him. James was jostled and pushed back but the young man didn’t even seem to notice. He raced up to the box office window and stood there, waiting. The lady at the counter stared right through him.

“Excuse me?” he said, but she continued staring, and then he was jostled aside again by a girl in fishnet stockings. Her black glossy hair hung down her back. He looked up at her face and saw her blue eyes, so much like his own, staring through him.

“Jones. Picking up two tickets, thanks,” she said smiling.

“Jessica?” James reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Jessica,” he yelled this time, but still she heard nothing. She turned around and walked towards a blonde girl, waving the tickets at her friend, excitedly.

James followed her into the club. He knew he didn’t have much time left, he had to do something.

“Jessica!” He tried one last time running towards her, but she didn’t respond. Then, he felt the dizziness and everything went black. He opened his eyes back in his cluttered garage. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, disappointment etched in his face. He couldn’t understand why he was invisible. Was this one drawback to time travel? You were forced to watch things happen as they had happened, powerless to stop it.

**********************************************

It is two weeks later. He is washing his face at the bathroom sink. His hair that was brown only a week ago is peppered with silver. Lines and wrinkles are etched into his face. He has discovered that there is a serious side effect to time traveling. He knows he should stop but he has become a man obssesed , going back to see their beautiful faces every day.

“Just one more time,” he whispers tiredly to the unfamilar face before him in the mirror.

As I walked through the doors of Mercy Hospital’s third floor West wing, I was surprised to see another patient in the waiting area. Dr. Reed always tried to schedule my appointments for after clinic hours. It was bad enough to stick out like a sore thumb in public, but the other patients didn’t need to be made more nervous.

The girl at the desk was new. “Kelly Massey, here to see Dr. Reed.” She just stared at me. I smiled as charmingly as I could. Susan, the day receptionist, never failed to display her outright disgust at my delicate condition no matter how much she tried to hide it. I loved alternatingly teasing her about how single parenthood was all the rage nowadays, or lamenting about my last girlfriend leaving me. The new girl blinked and looked at her computer screen. Sure enough, there was my appointment.

“Uh… um… I’ll let Dr. Reed… know you’re here,” she stammered. Her hand flopped uselessly toward the phone and managed to knock it off the base before she could pick it up. While she tried to dial I leaned over the desk.

“You know, maybe after this is all over, you and I could go out for a drink sometime.” I winked and patted my belly. She started shaking. Apparently she didn’t know how to handle being hit on by a pregnant person. Dr. Reed had given up scolding me about flirting with his staff.

I waddled over to the nearest chair and plopped down, wrapping my trench coat around my shoulders like a cloak. The other patient was trying so hard not to stare, and failing miserably. She was nearly as far along as I was, 8 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, and 17 hours. I’d become obsessed about keeping track of time since the moment I’d become pregnant. And oh lordy, she was beautiful. Honey-blonde hair waving down to just past her shoulders, creamy skin, and green eyes. But an OB/GYN office is not the place to fall in love, even if it’s at first sight.

Allison, one of the nurses, stuck her head out the door. “Come on in, Kelly.” As I stood, so did the other patient. Amusement overrode her discomfort and we both laughed. Two pregnancies at the same stage was one thing, but both named Kelly? I wanted to talk to her but Allison had started to pull my arm toward the door. I waddled after her, still not used to my hips having displaced themselves so badly. “Dr. Reed foisted me onto you today. He got tied up at a seminar.” Out of all Dr. Reed’s staff, Allison was the one who wholeheartedly approved of me.

“Who’s the girl in the waiting room? She’s beautiful.”

Allison just rolled her eyes. “That’s it,” she replied. “I’m adding ‘sex-addict handler’ to my resume. Who knew all the hormones would spike your libido? Most women can’t stand the thought of sex while they’re pregnant.”

“Obviously I’m not like most women.” It was a running joke around Dr. Reed’s office. I followed Allison to an exam room and sat on the table, taking off my shirt so she could run her tests. Allison’s brow furrowed a bit as the readings came back.

“I’m going to take some blood and check your chemistry levels. Your blood pressure is higher than I’d like, and you’re so close to your due date.” She prepared a syringe, stuck my vein, and disappeared with the vials. Ten minutes later she came back, obviously worried.

“Kelly, I don’t like these results at all. Have you been feeling dizzy lately? Headaches?”

“Well yes, but I thought that was all normal.”

“Not like this, it isn’t. I called Dr. Reed. He wants you admitted immediately.”

“Oh come on, Allison,” I protested. “A headache and a little room-spinning aren’t going to kill me.”

“When will you ever learn? Just because we’ve proven you CAN get pregnant doesn’t mean you SHOULD have gotten pregnant, and any little blip in your results has to be taken seriously. Now stop arguing with me. Dr. Reed is on his way back now.”

I sighed. I knew there was no way I’d win this one. “Fine, I’ll humor you.” But as I stood up and reached for my shirt, the whole room turned sideways and I hit the floor. I could faintly hear Allison calling for the other nurses and I drifted into oblivion.

As I wearily opened my eyes, I heard the loudness of the chorus of babies in the nursery. I tried to move, but a sharp pain in my stomach stopped me. Right… c-section. They’d warned me about that. I looked around the room, amazed at how comfy and plush everything was. Had it not been for the bleeping machines and antiseptic smell, I’d have mistaken it for a typical hotel room. If this was how pregnancies were treated, I was all for having more. Just then, Dr. Reed walked in, carrying a small pink-wrapped bundle. A tiny hand was visible wrapped around his index finger. Slowly, he laid the wriggling baby on my chest.

“Congratulations, Kelly,” he said, beaming. “You’re a father.”

The cafeteria bustled with noise, but the loudness dissipated as soon as Jimmy made his grand entrance. A glittery cape swirled behind him, and he’d added a green plastic hat left over from St. Patrick’s Day. Mat groaned when he saw him. Poor Jimmy was really starting to obsess about creating an impression, but Mat suspected the impression Jimmy was creating was far from the intended one.

Jimmy spotted Mat, and walked over with some sort of bizarre gait that Mat suspected was supposed to appear gliding. It reminded Mat of those videos the Science teacher liked to show of animals with rabies stumbling around. Jimmy reached Mat’s table and bowed deeply, and then whispered, “Where’s Amy?”

Mat ignored the question. “What is that ridiculous thing you’re wearing?”

“It’s my cloak,” Jimmy explained. “After all, if I’m going to win my bet with Amy, I have to look good doing it.”

“So you’re really going to do it, huh?” Mat raised one skeptical eyebrow.

“How else am I going to foist this reputation of mine for taking unwinnable bets?”

Mat shook his head. “I still don’t think it’s possible.”

“According to Google, it is. Now tell me, where’s Amy?”

Mat sighed and pointed at a nearby table, where a series of pony-tailed heads were bowed together and shaking with what could only be laughter.

Jimmy stood, threw back his shoulders, and said, “Let’s have at it, then.”

Mat shook his head. “It’s not too late to bow out, you know.”

“I’m not bowing out,” Jimmy hissed. “Do you have the stuff?”

Mat sighed. “It’s right here,” he said, handing Jimmy a crumpled plastic grocery sack. Jimmy regarded it with distaste, as if carrying it would make him look more ridiculous. He took it with two fingers and an outstretched hand, and then scoot-stepped over to the girls’ table.

The girls fell silent when they saw Jimmy. “You’re really going to do it, huh?”

“Only if you really will be my slave for a week.”

Amy shuddered. “You mean handler. And you need one, trust me. If you weren’t so vile, I’d do it for you anyway out of pity.”

Jimmy ignored her jab, and instead turned to Mat. “You’re the judge.”

“No fair!” one of Amy’s friends interjected. “He’ll cheat.”

Mat shook his head. “No, I won’t. Besides, we won’t really need a judge. It’ll be pretty obvious if he’s successful.”

Amy nodded her consent. “Fine. But Sarah will be time-keeper.”

Mat held out his arm. “My watch has a timer on it. I’ll use that, and we’ll lay it on the table, so we know it’s fair.”

The girls nodded their approval. “Fine. Remember the rules: One at a time, no water, and he has to show that his mouth is empty after each one.”

The rules agreed on, Jimmy pulled out an unopened box of Saltines and a large bottle of juice from the sack.

“Hey!” Amy said, pointing at the bottle. “No water meant no liquids at all!”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “It’s for after, dummy.”

The girls watched Mat’s every move as he carefully set his timer for sixty seconds and then laid the watch in the center of the table. Jimmy broke the seal on the box and handed one plastic-wrapped stack of crackers to Amy. “Lady’s choice.” Amy peeled open the package and carefully selected six perfectly formed crackers, and then laid them on the table by the watch.

Once everything was carefully aligned, Jimmy poised one hand just above the stack of crackers and waited for Mat to push the start button on his watch.

“Ready…. Set…. Go!”

Jimmy snatched the first cracker and shoved it into his mouth, chewing furiously. He swallowed in one huge gulp, grinned, and opened his mouth to show it was empty for just a fraction of a second before the second cracker disappeared into it. This time Jimmy chewed for just a second or two longer before swallowing. The third cracker also disappeared in record time, as did the fourth. With 45 seconds left on the clock, Jimmy shoved the fifth cracker into his mouth. He turned to Mat and grinned through the crumbs, before his eyes widened in alarm.

His jaw worked furiously, and the girls leaned in with sly smiles as Jimmy struggled to swallow the floury paste in his mouth.

“Twenty seconds left,” Amy said with a grin.

With one desperate gulp, Jimmy managed to force the cracker down, before grabbing the last cracker. This time he shuddered a bit before opening his mouth to shove it in. He let out a sigh that sent cracker crumbs flying.

“Sixteen,” Amy said.

Jimmy pushed the cracker past dry lips and started to chew. Mat watched as Jimmy’s throat convulsed; he’d apparently decided to try swallowing small bits at a time. The girls chanted in count-down.

“Five…. Four… Three…”

Jimmy caught Mat's eye and winked. Then he coughed, showering the girls with crumbs. He took advantage of the girls’ shrieking and frantically downed half of his juice.

Mat shook his head in a combination of disgust and admiration at Jimmy’s ploy.

“Forfeit!” Jimmy chirped. “I didn't get to eat six whole crackers! I get to try again next week!” His cape swirled around him, and before the girls or Mat could respond, he was gone.

It was dark when she left the house. Ever since her accident, she felt more comfortable in the darkness. Night’s shadows hid the scars on her face and gave her an air of mystique. People left her alone at night.

Except for John. They’d met through a hobby website and their shared interest had deepened to something more. But they’d never met, and they never would. With him she was could stay anonymous, hidden in her own world, a world where the accident had never happened. Every night they would chat, instant messaging until late, keeping each other company until sleep welcomed them. He’d wanted to meet, but she’d explained that it was impossible. He’d been angry, hurt, but had accepted her decision.

Or seemed to.

She was almost to the door when he stepped from the shadows. Before he said a word, she knew it was him.

“I had to come,” he said. His voice was as dark as the midnight surrounding them. She pulled her cloak tighter, hiding her face.

“You need to leave,” she said. “Please.” Her soft plea echoed in the night.

“I can’t.” He stepped closer to her. “I’ve waited too long.”

She pushed past him, knowing he would notice her limp. She hoped it would be enough to send him away, before he saw more.

He followed her into the house. She placed her packages aside then turned to face him in the dim room.

“You shouldn’t have come. There are things about me that you don’t know.”

“Do you mean the accident?” he asked. He laughed at her gasp of surprise. “The internet is an amazing thing.” He stepped closer. “After all, it brought you to me.”

She stepped back, avoiding his embrace. “But it doesn’t tell you everything. This isn’t possible. Not for me.” She turned away. “Not for us.”

She felt strong hands on her shoulders. “I think it is.”

The hands moved to her cloak, sliding it slowly off her shoulders. She felt hot breath against her neck.

“I’ve dreamt of this. Imagined this. Obsessed about this.” He whispered. She felt his lips brush her ear.

Her heartbeat became a loudness in her ears. His hands caressed her arms, sending unfamiliar shivers through her. When they moved to her face, she pulled away.

“No.”

He followed her across the room until she couldn’t go any further. Before she could react, he reached out and turned on a lamp.

Her hands flew to her face, hiding it from him.

“I knew this guy who trained horses,” his deep voice washed over her. “He had several handlers working for him. But I noticed that he gave the most difficult cases to one handler in particular. One day I asked the handler why he put up with having the worst foisted off on him.” He paused and took a step closer.

“Do you know what he said? ‘Mister, the best ones always take a little longer.’” He bent down and whispered in her ear. “I think he was right.”

He lightly stroked her hands. She felt the warmth in his hands, the strength, and the contrast against her soft flesh. Heat pooled inside her as his arms wrapped around her and drew her against his body. She fought the urge to nuzzle into his shoulder, to indulge her senses. Instead she stood there, torn at the conflict within her.

His hand moved to the nape of her neck and started to gently stroke it, easing the tension in her body. As she relaxed, she became more conscious of him, of his height, his strong arms. Curiosity aroused, she peeked between her fingers, wanting to finally put a face with the man she knew so well.

A strong face looked back at her; not magazine-cover handsome, but compelling, with the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. Eyes that were burning with desire.

She savored the feeling for a few moments, knowing for a short time what it felt like to be wanted. But she was a realist; shutting her eyes, she slowly dropped her hands.

The soft lamplight hit her face and his arm moved from around her. She felt strangely bereft and disappointed, though she could hardly blame him. She couldn’t look in a mirror; how could she expect more from him?

Then he touched her.

His finger traced first one scar, then another. Across her forehead. Down her cheek. Along her jawline. He followed the trail of each one, first with his finger, then with his lips.

Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks as he silently told her of his love.

Her arms stole around his neck and she lifted her face to him. He thought he’d never seen a smile as beautiful as the one on her scarred lips. He kissed them, gently, tenderly. She returned his kiss with a passion he had only hoped for.

The handler was right; the best ones were worth the wait.

Patrick headed down the hall to check on his son one last time before heading into the basement.

He lingered in the doorway for a minute, surveying the room. Billy’s backpack was neatly packed and hanging on a hook near the closet. His clothes were put away neatly in his drawers. Most of his toys had been put away, except for the train layout and dinosaurs in the middle of the floor. The walls were mostly bare except for a few drawings from school and a shelf with two soccer trophies. Patrick nodded slowly. Everything seemed to be in order.

He then turned his attention to the bed. Billy was lying on his back with the cover pulled up to his chin. Patrick moved closer and smoothed the covers. He leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Good night, Son.” He looked around once more and then tiptoed back out, slowly pulling the door closed behind him.

He stood outside of Billy’s door for a few seconds trying to compose himself. He did an admirable job overall, but a single loud sob still escaped from his lips and echoed down the hallway with surprising loudness.

Patrick was not doing well. He had always been a rather odd man with a strong tendency toward obsessing.

Billy’s death last month, however, had finally pushed him over the edge.

When Billy had first gotten sick, he had tried everything to help his son. He’d taken him from doctor to doctor, spending thousands of dollars on supposed specialists to no avail. He’s purchased pills, potions, and ointments that ended up being nothing more than the equivalent of modern day snake oil foisted on desperate people.

He’d gone searching for answers through the spiritual realm, visiting everyone from the most renowned faith healers and their mega-congregations to small, Appalachian churches and their snake handlers.

Nothing had helped. When it had become clear that time was growing short, he had taken Billy home so that they could spend their final days together. He had not, of course given up; but he had realized that he was the only one who would ever be able to save his son.

For the past year, Patrick had been conducting his own research and experiments looking for a cure. Then Billy had died. A lesser man might have taken that as a sign that it was time to end his search, but Patrick was not that kind of man.

He recomposed himself, and headed to his basement workroom. It had been easy enough to find the information he needed to preserve Billy’s body. Now, he was working of finding a way to bring him back to life.

Mainstream scientific research held little hope for him. He had been able to find some articles about bringing people back to life, but none of those people had actually been dead for more than a few minutes. There were some fringe individuals who purported to have brought people back to life, but as much as Patrick wanted to bring his son back, he couldn’t imagine cutting him open and replacing his organs with someone else’s to create his own miniature version of Frankenstein’s monster.

Now, he had turned back to necromancy. Patrick had gathered together every incantation and spell that he could find into one huge tome. He was unwilling to experiment directly on his son, so he was initially concentrating on small, dead mice as he worked his way through the book.

He opened the book and began his preparations, drawing a large circle on the ground and laying the rodent inside it. Patrick removed all his clothing, put on a long, woolen cloak, and stepped inside the circle. He sprinkled the mouse with henbane, saffron and opium and then tapped it three times while murmuring the specified words. Then he waited. The mouse did not stir.

Finally, he picked the mouse up and cradled it to his chest as he walked sobbing to the back door. He opened the door without looking and tossed it out onto the huge heap of dead mice that represented his hundreds of failed experiments. Reusing a mouse would contaminate the experimental process, so he turned to the row of cages that lined the wall and selected his next subject.

He stroked the mouse absentmindedly, completely unaware of the tears streaming down his face as he deftly broke its neck.