"Mommy, is the Easter Bunny coming tonight?" she asked as I took the carrots out of the fridge. For a wild second I wanted to tell her the hard truth of it all, and to Hell with the lies we're supposed to tell our children.

Nikki frowned. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

I plastered a grin on my face and got a knife out of the drawer. "Nothing, sweetie. Everything's fine. Do you want a piece?" My hands shook as I held out a half-peeled carrot. She shook her head. I went back to paring.

"But is he coming?"

I sighed. "Yes, dear. Don't you worry about a thing. Now go brush your teeth and get ready for bed." I leaned down and kissed the top of her head. "I love you, punkin."

"I love you too, Mommy. Can you and Daddy come read the mouse book tonight?"

"Of course. Teeth first!"

"I know, I know." She trotted off to the bathroom, singing a tuneless song about mice on the way. I waited until I heard her turn on the water before I let go of the tears I had been holding back.

I heard Daniel unlock the back door a few minutes later. He came in quickly and pushed the door closed against the wind.

"Okay, I shuttered all the windows and padlocked the garage door. I still have to bar the doors, but that won't take too long. How are the carrots coming? Sarah?" He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.

"Hm? Oh, they're just about ready. I was just thinking- well, maybe we really should move. We were talking about Canada, but I think we should stay with my cousins in Melbourne. They're pretty no-nonsense when it comes to rabbits in Australia." I reached for another carrot. "What do you think?"

"We could do that," he said, wiping the tears from my cheek.

"It's Nikki," I went on. "She's starting to ask more questions. I don't want her to grow up the way we did. She already hates carrots."

Daniel snickered. I threw the carrot into the bowl. "It's not funny, Daniel! She used to love them. Now she's just afraid-" A sob welled up in my throat, cutting off my livid discourse.

"I'm sorry, babe," he said, taking me into his arms. "I didn't mean it."

"I know," I said, and we stood there, holding each other.

_____________________

I kissed Nikki goodnight and wrapped her in her favorite blanket. Tonight she was sleeping on the bean bag, something we rarely let her do, but being in the panic room even just for one night was hard on her, so we did anything we could to make her more comfortable. After a brief look at the monitors, Daniel shut the door and we went about preparing the house for the Rabbit's visit.

I grabbed the bowl of carrots from the kitchen and scattered them on a path we had marked out from the doggy-door to the cluster of Easter baskets in the living room. Daniel checked every room in the house, then secured all the doors with brand new police locks. One way in, one way out. Anything else invited trouble.

There was nothing in the Easter baskets except for a bit of dried grass gathered from the backyard. The baskets themselves were made of straw and unadorned except for a single pink ribbon on the handle of Nikki's basket. A part of me wanted to rip that ribbon off of the basket and flush it down the toilet. I didn't, of course; there were harsh penalties for such actions.

"Are you ready? We don't have much time."

"Almost," I said, heading to the kitchen. "I just need to get the eggs."

The eggs for the rabbits had to be certain colors and could not be written on or decorated with glitter or stickers. Nikki had helped me with the eggs. She was pretty darn good at making sure that the dye covered the whole egg and that the eggs dried evenly. I always made extra just for her to decorate however she wanted. Watching her create her eggy works of art was the only part of the holiday that was bearable.

I grabbed the eggs out of the fridge and quickly arranged them on a platter. "There we go, an even dozen."

"That's it?"

I nodded. "We're done. "

_____________________

"Can't sleep?"

"Nope." I got up and walked over to the monitors. "The carrots are still there. He should have come by now."

"Remember last year? He didn't come until dawn."

"True. I just hate the waiting."

_____________________

The security panel let out a single beep just before two o'clock. I snapped awake; I didn't remember falling asleep. Daniel stood hunched over the desk, his knuckles pressed white against the steel. I crept up beside him. He put his arm around me and we watched. He was here.

The Easter Bunny was small and white, with brown ears and an egg-shaped splotch centered on his back. He was a voracious eater, practically inhaling the carrots as he walked. I was dismayed to see that his digestive system worked as quickly as his jaws.

He hopped into the living room and inspected the baskets. He took his time with each one, sniffing every visible square inch. Even though I knew I followed the rules in preparing the baskets, each twitch of his inquisitive little nose nearly gave me a heart attack. Finally, the Rabbit chuffed in approval and moved on to the eggs.

And froze.

Slowly, he turned to face the security camera, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He reached out a paw and turned over an egg to show the underside to the camera.

"No!"

"What is it?"

"One of Nikki's stickers."

I blinked; the Easter Bunny disappeared from the monitor.

And then something slammed against the panic room door.

Yoram Schlomo Zessler straightened his tie and looked in the mirror.

Pale turquoise eyes beneath wheat-gold eyebrows looked back at him from behind metal-rimmed glasses.

A long, single curl of golden-brown hair hung down in front of each ear, and for once, his short hair was staying the way it had been combed as if it too understood that today wasn’t just another Thursday. It was the day.

Today he reached a milestone in his young life. Today he was a man. Well, not legally, anyway. He was only thirteen after all, but under halacha, Jewish religious law, he was a man and fully accountable for his actions.

He looked himself over one last time and gritted his teeth against the tears that threatened to run down his face.

He was happy, sure, and he knew that his parents, Jacob and Mabel Zessler were equally proud of him even if they weren’t Jewish, but his birthday always made him cry, and today it was worse than ever.

Today, if things had been different, his birth family would be with him.

His father, Schlomo, would be straining the buttons on his clothes he was so proud. His mother, Vabdas, would be smiling and crying at the same time she was so happy and proud of him.

His sisters, Katya, Rehova, and Jeska, would be wearing their best clothes and beaming with pride as they sat with their mother on the women’s side of the synagogue. His brother-

He bit his lip at the thought of his younger brother, Yitzhak.

Yitzhak was the baby of the family. Would he be proud of his older brother? Would he be seated in the synagogue imagining the day he’d be standing at the bima, or would he be looking forward to his turn to stand before the congregation and recite the haftorah?

No one would ever know.

Tears began to slide down Yoram’s tanned face.

His only memory of his family was his birthday, and it was the day the Germans had come bursting into their small apartment in the ghetto where they lived and tore his family from him with bullets and shouts.

That day, Mama had been making latkes because she knew he liked them. Latkes were only for Hanukkah, but he liked them, so she’d bartered three haircuts and mending a dress for the potatoes and onion needed to make the fried potato concoctions and had even gone so far as to sell her long, beautiful, coppery-brown hair to buy the applesauce he liked on his latkes.

Papa had just come home from work and taken off his coat.

Katya, Rehova, and Yeska waited for Yoram to get the first hug from Papa. It was, after all, Yoram’s birthday, so he got to go first in all things that day.

Papa held him high in the air, so high he could almost touch the ceiling, and grinned up at him before giving him a warm, deep chuckle, and hugging him close again. It was Yoram’s birthday, so he got an extra hug without having to wait for his sisters to get their first hug.

Mama laughed her soft, musical laugh and waited her turn to hug Papa.

The evening was perfect until three minutes past seven when the door exploded open and Nazis barged into the small apartment and began barking orders in German then in Polish.

Papa put himself between the intruders and his family.

Yoram cringed at the loud sound, and the smell of something burning filled him with fear. He stared in silence as Papa fell to the floor with a hole in his shirt.

No one moved until a German grabbed Mama and dragged her by her arm into the bedroom she and Papa shared.

Yoram stayed still, too shocked and scared to move as Mama pleaded and cried for a few minutes before there was another bang and then silence.

His turquoise eyes were wide as the soldiers shoved past him and grabbed his sisters, Rehovah and Jeska, and began dragging them toward the door.

Yeska or perhaps it was Rehova, they looked so much alike it was hard to tell them apart sometimes, began to fight, and one of the soldiers pointed his gun at her and fired. She fell to the floor and didn’t move or make a sound.

Yoram bolted for his bedroom, but the men were faster, and one of them held him by his neck as they dragged Katya away from Yitzhak’s crib and took her into the living room. There was crying, pleading, a bang, then silence.

Yoram ran to his brother. He was only four, but he was big enough to hold his brother. He couldn’t let them hurt Yitzhak.

One of the men said something about not wasting a bullet, and the man holding Yitzhak by his leg laughed in agreement and opened the window of the fifth-floor apartment.

Yoram watched helplessly as Yitzhak was thrown out the window like toy.

The German holding him slammed him on the head with something, and the world went dark.

A year later, he had a new family and lived in America, but it wasn’t the same. Jacob and Mabel Zessler let him stay Jewish and made their home a Jewish home for him, but it wasn’t the same. It was wonderful, but it wasn’t the same.

Today he was a man, but it wasn’t the same, and he couldn’t keep from crying even as Jacob held him and told him over and over that it was okay, that he was loved, and that his parents, sisters, and even his baby brother were very proud of him.

Today was his birthday, the day he became a man, but it was also the worst day of his life. It was the day he’d lost his family.

Five minutes into the party, I realized that control-top pantyhose were not designed for men. As the bride -to-be opened yet another gift, I flashed back to the conversation that brought me here.

The waitress had poured my coffee as I slid into the booth across from Frank.

"We've done it." He sounded quietly satisfied.

"Good morning to you, too," I responded. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"We've found her."

Adrenaline surged through my body. There was only one "her" that would warrant this early-morning meeting.

"Medusa?"

His shiny bald head nodded once.

I took a sip of my coffee as I processed his revelation. Medusa was aptly named; as the head of one of the world's most secretive and dangerous organizations, she'd issued the orders to turn more than one man to stone - stone cold dead. The agency had been trying to find her for years. Looks like they'd finally succeeded.

"Dead or alive?"

Frank flagged down the waitress for a refill, then fiddled with the creamers. My adrenaline faded as my suspicions rose.

"Did you bring her in dead or alive?" I repeated.

"When I said we found her, I meant that we've found out where she's going to be." He leaned forward, excitement on his round face. "This is our chance to finally get a good picture of her. With that, we'll be able to use our facial recognition software to trace her movements around the globe. We can bring down not only Medusa, but her entire organization."

"Let me guess - that's where I come in right?"

"You're our best agent. Medusa is smart; if she senses any security breach, she'll be out of there in a heartbeat. Those pictures are the key to dismantling one of the most evil organizations in the world."

I wanted to laugh at Frank's melodramatic declaration, but I knew he was right. In a world full of bad people, some managed to exceed all others.

"OK, I'll do it. Where's she going to be?"

"Well, that's the twist..."

And now I was sitting in a room full of women wearing the disguise Frank's team had provided. I wondered if that pretty little blonde - Suzy? Sherri? - had finally gotten her revenge with these nylons. I shifted a little in my chair, trying to get more comfortable as I searched for Medusa. She was here somewhere - no godmother would miss her goddaughter's wedding shower.

The women around me ooh'd and aah'd as another piece of china was unwrapped. I reached up and adjusted the locket around my neck, snapping pictures with the small camera hidden inside.

"And now it's time for a game!" The maid of honor held up six plastic bags. "Each of these numbered bags has a white powder inside. You can look at and feel each bag, but you can't open it up. Then we'll guess what's inside. Each winner gets a prize!"

I searched the women's faces for the tiniest look of disdain; this was not the type of game Medusa was used to playing.

"Here you go." One of the bags was handed to me. "I think it's baby powder," she confided. I nodded politely.

One by one the bags came around. My confidant felt compelled to share all of her opinions - cornstarch, baking soda, flour, peach Jell-O, powdered sugar. I looked around. If Medusa didn't show up soon, the woman next to me was going to find out what damage a highly-trained agent could do with those powders.

"OK, time to guess!" An annoyingly perky bridesmaid held up the first bag.

"Laundry detergent." "Cream of tartar."

"Baby powder," a voice called out next to me.

"We have a winner!" Everybody clapped politely and we moved on to the next bag. And the next. And the next. My pantyhose felt tighter by the minute. I wondered if I'd suffer any permanent damage.

"Here it is - the last bag. Last chance to win!"

"Bread mix." "Baby formula."

"RDX." I heard a sharp gasp from the woman next to me. Everybody else seemed puzzled by my guess.

I gave what I hoped was a feminine laugh. "What can I say? I'm a military brat and my daddy loved his explosives. It reminds me of RDX, one of his favorites."

There was some uncomfortable laughter and then the guessing began again. "Vanilla pudding mix." "Cream of wheat." "Powdered sugar."

"And she wins again!" The woman next to me hopped up excitedly.

I shifted in my chair and began snapping pictures of the infamous Medusa. I was wrong - one of the world's deadliest women did enjoy wedding shower games.

Fortunately for me, she also knew her explosives.

It was finally here. The Day of Days. The start of The Season.

Memorial Day.

I’d say it started bright and clear - except that it started in the dark before dawn. By the time the sun came up, we’d been in the kitchen for an hour already prepping for the Big Event.

Memorial Day is a time to honor the brave men and women who have served our country, remembering their sacrifices to secure our freedoms. Most people give that a passing thought on the way to the beach or barbecue.

Not our family.

Nope, we’re full of veterans. Marines, to be exact. Semper Fi. Always Faithful. That makes Memorial Day a holiday second only to Christmas, or maybe Mother’s Day.

So we celebrate in a way worthy of its importance - with food and friends. But most importantly food. Lots and lots of food.

The Man is in charge during this event and he takes readying the troops very seriously.

"Thirty people will be arriving in a few hours." The kids were lined up in front of the kitchen counter; their mother was at the end of the line trying to smother a smile.

"There’s a lot to do before then. Bobby, you’re on ice and drink duty. Coolers, soda, beer - you know the drill. Julie and Emma - meat prep." He pulled a list from his pocket. "Here are the numbers. Remember, good hygiene, everything on separate trays. Nobody’s getting sick on my watch. Any shortages, notify me immediately."

The Man turned to the littlest one. "Suzie, you and your mom are on potato salad. This is mission critical. Great potato salad is key to a successful Memorial Day campaign." Suzie’s face glowed with pride at her crucial assignment.

He addressed the troops a final time. "This is an important day. Make me proud. Oo-rah!"

"Oo. Rah." The troops responded less than enthusiastically to their pre-dawn picnic briefing and then scattered to their posts.

The Man hadn’t given me an assignment, but I knew what to do. I was the glue that held it all together.

The first crisis came at the meat station. Emma’s shocked "oh no!" had me scrambling across the room.

"We can’t throw it away," Julie whispered. "What if he sees it?"

"Well, we can’t use it. Anybody gets sick and we’re all history." Panic tinged Emma’s harsh whisper.

I slid to a stop at Emma’s feet and pawed gently at her foot. Hope filled their faces.
"Quick, give it to Sammy." The girls looked around for the Man, confirmed his location at the drink station and then slipped me the hot dog. Two bites and the offending meat disappeared without a trace.

"Good boy, Sammy. What a good boy!" I wagged my tail obediently, letting them think my presence was a mere coincidence. It was tough, but I called on the first rule I learned in the Beagle Brigade: let them think that they’re in charge. I gave another happy wag and resumed my rounds. The day was early and the next crisis was waiting to happen.

The soft clink of ice hitting the kitchen tiles alerted me to the next impending disaster. I darted across the room, paws scrabbling in my haste. Bobby stood in front of a row of coolers, bag of ice held limply in his arms, eyes nearly closed. The pre-dawn start combined with his after-lights-out comic book marathon the night before was the perfect recipe for disaster. Ice cubes fell from the bag with a melodic tinkle. Unfortunately, none of them hit the target. I charged in where many beagles fear to tread.

Jumping up, I roused him from his semi-comatose state. The dawning look of dread on his face confirmed his alertness. As he frantically stemmed the tide of falling ice, I grabbed a few cubes in my mouth and darted for my water bowl. I dropped them in and returned for another load.

Fortunately Bobby had forgotten to fill my bowl that morning. I made several trips before I had to resort
Disposal Site B, the toilet. Within minutes the floor was empty except for some stray puddles.

"Good boy, Sammy." A quick pat on the head and Bobby was preparing coolers with renewed energy. Soda and beer were back on track.

I returned to my rounds. Everything was quiet as each station forged ahead. The sun rose, orange juice was downed by the gallon and mission launch drew ever closer.

"Time to start the grill." Cheers rose from the troops at this momentous announcement. I tensed - this was the activity with the highest risk of failure.

I watched as he turned on the gas and hit the auto ignition. Click. Click. Click.

The rotten smell of natural gas filled the air.

Click. Click.

Still no ignition. The Man turned on a second burner. Gas hissed into the grill.

Click. Click. He reached for his matches.

I knew it was time to act. I ran across the yard, digging deep for traction. He struck the match as I launched myself at his legs. The flame fell into the gas-filled grill as he stumbled backwards.

Whoosh!

A massive fireball shot up and out. I barely tucked my tail in time.

"Sammy, what are you doing?" he roared. I ran towards a ball in the corner of the yard as if that was my primary objective. He turned back to the grill and fiddled with the knobs.

The guests started arriving a short time later. I took my game to the next level, averting disasters, entertaining children, acting as a conversation starter and rapidly deploying to any food emergency. The Man didn’t believe in the 3-second rule and neither did I.

The party finally settled into that easy cadence brought on by good food and good friends. The kids moved off to games and the adults settled into lawn chairs.

I, Sammy the Wonder Beagle, curled up in the corner for a well-deserved nap.

The plates were perfect.

She’d known they were right as soon as she’d seen them. Covered with pink and yellow daisies, they were perfect for a little girl’s birthday party. Especially a little girl who was turning.....she rubbed her head, trying to clear the strange fog. Four. That was it. Perfect for a little girl who was turning four.

She counted the plates again. Six pretty plates, exactly the right number for the party. The napkins alternated pink and yellow to match the daisies. Three pink, three yellow. Too bad it wasn’t four. Four was the perfect number, the age of her little girl. If only eight girls were coming, then they could have four of each.

She fretted a little, reviewing the guest list again. Who could they invite on such short notice? A couple of the mothers could join ”" but that wouldn’t be as special for the girls. She remembered when she was a little girl and would have tea parties with her dolls.

Dolls! She took two more plates and placed them on the table. Two of her daughter’s dolls could join. That would make it eight. She added two more napkins to the table. Four and four. Perfect.

Plates, napkins ”" where was the silverware? Her head hurt again so she sat down, only for a minute. The guests would be coming soon. She had to find the silverware. She searched the room but couldn’t seem to find it. Where could it be? The fog in her head cleared a little. The maid was cleaning the good silver. She remembered, she’d told the girl to do it. They were only serving finger foods. That’s why she’d let the maid polish the silverware. She’d have remembered sooner if it wasn’t for this headache...

She glanced at the clock. The party wasn’t for another hour. Plenty of time to make party favors for the girls. Maybe some origami animals. Her little girl loved animals. Dogs, cats, ducks, geese ”" if it could walk, bark or waddle she loved it. She started to fold a piece of paper, thinking of the creatures her daughter had already found. The frog when she was two. The kitten when she was three. The "sick doggie" that had followed her home just before her fourth birthday party. The dog that wasn’t really...

Searing pain stabbed through her temple, sending flashes of light before her eyes. The origami was forgotten as she clutched her head and rocked back and forth, silently pleading for the agony to end. Please, please, please. She had a birthday party to go give.

The headache disappeared as suddenly as it started. Relieved, she tackled the origami with energy. The girls would love these little animals. Cat, crane, elephant, lion, dog, giraffe, frog. Seven animals. Only one more needed and then every girl would have an animal to play with. Eight plates. Eight animals. Then she remembered - two of the guests were dolls. Oh well, the dolls could play with them too, the girls wouldn’t mind.

She picked up another piece of paper and started to fold. Her brow wrinkled; this one wasn’t quite right. It resembled a dog but it wasn’t. The body was longer, the legs shorter. It reminded her of the "sick doggie" that had come home. The one she'd told her daughter not to touch.

She should have called animal control. Made sure that the creature was removed. It wasn’t her daughter’s fault ”" she was only four. Her little girl had wanted to heal the sick doggie. She couldn’t tell the difference between a dog and a fox. Between being sick and being rabid.

Her hands started to shake. She pulled the animal apart, straightening the paper. There. All gone. The rabid fox wouldn’t hurt her baby. No, not her baby.

She refolded the paper into a graceful bird with flapping wings. That was better. The girls would love the bird with its simple beauty. She placed an animal on each plate, making sure the bird marked the place of honor. Only the most beautiful for her child. Her special, special child.

She looked again at the clock. It was time. Where were the girls? Maybe they were outside, waiting for her to finish setting up. She’d better let them know she was ready. She looked at the table one more time with a critical eye. Plates, napkins, origami. The perfect party.

Pain came again and the scene before her wavered. The plates altered. Gone were the flowers and the bright colors, replaced with crudely torn pieces of paper. The napkins changed from vibrant pink and yellow to simple pieces of copy paper folded into squares. Only the origami remained, beautiful creatures fashioned of pure white.

The world moved back into focus. The colors returned and the table was as it should be ”" an explosion of color waiting for six excited four year olds and two dolls.

She knocked on the door. "Come on girls! The party is ready to start!" She stepped back so that she could get a good look at their surprised faces. The door remained closed.

"Girls, come on! Time to start your party. Your ice cream will melt if you don’t hurry." Still no response. Panic rose inside. Something was wrong. A memory stirred.

A rabid fox.

A little girl playing doctor.

A hidden bite. A virus without a cure.

She became aware of a noise, a horrendous sound. She didn’t know what it was but she wished it would stop. The sound filled the room, hurt her aching head. It sounded like an animal in mortal pain.

The door opened.

"Playing birthday party again, are we? Don’t worry, the doctor has something to make you feel better."

She felt a sharp prick in her arm then the noise receded. A pleasant fog filled her mind. She turned to the nice lady in white.

"Have you come for the party?"

Jordan sat down in the small cubicle, pen at the ready. He had brought seven pens, just in case they all started to run out of ink. He had studied for weeks; he knew the book by heart. He would not fail this test.
The girl came over and switched on the computer monitor. It flickered awake. "Type in your name and address, then push enter and it'll bring you to your test," she said. "When you're done, please return to the front desk for your results."
Of course, he thought. Jordan tucked his pen in his pocket. He filled in the blanks on the screen, and pushed enter. After a few moments, the first question appeared. It was a multiple choice test. He answered the first four questions without hesitation. This is easy, he thought. He answered all the questions quickly, sure he had marked them all correctly. At the end, his clicked 'submit' and returned to the front desk.
"Congratulations, you passed your written test," said the girl without excitement. "Now you have to take your road test. Please go downstairs and meet your instructor at the door."
Jordan walked down the stairs slowly. He thought he would have more time to prepare for the driving part of his test. He had never driven on a busy street before. He had always been taken out to the back country roads and allowed to drive, where there were no other cars to get in his way. He was scared to get behind the wheel in the city. He approached the front door full of trepidation.
"Hello, Jordan. My name is Ms. Casey, and I'll be administering the driving portion of your test. I hope you're ready." She smiled at him, and began walking in the direction of the student vehicles. "We used to allow you to do the driving test using your own vehicle, but some of the instructors didn't like the idea of not having brakes on their side of the car. I think it's silly. How can someone learn to drive if the person next to them keeps stomping on the brakes?"
Jordan followed her, barely paying attention to what she was saying. They approached the car, and out of habit, he walked to the passenger's side.
"Honey, I've already passed my test. You're the one driving today," she smiled at him again and pointed to the driver's side.
"Right, um... Sorry. I'm just a little, uh, nervous." He walked around the car and sat down behind the wheel. It felt strange, not at all like Wendy's old Ford. This car was too clean, too new for his comfort.
"Can I smoke a cigarette to relax a little, before we go?" Jordan asked the instructor. He hadn't smoked in eight months. He quit smoking when Wendy quit. He didn't even have a cigarette on him.
"I hardly think that's appropriate, do you?" asked Ms. Casey.
"Sorry," muttered Jordan. He gripped the wheel in front of him and looked at the gauges on the dash.
"Alright. First of all, I need to know that you know where the most important parts of the car are," Ms. Casey began. She asked him where the turn signals were, how to turn the lights on, where the hazard flashers were. Once she was satisfied, she said, "Put on your seatbelt and turn the car on."
He clicked the seatbelt and started the car. They drove through town, and the longer they drove the more he relaxed. His knuckles became less white on the wheel, the muscles in his back became less tense. Ms. Casey gave him directions calmly from the passenger seat.
They returned to the city building where he had take the written test, and she handed him a sealed envelope. "Take this back to the front desk, it has your test results inside. The girl at the desk will open it and tell you whether you passed or not."
Jordan opened the car door to get out, and was held in place by the seatbelt. He smiled sheepishly at Ms. Casey as he unbuckled. At the desk, the same girl who gave him the written test was still there. He handed the envelope to her and held his breath.
"Alright, step over here in front of the blue wall and I'll take your picture," she said.
"Why do you need my picture?" Jordan asked.
"You passed your test. I have to take a picture to put on your driver's license."
He stepped in front of the blue wall, patted down his hair in front and tried to smile. The camera flashed and clicked, then the girl waved him over to the counter by the camera.
"Sign your name here on this electronic pad. It'll put your signature on your driver's license. Then we'll wait a few minutes, and you'll have the plastic card of freedom in your hands." She grinned at him.

Jordan walked in the front door of his home, still clutching his new driver's license in his hand. He didn't want to lose it.
"Jordan? Is that you?" Wendy called from the back of the house.
"Yep. Guess what?" he yelled. "I got it!"
Wendy came down the hall, her belly leading the way. She had one hand on her back, and the other under her stomach. "That's great," she breathed.
"Are you okay?" Jordan was concerned.
"Oh yeah, I'm fantastic. I think the contractions have started. Husband, I think it's almost time you drove me to the hospital."
Jordan stood there looking at his very pregnant wife. This was why he had studied so hard and finally gotten his driver's license. He was 27 years old and his wife was about to have a baby. She needed someone to drive her to the hospital.

Gerald Frankel never did figure out what the racket was all about. Not for a while, anyway. It happened on June 6, which, Gerald discovered, after much searching online, has no significance in Spanish history. The only remaining proof of the night’s happenings was a jewel-embedded locket that lay on his desk between his Palm Pilot and stapler.

It started when he was curled up on his bed in the Hotel Carrera in Barcelona, lifeless and bleary-eyed, his cell phone ringing incessantly for twenty minutes. The caller left four messages, the final of which was the most frantic.

“Gerald,” the gentleman said, “I know I said I was okay before, but I’m starting to get concerned. You have a meeting right now in the third floor conference room. Your client is here with me right now, and he isn’t happy, but I’ve assured him that you’re our very best and that you’d be here momentarily. Please call me as soon as humanly possible.”

Click.

Gerald stared at the ceiling tried to think of what time it was back in Seattle. He couldn’t concentrate; his mind was full of her scent, her body, everything he’d lost that he’d never get back. They fought all weekend on their “vacation,” and yesterday morning she said that she was leaving him and that she never wanted to see him again. After she left, he didn’t have the energy to catch his flight. Instead, he lay in the room, his feet hanging over the side of the bed like clocks in a Dali painting.

After the phone stopped ringing, Gerald fell asleep. When he woke up, he entered the dream.

First he heard the drumming coming from the window. Then the chanting. He got up and looked out the window, but couldn’t see the street through the nighttime fog. So he grabbed the phone and called the front desk.

“Hello?” said the monotone voice with a Spanish accent.

“Yeah, Gerald Frankel here. What's with the noise? You hear it, don’t you?”

“Yes. It is a fiesta, sir.”

“Well, I can’t sleep with it.” As furious as he was, his fingers drummed against the nightstand to the beat of the music outside.

“Are you asking me to stop the fiesta?” asked the voice.

“Yes. Now, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. We do sell ear plugs at the front desk though, which come with a complimentary—”

Gerald hung up the phone.

He took the elevator down to the lobby and stormed outside through the double doors. His exhausted body was suddenly full of anger. He felt like throwing something or hitting some one.

The dancers lined the street and wore bright colors and danced wildly. They banged on trashcans, hit streetlights with pens, clapped their hands and chanted something Gerald didn’t understand. He weaved through the crowd looking for a leader.

He said to a woman holding maracas, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Es una fiesta!” she swung open her arms as though she were about to embrace him.

“A fiesta for what?”

“Qué?”

“For what,” he said. “Para qué.”

She said something quickly that he didn’t quite catch. He shook his head and continued through the crowd, dodging swinging arms and kicking legs. He nearly tripped over himself when a little girl ran in front of him. He froze for a moment, getting his bearings, and stared at her. She stared back. Then she grabbed his hand and danced. She was no taller than his waist, and reminded him of his daughter. He smiled and thought he’d humor her for a minute, so he stomped his feet around with her. No one cared that he was dancing off-rhythm.

The little girl led him through the herd of bejeweled dancers to the heart of the fiesta where she left him to drown in a forest of kicking limbs. Men and women of all ages grabbed Gerald for a dance. He began to blend in with the Spanish dancers as time slipped away from his consciousness. He barely recognized the feeling that replaced it, one he hadn’t felt it in years.

He stayed out that night until four in the morning.

~ ~ ~

Now a week had gone by, and the memory of dancing still occupied Gerald’s otherwise frazzled mind. He daydreamed about it as he sat at his desk, trying to remember what the woman said they were celebrating. He thought about the locket he’d found on the street after the crowd dispersed. Its sparkling jewels stood out now among the array of office supplies. Every day since the fiesta Gerald had tried to open it. He tried a screwdriver, his car keys, even asked his secretary if she could get it open with her acrylic nails. Nothing had worked.

The phone rang. It was his wife; she called to yell at him about a meeting he missed regarding the divorce.

“I must have told you nine times, Gerald. Three o’ clock, 306 Bourbon Street. How hard is that? I guess hard enough for you. Now do you understand why I’m leaving? Because you cannot, for the life of you, listen to a word I say…”

But he didn’t listen; he played with the locket instead. It had become his way of blocking out the words and thoughts he couldn’t bear to hear and think about. Desperate to distract himself, he banged the locket against the table.

It opened.

He put the phone down and read the words carved on the locket’s inside wall. As he whispered them out loud, he immediately recognized them as the words the woman said to him at the fiesta.

“Por la vida,” he whispered to himself. “For the life.”

He smiled and hung up the phone. Gerald left the office early that day and stayed out downtown until five in the morning. He spent the nighttime hours dancing to the music of Spain.

It was March 31 and Faolan Shea sat quietly on a fallen log staring at the babbling brook. The thought of his upcoming birthday weighed on his mind. This was an important one. A leprechaun turned two hundred only once. He continued to stare and think. The thought that scared him more than any other was the thought of officially being “middle age”. He wondered if he had squandered his youth, but he did chuckle a little at the fun times he’d had.

A perch jumped out of the water, caught his eye and broke his thought. After the perch had disappeared, he began thinking again, wondering if anyone would remember his birthday. April 1 is hard for humans to forget, but hard for mystical creatures to remember. Maybe they’d remember and ignore it; he was, after all, not well liked.

He chuckled again at some of the pranks he’d pulled. There was the time, three days before Christmas that he dropped ex-lax in Santa's cocoa. That got him lumps of coal on Christmas morning. Maybe he shouldn't have hidden the Easter bunny's basket, or used a propane torch on Jack Frost's backside, but the laughs all those pranks got were great. Alas, those very pranks could be the reason he would be alone on his two hundredth birthday.

Leprechauns were expected to prank humans, but mystical creatures were off limits. As a youth, he’d decided to break that unwritten rule. He sighed and wished that he erase a hundred and fifty years. Unfortunately, even magic couldn't do that. Faolan watched a perch jump out of the water, come back to the surface of the water and stare at him. It floated for a moment before it dove down and disappeared. All he could do was stare into the water. He was so lost in his own misery that he hadn't realized that night had fallen around him. It didn't matter. He wasn't going home because of all the reminders of the pranks he’d done. He drifted into sleep, the sounds of the forest a lullaby for him.

"Get up."

Faolan awoke to a voice he didn't recognize. The bright morning sun was a shock to his eyes, but he saw no one.

"Who's there?"

"A friend."

Faolan looked all around, unable to find the source the voice. He thought this was a switch. Normally he was the one making people look for him.

"If you're a friend, why won't you show yourself?"

"You're right, Mr. Shea. Look in the water."

Faolan looked at the little brook and saw a perch floating, looking at him. This was a surprise. He knew that animals could talk, but a fish?

"You're a fish."

"That's very observant of you, Mr. Shea. You're a leprechaun. Why don't you tell me why you were there all night sulking?"

He thought of all the things he needed at this point. A smart-mouth fish was not one of them.

"Well, if you must know today is my..."

"Two hundredth birthday, yes I know. I also know that you are the one leprechaun that would prank anything at any time. But that doesn’t answer why you are here sulking instead of doing what leprechauns do best, partying."

Faolan thought that not only did he run into a smart-mouth fish, he was a rude one.

"Well Mr. Fish, I have pra ..."

"You can call me Shamus. Yes, you have pranked everyone. My favorite was Mother Nature with the fish eggs, but I may be a little biased."

Faolan was wondering what this fish really knew about him.

"Shanus, what exactly is it you’re beating around the bush about?"

Faolan saw Shamus sigh. He could see that he had hoped he wouldn’t have to tell him, that Faolan would figure it out.

"Mr. Shea, as much as you think that everyone dislikes you because of your pranks, I am here to tell you that those same pranks are the reason people do like you. You are King of the Prank, and others have tried to figure out how to prank you."

Faolan thought for a moment. He had pranked just about everyone he knew, but he himself had never been pranked. Maybe -- just maybe -- this talking fish was right.

"You know, Shamus, you just might be right. I guess I should enjoy my birthday."

"That's the spirit! Do you think you could go change before you enjoy it? You’re starting to smell -- pardon the pun -- fishy."

Of all the creatures that could have helped him, he had to run into a smart-mouth, wise cracking fish. This was odd, even for a leprechaun.

"You're funny, Shamus, but you're right. I should freshen up some." Faolan stood up, and turned to head home when he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "And thanks."

"You’re welcome. I couldn't stand seeing someone who has put a smile on my face so many times, look so sad. By the way, Happy Birthday Hot Rod."

Faolan's eyes opened wide. He’d only been called that name by one person, Cathmore. He turned back toward the water to see his old friend Cathmore floating in the water, laughing at him.

"Did you really think there was such a thing as talking fish? If there were, in two hundred years you’d have seen at least one!"

Faolan's face reddened. He wasn't sure if he was mad or embarrassed because he’d just been pranked. As he was trying to decide, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked and saw Chann. Then he noticed all of his friends walking out of the forest -- Jack Frost, Santa, the Easter Bunny, Mother Nature, fairies, trolls, and leprechauns all gathered around him. His life-long friend, Euston, walked through the crowd with a beautiful green birthday cake. Cathmore climbed out of the water and stood next to him as they all sang happy birthday, to the finally pranked Faolan Shea.

It was a cold winter day. The sun was sheltered behind the clouds, emitting minimal light. The dark clouds threatened rain; the wind was already picking up, suggesting an approaching storm. The trees, other than the evergreens, were bare and depressing. It was cold. The day had started out with a light cover of frost, as it had on that day every year.
The bare, twisted oaks flew past as I drove. The engine groaned as it drove on the long gravel road every time it hit a bump or indent. I had brought an umbrella in case it began to rain, along with the large bouquet of flowers tied with a turquoise ribbon that was lying on the seat next to me.
It was my mother’s birthday. Every year, I would come visit her, bringing flowers. It was a long ways out, though, but so far I have yet to have missed it. She was my only family since my father left, abandoning my mother and I when I was just four. She was the only one who cared for me; the only one who loved me. The least I could do was visit her on her birthday.
I finally arrived. The gravel road ended abruptly, and it was still quite a walk to my mother’s place. I turned the key to shut off the engine and got out, not forgetting the umbrella and flowers.
The grass was damp from the heavy rain the day before. Every step I took made a squishing sound. The grass was bright green and healthy, sustained by the heavy rain. There were many large trees along the edges of the huge grassy field, with blackberry bushes snaking about their trunks. Here and there, poison oak could be seen growing up along the larger trees.
As I continued to walk, I thought about how my mother managed to raise me on a minimum wage salary, putting all of her time and effort into bringing me up. We had the closest bond any two people could have, because all we had was each other. My mother meant everything to me, and I meant everything to her. In past years, I would make a cake for her, but not since she was diagnosed with diabetes. The year after that, I tried to make her a cake using imitation sugar, but we soon found out she was allergic. I had brought her flowers for her birthday after that.
We lived four states apart, and I would fly over every year just to see her. I had become very successful thanks to my mother’s support and encouragement. She had not had a very successful life herself, and was amazed at how well I had turned out. When I graduated college, she convinced me to move someplace better, where I could get a good job and be happy. I eventually took her advice and moved east, to someplace warmer and not as wet. But, I still missed my old home. My mother had lived in the same town all her life.
As I walked up to her place, I stopped right in front of it. I felt a drop on my cheek. Looking up, I noticed it had not started to rain. It was a tear. With a shaky sigh, I placed the bouquet of flowers at the base of her gravestone. I fought back tears, but was unable to when it began to rain. I took out my umbrella, fumbling on the release switch. I stood there for a long time, staring at the stone slab that stated my mother’s name, birth and death. The rain became a downpour, smothering the flowers I had placed.
“Happy birthday,” I whispered through tears.

I walked into the hotel at which I worked, and look into my mail box. There was a letter folded inside. I pulled it out and it said, "Meeting today at 5:00pm, everyone must attend."

I use to love the fact that no one knew anything about this the day before and they spring it on you as you walk in the door.

It was 5 o'clock and the entire staff was in the large banquet room. The new general manager was standing in front of the room, looking over some papers. When I say the general manager was new, I mean wet behind the ears new. A management company took over the hotel and everyone in the front office was fired, except him. He was the accountant, and now, general manager. He either kept good books, or he kept really good books, I couldn't figure out which it was.

This was going to be a rah-rah meeting, I was sure. Slipping in some new rules along the way. I found a seat in the back, I didn't want him to see my I don't care grin.

"Today is the first day of the rest of our lives" Are you kidding me? You're not starting a meeting with this line. Now I'm really glad I sat in the back.

He continued with something about moving forward and tightening of our belts and blah-blah-blah. Then he took a long breath and told us that he was getting married in two weeks, and the wedding and reception was going to take place at the hotel.

That's really classy, I thought to myself, getting married at your place of employment. I'm sure it was a idea that got smashed pretty quickly at Tire World.

He went on and said that the entire staff was to be involved, and then the bomb was dropped. We were to do it on our own time and not get paid.

Now mine you, I was a salary worker. I got paid for forty hours and usually worked sixty hours plus. It's all a part of management. But here was a room full of people who depended on their hours to feed their families.

So being the guy I am, I raised my hand. He pointed at me and I said, "Isn't it illegal to make people work off the clock, and then not even getting paid for it...ever?"

His retort was mindless, "It's not illegal because everyone is volunteering, but it's a mandatory volunteering process".

I said nothing else. When the meeting was over I called the Better Business Bureau, but with no success. Because it is volunteering, there's nothing they could do. Wow.

So everyone in the hotel had to stay and work long hours, off the clock so our great leader could get a free wedding. He even got the kitchen manager to order food at cost.

I did nothing to help this man out. I even tried talking to others about not doing this for him, not busting their butts for free. I wanted the general manager to confront me, but he never did.

The day of the wedding was upon us. Everyone was working hard. Everything looked wonderful, except the staff who put in way too many hours.

The guests were arriving and the wedding was about to begin. I found it almost dehumanizing that none of the staff was invited. They could work it for free, but not be a part of it.

I stood watching as the preacher was spitting out the wedding vows. Then it got to point where he said, "If anyone has any reason why this marriage should not take place, speak now or forever hold your peace". Forever seemed like such a long time.

"I do sir" shouting out. "This so-called wedding is an illegal act. Not one person who has worked on it, is making a dime. I, for one, am not going to be a part of modernized slavery. So I quit, not from the hotel, but from you Mr. General Manager. You can't run a hotel, and I'm sure you can't work a marriage. So everyone enjoy themselves, but that bitter taste in the food and champagne just might be the sweat from everyone who's worked to pull this all together for free. Dignity is leaving the building."

I walked out the door. No job prospects. No money. Nothing. Nothing but a little piece of pride and respect for myself. Sometimes that's all you need in life.