Papery, soft hands are plucking at my shoulder. They are not the ones I recall braiding hair in my childhood.

"Where is this?" Mom asks, again, as the scenery streams by outside the cab.

"Atlanta," I say. "Georgia."

"Where are we going?"

"Emily's wedding." I hurry on, not wanting to test if she remembers. "Emily, your granddaughter. She's getting married."

The confusion is getting worse, the doctors at the nursing home say. The Aricept isn't working any more, the other medications aren't either. When I visit after work, she seems disoriented, angry. I don't know what to do.

She turns away from me, starts to read the signs on storefronts. Burger King, Chevron, Banana Republic. World's Best Coffee. 20 percent off.

At least she can still talk. At least she can still see. So many things to be thankful for. Kina hora, as she would say - as she increasingly does, the language of her ancestors welcoming her home.

The driver stops the taxi in front of the synagogue. I pay, acutely aware of my own mental acuity as I take out my wallet, pay, put it back. Sometimes I misplace things, sometimes I forget words. It scares me; I think it scares Em more.

I help Mom out of the car, my hand on the small of her back. I can feel her bones pressing against my palm.

"Where are my things?" she asks. "I had them with me. Someone's been stealing my things."

She's been saying this for months, accusing the nurses of going through her drawers. "Your bag's right here," I tell her, hefting the gold lame purse from the trunk. "I'm carrying it for you."

"They keep taking my things," she insists. "They take everything."

I've tried arguing this with her before. I've showed her all her possessions, counting them out one by one: here's your watch, your wedding ring, your high school portrait. It doesn't work.

"It's OK," I console her, which doesn't really work either. "Everything's fine."

Inside, even before most of the guests arrive, the scent of too many matronly perfumes mingles with lilac and tuber rose. Kate, the maid of honor, dashes up to me. "Come see the bride," she urges me. "She's been dying for you to get here."

I leave Mom in the care of my younger sister, take a deep breath and follow. In the dressing room, Em is just having her makeup finished. She wheels around and practically jumps into my arms, beaming her slightly crooked smile. The photographer crouches unobtrusively behind us and snaps a shot.

I hold her gently, trying both not to mess her hair and not to cry. I've seen her before in her wedding dress, but until now it's always seemed like she's playing dress-up. Now, her face is still my little girl's, but it's also unmistakably a bride's - radiant, gracious, terrified. She's twirling a sprig of flowers incessantly between her French-manicured nails, and under her foundation, her cheeks are a little flushed. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, everything about her existence a miracle, but I can't quite express that.

"You look perfect," I say instead, and, "Daddy would be so proud."

"I know," she whispers warmly, still beaming, as Kate starts to pull her back into the bustle of preparations.

I'm not ready to let her go. The Hallmark moment I've been anticipating still lingers, unfulfilled.

"Wait - can Grandma come in for a sec?" I say to her half-turned shoulder. "It'd mean a lot to her."

She flashes me a look, but nods.

"I'll go get her," I say.

I lead Mom back a few minutes later, quiet, but pliable. Em kisses her gingerly on the cheek.

"Hey, Grandma," she says with an exaggerated lilt, her face a mask of determination. "I'm getting married!"

"Oh!" Mom says, pleasantly surprised.

"His name is Ben," Em soldiers on. "We met in grad school."

"That's very nice."

This is practically a real conversation - as good as it's going to get.

But it's not what I've been imagining for years. I remember when Mom would watch four-year-old Em pretending to marry her stuffed animals, a borrowed dishtowel draped on her head for the veil. I remember the warmth in her eyes.

I should let it go, but I don't.

And Mom's drifting from us again. "Where's Eddie?" she says.

This question used to gut me, but it's become more and more frequent.

"Dad's not here, Mom," I tell her, matter-of-factly. "He passed away 15 years ago."

Mom takes this in, as always, with surprising tranquility.

But Em, threading in a pearl earring, is watching with a critical eye. She can see things unraveling.

And then she asks what I've never dared to.

"Grandma, who's Emily?"

Mom looks helplessly back at her as I stand frozen - the hopeful, unwilling audience to an awful quiz show.

I realize suddenly that I am holding my breath. I'm still waiting for the moment.

More than God, chance or fate, I realize, I've always put my faith in the power of narrative. Terrible things happen all the time, I believe, but there are supposed to be moments of comfort and beauty, crystallized instants that happen because they should. And now I wait for the thing I realize I've expected all along - for Mom's sudden moment of clarity on this holiest of days, for her to bless this marriage with her remembrance.

It doesn't happen, of course. She seems barely to realize she's been asked a question.

"Emily, your granddaughter," I prompt again, a little hoarse, and she nods. "Tell her you love her." Obediently, Mom does, before my sister walks her off again.

But the damage is done. Em follows me out to the hallway, shell-shocked but somehow unsurprised.

"It'll mean so much to her," she spits back at me with the venom of a hundred old teenage spats. Both of us are struggling not to cry. "You think she’ll even remember this tomorrow?"

"I’m sorry, honey,” I tell her. “It's just...what she was once - she was an incredible woman, you know. She had such a loveliness about her, and so much strength - and I wanted you to have that. I wanted you to share that."

I discover with a dull shock that I'm speaking in past tense. It's what I've known for years, but never allowed myself to realize. She's gone.

Em swallows hard, her face dutifully returning to serene. "I know," she says, kissing me on the cheek. "I'll see you in a bit."

I embrace her again and go find Mom where she's sitting by the centerpieces, plucking at the sleeve of her dress.

"Where are they?" she asks, and I realize her bag is still slung across my shoulder. "Where are my things?"

I don't say a word this time.

"They've taken it again. They've stolen everything."

I’d always had a soft spot for Jimmy Marsden. He was a ragamuffin of a boy from the slum area of Cornfields. Maybe somewhere in the distant past there had been some corn fields, but now that area consisted of little more than row upon row of vermin-infested two-up-two-down terraced brickwork hovels. The people who lived there were considered the dregs of society. All the ne’er-do-wells resided in Cornfields; the men who never worked, who drank and beat their wives, and who felt so hard done by that they thought society owed them a living. And from this dark, dank, territory sprang a jewel … a rough diamond by the name of Jimmy Marsden.

Jimmy was pure magic. He came from this harshest of environments, but his nature was irrepressible. He loved life. He whistled his way to school. He played pranks on his friends and cocked a snook at those who called him smelly, or scruffy, or worse. His saving grace was the fact that he was the cleverest child in the school. His marks were consistently high and he helped other children to understand the lessons. His generosity won him respect … so whenever his detractors had a go at Jimmy most members of his class gave them short shift.

Jimmy was thin and scrawny, and was one of the few people whose parents didn’t have the pride to give him a packed lunch instead of applying for a free school meal. Just after the Welfare State had been set up, Britain had started to give benefits to those out of work, and the children of such people were entitled to a free school lunch. In 1948 pride was still a major factor in keeping the poverty levels high, since people at that time looked upon benefits as charity. Jimmy’s parents, however, had no such scruples. In just two short years they already thought of it as their right, and Jimmy’s father thought he would never have to work again. Why should he, when the State was willing to hand him cash whilst paying his rent and bills?

Because of his free school meals status, Jimmy was looked down upon by his peers. However, this was the only meal he got each day so he wasn’t going to do what other kids in his position did. He wasn’t going to go hungry and pretend to go home for lunch. He certainly had a high degree of personal pride - but he was already, at 10 years of age, a realist.

One December morning, on his way to school, Jimmy saw a brand new penny lying on the pavement. He had never received pocket money in his life, and sweets were quite expensive then because sugar was still being rationed … but there were other goodies to be had. He had seen a penny whistle in a shop window near school, so he made up his mind to go there after classes and buy it. But first he revelled in the ownership of a brand new shining 1948 coin. It was so shiny that Jimmy wondered if it had come straight from the Royal Mint.

As bad luck would have it, that same day John Barnford complained to me that he had lost his penny bus fare home. He maintained that it had been taken from his desk. A search of the children had revealed Jimmy to have a shining new penny … something we all knew could not have been given at home. Jimmy vehemently maintained that he had found it on his way to school. He looked so fearful of being thought a thief and he certainly wasn’t going to own up to being one. I felt quite panicky on his behalf and I knew it would be out of my hands once the Head was informed.

Jimmy asked if he could ask a private question. When we were alone, he stuck to his story and asked if it was stealing if he found the penny and didn’t take it to the police. My heart bled for him. I told him that if he had indeed found it, then it was little enough for him to consider it his. What else could I say? I felt his life was already blighted enough and his eyes begged me to believe him. The more I dwelt on it, the more concerned I became about his future. He had every chance of winning a scholarship to a Grammar School which, given his obvious intelligence, would eventually lead on to a full scholarship to University. All of this was in jeopardy if his confidence was lost by being forever branded a thief in his Primary School years. I just couldn’t let that happen to my star pupil.

And so it was that during the lunch break I put a penny into the desk of John Barnford, and made a great scene of making him look again. The look of surprise when he found the coin was so good to see. He maintained he had really looked, and I pretended that sometimes people were so worried that they missed what was under their nose.

The look of relief on Jimmy’s face, too, was a picture. And I got to feel good about saving face all round. I knew I had done the right thing when, in later years, I heard news of Jimmy’s success in his chosen profession of lawyer. He also had a pretty good reputation on the nightclub circuit too… his being so very proficient on the saxophone. That 1948 penny whistle took him far.

And why now, today, do I tell you this story? Well, let me explain.

Today we have had a school reunion. It was a huge affair. The school is to close and it was thought to get all the old Primary School pupils and teachers back one last time, particularly in view of the fact that several of us oldies were retiring. It has been some thirty years since the incident with Jimmy and the penny … and today, while talking to both Jimmy and John, I decided to relate my story of how I had saved the day. I thought they would both laugh, but that didn’t happen at all. Only John laughed.

Jimmy looked at me with total surprise and I shall never forget the look of disappointment in his eyes. He hadn’t realised I had believed him to be a thief all these years.

And John … John told me that he had spent the money on his way to school and was scared of what his mother would say, so he had thought to cover his embezzlement by saying it had been taken by some unknown felon. He said that there was nobody more surprised than him to discover a penny in his desk!

"Identify theft is getting to be a real problem." The officer cracked his knuckles as he laced his hands together and put them behind his head. He leaned back in his chair and nodded grimly, "Saw a presentation on it last week, in fact."

"OK," the well-dressed businessman sitting across the desk from him asked, "so what can we do?"

"Do? Well, for starters people need to a lot more careful with secure information. Choose better passwords, use encryption, run weekly ID scans…"

"I know all that," the businessman interrupted, "I mean what can we do about MY identity being stolen?"

"Oh, well, it's like this. I saw you standing out there and I recognized you. You used to buy tickets to the Patrolman's Association Ball every year, didn't you?"

The flustered man nodded.

"And then it hit me, you used to be Mr. Johnson, right?"

"Yes, I'm Benjamin Johnson. And, actually I make substantial yearly donations which makes me wonder why I was kept waiting in your lobby for almost an hour. I am a very busy man, Officer…" he squinted at the man's badge, "…Kent. What do we need to do to resolve this matter quickly?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. There's nothing we can do for you."

Ben Johnson could feel his face flushing with anger. "Now see here," he began.

"Look, Pal, simmer down. This is my lunch break. I'm taking my own personal time to talk to you 'cause of who you used to be."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Ben sputtered.

"See for yourself." Officer Kent ran his hand-held scanner up and down in front of Ben's face and right hand and then turned his monitor toward him so he could read the results.

Ben stared at the screen: NO RECORD FOUND

"I'm a public servant," Kent continued, "I'm paid by taxpayer dollars. I can't do anything for a transient."

"I'm not a tranzy!" roared Ben.

Kent spread his hands out in front of him in a gesture of defeat and shook his head. "I think it's time for you to be moving on. I'd rather not have to detain you."

Ben saw that several of the patrolman in the outer office were watching the interaction. He swallowed rapidly and was able to speak more calmly. "What can I do then?"

"Try Legal Assist downtown. Maybe they can help."

Ben walked out of the patrol station. He started to hail a cab and then realized that whoever had stolen his identity had also stolen his ability to access his accounts. He began the long walk downtown.

By the time he arrived, two hours later, he was hot, tired, and sweaty. He grimaced with dismay as he joined the long line of tranzies that snaked around the building. His nose wrinkled with disgust as he got a whiff of the man in front of him, but then he realized that he probably didn't smell much better at this point.

"Hey dude," the man with the offensive body odor held out a dirty hand. "Big Ron."

"Ben." He shook the offered hand gingerly.

"Want a sip?"

Ben looked at the dirty man and his dirty bottle of water. Then he slowly reached out and took it from him, tipping it toward him as he attempted to pour some water into his mouth without actually touching his lips to the opening. "Thanks."

"Who's your caseworker?" Ron asked.

Ben shrugged.

"First time? I've been working with Roberta for three years now. My folks were relocated, but I was born in the city. She thinks I have a pretty good shot of getting a work permit and maybe a buying up to a temporary ID. If they ask you who you want, you should ask for her."

"Three years?" Ben asked incredulously.

"I know," said Ron. "I told you she's good. Some of these guys been coming here five or six years." He gave Ben an appraising look. "Your pretty well dressed for a tranzy."

"I'm not really a transient. I had my identity stolen."

"No way, dude." Ron was clearly amazed. "You mean you were a citizen and someone hacked it away from you?"

"Yup," said Ben glumly. "Stole all my prints ”" even the retinas, and rerouted them."

"No way," Ron repeated again.

Ben found himself pouring out his entire story to this bearded stranger. "Not only did I lose all access to my accounts, but my house won't recognize me. My car won't recognize me. I can't log into even a public terminal. I can't use any public services." He stopped suddenly as he realized that Ron had probably never been able to do any of these things.

"You had a house," Ron asked, confirming his suspicions, "and a car?"

Ben nodded silently.

"That is incredible." Instead of being jealous, Ron was simply amazed.

Over the next hour or so, the two continued their conversation. Ben was surprised to find that, despite his appearance and lack of formal education, Ron was an intelligent young man with an amazing amount of knowledge about life on the streets.

Eventually, Ben reached the front of the line and was assigned to a caseworker named Eloise. She listened with sympathy as he related his tale.

"Physical attributes don't usually carry a lot of weight," she said thoughtfully, "but Judge Warren might be willing to issue you a temporary ID if you can bring me a roomful of people who know you. That would allow you to get a limited investigation from the patrols."

"That would be great."

"Yeah," Eloise mused, "Come back next month and I'll let you know if I can get an opening in his docket."

"Next month!" Ben sputtered. "What am I supposed to…" His question fell on deaf ears as Eloise had already turned to her next client.

He stood there glumly until he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. "How'd it go, man?"

Ben smiled wryly at Ron. "I get to come back in a month to find out if they can even do anything to help me."

Ron frowned in sympathy then drew Ben aside. "I shouldn't do this," he whispered, "but I know this hacker who could probably steal an identity for you."

There was a perfectly logical reason for Hal to be hanging from his fingertips from a window ledge thirty stories above the pavement. Unfortunately that wasn’t a big help right now.

The job was simple on the surface. There was a lab, a test-tube, and a buyer. All they needed to do was move the test-tube from the lab to the buyer. The complications arose from Joe’s inborn paranoia. He had no intention of being paid in bullets instead of cash. The buyer had approached him through a complicated maze of intermediaries. Payment involved offshore accounts and automated transfers. Hal didn’t really care. That was Joe’s problem. Hal’s concern was beating the intense security around the lab.

He used one of his clean ID’s to get a job with the cleaning company in the building. For weeks he pushed a mop and bucket while he listened to tunes on his mp3 player. For the first week the security checked him out thoroughly each evening. They even took the case off his player and listened to his music to make sure it really was just a player.

The door into the lab was secured by a thumb print biometric lock and a voice code. The code rotated through a list of words generated by the security computer. Hal was worried until he realized it was a rotation and not random words. Getting in wouldn’t be easy, but it wasn’t complicated.

He had an identical player that had one less song, but could record a few seconds of high quality sound through his earbuds. After a month he had the entire list recorded. The thumb lock was even easier. He lifted a print from pop can, and with a little work created a passable silicone copy of the print.

The hard part was going to be getting the sample out of the building. According to the buyer every test-tube had a marker built right into the glass. Even broken tubes set off the alarms and had to be inspected and double checked. The heavy duty hazmat suit he wore to clean the lab suggested that opening a tube was a bad idea.

Hal was pretty sure the buyer was someone who actually worked at the lab, but wanted someone else to take the risk of the theft.

He had what he needed to pull the job. So he showed up to work as usual, but his mp3 player had one minor change. It had a hidden playlist of passwords. Inside the case was a paper thin swipe card that would open the cupboard inside the lab. It was that card that convinced him it was an inside job.

Hal checked in and went upstairs to begin cleaning. The guards would appear at intervals that they obviously thought were random. Hal cleaned the hallway on the lab floor and waved at the guard. He pushed his trolley into the women’s washroom and stretched. It took him fifteen minutes to clean here, and not once had the guards ever checked on him while he did so. A glance at the hall showed the coast was clear.

He was in the lab in seconds. The swipe card opened the cabinet and Hal slipped the tube out. That was the easy part. He stuck the tube under the table with some putty and left the lab. He put an empty tube on edge of the table. He was back in the washroom where he finished his usual thorough cleaning. If the ladies didn’t complain, no one would. At least that was the message he got from the woman who hired him.

He was back out in the hall when the guard showed up to let him into the lab. Hal struggled into the heavy suit and waited while the guard let him in. He was half way through his clean up with the guard helpfully pointing out imaginary specks of dirt when a bump to the table sent the empty tube crashing to the floor.

The guard paled and hit the button on the wall that would seal the doors and send a help code to the main security office. While the guard’s back was turned Hal retrieved the tube and slipped it into his mouth. It was almost long enough to trigger his gag reflex.

Hal didn’t think he looked any sicker than the guard. The decontamination team showed up in minutes and whisked the guard away. Hal was taken in a different direction. The alarm screamed as they took him through the door. He pointed to the shards of glass he had carefully embedded in his boots. They took his boots away and quick marched him to the shower.

He was thoroughly scrubbed and vetted, but by the time they were making him say “ah” the tube was safely floating in the soap.

Once it was apparent that no lasting harm had been done to the lab, the guard or Hal, he was allowed to get dressed. His insistence that he finish his shift was met with shrugs. He was left alone with his trolley. There was one more room to clean on this floor. It was a special room in that it had a tiny slider on the window to let fresh air into the office. The grid over the opening was just large enough for the tube to slip out. Some careful manoeuvring and more putty fastened the test tube firmly to the outside of the grid.

Hal checked out as normal and walked in the direction he always walked. It was no accident that he met the person who had come to clean the windows. It was no accident that that person was Joe. They rode the elevator to the roof. There were only two stops. Ground floor and the roof. There was no access to the inside of the building from the elevator. That also meant no sensors.

They got the rig going and started cleaning windows. Hal was already tired from a full shift in the lab, but they made good time. That’s we they learned they were one block over from where the tube was hidden. ”¨”¨Joe was afraid of heights, so Hal tied a rope to his safety harness and inched his way along the tiny ledge.

With both hands occupied he pulled the tube off the grid with his lips, then carefully edged his way back. Joe took the tube and put it away safely, then helped Hal back onto the rig. They finished their window cleaning and put away the equipment.

Tomorrow Hal would show up for work as usual, and probably for another month after that. Only then it might be safe to find a ”˜better job’. Hal would spend his time on a beach in some warm place until his money was gone and Joe needed him again.

All things considered, it wasn’t a bad way to make a living.

It was difficult to see anything in the alley. Around me, the dripping walls pulsed with intermittent red and blue light from the flashers on the squad car at my back. It was weirdly quiet in here; the high walls around me served to deaden the usual din of the city, replacing it with the steady hiss of rain. I advanced into the darkness, swinging the beam from my torch in broad sweeps; nervous tension lending my motion a cautious, jerky quality - dispatch said this had been called in as a wounded person, but you never really knew what you'd run into in this city. I've known officers to be hurt, or worse, by surprising some scumbag who thought they were safe in the shadows. So I kept my free hand near the gun in my holster, just in case. Cold rain began to soak into my shoulders, which I did my best to ignore.

There was still nothing to see except piles of rubbish and the odd rat scampering away from my torchlight. I turned to my partner, standing back at the mouth of the alley, and made a 'see-saw' gesture with my hand. She would know what it meant - nothing so far, but I wasn't for giving up just yet. Although, in truth, I was beginning to suspect this might be a hoax call. The streets were quiet, as they usually are when the rain is as heavy as this - no sullen gang members peering out from below hooded tops, no dealers, no pimps or streetwalkers or customers; they would be digging their treasures, seeking their pleasures elsewhere tonight. Cars hurried past with no reason to stop, spraying water across the sidewalk.

Still, I had a job to do. I had almost reached the back wall of the alley now; which was piled high with black bags and soggy cardboard boxes, but I still couldn't see anyone. I raised my torch and looked up, raking the beam along the dripping fire escapes, but again came up blank. Rain splattered onto my upturned face and suddenly, I'd had enough. I turned to go, and that's when I heard a weak voice, barely audible above the sound of running water.

“...not fallen...,” I thought it said. I swung the torch around and aimed the beam at where the sound had come from. For a moment, I was frozen with shock. I was certain that there had been nothing there, before - but this time my light revealed the pale form of a man, lying half buried in the mounds of trash. He was turned away from me, his face hidden in the crook of an arm, and he appeared to be naked. His skin was dreadfully pale. None of that was what shocked me, though - that came when I realised this man couldn't possibly be alive. His back was hideously torn; two huge, symmetrical wounds ran from shoulder blades to midriff in a V, exposing bone and glistening tissue within. There was very little blood; the rain must have washed him... he groaned, and that broke my reverie. I kneeled down beside him and turned to signal my partner to get the first aid kit, although I was sure it was futile. I had never seen deeper cuts on a human being outside of an autopsy room.

A hand on my wrist stopped me, amazing in its strength. The wounded man had rolled over, onto his mutilated back, and I looked down at his face. Again, a wave of incredulity swept over me.

He was... beautiful. His eyes were perfectly white and seemed to glow, somehow. His skin could have been hewn from marble. Hair so blonde it was almost white was plastered to his brow. Albino, I thought? Couldn't be - there was no tell-tale pinkness at his eyes, and no pupils at all. His skin was so white it seemed almost translucent - I could see blue veins criss-crossing just under the surface. More, there seemed to be thousands of tiny pinpricks of light moving within him, and he radiated an extraordinary heat. For a second, the man seemed to dim somehow - I imagined I could see through the hand that held me; saw the fabric of my uniform under the fingers, saw the filthy alley floor under the pallor of his body - then he was solid again. I tried to pull away, but he was incredibly strong, despite his injuries.

“Please...do not...,” the man said. He was struggling to speak but his voice was calm, and it seemed untouched by the horrors carved upon his back.

“I have... little time... there is nothing to be done,” he said, “... except to bear witness. I am so tired... I beg thee...,” he said, the rain like tears on his face. The hand on my arm relaxed, and took my own. With his other hand he reached up, and gently placed his palm to my cheek. Something clicked in my mind, and it came to me with absolute, certain clarity - the true nature of the being that held me. Not human; in that I was entirely correct.

This was an angel.

It began to speak again, and I knew in my heart it spoke the truth.

“They call us the fallen ones, but I did not fall. My Lord commanded me, and so it was done. There are thousands of us walking this realm, if only you chose to see.”

Again, that strange sensation of dimming. I was sure I could see through the angel, as if it was fading. I blinked, and it was almost solid once more.

“Our purpose is... to give. No more. Inspiration, love, dreams... hope. So many wonderful things we can do with just a touch,” it said, but its face was drawn down in sorrow.

“But humanity... wasted it. Every gift I could give; every heart I could mend. Eventually, there was nothing left to offer.”

It smiled.

“I thought... hoped... if people could see the truth, they might believe again, that it would change things - so I allowed myself to be seen, as my Lord created me.”

The tears on its face were not from the rain any more as it gestured to the wounds on its back.

“They took blades to me... stole my wings... and laughed as they did it.”

The hand on my face reached behind my neck, and gently pulled me closer. For an instant, I felt its lips at my mouth; tasted the sweetness of its breath.

“But remember me...,” it said, “and they will not have stolen everything.”

I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, I was alone, crouched in a dark city alley with rain soaking into my back. Slowly, I got to my feet and headed back to the car. My partner was waiting, obviously bored.

“Anything?” she said.

“Nah. Waste of time,” I replied. She cursed.

“Ah well. That's what we have to put up with. I always imagine things will get better, but... they never do,” she said.

I could still taste the memory of the Angel's kiss on my lips.

“We can always hope,” I said.

Connie laughed as Prince, her Yorkshire Terrier, darted across the grass at Leland Park, yapping all the way.

Technically you weren't allowed to have dogs off a leash, but what were they going to do? She had enough money to buy and sell the entire police department.

"Prince-ums!" Connie called. "Mommy has a treat for you!" She was sitting beneath a tree, enjoying a picnic of ham on artisanal bread washed down with champagne.

The dog bounded over and gobbled a chocolate chip from her palm. Connie had read that chocolate was poisonous to dogs, but that sounded fake, like the idea that JELL-O is made from hooves — an urban legend created by somebody with too much time on his hands.

Connie took another bite of her sandwich, and that's when she noticed the jogger. He had paused in mid-stride when he spotted Prince, then veered off the footpath and onto the grass. Connie sat up, her senses on high alert.

The jogger patted Prince's head — nothing more. The dog resumed chasing his tail.

The jogger, meanwhile, approached Connie.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he said. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Um ... uh, yes, it is," Connie said.

"Sorry to disturb you," the jogger said. "The name's Mike, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you," Connie replied.

"Anyway, is that your dog? The terrier?"

Connie sighed. Some people simply couldn't resist being irksome. Now he would helpfully point out the sign at the park entrance, the one advising that dogs were to be kept on leashes.

"Yes, he's my dog."

And he wasn't bothering you. You could have continued on your way, but no, you just had to come and harass me, didn't you?

"Cute little guy," Mike said, smiling. "And that's why I had to come over and say something. Maybe you didn't know, but it isn't safe for him to be running around like that."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Prince is harmless. Honestly, why can't you just mind your own —"

"Oh, it's not that," Mike interrupted, chuckling. "I'm sure he is harmless. But the thing is, there's a nest of golden eagles in this area."

"What?"

"Eagles," Mike repeated patiently. "Large birds? Keen eyesight? Six-foot wingspan?"

"I know what an eagle is, thanks," Connie snapped. "I'm just not sure what this has to do with my dog."

Mike glanced back at Prince. "Like I said, there's a nest in the area, and your little guy is running around in the open ... see?"

For a moment Connie didn't see ... and then she did. She knew it was rude to laugh in the man's face, but she couldn't help herself. Of all the half-baked ideas!

"Are you suggesting that an eagle is going to swoop down and eat Prince?" she gasped between giggles. "Maybe you didn't notice, but Prince is a dog. Eagles eat mice and rats! Whoever heard of an eagle eating a dog?"

Mike frowned. "Lady, an adult eagle can carry away a young deer. I don't think Prince would give an eagle much trouble at all."

Connie shook her head, still laughing. She wondered what this bozo would say if he knew she fed Prince chocolate! "I appreciate your concern. Have a nice day, sir."

Mike shrugged. "Have it your way, ma'am. Just trying to help. I'd hate for something to happen to —"

"PRINCE!" Connie shrieked, leaping to her feet. Something — she couldn't tell what, something big and brown — had landed on her dog. Then the thing unfurled its wings, and Connie realized what it was. She watched in horror as the golden eagle took flight with a surprised Yorkshire Terrier dangling from its grasp.

"PRINCE!" Connie screeched. "MY BABY!"

Mike, meanwhile, was as cool as the champagne in Connie's picnic basket. Without a word, he produced a slingshot and loaded a steel ball into the cradle. He pulled back the cords — not enough for lethal velocity, but rather like he was taking a potshot at a tin can — and fired. Moments later, the bird jerked, uttered an angry skree, and released its catch.

With an unhappy yelp, Prince plummeted into Mike's arms. The eagle soared over the trees, empty-taloned, out of sight.

"Princy-wincy!" Connie bellowed, seizing the startled pooch. "Poor itty-bitty precious! Did the nasty birdie hurt you?"

"He looks fine," Mike said, grinning. "I've carried the slingshot ever since I got chased by a raccoon a while back. Never thought it would come in handy!"

"Let me repay you," Connie said, clutching the still-trembling Yorkie in one arm and reaching into her handbag with the other. She withdrew a wad of hundred-dollar bills. "Here," she said. "Take it all."

"Oh, no," Mike replied graciously. "That's very generous, but I couldn't accept."

"Please. It's the least I can do."

"No, really," Mike said. "Really, I don't deserve … well ...." He trailed off, staring at the money.

"Go ahead," Connie urged, pushing the banknotes into his face. "You earned it ... sir? Are you all right?"

Mike had begun to weep. He brushed tears from his cheeks. "Sorry. I'm fine. It's just that ...."

"What is it? Please tell me."

"Well," Mike said, "I don't want a reward. I was just trying to help. But I have to tell you, ma'am, it would be a blessing. My little daughter ... she's been sick. And her medical bills ... my wife's out of work ...."

"Take it," Connie commanded. She reached into her bag, removing a bank envelope brimming with even more cash. She'd have gladly given ten times as much. "I'm serious. I can afford it."

"I really shouldn't."

"I insist," Connie said, pressing the reward into his hands. "Thank you for saving my doggie's life."

"No, thank you," Mike rasped, choking up again. "God bless you, ma'am."

"Same to you," Connie said. "Now come on, Princy-wincy, let's get you home for a nice warm bath."

***

Later, the man whose name was not Mike stood near the park's edge with a falconer's gauntlet on his arm. He whistled, and a golden eagle descended from the evening sky. It landed nimbly on the man's glove and accepted the strip of raw meat he offered.

"Well done," murmured the man whose name was not Mike, stroking the eagle's head. He examined its razor-sharp talons, which had been tipped with caps to ensure that the raptor's "prey" wouldn't be injured. "You reacted a bit slowly when I shot the slingshot past you, but your aim when you dropped the dog was perfect."

The eagle screeched, sounding almost reproachful.

"Oh come on," the man said, frowning. "You're not having second thoughts about our little arrangement, are you? I'll admit this isn't an honest day's work. You might even call me a thief. But you saw how happy we made her. Her dog is safe, and she'll go to bed believing she helped a sick child's family. Some rich socialite, probably hasn't had a generous or charitable thought in years, and this was the greatest, most fulfilling day of her self-centered life."

"So I ask you," he whispered, giving the eagle another juicy morsel. "Did we steal her money ... or did we give her a priceless gift?"

When I look at this, I see a desert, society’s wasteland. This is where people come to kill their dreams. $10 cover fee, $5 coat check, $15 drinks. And the line to get in stretches around the corner.

The irony isn’t lost on me, that I call this place a wasteland when it’s one of the few places left in Detroit that ain’t falling apart. But Mama always said that the Devil looks good until you sign the deal.

I’m a bouncer, I keep an eye out for pickpockets, drug dealers, and the like, and I make sure that they don’t hurt each other in their drunken parties, but I can’t do a thing to stop them from hurting themselves. And I know hurt.

We had nothing, growing up in urban Detroit, we were lucky to be fed some weeks. The schools were bad and the students worse, neither me nor either of my brothers made it through high school. We all got mixed up in the gang scene. I was pretty lucky, I got caught for petty thievery and got locked up for a few months in a minimum security joint, and I’ve been able to lead a life without the gangs since. My older brother, Daryl, he wasn’t so lucky; he’s got 20 more years for murder. My little brother, George, he was always the bright one. He made it for a while doing rap, he escaped this place, had some money to his name, some security. But they dragged him back in; he got into drugs, got involved in battles that shouldn’t have been his. He was shot a few years back during a show when he was ripping on some rival gang that he shouldn’t have even cared about. He’s buried out at Woodmere. His woman and little girl ain’t no better for it either, they’re living the same hard life as everybody else in these parts.

So I see these rich, 20 something, college bound, white kids in here partying, dancing with folks they don’t know, kissing in the corners with some stranger. They’re afraid; they do this because they can’t control their minds, so they think they can empty them instead. But I see the same kids come back every weekend, and that wild look they wear before they get some drinks in them gets more intense every time. The emptiness is a brief escape, one that becomes more essential to them the more often they come. I don’t even know what they’re all afraid of, I can’t understand them. I know people are people, no matter where you come from there’s going to be problems, but I also know this just ain’t the way to deal with them. Maybe an ex-gangster and thief has no place to talk about what’s the right way or not, but even then I had my priorities. I put my friends and family first, always, even if they weren’t the sorts of friends a person ought to have.

The techno keeps blaring, drowning out any attempts to actually communicate with the people around them. The floor is sticky with spilled liquor, and glass shards are constantly underfoot. All that’s left is empty minds and stumbling bodies, all throbbing to the rhythm of the music.

That’s why I call this place a wasteland, a desert, because there’s a void where life should be. Their minds are all empty.

It gets to me sometimes. I see this place stealing their lives away from them, and they keep coming back because, for whatever reason, they don’t want their lives. I don’t want to be a part of it, I wish I could tell them the things I’ve been through, make them appreciate what they’ve got. But that would just get me fired, and there’s other folks who would just take over for me and nobody would even notice. I don’t know if anything I said would get through to them either. So instead I tell myself over and over that this gig is better than most folks from around here can manage. It pays enough to take care of myself, and whatever’s left over I can use to take care of Mama and George’s family. Given where I came from, that’s all a body can ask for. But I can’t help but feel angry at this. Or maybe it’s sad. I can’t even tell what it makes me feel.

When I was little, Mama used to take me and my brothers to the daycare so she could go to work. Every day on the bus ride there and back home, we’d pass right by the zoo. I’d see all those other families lined up at the gate to go see the animals, dressed nice, wearing packs with everything they needed for the day, and I just wanted to be like them. And every day, I’d ask Ma when we’d be able to go; she’d just sigh, and tell me some day.

All these years later, that’s still my vision of the perfect family; parents and their kids waiting to go into the zoo. But this job is slowly taking away that idea, because these kids had that sort of life, and yet here they are paying to have it taken away from them.

So I stand here on my box in the corner, like a king surveying his territory, but all I’ve got to rule over is a pulsating wasteland. The people come and go, but the music goes on. And every day, I feel a little farther from them. Maybe one day I’ll be as jaded as the rest of them, but I’m trying not to, as much as it hurts I try not to forget the tragedy of this place. I can’t do a thing to change it, but at least there’s somebody who sees it.

I prayed for you last night.

You know I’m not a religious man, so I don’t even know what I was praying to. But that feeling of complete, total helplessness… I was so alone and so hurt, but I could only think about you, I had no room to focus on myself. It was the only thing that I could think to do, and it didn’t make any sense, I don’t think it helped me, and I don’t think it helped you. But there I was, crying, hands folded just like they taught me in kindergarten, hardly speaking, but venturing out with just raw emotion and feeling. I want to see you happy again, and I want to protect you from these storms that rage around and within us, but there was nothing I could do or say that I hadn’t already. And it didn’t help, it didn’t help you.

Maybe I was greedy, that’s what worries me, that maybe my own self interest caused this. Because I knew, in my gut and heart, that you wanted to be with him, and not me, but I refused to trust my instincts. I know you didn’t want to hurt me, that you lied to me about you and him because you cared, but I wanted to trust those lies so much because they meant we might still be together. If I had just trusted myself, maybe you would have never come to this. I would have told you to just forget me and be happy with him, you and him never would have had that fight, I would have moved on in time, and we could have been friends, everything lost because I deceived myself. I can’t believe that I took this from you. This feeling haunts my thoughts and dreams.

But that time we spent, falling recklessly and madly in love, there isn’t a feeling like it in the world. Hearing your footsteps creep up to my door, that soft knock, and then seeing you. No matter how bad the day was, that instant where I opened the door to that magnificent smile, it made everything go away. We would stay up so late, listening to the storms rage outside, just holding each other and talking, those nights were more precious than the heated ones. You said you were so sorry for taking that away from me, but I gave it to you freely. Even now, after it all, I know that we two had found kindred spirits in each other. We were both so willing to give; we both wanted nothing more than somebody to give all our love to. We had both been hurt because in the past people took advantage of us for that, taking and taking yet not giving back. Finally, there was somebody who we could both give to with all our hearts, knowing that it would be given in return.

So you lied to me, telling me what I wanted to hear, hoping you could slowly ease me into acceptance. You lied to him, telling him that I knew it was over between us, not wanting him to get angry with you. You lied to your roommate, who only wanted the best for you, to stop her from worrying. I’ve done stupider things in life, made bigger mistakes, and I know the way that love can tear at you, so please know that I forgive you. But just like you, I don’t know if I can forgive myself.

When me and him came to you at the same time to sort this all out, to see which words were the truth, which actions were the truth, we were both so angry. You didn’t deserve to be interrogated; you didn’t deserve to have those accusations thrown at you. You might not believe it yourself, but even through these mistakes I know you’re a good person, that this was a terrible, confusing situation, and there was no right way out for any of us. We wanted to confront you and find the truth, and in our anger said things we didn’t mean. You broke down.

As I stood there, standing awkwardly in the doorway, staring at the ground along with your confused roommate, I watched you and him talk, and I knew I wasn’t needed. I was just an accessory in this drama. I should have felt hurt, but it was right then that the weight of it all hit me. This was love, between you and him, the woefully unrequited sort, and you gave and gave and gave hoping that you could earn his. I don’t even know how he stole your heart from me, and in that moment it didn’t matter to me any longer. The jealousy was gone, along with the anger. That love I had for you remained, but it changed; it didn’t matter to me then who you were with, all that mattered was seeing you happy and safe. In that instant, you became a little sister. He’s a good man, he really is, and I hope that he can forgive you.

You said you wanted some time to think alone, so we all shuffled out of the room. I think I saw in your eyes what you wanted to do, that’s what made me take one last look back before I closed the door. I saw that scene in my dreams that night, endlessly repeating; your empty look, the old scar on your wrist waiting to be opened again by the knife in your hand. I still have that knife, tucked into the corner of my kitchen, taken away from you because I couldn’t leave it with you. Like a lot of memories, it’s sitting there, neglected, because I don’t know what to do with it.

Even after everything you put us all through, the pain, rejection, fear, and anxiety, I still wanted to be there for you. Not in the same way, but I told you we would remain friends. I wanted to see you again. But not like this. Not with you in that box. So I’ll keep praying for you, that you found some sort of peace in whatever lies beyond.

Goodbye.

Syra copied and pasted the information dumped in her chat screen over to a notepad file on her desktop. She plugged her headset into the portable phone, cleared her throat twice and dialed the number.

"Hello, you've reached the AT&T Conference Center. Please enter the identification number for your pre-scheduled teleconference now," intoned the overly happy automated message.

Syra keyed in the five digit code and waited.

"The conference number you have entered is invalid, please try again or press '0' for operator assistance."

The voice grated on Syra, but she had expected this first minor hurdle. Choosing the option to call assistance, Syra immediately heard several clicks on the line while she was being redirected to an operator. She wasn't nervous -- not exactly. Syra was filled with anxiety that pumped her adrenaline to familiar and regularly sought levels.

"AT&T, this is Marlene speaking, how may I assist you?" came the butch-dyke voice across the line. Syra wondered why they all sounded like they hadn't been laid in a decade. Being a teleconference operator was her dream job, and she knew her own voice dripped sex-appeal whenever she spoke.

"Yes, hello Marlene, apparently there has been a miscommunication somewhere. My conference seems to have ended prematurely. I'm hoping you can help me with this inconvenience?" Syra used her most annoyed professional voice. She didn't want the operator to be defensive, but had learned from experience that being too friendly was sometimes suspicious.

"Oh my, that's terrible. Let me see what I can do for you. Can I get your conference number, administrators pin and the name it was registered under please?" responded the operator, in exactly the helpful tone Syra hoped for.

Syra rattled off the conference number, along with the users pin and two names she picked from thin air.

"I'm sorry Ms. Forde, is there another name under which this might have been registered? Also, you've given me the user pin, I need the administrators pin," replied the operator, still in the same helpful tone as before. This was promising.

"It might have been registered under Kim Chang? I'm not sure which of my secretaries set up the conference. That is the only pin I have here. Just one second, let me see if I can find another," Syra put a tinge of apprehension in her voice, but maintained her assertiveness as she shuffled around a couple loose papers on her bed-side table. "Look, I'm in my car, on my way to the office. Our PBX system failed this morning and all of our incoming calls are getting a recorded message that redirects them to this teleconference. My secretary just called to inform me it had been ended for some unknown reason. I'm going to assume that whoever set up the account initially failed to request the auto-extend feature."

"I really can't do anything for you without the administrators pin, at the very least," replied the operator, doing her job to protect the account.

"I understand that entirely, Marlene, but I'm hoping you can see it from my position as well. I generally work from home, taking calls from there, but without the PBX, I can't do that. Neither can any of my other field staff. There must be some way to get beyond this?" Syra knew the personal touch of remembering the operators name was a good approach. Allowing the solution to be put forward by the operator would give the woman with the dull life a sense of power in the current circumstances, false though it may be.

"Perhaps you could just give me the phone number used to set-up the account?" suggested the now eager to help operator.

Syra again rattled off some random digits that she knew to be in the Illinois area code.

"Uh, might there be another number?" prompted the operator, her helpfulness faltering slightly.

Lounging back on her bed, idly twining the head-set cord around her fingers, Syra knew it was time to regain her position. Careful to keep her voice civil and polite, yet also commanding, she stated, "Look, I have offices in Chicago, Los Angeles, Toronto and London. To be completely honest, I don't know if it was my secretary who set up the account or if she farmed it out to one of the interns. If that's the case it could have been picked up on the inter-office messaging system and been carried out from any of our continental offices. Frankly, I'm behind the wheel of my car, stuck in traffic and I need this to be fixed immediately, not whenever I can get in to the office. The longer we are unable to communicate with our clients, the more money we lose."

The operator took the bait and ran with it. Someone in her job position didn't want to think too much and certainly preferred to let others tell her what needed to be done. "What I can do for you, Ms. Forde, is add the auto-extend feature to your conference, as my system shows it ended less than an hour ago. If it had been longer, I would not be able to make any changes and you'd have to set up a new conference. I cannot give you the administrators pin, but if someone calls from the number on the account, we can confirm that from this end, and then give you the information you need."

"Thank-you so much, Marlene. All I need is for the conference to continue working. My understanding is that it will auto-extend until the last participant has left the conference?" Syra made sure to hide her feeling of triumph, instead only gushing relief at the stupid cow on the other end of the line.

"Yes, that is correct, Ms. Forde. Is there anything else I can help you with today?" asked the operator, returning to the comfort of her pre-scripted responses.

"No, no. That is all I needed. Thanks ever so much, you've just made my day," answered Syra truthfully.

"Thank-you for choosing AT&T," the operator finished with, before cutting the connection.

Though alone in the room, Syra was unable to keep the ecstatic smile from her face. She immediately dialed the teleconference number and keyed in the user pin. The conference chimed and then dropped into silence. Perfect. Jumping from her bed and returning to her computer desk, Syra clicked the mouse to reopen her Internet Relay Chat screen.

<Phreakess> that has got to be the stupidest security check I've ever seen
<Phreakess> a child of three could SE their way through!
<Phreakess> mwahaha!
<t00l4evr> you got it?
<t00l4evr> tell me you got it?
<ath0> of course she got it
<ath0> she's the best social engineer u ever heard!
<Phreakess> ath0, you just want in my pants, admit it!
<Phreakess> and yes, I got it!
<Phreakess> everyone can call back in now!
<pinkee> b there as soon as my dumb mom gets off the fone
<t00l4evr> 'hello you've reached the AT&T conference center'
<ath0> and don't you forget it!
<t00l4evr> ~*tzingg*~ oooh yeah, music to my ears! tty there guyz

Jeff walked up behind Linda and gave her a hug.

"Bill talked to me about a job today."”¨”¨"What," Linda turned and pushed Jeff away. "You haven’t been out of jail a week and you are already planning another job?"

"But..."

"Don’t give me ”˜but’, mister." Her waving hands sloshed hot coffee on Jeff’s pants. "I waited three years to get out after the last job you pulled. Don’t think I’m going wait for you this time."”¨”¨"Please just listen,"

"No, I won’t listen," she screamed and threw the coffee cup at him. Jeff tried to dodge flying coffee and hug his girlfriend, but she slapped him across the face and was out the door before he could recover. His heart aching he cleaned up the mess in the kitchen then waited up for her. When she didn’t show up by midnight he went to bed.

In the morning he dressed in his best pants and only dress shirt and tie and took the bus to the dealership where Bill worked. The manager made him wait all morning while he talked truck options with a man in a three piece suit. Finally the suit climbed into his oversized truck and roared off.

"You’re Bill’s friend," the manager said, "I don’t usually hire your kind, but I owe Bill a favour. Don’t screw up." He walked away leaving Jeff with his hand still stuck out.

Bill came out of the back and looked at Jeff.

”¨"I see you met our friendly manager. Don’t let him get to you." He led Jeff through to the back and handed him a set of coveralls. They said ”˜Bob’ on the pocket. "Don’t let him bother you. Do your work well and he’ll come around. We’ll order some coveralls with your own name on them sooner or later.

Jeff worked all day detailing cars. There was always one of the mechanics or their helpers standing around watching. Usually ”˜You missed a spot.’ was the limit of their conversation.

At the end of the day he was given some forms to fill out and bring the next morning.

At home he discovered that Linda had cleaned out their apartment. She left him the mouldy spare bed mattress and a few chipped cups and plates. He put a can of beans on a burner to heat up, then slept on the floor. It wasn’t much harder than his prison bed.

Over the next few weeks Jeff bought a chair and some proper pots. He didn’t bother with a TV, preferring to read in the evening.

The guys at work began to relax and just let him do his job. Jeff was careful to never remove anything from the cars he cleaned. He put all the garbage in a bag for the customer to look through if they wanted. A couple of customers gave him an odd look, but most just tossed the bag away without a second glance.

The suit who had talked with the manager all morning the first day Jeff showed up came in one day with his big truck.

"Make it look good, Bob," he said tossing Jeff the keys.
ӬJeff just nodded made sure the truck shone inside and out. When the man came back to pick up the truck he nodded at Jeff before driving away.

"We have to get you coveralls with your own name on them," Bill said and slapped Jeff on the back.

"Why confuse everyone now?" Jeff asked. Bill laughed and slapped him on the back again.

"That is the richest and pickiest customer we have. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him leave without some complaint. You did good."”¨”¨The next day the man in the suit was back with a fat brown envelope.

"He always pays cash for his trucks," Bill whispered to Jeff. "Seventy thousand dollars for a truck he’ll only drive to the golf course. Must be nice to be rich."

"I wouldn’t know," Jeff said, "I’m just happy not to be locked up." He went into the back and started cleaning the huge truck that the suit was paying seventy grand to drive.

He thought about what Bill had said, but he couldn’t imagine what he would do with that much cash. Trying to imagine that was what had landed him in prison the first time. He wasn’t making that mistake again.

When he was done he pulled the truck up in front of the sales office, then gave it a last polish while the manager and the customer exchanged final tall tales. The pair finally came out and walked around the truck. Jeff could tell the man in the suit was trying to find something wrong with the truck, but he finally grinned and slapped Jeff on the back.

"Nice work, Bob," he said, "I’ve never seen a cleaner truck. It seems almost a pity to get it dirty." He made no move to climb into the cab so Jeff said thanks and went back to work on the next vehicle.

An hour later a police car pulled up in front of the dealership.

"There he is," the manager pointed at Jeff. "He’s the thief."

The officer wasn’t one that Jeff knew, but he could see that the he knew all he wanted to about Jeff.

"So, Bob," he said, "There’s some money missing. Do you know anything about it?"

"My name is Jeff," Jeff said, "They can’t be bothered giving me my own name."

"Jeff then," the officer said, "about the money..."

"I don’t know anything about money. I have nothing to do with money back here."”¨”¨"There was seventy thousand dollars in an envelope on the manager’s desk. It’s missing."

"I wouldn’t know anything about that."

"Do you mind if I have a look?"

"Knock yourself out."

He patted Jeff down, then went through his lunch box even opening the thermos to look at his coffee. When he was done and hadn’t come up with any more money than the seventy-five cents in Jeff’s pockets he went back to confer with the manager. Jeff repaired his lunch as best he could.

When he looked up he saw that the police officer had left. The manager came over and glowered at Jeff.

"You’re done here," he said, "I don’t want to see you around here again."

”¨"I didn’t take any money," Jeff said, though he knew it was a waste of breath.

"We didn’t have any problems before you came." The manager turned and left as if firing Jeff was going to return the money. Jeff peeled off the coveralls and carefully folded them.

As he was picking up his lunch kit, one of the guys came over.
Ӭ
"Hey man," he said, "I know you didn’t take it. You’re good people." He shrugged his shoulders. "This sucks."

ӬӬ"Yes," Jeff said, "It does."

At home his landlord met him in the hall.

"Rent’s due."

Jeff felt the three quarters in his pocket and looked down. Ӭ
Everything he owned fit in a shopping bag. He walked out past the landlord who was already changing the locks.

It started raining as the door closed behind him.