The large, cumbersome object rested against the base of the reef.

It was a strange contrast to everything around it, and it attracted the attention of one very curious hammerhead shark.

Quasar thumped the object with his broad, flat head before swirling away to get a better look at it due in part to his eyes being on not just on the sides of his head, but at the ends of a broad, somewhat-flat, skull that gave his species their name: hammerhead.

This was definitely a strange bit of litter, and he decided to ask Taylor about it when she arrived to check on the reefs.

What is it?

That, Quasar, is a suitcase, Taylor Miles approached the large, olive-green item slowly. And a really nice one, too.

What is a suitcase? Quasar turned and came back with liquid ease. How do you eat something like that?

Taylor smiled. Leave it to a shark to think with its stomach.

I do not think with my stomach, Quasar answered flatly.

I didn’t mean it personally, Taylor grinned around the regulator in her mouth. It’s just that sharks are always eating and will eat anything they can get into their mouths.

Quasar followed Taylor to her canoe and stayed below the surface as she grabbed a large net from the craft and pulled it into the water. I don’t eat just anything.

You ate my dive flag last week, Taylor pointed out lightly.

Ah… burp? Quasar waited for Taylor to slowly adjust to the depth. They were only twenty feet down, but she didn’t like to take chances.

Taylor shook her head in mild amusement.

If it helps, Quasar nudged a sunfish away from Taylors's tank. It tasted terrible. He thumped the suitcase again as Taylor approached it and whipped away when it fell open, disgorging several packets of filled with a white substance. I think I killed it.

Taylor stared in silence at the find. As the State Aquatic Environmental Monitor, her job was to keep an eye on the reefs and put a stop to poaching, littering, and illegal fish trade. This, however, was something else entirely, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Quasar approached to investigate the blinking object that gave off tantalizing pulses of electricity not unlike a sting ray, one of his favorite foods.

Stay away, Taylor waved Quasar off just in time.

What is it?

A homing beacon of some kind. Taylor scooped it up and put it in the suitcase along with the packets of white powder. Drug runners were getting creative- and desperate- if they were using the reefs as drop points for their goods.

Quasar cruised overhead in slow, lazy circles, keeping an eye out for trouble. Who left their suitcase in the water? And what fell out of it?

I can take a guess, Taylor put the suitcase in the net and tied a rope to it to make pulling it to her canoe easier.

You cannot say why it is in the water?

Suitcases are used to carry things, Taylor explained. Usually clothing- skin coverings, but this time, it's being used for something far worse.

Quasar suddenly changed directions and began swirling in larger loops. Something is coming. It feels like a fast boat.

It's a go-fast, Taylor headed to her canoe.

Quasar knew that tone just as he knew what the fast, whirring thump meant. People were coming to hurt him, and if they saw Taylor with him, they’d likely hurt her, too. Take my fin, Taylor.

My canoe's just-

They will hurt you, Taylor.

Taylor heard the near-panic in his tone. She grabbed his dorsal fin and allowed him to tow her and the net containing the suitcase to safety.

Unfortunately, the speedboat was following them.

Why are they following us? Why do your kind always chase me?

Taylor let go of Quasar’s fin and turned to the suitcase. They boat was following the tracking beacon in the suitcase. She had to get rid of the beacon. They're following this.

Taylor! Quasar shot back to his friend. What are you doing? They will hurt you! Take my fin! We have to escape!

This is evidence, Quasar. I can use it to-

Quasar decided on a course of action when he heard a piercing thunk in the water and sensed a swift object pass near him. Taylor wanted to stop the bad people, but she was risking her life to do it, and he couldn't allow that.

Taylor nearly lost her regulator when Quasar rammed the suitcase, knocking it out of her hands. Quasar, stop it!

He turned and rammed it again, harder, forcing it down into the depths.

He didn’t wait for Taylor to react. He swam to her and used his broad, flat head to shove her away from the boat as more pellets flew past them.

He turned when he saw a human jump into the water with a rod in his hand. He knew full well what that rod meant, and he wasn’t going to let the man harm Taylor with it. Your caudal fins are seaweed.

Without warning, Quasar darted forward, swerved left, then circled back faster than the human could react. He slammed the man in the ribs as hard as his powerful tail could propel him.

Few things compared to a seventeen-foot-long, nine-hundred pound torpedo traveling at nearly fifteen miles an hour, and fewer things could withstand that kind of impact without damage.

Quasar, no! Taylor knew what would happen when the other person in the boat saw what Quasar had done. She also knew that while hammerheads were not aggressive toward humans, they would attack if provoked, and Quasar was clearly provoked… and scared.

She’d seen the scars on his dorsal fin and back from where humans had shot at him with guns of all kinds and even tracking beacons attached to trans-dermal darts, and she knew how he would react to a human if he saw anything shaped like a gun.

Not so fierce without that pain stick, are you, meat sack? Quasar knew the human couldn’t hear or understand him as he approached, but it still felt good to give the motionless human who was seeping blood from his mouth and nose a piece of his mind.

He thought about slamming the man again, but decided against it. He wouldn’t cause pain just for spite. He wasn’t a human.

He swirled away with impossible grace and dove for deeper water as the human in the boat pulled his comrade out of the water.

Quasar, Taylor went to follow, but the shark was too fast.

Get the suitcase, Quasar shot back hotly. It certainly means so much to you.

Quasar, wait. Taylor stopped when Quasar vanished into the depths. She looked up at the sound of the speedboat puttering off, then down at the suitcase on the sandy bottom, and wondered if the suitcase had really been worth risking not just her life, but her best friend's life as well.

She didn’t bother retrieving the pale, olive-green suitcase with its many packets of white powder- not when it had likely cost her Quasar’s friendship.

Trust and friendship were too a high a price for a suitcase no matter how high-quality it was or what it contained.

She looked into the shadowy depths and hoped he could hear her. I'm sorry, Quasar.

"Wait! You can't just take it!"

"Sure I can. They left it next to the trash cans, right? When the garbage truck comes, they take pretty much anything that's left next to the trash cans, so if they saw this suitcase here, they would take it. That makes the suitcase trash. Trash is public property, I am considered part of the public, ergo, this suitcase is mine." Tyler smirked, proud of his cleverness.

"What are you, a lawyer or somethin'? Just hurry up so we can get some food." Mickey glanced toward the house and searched the windows for any sign of movement. It was Tuesday night, and the neighborhood was dead quiet, but with their luck the one time they found something valuable in the garbage was the one time some crazed, half-asleep accountant would chase them away with a baseball bat.

Tyler rolled his eyes and grabbed the handle. "All right, all right. Quit your whining. Huh."

Mickey started off down the street. "I don't whine. And what 'huh'?"

"Nothin'. Just glad this thing's got wheels, is all."

Mickey stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Wait, you're sayin' there's something in there?"

Tyler shrugged. "Probably just some more crap they wanted to toss. More for us."

"But what if it's not?"

"Here we go."

"I'm serious, Ty. What if they threw it away by accident?"

"So what if they did? Their mistake. Besides, if we didn't take it, the garbage men would've taken it before these idiots even woke up. Makes no difference to them who takes it."

"Come on. Let's just take a look. If it's junk, I promise I won't say another word about it."

"And if you break that promise, I'll break your leg."

"Tyler-"

"Fine. Happy?" Tyler unzipped the suitcase and lifted the lid.

Mickey stared into the suitcase. "Yeah, not really."

______________________________________________

"So who found it?" Sergeant Collins ducked under the tape. It was dawn, his coffee was cold, and a head in a suitcase was the last thing he needed on his already overflowing plate.

Detective Marshall gestured at the two teenagers sitting on the curb. "Couple of kids going dumpster diving. Found it in front of that house right there. Owner denied putting the suitcase out with the trash."

Collins snorted. "Of course he does. What's he gonna say, 'Why yes, Detective, that is in fact my suitcase. And I swear that head was alive when I put it in there.'" He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "I don't suppose that head came with a name tag."

"With your luck? Right. Definitely a John Doe. Fingerprints are out, obviously, but maybe we'll get a hit with DNA or that facial recognition software. I've already got a call in to Missing Persons."

They knelt down next to the suitcase. The head had been wrapped in plastic and nestled in a bed of neatly folded clothes. There were no papers, no wallet or credit cards, nothing to hint at the owner of either the suitcase or the head.

Marshall prodded the contents with a gloved finger. "See that? Everything fits perfectly, like whoever did this planned to pack a head in with his underwear. No blood drops inside or outside. Hell, even the head looks clean as a whistle."

"Great." Collins stood up and gulped down the last of his coffee. "You said the owner of the house denied putting out the suitcase?"

Marshall nodded. "Yeah. He'd either have to be the stupidest man alive to dispose of a body in his own trash or the smartest."

"The smartest." Collins glanced at the house. A small, balding man in a white terrycloth robe fidgeted wordlessly on the porch. "You get a look at his living room?"

"We spoke on the porch. I got a glimpse when he opened the door. Looks like a neat freak to me. Obsessive, even."

"Like he has a maid on call?"

"Like maybe he cleaned up a crime scene."

"It's a long shot."

Marshall grinned. "But it's a long shot that might get this case cleared up by lunchtime."

"What's the guy's name?"

Marshall checked his notebook. "Banyon. Marty Banyon."

"Let's get to it then."

"Sergeant, hold up a minute!" The medical examiner waved them back to the suitcase.

"What is it?"

"I just took the temperature of the remains. The head's cold."

"So you think he's been dead a while?"

"Perhaps, but that's not quite what I meant. When I said the head was cold, I meant that it's very cold. I think it might have been frozen. When I get it back to the morgue, I'll check for ice crystals in the blood to make sure."

"Frozen. Well, that puts a spin on things. Let's take another whack at Banyon."

______________________________________________

Detective Marshall flipped open his notebook, pen at the ready. "So Mr. Banyon, why did you have a head in your freezer?"

Marty Banyon blanched, his thin lips falling open in shock.

Sergeant Collins glared at his partner. "Come on, what kind of question is that? Mr. Banyon, I'm sorry. The detective has it in his head that you were the one who put the head in the bag, and you put it out for the garbage man."

"But- but I didn't! Why would I- How- I couldn't-"

"I know. What kind of idiot would put body parts out in his own trash? But Detective Marshall here has his doubts. He thinks you put the suitcase in front of your own house to throw attention off of you. Oh, and we had the medical examiner take a look at the head. Do you know what he found?"

Banyon shook his head.

"Well, first of all, the head was clean, like someone washed it off before wrapping it up. Weird, huh? I mean, why wash it if you're just going to dispose of it?" He gestured at Marshall. "He saw your house, how neat it is. I mean, that doesn't prove a damn thing. But he's a brainy type. Studied psychology in school. He thinks it might be some sort of OCD, where you just have to clean things. I don't buy it. Just because a man keeps a spotless house, it doesn't mean he's responsible for a spotless head in a suitcase.

"Second - and this is important - the head's cold. Like, arctic cold. Freezer cold. You own a freezer? Sure you do. I could see it through the window in the garage door. Big freezer, too. The detective here thinks it might be big enough to fit a body - or pieces of a body."

Banyon sat down on the couch and cradled his head in his hands. "It was my cousin. He's a- he was a pretty bad guy. He went to prison for beating up a guy. No reason, he just likes beating people up. He just got paroled and needed a place to stay. Things got bad pretty fast. I knew he wouldn't leave."

"So you killed him."

He nodded. "I told his parole officer he skipped town. He's done it before."

"Sure."

"I just didn't know what else to do."

Jack grimaced as he reached into his pocket for another antacid. As he was fumbling with the bottle, the pain increased dramatically. The squeezing pressure blossomed through his chest, and he was struck by the sudden realization that he was having a heart attack. He was reaching for his cell phone when everything went into slow motion.

His body slumped across his desk and he was beginning to lapse into unconsciousness when he became aware of a well-dressed man in a pinstriped suit standing next to him. He gestured frantically toward the phone, but the stranger simply stood there holding a suitcase.

"What in the world is the matter with you," Jack yelled as he jumped up and shoved at the stranger. He watched with horror as his hands passed right through the stranger's body. At about the same time, he became aware of the fact that it was rather unlikely that a person who was in the middle of having a heart attack would be able to act with quite that much haste. And, where did the stranger come from anyway?

Jack spun around and saw himself lying still slumped across the desk. "What?" he whispered as he stared at his body in horror.

The stranger glanced at his Rolex. "You had a massive heart attack and died 32 seconds ago. I've frozen time so that we can take care of your soul. Your secretary will find your body six minutes after I restart it."

"Died?" Jack asked numbly.

"You haven't exactly taken care of yourself, you know." The stranger reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of papers. "You could have visited the gym once in a while. Here you go." He held the papers out toward Jack.

"Who are you, and what are these?"

"I'm Death, and that's your ticket."

"Death? You mean like the Grim Reaper? Aren't you supposed to be wearing a black hood and carrying a big sickle?"

Death sighed. "I'm assuming you're an atheist?"

"Agnostic," Jack replied a bit smugly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just because you don't believe in life after death, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. We try to be tolerant of individual beliefs, so you get what you expect. The problem is when we get people, like you, who don't have any expectations."

Jack looked puzzled

"Look, if you were a Christian, you'd be talking to Saint Peter right now. If you were Hindu, you'd be traveling through a dark tunnel to see Yama and get reincarnated. Or, we could be rowing down the river Styx. Or finding 700 virgins. It's all the same to me. I just find the dying souls and send them on their way to their next destination. "

He handed Jack the suitcase. "Here, take this too."

Jack stared blankly at the suitcase.

Death continued, "The best we can do in cases like yours is to make the transition as close to the reality of your life as possible. Head downstairs now and there will be a cab waiting for you by the front door. Don't dawdle." Death shook his finger at him in warning and tapped his expensive watch.

Jack startled as Death disappeared. He stood frozen in place until he heard his secretary tap on his door. "Mr. Dobson?" she called tentatively. "Mr. Dobson, your 10:00 appointment is here."

Jack thought about how the scene would play out and decided that some things were just better off left to the imagination. He hurried out the door before seeing his secretary's reaction to his untimely demise.

As soon as he exited the building, he immediately saw the cab waiting for him. He could tell it was the right cab because Death was driving. "What are you doing here?"

"Who did you expect?"

Jack had no answer so he simply climbed in and asked, "Where are we going?"

"The airport. Didn't you even look at your tickets?"

Jack pulled the envelope out of his pocket and squinted. "Flight 347 "

Death pulled into the crowded street and began weaving in and out of traffic.

"Hey," Jack said, "Could you take it easy. Do you want to get us both kill..." His voice dropped off and he tried again. "What's the big hurry, and it doesn't even say where 347 goes."

"I'm hurrying so you don't miss your flight, and you'll find out where you are going soon enough."

Eventually they reached the airport and Jack went in. This airport looked exactly like every other airport he'd been in and he was able to quickly find the long line of travelers that were slowly making their way through the security checkpoint. He took off his shoes and joined the line.

He couldn't help noticing that the traveller in line in front of him was also holding a ticket for flight 347, so he tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, I see you're on the same flight as me. Do you happen to know where we are going?"

The man turned and looked at him. "First flight?"

"I've flown before, but this is my first time since..." his voice trailed off.

""Sure, sure, it's OK. We've all been there before. No problem at all." The stranger was certainly effusive. "Flight 347 will take you to the next airport. "

"And there?"

"Well, that depends. Do you have your suitcase?"

Jack lifted it up slightly. "Yeah," he said, "I did wonder what was in here." He set it down and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. "Do I need a key, or something?"

"Nah. No one knows what's in the suitcase. I suppose it doesn't even matter."

"Next," called the bored security clerk.

The stranger hefted his suitcase onto the conveyor belt and stepped forward. He continued talking as he was wanded. "Just wait, and you'll see."

Jack got through security without any trouble and followed the signs to the boarding area. There, he found another long line. Here, a baggage handler was checking each bag's size, shape and weight and was also giving the passanger's transfer tickets to use at their next destination.

Once Jack reached the front, the clerk took his suitcase and dropped it into the luggage measuring device. He glanced at the readout in front of him and then intoned, "You have been weighed on the scales and been found wanting."

He then handed Jack his suitcase, took his existing ticket and handed him an envelope with a new ticket. "Enjoy your flight," he said as he ushered Jack through the jetway

"Ma'am, can I help you with that?" The battered gray suitcase was nearly as big as the elderly lady dragging it along the sidewalk in front of the Center. As a summer intern, it was my job to help the residents and the staff in any way I could, and carrying a suitcase seemed to meet the criteria.

She started, as if my words had awakened her from some reverie. Recovering quickly, she released the handle, smoothed her dress, and pointed to the pickup area next to the Center's broad circle drive. "Yes, you can, young man. Just bring it over to that bench. My husband will be here soon. I imagine today he'll be taking me home. I'm only here temporarily, you know."

"Of course, ma'am." I hefted the case, surprised by its weight, and stumbled behind her to the seat she had indicated. "Anything else I can help you with?"

She pointed to the spot next to her. "Can you sit with me for a bit? Just until Hank turns up." While technically not part of my job description, I needed to catch my breath anyway.

She looked me up and down, as if taking my measure and then finally nodded. "You're new here aren't you? What is your name?"

"Yes ma'am, I'm only here for the summer. My name is Jeremy."

"Pleased to meet you, Jeremy. You may call me Mrs. James. Thank you for your help with the suitcase. I know it's dreadfully heavy, but I wouldn't want to waste time packing if my husband should decide that today is the day. Speaking of which, there he is now."

She waved and I followed her gaze to a pristine 1954 Cadillac Coupe de Ville. It parked and an older gentleman stepped out of the car and embraced Mrs. James. She seemed to have forgotten me completely as the two of them walked away, arm-in-arm, into the park area next to the Center.

It became something of a ritual after that. Every Sunday afternoon I would carry her suitcase to the bench and sit with her until Mr. James showed up. And every Sunday evening, I would lug it back to her room. She never spoke about why he left her at the Center, but it didn't seem to upset her much. She and her monstrous suitcase were ready every Sunday, just in case that was the day he would finally take her home.

I was in the kitchen, washing dishes one Saturday morning when I saw the old Cadillac pull into the drive. Confused, I pulled my phone from my pocket to verify the day of the week. All summer long Mr. James had come to visit each and every Sunday, but never any other day. Something strange was going on.

As I watched, Mrs. James glided into view. After the usual welcoming hug, she looked up into his face as if surprised at some comment, then her face lit up with a smile. She nearly danced to the passenger side of the car and slipped into the seat as soon as he opened the door for her.

When I realized what was happening, I dropped my dish towel and ran to the front of the building. "Mrs. James! You forgot your suitcase." I ran after the car, but it was too late. As the Caddie accelerated away, I gave up the chase.

Shuffling back into the building, I tried to decide if I was happy for her, or upset that she had left her ponderous luggage behind. Mrs. Platte, one of the staff nurses met me at the door. "Jeremy, what was that all about?"

"Mrs. James left without her suitcase. Every Sunday I carry that thing out to the drive for her, and every Sunday I carry it back after her husband leaves. Today, he finally takes her with him, and she leaves the stupid suitcase."

She looked at me with a mix of confusion and concern. "Mrs. James? You say she met her husband out here today?"

"Yeah. Only it's weird because it's not his usual day to visit."

If anything, my clarification only confounded her more. "So you've seen him here before? Jeremy, do you know why Mrs. James was with us?"

"I don't. She seemed to be in pretty good health. I never could figure out why her husband left her here instead of taking her home with him."

Mrs. Platte led me to the nearest bench. "Jeremy, Mr. James died eight years ago. Mrs. James had a bit of a breakdown after that. She was a nice lady, but the Doctors didn't think she would be able to live alone. "

"What do you mean? I saw him with her every Sunday. They'd spend the afternoon together in the park before he left. And she definitely wasn't crazy. I think you have her mixed up with another patient."

She just shook her head. "No. I knew Mrs. James. She was a sweet lady, but confused. At least we all thought she was."

"Why do you keep talking about her in past tense?" I demanded.

"Jeremy, I'm sorry, but Mrs. James passed away this morning."

I had to place the bet early before the news got out and ruined the odds. Russian Princess. Six to one. A reliable horse. She was always the second favourite and she always came through just as predicted. A career bridesmaid. Today was different though. I had the inside scoop from my friend who photographed the races on the weekends. He'd gotten to know some of the racers including Jack Bishop, who was on the card to ride Lotsa Whiskey, the evens favourite.

'Jack Bishop says Lotsa Whiskey isn't racing', my friend had told me. 'She's been kicking off in the stables, hallucinating. Jack says he's putting a bet down on Russian Princess before the word gets out, says she's the best horse by a mile now.'

I put the phone down and ran out of my front door and down the sixteen metal stairs that led down to the wide, concrete alleyway. When I got to the end of the alley I turned left onto the promenade, being careful to walk the final stretch in case the bookie wondered why I was running to place a bet on a race that wasn't for four hours.

I found the race on the board and checked that Lotsa Whiskey was still on the card, then I went ahead and put sixty pounds on Russian Princess, leaving me fifteen in my wallet to drink on if things didn't go to plan. The bookie grinned when he took the money, his big yellow teeth emerging behind cracked, tobacco stained lips. It was the biggest bet I'd made. He handed me the slip and I checked it over as I walked out of the shop.

It was just after one and the beaming sun had ripped the day wide open. The streets were active and the pavement looked hot. The kids were out of school and were playing on the scattered patches of grass around the estate and even the adults looked slightly less broken than usual, some even smiling, albeit with that usual look of haunted desperation in their eyes.

I decided since it was such a nice day I’d pick up a couple of bottles of wine and sit on the promenade bench drinking in the sun and people watching while I waited to find out if I was rich. I was about half way through the first bottle when a bus pulled up at the bus stop in front of me and she stepped, stiletto first, into my life.

The bus pulled away as she stood there with her back to it, a small suitcase on wheels resting by her feet. She had short dark hair, a natural pout and big round eyes, with a nice little bum resting at the top of her tights. She had on a short black skirt and a green v-neck top that showed a lot of cleavage. She put a cigarette between her lips and began searching through the small leather handbag she had under her arm.

While she rifled through her bag I pulled out a cigarette of my own and lit it up. The sound of the lighter made her head turn towards me and, after lighting up, I held the lighter out towards her. She walked a few steps, pulling her suitcase behind her, wiggling her bum and clopping her heels on the pavement, and sat next to me on the bench. I lit her up and asked her name.

'Sonja', she told me. She had a Russian accent. She didn't ask my name.

'Where are you headed, Sonja?', I asked. She stayed quiet and looked around, legs crossed, breathing cigarette smoke out through those perfect lips. A few moments passed and I held out my bottle of wine in front of her. To my surprise she took it, took a hit and handed it back. We passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, not saying anything, her just sitting there looking sexy and Russian and me wondering if she was a good omen or a bad one. I took the second bottle of wine out of my bag and went to open it, then stopped.

'I might drink this one at home,' I said. She turned to face me.

'Where is home?'

'Just over there.' I pointed towards the other end of the promenade.

'Let's go.' She stood up and grabbed the suitcase handle.

We walked to my place, her pulling the suitcase along behind her, and then when we got there I carried it up the sixteen metal stairs and into the flat.

I got two glasses from the corner of the room that served as a kitchen and poured the wine on the wooden counter that cordoned it off from the rest of the room. She was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking around the room and probably thinking about how filthy it looked. I handed her a glass and sat next to her on the sofa. I didn't try to get her talking again. It was clear that she was happier not talking and that suited me just fine. There was too much talking in the world already without us adding to it.

We sat for a while and drank and somehow we started kissing. Those perfect lips felt like silk cushions and feeling them against mine made me feel strong, like the bet and the rent and the leaking toilet and the dirty apartment didn't mean a thing. We went to bed as the sunlight fell upon the dust floating in the air around us like tiny worlds in orbit.

Afterwards, I smoked a cigarette and she walked across the room naked to her suitcase and started unpacking her things. I didn't mind. I didn't have much and most of my drawers were empty so every time she opened a drawer it was like it had been waiting patiently for her all this time, just sitting and waiting to be filled. Besides, the place looked better with some more things in it and a naked Russian woman walking around. I wondered if she was a princess.

'Are you a princess?', I asked her. She didn't answer and I decided I would take that as a yes.

We spent the afternoon laying in my bed and watching the seagulls occasionally bunch together in the sky before dispersing again. When Sonja fell asleep I looked at the clock and thought about the bet. The race would be over by now. The results would be in and my bet slip would be worth either a months survival or a hard kick in the stomach. I thought about leaving Sonja in bed and walking down to the bookies but the risk of having my day ruined by a horse somehow just didn't seem worth it. I had thousands of bad days left, today was one of the good ones, and they don't come along quite so often. I decided I'd find out if I was rich the next day, or maybe the day after. I looked out of the window and watched the seagulls dispersing again.

Kathy stared at the ceiling above her and concentrated on the steady beeping coming from the machine placed next her. When she first came here weeks, maybe months ago, she hated that machine more than anything. Each short beep delivered the reality of what she was and announced it clearly to everyone who came to visit, or even walked past her small room. She was nothing more than another patient who has come here to slowly waste into death, like the hundreds that came and went before her in this same room. Now, she appreciated the beep. The medicines that the doctors set up to drip constantly into her raced through her veins and numbed every feeling of life she had left. The machine told her what she could no longer feel; her heart was still beating. She wasn't angry anymore, she instead replaced the anger with letting herself replay her life memories. The medicine helped her memories become vivid, and she watched them from a third point of view, as if she were watching videos. A strange ability that kept her distant from the present reality.

She revisited a lot of memories, good and bad, but mostly she was taken back to her childhood. The days of Lila, as she called it. A medium sized brindled Boxer Dog that had been her very first, and only true, best friend. The first ten years of her life, she was never seen anywhere without Lila. Side by side they went through everything together. Lila slept with Kathy every night, and woke her every morning by licking her face and ears. Even after Lila, Kathy remembers being woke up many times by the feeling of a slobbery dog tongue licking her face. Every time it happened, Kathy sat straight up looking for Lila; only she was never there. Kathy had a few dogs after Lila, but quickly learned that the bond they had shared was unique, and could never be replaced.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift into a memory. In an instant, she was looking at her ten year old self in the back seat of her mom's large car.

Kathy stared into her lap at a dirty worn green nylon collar. She traced her finger tenderly over the inscribed “Lila” on the cold silver tag that dangled from the collar. At ten years old, Kathy didn't understand much about life and certainly didn't understand death. She felt angry and empty like a black hole was eating away at her insides. She felt robbed and didn't agree with, or understand, her mother's actions of taking Lila in to the vet, only to leave without her.

“Kathleen, I know you don't understand this now, but one day you will. Lila was in a lot of pain, and this was the right thing to do”.

Kathy looked up and caught the reflection of her mother's eyes looking worriedly at her through the rear view mirror. Kathy said nothing, and simply glared back at her. Her mother sighed out loud and returned her gaze to the road ahead. The rest of the night went by in silence. Kathy skipped dinner and slowly walked up the stairs to her bedroom; Lila's collar still in hand. Hours later, Kathy's mother slowly pushed open her bedroom door and peered in at her delicate daughter that lay sleeping on her bed. Her hand dangled off the side of her bed, her tiny fingers still wrapped around the collar. She approached her and slowly took the collar from her hand and placed it on her night stand. As she turned to leave, she caught glimpse a tiny brown suitcase that lay at the foot of the bed where Lila used to sleep. Not wanting to disturb her heart broken daughter, she decided to investigate tomorrow. When she reached the door she heard a tiny voice break the silence.

“Mama? Will I ever see Lila again?”

She returned to Kathy's bed and snuggled in next to her, taking her daughter into her arms. “Kathleen, I have doubted a million things in my life; but I have no doubt that you and Lila will be together again. Your dad and I got you Lila when you were just a tiny baby. We adopted her from a rescue when she was two years old. The lady who ran the rescue said it was a bad idea. She said Lila had been abused, and she might be aggressive with a baby, she wasn't going to let us take her, but we convinced her. We knew she was the one. When we brought her home, she took to you so fast. We had never seen a bond between human and animal like we saw with you and Lila. And as you know, when we die, we go to our real home in Heaven. Very special animals like Lila get to go there too. When you go home, Lila will greet you, she won't be in pain anymore, and the two of you will never have to part ways again.”

Kathy sat up and reached to the foot of her bed grabbing the small suitcase. She clicked the two buttons on the front and it sprang open. Inside it revealed all of Lila's favorite things. Her blanket, tennis balls, squeaky toys and a colorful picture drawn in crayon of the two of them, that Kathy had made when she was five.

“I packed up all of her favorite things Mama, and when I go home, I will bring them to her”.

Kathy's mom didn't say a word, just kissed her on the forehead and left her room before the tears began to flow.

Kathy woke up to darkness. She could hear the steady beep and she knew she was back in reality. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness and reached over to her bedside table. She pulled the tiny silver dog tag into her hand and squeezed her fingers shut around it. She glanced into the closet across from her bed at the small suitcase she had insisted on bringing to the hospital with her.

“I'm ready to come home Lila.” she whispered into the darkness before slowly closing her eyes.

Kathy felt a cold wet tongue against her face. She slowly blinked her eyes open to stare at the familiar small brown suitcase lying next to her in the grass. She was confused, but only for a moment before all the answers to every question she'd ever had came rushing to her.

“I can feel my toes!” she yelled as she sprang up suddenly. The sight before her took her breath away. A young healthy brindle Boxer Dog crouched down on her front legs pushing her rump in the air, signaling that she's ready for play. Kathy stared at her in disbelief, tears of overwhelming joy streamed down her face.

Lila peered up at her.

“Welcome home Kathy, I've waited so long!”

“Me too Lila, me too.”

Kathy grabbed the suitcase, and together they bounded away, playing and laughing as if a day had never gone by that they weren't side by side.

With tender fingers, Mary tucked the little flap of canvas into place and eased the lid of her suitcase closed. A soft click indicated that the latch had caught. A thrill ran through her, bringing a little smile to her serious face. She stood for a moment in front of her bed, hands resting on the suitcase’s hard top, then composed herself and walked purposefully into the sitting room.

“I’m ready,” she announced calmly. Her mother, sitting stiffly on the day bed, didn’t respond right away. Dusty light from the window illuminated the older woman’s hair from behind, giving her an ethereal sort of beauty. Mary observed her mother thoughtfully, wondering if this were really the last time she would see her. It was a strange concept, and sad, but it wasn’t quite real in Mary’s mind. Looking toward the future, all she could see was a wide green landscape under a dazzling blue sky. She knew the image came from her imagination, inspired by the posters and pamphlets floating around town, but it was nothing less than real to her.

The older woman rose and moved to stand before her daughter. “Let us go tell your father, then,” she said, her voice shaking only slightly. “He can carry your bags out to the wagon.”

Minutes later, Mary’s father and new husband were lifting her few items into the back of the covered wagon. She felt as though her entire life had been packed into that contraption. Her thoughts fell upon the beautiful silk dress her mother and aunts had acquired for her wedding present. Its daring style made her feel like a daughter of society, the lemony silk seeming to radiate its own light as she twirled and posed. She would never have had an occasion to wear it here, but her new life and new wealth in the West would have high-class women flocking to her side.

“All aboard!” The sudden shout brought Mary back to the present, and she realized that the wagon had been fully packed and closed up tight. Hardly able to conceal her grin, she hurried to stand beside her husband. Jacob put his arm around her shoulders, his own wide smile bringing a boyish look to his features, and waved heartily at Mary’s parents. “You’re witnessing an historic moment,” he told them enthusiastically. “The beginning of our new lives!”

Cheeks were kissed, tears were blinked back, goodbyes were said ”“ and then she was sitting with Jacob at the front of the wagon, the reins held loosely in his lap while their two large oxen plodded forward. Mary’s stomach lurched, but her face relaxed into a large, goofy grin, and she couldn’t help letting out a laugh as they slowly eased their way out of town.

**

Four months of bumping and bouncing along deeply rutted tracks had sapped some of Mary’s enthusiasm. The hard wooden bench at the front of the wagon was such a painful seat that she often found it preferable to walk alongside. This position also had the advantage of being farther from Jacob, whose mood had deteriorated steadily throughout the trip and had lately settled somewhere between ”˜eternally gloomy’ and ”˜frightfully angry.’ Their food supplies, even after restocking not long ago, seemed pathetic to Mary. Not a fresh vegetable anywhere, everything as brown and gray as the desert landscape, and even after the wagons had stopped for the night, that infernal dust crept into every bite. Constant clouds of dust from the other travelers had left her clothes irreparably dirty ”“ no matter how she scrubbed, they emerged from the water dingy as ever. Mary had long ago given up despairing over the state of her clothes. She took comfort in the knowledge that her best dresses lay untouched in the little hard-sided suitcase, which hadn’t moved from its spot throughout the trip.

Some days earlier, Mary had started to notice a distinct upward tilt to the landscape. Their surroundings were still bland desert, but the distant mountains were nearly upon them now, their steep sides cloaked in green trees. Mary felt a little stirring of excitement in the pit of her stomach when she looked up at those dark peaks. She tried to ignore the patches of white that graced the tops and focused only on the dream of smelling trees, taking deep lungfuls of cool mountain air, and looking over her shoulder at the infernal desert they had left behind.

They camped that night at the top of a steep, rocky hill, pulling the wagon off the trail and unpacking the necessary items for a hot meal. Mary and Jacob worked in silence, she preparing the food while he tended to the one remaining ox, but she sensed a shift in his mood tonight as well. His movements were less stiff, his stern face a little softer, and he paused once in a while to look up in the direction of the mountain pass. Jacob, too, was recovering his visions of their bright future.

For the first time in days Jacob was talkative and alert during dinner. They found themselves making plans for their arrival, and stayed awake talking long after they had stretched out on the ground to sleep. When Mary finally drifted off, it was with a sense of warmth and calm.

The following day found Mary and Jacob cheerful and alert, looking around at the changing landscape as their lonely ox moved them interminably forward. Mary felt that they were moving more quickly than usual, and said so to her husband.

“It must be my imagination,” she added quickly. “These steep hills can’t be easy on poor Ronan.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Jacob replied, a playful smile on his lips. Mary pressed him for an explanation, but he shook his head and only grinned.

When the sun had begun its slow descent from high noon, Mary climbed into the back of the wagon to fix up a quick meal for the two of them. She reached out to touch her little suitcase, to take comfort from its solid presence, and felt a jolt of fear when it wasn’t in its place. Looking frantically around, she suddenly noticed that the whole wagon seemed roomier than usual. She stopped her search, horror filling her as she stared around. Jacob’s large trunk. Her small one. The crates of supplies her father had packed. Her dear little suitcase.

Gone.

A choking sound emerged from her, followed by a shriek as shock became fury. She threw herself at the front of the wagon, screaming at her husband through the dusty canvas, visions of yellow silk playing before her eyes. He made no effort to respond, but sat quietly on the box, the reins coiled in his lap, and smiled peacefully into the sun.

**

A few miles away, at the base of a steep, rocky hill, a coyote came across a curious object in the sagebrush. He sniffed at it tentatively, and his pink tongue touched it once, then twice. The scent was unfamiliar to him. Hunger overcoming his curiosity, he trotted away, disappearing quickly into the uniform landscape.

The dark scenery outside flashes by as I rock, swaying to the movement of the train. Across from me, my mother and Max lean against each other, sleeping soundly, oblivious to the world. I am supposed to be asleep as well, but my eyes refuse to grow heavy; I keep blinking myself awake, disturbed by the smallest things.

In my lap, I hold my box. My Box of Things. I’d spent the night sifting through it, taking note of the things I’ve kept this time, and the things I’ve left behind. The number decreases every time. I leave more, take less. It’s mostly because of Mom and her pestering:

"Do you really need that, sweetie?"

"You haven’t used that in ages!"

"Leave that, Connie. We won’t need it where we’re going."

Where we’re going, where we’re going. We never know where we’re going. One time Mom just packed up our clothes one night and told us, as we were getting up for school, that we were leaving. She told us then that her destination was New Jersey, but she kept right on driving until we’d reached California, where we settled for about six months in Napa Valley. Then she had to leave again; the reason again unexplained.

Under my mom’s spontaneous decisions, we’ve been to New York and Missouri and Maine, from Washington to South Dakota to Rhode Island. I learned French in New Orleans, how to make a tortilla in New Mexico, how to play the guitar in Tennessee. Each destination saw my Box getting lighter and lighter. I think I once had more boxes, but those were gone long ago, even before Mom sold our old Ford in Florida and we began getting around by Amtrak and Greyhound bus.

My mom never told us the reason why we moved around so much, but I think I know. When I was six, and Max barely one, our parents had a big fight, and Dad left. He never came back, and I don’t think Mom ever got over it, because after that was when we started to move.

I’ve learned to accept this gypsy lifestyle, but over time I think I’ve come to resent it. Whenever I begin making friends, settling in to a new community, I have to leave again, start over somewhere else. I always keep a souvenir from every place, but I find myself leaving most of the things I’ve acquired there, like I’m trying to forget, to prepare my mind for another 'fresh' start. It works, I guess, but I always make a note of where I’ve been. By my count, my mother has herded our little family to over half of the states in the union, twenty-seven cities in all, not including the small towns that we’ve briefly passed over the years.

Because of this restless travel, my childhood was a blur. I remember very little of it, and in parts, particularly between the second and third grades, nothing at all. Only one memory really stands out to me, and that was a couple of years ago, when I had scraped by fourth grade in Minnesota and we were living in the back of our old station wagon, with Mom coming back home more often with no money and no food.

One night, again with our stomachs empty and the car freezing to about twenty degrees, Mom snapped. She had stomped off in her worn slippers and light windbreaker into the tearing Minnesota cold, leaving Max and me in the car wrapped in most of the clothing that we owned. As the night waxed and waned, we shivered next to each other, two helpless children without a hand to hold on to, waiting for a mother that might not return.

But she did return. Just after the sun had risen, she had appeared, cheeks flushed, eyes and lips smeared in thick makeup that she did not have on when she left. Beneath her windbreaker she had on a garish outfit that I thought would have not been out of place in a flamenco festival.

“Where were you, Mom?” I’d asked, alert from insomnia, but still ignorant as a ten-year-old could be. “Where’d you get the pretty clothes?”

“I went to a…party, sweetie.” I hadn’t realized it then, but there was pain in her eyes.

“You went to a party?” I’d felt jealous then. Why had Mom gone to a party without me? “Did you dance?”

“…Yes, sweetie, I danced.” Then I’d felt even more jealous. I loved dancing. I couldn’t believe Mom wouldn’t take me to a dancing party.

As if she’d read my mind, my mother hastily added, “It was no fun, honey. There were big grown-up men all over the place. Nobody you could dance with.”

Briefly pacified, I’d backed down slightly and asked, “Did you like it?

My mother was uncomfortable. If my childish mind could have grasped it, I would have changed the subject, or maybe just ended the conversation by waking Max.

“It…doesn’t really matter, hon,” she’d answered in a strained tone. Tight-lipped, my mother had buckled me into the shotgun seat, made sure Max was comfortably sprawled in the back, and driven off to a local diner where we had the best meal we’d eaten in a month. I had barely noticed it then, having been distracted by the food, but my mother had paid, not in her usual paycheck method, but in actual bills, green and grubby and rolled into fat wads.

I didn’t question where the money came from then, but as I got older, I realized what my mother had done to save us from starvation on that cold, dark night. I saw the things she must have given up, to bring us this far, to keep us alive.

At this moment, I begin to acknowledge the pain she must be enduring, being a homeless single mother of two. It was hard enough living life on the road, but having to bring up two kids as well was really something to deal with. I suddenly begin appreciating the little things she did for us: the hugs, the kisses, the way she called us her ”˜beautiful babies’. I cannot resent her. She is my mother, and she is doing the best she can.

There is light in the horizon now. I look at my watch, and see that it is nearly six-thirty in the morning. By my reckoning, I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours. As the light catches on the cherubic face of Max, and then the tired face of our mother, I find myself smiling.

My mother’s eyes open. She looks at me, and her face breaks into a grin.

“What’re you looking at, you little night owl?”

Her face no longer looks tired. She is radiant.

“Nothing.” I smile wider.

“I love you, that’s all.”

For the first time in what may as well have been a lifetime, an eternity, he smiled. He breathed. He surveyed the land, the sand. In that moment he had the whole world in his hands.

The desert stretches on forever; the sun shines with neither malice nor compassion. Time creates, decays, destroys without prejudice. The horizon is a whole other world away. Memories, like dreams, can be packaged, boxed, locked away in a suitcase, and for a moment you are free. Free to chose, to be amused, to follow the future, to win, to lose.

And for that day he was King. The monuments of ancient times became his realm, his playground. Like the rulers of old, he could enter the temples and pray to vanquished Gods in whom he didn’t believe. The whispers of lives once lived became his loyal subjects, and so too the beggars, the tour-guides, the trinket sellers, whether they were making ends meet, or making a mint. Amid the sacred stones, he walked alone and the arid landscape warmed his tired bones. Today he belonged; today he was king.

Alone. The bellboy tipped, with decadence dripping from the hotel decor, he cast his glance around his penthouse suite. The luggage standing just inside the door, for a fleeting moment, caught his eye; and that fugitive eye chased around the room. The window. His eye settled with relief on the view; a panorama crafted by nature, wrought by man, a vista that could for a fleeting moment have launched his thousand ships. Bewitched, he brought the brandy glass to his lips.

No city ever sleeps. The bars are always open, for those who want to hide, who hitched a ride and those who follow the tide of silent mourners to the setting of another day; endless streams of people, faceless, nameless; a constant spiral, always downward, always outwards.

In a painful sobriety he stepped into this underlife. The neon night his wishful ticket to a hopeful oblivion. A dance, a drink, a roll of the dice, and another prayer to those gods in whom he didn’t believe. A drink, a double, or two, or more. His sails unfurled, his ship sped close to the wind, from the pub to a club, bistro to casino, to establishments where blood red the neons shine, where even the soul is currency.

And morning comes, his head throbbing to the beat of an unheard drum. The light flooding the room through the window on a world of wonder now unseen, through curtains never drawn, wounding his half-open eyes like daggers. Shame. With each breath and throb of pain, there is no one else to blame. Regret for last night, for a whole life, weighing heavy on his heart.

He looked from beneath the crisp white linen, drawing to an aching focus on the bellboy’s delivery still standing just inside the door.

The case. It stood. Alone. Untouched. Filled with the memories of a life, of a love, of a thousand dreams never to be lived, but his box, unlike Pandora’s, no longer weighed down with the burden of hope.

The case. Opened. Released. Flooding from its opened jaws, a tide, a deluge, an inundation of tears, of fears from all the years. The crumpled shirts, some odds, some ends, the socks, the scarf spread now across the floor. If he could just bundle them back together, pack them, lose them, burn them even, then maybe he could start again.

Three times the bell tolled.

King for a day. They found him peaceful as he lay. The suitcase open, empty. His whole world washed away.

Calliope music.

It just goes on and on forever, and I can’t get it out of my head.

I used to be a truck driver, and I was finishing a long drive into Alabama. It was holiday season, and my suitcase was stuffed with gifts for my wife and daughter. I was musing about how wonderful it would be to be back with them the next day, to finally be home, when I began to realize that I had become road weary and very tired, so I decided to call it a day. I’m not sure exactly where I was, but the sun was getting low in the sky and I just needed to do something besides drive, so when I saw the little traveling carnival, I thought it might not be a bad idea. I took a long look at that suitcase, idled the rig, locked the door, and began the walk towards the carnival.

It was your normal everyday run-of-the-mill traveling carnival, with all the trappings. There was no fee to get in either, a bit odd, but very welcome. Just inside, a magician was entertaining a group of children. Clowns were handing out balloon animals. A stilt walker passed me by. My reverie was interrupted by the loud sirens of an ambulance. I followed the sounds, hoping to see what the excitement was, but they went silent somewhere between "Guess Your Weight" and the "Ring Toss". So I wandered in that general direction.

I finally stopped at the "Fright-Mania" ride which was located at the very end of the boulevard. It was basically a fun-house. If you looked around the edges, you could see that it was really a semi-trailer not very different from my own, and destroyed the illusion a bit. The carnie was staring at me.

"Two tickets to ride Fright-Mania." he said.

"No thank you, I’m just resting." I began to notice that I seemed to be the only person at this end of the carnival. "Slow night?" I asked sheepishly.

"Two tickets to ride Fright-Mania." he repeated. He was dressed like any other carnie, but he made me nervous for some reason, in fact he frightened me a little. He had a glass eye for one thing, and that pseudo-homeless look that all carnies seem to share. He had dirty fingernails and minimal teeth. He wasn’t just looking at me, he was looking INTO me.

"I said NO." I told him again, more firmly, and walked away in search of the comfort of the crowds.

"You’ll be back!" he laughed after me.

Something about that one-eyed carnie unnerved me, and I ran, shaken for a good thirty seconds before I saw other people. But things only got worse. The people were all pale. Some of them had torn clothing and messed up hair. A little girl was eating at the thin paper cone that is left over from cotton candy, yet there was no cotton candy left, and she was chewing at nothing. One old man was wandering aimlessly, apparently blind, with his arms outstretched before him. A mentally retarded child was staring at me, smiling with crooked gaping teeth. The patrons took on a pale-zombie-like appearance, while the vendors and carnies began to take on a demonic appearance. Was I losing my mind? Maybe it was because I was so tired, but this was way too weird. IT WAS TIME TO LEAVE. I ran frantically looking for the entrance and could not find it, and I wound up back at "Fright-Mania."

"Two tickets to ride Fright-Mania." A young frightened looking woman got onto the ride just in front of me. It was a green car with the face of an evil clown. She never gave the carnie a ticket.

"What is going on here?"

"Two tickets to ride Fright-Mania."

"I’m not riding your ride, ok buddy?"

"Perhaps then, you will be a carnie just like me, someday yourself?" What a bizarre thing for him to say.

"No, you madman, just tell me where the exit is!"

The evil clown car returned, quite empty. The carnie saw that I noticed, and grinned at me.

"There is no exit." he said abruptly.

"What the devil do you mean?"

"There is no exit, you can never leave. Look through the fence behind Fright-Mania, and you will understand."

I had butterflies in my stomach. Slowly, I shuffled past the carnie, and went behind the semi-trailer, and looked through the chain-link fence. Twenty yards away was my semi, horribly mangled and burning. It’s cargo and cabin contents were all over the highway...and I could see that suitcase too, it's cheerfully wrapped presents were now only garbage. The ambulances that I had heard earlier were there, but they had turned their sirens off, as there was no need for them. I watched for a half hour as the paramedics cut the rig apart and finally retrieved my lifeless body. I had fallen asleep at the wheel.

I returned to the carnie.

He smiled again and waved me to the ticket bench. He seemed less foreboding now, and I extended my right hand towards him. He gave me the two tickets and got into one of the Fright-Mania carts, a savage gorilla.

"All you have to do is say..." he began.

"...two tickets to ride Fright-Mania." I finished, "I know."

The one-eyed carnie waved at me.

"Where are you going?" I asked him.

"I am finally going home. You are in charge of Fright-Mania now." he waved at me one last time, and with the clank of the drive chain, finally sped away into the darkness.

I still hear the calliope music, and wish I could finally go home.