The door to my office slammed open and Mr. Naismith blew in like a freak summer thunderstorm. "Keene! I told you I needed that update today. Where is it?"

"I'm working on it, sir. I should have it done in a hour or so." I chanced a surreptitious glance at my watch and blew my clandestine maneuver with a double take. I couldn't believe it was after six. I still had a mountain of paperwork to finish. Naismith's irritation made sense now. He was usually the first one out the door at five. Staying this late was cutting into his golf time; he'd probably only have time for nine holes tonight.

"Sorry, sir. I've been working on the GenCorp job, and I guess I lost track of time. I'll get the update done right away."

He didn't even deign to reply. With a sneer and a shake of his head he backed out of my office.

I got up to close the door and doubled over as agony erupted from my stomach and washed over me in waves of nausea. When the last ripples finally subsided I sat down and popped two Tums tablets from the bottle on my desk. "Too much coffee," I told myself.

A little voice in my head added, "and too much pizza, and doughnuts, and—"

"Shut it," I told the little voice. I opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled a little silver flask, a souvenir from my college days many years ago. The engraved wildcat seemed to snarl at me as I unscrewed the lid and let a slug of Jim Beam's finest wash the chalky taste from my mouth. At least I hadn't actually thrown up that time.

The truce with my stomach held for the next few hours. I popped a few more antacids and washed them down with a few more sips from the flask. By eleven-thirty I still wasn't done, but I wasn't going to accomplish anything else worthwhile, so I shut off my computer and headed for the door.

I lit up a smoke to clear my head as I walked through the parking lot to my car, the only one still there. I grumbled about Naismith and his incompetence the entire trip home. He was ten years younger than I was, and about forty points of IQ below me as well. But he had the look, and that was all the executives seemed to notice.

The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway. Jeannie used to wait up, but after a month of never knowing what time I'd be home, she gave up. I didn't blame her; no point in us both suffering. When I got to the door, my stomach resumed the battle with a vicious sneak attack and I threw up all over the flowers Jeannie had planted next to the sidewalk. I popped another antacid tablet to dull the pain and to cover the coppery taste in my mouth. Then I turned the key and went in.

I managed to undress in the dark and quietly slid into bed. Pride in my stealth was dashed by a voice from the far side. "You're working too hard."

"I know. But in a couple of weeks I'll be caught up. Things will get back to normal."

"That's what you said two weeks ago, Jim. The stress, the long hours: it's not good for you. Maybe you should reconsider that teaching job."

I sighed. Teaching sounded great, until you looked at the paycheck. "We've talked about this. There's no way we handle the cut in pay. Claire's tuition alone would bankrupt us."

She rubbed my arm. "We would find a way, Jim. Claire is worried, too."

I turned off the conversation as I had done several times before. 'I'll think about it, Jeannie. I'm tired, though. Good night, dear. I love you."

The alarm five hours later pulsed in time with the throbbing in my head. As I seemed to every morning, I considered calling in sick. But nobody else was going to do my work and there would just be that much more to do the next day.

I trudged toward the bathroom and fell to my knees as molten lead poured into my stomach. Somehow, I managed not to cry out. I lay quietly curled in a fetal position on the floor until the attack passed and my vision returned. I then hurried to the shower to wash away the sheen of sweat.

An hour later, after a large coffee to wake me up, a couple of Rolaids to cover the burning in my gut, and three cigarettes to calm my nerves, I was ready to face the daily grind and my own personal grinder.

"Keene, nice of you to show up today. Is the GenCorp design ready for review yet?"

I somehow managed to smile at him. "I'm putting the finishing touches..." My stomach went from a muted ache to a crescendo of agony nearly instantly. Naismith had actually taken a step toward me and was therefore directly in the path of the implausibly colossal volume of coffee, donuts, and blood that erupted from my beleaguered belly. Sadly, I was not conscious long enough to see his reaction.

When I awoke in the hospital, Jeannie was at my bedside, her forehead creased with worry and lines of mascara trailing down her cheeks. "Oh, Jim. I thought...nevermind what I thought." She squeezed my hand three times, our silent code for 'I love you' and started to cry again. "The doctor said you lost a lot of blood. He said he'd heard of people dying from ulcers, but never seen one like yours. I never realized you could bleed to death on the inside. Thank God you're all right. I don't know what Claire and I would have done—"

She was interrupted by the ringing of the room telephone. She took a deep breath to regain her composure before she picked it up. "Hello?" Almost immediately, she held it out to me. "It's your boss."

"Naismith? Hard to believe he might be concerned about me. Probably wants to know when I'll have the GenCorp design finished."

I took the telephone from her. "Hello, this is Jim Keene."

The voice on the other end sounded distant. "Keene, glad you pulled through. You're fired." And he hung up.

Jeannie took the receiver from my hand and put it back on the base. "What did he want?"

For the first time in a long while I felt a sense of ease. "I think I'll take that teaching job after all."

I held the syringe before me, eyes focused on the pale yellow serum within. I tapped the side, hands shaking, watching the last of the bubbles within vanish up the needle. It was only with the greatest of effort I sat the syringe aside, and rose to my feet, knees trembling.

When I stood before the mirror, the figure looking back at me wasn't human; couldn't be. The eyes were too sunken in their sockets, too grey and expressionless. The teeth, or what was left of them, were crooked and so yellow as to be almost brown. The figure was bald, all of his hair long since fallen away, and the unnaturally pale skin stretched tight over deeply angled bones.

"You will live forever," the ancient hag told me decades ago. She gave me the formula for the serum, and even then, warned me it would be addictive. At the time, being addicted to immortal life didn't seem a problem. The first time I used it, it took months before it wore off, and I needed to dose myself again. By the end of that year, it was a monthly ritual. Eventually, I was injecting myself every week, and now, every morning, just after I awoke, the needle went into my arm.

I looked at the syringe, started to reach my hands toward it. They shook fiercely, decades of aging catching up at lightning speed, my body growing older by the minute. If I waited any longer, I might not be able to manage the injection at all. Arthritis flared through my joints as I moved, and it was only with the greatest of control I didn't scream out. My heart was racing, at the edge of a heart attack, and as I pressed my clenched fist to my chest, I actually begged for it to finally give out, to set me free from this eternity of torture.

I stared at the syringe, cursed the liquid within, cursed the witch who'd given me the secret. Some years ago, I searched for her. I don't know what I planned to do, perhaps kill her, or maybe beg her to kill me. I never found her. After months of searching, I gave up, knowing I never would see her again. Knowledge is a dangerous thing, and she'd given me the most dangerous knowledge I would ever possess.

I reached for the syringe, finally. As I closed my fingers around the cold plastic, my hand looked like that of some long-dead mummy reaching out, frighteningly close to far too many horror movies I'd watched over the years. I picked it up, the very effort bringing tears to my eyes, as every motion felt like bone rubbing against bone within my body. I could hear myself creek as I moved, and as I glanced myself in the mirror, I was a thing of horror, the living dead.

I did cry out when I finally plunged the needle through dry, rough skin. I felt the needle hit the bone, and was reduced to whimpering. It was almost over, I knew. I stopped, tried to keep myself from giving in, even briefly tried to pull that needle back out, to not take the serum, and to let myself finally die. I thought I was going to beat this addiction, when my heart failed. It was like a fire within me, starting in my chest, radiating outward. I couldn't take it, and pressed the plunger in, releasing the serum. I felt a warmth radiating from my arm where I'd made the injection, which soon overtook my entire body. My heart slowed, the fire was gone, and I collapsed in a heap upon the floor.

When I awoke an hour later, the needle was still hanging out of my arm. I arose, pulled it out, and stared in the mirror. I was still bald, as always, but looked like a young man prematurely loosing his hair rather than the ancient beast I truly was. The arthritis was mostly gone, but I still cringed with every motion. With a sigh, I sterilized the needle, and began tending to my plants, to make sure I had the proper dose for the next morning.

The lecture theatre was half empty. A draught blew down the central aisle and a collective shiver drew the under-grad-chic jackets and scarves tighter around the room.

Thomas lifted his head and let the voice from the lectern drift away with the autumn draught; a thousand coloured words dancing into the distance.

Stirred from slumber it longed to lick the wound where lodged the poisoned dart. It groaned low and deep from within the massive carcass of its soul.

She caught his eye and smiled. She couldn’t imagine what he must have been through, and if she was honest, she didn’t want to. They described him as ”˜brave’ behind their masks of sympathy and empathy. But what did she know? If she was honest, did she really want to know? To her, he looked just like everyone else - midterm weariness was taking its toll on everyone’s wind chilled faces.

Looking around, he almost felt like he wasn’t there, as though the whole world was happening to someone else. He returned her gesture. With that trace of a smile, memory fluttered its persistent delicate wings. A memory of a memory, deferred, yet somehow fresh, when he would laugh and dance in life’s garden and touch the flowers which, now frozen, at a single breath might shatter into a myriad iridescent shards. He shivered, though he did not feel the cold through the shroud of his reverie.

Lost now, that promise made
Red, black, red, light and shade
Sharp edge. no words. shapes fade

Clenching his teeth and breathing slowly and deliberately, Charles shuffled in his seat, rubbed his face and retrieved the pens that had rolled along the desk. Vision blurring and suppressing a groan that could easily have been a scream, he tried again to focus on the words and echoes booming and banging between the professor and his lecture hall walls.

It felt the shaft, the spear of man, in its side and writhed, scales grating as fluid wept from the raw edges of its wound.

She shot him a glance. They were all tired, but the weeks were now just days before the start of the exams, which, she was convinced, were not going to sit themselves.

He felt her piercing look and tried to fashion his face into a shape that would perhaps convey remorse, or at least apology. The flush across his face probably said more though than the contrived grimace through clenched teeth. Moment at a time - if he could just breathe in time with the ticking of the clock. Midterms did not exist. Right now, nor even did the end of this lecture. If he could just breathe, count, moment at a time.

Dark, ashen, broken, bare
Red and gold the demon’s lair
… black nightmare

This time when she looked up, the hall was quiet. The clatter, chatter of students had now faded. The empty room was filled with the ghosts of what had been, what was and what for some was still to come.

Its groan now erupted into a roar. Lashing, thrashing, wings and tail, taut wire muscles screaming. And the wound heaved and sighed and throbbed.

Her thoughts rested upon those lost and loved; now just memories with jagged edges decorating a guilt torn present. Each day, each moment, each memory a stepping stone to build a tomorrow, which for a time she thought she’s never see, when the grasp at imagined oblivion was all that got her to the end of each day.

Silence. She slung her bags into her bag and manoeuvred her wheelchair out and down the central aisle, pulling her coat tighter as she too felt the chill of the autumn draught.

He was clutching a vomit basin when I met him. He was pale, shaking, and an oxygen cannula was clipped into his nose. He was huddled over this basin, gripping it for dear life. He was seated all the way up on the ambulance gurney, hunkered over, dry heaving. Sweat was rolling off of him.

"Do you have a bed for him?" the paramedic asked.
I looked at the nurses. No one budged. Were they not seeing the same picture here? Middle aged man, pale, cool and sweaty, miserable, his lower lip puffed out, eyebrows furrowed. He looked like he was trying not to pass out.

"Yes, here," I said. I rushed over and made the bed as fast as I could. As they loaded him onto our bed, his trembling hand gripped my arm.

I almost cried. I am not supposed to cry. I am not supposed to FEEL anything. I am supposed to move, and get going here to help him. Without missing a beat, I said,
"Of course. We are going to take very good care of you."

I overheard someone said he was here earlier, and discharged with gastritis and diabetes.
I couldn't help feeling like we failed him. We didn't of course. These things happen. People get worse. It’s part of the game.

"Get an IV stat and I will go order some pain medicine," I said to the nurse.
I glanced up at them, now hurrying to his side, trying to get an IV. His whole body was trembling now, and his sad sunken eyes met mine. They said, "Help."
The problem was, I couldn't meet his gaze. I could barely hold back the tears that were forming at my lids. This never happens. This hasn't happened since I got burned out back in the 90's while I was a hardcore street medic.

His round paunchy face was flanked by hair that defied him. A well trimmed pencil mustache snaked across his upper lip. Black tufts stood up around his ears and the bald patch on the top of his head was shiny under the fluorescent lights. His skin sagged a little off of his face, and his neck. It was at that point I realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He was in his pajama pants. And slippers. He tried to be proud.

They gave him the pain shot, and he finally stopped shaking. The color came back to his face, and for now he was okay.

I tried to look somewhere else, other than into his room. When my gaze inevitably went there anyway, I tried to lose myself in the plaid pattern of his pajama bottoms. I tried not to think about how not so long he had to live.

Sometimes they get in. Sometimes, certain patients get past our well crafted walls that protect us from getting hurt as caregivers.

If you run fast enough, hard enough, long enough, maybe, just maybe you can escape them. The images become burned into your mind forever and flash upon the movie screen of your mind when you defenses are down. Drinking doesn't help. Blinking doesn't help. Sometimes you just have to ride them out like waves.

I went home, and I laid there waiting for sleep to come. I started to fantasize about being a janitor, or some other 9-5 mindless job I used to pray I would never have to do one day. I worked hard in school; I had dreams. And, man, I was going places. I was not going to be one of THOSE PEOPLE, who droned on about their day, doing the same thing over and over and never had to engage a single ounce of thought. No one relied on those people, and that could not be me.

I am one of those other people now. I literally have life and death decisions to make every day. I often times don't have very much data to go on while making these decisions. I combine gut instinct, a physical exam, my teachings from school and my experience to decide what to do. I need to act fast, think on my feet while being interrupted mid thought for some other pressing matter. There are alarms, bells and people yelling, talking and retching in the hallway. It is a recipe for disaster. It is a pressure soup, and I am the meat that is cooking in the broth.

When I leave for the day, I am spent. Physically from bending over sewing a forehead with the tiniest sutures they make. My back aches from leaning over to look in many toddlers ears while they try to kick and fight. I am drained by the end of every day, from the endless questions I can't answer. I am sorry I don't have an answer why you can't lose weight, what you were allergic to that caused your rash and no I am not sure how long it will take your knee sprain to heal so you can play football again. I patch you up, put a band-aid on it, and you go home.

So do I at the end of the day. Go home.

But before I do, I walk by the janitor on my way out. She is the sweetest lady, always smiling. Her blue latex gloved hands gesture as she talks about this or that, never anything earth shattering. Her plans for her next day off which is not soon enough.
As I tell her my plans for the next day, she says, “Honey you have fun, I am so glad you have the next two days off, you need it, you deserve it.”
And she waves and smiles, and reaches over into the trash bin. Her cute ponytail bounces behind her punctuating her words.

I am envious of her. Her carefree way, and that no one asks her what to do. No one asks her when they will get better, and what medication to give right now. Not in 1 minute from now after you can give it some thought - now. I miss that life of weekends that are actually weekends, not spent thinking about the guy with the toenail you removed, or the kid with pneumonia hoping they are okay. It’s a curse really, to care this much. But if I just had a trash can to care about, a floor to wax, maybe I could actually sleep at night.

I roll over, hoping he will tell me something that will make it all better.
"I want to be a janitor, is that crazy?" I asked.
He sighs, and there is an awkward silence. "You wanna be a janitor?" he says in that groggy almost sleep voice.
"No, go to bed." I said.
But what I want him to say is "You do an important job and you are good at it. It will all be okay and you will be okay."

But instead there is quiet, and one more night of me staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that won’t come.

Miina sat at the table with both arms folded on top of it and her chin resting on them. She stared vacantly at the pistol lying on the table before her. Music was playing (very bad music) but she couldn’t hear it. All she could hear was the sound of panicked screams and staccato gun fire. A small boy was running before her and then was falling, his body kissing the ground.

*Miina, run!*

The lighting fixture above her flickered in its old age. Gun muzzles flickered like that.

*There was an orange flash and another body fell in a spurt of blood.*

*Run faster.*

A figure walked into the tavern, wearing a heavy cloak as a shield against the raging storm outside but Miina was blind to it. In her eyes, a woman was bursting out of the wreckage, hair dancing in the desert wind as she wielded a blaster in one hand and a pistol in the other, lips curled back in a manic grin. Uniformed men systematically pressed forward. The first wave of them collapsed under a barrage of invisible bullets and cackling bursts of energy.

*Remember this day, child! Survive and remember…*

Miina took a shuddering breath that brought her back to the here and now. An older man came up and sat down in front of her, baring two mugs, one of them steaming. He pushed the steaming one towards her.

“Y'should let me get ya something stronger,” he groaned as he sat.

“Don’t drink that, Xear,” she mumbled for the umpteenth time. “Not even today.”

“It dulls the pain,” he insisted.

“Well...I don't want to be dull,” she insisted right back.

He snorted a laugh. “Yer the only reason I keep that herbal stuff around anymore.” Xear motioned to her mug.

“Yeah well, you like me,” she mumbled into her mug as she took a swallow.

*I like you Miina, you’re smart. Tough…*

“Wanna tell me what’s banging around in that pot of yer’s?” Xear asked quietly. She stiffly shook her head. The older man shrugged.

“You’ll be needin to get that off yer chest some day.”

“And I’ll know who to come to now won’t I.” Miina smiled at him.

He winked then nodded at the pistol on the table. “You lose the blaster?”

“It… was stolen,” she admitted.

“Well, at least you have her pistol.”

A comfortable silence stretched out between the two old friends, the sort that you could sink into for hours. But that was Xear. The man wasn’t that old but his gray hair was thinning and he hadn’t cared about person appearance in years. He was the owner of this tavern and the kind of man you ended up owing your life to. At the very least, she owed him an explanation for her sullen mood.

“She was…” Miina had to stop and rearrange her thoughts but now she had Xears attention. “We had just found a pack of children in the ruined part of the city. None of them were pure bloods.”

*We need to help whoever we can Miina. You never know when you might need help yourself.*

“The Guard found us and decided that our group was… a nuisance to the population. They didn’t give us any warning, just started shooting.” Her voice was cold.

*Don’t look back! Just go!*

Miina closed her eyes, feeling the ache of sorrow. “Kate gave some of us a chance to run.”

“I knew her. She was a good woman,” Xear said softly.

She nodded dumbly.

“Miina, you come here on the same day every year, sit at my tables, and stare at my walls.”

“And?” she snapped. His eyes were smiling, a technique which she never quite understood.

“And…you’re always welcome here.” There seemed to be more he wanted to say but instead he just lifted his mug. “To Kate.”

“To Kate,” she mumbled. Xear pushed himself up with a comical groan.

“Thanks Xear,” she said as he walked past. He ruffled her hair then moved off to take care of other costumers. Miina watched him go with a sort of warmth seeping into her soul. And then her eyes caught a man walking to the bar, his long coat swishing back and forth on the floor. There was something off about this man. He looked around the room with fidgety eyes, catching her in a cold stare. She didn’t blink, holding his gaze with a quiet composure that was really only a carefully restrained composure. The man’s eyes narrowed.

“You part alien?” he asked. It was a fight begging to happen. She averted her gaze, saying nothing. The man put one hand on the back of her chair and the other on the table in front of her, leaning in so that his face was inches from hers. “What are you doing here half breed?” he hissed.

Miina kept her hands firmly planted on the table. She didn’t want to bring the Guard down on Xear.

“Look at me, freak,” the man ordered. “Let me see those pretty eyes - those alien eyes.” He drew out the word alien like it was obvious. People around the tavern were starting to glance their way. The music had stopped. Miina’s hands twitched.

“Get out.” Xears voice sliced across the room. The man craned his neck to look at the tavern owner.

“Shut up, freak lover. Only thing worse than an alien is a half breed. There ain’t nothing worse than a half breed.” The man’s voice was preachy. He turned back to Miina and snatched the gun that was on the table, leveling it at her head. Her eyes finally flicked up to fix him with a cold glare. Her jaw muscles were quivering.

“Hey!” Xear shouted. “I said, get out!” The man whipped the gun around and fired. Xear dropped. Miina snapped.

She sprang up from the chair, left hand clamping around the man’s throat, right hand firmly gripping the pistol. Her face was painted in a snarl. Air whisked noisily through her teeth. Miina squeezed. She could barely hear him gargling over the roar of blood in her ears. His face was turning blue…

“Miina!”

She turned her head sideways. Xear was leaning against the bar. His arm was bleeding. “Let him go Miina,” he commanded in a strong voice. “Let him go.”

*"You don’t always have to fight.” Kate sat on the ground and handed Miina the heavy blaster. “Most times, you can run. Sometimes it’s better that way.”*

“Miina…” Xears voice betrayed his pain. “Don’t you do it, girl.”

Miina realized she was shaking. She regarded the man in front of her. His lips were blue and he was terrified. She opened her hands, letting him fall to the ground.

Miina’s eyes rolled around the room. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

They were all staring at her. The Guard was probably on their way, even now.

It’s better to run, sometimes.

Miina’s feet carried her out the door, down the street, pounding pounding pounding.

She ran.

Pete hurt, he hurt like hell, but pain was good. Pain meant that he was alive.

He knew how lucky he was to be alive.

"Hey, you ready for your morning torture session?" Kathy the physio was always a shining light of cheerfulness.

"Sure thing sweetheart. I'm ready for your worst."

"Great, just let me get set up here. By the way, this is my student for the month. Wanda."

"Hi Wanda, nice to see you."

"Umm, sure."

Pete looked at her and shrugged, maybe she was shy.

"We'll start with you on your back." Kathy helped Pete get to to his back and took his right leg.

"Now Wanda," she said, "The idea is to force the leg to move. It doesn't want to, so that means a certain level of pain. You need to pay attention to your patient so you know when to stop."

She began to lift and rotate the leg. The joints creaked and popped muscle stretched that had been clenched tight. Pete began to sweat and he began his breathing.

"Shouldn't you stop?" Wanda said, "He looks like he is hurting."

"Yup," Pete gasped, "Hurting good."

"You will never accomplish any new range of movement without some discomfort." Kathy explained.

"Aaaaah," Pete moaned, "No, don't stop, don't, oooooh." Kathy put the leg back on the table.

"The extent of the burns meant that the muscle was involve. His leg muscles are pretty much in a permanent state of tension. When we move the leg the muscles are forced to relax, and that hurts just a little."

"You try the left leg," Kathy said, "Use the rotational movements you've been studying in school. Don't worry about hurting Pete. He'll tell you if you need to stop. Or I will if his macho instincts push him too far."

Wanda picked up the leg.

"Hah, that tickles." Pete said. "Grip it hard, like you mean it. That's better."

She started manipulating the leg and stopped almost immediately.

"I don't want to cause him pain," she said.

"You are causing me pain." Pete said, "You are helping me to heal. Pain is just a side affect."
She tried again. This time Pete got to wince before she backed off.

”³Too soon, Wanda,”³ Kathy set, ”³You need to get those muscles moving.”³
Wanda tried again.

”³Better,”³ Pete hissed, ”³Keep going, keep...”³

”³Not bad,”³ Kathy said, ”³Let”²s get him up on his feet.”³

Pete swung to a sitting position on the bed. Kathy took one arm and Wanda the other.

”³What happened to you anyway?”³ Wanda asked.

”³I don”²t like to talk about it.”³ Pete said.

”³So, you can deal with any kind of pain, but mental?”³ she asked.

”³I was on a rescue,”³ Pete said, ”³ A rooming house fire. Even with the new regulations, the rooming houses are death traps. There was this old man on the third floor. He would leave without his blasted cat. I finally tracked the cat down and picked it up. I went to take the cat and the old man out through the fire escape. When the floor gave way. I had one arm full of cat and the other trying to keep me from falling into the basement. When I fell the radio was knocked loose. I couldn”²t get out of the hole and I wouldn”²t let go of the cat. The screamer went off and the guys pulled me out.”³

”³What”²s a screamer?”³

”³If a fireman doesn”²t move for two minutes, then an alarm goes off.”³

”³You hung in a hole for two minutes? For a cat?”³

”³For an old man who loves his cat.”³ Pete said. ”³They come visit me on Sundays.”³

He heaved himself to his feet.

”³One foot,”³ he rasped, ”³Other foot,”³ he gritted. Slowly he made his way across the room.

”³What”²s your record?”³ asked Wanda.

”³Record?”³

”³How far have you walked.”³

”³I”²ve made it to the doorway and back.”³

”³Let”²s try for the nurse”²s station.”³

”³Why?”³

”³Why not?”³ said Wanda, ”³Besides there is a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter. I baked them this morning.”³

”³You could just bring me one.”³

”³Can”²t, I”²m holding on to your arm. You”²ll just have to walk.”³

They were half way to the door.

”³Are you a good cook?”³

”³The best, I got an A in home-ec.”³

”³If your into home-ec, why are you here training to be a physiotherapist?”³

”³My brother was in an accident, when he came home all he talked about was how cool his physio was.”³

”³Ah, those cookies do look good.”³

Pete took a deep breath and started out toward the nurse”²s station. Step by excruciating step he reached the counter.

”³Ah,”³ he said, biting into a cookie. ”³Heavenly.”³

A chair appeared beside him and he sank into it.

”³I did it.”³ he said. ”³How did you know?”³

”³I”²ve seen what my brother would do for my cookies.”³

”³Now I”²ve got to get back to the room.”³

”³Walk,”³

”³Walk?”³

”³Walk, and I bring cookies tomorrow.”³

”³Can you make peanut butter?”³

”³Sure thing.”³

”³Then what are we waiting for?”³ Pete said and pushed himself to his feet. ”³I think we”²ll keep this one.”³

”³I think she has potential.”³ Kathy said.

”³Potential? She can cook!”³

Pete hurt, he hurt like hell, but pain was good. Pain meant that he was alive.

It’s unexpectedly cold, on the temple.
Not too long ago I never thought I would do this, yet here I am. Then again, one could say that was me but not I. If one were inclined so. One could say I am a lot different from the I of back then, the I that referred to itself as I just like I do now though I am very different from that I and our only connection is me. The whole thing is hard to get around, I find, and in any event it hasn’t kept me from getting here. Looking for enlightenment in bitesize philosophy digests to read on the toilet might not be helpful after all.
Down below, a placid-looking sexagenarian gardener in worn crimson overalls walks up and down the grassy esplanade with a lawn mower, careful to not miss a patch. Everybody else sees a placid-looking sexagenarian gardener in worn crimson overalls walk up and down the grassy esplanade with a lawn mower, careful to not miss a patch. I, on the other hand, see the insufferable senselessness of life. He’s probably dying to retire anyhow. And when that happens, all that’s left for him to do is die. And when that happens, it will be halfway through something. Getting over his dog’s death. Settling in at the retirement home he was moved to so somebody outside his dusty television would talk to him for a change. Counting down with fatigued old eagerness to his next birthday and seeing the unpleasant granddaughter he, in tender denial, still loves. Something. There’s never closure. You just can’t win.
I’ve stood here like a clown far too long. At some point somebody will come and ruin it.
There’s still hope. Come to think about it, there really is. People stage spectacular comebacks and go on to write saccharine autobiographies moderately successful amidst mid-management types with promotion pretensions, the only demographic who possibly find inspiration in the struggles of somebody like me, and pay for it. I could do that. The first paragraph I see coming. “From primetime New York anchorman to sitting at three in the afternoon on a stained suede sofa in a state channel’s plateau across from a clueless little cretin whose promoter parents shamelessly parasite, showing the shell of an interest in ”˜the precocious country music star that’s taken fairs all over Oklahoma by storm!’ And back. This is my story.” I suppose the editor would polish that off, but it would certainly get the writing rolling.
I could start by getting a new girl, a dumb Southern beauty with deeply-rooted self-esteem issues her athlete boyfriend in college, bless him, planted for me to harvest. Makes them loyal. If only my ex wife’s first love had cheated on her, I wouldn’t have to refer to her as my ex wife. Regardless, good riddance. I could gull this gorgeous loser into being ambitious for me. In the worst-case scenario, I would end up being to somebody what uncle Raymond was to me. “Son, you know what one million dollars is?” He and his inflated inflections. If I were writing this, each of those words would be in steeper italics than the previous one. Biting into a cigar because rich men did it on films, when he was a teenager. “Well, I have twenty-three of those!” Repellent; rich. No need for anybody. I could even keep her around once I’ve bought back my Park apartment. Maybe Kimberly? There’s still hope.
My arm is tiring. Sturdy thing.
Besides, won’t doing it break mom?
Oh, look at me, making excuses. Hiding again. Godssake.

Bang.