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PLEASE NOTE: I'm publishing chapters 1-3 of my novel Shifter to crowdsource funding for the full novel. If you're interested in supporting my efforts, the link is at the end.

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Away from the click of cameras and the incessant question of reporters, President Zhiying and President Hoffman sit across from each other in ornate chairs custom-designed for high-ranking officials for special events like these. Behind the men is a translator. It's late morning on day two of the trade deal, and everyone's hopeful the two presidents may be able to agree on something by this afternoon. I certainly wouldn't complain: the early flight back would ensure I can see Patrick earlier than expected.

President Hoffman leans back and shifts positions, again assuring President Zhiying that he'll work on tariffs to benefit China's growing economy. He pauses, the translator relays the Mandarin, and President Zhiying nods thoughtfully, his body gradually relaxing throughout the course of the conversation.

President Zhiying makes a joke, smiling slightly to cue the expressive American that his intention is humor. Once translated, the humor is lost, but President Harris courteously picks up on the cue and laughs like it's the funniest joke he's ever heard.

My team, the Uniformed Division, is lined up on the wall along the President's side—the wall with two sets of doors which open into the main hallway. The Chinese agents are lined up against the opposing wall beside large bay windows which overlook the Embassy courtyard.

For months we'd been collaborating them and working closely with them up until our arrival, everything has been phone calls and emails. It wasn't until we arrived in Beijing that we met each other during a debrief, where I was, like all the Americans were, shaking off jet lag.

Each team is composed of six agents. In my team the current Special Agent in Charge is Captain Jacobson. He's forty-five, but with his blond hair and West Coast charm he could easily pass for thirty-five. The first time I worked with him was last year when we accompanied President Hoffman to a baseball game. When we got word of a terrorist threat during the game I soon found his surfer vibe was only a facade: he acted quickly to get the President out of harm's way. Although the threat amounted to nothing more than a rumor, it demonstrated Captain Jacobson's capacity for leading a team in a moment of crisis.

Among the reserved culture of the Chinese agents, his relaxed vibes seem to be rubbing some of them the wrong way. Even so, both sides are treating each other with respect, working together to protect each others' leaders to ensure a successful trade deal.

Also seated in the room are transcribers, note-takers, and members of both governments, watching with eager interest as the two men talk about tariffs, interest rates, taxation, and diplomacy.

My com crackles. “We have movement at the south-east corner,” I hear in my earpiece. “The Chinese are checking it out. I'll keep you posted.”

I make a mental note, but keep my eyes peeled for threats within the meeting room.

Both presidents had been talking for over an hour and a half at this point, but it seems to be going well, a lot better than what the caricatured media would have you believe: these men are not shouting at each other from across the pond; on the contrary, both are making a genuine effort in benefiting the others' national interests.

It's close to lunch time. I can hear my stomach growling, and I'm hoping the two men are feeling the pangs of hunger as well. But I know on a job like this I need to ignore my own needs for the good of the team, and the good of the Commander in Chief. Grumble all you want, stomach. I'm here for the President.

“Disregard,” a team-member says in the earpiece, referring to the potential threat. “Movement was friendly.”

The two men stand, one of the translators mentions the word “break.”

Although no one says it, I can tell both teams welcome the lunch period.

We join President Hoffman to accompany him as we leave the conference room. Six of us surround him on either side. I take the lead on the right. Jacobson takes the lead on the left.

The Chinese also form their protective bubble around their leader, exiting out a different wing to their own break rooms, which—from our point of view—are secretive compartments that none of us are privy to.

Despite looking weary from his conversation with President Zhiying, President Hoffman is in an upbeat mood. “I have a good feeling about this,” he confides to Captain Jacobson.

Once out of the meeting room we head down the hall toward the elevator. Our current destination now is the restaurant, where the finest chefs are available to bring us the best Chinese delicacies.

We were given a whirlwind tour on our arrival. The President's safe room is below ground on the north side of the building, about a five minute walk away from the conference room. Even closer is the cafe, located in the same vicinity, but at ground level—a floor above the safe room.

Already I can smell pork, garlic, onion, and soy sauce wafting from the kitchen below. While I realize the cuisines are vastly different, at least compared to Washington-area cuisines Chinese food brings back memories of growing up in Hawaii: meat, rice, and copious amounts of spices.

Just as I'm thinking this, there's a change in the energy of the room.

It comes on suddenly, out of the blue.

My perception is heightened and I experience overwhelming fear.

But not a fear like anything I've ever felt. Not a gut feeling, but an assurance someone was watching, an assurance a threat was looming. An assurance the threat was imminent. What was the threat? I frantically look around, trying to locate the threat. My pace slows. I know have to pinpoint and neutralize this threat, but I can't find anything. Yet I know something is here. Or is it about to come? I don't know what it is, but I know it's violent, it's visceral, and it's something I'm not equipped to handle.

Not even a second has passed but I have to consider how to handle it. My colleagues are beginning to take notice. I can't identify the threat because I can't sense it—I can only feel it. I have to make the call. Do I act on my intuition?

I have to. The President is my responsibility.

I speak into my com. “Agent Carter. Imminent threat to the President. Evacuate now! Evacuate now!”

The President ducks and covers his head. Everyone assumes defense position. Instead of heading toward the elevator, we break for the stairs, turning down a side hall.

Captain Jacobson has questions. “What is it?” he demands.

I have no answer and I can tell my hesitation annoys him. “I don't know, I just got a feeling that—”

Mid-stride I'm suddenly grabbed and tackled to the side by a sudden force; I knock into the SAC and we both bumble to the ground. I'm about to defend against whatever knocked us over, but it's gone. It's just me, the Uniformed Division, and the President. Where did it go?

“What was that!” someone exclaims. Jacobson and I are uninjured. We get up and retrieve our weapons. I notice everyone has their weapons aimed toward us, but they're looking at empty space. The President is crouched against a wall, covering his head.

Both the SAC and I look around frantically. All of us saw someone, but now the hallway is completely empty. Did the attacker just...disappear? I'm in front, so I have a clear view of my team. But I see nothing. They see nothing.

I stand ready, searching every shadow every hint of movement. The prey sensation is still strong. I can't pinpoint it. I feel like I'm searching for something that isn't there until—

“Behind!” I cry, and I raise my gun toward a man in a black jumpsuit behind the two rear agents. He grabs one agent's chin and yanks downward, throwing him to the ground with such force I hear his neck snap. I pull the trigger, but the assailant vanishes. The bullet misses.

“What the—!”

And as we're looking for the new threat, he appears between me, the SAC, and another agent. His powerful arm latches onto the agent's arm to control movement. As I'm about to take action he raises his leg and kicks me in the shoulder. I stumble back. He uses a bit of the recoil to deliver a fatal kick to Jacobson's head. Jacobson stumbles, then falls against the wall; I raise my gun and fire, but I only hit the wall behind where man used to be.

Jacobson is down, his body motionless.

How is he doing that? What is going on?

No time for answers. By now it's obvious all spots are blind spots.

“Cover!” I command.

We reorganize as a unit, taking up positions to cover the most area. We're vigilant, scanning our surroundings, reacting to any hint of movement.

But a thought still nags me—this man can obviously kill the President if he wants to. So why isn't he?

Those nagging questions have to be dealt with later. I'm now scanning the walls.

Another agent takes the opportunity to call for immediate backup. The agent on com asks how many.

“How many? Everyone! I need everyone!” the agent shouts back.

The assassin's gone, but I still feel him, crouching, waiting. I hear everyone's heavy breathing, and sense everyone's tense muscles, ready to strike.

I see him appear three feet from me. “There!” I shout, but now sooner have I seen him than he disappears. I fire, but my bullet strikes the wall. I hear a scuffle behind me. Turning, I see two men have appeared. One man snaps an agent's neck. The other man fetches a dead agent's knife and reaches up, driving it into the agent's spinal column before he can react. And before the last surviving agent or I can react effectively, both of the attackers disappear again.

I shake my head and blink. Then I realize...no, there weren't two attackers. It was the same man...in two locations!

“What the hell is going on?” I growl. “Where's our backup?” I yell into my com.

“Two minutes out,” comes the answer.

We both look at the President who looks back at us. Our faces say it all: We don't have two minutes.

Just as we're thinking that, I feel a force grab my arm—it's the killer, controlling my gun arm, forcing it away from him. I throw a kick, but he grabs my leg. I realize unless I act now he can knock me off balance. Thinking quickly, I jump with my free leg, drop my gun, and use both arms to wrap around his upper torso. This throws him off balance, and I feel him falling. The remaining agent's gun goes off. The assailant's form vanishes and I fall hard on the floor.

Quickly, I look up as I catch my breath and scramble for my weapon. As I do the assassin appears mid-air, falling toward the ground. But as he does he wraps his bicep around the agent's neck like a python. Both fall. The agent's neck bends unnaturally. His gun goes off, and I hear President Hoffman scream in pain.

After fumbling on the ground for the trigger to my gun I take aim and fire. But by then the man's already gone.

Scrambling to my feet, I take a defensive position over the President; the stray bullet is in his left shoulder and he's losing blood. I use one hand to apply pressure to the injury while I use the other to hold my firearm and sweep it across the hall. “Mr. President, stay with me, we can get—”

But the killer appears in front of me, and lifts me to my feet, slamming me against the wall with a thud. The force knocks the wind out of me. Any broken ribs? I don't know. I struggle with my pistol to get a good aim, but I can't—he's shoving me hard against the wall and I have no room to raise my weapon.

Then he stares deep into my eyes. I can't place his ethnicity—Caucasian? Mediterranean, maybe? His features are dark and his chiseled face is seething with hatred. He's breathing heavily, not from exhaustion, but from malice. Then, he says something to me. But I can't understand it—it's not English nor any language I recognize.

He looks away from me the President, who is drawing his own weapon. Sensing the threat the President poses to him, the man fumbles for my knife in its holster. This frees up my hand, and I try to move my gun to aim, but he simply switches arms—now his right is controlling my body. With his left he fumbles for my knife. I strain against his might, but it's no use. He's too quick. Before President Hoffman has a clear shot, the man jams the knife blade into his skull. President Hoffman's arms spasm for a second, then become still.

Just like that, the President, a leader of the world, is dead.

I open my mouth to yell all sorts of obscenities at him, but the man shoves me hard against the wall and yells at me again. I wince from the pain. He's searching my face, looking for an answer. I still can't understand what he's yelling at me, so I shake my head. “Wha—?” I manage.

Realizing I'm not going to give him what he wants the man grabs my throat and starts to strangle me. I begin to see stars. Frantically, I struggle harder, punching him in the ribs. He barely reacts. He's gripping tighter. I think of you. I think of Patrick. I keep punching, but I'm having no effect. My vision becomes narrow. I think, this is it. This is how I go out. The President dead, no eye witnesses, no evidence of this killer ever having been here. Realizing I'm not going to win I try to make peace with it. But I can't. I'm sorry, Sam, I just can't. I have to fight for you.

Then suddenly, the man is knocked aside. Freed from my assailant's stranglehold I collapse to the floor. I look to the left of me and see a dark-skinned man wearing a similar jumpsuit on top of the attacker. He's breathing heavily. He looks back at me.

“Rebecca! Run!”

I've never seen the man before in my life, nor do I know who he is. But I act on his advice.

I run.

I don't even stop to pick up my firearm since it's proven useless anyway. As I sprint down the hall, I speak into my com, saying the words I never thought I'd say. “The President is dead. I repeat. The President is dead!“

“Repeat?”

“Dammit! Didn't you hear me! President Hoffman is dead!” I cry. “He's dead! Where the hell are your men?”

I don't wait for an answer. Racing down the empty wing I weigh my options. I still feel the attacker's presence. His assault isn't over. I'm the only one who saw what happened, so I have to stay alive. And I can't do that if I'm alone. Not even a two minutes have passed since we left the meeting room. The US team is about a minute and a half behind.

My best chance of survival is to join the Chinese team.

I race down an adjacent hall. I see them at the opposite end, covering President Zhiying. I cry out without stopping. “Help! Help!”

They turn, draw their weapons. I skid to a stop. To my relief, once the agents notice I'm friendly they immediately lower their guard.

“Mz. Carter?” on of them asks. “What happ-?”

I'm knocked up against the wall. The attacker—he's pushing me up, again repeating words I don't understand. The security team fires, the man vanishes, they miss, I'm left to collapse to the ground.

Everyone looks bewildered. I'm sure I look bewildered, too. Finally, one of them says, “Follow us! Stay low, cover President Zhiying.”

Rising from the ground, I follow them, but not before the man appears again, this time in front of the security team. I can only cry out. Before the front agent can fire, he's down.

They reassemble. I'm given a gun.

Two more are taken out. I take aim and fire. The man's gone.

Three agents remain, including me. I hear a groan. The agent behind me is straining against the attacker's forced body contortions. But that agent is dropped.

Another has his throat slit. I empty more rounds.

And I never see the last one fall. I only hear his body hit the floor. The rapid fire of my gun does nothing.

That leaves only me.

I look at President Zhiying, his face ashen with fear. I stick close to him, body-to-body, weapon at the ready.

He's breathing heavily, backing away toward an inlet with potted plants and furniture. I stand in front of him, my weapon drawn, watching for any sign of movement. But I feel his weight disappear and hear his body thud against the wall. I turn around. The killer is already on top of him with a dagger fetched from one of the fallen officers. He slits President Zhiying's throat. Blood pours out. I pull the trigger. I'm empty.

“No!”

The man stands up, keeping his gaze upon me, taunting me. I drop my gun. The man advances toward me, slowly. I back away, slowly.

He again demands something in a foreign language.

He's not going to back down. I take a defensive position, hands raised, feet apart. He continues advancing slowly, his confidence displayed in his unwillingness to engage. So I move first, throwing a punch. He grabs my arm and twists it to contort my whole body. I cry in pain. The man disappears, only reappearing in front of me, too close for me to react. He strikes his palm hard against my chest. I stagger back, coughing.

In my adrenaline-fueled clarity my brain concocts a strategy: in most cases, I realize, he appears at a blind spot. So I have to trick him into thinking a spot is blind. Easier said than done when fighting someone who can be anywhere, but it's something. I plan out where my fake blind spot will be, then go in for the attack.

He vanishes, then reappears, but foils my feign, disappearing and reappearing again at my true blind spot, shoving me hard against the ground. He gets on his knees. He has me pinned and I'm unable to move.

Now having a captive audience again, he repeats what he's always said.

The man turns briefly at the sound of footsteps heard down at the other end of the hall, yards away.

They're here. If only they could see—

But then he's gone. All evidence. Gone.

Damn it!

Security starts rounding the corner. As they do I stand to my feet and rush to President Zhiying's side. With everyone dead, I have to keep him alive. I speak into my com. “I immediate medical assistance. President Zhiying is down.” Then, I turn to him. “Hold on, we'll get you help.” I say. As blood pours from his lacerated neck, his wide eyes beg me for help as he keeps trying to swallow. The poor man is fading. Not knowing what else to do, I apply pressure, trying to close the wound without closing what semblance of an airway he has. Warm blood coats my hands.

I'm within visual of the Chinese team. Their weapons are drawn on me. “Wait! Don't shoot!” I cry. But even before I hear the crack of the gun I curl into a fetal position. I feel the sting as a bullet hits my vest. I spot a potted plant beside me. It's not much cover, but I dart behind it, then raise my hands again as some more bullets rain. “Don't shoot! I'm friendly! American Secret Service! I'm not armed! Don't shoot!”

Just then I hear more footsteps. “Cease fire!” American agents. “Cease fire!”

The Chinese agents shout back, arguing with the Americans, until one American agent calls, “Agent Carter?”

I slowly peek my head out.

The American agents rush in. Seeing this, the Chinese agents to do the same.

Standing up, I feel so relieved. That is, until one of the Chinese agents approaches me, pulls my wrists behind my back, and cuffs me.

When the substitute SAC sees this, he rushes toward the Chinese agents. “Hey hey hey!” he scolds. “She's innocent.”

“You don't know that!” the Chinese captain spits back. “President Zhiying is dead!”

“So is President Hoffman! And all the agents. She's a witness.”

“Maybe so, but we have to question her to be sure!”

“She's our agent!”

“She's on Chinese soil!”

Before things get too heated, another member of the American team intercepts the SAC and says something to calm him. The SAC backs off and begins consulting with his team. By now emergency medics have arrived. They are rushing from one person to another, checking vitals, but none of them are pausing long. The emergency stretcher lies dormant by the hallway corner.

“Ms. Carter, we need to ask you some questions,” the Chinese captain says. “Then we'll take you into custody.”

I kind of already am, I think. But I take a deep breath and nod.

The captain begins. The questions are far from formal—they are initial questions just to get a rough picture of what went down. I answer as best I can, giving as many details as I can. The more details I provide, the more skeptical the captain appears. He exchanges looks with his team. Nobody buys it, but nobody seems to know of an alternative explanation either.

Finally, the Captain sighs, shrugs, then nods to the security team. I'm led away.

I look back at the SAC, who's conversing with another member of the team. The SAC and I exchange glances. He breaks from his discussion as if he just remembered something, then approaches me. The Chinese agents are about to stop him, but he holds up a hand as if to say “It's alright,” so they back off. He puts a firm hand on my tender forearm. I wince in pain. “Hold on, Agent Carter,” he says, “We'll get you out.”

The SAC nods to the agents solemnly. I'm escorted away by the Chinese security team. They guide me toward the main corridor of the Embassy. As they do I realize the interim SAC is going to be the last American I'll see in a while.

Before I round the corner I glance back at the bodies of the dead lying still on the carpet. I feel sick. It's unfair. I should have been one of them. I'd take their place in a heartbeat if I could.

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, I feel myself going into mild shock. Besides shivering from air that isn't cold, my legs feel weak. I stumble. The agents quickly and roughly right me until I continue on my own feet.

I'm still looking around for where the man might be that I might be vindicated. Yet he's nowhere. Over a dozen American and Chinese people were killed in a matter of minutes by an assailant. The assassin had no conventional weapon to speak of, yet he was able to best both teams simply by popping in and out of existence.

I go through the checklist, hoping that I remembered some other alibi that could vouch for what I saw. But I don't remember seeing anyone else. I'm the only one alive who's seen the attacker.

I'm the only one.

A chill runs up my spine. It just now dawns on me that if I'm the only one alive that means that I'm almost certainly the culprit. And in a nation that doesn't have the same legal protections as the US, my only hope is that Washington cares enough for a Secret Service agent that they can convince the Chinese government to give me leniency.

And the feeling that I had—the strange visceral feeling of being hunted? It's gone. Yes, mentally I'm expecting his return. But the unexplained fear I felt earlier is gone.

Why did I have that feeling anyway? That innate sense, that presence. It was at least a full thirty seconds before the man appeared. Did I know he'd appear?

And I'm trying to wrap my head around his disappearing act. Was he possibly just so fast that in the moment I couldn't track his movements?

No, unlikely. Even if he was the fastest man on the planet, the adrenaline coursing through my veins only slowed time down; I would have seen any rapid escape he could have made.

Then perhaps he had ways of looking like he was disappearing.

But then how could he appear twice at the same time?

What am I even asking myself? How does one lone man effortlessly overtake an elite group of six men and a woman—especially when we correctly evaluated the threat then re-positioned to engage with it effectively?

And that other man that appeared out of nowhere. I racked my brain again, trying to think of who it might be. Anyone related to your case. No, nobody. Yet he could call me out by name. Like he knew me. Who was he?

My paranoid mind briefly toys with the idea that someone might have drugged our food or drink with something that messed with our perception. But I dismissed it as a weak theory. Who would have planted it? And what would the intended outcome be?

Then again, I think as I'm guided into an armored SUV, maybe I'm just in a bad dream.

A bad dream in which my husband is taken from me.

A dream in which, now, I may not ever see my son again.

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PLEASE NOTE: I'm publishing chapters 1-3 of my novel Shifter to crowdsource funding for the full novel. If you're interested in supporting my efforts, the link is at the end.

Eli-Fian stared out the window of her room as she listened to an audio book in her father's synthesized voice. She was entering young adolescence, and—although she noted she had some disdain for her father's and mother's presence, she found she grew strangely homesick out here in deep space. The Thes-Omatz was “sturdy,” as her father Xel-Na described it. The vessel was so sturdy, in fact, it had had been within ten thousand kilometers of Bursin-Lee without any heat damage; and during a mission in the year 309,427 when it lost com contact, the crew was still able to survive for five months until they were found and rescued. Xel-Na often denied her requests to travel with her mother Zomi-Kai, but he finally gave in after Eli-Fian told him she would be on the Thes-Omatz.

The approval process did take some pulling of strings. It helped that Xel-Na was on the Chair of Discovery. Governance (at least Vek-Gozen governance) restricted children from joining their parents on missions. Eli-Fian found it difficult not to brag to her friends when she received official approval from Governance for the Thes-Omatz. Most of her friends weren't interested in space, so her excitement in sharing the news was mostly met with indifference.

But Eli-Fian didn't care. For her, this was a prime opportunity to get away from at least one parent. Although she and her mother were on the same ship, they only occasionally saw each other. Eli-Fian got plenty of alone time: she worked on her schoolwork, became a curious pupil with other researchers, and even made a new friend—a boy named Men-Laki (though he was several years younger than she was).

Soon growing bored of the audio book, she turned it off, then took a walk along the hallways.

She then came across Men-Laki playing in the hallway, bent over a toy vehicle. He was poised in a sprint position, eyes fixed on the end of the hallway. Many workers passed by him, some scowling at his antics, others amused by the childish diversion.

Eli-Fian silently tiptoed up behind him and grabbed his torso. “Surprise!”

Men-Laki shrieked and whirled around. “Eli-Fian!” he cried, then turned back to the vehicle, narrating his imaginative scenario he'd created. “I have to get to the end of the river before Sel-Lol and his men destroy the bridge.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You see, Sel-Lol has kidnapped my mother, but he doesn't know that I have this rover that goes really fast.”

“Oh, a rover,” Eli-Fian said. “It sounds like you really prepared!”

“Yeah, but that's not all! This thing has blasters! Big ones! I just have to run really fast down there and kill his men before it's too late!”

Eli-Fian bent down. “You'd better hurry!” she said excitedly.

“I need some help.”

“Here, let me help. I run really fast.”

“Okay,” Men-Laki said. Then, once Eli-Fian was in position Men-Laki cried, “Go!” Both she and Men-Laki joined forces to race the vehicle down the hall. Then, reaching the end, Men-Laki created sounds of explosions. Eli-Fian laughed, injecting reactions of “Oh! Wow! Oooh!” Finally, ecstatic that Men-Laki won, he jumped up and down excitedly. “We did it! We did it!”

“Daughter!” The sharp scold came from her mother. Eli-Fian whirled around in surprise. Her own mother, Zomi-Kai, was glaring at her. Eli-Fian flushed.

“What did I tell you about playing in the hall?”

“I'm sorry, mother. Men-Laki looked like he needed someone to play with.”

“The halls are work areas. If you want to play, we've set up a play area on the 4th level for children. I'm not going to ask you again.”

“Sorry, mother.” Eli-Fian turned to the boy. “Men-Laki, you know where the play room is—you have to stop playing in the hallway, okay?”

He nodded, holding the toy close to his chest.

“I'll play with you later,” she said. She pointed down the hall and gently guided him away. Men-Laki left, leaving Eli-Fian with her mother.

Now that the reprimand was over, Zomi-Kai changed her tone. “Nez-Gami said you can sit in on his research. He's not working with radiation today so you should be safe.”

Nez-Gami! Eli-Fian tried to hide her excitement. “Thank you, mother.”

“Have you thought about dinner tonight? Any interest?”

Her mother often invited her to dine with her. Besides now wanting more independence (despite her mother's attempts to connect), Eli-Fian still did not understand the draw of sharing meals on long space flights. She knew crews did it all the time, but it just lacked the romance that made her enjoy it back on her home planet of Un-Rofo. Something about the sometimes-heated, nearly-flavorless food packets made shared meals feel more like a test of will than anything remotely relaxing.

Eli-Fian declined Zomi-Kai's invitation. “No thank you.”

“Alright. Remember, if you need anything, just let me know. You can always reach me on coms.”

“Alright.”

Eli-Fian continued down the hall, beaming with delight at the prospect of spending the day with Nez-Gami. Since her father was the Chair of Discovery she sensed most of the people on board the Thes-Omatz simply tolerated her, but Nez-Gami was different: he took a liking to her insatiable curiosity, going so far as to show her things he normally wouldn't be allowed to show anyone else. Plus, she was reaching the age when she began to notice a peculiar attraction toward men, and Nez-Gami was a man to whom she felt a particular attraction. She didn't know what it was—perhaps his kind eyes, or perhaps the way his sandy hair fell over his face when he was concentrating. Nez-Gami did have a partner back on Un-Rofo, and she'd always respect that—but she couldn't help but enjoy spending time with him.

Upon entering his lab she saw trays already set up. In them were plants—nakata— in various stages of growth.

Nez-Gami turned and greeted her. “Hey, Eli-Fian. Just in time. I took these out of the nursery and am running tests on them right now. I could use some help.”

“How so?”

He handed her a small stencil probe. “I just don't have the fine dexterity to probe the soil chemical composition. Normally I'd be here all day doing it.”

Eli-Fian took the stencil probe. It felt heavier than she expected. Now that she thought of it, she noticed it wasn't just the pen that was heavy, but that she herself began to feel heavy walking over here. “Not sure how good I'll do either. I'm feeling a bit sluggish this morning.”

Nez-Gami gave a playful smile. “Having too much fun last night?” He chided.

Eli-Fian chuckled. “Pfft! Hardly.”

“Alright, let's get these soil samples done. Have you ever performed a chemical probe before?”

Eli-Fian admitted she had not, so Nez-Gami walked her through it. She had to very delicately move around the soil, ensuring she moved through as much soil as possible without disturbing it too much. “We want to check the health of the naka, not kill it,” Nez-Gami stressed.

She and Nez-Gami worked in tandem, carefully reading the chemical make up of the soil. Eli-Fian kept hoping her sluggishness would wear off, but it never did. “I think I must be coming down with something,” she said.

“Actually, now that you mention it,” Nez-Gami said, “I'm feeling rather—um—heavy myself.”

Eli-Fian thought a moment. “Could Thes-Omatz be accelerating faster?”

Nez-Gami shrugged. “Maybe. But I don't see why they would.”

“Maybe we're behind schedule?” Eli-Fian suggested.

Nez-Gami was skeptical. “If we were behind schedule the mission director would notify us of a turnaround.” Indeed, they weren't past the turnaround point, so if they were behind schedule then the mission director would simply order a turn-around.

Nez-Gami let out a smile. “I'm sure it's nothing. They'd tell us if it was. So you're not ill?”

Eli-Fian shrugged. “I suppose not. Just tired from the increase in gravity.”

Nez-Gami perked up. “You know what that means!” He waved his hand in front of the plants.

Eli-Fian raised an eyebrow. “Gravity experiments?”

Nez-Gami nodded enthusiastically.

Nez-Gami and Eli-Fian switched up the experiments to record how the increase in gravity was changing the plants on a micro level. Throughout the morning and into the early afternoon Nez-Gami guided Eli-Fian through experiments, and even asked for some of her own ideas.

But suddenly the mentoring session halted.

Nez-Gami was scowling at his console.

“Is—is everything alright?” Eli-Fian asked.

Nez-Gami continued staring at his console for a few beats, then said, “The bulletin—it's concerning.”

“Bulletin?”

“It just came in.” He turned form his console. “Sorry, Eli-Fian. I think we'll have to stop for today. The mission director ordered an emergency meeting.”

“Can I join?”

He smirked at her. Eli-Fian's heart fluttered. “By the sound of the bulletin I don't think it's the kind of meeting you'd want to join.”

“But can I join anyway?”

Nez-Gami nodded, standing up. “Alright, come on.”

They walked to a central meeting room on the 3rd level. Eli-Fian had only been in here once, for an introductory safety briefing for crew's family right before official departure. As Eli-Fian scanned the room, she noted that everyone looked tense and concerned. Zomi-Kai came in, too, and sat next to Eli-Fian. Next to Zomi-Kai was the director, Jem-Sati. Zomi-Kai was asking him questions in a hushed, sharp tone—Eli-Fian couldn't make out what she was asking, but she got the sense Jem-Sati wasn't telling her much.

Finally, Jem-Sati cleared his throat. “Many of you saw the bulletin. I didn't want the information to get out too quickly for fear that the entire crew would panic. And as you may have noticed, we did increase Thes-Omatz acceleration. The reason—we're being pursued by a small militant group.”

A collective gasp fell over the room. A militant group? Who was it? What enemies did they have that could pursue them? Eli-Fian leaned in to her mother to ask her, but someone interrupted.

“Are they going to pass by?” While it was often considered impolite to interrupt the mission director, in a meeting like this, interruptions were indulged.

“Unlikely. They were pursuing our vessel at 1.1G. When we accelerated to 1.2G, we found they accelerated to 1.3G. They have the full intention of overtaking us.”

Everyone started murmuring.

I knew it! Eli-Fian thought. That's why she felt so weak today. The change was very slight, but she noticed. If the situation wasn't so dire she'd tease Jem-Sati about it later.

“Can't we go faster?” someone asked. “Outrun them?” Others quickly chimed in with their own suggestions.

The mission director raised his hand to call for order. “Doctor Xana-Mai says we can safely accelerate to 1.8. However, my team has concluded since they immediately accelerated when we did, they have trained for this kind of pursuit. This wasn't the first time they overtook a frigate.”

Even more murmurs. Jem-Sati had to raise his hand again.

“At this point we cannot determine who is behind the group. We only discovered them after our communications director could not send any messages back to Un-Rofo—or any station for that matter. He found they were jamming outbound coms.”

“Are they pirates?” someone asked.

“Unlikely. Their formation is well-organized. Their vessels appear to be well-equipped with advanced weaponry and shielding. They do not bear any indication of a nation-state nor a planet-state, so we theorize they are an independent group. However, since they are not pirates, we're at a loss for what they might want. We've tried initiating contact many times, but our attempts have gone unanswered.”

Eli-Fian couldn't believe what she was hearing. She looked at her mother who was watching the director with rapt attention.

“What recourse do we have?” someone asked. “We don't have anything to fight back with?”

“We're working on a plan. I have a team that is preparing some of our cargo to jettison when the fleet gets too close. If it all goes according to plan, the cargo might be a deterrent. While Thes-Omatz should be safe during this operation, we'll notify the crew when we'll deploy. When we do, everyone must be in emergency seating.”

“What if the cargo plan fails?” Zomi-Kai asked. “Do we have another plan?”

Jem-Sati winced: he was obviously not thrilled about his backup plan. “We've asked security for additional strategy. They're working on one. It's not much, we do have weapons on board. If they board, we can use weapons. That might at least make them leave.”

Thes-Omatz did have light security detail, Eli-Fian knew; however, they were only there to resolve light squabbles or keep people out of restricted areas; they were not equipped to handle large-scale assaults like the one that was catching up to them.

“We have escape pods,” someone noted. “With coms jammed, can't we take them back to Un-Rofo?”

“No. Un-Rofo is too far away. And in any case, the only thing the escape pods would do is create more targets for our adversary. If anything, they are more useful as debris.”

“How about maneuvering Thes-Omatz to avoid being boarded?”

“We considered this, but no one on board has that kind of training,” Jem-Sati said. “The kind of G-forces involved would result in unconsciousness for even the strongest of our navigators. Even if we could, there are seven of them, and they're small and nimble. They will be able to outmaneuver us. And even if they couldn't initially outmaneuver us, they could just as easily take out our engines while keeping the hull intact. And since they have yet to launch any type of arsenal, we conclude they want us—or the vessel—intact.”

People began asking more questions, and Jem-Sati answered as many as he could, but, in the end, Jem-Sati simply repeated what he'd already said: that they were sitting yagashta without any hope of rescue.

The meeting continued, but Eli-Fian found her mind was racing. She was trying to process all this information, but it was too much! The more Jem-Sati spoke, the more Eli-Fian felt ill. She'd envisioned this mission would be a chance to do something different—to escape the monotony of school, to explore deep space, to have stories to tell when she got back. She never imagined this mission with her mother might be their very last.

She thought about her friends back on Un-Rofo: she wouldn't be able to see them again!

Then, a wave of guilt washed over her as she thought about Xel-Na, her father. She got into an argument with him the night before she left, and she wanted so desperately now to say she was sorry, to say how much she loved him. She wanted so badly to send him a message, but with the coms were down, that just wasn't possible.

As she sat next to her mother as the meeting progressed, her mind went wild, thinking of all the horrible things that could happen to them. They could all be executed, lined up one by one—or sent as a group—into the inner chambers, only to have the outer door opened. Then you'd look out at the emptiness of space as you're trying desperately to gasp for the air that wasn't there—gasping and gasping until your vision turns white, you lose all sense of self, and soon and your lifeless body would float into the dark void along with everyone else, never to be collected, never to be remembered.

She shuddered at the thought.

Or maybe the pursuers were a militia looking for more soldiers. And they'd raid the vessel, stealing all the research equipment; rape the women, kill the men, and steal the young boys, brainwashing them into serving for their own twisted endeavors.

No matter where her imagination went, it always ended horrifically.

And this wasn't just a hypothetical situation they talked about in the initial briefing or in school—this was real, this was inevitable. This free air they were breathing right now was going to run out one way or another.

When the meeting ended, Eli-Fian kept close to her mother as they walked through the halls. She desperately asked her, “What's going to happen?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't want to die.”

“I know, Daila,” she said. “I know. I'm scared, too.” Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “But you have to be strong, okay? Keep your head up. We can't do anything to change the situation, but we can choose how we respond to it, right? They may capture us, they may take us, they may kill us, they may do any number of horrible things to us. But, Daila, when the do...we'll go into it with our head held high, right? We'll make your father and the nation-state of Vek-Gozen proud proud.”

Zomi-Kai's words strengthened her. Sometimes Eli-Fian felt Zomi-Kai was too strict; however, during times like these, Zomi-Kai's zealous confidence was the only thing in which she found courage.

Eli-Fian, in an answer to her mother's challenge, stood tall, squared her shoulders, and gazed confidently right back into her mothers eyes.

Zomi-Kai smiled warmly. “That's my daila.

“Now, I'll have to join the crew to plan our defense, I think it's best if you stay in your room. I'll give you updates.”

Stay in my room! Eli-Fian thought, And imagine all the horrific ways I'd die? “I want to stay with you.”

Zomi-Kai sighed. She relented, recognizing that sometimes her daughter could be just as persistent as her father. And in any case, Zomi-Kai, thought, she didn't know how much longer she'd have with Eli-Fian: she wanted her remaining hours to be meaningful.

Later, Eli-Fian sat by the window in the command center, staring out the window. While she wanted to make the most of the last moments she had with her mother, and to tell her everything she'd had on her mind, she also recognized now was not the time: the Thes-Omatz crew needed Zomi-Kai to help ready the ship for what meager defenses they could muster. So, instead, Eli-Fian just remained in the command center with her, trying to distract herself with the audio book.

But her mind raced. She kept having to repeat sections of the book.

Their pursuers were behind them (below them from her perspective) but she heard whispers from others who had been down to the first level that they could make out individual ships, some even going so far as to say they saw the intimidating weapons the vessels were equipped with.

Eli-Fian tried not to listen to these conversations. She was already distraught enough as it was.

Then, she heard a chime go off in the command center. She looked over to Zomi-Kai.

“We're preparing to dumping the cargo,” Zomi-Kai told her.

“Can I watch?” she asked.

Zomi-Kai looked to her subordinate, who nodded approval. Eli-Fian got up from her seat and joined Zomi-Kai at her console. They both strapped themselves into the chair, and Zomi-Kai brought up a 3D holo display of the Thes-Omatz being pursued by the fleet of seven ships. Eli-Fian saw that even though they were much smaller than Thes-Omatz, they had weapons far superior to anything she'd seen. Her body felt weak. No, no weakness! she thought. her mother was relying on her. She had to stay strong!

Zomi-Kai then zoomed out to get a view of Thes-Omatz. There were a few more warning alarms sounding in command. “Jettisoning cargo,” someone said.

Eli-Fain watched the display. Small tracker dots emerged from Thes-Omatz' cargo bay, then fell downward, no longer accelerating with the Thes-Omatz. She and her mother watched breathlessly as the debris began drifting toward the pursuing fleet.

“Trajectory indicates at least a few will be hit,” someone reported. “If the fleet stays on course, that is.”

But they did not. The ships moved to evade the debris. Eli-Fian felt a pang of desperation. Come on! They had to do something!

The debris soon reached the fleet. While all ships made an attempt to avoid collision, she noted two ships disappeared from view. “One hit!” someone announced, then, “Two hit!”

“Any more?” Jem-Sati asked hopefully.

The engineer who made the announcement shook his head solemnly. “They're free of our debris field.”

Eli-Fian counted the remaining ships. There were five. Thes-Omatz was still easily overpowered.

She stared at the scene before her: five ships, all with weapons, all with experienced pilots, overtaking a research vessel she and her mother were on. I'm sorry, Amanna, I can't be strong, she thought. “We're dead,” Eli-Fian moaned.

Zomi-Kai reached out and soothingly rubbed her daughter's back. “Sh-sh-sh....don't worry about that now, Daila. Keep a clear head.”

The moment was interrupted by Jem-Sati, calling for attention from the couple dozen crew members in the command center. Jem-Sati ordered the ship to be set to 1.6G to buy them a little more time, but the pursuing fleet then accelerated to 1.62G. The next few hours were filled with intense, bitter debates. No one had a plan, but people kept suggesting half-baked ones that were no better than rolling dice. They had hours remaining before the fleet overtook them, and everyone was growing tired, frustrated, and desperate.

“There's no other choice,” Jem-Sati finally said. “We have to mobilize. We know this ship better than they do. Let's plan a strategic ambush to gain the upper-hand as quickly as possible.”

The crew then went through floor plans, quickly devising choke points and other strategically advantageous positions. One by one people formed teams and discussed their strategy. Although nobody seemed thrilled with any defense strategy, it was at least something.

“Does everyone know their assignments?” Jem-Sati asked.

Everyone nodded. Jem-Sati got up, groaning against the increased gravity, and opened the armory. “Other armories are located on decks 3, 5, and 7. In fifteen minutes I'll decrease acceleration to .9G so we can move faster. But when I do, that means our pursuers will be on us within minutes.” He began distributing firearms to everyone in the control room.

Zomi-Kai got up to grab a firearm. Eli-Fian quickly followed behind her, catching up to her to grab her arm. “Mother, what are you doing!” she hissed.

Zomi-Kai turned and held her daughter's cold and trembling hands. Her mother's strong facade fell and she spoke with a quavering voice. “They need everyone, daila. I have to.”

Eli-Fian's mind raced, trying to think of anything she could say to make Zomi-Kai stay. But nothing came to mind, and she had to admit to herself it was selfish anyway. Zomi-Kai held her hand another beat, then let go, turning to the other crew members.

Eli-Fian simply stood there in shock. It seemed so wrong—Zomi-Kai holding an energy weapon. She barely knew how one worked. How was she going to kill someone with it? If Zomi-Kai was volunteering to fight, then Eli-Fian had just as much right to as well.

And in any case, Eli-Fian thought, if she didn't join her mother, what else was she supposed to do? Sit in her room, only to cover her ears as the screams of terror from her friends and family rang out through the halls? No! She wouldn't stand for it!

Eli-Fian took a deep breath and approached Jem-Sati. “I want a weapon.”

Jem-Sati stared at her in surprise.

Zomi-Kai's mouth fell open. She sputtered, “Eli-Fian, no, you don't have to—”

“You said you need everybody,” Eli-Fian told Zomi-Kai. “I'm everybody.” That's the best reason Eli-Fian could give. It must have been enough, because Zomi-Kai reached into the armory to grab the one of the last three remaining weapons. Once Eli-Fian hefted the firearm, Zomi-Kai relayed how to use it.

Everyone had their assignments and posts. Before moving out Jem-Sati gave a ship-wide announcement of a slowdown. “Decreasing to point nine Gs,” Jem-Sati said. Holding the weapon in one hand, Jemi-Sati worked the controls with the other to decrease acceleration. Within seconds, Eli-Fian felt lighter. Others started hopping in place and walking around, testing the limits of the lightened gravity.

Eli-Fian glanced over at Jem-Sati. They met eyes, and he regarded her with heavy regret. Eli-Fian sensed how he must have felt—sending a girl in as a soldier. But Jem-Sati cleared his throat, nervously entreating the teams for another ask. “I still need volunteers to join me by the entrance.”

The room fell silent. “By the entrance” meant the entrance to the docking port—the door by which the enemy would enter. It would be the location the enemy would be most prepared, so the location Thes-Omatz would receive the most casualties. The meaning of “the entrance” was clear: he was asking for volunteers for a suicide mission. Everyone looked around the room, hoping someone else would answer the call.

“Anyone?” Jem-Sati urged.

Zomi-Kai took a deep breath. “I'll go.”

“I will as well,” someone else said.

Three more volunteered to fight by the entrance. That was a team of six so far.

Eli-Fian considered joining another team. That would mean she'd be away from her mother; if she did that, how could she live with herself? No, she had to stand and fight by her side. She swallowed and said, “Me, too.” Zomi-Kai shot her a look, but didn't try to squabble.

“We have five minutes,” someone announced. “Get into position now!”

Everyone raced out of the command center and down the hall. The docking port was on the same level as the command center, but it was on the other side of the vessel, and the team needed to be ready. The halls were chaos: everyone was running, yelling, jostling to get into position.

Eli-Fian reached for her mother's hand. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't dare hold her mother's hand, but these were not normal circumstances.

Suddenly, Eli-Fian heard a familiar voice.

“Where's my mother?”

Eli-Fian and Zomi-Kai whirled around to find Men-Laki standing in the hall, toy in hand. His brow was furrowed, his face etched with concern. Eli-Fian and Zomi-Kai exchanged glances.

“Where's your mother?” Zomi-Kai asked him.

“I..,” Men-Laki turned and trailed off, distracted by the chaos.

Eli-Fian thought quickly. She spoke to Zomi-Kai. “Wait wait—are the internal coms still up?”

Zomi-Kai nodded. “They should be.”

“Give a public announcement that Men-Laki has been found. I'll tell him to hide.”

Zomi-Kai looked around to get her bearings then spoke into her com, ensuring to relay Men-Laki's mother's name, and the location where Zomi-Kai is.

Meanwhile, Eli-Fian knelt down to Men-Laki and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “I want you do something for me, okay?” she asked.

Men-Laki nodded.

“Have you ever played the game 'find me?'”

He nodded.

“You'll be playing with your mom, okay? She's the finder. I want you to hide in this space right here.” She pointed to a small inlet in the hallway. “Only come out if she calls. Understand?”

Men-Laki nodded again. Following Eli-Fian's instructions hid in the inlet and turned back to smile for approval. “Yes! That's right! Good job, Men-Laki! Stay there until your mother finds you!”

Though Eli-Fian saw he wasn't really buying that this was just a game, she didn't have time to reassure him.

Eli-Fian stood to her feet and dashed the remaining meters toward the docking port. Her mother was already in position. Jem-Sati took a forward position about two meters from the door on the left-hand side. Zomi-Kai filed in behind another crew member on the right-hand side, and Eli-Fian knelt right behind her. She lifted her weapon and ensured it was powered and primed. And just in time, too: the ship echoed with the eerie sounds of a vessel being attached, secured, and opened.

“This is it,” Jem-Sati rallied, slowly lowering his weapon to point at the door. “Kill anything that comes through that door.”

Eli-Fian wondered if she truly was up for this. She was not soldier. Never imagined she'd join the military. Never imagined herself taking someone's life. But now she would have to. Everyone was counting on her. Would she be able to pull the trigger?

She wouldn't need to wait long. She heard a low hum, then a whoosh, a sound, she knew, which meant the inner chamber was being vacated of air.

Eli-Fian knew that normally the air pump process took about thirty seconds. But as she felt her heart thunder in her chest, the process seemed it was taking ages. It allowed more time to imagine. How many men were coming aboard? Were they tall? Short? Were they unarmored? Easy to kill? Eli-Fian was hoping they were. She reached out and held Zomi-Kai's hand one last time and squeezed. Zomi-Kai squeezed back.

Boots sounded from within the inner door. Several of them, and all of them heavy and marshaled.

Then came a series of deliberate mechanical sounds. The inner door being opened. Thes-Omatz was a research vessel: there was no need to install security on the doors; the only visitors would be manned missions to and from planets.

The mechanical sounds stopped. The hatch opened. From out of the hatchway emerged three imposing heavily-armed soldiers, weapons drawn. Those on the Thes-Omatz fired first, but the energy blasts simply hit the soldiers' armor, which quickly dissipated, rendering the weapons effectively useless. The deafening firestorm had just started. The enemy fired back, systematically taking out one crew member after another. They started with Jem-Sati then swiftly moved on down the line, each blast hitting its mark without delay.

Four Thes-Omatz crew members lay on the floor, dead. The three enemy soldiers stepped into the hall.

A man, unmasked, unarmed, wearing a black jumpsuit came on board. He was tall; physically fit; light-skinned; and bore dark, striking features.

Eli-Fian remembered she was holding a gun. That's when she noticed she hand't fired yet. Why not? The man was right there! Come on, Eli-Fian! Take it!

But she couldn't: her hands were frozen.

Looking to the other side of the hall, she spotted another survivor: a lone man, sweating profusely, gripping his weapon tightly in his trembling fists as he braced himself flat against the wall.

The tall unarmored man noticed all this, but didn't seem bothered.

The last remaining survivor took one last look at Eli-Fian, swallowed, then gave one valiant battle cry, darting from his hiding spot with surprising courage and bravery. However, ever so casually, one of the enemy soldiers raised his weapon and shot him point blank in the head. His body fell unceremoniously on the ground, brain matter covering the floor.

That was the end. Everyone was dead, except for Eli-Fian and Zomi-Kai. The man in the jumpsuit eyed her and her mother.

Come on, Eli-Fian. Kill him. Kill him! Eli-Fian told herself. But the man's gaze peered into her soul, taunted her fear. Her fingers would not obey. As much as she thought about her mother and father and friends at home, she could not will her muscles to move.

This has to be a dream. Please, please this has to be a dream! she prayed. But she could only close her eyes, huddling closer to the wall behind her mother, her amanna.

She looked up when she heard a soldier's boots come toward them. Eli-Fian sneaked a peek. The soldier then stood over Zomi-Kai. Her head was bowed, and she raised her hands above her head, her weapon still gripped in one of her trembling hands. “Please don't—”

“Drop your weapon,” the soldier barked.

For a while, Zomi-Kai's hands only shook more. Then, eventually, she opened her hand. The weapon clattered to the floor.

The soldier turned his attention to Eli-Fian. “You, too.”

He towered over her, and then trained the end of his gun at her. The air around the end of the gun still sizzled with heat, and she could smell the ozone of its previous discharge. Eli-Fian willed her hand to release the weapon. Her numb fingers didn't feel its release, but she heard the gun clatter to the floor.

Once the soldier retrieved the weapons, the unarmored man stepped forward, standing above Zomi-Kai. “Stand up,” he commanded. “Both of you.”

Zomi-Kai stood. Reluctantly, Eli-Fian did, too, and saw, for the first time, the scope of destruction. Five bodies lay in the hall. All of them friends she had known over the past three months. All of them gone forever.

The man snapped Eli-Fian out of her haze. “Who's the leader?” the tall man asked Zomi-Kai.

Zomi-Kai nodded toward the corpse of Jem-Sati. It took a second for Zomi-Kai to collect herself. Finally, she managed, “He was.”

“Who's in command now?”

Zomi-Kai looked around for any other survivors. Then she stood as tall as she could manage. “That would be...me, now,” she said haltingly.

The man stepped closer, keeping his eyes on Zomi-Kai. She inhaled sharply and tried to step back, but her back was already against the wall. Although his expression was stoic, he was taunting her with his position and power. His voice coming out clear and commanding, causing Zomi-Kai to shirk back in fright. “I am in command now. These are my orders: go through every single level on this ship, and get everyone out of hiding. Gather everyone—man, woman, child, and animal. Bring them to the storage room on level eight. Is that clear?”

Zomi-Kai's lips were moving, attempting to form words.

Growing impatient, the man powerfully slammed his fist against the wall; Zomi-Kai and Eli-Fian jumped. “Answer me!”

“Yes! Yes! Everyone to the storage room on level eight! Don't kill us! Please!”

The man nodded to his guards. “Let's get set up. Now.”

Zomi-Kai collapsed to her knees. Eli-Fian knelt down to support her. “Amanna!” she cried.

More soldiers entered, carrying crates and other equipment. They walked past Zomi-Kai as if she wasn't even there.

Zomi-Kai put her hand on Eli-Fian's shoulder. “It's alright Daila. I'll be alright.”

“What are we going to do?”

Zomi-Kai shook her head. “I don't know, Eli-Fian. I'll think of something.”

Eli-Fian was out of options. She was out of strength. Out of courage. And now her own mother—the sole person she turned to for strength—could barely stand? You should killed the man when you had the chance! Eli-Fian scolded herself. You had the shot, you should have taken it! Why didn't you! Eli-Fian began weeping, her apology coming out in incoherent sputters: “I'm sorry I didn't shoot—I—I couldn't. I froze. It—it—”

“Don't worry about that now, Eli-Fian,” she said. She and the unmasked man exchanged glances as he passed by. Then, to Eli-Fian, she added, “Keep your head clear. You'll need it.”

---

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I tie my hair behind my head to get it out of the way. Patrick is sitting at the table, playing a video game, the console's speaker emitting garbled explosions hits and grunts occasionally. His hair is greasy; he still hasn't showered and his cereal is soggy, long-since abandoned in lieu of the game.

“Pat, buddy, remember the school bus is here in forty-five minutes. You gonna be ready?”

Without skipping a beat in his gaming, Patrick says, “Yeah.”

Inwardly, I sigh, and ask, “You have all your things packed for a couple days at the Nelsons?”

“Yeah.”

“Toothbrush? Toothpaste? School books?”

“Yeah, mom. I got it.”

Still not fully satisfied, I let out an audible sigh this time, then open a jar of mayo to spread on the sandwich. I've made the mistake before of forgetting mayonnaise, prompting Patrick to dispose of his entire lunch and spend the rest of the school day hungry.

If only you were here to remind me.

It's been difficult since you've been gone. There are many times I collapse in the bed at night and cry silently, burying my face in the pillow, both to silence the sobs so Patrick doesn't hear, and so that I can imagine the pillow is actually you're chest. Because if it was you, if it was really your chest, I can simply bury my face in your shirt, smell your comforting body and feel your steady hard beat while you stroke my hair, then gently lift my chin as you bring your finger to my cheek to dry my tears.

But you're not here. I am. And Patrick is. Together we're facing the world on our own.

I finish adding the condiments to the sandwich, put both halves together, and slip it into the plastic bag.

Just then the doorbell rings. I place the sandwich into Patrick's lunch sack and walk toward the front door. As expected, I open the door to the Nelsons—Robert and Jamie, along with their two kids, Chris and Kayla. Robert and Jamie stand on the stoop, arms around each other. No sooner do I fully open the door before Chris and Kayla rush into the living room, calling for Patrick, who promptly responds in a mumbled monotone that he's in the kitchen.

“Morning, Rebecca, how's it going?” Robert asks, his arm around Jamie's waist.

“Hey, come on in,” I say warmly, stepping aside. “I'm just finishing up a few things before we head out.”

“Need any help?”

“No, I think I got it,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

“How long will you be gone again?”

I talk as I walk back toward the kitchen to finish Patrick's lunch. “Five days. But we'll be in Beijing only three of them.”

“Can you say why?”

“Not really.”

The unofficial policy is to not say anything. In reality, the media has been dropping hints that President Hoffman is close to a trade deal with China. Robert and Jamie already know I work for the Secret Service, so they can probably put the pieces together, but I like to be discrete to limit my liability should something go wrong.

So, like in all the other instances, Robert is perfectly fine staunching his curiosity.

We enter the kitchen. I find Chis and Kayla already at the table, perched in chairs in a way that only teenagers could invent, simply for the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Patrick's gaming fingers in action.

Jamie spots Patrick and squeezes in between her two kids, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. “Hey, Patrick, how's it going?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

“Ready to spend a week with us?”

“Yeah.”

I throw some chips and apple slices in Patrick's lunch as I call out to him. “You still have that biology project; don't forget.”

“Animal diagram due on Friday the 1st for Ms. Marsh's class. History paper due on the 3rd for Mr. Jackson's class.” He rattles off a few more dates of homework, quizzes and tests.

Half-amused and half-irritated, I sigh, and lean in, mentioning to Robert in a low voice, “He's had this notion lately that if he just memorizes the dates his teacher will give him full credit.”

But the kid has great hearing. “No I don't,” Patrick says.

I call to Patrick, “Just remember to finish it before it's due.”

“Trust me, Mom.”

I then focus on my own preparations for the day: checking email for any updates, prepping my gun, ensuring my radio has enough battery, grabbing my travel toiletries, extra clothes, and a copy of Return of the King I promise myself I'll finish reading on the flight... I'm not worried about food on this trip: thankfully, every single meal would accounted for, and if I ever get the munchies in Beijing I can use the government issued credit card to find some fine Chinese cuisine.

I consider whether or not to listen to the recording before I go—your recording. The last one I have of you. It's the only evidence the FBI was willing to give me. I've memorized it by this point: I can recite it by heart, even going so far as to memorize the exact timestamps where I hear other voices that aren't you. These I've latched onto. I even hired the services of an audio forensic analyst, but he wasn't able to ID any of the voices.

Your recording is on its own MP3 player in a locked drawer. I take it out and play the recording one last time. If it's to cement the recording, or just hear your voice one more time I'm not sure. In any case, once the recording ends, I place the MP3 player back in the locking drawer, gather my bags, and put them in a staging area in the living room.

I then check on Patrick in his bedroom. To my dismay, his bag is half-packed, and he's staring out the window. However, my motherly instinct tells me something's wrong, so instead of scolding him I opt to check in on him.

“Patrick, looks like something's bothering you. Want to talk about it?”

At first I don't know if he'll answer. He looks down and starts playing with his bed sheets. When he gets especially quiet like this I know he feels ashamed. I sit next to him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Whatever's on your mind, Patrick, you can tell me. I won't judge.”

He's silent for a few more beats, then blurts out, “I don't want you to go!”

Patrick's said this to me before, on several trips, but this time he sounds more adamant.

“I don't know if you'll come back. And we already lost Dad. What if I lose you, too?”

I purse my lips and look away. I want to say, “You'll never lose me, Patrick! I'll always be here for you!” But I also know that's a promise I can't keep. So, I take a deep breath and reassure him. “I know you're worried. It's understandable given the circumstances. But remember—the Secret Service has layers of security surrounding my team. I'll be the most guarded group in the United States government. I'll be on the most secure plane in the world. And in China, I'll have the protection of, not one, but two heavily-militarized nations.” I pause. “I understand your fear, Patrick. It's okay to be afraid. But please understand that a lot will need to go wrong for anything to happen to me.”

Patrick nods, but his body language suggests he's still not entirely convinced. I try to reassure him further. “I miss Dad, too. I miss the way he would always race you to the car, or how he would always put on a one-man Rudolph play for us at Christmas,” I can't help but chuckle. “But do you ever feel him with you? His presence? His love?”

Patrick nods, and I can tell he's starting to understand. “That's me, too, Patrick. No matter where I am, no matter what happens to me. I'll be—” I place my hand on his heart, “—here. You can tell me anything. I won't hear it—physically at least, but I'll understand, I'll listen. And I'll be with you—no matter what you're going through.”

“But you won't be here.”

“Patrick, I love you. I will always be with you. Being apart can't stop that. And...” I pause, then say it. “...me dying can't stop it, either.”

Just when I'm afraid that this is coming across as a cheesy pep talk from a Disney movie, Patrick's body relaxes. He takes a deep breath and nods. I then glance back at his bag. “I'd love to stay more, but get packing. We have to leave soon.”

Patrick nods, and gets up to continue packing.

I then usher everyone out, keeping an eye on Patrick, Chris, and Kayla as they join the other kids at the bus stop, all the while hurriedly dumping last-minute details toward Robert and Jamie's direction. “Remember, Patrick's bedtime is 8. He'll often say he's trying to find in Katie is on MySpace, but he's a monster the next morning if he gets to bed past around 8:30.”

They reassure me again and again they got it.

So, in order to not arrive late, I rush to Dulles and check in through security. Captain Tanner greets me with a salute, and I mirror a salute back. “Good morning, Mz. Carter.” He's standing awkwardly, and seems unsure about how to say something.

I'm feeling uneasy but greet him back. “Good morning, Captain.”

Captain Tanner spills the beans. “We're about an hour from departure, but Director Acker wants to speak with you first.”

“Can't it wait?”

“He was adamant he speak with you before we leave.”

I frown, racking my brain for what it could be. “Why?”

Captain Tanner shrugs. “Not sure, but he's waiting in conference room 104 in the airport.” He nodded toward the terminal.

I purse my lips and nod. “Alright, thank you, Captain.”

“He says it shouldn't take long. Don't worry: we wont' leave without you, Mz. Carter.”

I salute, turn on my heel, and take the long walk into the airport, soon locating conference room 104. I enter and shut away the sounds of the airport.

The director sits in one of the conference chairs at the far end of the table, closest to the window. He sits with his legs crossed, gingerly moving his fingers over his lips in contemplation as he looks out over the airport. On the table sits a briefcase and a manila folder. I don't know if he hears me walk in, so I'm about to cough politely when he abruptly says, “Sit down, Rebecca,” cutting through the sterile conference room silence.

I walk toward the front of the table and sit down across from him and address him. “Director.”

He turns his chair to face me. His rubbery face morphs into a smile; forced, but still genuine. “Mz. Carter, how are you feeling?”

“I'm ready, sir. I realize President Hoffman and the Cabinet has been planning this trip for months.” I cringe, knowing that, while honest, I gave a canned answer; Director Acker is a straight man, though, and expects straight answers.

But instead of calling me out, he lets the answer hang. He often does this. At sixty he knows how to hide his thoughts, letting people in his presence give away secrets with little more than the twitch of an eyebrow. Early in my career it had terrified me, but as I've worked with him more I've adapted a thick skin. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say I admire his cunning nature. I soon outgrew my nervousness around him—at least, until now.

His next question is unexpected, but caries the weight of intention. “How is Patrick doing?”

I cough to clear the nervous lump in my throat. “He's—he's managing as well as a special needs child can after losing his father.”

Again, silence.

Finally the Director lets out a deep sigh and opens the manila folder. Inside is a ream-sheet printout. He turns it around for me to see. “What do you see here?”

SAM CARTER
SAMUEL CARTER
CARTER
CARTER 2002
2002 DC WHITE VAN
2002 DC VAN

There are at least a hundred entries like this. I swallow, then say, “They look like database searches.”

The director nods. “Under your account.”

I can't play stupid anymore, I realize. The Director leans back, places his hands behind his head, and speaks before I lose my dignity. “Rebecca, the FBI closed this case last year.”

“Yes, Director, I know. With all due respect, that's why I performed the search myself.”

His face softens and he reveals a bit of his humanity behind his hardened facade. “Rebecca, I know it must be frustrating. To have your husband disappear like that, and leave no trace.”

“They didn't do enough, Director.”

“I know, Rebecca. I wish they could do more.”

“Director, if I may ask, why did you bring this to my attention now? Couldn't it wait until I get back?”

He's silent again, staring at me. Then, he says, “You searched for these last week.”

“I did.”

“And this is the third time you've done it this year.”

I nod. “Yes.”

I don't mean to get caught, of course. Despite not being officially designated as the investigation leader, I seized control of the case, determined to uncover the truth behind your disappearance. I figured, I was in a security and investigation position in the government; I had the authority to lead the investigation, didn't I (as it turned out, I didn't; not even the President did)?

And when this half-Hawaiian hot-shot started pestering the FBI, it was soon beginning to annoy them. First the FBI kept rebuffing me, telling me they were handling it; then they occasionally mentioned a lead or two they'd gotten simply so I stopped annoying them; finally no more leads came in.

Even when the case cooled to a halt I didn't give up. At the same time Director Acker was beginning to grow impatient with my extracurricular obsession. After all, my task was to protect the President, not aide the FBI in missing person investigations; and I was spending more unpaid time away from my assigned role. I was finally given an ultimatum: drop pursuing the investigation or be fired from my paid job at the Secret Service. The choice was clear: give up on finding you, or give up my sole means of supporting me and my son.

I knew what you'd tell me to do. You'd tell me to forget about you and move on with my life, maybe even consider getting married again. But, Sam, my dear, until I see your corpse with my very eyes that's not going to happen. So instead of getting fired or giving up, I opted for the gray area: I would focus primarily on on my role to protect the President, and continue my search for you—discretely.

Unfortunately, I wasn't discrete enough.

“This is a major trip for the President,” Director Acker says. “An economic treaty with China that many of our foreign enemies are not thrilled about.”

“I know, Director.”

“It's imperative that my Uniformed Division is clear-headed this week.”

“I understand, Director.”

His face says, Given recent events, I doubt it, But my face is saying, I will not back down Director Acker. Finally, he sighs. “Is your head in the game?”

I set my jaw, stare hard into his eyes, and say, unblinking. “Absolutely, Director. I am willing to defend the President at all costs. Sir.”

I swear he can see my heart beating beneath my suit. But he frowns and nods thoughtfully. Abruptly, he stands and collects the papers. I stand with him. He smiles professionally, and extends his hand, “Then it's a pleasure to have you on board, Mz. Carter. Have a safe flight.”

---

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Want to read Chapter 2?

You can read it here: https://write.as/silent-gift/shifter-chapter-2-thes-omatz

About 2 Tickets for Home. I recently watched a video by OSP on the concept of an unreliable narrator. I've heard about the concept before and considered it intriguing. Included in the video was discussion about narrative voice, too (1st person / 3rd person / etc.). Most stories I write are in 1st/2nd person. So this was my assignment: write a story in 3rd person as an unreliable narrator. And this is the story we get! 😆

Enjoy!

---

You're not home yet. In fact, while I was on my way home I got a text from you saying you were getting groceries. Really, Jenna? I think you can have gotten groceries another time. I always get them in the morning. But apparently have had clients you have to see. Rich middle aged white couples with their 3 pomeraneans who turn their nose up at their 4-million dollar house because it's not close enough to their golf course; where you don't stick up for yourself like I would and say F off, and instead opt to put on a happy face and make a sale.

I'm sitting on the couch when you get home. I have the TV on, mindlessly starting one show, then moving on to another. Then I open up one of your shows, think it's dumb, then go back to a rerun that I like. Finally, I hear you open the door, and the two grocery bags your carrying crinkle beneath your heavy sigh.

Still seating, I look toward you. “Thanks, babe,” I say.

“Yeah, sure,” you say as you set the bags down on our small dining table with a thud.

Normally I'd help you out. But today, Jenna, I was a hero. You see, today it was in the high eighties. Most of my crew called out sick. Not me. I stuck with my crew digging the ditch today so that the telephone company can lay a fiber-optic cable—or something like that. Proof that I'm not the wimp you think I am. I lie in wait for the opportunity to tell you to tell you.

But then I remember something. I remember I asked you to get boxers, since I already threw out the holey ones, and I went commando today. I get up from the couch and rifle past the lettuce and trail mix to get to them. As I pull them out I see they're the wrong brand.

You don't seem to notice my frown, but instead say, “Could you put the sugar in the top shelf? I can't reach it,” as you continue to put away a couple spices.

Sugar? Really? Did you really think I wouldn't notice? “These are the wrong brand.”

You pause, your face is flushed, and you take the package in your sudden trembling hands. “Really? Oh, my gosh, I'm sorry. I checked.”

I take it back and slam it down on the counter. “They're Ben's favorite, aren't they?” I ask.

You make an exasperated sigh and don't say anything. You continue putting away groceries.

“Stop seeing him.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Make sure of it,” I say, while at the same time, you said something like, “We have already talked about it a thousand times.”

I let you cool off from blowing up at me. After all, we still have The Office to get through. Once I think you've calmed down, I tell you news that would make you want to tackle me to the ground and make out with my naked body. “I dug a ditch today,” I announce. “In the hot sun.”

“Oh, wow, cool.”

“You mean...hot,” I say, smirking.

You barely notice as you fold up the 2 paper bags. I sit down. I then realize the sugar is still out. I get up again, and make a huge point of grabbing the sugar. Then—as you rudely demand I do—I put it away on the top shelf. Nothing but silence from you as you rearrange the fridge.

“I put the sugar away,” I announce as you throw the spaghetti in the cupboard.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Now, about Ben.” I had toyed with the idea of waiting until later, but I want you to talk with me now.

I stand up straight and confront you in the small kitchen area. you brace yourself steady against the dining table. “What about him?” you ask, and you must be reading my face, because then you say, “I just can't stop seeing him, Carl. He just got divorced.”

“Are you just gonna go with the brother lie again?”

You are about to say something, then wisely shut your mouth, looking aside. Then, you say something else. “Me getting you the wrong boxers had nothing to do with Ben.”

“What did it have to do with then?”

“I don't have a photographic memory, Carl.”

I know you enough to know that if I badger you, you're not gonna budge. Instead, I move back to the sofa. “My coworkers even remember my underwear. We talk about our favorite brands all the time at lunch. What? You and your girlfriends don't share your favorite bra?”

You don't respond. You've learned to know when I won an argument. A couple minutes later you came back into the living room, holding the long receipt next to the unopened package. “Look, I'll return them,” you say in a soft voice. “That better?”

I pause slightly, then nod. “Yeah.”

Your shoulders relax. “Thank you, Carl. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry.”

“You'll get better. Say, you wanna continue The Office?”

“I think I've had enough of the real Office,” you groan, making your way back to the bedroom. “But sure. Give me a minute to get changed into something more comfortable.”

You always changed when I wasn't around, I realize then. What were you doing? Fantasizing about Ben as you were looking at yourself naked in the mirror? A shame. Soon you'll see that I'm your man, Jenna. You'll find Ben isn't an alpha like me. Then Ben's going to be out of the picture and it's going to be me.

I already made a lot of sacrifices for you. When I lost my shift job at Amazon you were able to hold down two jobs for the bills, all the while I was discovering my passion, and was writing a book. Well, I was going to get to writing the book, but your nagging was getting in my way, interrupting my creative flow. I had a great idea about a great king, except that nobody knew he was great. The king was...I don't know...I don't remember his name. But it was good enough that I emailed a publisher about the idea and then the publisher sent an email back asking me to finish the novel as soon as I could. Not just one email, either, but a few, asking me to hurry it up. I told them good art takes time, and I'd start writing soon. But then we got in the huge fight. You accused me of just sitting on my ass doing nothing.

So I got a job like you kept nagging me to. And I had to email the publisher to tell them the bad news. They said that people you love can often get in the way of a great opportunity, which is exactly what happened. This is all your fault, Jenna. You could have been living with a famous best-selling author. Instead, you're stuck with a sweaty ditch digger.

Even as a ditch-digger, though, people recognize greatness when the see it. Like my boss, for instance. The first day on the job my boss and I sat down with me for lunch (I was told the boss never sat down for one-on-ones). Even so, we ate our lunch, talked, and laughed, and talked some more about our lives. Stuff that would never interest you. Finally, as we neared our lunch break, my boss put a firm hand on my shoulder, just as a father would. “Carl,” he said to me, “Nobody believes in you. And that's a shame. But I see you. I see you have potential, you're going somewhere. You are truly special, Carl.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and I and thanked him. I explained how even you—my partner—didn't believe in me, and he nodded. “That's a shame for your girlfriend,” he said. “But I'm here for you—whatever you need,” he said, or something like that. It was such an emotional bonding moment it's hard to remember exact details.

It wasn't just the utility job. Every every boss I had for each job had the same amount of respect for me, including Amazon. It was almost instantaneous, too. A stark contrast to how you treat me. But I hold my tongue. I'm a better man for it. I think you should try that sometime.

Finally you come out of your bedroom in pajamas. Your makeup is off, though hints of your professional mascara lingered. I'm still in my work clothes. I'm too tired to take them off. Sorry about the couch, the grease. I'll clean it off later. I promise.

“You always promise,” you say incredulously. “You mean it this time?”

“Here, if it'll make you feel better I'll put out a rag.”

I always did clean up. You never noticed when I did, even when I did it when you were in the same room; only noticed the times I didn't.

Later that night—once I clean the grime off the couch as best I can, and take a shower—I try to cuddle with you, but you say you're not feeling it.

Fine, Jenna. I try to get close to you and you push me away.

I start to think you've given up on me. But then the next day when I arrive home, a table is prepared. Candles are lit. spaghetti smelling of garlic and tomatoes have been dished out onto large plates. You're standing above the table in an evening gown, looking at me expectantly.

I'm confused. “Um, what's this for?”

“For yesterday,” you say sheepishly. “For blowing up at you.”

I takes me a second to take it all in. I didn't think you had the humility to apologize. “Wow, Jenna, thank you,” I say. Despite all the extravagant preparations, you still hesitate, bouncing your leg, looking over the table. I reassure you. “Come here. It's alright.” I approach you, and you lean onto my chest.

You sigh. “I just know you've been so stressed and you try to do so much,” you say. “It's the least I could do.” You pause, then say, “I also exchanged your underwear for the right brand.”

We both chuckle. Then, we have dinner. I'd even forgotten when you blew up at me the other night. In fact, I feel things have settled down; and—I hate to admit it—but it's starting to feel like you want to get close to me again.

Later that same week I see a travel ad for Kenya. Shots of street vendors in Nairobi, the beach in Mombasa, and wild Animals—the kind people are used to seeing on Nat Geo. You kept saying you wanted to take a trip, so I bring it up.

You walk in the door. “I'm done working with these clients!” you groan coming in the door. “They don't like anything I show them!”

“What's stressing you?”

“My clients,” you proclaim loudly. “I mean, come on! We don't have the most exciting housing market right now. I can't give you everything you're wanting”

“You want to take a vacation?”

“Tell me about it!”

“No, Jenna...” I pull out my tablet that shows a vacation special. A happy smiling American couple holding out their hands to feed a giraffe.

You sputter. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“Why not?”

“We are not going to Kenya,” you say with finality as you walk toward your bedroom.

Once you close your door I wonder if you're going out again. The other night I saw you with your “going out” clothes on. Nothing necessarily to attract another guy's attention, but I know you have your way of going undercover. Only when I took a peak out the window did I see you on the street corner waiting for a car. The driver...none other than Ben.

I'm more than patient, Jenna. I play the long game.

The next morning is my day off; but I'm in the mood to watch online videos early. So I pop on a documentary of interior design in Kenya. It's narrated by a woman with a smooth, sultry Swahili accent. I'm paying little attention to what's actually on the screen. I just wait until you walk by and say, “Oh, that's gorgeous? What's that?”

You're so easy, Jenna. “Oh, just some lady who specializes in Kenyan interior design in. Apparently the government is loosening restrictions for housing developments so developers and designers are getting more creative.”

“That's...cool,” you say with a vexed expression. You move on, but I can tell the seed has already been planted.

And soon enough, a few nights later, you say, “Okay, I might be interested in Kenya.”

“Might?”

“Yeah, I mean, it looks like a beautiful place. And, yes, most people in Nairobi speak English. But just think—what if we get stuck in a rural part of Kenya where people don't know English. I don't know Swahili and don't have time to learn.”

“Babe, it's fine. Kenya's a tourist country. Plus, you have a translator on your phone.”

You sigh. “I guess. I mean, it's such a different culture. I don't know if I can.”

But then you come around. And buy the plane tickets. I tell my boss I'll be off on vacation. He gives me a great bear hug. I hear him give a heavy, heart-felt sigh. “You've done so good around here, Carl. But don't worry, we'll manage without you for a bit. Have fun.” He even hands me a paycheck early to tide us over.

We plan our trip. Overnight flight, spend a few days in Nairobi, checking out some of the cool sights, buying some of the cheap avocados, and experiencing all Kenya has to offer. Then, once settled, we'll take a train out to Mombasa, spend a night out on a boat, splashing in the luminescent water online influencers teased us about.

On the day of our flight we arrive at the airport, get our tickets, and board our flight. It's a night flight. I hope that you cuddle with me, but you instead spend your time with headphones on, staring out at the blue Atlantic ocean until the sun sets and you fall asleep.

We soon land in Nairobi. We pick the first Kenyan restaurant we see on Google maps; this place would be crazy expensive back home, but only stretches the budget a little over here. When our meal arrives, your eyes go wide and you whisper to me, “Oh, my God, this is amazing!”

The night's only getting started!

But still, you keep to yourself. You don't trust me yet. And honestly, Jenna, I don't think you ever will. But we'll take this one step at a time.

But before dark—at the urging of our guide and locals—we check in to our rented home, breathe a sigh of relief, and go to sleep—in the same bed, but separated by that same unbreakable wall that's been between us for the longest time.

After adjusting to the people, the culture and (more so) the climate, we took the long train to Mombasa. It had a sleeper car, dining, and most amenities that a long-distance train had.

At one point we sit by an elderly couple. You talk with them. I just want to be left alone. They seem way too happy about life and way to old to have a right to be that happy, but they talk; the talk about where they grew up, the kids they had, their church friends. They ask about you—what brought you on a trip dragging me along (I react with a slight bitter nod at this comment). While you say you are currently a realtor, you also mentioned you wanted to eventually become an interior designer. And, once they raise their eyebrows with interest, you offer to show them pictures from your phone.

Realizing I couldn't pull you away from the annoyingly cheerful couple, I leave and sit by myself on another section of the car. I see a mother sitting with her kids. She's excitedly pointing out the window and her two kids are shouting, “Lion!” Looking to where she's pointing, I spot a lioness leading her pride through the shrubs, open mouths tasting the air. How stupid that the lioness hunted the prey. Females don't have the tenacity to hunt. Only males have the strength and capability to (1) travel great distances and (2) survive in the Savannah sun before pouncing on a kill that everyone thought would get away.

By the time I come back, you're still talking with the old couple, but they're teaching you Swahili. All three of you are laughing your heads off at your own pronunciation.

“Jenna, dinner,” I say. “I'm getting hungry.”

You whine toward the couple and throw in a simple, “I'm so sorry; thank you,” and they do as well.

We mostly eat in silence. At one point you burst out laughing.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, just something Mary said,” you say.

“Who's Mary?”

“The wife of the couple I was talking to.”

I pretend that I'm not bothered by that. I don't know why it even bothers me, but it does. But I'm patient. Like the lion on the hunt I saw earlier.

We finally get off the train the next morning, and take a rideshare to our rental home. The guy taking us doesn't speak a lot of English, but talks to himself in Swahili, while blasting his radio with the latest Kenyan hits, also, mostly in Swahili.

We finally arrive at our rental; we thank the driver (you in terrible Swahili) and gather our bags. While the places around here aren't a garage dump, they're certainly not Beverly Hills, either. Our place has keyless entry. We figured that would be better since the site said the host's language was Swahili.

That's not to say there weren't English speakers in Mombasa. In fact, that night we went to a local bar and ran into another couple from Scotland. We drank some with them, chatted about differences between America and Scotland, then went back to our vacation rental.

For one of the days, we skipped the rental and opted for one of the “floating hotels” that are available for tourists in Mombasa bay.

During the day it's a floating mass of food, sweat, people, and music. For the most part we keep to ourselves. You're on your phone. Occasionally your face lights up and you smiled after seeing something funny. I see you sending pictures to Ben.

I couldn't take it anymore. I turn and look at the ocean. Then look toward the shore. I see beach-goers in the distance.

Finally the sun set. You come to join me. I'm a bit startled and look at you funny.

“You said you like romance,” you say. I do. “I'm not very romantic with you and I want to start. You're too good of a man.” I smile. You're starting to come around. We fall asleep in each other's arms.

The next day our raft docks at shore. We return to our bed and breakfast in Mombasa. We spend the rest of the day in town, but mostly just taking it easy. Watching Kenyan soap operas. Using up the last of our food. We know that tomorrow we'll taking the train back to Nairobi, then rushing to the airport to take an evening flight to back home.

The next morning we eat leftovers we had for dinner the night before.

“What's been your favorite part of the trip,” I ask you.

“The boat trip was kind a cool,” you say. “I also liked talking with that elderly couple.”

That's because they have what you can never get! I think. But I smile.

“What about you?” she asks.

“I loved getting to know you more,” I say.

“Oh,” is all you respond with.

I had hopes that you'd come around by now. Then you say the stupidest thing I've ever heard from you: “I can't until we go back.”

Go back? To what? My dead-end job as ditch-digger? Your job as a crappy real estate agent? Keep in mind, this whole trip was my idea, Jenna. You just agreed to pay for it. What would we be going back to?

“Oh, don't get me wrong,” you continue. “This trip has been nice, but I'm ready to go back to normal.”

I let out the warmest smile I can manage. “Yeah, me too” I say, squeezing your hand.

You glance at your phone. “Ooh, we got 2 hours until the train leaves,” you suddenly say. “I'd better take a shower.”

“Alright. I'll start packing.”

You had already packed most of your things the night before. Mostly what I see are essentials—Keys, memorabilia, wallet, clothes, toiletries. I pack my own things first. Then, because I plan ahead, I hail a rideshare car.

Then, I take your wallet, passport, keys and phone. I put them in my bag.

Before you turn off the shower, I shut the door. The car pulls up.

“Where are you going, my friend?” the driver says in a thick accent, flashing a friendly smile.

“Mombasa train station,” I say, and shut the door. The car pulls away.

And later that evening later, I arrive back in Nairobi.

During the train trip I was imagining what it must have been like for you.

What it must have been like to get out of the shower, the towel wrapped around your body, when you would have called out for me, but heard no answer, then decided to just start packing. It must have been frustrating to pack your things, look for your phone, your wallet, and your passport, and not see them, and then call the landlord on the emergency landline phone, frantically trying to communicate across her broken English. Beyond that, my imagination goes blank. It doesn't matter. I'm on the flight, and can almost imagine you down below, perhaps stepping out of a car of a kind stranger who was just on his way to Nairobi, pointing your fists toward the sky and flipping the bird to the jetliner you know is mine.

But next to me is an empty seat. In front of me are two hot blonde girls, college age. They're bubbly, open, friendly.

“Hey, you,” one of them says. “What's a good-looking guy like you traveling to Kenya all by yourself?”

“I came with my girlfriend,” I say, “But I ditched her.”

The girl's eyes narrow and she grins. “Good,” she says, “She probably she deserved it!”

The two giggle to themselves, and then I get their numbers and save them in my phone.

And if you're wondering, no, I don't know what happened to your phone. It must have met the same dark fate as your passport and wallet, tumbling from a train window into the dark depths of a river somewhere between Mombasa and Nairobi.

And rest assured, my dear, I still wouldn't have any idea what happened to you. Not even when the plane lands, and I head back to our place. And I still wouldn't have any idea where you were, not even when your “brother” comes to the door, tears in his eyes, begging me, that if I know anything... Of course, I'll be feigning shock (you wouldn't need to worry about that) covering my mouth to complete the performance, and I'll respond with trembling lips that I had no idea, that we had decided to take separate flights back and you must have gotten lost.

And don't worry about your stuff, Jenna. That will all be sold on Craigslist. The stuff I couldn't sell on Craigslist I'll sell at an estate sale, bringing up “my late girlfriend” with an impregnated pause whenever someone asked about your computer or stack of books. And before the police ask too many questions, I have that planned, too. With the money I get from selling your stuff I'll move to another state, knowing full well it would probably be months before the American and Kenyan embassy can work together to bring you back. By then, I'll be gone.

But that's for later. For now, I'm sitting on a plane that's crossing over the Atlantic. and I'm making eyes at the two girls in front of me. You should be proud of me, Jenna. For once, I'm feeling like a man.

Ms. Avery paused and the entire class looked toward the classroom's PA speaker that had chimed once to indicate an announcement. Mr. Washington was speaking.

“Good morning, Emerson High,” Mr. Washington said cheerfully, although Evyn noted an edge was in his voice. “We've just received a notification from NASA that the sun has exploded. We have approximately 15 minutes until all life on earth is boiled alive. That is all.”

The PA clicked off.

A heavy silence fell over the class, a silence broken only by Ashleigh's shrill exclamation. “What!”

The PA chimed again. “Oh, I almost forgot. Our ladies varsity volleyball team beat Jefferson 5-0 at regional last night and they're going to face Whitney High School at state. Let's go Tigers; hear them growl,” he ended, though the 'growl' was noticeably less enthusiastic than usual.

Again, stunned silence. “This has to be a prank,” Evyn concluded.

“No, it's true,” Logan said, holding up his phone to a news page. “All news stations are reporting it.”

Ashleigh started hyperventilating. “Oh my gosh, we're going to die. I can't take it, I can't take it.”

“It must be a rather slow nova,” Devon said. Usually quiet and having an IQ off the charts, every class seating assignment gave him first dibs on the first row of seats.

“What?” Evyn asked.

“The sun is about eight light minutes from earth,” Devon explained. “ Since it will take fifteen minutes for us to meet our demise, the energy shock wave must have been low energy.”

“Shockwave? Energy?” Ashleigh asked.

“Yes,” Devon continued. “The sun's outer surface is millions of degrees Celsius; it's inner core is even hotter. And that doesn't even cover the lethal radiation that the sun produces that the earth's atmosphere protects us from.”

Asheligh groaned and collapsed on her desk.

“Devon, I don't think you're helping,” her quieter friend Meagan told Devon.

“Alright,” Ms. Avery said, getting the class's attention. “Page 86. Derivatives. Let's go.”

“We're learning now?” Evyn asked.

Ms. Avery blinked. “Why, yes.”

“Why?” Sam demanded. Everyone turned to Sam, his bulking muscular frame sat in the back, beefy neck flush with anxiety underneath his blonde hair.

“We only have fifteen minutes!” Evyn protested.

“Fourteen,” Devon corrected.

“Okay, we have fourteen minutes!” Sam said. “Why are you making us learn calculus?”

“So that when we meet our maker, we'll be that much more educated,” Ms. Avery explained coolly. “See, I already learned so much about the sun from Devon!”

“I don't want to die!” Ashleigh yelled.

“Me neither!” Logan said.

“We have to do something!” Sam declared.

“Oh, my poor pupper.” Ashleigh said, tears running down her face.. “She's all alone at home. I want to be here for her.”

Devon suddenly blurted out, “ASHLEIGH I LIKE YOU AND I WAS GOING TO INVITE YOU TO PROM.” The entire class, now stunned with silence, turned toward Devon. Devon put his hand over his mouth and turned redder than Sam's bulging neck.

Then they turned to Ashleigh, who was even redder than either of them.

“Oh, that's—that's nice, Devon,” was all she could say. Then, she said, bitterly cheerful: “But looks like prom's canceled!”

Sam stood. “No, it's not! Me and my girlfriend are going, and so are you, Ashleigh! Are we going to take this sitting down?” he roared. “Ashleigh, how long did it take you to find the prom dress?”

Ashleigh blushed. “Well, funny thing. It was actually this girl on TikTok that was showing it off, and she was doing all these crazy things like running up a wall and doing gymnastic flips in this dress. It was, like, so cool to see her do this—”

“Okay, great,” Sam interrupted. “Are you really going to let all that time dress shopping go to waste? Devon, are you gonna let our solar system's star stop you from getting an A in this class? The sun exploded. So what? This is our planet. We didn't evolve from primordial goo just to have our insides turn to plasma before Elon Musk becomes president of Mars. The sun may be bigger. It may be meaner. But we have more passion. If we all stand together, the radiation shockwave that's about to hit us won't stand a chance!” He stepped onto his desk, puffed his chest, and stood akimbo. “Who's with me?”

Nobody said anything. Not finding anyone to join his side, Sam stepped down. “Well I'm going to do something!” He took his textbook, smashed out the protective glass of the fire extinguisher, and started to leave the classroom.

“Where are you going?” Ms. Avery demanded, staring Sam down.

Sam became small all of a sudden. “I, uh, need to go to the bathroom.”

“Take the hall pass.”

“But we might die in—”

“Hall. Pass.”

Sam growled and grabbed the rubber squeaky doggy toy shaped and painted like a cherry pie with the number “3.14” markered on top. He walked out of the classroom.

“Can I go home?” Ashleigh pleaded. “My pupper needs me.”

Ms. Avery sighed, seemingly missing the word “home” in all the chaos. “When Sam gets back from the bathroom you may go.”

She became more hysterical. “I'm not gonna graduate! I bought a special dress to wear at graduation!”

“I bet the dress is gonna be...hot!” Logan said, raising a hand and high-fiving a classmate.

That caused Ashleigh to burst out crying again.

“Logan, can't you be nice to Ashleigh for even five minutes?” Meagan begged.

“Can't you have a sense of humor for even five minutes?” Logan asked.

“We're going to die in 14—”

”—10,” Devon corrected.

”...10 minutes. We can remember to be kind, right?”

There was commotion outside. That's when everyone turned to see Sam storming out into the school parking lot. He held the extinguisher close to his body and yelled out, “Say 'helo to my littel friend!” before freeing the cone and flailing the hose into the sky. Even through the window everyone could hear his threat. “You see this, sun!” Sam cried, releasing a test spray of the extinguisher. “We're more powerful than you can ever imagine! Turn back now or we will destroy you!”

“Who wants to learn derivatives?” Ms. Avery sang cheerfully.

“Aren't you at all concerned about something—like, I don't know—the sun that's gonna kill us all?” Evyn asked.

Ms. Avery was unmoved, and she scowled. “The State of Wisconsin does not pay me to be concerned about events outside of my control!” Ms. Avery said, stamping her foot for good measure. Then she smiled and said sweetly. “That said, let's turn in our textbooks to page 85.”

Devon stood up. “Well I'm concerned. And Sam's right. We can't let the sun vaporize us while we're sitting down.” He walked up to Ms. Avery's desk and grabbed her water bottle. “I'm joining Sam.”

Barely flustered, Ms. Avery kept her sweet smile. “You don't have a hall pass,” she said professionally. “You'll need to wait until Sam gets back.”

Sam, who now had the extinguisher on the ground and was flipping the bird to the sky, his entire body emitting a guttural war cry.

Devon, with a confident smirk, whirled his head toward Ashleigh, who looked sideways in embarrassment. Then Devon whirled back to Ms. Avery. He ripped off his glasses. “Consider this my hall pass!” He declared, slamming his spectacles down on the teacher's desk. Devon then marched toward the door, but ran headlong into the door frame. He sheepishly turned back briefly, before embarking again out the door, only to run face-first into a bulletin board of unreturned test papers with students' names in big red lettering. The whole contraption crashed to the floor.

Ms. Avery signed as she made her way over to her desk. She picked up Devon's glasses and extended her hand toward him. “Devon, just take your glasses.”

Devon waved his arms in front of him as he gingerly made his way over. He then took his glasses, put them on again, then regarded the class timidly. “It—it looked a lot more heroic in my head.”

He was met with awkward silence. “To battle!” Devon yelled suddenly, then charged out the room.

With nothing better to do before the sun would cut the school year short, Ms. Avery's Calculus class watched as Devon joined Sam, who was positioned, once again, with the fire extinguisher pointed offensively upward toward the sky. Devon opened up the water bottle and doused himself with half of it. “Saw this strategy in Chronicles of Riddik,” Sam explained.

“How much time is left?” Ashleigh begged in the midst of hyperventilation.

Logan held up his phone with a timer ticking down. “Less than a minute!” 45 seconds to go.

Devon checked his watch, too. He and Sam, still holding their weapons at the ready, counted down until impact. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...”

Ashleigh closed her eyes. “I can't watch!” She cried.

Logan gripped his phone, eyes wide, staring out at the window.

Ms. Avery was writing down homework; she had changed their due dates to earlier that originally scheduled.

Just then the PA chimed. “Hello, Emerson. This is Principal Washington again. Just got word from NASA again. I have good news! Apparently there was a glitch in some of the equipment. The sun didn't explode.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Mr. Washington continued. “It's still burning and will continue to burn for the next five billion years. I hope no one was doing anything drastic.”

Not too drastic, Evyn thought. He looked out the window and continued to observe Sam deploying the extinguisher foam into the wind next to Devon who was throwing the last remnants of Ms. Avery's water bottle toward the still-burning sun.

CW: violence, language, and brief sex

Inspiration

(feel free to skip to the story if you want.)

One day I was thinking about the common “girls like bad guys” trope often found in fiction. One prime example is an action/kind-of-romance film from the 70's Badlands. It does appeal to most people because it fits in with what society considers “masculine” and “feminine” traits.

At the same time, I also appreciate fiction that subverts common gender tropes. Wonder Woman subverted the “strong male hero must defend the feeble woman” trope effortlessly.

So I took it upon myself to do this with the aforementioned trope. In addition, within a compelling story, main characters must have an arc—each character has to come away with the story changed.

Using these rules, I explored this dynamic—a “good guy” is attracted to a “bad girl.” While I appreciate dark story tones, the tone of this story is darker than I anticipated.

Even so, I hope you enjoy it.

---

I rocked back and forth on my feet. My knees were cramping, too. I raised one leg behind me, and then the other. I didn't have the best shoes, but they were what the street ministry team encouraged. Why anyone in 2016 would want to talk with someone in a suit and tie was beyond me. I looked across at my partner, Amos. We both looked at each other uncomfortably and pinched our lips. He wore the same stiff suit that I wore, freshly bought from Brooks Brothers. I figured if this didn't work out I could use the suit for an interview—or a date with Jessica.

We simply waited (and prayed—right, I was supposed to be doing that) as people walked by, often quickly avoiding eye contact. This was day 2 of the ministry. I had the divine opportunity to witness to a homeless woman who I quickly found out was just talking to the air; and to engage in a heated argument to argue on the finer points of pre-mellenialism vs. post-millenialism with a grumpy old man.

Amos was able to talk with an Hispanic woman who spoke only a little English; he awkwardly invited her to the Spanish services Sunday afternoon.

I thought about Jessica. Her ministry. It sounded more practical than the one I chose. Even before she graduated high school she spearheaded an initiative working with the city to build houses for the homeless. Then she just basked in the glow of having done a good deed before the graduation ceremony.

We've gone on dates. Curly auburn hair, upturned nose. Slight frame. She spoke in a soft voice. Her temperament was even, because she said a Godly woman never raised her voice. “She's supposed to serve the church, her husband, and most importantly—God.” I have had moments where I've successfully broken through her humor wall. Just the other week during a grad party, I sat at her table, grabbed a powdered doughnut, then proceeded to puff the powdered sugar as I was chomping down on it.

Dating her wasn't a complete challenge: I felt a connection with her a few times. Mostly when we would hold hands. We both felt we were too young to kiss. But hugs were okay. And that cemented the connection. But most of our interactions involved deep philosophical discussion. A few times these even got heated. She wouldn't cry, but she would get very quiet. I would start to leave, then return and apologize.

“Will, you're out of high school. You need to set a direction in life,” my dad would tell me.

I knew it would be in ministry. But for the time being it was designing Fortnite skins. Too embarrassed to do it at home, I brought my laptop to a coffee shop, selling enough to afford a treat once in a while beyond my parents' allowance.

But here I stood in the middle of the city, and wondered if I could keep this up for the rest of my adult life. Did I care that most of these people were going to hell? Kind of...? If I was honest I was doing it mainly because I felt I should.

“Would you like a personal relationship with Jesus?” I asked a young woman who was walking with her husband. At least the ministry team encouraged creativity with the opener. I figured people liked relationships more than they liked hell.

The couple paused. The woman regarded me with intrigue, and used the free hand not holding a shopping bag to brush hair aside. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and strode behind his wife. “What?” the woman asked.

I swallowed. “Would you like a personal relationship with Jesus?”

“What religion are you?” the man asked directly.

“Um...Christian...Protestant. I belong to New Day, just down the road.” Without thinking I shoved a tract toward them. They stood there. I took the tract back. “Have you heard about Jesus?”

“Yes, plenty,” the man said, poison in his tone. The wife turned and put a hand on the man's chest to calm him.

I forced a smile and pushed. “And what have you heard?”

So many thoughts were bubbling to the surface of the man's brain, and he was having to sort out what ones to say while still maintaining his dignity. “I heard he cares about the poor, but he also wants money—like, three thousand dollars—that goes to prostitutes instead of the orphanage in Uganda.”

My face started to flush. “Oh,” was all I could say.

The man, confident in his argument, turned. His wife hid behind her hair and followed him.

I looked at Amos. He bared and gritted his teeth as if to say, “that was awkward.” I was too emotionally drained to answer back.

Fifteen more minutes went by. Three girls about my age walked past me. One had visible tattoos with brown hair highlighted with pink. Definitely unbelievers. I cleared my though. “Excuse me, would you like a relationship with Jesus?”

The one with dyed hair slowed down, stopped, and turned, causing the others to do so as well. She eyed me. I flushed. Her eyes were a friendly green, and her cheeks were fighting her coy smile. A distressed tweed jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a white tank top highlighting her youthful form. She wore leggings underneath her denim skirt. The girl approached me playfully. “Excuse me?”

The other girls stood nearby, eyeing their friend curiously.

Not used to this kind of attention, I suddenly felt warm inside. I couldn't feel my legs and I fought to gain control of my tongue. “Jesus—have you heard about him?”

With a very direct, solid tone she said, “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”

I nodded awkwardly. “Uh, yeah.”

She turned to her friends. “I'll catch up with you.”

“Anna!” one of them scolded.

She raised her hand in a farewell gesture. They got the point and started walking off.

The girl turned back to me. “What about him?” she asked. She stood casually, her hands on her hips, never breaking eye contact.

“Um...he's God's son. He...uh, paid for your sin.”

“Oh, God, do I sin,” she said in a mocking tone, rolling her eyes. “I can tell you all the shit I've done. Wanna start at age three?”

“Well—I mean—I—”

“I called a boy a bitch. Started to go downhill from there.”

I laughed nervously. There was a time for grace, but there was also a time to stand on your own two feet. “I don't think you're taking this seriously.”

“You're right. Never could take things seriously. So, what about you? What have you done that'll send you to hell?”

In the workbook, we were encouraged to prepare our own testimony. I was a pretty good kid overall. There was a time when I was a bit rebellious with my parents, so I started to describe it.

“I murdered my dad,” she said solemnly.

I looked down, preparing a word of encouragement, about how no one is too far from grace.

“Haha! I totally got you!” She said. Then she put a hand on my shoulder. “But seriously, here you are in the middle of the fucking city, wearing clothes you stole from Abraham Lincon's grave, and you're wanting someone to talk with you?”

“Well, you're talking with me.”

She removed her hand from my shoulder. I secretly wished for her to do it again. “I felt sorry for ya.”

“I feel sorry for you,” I replied softly. I needed to maintain focus.

She smirked and shook her head. Her bangs fell into her face. “You're such a fucking liar.”

“I'm being honest.”

She stepped in front of my face. I smelled her—why? Why now? I needed to keep my head clear. “You're being religious.” I started to argue, but then closed my mouth. “Good boy—you're learning,” she said. She said it very flirtatiously, not condescending at all. “What do you do for fun? Do you have hobbies?”

“I—uh—sell Fortnite skins?”

“With crosses? Holding Bibles?”

I had to chuckle at that. “No, just weird creatures. Goblins. Werewolves.”

“I'm an entrepreneur,” she said, beaming. “Of sorts.”

“Oh, that's—cool.”

She paused, and looked into my eyes. Paused for a second, then said. “Get your head in the game. Life's too short to wear a suit.” With that, she walked away. I found myself not able to keep my eyes off her legs in the denim skirt. She walked with an attractive confidence that I craved.

My head still buzzing, I turned toward Amos, who had his eyebrows raised in a “how did that go?” expression. I nodded, unsure whether I felt guilty or alive.

The evening ended quietly. My phone chimed my alarm, indicating quitting time. We were supposed to do this all week, but in shifts. I was set to take the day off tomorrow. Amos collected the remaining tracts and put them in his car. “So what was the girl talking about?” he asked. “Didn't see you praying with her.” He save me a slight smile.

“Oh...it's—nothing. She was already saved.”

“Really? Wow, she seemed really friendly. Remember, don't mix business and pleasure,” he said, winking. Then he closed the trunk, and we both got in to drive back to the church. I was later picked up by my parents.

The next day I sat in the coffee shop, making more skins and checking the statistics to see what people liked most. I was suddenly aware of someone in front of me. It was the girl from yesterday. I looked up. Unsure what to say, I just looked into her eyes.

Today she was wearing a long-sleeved dark purple shirt and jeans. “Well, well, well,” she said. That same sly grin toward one cheek. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah, I'm getting some work done today.”

“Oh, Fortnite skins?”

I nodded. She had a really good memory.

“Can I see them?”

I turned my laptop around. She took a seat beside me. I tried to hide my excitement. Tried to play it cool. It just felt so natural. I turned back to my screen. I had designed a creature that looked like a cross between a spider and a scorpion, walking like a human. Her face brightened. “That is so cool! How did you come up with that?”

I shrugged. “I guess when I was high.”

She shot me a look, snorted, then turned back to the screen.

I was unsure what to say in this situation. I then remembered Jessica. Were we exclusive? Would she accuse me of cheating if she saw me with this girl? Before I thought, I said, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Mocha,” she said, interrupting me. “Peppermint. Extra sprinkles.”

I closed my laptop lid and ordered with the barista. With my heart pounding in my chest I hoped the baristas wouldn't see who I was with...and then tell my parents. Word would get around to the church that I was dating a sinner. Then my chances with Jessica would definitely be ruined.

Once the mocha was ready, I handed it to her and set it down.

“You're name's Anna, right?” I asked. That wouldn't hurt, right? I'm just getting to know her.

“You haven't tole me yours. You do have a name, right?”

“To be honest a crack in the earth opened up and hell spat me out just the other day.” She chuckled. “Name's Will.”

“Nice to meet you, Will.”

“Why do you want to talk with me anyway?”

“You're cute.”

I blushed.

“A girl's never told you you're cute before?”

Now that I thought about it, Jessica never acknowledged it. She liked that I was driven, and that I was (for the most part) respectful. Lots of “husbandly” qualities, but she never said I was cute. For that matter, neither did I. Seeing someone as “cute” was a matter of the flesh after all, right?

“No,” I said.

I'd been warned missionary dating. Clergy told horror stories of men who would try to minister to a woman whom he was also dating, and eventually they got involved in Wiccan chants and demon worship.

But this girl seemed different. I also knew I was strong. Maybe I could leader her to Christ. “Did you grow up around here?”

She set her coffee down and settled into her chair. Thus began a conversation, a conversation in which I couldn't take my eyes off her. I forgot about my Fortnite skins. I forgot about her tattoos and died hair (or at least the fact that they were an indication of her sins). I forgot about Jessica. I forgot about my parents, and Amos, and the ministry team. I even forgot about the coffee shop we were in.

I didn't want the day to end. Eventually, coffee customers filed out. 4PM. Closing time. Anna and I were the only ones left.

I packed up my laptop. Anna and I continued talking. We walked toward the door. I was about to open the door, like a gentleman, but she aggressively pushed ahead of me and opened the door herself.

I thought about scolding her. But after our talk, I realized that would be useless. Instead, I bowed deeply. “Why thank you, my dear,” I said in a fake British accent.

“My pleasure!” she yelled jarringly.

We both laughed. For once in my life I felt...seen. Like I was connecting with someone.

We were about to head off in different directions, but she stopped me. “Tomorrow, some of my friends are having a party,” she said. “End of the summer fling. You know. I want you there.”

“I—”

She pulled out her phone. “I'll give you my number.”

I sent her a text so she got it. “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “I'll give you the details.”

Amos certainly noticed I wasn't in my suit. I said I accidentally spilled coffee on it and it was at the cleaners. “Souls are more important,” I said.

I'm not sure if Amos noticed me disappearing halfway through, dumping my handful of tracts in the trash, or when I boarded the bus, nervously riding my way to Anna's party.

The house was on a gravel road about a quarter mile off the bus route. By the time I got there the sun was starting to set.

I wondered if I'd miss the house number, but soon found out the house number was irrelevant, as loud music disturbed the serene nature of the rural gravel road.

I approached the rustic 2-level house. I slowed, peering inside the window. People were standing in groups holding red Solo cups. I heard loud talking. Occasionally someone would guffaw, throwing their head back, their laugh audible from where I stood.

I opened the door, and the already heavy atmosphere washed over me. Anna, in the middle of a conversation with friends, did a double take in my direction, then walked over, beckoning me as she did. “Will! Over here!”

She hugged me. But not like Jessica. She wasn't being careful with how I might interpret the gesture. Her arms formed to the crook of my back, and my arms flowed nicely over her nearly-bare shoulders. I felt a rush when my hands touched her tank top and bra strap.

The embrace lasted a moment, but the endorphins stayed with me. “Will, come on, I want you to meet some people.” She led me by the hand (we're holding hands!), and she introduced me to gamers. While I wouldn't consider myself a heavy gamer, I liked hearing about some of the campaigns the other gamers went on. Even so, my eyes kept darting back to Anna.

I soon found myself alone, out on the back porch with a drink in my hand (don't worry, Pastor Dave...it's just grape soda), feeling the cool night air over my skin. I didn't know these worldly people could be so—so—loving. They didn't pray. They didn't talk about the Bible. But to them I was already family.

I smelled the sharp musk of a cigarette. Turning to my right, I saw a young woman pull a cigarette from her lips. I studied her profile in the moonlight. Anna.

She turned, flicking some ash of the end. She approached me, and I took a reserved step back. “You don't like cigarette smoke,” she proposed.

I nodded curtly. She extinguished the cigarette on one of the deck benches and left it there, then continued her progression over to me.

I took a step closer to her, too. What was I doing? I was praying. Or was I? What I was I praying for? For salvation from this situation? For God to miraculously part the ground and have us physically separate? God, please, don't let that happen. I just need a taste!

I fought my urges, and eventually held her shoulders. She closed her eyes and smiled. “Closer,” she whispered.

I stepped closer, my hands wrapping behind her small back. She reached up and put her hands around my neck.

Why was she doing this? Was she asking for—? Only one way to find out. Despite the smell of cigarettes lingering, I leaned in, placing my lips on hers. She didn't back away. Was this possible? Did she really want me to do this? I had to stop. I had to stop. This wasn't me. This wasn't me at all. But I had to keep going. I kissed her a few more times; by now alarm bells were blaring in my brain; I gasped and stepped away.

I've seen chick flicks where girls would be offended by men frightened by intimacy. Anna wasn't. She was amused, keeping her eyes one me, and maintaining a coy smile. “First kiss?”

She knew me too well. What would Jessica..?—oh, what the hell! I nodded and smiled. “I didn't know what to—think.” I turned. “Was it yours?”

Her smile turned into a smirk and she put one hand on her hip, as if to say, “Do you really need to ask?” “You're probably the four hundredth guy I've kissed. Just wait until you hear about the fucking.”

I didn't want to know. Or maybe I did. I wasn't sure anymore. I needed time to think. I eyed the grape soda, briefly wishing it was alcohol. I looked at Anna again, who was unmoved from her position. “It's getting late,” I said, “I think I need to head home.”

When I did head home, though, I was greeted by my parents, sitting on the couch. Whenever they sat on the couch past 8PM that was never a good sign.

“Amos said you left today,” my dad said.

My heart beat faster. I thought of Anna. Her lips.

“Okay,” was all I can muster.

“Did you leave?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Where'd you go?” Mom asked.

“I said I don't want to talk about it.”

“William!” my dad said.

That made me stop. I should have kept going. A part of me still wanted to pay for my sins. This was my surely my penance. I feel I deserved it.

My dad continued. “Would where you went please God?”

“Dad, I'm eighteen.”

“You're still our son. We care about you. God cares about you.”

Mom tried to take a softer approach. “If there's anything you need to tell us—if you're doing weed or meth—we're here for you. We'll help you get out of it—without judgment.” My dad nodded in agreement.

“Thanks,” I said, and continued up the stairs. I felt like I was penalized enough for my sins for the night. I would just have to take a break from Anna. I mean, I could just limit our interactions to text conversations. In fact, I remembered we had a pizza and movie night for young adults at the church. I could bring her along. I would have to be careful about PDA, for sure. What was the movie? Pirates of the Caribbean? In any case it would be a chance to talk to her about Jesus.

The next day I found out that would have to wait. Pastor Dave asked me to come into his office. Amos was there. Mom was there, too. Amos looked nearly fuming. Pastor Dave sat regally (after all, he was the senior pastor). Mom looked to be the softest—just there simply because Dad was working.

And they discussed what I had feared: my skipping the ministry, brushing off my parents, and—yes, the girl.

“I want you to read this book,” Pastor Dave said toward the end, handing me a thin paperback. “When I walked away from the Lord, it helped me.”

I took it mechanically. “Thanks.”

We ended the session with prayer.

“I'll be heading to the coffee shop,” I said, throwing the book into my backpack. I imagined it wouldn't stay here. I imagined it would end up in the garbage. Before I left my mom asked me to make good choices.

As I was waiting for the bus, Anna send me a text. “How ya feeling?”

The coffee shop could wait. I needed a friend I could talk to.

Eventually I found myself seated on her creaky futon, leaning forward. I didn't feel like leaning back.

Anna wore jeans and a white tank top, legs spread flagrantly over an easy chair. She sometimes took a sip of soda. Surprisingly the living room she shared with her friends didn't smell like cigarettes, though it looked as if Picasso's thirteen-year-old daughter was tasked with decor.

“It seems like your parents really care about you,” she said.

“Yes but—”

“You want your freedom.”

Damn. (Oh, sorry!) She knew me well.

She sighed. “I get it. It's a parent thing. My mom and dad do it to me. Had a talk the first time they saw me making out with a girl. Now I just say fuck off and hang up the phone. That, and if they talk about Trump.”

I smiled. “It's like...I don't want to abandon Jesus.”

“You don't have to abandon yourself.”

“I kinda do, though.”

“But since meeting me you feel more alive, don't you?” She paused, letting that sink in. “I gave you your first kiss!” she said, beaming playfully.

“I do, but—”

“Stop lying to yourself. You're not perfect you know. You fuck up just as much as me.”

I had to admit that I did. Her phone on the floor chirped. She leaned over and unlocked the screen. Her face brightened. “Oh my God, Will, you have to see this. Come here.”

Tentatively, I got up from my seat and walked over. She stopped me. “Okay, just promise you won't tell anyone, alright?”

I shrugged. “Uh, okay.”

She showed me a video. It was from cell phone footage. A driver in a hat and sunglasses displayed a wide-mouthed grin. “Dude, this guy's getting fucked!” he said, pointing his thumb behind him. The passenger holding the phone pointed the camera out the car window, toward a storefront. It was difficult to see at first, but figures were inside, moving about. Then, a man ran out of the establishment, carrying a duffel bag. He stumbled once, then got up and continued running. A dark-skinned angry man appeared in the doorway. Suddenly Will noticed the man with the duffel bag also had a gun in one hand.

The driver burst out laughing, as did the passenger. The man with the duffel bag ran to the car and opened the door. “Go! Go! Go!” the passenger with the camera said, and the car sped away. The store owner simply stood outside outside the store, brazenly shouting obscenities.

“Isn't that funny?” Anna exclaimed.

I tried to smile.

“Kevin really knows how to get the most shit.”

“So, wait you—”

“Told you not to tell anyone.”

“Or what?”

She leaned in close and whispered. “I'll track you down...and kill you.”

I should have been freaked out. I should have run out of there, called the cops. I should have told Pastor Dave, asked for forgiveness. I should have repented, prayed, stayed in the Word.

But I, again, felt the rush of feeling alive. Anna had that—that spark—that passion.

After all, surely she was joking. I rubbed her back. “After I kill you first.” She cackled like a cat, browsing through her phone. “Hey, real quick! A selfie!” She held up her phone in front of us.

I stayed there the rest of the day. Cooked a meal. As the clock struck 9PM I realized I knew I needed to get back home. My parents would undoubtedly be waiting for me on the couch again. Anna gave me a kiss before I walked toward the bus stop.

They were watching TV, but my dad ended the night with, “We need to talk tomorrow.”

I sneaked out almost every day, going on adventures with Anna. At one point I even saw her in her panties, she was that comfortable changing in front of me. I couldn't bring myself to cover my eyes. Yet she didn't pressure me into sex. I don't think I would live with myself if that happened, and she knew it.

I ended up missing dates with Jessica. She started to sound annoyed in texts. I wondered if this was her way of raising her voice.

My times with Anna were wonderful, magical. We did whatever. We watched movies. We danced to her favorite music. We make cookies. We made out on her couch. We hung out with her roommates, playing Cards Against Humanity, my arm never leaving her waist.

I got a text a few weeks later. “Come meet me by the dog statue in Washington Park.”

I did. She gave me a big kiss. “Do you love me?”

I'm pretty sure I'd said that a few times the past few weeks. So, yes, I definitely did.

“You also told me you hate your uncle, the owner of Unger & Sol?”

Well, I didn't exactly hate him. But I did tell her how he screwed my dad by promising a return on investment if he invested in the firm. It was a dry spell for his company. Now Unger & Sol was thriving, owning thousands of franchises from electronics stores to supermarkets. My uncle (the Unger part) has yet to share a cent.

“Well,” Anna continued, her hands remaining around my neck. “Today's the day you can get the money for your dad.”

I gasped. I would never—! Well, that wasn't true. And my parents were being (okay, I'll say it) asses, nagging me about coming home earlier. Maybe finding a blank check from a mysterious stranger for the amount he's owed would be a nice distraction.

Anna kept looking at me. She could see my wheels turning.

A beat-up Nissan pulled up. Two guys waved to Anna. They were the driver and passenger from the video.

Anna greeted them (thankfully, not romantically). They laughed and joked, and I heard mention of “Marty's Drug” and “equipment.”

I was just about to walk away when Anna skipped up to me, planted a huge kiss on my lips, then asked, “So, are you coming?”

She took my hand. I followed her. She and I took the back seat. The car smelled unusually fresh for people who stole for a living. Wait—did I finally name it? Was Anna a professional thief?

And what was I doing? What the hell was I doing? Seriously? A wide grin crossed my face. Anna must have seen it. She displayed an open-mouth grin, and laughed, tongue wide in delight.

We pulled up to Marty's Drugstore. “Guess I'm up,” Anna quipped.

Wait, she was, the—!

Anna took a gun from the passenger and stuck it in her jeans. “Remember,” the driver said, “at least $2,000.”

Anna scoffed. “Please, I can get that with pennies I find on the ground.”

I was about to reach for Anna's hand, but she was already out the door. All I could do was wait. My feet bounced nervously on the floor of the car. The other two men sat patiently. They might as well have been waiting for a parade to start. They started talking about their personal lives. Gus had a 3-year-old daughter. Stephen was studying to be an architect.

“So, Will, what do you do?” Gus asked.

“Fortnite skins,” I squeaked.

“Oh,” both said, nodding in unison.

Gus pointed to a motion in the store. Anna running. She was carrying plastic bags of small boxes—looked to be medicine and small equipment. She was grinning ear to ear.

“Will! Open the door!” Gus demanded. Moving through putty, I reached over and opened the other door. Anna jumped in, threw the bags in between us. “Go! Go! Go!”

We didn't head back to the park like I had hoped. I waited in the car while Gus and Stephen met a guy under an overpass, handed the guy the bags, and got a wad of cash counted out.

Stephen counted out the cash, giving us an equal amount. “And you get $628,” he said to me. “Not bad for your first rodeo.”

As we drove back to the park, the wad of cash sunk lower into my pocket. With a few more jobs like this I could pay back my uncle's money. I would just need to do it anonymously and make it look like it was from my uncle. But even that penance wouldn't make up for the immense guilt and shame I felt.

Did I deserve to go to hell?

Anna reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said. “You did great today.”

Again, I felt a rush that covered over that guilt and shame.

While I spent time with Anna I continued to join her in her little “quests.” Gus and Stephen didn't join every time. Kevin joined sometimes. I helped where I could as we robbed small establishments, never visiting the same place more than once. They were getting pretty close to being done with one area of town, then a previous area they covered would get a slough of new businesses.

I hid money where I could. I soon had $5,000 saved, in addition to the $1,000 that I had in mind to secretly give Dad. I ignored the pestering of my parents, the calls for repentance from pastors. I even got the “Who are you? You've changed” talk from Jessica, who was now begging for me to join her on her next housing project.

I got my license, and Anna promoted me to driver. One time we robbed a convenience store together. She performed the theft, while I waited for her. I couldn't stop laughing. So I laughed, then I settled down, but then her laughter would start up again, and she'd kick her feet up and down in excitement, then I would giggle, doubling over the steering wheel in glee. And this would continue until we were both in tears, leaving the vehicle parked in Gus's driveway.

When summer rolled around again I was actually well off enough to be looking out for a new place...for both me and Anna, of course. Church was a memory, and my parents' nagging was now background noise.

We still weren't intimate. I still wouldn't feel right drinking or smoking pot, but I allowed her to whenever she wanted, and was getting used to the smell of cigarette smoke. It was even comforting. Because wherever Marlboro was, Anna was there, too.

We finally planned on a heist will all five of us, crammed in the car. Me, Anna, Gus, Stephen, and Kevin. Kevin liked to take the big ones, and he suggested the pharmaceutical lab right close to the bay. He expected we could easily get between $500,000 and a million.

Again, I was commissioned as the driver. Gus was demoted, and didn't mind in the least. My nickname was Speed Demon, after all.

I arrived, and dropped everyone off. This was an all-hands-on-deck, so nobody except the driver (me) waited in the car. Anna and Gus crouched behind a wall, waiting for Kevin and Stephen to disable security. Finally they disappeared.

I waited for several minutes. This turned into a half an hour. Then, I jumped when I heard an echoy gunshot. Then another. After a few seconds I heard a few more. Then it was quiet.

My heart pounded. Should I wait? For how long? Was I in danger now? My eyes were wide, scanning the building facade for any type of movement. Finally, I saw Anna, supporting Gus, who was bleeding from his stomach.

Anna reached the back passenger door, opened it, and guided Gus inside. He groaned, holding his oozing side. She got in the car, too, demanded, “Go! GO!”

“What about Stephen and—”

“Just go!” she screamed.

I hit the accelerator. I found out later they were dead. Anna stayed in the back, putting pressure on Gus's wound.

“Should we go to a hospital?”

“Fuck no!” she cried. “We have to get out of here!”

“But we don't have any money,” I shot back.

Anna hadn't considered this. “How much money do you have saved up?” she yelled. She must have moved, because Gus grunted.

“About ten at this point. Eleven” (Sorry, Dad)

“Good enough. Your house is on the way out of town. We'll grab it.”

I soon got to my place, set the car in park, then put my entire focus on getting to my bedroom. I paid little attention to what my parents were doing. I grabbed all my cash, stuck it in a backpack, and headed back down the stairs.

My dad stood in the way. I stopped cold. “Where are you going?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

“Nowhere. Just leave me alone.”

“Will, talk to us—we—!”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” My own voice surprised me. It was the voice of a monster. But at the same time it was thrilling. “I hate you! Get out of my way, you piece of shit!”

Suddenly my dad's face turned pale. His shoulders fell. He stepped back away from the door as I charged outside.

Hot tears touched my cheek; I wiped them away, and jogged toward the car that I had parked about a block away. Anna was still in the back seat. By this point she was covered in blood. Gus's eyes were getting heavy. “You got it?” she demanded.

“Yes,” I said, choking back tears.

“Then get us the fuck out of here!” she ordered.

My foot was heavy—I forced it to press down on the accelerator. My arms were rubber. I gritted my teeth, grunted. I tried everything to leave my parents behind. My dad's face stuck with me. Whenever I blinked I saw the sorrow. I wished I could drive back and wrap my arms around him, apologize, tell him everything.

But I couldn't. I'd already made that choice.

“Gus! No! Gus!” Anna screamed.

Once outside of town in a quiet area, we disposed of Gus the best we could. Underneath a drainage ditch by a creek. As we stood there in silence a moment I remembered he had a daughter.

Anna started to cry, wipe tears away, then noticed the dried blood on her arms. “Aw, shit,” she said, and started to wash herself with rocks in the creek.

I stood there, watching her. I tried to get a thrill from looking at her butt, at her waist. Anything to distract me. But I felt nothing. No, I felt something. Fatigue...regret.

After a few minutes Anna shook her arms. Most of the blood was off. Her arms were red from scraping them with a rock. “That's the best I can do. Let's get going.”

We drove until the forested areas gave way to desert farmland. Then desert nothing...the kinds of areas where you wonder who owns the land, and what would happen if you wandered onto it.

We soon found out. Nothing happens. Even if you collect sticks and build a fire...nobody's gonna bother you.

“Gus had a daughter,” I said, breaking the silence between us.

“Can we not talk about him?” Anna asked. “Please?”

I waited. “Then what should we talk about?”

“God, I don't know! Something fucking nice for Chrissakes!”

The venom in her voice hit a nerve. I started to cry.

Anna looked over. She softened, and reached out to my hand. “I'm sorry.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

I threw my hands in the air. “This! This life. Robbing places!”

“It's what I know.”

“I hate it.”

“Today wasn't normal. We went in blind.”

Another fountain of tears burst from me. “I told my dad I hated him.”

Anna was silent for a while. The fire crackled. She reached down to play with the sand.

“I'm—sorry,” she said.

“No, you aren't!” I seethed. “Shit, Anna. You act like you know me but you don't!”

“And I'm just a fucking whore to you!” she spat, and stood up, walking into the darkness.

Another flood of emotion washed over me, the fire crackling a foot away. Again, I was alone. Wherever Anna had gone, I didn't know. At that point I didn't care.

I wanted Jessica back again. I wanted the safety of the church, the comfort of my friends. Who could I go back to? Who would even want me anymore?

Only Anna did. She was the only one who truly cared about me.

Minutes later I calmed down, drained of energy and emotions. I looked for Anna. I found Anna sitting on a rock, facing away from the fire. When she turned to me, the glow of the fire glistened off her tears.

“I never told you about my dad,” she said in a whisper.

I knelt down, and rubbed her shoulders. She started sobbing again. “He was there for me. My mom—she was religious. Forced me into church functions. Literally smacked a Bible over my head.” she slapped her hand for emphasis, and sniffed, wiping her nose. “The courts wouldn't do anything. Because they found little cause for abuse. My dad couldn't bring himself to divorce her. But he wanted to legally get her as far away from me as possible.

“No restraining order, but my Dad still tried. He encouraged me to spend time at other peoples' houses. Would try to get my mom out of the house to spend time with me. But being at other peoples' houses, I started to get friends. Finally. I started to feel like myself. Finally.

“But I also started to be a regular teenage self. Sassing him. Cussing him out. Eventually, I said I—” the words caught in her throat. “—that I hated him. I ran away. Lived the two girls who wouldn't judge me.

“My dad still tries to reach out to me. Sometimes texts me and puts in lyrics to the pop songs he'd hear me sing. God, I was going to be the next American Idol, wasn't I?” She laughed and shook her head. “It's like he knows details nobody else knows. Why the fuck would he do that?”

“It seems like he wants to reconnect. He loves you.”

She shot me a glance. Her eyes were daggers. “He's trying too hard.”

“He's trying the best way he knows how.”

Anna looked down suddenly. “I—I guess you're right.”

I guided Anna to her feet. “Let's get closer to the fire. Ooh, looks like it's starting to go out. When I was involved in church,” I said, looking for a good stick in our stockpile as Anna lay back against a rock, “there were many stories of reconciliation. Old friends angry at each other. Brothers. Parents and children. I always found hope in those stories.”

“Why's that?” Anna asked.

“It's like—you never know when you're going to go—or when the other person is going to go. We like to pretend we'll live forever. We treat family like shit. We don't appreciate when they're here. So love becomes hate. We end up hurting those we love.” Again, flashback to yelling at my dad, not even ten hours before. “It sucks. So then we feel guilty. And we act like we can never reconcile. That we can never make things right. But there is always time to go back and reconcile. Why leave a relationship sour if you can mend it? Right?” I turned to Anna. She was pouting, lost in thought.

I joined her on the ground. “You can still reconcile with your dad,” I said. “It's not too late.” Or was I talking to me?

She turned to me, her eyes piercing. She was ready to fight. I imagined her screaming profanities at me, hitting me, but she just stared at me—breathing. “You—” she began, and her face broke into tears again. “—you are a better person than I'll ever be.”

She crawled over to me, and we embraced. There was something about the desperation of our situation. Our locale of open desert. The doors that we thought we had nailed shut. But all inhibitions broke loose. I drank her in. She begged for me. We cried, we laughed, we sighed, we lay under the starlight, naked.

Again, guilt rose to the surface. And I understood, finally. This was not who I was. While I had said “fuck you,” to my dad, I said “fuck you” to myself a long time ago. And here I was, miles away from how I saw myself. Driven by someone's need for me.

Was Anna feeling the same?

When it got too cold, and the fire died out, I put my clothes on, wrapped a sleepy Anna in some spare blankets from the car, carried her to the driver's side, and got in beside her. I fell sleep within a few minutes. It wasn't until the sun broke the horizon that I opened my eyes.

Anna, hair disheveled, was already awake. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I pushed aside any guilt or shame I felt from last night. “Good morning,” I said.

Anna was stoic. She looked down at her lap, then at the sunrise. “I can't do this,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Anna breathed heavily. She looked down, then back at me. “Last night. I'm not talking about crime. I can do that. I just can't do—us.” I was speechless. I waited for her to continue. The silence hung over us. “You've changed, Will. I remember when we met. You were so—stiff. I softened you up. I wanted to see that playful you. I thought I did. I wasn't trying to manipulate you into this whole robbery thing. No, I really do have feelings for you. I would even say...I would even say I love you.

“I thought you were different. I thought you had abandoned yourself and that you were wild and free to do whatever. That you finally weren't yourself and I truly had someone I could see myself with forever.” A fuel truck traversed the highway, its chrome frame catching the morning sun. I was grateful for the break in the heavy silence.

“But then there was last night. You—” her voice came out thin. “—broke me.” She swallowed. “I've never shared that about my dad with anyone. No one. And I didn't because of what you did. Because you got in my head and you were talking about it so fucking selflessly!” She struck the seat cushion. She regarded me in silence for several seconds, then said, “You're not the man I thought you were.” Again, she sat there.

This was news, and my mind was reeling with how I felt. And what I could tell her. So many thoughts were clamoring for attention. I wanted her. But I didn't. Things were moving fast. We're on the run. Four guys just got killed. We made love last night. I miss my parents. What the hell was I going to do?

Again, Anna spoke, but she started shifting her weight away from me. “I'll give you the car. Our journey together ends here.” She opened the door and stepped out. I moved over to the driver's side, when Anna ducked her head inside the window. “And don't follow me,” she said, maintaining eye contact. After a few seconds she looked away, and turned, walking away from the car.

I think I saw her wipe a tear from her eye. Please, please turn around, I begged. I want to see your face one last time.

While part of me thought of following her, I knew that wouldn't do any good. Instead, I sat in the front seat of the car, and watched her walk down the desert road. She soon became a dark figure, blending in with the mirage of the desert morning. Then, a pickup truck drove by. Up ahead, it slowed. The small figure in the distance disappeared. The truck sped up again.

I exhaled and closed my eyes. All the tears I could have cried were gone.

I drove back home, thinking how far I'd come. Thinking about Anna.

I like to think that she's somewhere safe. Not just safe physically, but safe emotionally as well. I like to think that she rode with a kind old truck driver, who noticed her disposition and asked what's wrong. I like to think she opened up to her, and that, maybe, the truck driver gave her encouragement.

I like to think Anna continued robbing stores, but that each time she did, the thought of me tugged at her, and the desire to reconnect with her father. I like to think each time she sold merchandise to the black market, each purchase she made, that the emptiness she felt widened.

I like to think she spent nights sleeping with strangers, each time asking deep questions about who she was, never being satisfied with the answers her partners gave. I like to think she would extinguish her cigarette, and ask the guy to leave her room.

I like to think that on a dark, lonely night, when the wind was howling, when she was alone, by herself, that she thought of her father. And reconciliation. I like to think that the next morning she hitchhiked her way to town, took the bus, and arrived at her father's door.

I like to think she knocked on the door. Maybe a dog barked. Maybe her father scolded the dog. Would the sprinkler be on? Would kids be playing in the street?

I like to think her father opened the door, and that he was taken aback for a second, disbelieving tears filling his eyes.

I like to think they embraced, and that her father cried tears he'd abandoned just to move on. I like to think Anna was just as emotional, holding tightly to her dad, telling him how she loved him.

I like to think they spent time together. I wouldn't know how much time. I hoped it was enough. Because what I did—I did something I hadn't done in a while, except with Anna. I told the truth. I told my parents. I told the police. My church disowned me, and I began serving prison time.

Wherever Anna was (in prison, most likely) I like to think that she was truly living with integrity.

Because I've found it's miserable not to.

CW: brief language and violence

The K-Pop drowned out the sound of the vehicle. Even with the sunglasses, Tucker had to continually squint as the low September sun filtered through the tree limbs. The placid, predictable concrete of the city was miles behind him, replaced with the wild, untamed...whatever this was. Trees? He guessed.

In between songs he caught glimpses of his father's music—quite a variety, he observed, but still not really what he liked. His phone chimed. A message from Heather. “So no hangout?” she asked.

He wanted to pour all his feelings into this message, but didn't. Instead, he cleared the screen, put his phone in his lap, and continued to look out the window.

It wasn't long before the car slowed and turned down a gravel driveway. They were plunged into the dense woods, and the day turned into a faux night until Tucker's eyes adjusted. He thought about sending Heather's chat reply just then, but he was out of service. He wondered if Uncle Henry had WiFi.

His dad tapped him on the shoulder, then tapped his ears. Tucker reluctantly took his earbuds out and put them back in the charging case. “You excited?”

Tucker shrugged. At least his dad had the decency to turn the radio off.

“I feel ya.”

“I could have just stayed at home.”

“We talked about this.”

“I know.”

“You're not old enough.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Soon though,” his dad said with a smirk. He always tried to lighten the mood with these kinds of serious talks.

They passed by a rusted—something. Tucker thought it looked like a robot with teeth on the bottom. Probably an abandoned project from the 1920. At this point moss had claimed it.

The car finally stopped and Tucker's dad turned off the engine. Tucker's skin tingled from the absence of asphalt of the 2 hour car ride. He and his dad got out and stretched their legs. The lake was visible through the fall foliage. The air was a few degrees colder than on the road.

His Great Uncle Henry—from Tucker's dad's side—was already out the door. The two men greated each other warmly. Despite being a recent inductee into the 90's, Uncle Henry was pretty mobile, still not needing a cane or walker. His wife, Nancy, died ten years earlier after being bed-ridden for nearly three years.

But Uncle Henry's appearance still mirrored that of his dad's and—annoyingly—his own. Although Tucker still didn't sport the pure white beard of his great uncle or the peppered one of his dad he was still cursed with the wide jaw and pronounced underbite. One thing he did have going for him was the sparkling eyes, that grew more jovial with age.

Tucker still kept a stoic face, thinking back to a good reply to Heather. As his father and great uncle continued to catch up, he wandered around to the side of the house to take a look at skeleton of the addition. Fresh lumber was already encased in plastic sheets, and the outline of a stairway snaked around the outside of the walls. Moister was on the wood, but Tucker still smelled the fresh timber.

His dad and uncle were actually discussing the project right now, Uncle Henry waving his finger toward the work progress, mentioning “vacation rental” and “before the good Lord takes me out.”

Okay, yeah, Tucker admitted, this would be a neat place to have a vacation.

But not when your original weekend plans were to hang out with a cute girl.

“Tucker,” Uncle Henry beckoned. “I just baked a pie. Come on in and have some.” His dad was already up the porch and inside the house. Uncle Henry looked back coyly, and said, “And I have some beer for ya,” only to be met with Dad's scolding, “Henry!”

Inside the two men continued to talk about life, leaving tucker to hang out by the unusually comfortable couch. A slice of pie was eventually brought to him. “Sorry, burned the crust,” Uncle Henry apologized, as he did every time he cooked the pie. He swore by his late wife's cherry pie recipe, but was never able to execute on it.

Tucker remained by himself, scrolling through his phone, waiting for a signal, and trying to seem like he was listening to the conversation. Eventually he grew bored after finishing the pie and trudged upstairs.

The room his uncle usually set aside for him was cluttered. At first it just looked like trash, but upon closer inspection Tucker noticed the yellowed pages, the typewriter font, the faded pictures of a 20-year old Nancy, glammed up and smiling broadly at an angle toward the camera.

And a revolver, just lying there.

And...a detonator?

After recovering from his early-stage heart attack, Tucker recalled—Uncle Henry did espionage work for the CIA in the late sixties and and into the seventies. It never really interested him much. But there was something about seeing the old work stuff, in person, that piqued his interest.

“Oh, that stuff, meant to clean it up,” Uncle Henry said, who had appeared beside him. “But you can stay in this room for the time being.” Uncle Henry led the way to the room across teh hall.

“So you did some spy shit?” Tucker asked.

“Watch your damn mouth.”

“Sorry. You were a spy?”

Uncle Henry opened the door to the adjacent room. Cold air rushed out. “Yes, I thought I told you about it.”

Tucker shrugged. “I guess you did when I was younger.” Tucker's dad called out a farewell to both him and Uncle Henry. Uncle Henry replied. Then Tucker said, “Did you ever kill anyone? Like 007?”

Uncle Henry smiled. “No. I was lucky.”

“You ever almost die?”

“Yes, one time in particular.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“Yes, but first, I want to get your help getting the walls up on the addition outside. I'm hoping we can finish before the sun sets.”

Tucker sighed and his shoulders dropped. “You got any WiFi yet?”

Uncle Henry wasn't phased. “No.”

Tucker shrugged. He could either sit on his bed bored or help his Uncle out. “Okay, fine.”

Tucker grabbed his duffel bag, threw it on his bed, then donned some fall gear to combat the cold. When he ventured outside, the sun had already set behind the hill and cast an evening red onto the lake.

“Over here!” Uncle Henry called, three nails hanging from his lips.

Eventually the lure of the Internet-connected world wore off, and Tucker was even tempted to conclude that it was therapeutic to help his great uncle. Mostly he just held boards in place as Uncle Henry nailed them, trying not to laugh any time Uncle Henry smacked his thumb and threw a flurry of obscenities. “Don't tell your folks I said that,” he would say after the pain wore off.

But soon Tucker would have to squint to see what they were doing. “Well, we have a few more boards, but we can finish in the morning. Let's grab some more of that pie.”

Instead of sitting at the dining table, Uncle Henry brought the pie tin up to the room with the scattered paperwork. “It's alright—all this is declassified. The worst that you could do with it is get a scammer trying to buy it on eBay for free. Here, try to eat the pie over here. I don't want it to mess anything up.”

Now Tucker was able to take a closer look at some of the papers. Most of the writing was in either Russian or German. Some French. Uncle Henry was a busy guy.

Tucker reached for a folder when Uncle Henry beat him to the punch, abruptly yanking it out of the pile and raising an eyebrow. “First,” he said, opening the folder. Inside was a fuzzy black-and-white photograph of a man in a trench coat, about to cross the street. Balding except for a strong ring of hair. Sunglasses. Tucker thought of joking that they needed zoom-and-enhance in the seventies.

“The most dangerous mission,” Uncle Henry said, settling himself into a chair. Tucker leaned against the wall, picking up his pie. “You have to remember, my only job was intelligence. I wasn't supposed to take this guy out; Bedivere Filipov. I was supposed to find the name of his major customer.”

“How'd you do it?”

“He was a Russian weapon's dealer post Cold War. Didn't like how the Cold War fizzled out. So I thought, 'Weapon's dealer. What if I was a weapon's supplier?' I worked closely with other Russian spies to establish a business, and feed a paper trail to make it look like I'd been around since the thirties. The ruse worked. We got our man. Filipov did it covertly, but we were able to set up an appointment.

“We didn't want to risk having a wire or anything surveillance-related. Filipov was powerful and had many layers of security. I would have to go in without any protection or wire, get the info, and get out.”

“Were you scared?”

Uncle Henry nodded. “But I had to do it. Lives were at risk. So on the date of our meeting I got through every level of security. My heart was pounding. Everybody was greeting in their usual Russian way. I was still playing an American, so I didn't need to worry about appearing Soviet. Anyway, I finally entered Filipov's office. He was very tight lipped. But I hedged a bet that he was desperate. There were other, more notorious, arms suppliers in Russia. If I walked out on this deal, there was nowhere else for him to turn. Which gave me some leverage.

“Anyways, Filipov wasn't saying anything. I was hoping the names of his customers would slip out, but they never did. But then I took a risk and I said, 'Americans must pay. I need your assurances that the weapons will be distributed to the right people.' I remember Filipov's eyes flashed. His mask slipped. I got him. He told me five customers. Though he said he had seventeen, he teased me with five, which was plenty.

“His assistant started to get nervous, and then discretely walked up and whispered in his ear. After a little back and forth, Filipov tensed up. He slowly reached under his desk. His assistant carefully reached behind his back.

“I sprang from my chair. A bullet grazed my arm, right here!” He rolled uphis sleeve and pointed to the back of his arm, revealing a scar. “I was out in the hall. His security was all over me. But there was a window down the hall, so I sprinted for the window, took a breath, and jumped out the window.

“Bushes broke my fall, but I was caught. I scrambled to get out of the bushes as I heard a siren go off. I realized that was for me. They were after me and they were either going to kill me or torture me. Didn't want to find out which. Just as I came to my feet two nurses walked by. They eyed me with a fearful curiosity. I grabbed on of them and shoved a knuckle in their back, feigning a gun. 'Get away!' I screamed in Russian, 'I'll kill her!' Her assistant did run away. 'Now, get me out of here,' I said to the nurse that I had.

“She hesitated so I pushed my knuckle further into her back. Her feet started shuffling toward a door guarded by a soldier. He raised his rifle, but the emotional pleas from the nurse won him over, and he backed away from the door, keeping his weapon trained on me.

“I carefully backed into the door. Then, at the last possible moment, I kicked the woman toward the guard, opened the door, and closed it before I got shot. I raced back to base, and, boy, I had a story to tell!

“During debriefing I told all the details. But everyone was stern-looking. I wondered why. Finally, the director asked, 'What are the names of the customers?'” Uncle Henry's face fell, then he continued. “'I forgot,' I said. And I really did, truly forget. I forgot every single one of the names. I sat in the room for half an hour, racking my brain. The other agents waited. I worked through the alphabet, I retraced the steps in my head, but I could not remember a single name.

“They brought doctors in. They hypnotized me. They told me to go home and get some rest.” Uncle Henry snorted. “Yeah, you try sleeping if national security is dependent on faulty memory.

“Days go by...months go by...still—nothing. I was so distraught I had to leave my job. I took early retirement, before they fired me. Even now, to this day, for the life of me, I can't remember their names!”

Uncle Henry looked down at the folder, lost in thought. Tucker could almost see the reflections in those sparkly eyes—the disappointed faces of the other agents. His distraught uncle at a dining room table at night, crying in front of Nancy, unable to keep in together. Then, abruptly, he closed it. “Well, that's all for tonight.”

“Got any more stories?”

“Yes, tomorrow. It's getting late.”

Uncle Henry got up from his chair and turned off the light, leaving the hallway night light on.

Tucker sat in the darkness for a bit, still absorbing the story. He took the phone out of his pocket. Still no signal. He put his phone on flight mode to preserve the 75% battery life, then took his great uncle's suggestion and went to bed.

He again scrolled through the Heather's messages before falling unconscious. Did she like him? Jury was still out.

He put the phone aside and closed his eyes. The room lacked curtains, but without city lights and with the overcast sky, the room became pitch black.

He heard his great uncle snoring in the other room. Or was he snoring?

“Mfr—Shyam!” He thought he heard. Strange, he didn't know his Great Uncle talked in his sleep. Ah, that was because he usually slept in the room across the hall so he didn't hear him. Now the wall carried over his sound.

He still breathed—were they words? Almost. Hey! Maybe a new language! “HrrrrmmmmmmmSssssshhhYam! FarrrrrraGOoooo!” This continued for a few minutes. Eventually the murmuring stopped and soft snoring was heard.

Entertainment for the weekend, Tucker thought, and turned to his side, snuggling into his bed.

The next morning Tucker and Uncle Henry continued to work on the addition. The walls were finally up. They took a trip into town to buy the siding. Uncle Henry bought a Rockstar and a muffin for Tucker. Henry just stuck with coffee and a trail mix. They returned to work until it started to rain. Uncle Henry claimed rain was a sign from God to stop work. Tucker couldn't agree more.

“You talk in your sleep,” Tucker said as Uncle Henry made sandwiches.

“Yeah, that's what Nancy told me. I told her she farted in her sleep. That shut her up.”

“You had more stories?”

“Yeah, that one I told you last night was definitely the most harrowing. Should have given me PTSD, but the most it did was prove to me I'm senile. There are other stories that are more entertaining.”

Tucker listened as Henry told another one about a clumsy partner who never let his clumsiness show because Henry was good about covering for it. “I kept him around because he was really good at connecting unrelated ideas,” he explained. “Saved a lot of lives.”

Eventually the rain gave way to sunshine, and they continued to put up siding, Henry on a ladder, lips playing with the iron nails, Tucker handing him the slats. Then, finally, evening hit. Henry toasted some bread and peanut butter. They both ate it ravenously, too beat to prepare anything more substantial, and retired to bed.

Tucker closed his eyes. He didn't last long. Again, his uncle with the talking.

This was just too good, Tucker thought. He had to record it to show Dad.

Quietly, he retrieved his phone, turned down the brightness all the way, then tiptoed out into the hall. He quietly turned the knob, and slowly pushed Henry's bedroom door open.

Just barely illuminated by barely-dim lighting, Henry lay sprawled on his bed, wearing just his underwear. Tucker opened his video app, just as Henry started talking again. The audio quality was gonna be good.

He hit record, and the camera app chirped, causing Uncle Henry to stir slightly. But he didn't wake. He still continued to murmur gibberish.

After the five minute mark, Tucker felt it was enough. He closed his phone app, then quickly tiptoed back to his room.

His dad was so gonna get a kick out of this!

The next morning, during breakfast, Tucker looked at the video of his Great Uncle talking in his sleep. He wasn't sure if the audio would be loud enough.

Oh, no, it was. Tucker grinned.

“Ggggrrrrhhhhhr...Joh.....JOhhhh....siiiiii....”

Tucker snickered. He didn't know he would have this much fun at his uncle's place.

“Is that me?” Uncle Henry demanded. He stood in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed, wearing a stained t-shirt and sweat pants.

Tucker was about to hide the phone, but—despite Uncle Henry's half-awake appearance—he snatched the phone away. His face flushed. “You went into my room and recorded me—” Then it went pale. “Well...I'll be damned.”

“Language.”

“Shyam Hahn,” he repeated. “That's right. Hahn. And Tsvetan Miles.” His face suddenly brightened. He kept the phone and walked away, muttering nonsense to himself.”

“Uncle Henry?” Tucker asked. “My phone...?”

His pace quickened. “Tucker, put on some pants. We're heading to the Langley!”

Within 5 minutes the two were in Uncle Henry's growling tuck, speeding down the freeway. “Turn it up! Turn it up!” Uncle Henry demanded. “Put it close to my ear! Haha! Yes, That's it!” Then, as he continued to look at the road he repeated to himself. “Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...”

He continued this mantra until he checked into Langley and asked to see the director immediately. A fifteen minute waltz of talking with a retired director shortcutted the process, and Tucker was then following his Great Uncle into the director's office as he chanted “Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles....Presley...”

Despite Henry's suddenly flamboyant display of enthusiasm, the director at Langley regarded him with professional disinterest. “May I help you Mr. Carter?”

“I got it! I got the names! The Filipov case from 1974!” I can't believe it! Can you believe it Tucker!” He then repeated the names to the director, who nodded curtly, then turned to his computer, typing a few things, clicking a few things, then printing something out a piece of paper.

“They thought I had forgotten! But I hadn't! It was all in there! All it took was this young MySpacer here—” as he tossled Tucker's hair— “to jog this old coot's memory! Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...”

Without ceremony, the director handed Henry a sheet of paper. “What's this?” Henry asked.

“A report of the Filipov case. Turns out a rogue operative took care of the job. A few minutes after your escape, the operative used the chaos of your escape as a distraction to set off a bomb. Filipov and his entire staff died in the blast.”

“And the customers?”

“They disbanded. We soon arrested them. They're in an Austrian prison for war crimes.”

Henry's shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

“Thank you for bringing us the intel, though.”

“No wonder they were declassified.”

The director nodded solemnly.

Suddenly Uncle Henry brightened. “But I still remembered!” He exclaimed. “Come on, Tucker, let's go get some ice cream!”

“It's 9 in the morning.”

“Best time for ice cream!” The two left Langley, Henry dancing to his new rhythm: “Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...Faragó...Hahn...MacKenna...Miles...Presley...”

Tucker still had one more day with his crazy uncle. And he had to admit, that didn't sound like such a terrible idea.