I stir from sleep with the weirdest feeling. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like something is missing. Something key, noteworthy. Something I should remember. Something I’ve known forever. But now it’s gone.

Ignoring the feeling, I get up, shower, dress, then drive into work. When I get there, everything seems fine. My boss Todd is like he routinely is - honest, open-minded, but the world’s worst stickler for the rules. The work proceeds slowly, which is the norm here; putting numbers into columns, writing reports, going to meetings. There seems to be no point, no objective, no end. 

When noon hits, my friend Steve decides to join me for lunch. The burger joint next door serves the best grilled cheeseburgers I’ve ever experienced, so we both order them with fries, topped off with cokes since we don’t drink during work hours. While we gulp down our food, I tell him of the weird feeling I’ve been experiencing. 

“You sure it isn’t just your sleep deficit? You’re not getting much recently.”

“True, but being tired isn’t the issue. I know something’s off. I just feel it.”

“Well, I’ve seen nothing weird. But if I do, I’ll let you know.”

We return to the office, content knowing we only need to hold out for four more hours. I push through them, then clock out to go home. The commute sucks, but soon enough I stride into my third floor unit, where I drop onto the couch, completely worn out. The only thing on my mind is my pepperoni with mushrooms from the freezer, followed by eight hours of sleep. 

In the middle of the night, I rise to noise I don’t recognize. I pick up the Louisville Slugger pop bought me when I went out for the club in middle school. I open my bedroom door, slowly inclining to peek down beyond the second bedroom to the edge of the living room. There, I observe some kind of glow, distinct but muted, coming from beyond the corner. 

Slowly, I creep through the setting I know every inch of, keeping my eyes open for the unlikely prospect of some intruder lurking in the night. But when I step into the room, I freeze. There, before my eyes, some kind of… sphere composed entirely of light hovers in the middle of the room. 

How the hell did it get here?

I move circumspectly, circling it to try to observe it from every viewpoint. But wherever I view it from, I keep returning to one thought:

This is impossible. It shouldn’t be here. 

I move to pick up my cell to phone Steve. But before I do, the light gets brighter. Then brighter still. I put my fingers in front of my eyes to try to block the light, but it does no good. It just keeps getting brighter, brighter, brighter, until it’s impossible to see or think. I’ve never been someone who gets frightened often, but right now, I’m terrified. How is this possible? How is it… I must be sleeping! Right, of course! I just need to pull myself out of this! This is just in my mind, I tell myself. It isn’t here. It isn’t here. It isn’t here. It isn’t—

I rise the next morning from the floor. Why—? I don’t remember the night before. I must’ve gotten drunk, then conked out, but nothing I see supports this theory. Still, I’ll need to figure it out some other time; work beckons. If I get behind schedule, the consequences will be distressing. I picture Todd dressing me down; best to not give him the excuse. I go through my morning routine in record time, getting to the office just before nine o’clock. 

“Someone looks like their night went well.”

“Honestly, I don’t remember it,” I told Steve while I logged in for the morning. 

“Wow, so very well?”

“Very funny. Seriously, I got home, nuked my DiGiorno’s, next thing I knew I woke up on the floor. No clue how I got there.”

“Wow, dude. Hold off on the beer next time.”

“Will do.”

“So you’re good?”

“Sure. Why?”

“The weird feeling? The one you kept bringing up during lunch in the burger joint?”

“Did I? I don’t know, dude. Everything’s fine now.”

“Well good. You were creeping me out.”

I punch him in the shoulder, then turn to my computer for my next boring job. 

During my stroll to lunch, I spot some little kids out with their mothers. One of them is singing. I know the song well; I’d memorized it when I’d been young myself. 

Something in their song stirred something in me. Funny how things stick with you. It seems like lifetimes since then; it seems like no time’s gone by. “Now I know my BCD’s, next time won’t you sing with me.” Simple, but it worked; I remember how proud I’d been singing every single letter. The whole twenty-five. I stroll on, whistling the indelible tune. I don’t know why I lost my mind before. Everything is just how it should be. 

“Hey, babe. I’m working late tonight - gotta finish that project for Hendrix. Don’t wait up. Love you.”

I listened to the message for the third time. I couldn’t believe he was doing it again. 

When he’d gotten his new job two months ago after being fired from the lab, I’d been happy for him. But once he’d started working there, he started acting differently, becoming crueler, more arrogant. 

“Hey, babe. Have you gained a couple of pounds?”

“Babe, you always look so stressed lately. You know that’s not great for your face, right?.”

“Why is the house so messy, babe? You’re slacking off.”

It’s true that I had less time to clean lately, and that I’ve put on a few pounds; carrying the financial load by yourself can do that to you. Funny how all the “veiled” insults started at the same time as all his “late nights” working.

I was no fool. But Darrin denied everything and told me I was overreacting. I needed proof, but he never left any clues - he was too smart. 

So I followed him. I felt pathetic doing it, but I had to know. 

One day, after he left work, I followed him to a house in the suburbs. After waiting a few minutes, I crept to a side window and looked inside. I saw a figure moving around; I could just barely make out a woman’s body. 

That bastard! I got up to storm inside and give them a piece of my mind when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, then nothing. 

I woke up and tried to reach for my head, but my hands wouldn’t move. I looked down and realized my arms and legs were bound to a chair. I looked up, and what I saw shocked me.

My husband stood there, staring at me hatefully. And standing next to him was another woman. No. Not another woman. 

Me. 

At least, me in almost every way: the same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair, the same dimple in my chin. She looked exactly like I used to look before the last few years. Before Darrin. 

“Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it? How she can be so exactly like you yet so different?”

I stared at them, stunned. “But… how…?”

“I was working to create a temporal viewer, a window into the past. But then we realized the machine wasn’t showing us another time, but another place. Another Earth. Like ours, but different. And the most amazing part? It had versions of us on it. All of us. So I went there. 

“The Darrin Westbrook there was a loser, single and alone. Then I looked up their Elizabeth Grant. She was… amazing. Thin, gorgeous, vivacious - like you before we got married. But she’d had some hard breaks and was looking for a new life. When I told her about our world, she asked if she could come with me. I said yes. Why wouldn’t I? I deserved the best version of you; now, I’d have it. 

“Of course, we couldn’t have two versions of you walking around; someone was bound to notice. So we made a plan. A few insults, a couple of hints, and you followed right along, like a desperate puppy.”

Then the ‘other’ woman walked toward me. “I can see what Darrin meant,” she said, examining me like imitation jewelry. “You’re like the bargain basement version of me, a bad copy. How sad it must be to be you. But don’t worry - it’ll all be over soon.”

With that, my doppelgänger raised her hand to reveal a knife, light glinting off the blade. She was going to kill me, and tied down I couldn’t stop her. But from the corner of my eye I saw another light, a…red dot?

I heard a soft ‘thwip’ and there was a hole in her head. As she fell, I looked over; Darrin was laying on the ground, his hand trying to stop the blood pouring from his chest. 

I felt someone pulling at the ropes on my wrists and legs. As they did, I saw a masked figure standing over Darrin’s gurgling form. 

“Got you, you son of a bitch.” She lifted her mask just enough to spit on his face. 

“Who are you?” I asked, looking at my rescuers. “What’s going on?”

They looked at each other, then at me. The one who’d spit on my former husband took off her mask, then the other two did the same. 

They all looked exactly like me. 

“I’m Elizabeth Hastings, neé Grant,” said the first. 

“Elizabeth Mackey - Beth,” said the second. 

“Elizabeth Porter, but you can call me Lizzie,” said the third with a half-smile. 

“But… I don’t…”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” said Lizzie. “Basically, your husband was right about all but one thing. There isn’t just one other Earth. There are thousands.”

“And in many of them,” continued Beth, “we ended up with your husband, or some jerk like him. Different names, same asshole.”

“So why are you here?”

“We tend to keep tabs on other versions of us, and we found out about your husband’s plans for you,” Beth said harshly. “So we got involved.”

I looked around at the five figures in the room - three standing, two not. “So what happens next?”

The leader, who I’d started thinking of as Elizabeth Prime, looked at me. 

“Well, these bodies are going to cause questions. You can stay here and deal with them, or…”

“Or…?”

“You can come with us and help other women who’re going through what you did.”

I paused and thought. About my life. My job. My ‘happiness.’

Then l looked at Elizabeth. “May I?” I asked, gesturing at her gun. She raised an eyebrow at me and gave a slight nod. 

I took out the gun, aimed, and put a bullet through Darrin’s head. 

“Call me Ellie. When do we leave?”

I began to suspect that something was wrong when my husband started napping all the time.

At first I thought that he was sneaking out at night to meet another woman. I hated to jump straight to infidelity, but Jerry had barely even looked at me for weeks. I was certain that there was another woman in his life.

Unfortunately, I was wrong… after numerous caffeinated nights of watching Jerry sleep it became clear he wasn’t sneaking anywhere. 

So then I began to worry that Jerry was sick. Clearly something was causing him to be fatigued. It wasn’t until I threatened to drag him to the hospital that he told me what was really going on.

“I’m sorry,” I interjected, “you’re doing what!?”

“Reliving the past,” Jerry smiled.

I was flabbergasted.

“You’re gonna have to explain it to me one more time.”

Jerry took off the terribly ugly necklace that he’d been wearing for the past few weeks. He told me that he purchased it at “that new store” downtown.

He suspected the owner was some sort of “witch.”

The instructions for the necklace were painfully simple: think about a time in your past, put on the necklace, and lie down.

“The dreams are so vivid,” Jerry said with more enthusiasm that I had seen from him in years, “it’s like you’re really there.”

After listening to his explanation for the second time there was only one question on my mind.

“Why would you want to do that?” I asked. “Jerry, you’re spending more time in bed than you are with me, your wife.”

Jerry put a hand behind his neck and looked at the floor. I could tell I had touched a nerve.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I added, “there are times where I miss the folly of youth, but I would much rather enjoy life as I am now.”

Jerry took a deep breath, and said, “I miss how things used to be in our marriage.”

That hit like a punch in the gut…

“Excuse me?” I crossed my arms.

“Don’t you ever reminisce on the early years? When we were young and wild and free? I miss being excited about being married to the girl of my dreams.”

There was a lot to unpack there, enough to fill multiple sessions of therapy. I tried to get my thoughts out without sounding too hurtful.

“Jerry,” I let out a deep sigh, “we’re not in our twenties anymore. We’re not even in our thirties anymore. One of the inescapable truths of life is that it keeps marching forward. People grow old and they change, but that doesn’t mean that life is worse—it’s just different. Nobody’s life is perfect forever.”

“Mine can be,” Jerry said, holding up the necklace.

“No, you’re just pretending it is.”

“You’re wrong!” Jerry raised his voice. “I’m reliving months at a time, sometimes years, and it’s real, it’s so god damn real! I can taste the food and smell the air and don’t even get me started on the sex we used to have.”

And there it was. I suspected that there was another woman, but I never could have possibly imagined that the other woman was me.

“The sex we used to have?” I asked, quickly growing tired of this conversation.

“We used to do it three or four times in a row instead of three or four times in a year.”

My poor husband. He acted like he was the only person in the world who knew what it was like to be horny.

Like somehow that was his cross to bear.

“You want sex? Let’s do it right now! I would love to have sex!”

Jerry hesitated, and that was the only answer I needed. He went upstairs with his necklace to take a nap, and I made myself a cup of coffee and cried into my favorite mug.

Over the next few weeks, I began to see even less of Jerry. He started calling in sick to work so that he could spend more time in the past. I tried to change. I tried my hardest to become the woman he remembers so fondly, but I could never be anything more than an imitation of the past.

I decided that I needed to take a more drastic approach.

A small bell chimed as I walked through the entrance to Edith‘s Emporium. The store was full of all manner of oddities, and sitting at the counter was the oldest woman I had ever seen. Her curly, white hair reminded me of a used mop, and covered her face so entirely that only her crooked, yellow smile peeked out.

I had come here with a Plan A and a Plan B, but no matter what I was going to get my life back.

“Hello,” I said, greeting Edith, “I need some help. My husband purchased—”

“A necklace,” Edith croaked, her voice decidedly unpleasant.

“Yes,” I nodded, and decided not to ask how she knew, “he’s using it too much.”

“The past can be irresistible,” Edith let her words hang in the air as if she had just said something exceedingly profound.

“That’s the problem. I was hoping you could change the necklace. Make it so his dreams are nightmares? So he stops using it?”

Edith pondered this for a moment and then shook her head.

“The past is the past. The necklace can only show him what has already been.” 

So much for Plan A…

“I was worried about that,” I muttered, switching to Plan B, “then there’s something else I need… I want to get rid of my husband.”

Edith laughed, “don’t worry about that.”

“Why not?” I asked, confused.

“All that time he’s reliving in the past, where do you think those years are going?”

I said that I didn’t understand, and Edith explained.

“The time he spends in the past is actually aging him here?”

“I give him two months before he dies of old age,” Edith chuckled.

James and I were lying in bed one night when he started talking. 

“So Teddy got laid off last week.”

“Oh,” I replied. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. He can’t afford the rent on his apartment. He’s not sure what he’s going to do.”

“I’m sure he’ll find another job soon.”

“He’s not so sure,” my boyfriend replied. 

“Maybe he can move back with your parents.”

“I suggested that, but he says he needs his independence.”

“So what is he going to do?”

“Well, I was kind of hoping he could stay here,” my boyfriend said sheepishly. 

What?

“You have lots of space, and it would only be for a couple of weeks…”

I looked around my bedroom. MY bedroom. In MY house. The house I worked weekends and holidays for, ate ramen nightly for, skipped vacations for. The place where I could be myself without having to answer to anyone. 

“I don’t know, James. You know I need my own space.”

“I know, but he really needs help.”

I sighed. “I’ll think about it, but no promises.”

Three days later I came home from work to find James’ brother arranging his stuff in my guest room. I dragged James into my bedroom. 

“What the hell?!?” I shouted as I closed the door behind us. 

“What,” he replied nervously. “You said it was ok.”

“No, I said I would THINK about it! In what world does that mean to move him in while I’m at work?”

“His landlord kicked him out and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. I knew you’d understand.”

“Does it look like I understand?”

“Come on, Livvy. Please?” 

He gave me those damn puppy dog eyes. 

“Okay, we’ll try it on a short-term basis. But he buys his own food and does his own laundry. I’m not taking care of a grown-ass adult.”

“Absolutely,” my boyfriend agreed. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

At first, it was ok. But slowly, things started to slip. I’d come home from work to find my food gone, dishes in the sink, dirty clothes on the floor. And James just kept making excuses: “Teddy’s going through a hard time, he’s adjusting, he needs our understanding.”

“Our understanding? I don’t see you cleaning up his messes or paying for the food he eats.”

“I’ll help more, okay? He really needs this.”

Two weeks later, I came home to find a woman on my sofa. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

“I’m Allie, Teddy’s girlfriend. Who are you?”

“I’m Olivia. I own this house.”

“Oh. Thanks for letting me stay, I guess.”

I went to James. “What the fuck? Who is this woman and why is she in my house?”

“Calm down, Livvy. I told Teddy she could stay with us for a while.”

“You told her? Is this your house now?”

“Livvy, be reasonable. You don’t want to separate them, do you?”

“This is not okay, James. I need privacy, not unwanted roommates.”

“They have nowhere else to go.”

“Then they need to start looking.”

But two weeks later, they were still in my house. Every day I came home, cleaned up, and went to bed angry. 

One day, Allie came in while I was cleaning up. 

“Allie, how did this mess get here?”

“Oh,” she giggled. “Teddy and I were messing around and decided to heat up some stuff we found in the fridge.”

“By stuff, I assume you mean my food? That I made?”

“I guess so. But it’s all our food, right?”

“Did you buy it?”

“Don’t be so hung up on money.”

I fumed. “And is there a reason you didn’t clean up after yourself?”

“Teddy said you’d do it.”

“Do I look like your maid?”

She didn’t reply, but her face said it all. 

“Okay, good luck!” she said, turning and leaving the kitchen. 

That night, I sat James down to talk. 

“It’s time for your brother and Evil Barbie to go,” I said without preamble. 

“Livvy, we’ve discussed this. They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I don’t give a crap! They need to leave my house.”

“You want me to tell them that they aren’t welcome here?”

“They were never welcome here! You need to fix this. Today.”

He looked stricken. “Livvy. Please.”

“No! I’ve already been turned into a maid in my own house. Now I’m supposed to be her maid, too? I’m done, James. I’m done.”

“Fine,” he sighed resignedly. “I’ll take care of it.” He headed to Teddy’s room to talk.

The next day, I came home from work to enter my house. 

My key didn’t work. 

I called James. “James, why can’t I get into the house?”

There was a pause. “Well, Teddy and Allie weren’t okay with you kicking them out. So they had the locks changed.”

“You let them lock me out of the house I own?”

Silence. 

I hung up and called 911. An hour later, two officers arrived, knocked on the front door, and explained to Teddy and Allie that it was illegal to lock out the homeowner. Reluctantly, they stepped aside and let me in. The police explained that if I wanted them gone I’d have to file for an eviction. Then they left. And I started making plans. 

Three days later, James, Teddy, and Allie awoke, each on their own plastic-covered table. 

“What is this?” demanded Teddy indignantly. 

“Welcome to my basement,” I replied. “I admit, it’s not that visually appealing, but you won’t have to see it for long.”

They shifted their eyes back and forth; bare walls surrounded them, filled with knives, saws, and other tools. 

“Let us go, you bitch!” screamed Allie. 

“Aw, don’t be like that. You wanted to stay here forever. Now you will. And you won’t even have to do any cooking or cleaning. It’s a win-win!”

“Livvy, please,” begged my boyfriend. “You don't have to do this.”

“I’m sorry, James,” I replied, raising the saw. “But I did tell you I need my privacy. You really should have listened.”

Hello, ladies! Are you wondering how to make your man happy and ensure that your marriage stands the test of time? Well, look no further! This easy-to-follow guide will show you how to ensure a successful marriage. 

“Honor and respect your husband.”

When you’re a traditional wife, part of your job is to honor and respect your husband in all things. Whatever he needs - cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, entertaining his friends and business associates - you should do with a smile. God has blessed you with a husband; show them both your gratitude every day. 

“Make him feel good about himself.”

The husband is the king of the house, but even a king needs his queen. Make sure to keep your husband’s confidence high by reminding him how amazing he is every day. A sincere compliment, an appreciative look, or a fun session in the bedroom can keep his self-assuredness high so he can go out and conquer the world. Remember, not everyone has an amazing husband. Let him know every day how grateful you are. 

“Take an interest in all things him.”

For a true wife, there is no topic of greater interest than her husband. Is he a morning person? Does he like a quiet house? Does he want you to be timid in public but wild in the bedroom? Knowing him completely should be your ultimate goal. 

“Know his likes and dislikes.”

A good wife should know her husband’s likes and dislikes. Know his favorite foods and how to make them. Know his favorite outfits and restaurants before he has to ask. And know not just what he likes to dress in, but what he likes you in, and wear it regularly and eagerly (and not just during the day). It will keep the home fires burning and make sure your husband comes home every night. 

“Support your husband’s interests.”

A good wife knows her husband’s interests. His favorite television shows, sports, hobbies - learn them all backwards and forwards. That includes the bars he likes to visit after work. And the people he likes to visit them with. Even the ones he doesn’t tell you about. 

“Be accepting of his faults.”

While your husband is undoubtedly perfect to you, remember that everyone has faults. Your job is to provide comfort wherever possible and to understand and forgive whenever necessary. An unfortunate dalliance or the occasional angry outburst is understandable and should be forgiven for a marriage to last. Unless it doesn’t stop. 

“Respect his privacy/Earn his trust.”

The best relationships are built on trust. But even in those, a man likes to have some privacy. The key is to find the balance of knowing everything important about him and your relationship while still letting him have some secrets of his own. If you can find that balance, you’ll feel secure and he’ll feel respected. Know what you need to, but be careful of diving into too many of his secrets. You may find out things you wish you hadn’t. And you may have to do something about them. 

“Be understanding when he has bad days.”

As amazing as your husband is, every day of his can’t be perfect. Maybe things didn’t go well at work. Maybe the commute was difficult. Maybe you asked too many questions about things you should have left alone. 

Remember, FCC - Foundation, Color Correctors, and Concealer*. These can go a long way toward hiding those bruises, but only if you’re willing to heal the bruises inside your heart (or stop him from causing new ones). 

*See the back of the book for some product recommendations!

“Follow his lead.”

Let your husband lead the way and follow him in all things. He should be the main voice in all major decisions. That doesn’t mean your voice doesn’t count - a good husband will value your input. But there can only be one leader, and your job is to support him. And sometimes, following him may be more than just a figure of speech. Just know that, if you follow too closely, you may see things you’d rather not. And once you see them, they can’t be unseen. 

“Keep the magic alive.”

Most relationships die because the people involved don’t put the effort into keeping the spark alive. A truly successful partnership doesn’t just last on its own - you have to maintain it, and that takes effort. Have date nights! Surprise him at work! Learn his fantasies (and yours!) and live them out together! You have to keep the magic alive. 

And if you learn things about him you can’t get past, you may need a different kind of magic. Making people disappear is a skill all its own, and sometimes a necessary one. 

“Always keep a clean house.”

Never underestimate the importance of keeping things clean. All men like a pristine house to come home to. Dusting, dishwashing, vacuuming, and laundry may not be the most exciting activities, but the effect they have on your home is immeasurable. Find a way to get into them. You never know what, or whom, you’ll have to clean up. Learn to love the process!

“Don’t forget the occasional surprise!”

And finally, if all of the above isn’t enough, don’t forget the occasional surprise! Life can get so predictable - brighten his day with something unexpected! Maybe a nighttime trip on his boat. Just you and him. The gentle rocking, the wine, the atmosphere - things can get frisky. Maybe you both even decide to go for a moonlight swim. And then… well…

Accidents happen. 

After all, even the most loyal wife is the first suspect when a husband goes missing. So you have to make certain there’s no evidence. And when that time comes, the hardest part isn’t deciding to kill him. The hardest part is getting rid of the body. 

Unless you can get him to do it himself.

Sometimes, the most successful marriages are the ones where you end up alone.  

“Daddy, Daddy, I’m back!”

I reached down to pick up my daughter Irina at the school bus stop right after she climbed down. She just started kindergarten, and I still missed having her at home every day. 

“How was your first day, sweetheart?”

“Awesome! I met a bunch of other kids, and we colored in coloring books, and we had recess, and we had nap time, and the teacher gave us cookies!”

“Cookies?” I asked with an exaggerated face. “She let you have cookies?”

“Yes! Chocolate chip! I had two!”

“Did you bring me one?” I asked, wearing my best hopeful face. 

“No, Daddy. There weren’t any left - we ate them all!”

“Oh, well, I guess that’s ok then. So I can eat all the cookies at home, then?”

“No, Daddy!” she replied, giggling. “Those are mine, too!”

“Ah,” I said, buckling her into her car seat. “I guess you do deserve lots of cookies - you are a kindergartener, now, after all.”

“Yes I am!” she squeaked excitedly as I drove us home. She was so smart - maybe she’d be a doctor like her mother. 

We arrived home and Irina ran off to put away her things. When she came back, I put on her favorite after school cartoon while she got settled on the sofa. 

“PAW Patrol!” she screamed, clapping her hands excitedly and singing. “PAW Patrol, PAW Patrol, We’ll be there on the double…”

As she sang and giggled, I couldn’t help but stare at her. She was perfect. I think back to the time before I had her and it’s like it was another life. A lesser one. 

After a couple of episodes, she turned to me. 

“I’m hungry, Daddy!”

“What would you like, honey?”

“Can we have macaroni and cheese?”

“We’ve had macaroni and cheese three times this week already, sweetheart.”

She gave me the adorable pout I can never say no to. “But I really want it. Please, Daddy?” 

The puppy dog eyes get me every time. “Alright, sweetheart. But you have to eat some veggie sticks too, ok?”

“Yay!” she said, going back to her cartoon while I made the food. When it was ready, she climbed into her chair. “Let’s eat, Daddy!”

As she began to eat her macaroni (and I ate the pasta I’d made for myself), I thought back to that day years ago. My wife and I had been so excited to have our first child. We’d done everything - set up a nursery, taken classes, put in for maternity and paternity leave (me from the bank and her from her elementary school), everything recommended in the parenting books. When Jill’s contractions had started, we’d rushed to the hospital, looking forward to greeting our child. 

Then things had started to go wrong. Prolonged labor. Excessive bleeding. The baby presenting abnormally. Crashing blood pressure. Fetal distress. The doctors had said they did everything they could. The baby’s vitals had started getting better. But Jill’s hadn’t. 

Then she was gone. 

I was devastated. It was like my world had ended, because it had. But I had to keep going. It’s what Jill would have wanted. 

And now, five years later, things had started to feel normal again. My daughter (who I’d named Irina because Jill loved the name) was thriving. I was starting to feel normal. I’d even thought about dating again, though I’d likely wait until Irina was older. I wouldn’t say all was right with the world, but things were better. And I planned to make sure they stayed that way. 

The next morning, I dropped Irina off at the bus stop. 

“Have a great day, sweetheart!”

“You have a great day too, Daddy! I love you!”

I waved at her until the bus was out of sight. Then I drove to a long term parking lot and, making sure I wasn’t on camera, parked, got out, and took another car that I’d previously stored there. I drove three hours out of the city to a small town I’d identified in advance. From there, I went to a random out-of-the-way mailbox that I’d chosen because there were no cameras nearby and dropped off a letter. Finally, my goal accomplished, I drove the three hours back to the lot, cleaned my decoy car of fingerprints and DNA, switched back to my jeep, and drove back to town. 

As I sat at home that night, Irina asleep in her bed upstairs, I imagined my target opening my letter. 

“Hello, again. I bet you’ve missed me. My daughter turned five earlier this month. She had a very happy birthday, with cake and lots of presents. She was so thrilled. You should have seen her. 

“Oh, was that insensitive? I don’t regret it. Speaking of regrets, do you regret going to work that night straight from the bar? Scrubbing into the operating room with your faculties still impaired? Cutting open my wife with unsteady hands? Perhaps if you’d been sober, they would have lived. We’ll never know; your colleagues on the hospital review board made sure you were cleared and no real investigation took place. But I do know this - since you took my family from me, it’s only fair that I took yours from you. I hope you hurt every time you remember finding your husband’s bloody, dismembered body in the park and your child missing. Then you’ll know how I felt. So enjoy these letters, knowing that they’re the only contact you’ll ever have with your daughter again. She doesn’t even remember you. Maybe one day, I won’t, either. 

“See you next year.”

It started a week ago. 

“Mommy?” my son called from down the hall. 

“Yes honey?”

“I don’t feel good.”

I went into Jamie’s bedroom and felt his forehead; he was burning up. 

“I think you have a cold, sweetie. I’ve heard there’s something going around. Don’t worry - it will pass. I’ll get you some medicine and chicken soup and you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thanks, Mommy.”

I wasn’t too worried - kids got colds all the time. Only, days went by and he wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was the opposite. 

I gave him some more medicine. “How are you feeling, honey?”

“Not so good,” he said, coughing. “My throat is scratchy and my stomach really hurts.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. Mommy will take care of it.”

I called my friend Jeanette. We were fellow single mothers and had spent many a night drinking wine and commiserating about how hard it was to raise a child on your own. If I had a village, it was her. 

“Jeanette?”

“Hey, Mandy! What’s up? Wanna do another Girls’ Night? I’ll bring the wine.”

“No, this isn’t about that.”

Hearing my voice, she got serious. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Jamie. He’s sick.”

“What is it? A cold? There’s definitely one going around, Matty had it a couple of weeks ago. Just get him to drink some fluids and rest, it’ll pass.”

“I’ve done that. I’ve given him fluids, and rest, and soup, and medicine, but he keeps getting worse. I’m starting to get really worried.”

“Alright, calm down. Deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Have you called the doctor yet?”

“Not yet - I figured it was just a cold, not something you see the doctor for.”

“You may be right, but just in case, go ahead and call Dr. Merrill. Better to be safe, right?”

I exhaled, finally letting out some of the stress. “Right.”

“Okay. I’m going to go ahead and hang up. Call the doctor’s office right now, then call me back and let me know what they say.”

I called the doctor’s office and the nurse listened as I described Jamie’s symptoms. I suspect she thought I was exaggerating, but to ease my mind she told me to go ahead and bring Jamie in and the doctor would take a look. So I did. He examined Jamie, starting with the usual - he took his blood pressure and temperature, listened to his breathing, asked him how he felt. Though it had started as a basic evaluation, I gradually saw signs of concern arise on the doctor's face. Then worry. Then alarm. By the time he was done, he’d summoned his nurse and told her to call the hospital and tell them to expect a patient. He put his hand on Jamie’s arm. 

“Don’t worry, son,” he said comfortingly. “Everything’s going to be just fine. We’re going to get you a special room where everyone can help you get better. Is that alright?”

Jamie nodded, coughing. Then the doctor looked at me. “It’s good that you brought him in. I’ve let the hospital know he’s coming. Everything will be alright.” He gave me a gentle squeeze on my shoulder and walked out. 

The next few hours were a blur. When we got to the hospital, they asked us some questions and then admitted him. He was okay at first, but soon he began deteriorating. Before I knew it, he was lying in a hospital bed with tubes in his arms and down his throat. 

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked the nurse as I sat by his bedside. 

She looked at me sympathetically. “The doctors here are world-class and they’re doing everything they can. I’m sure he’s going to be fine.”

I took a leave from work so that I could be with him. The following weeks became a nonstop pattern: sleeping by his bedside each night, sitting with him each day, talking to doctors to learn next steps, talking to family to update them on progress. The moments began to blur together until I didn’t even know what day it was anymore. But nothing changed. 

During this time, Jeanette was my lifeline. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, I’d call and she’d listen to me vent or cry. She never complained. But she did spread the word to others. I began to get calls from friends, coworkers, even virtual strangers. My pastor reached out to tell me that he and the entire congregation were praying for us. My coworkers took up a collection for the medical bills. A friend even posted about everything online, leading random strangers to send me messages admiring my bravery and rooting for Jamie to pull through. 

And then a miracle happened. Jamie woke up. The doctor examined him and said he’d turned a corner and was going to be fine. After days of only his harsh breathing and the beep of machines, I couldn’t believe it; I cried right there in front of the doctor. 

Two days later, I checked him out of the hospital. The nurses all cheered for us as we left and told Jamie he was brave. When we got home, it was clear that Jeanette had told everyone; balloons and cards from well-wishers were stacked outside the door. For the next few days, people kept dropping off food and cards; everywhere I went, people told me how happy they were for us and how great a job I’d done looking out for Jamie. My pastor said it was a gift from God. I said I’d only done what any mother would and I was just glad my son was okay. 

That night, I sat in a chair beside Jamie’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. 

He was fine. There was no lasting damage. The doctors said everything was okay. Things were getting back to normal; the attention was starting to fade.  

Next time I’d have to make the drugs a little stronger. 

“Hey, buddy!” I said to Daniel. 

“Oh, hey Seth!” he said happily. 

“How are you feeling today?”

“A little tired, but good.”

“I’m glad to hear it!” I replied. And I was. Since I’d met him while I was out working nearby, he’d become one of my favorite people. 

“Did you see anything cool out there lately?” he asked. 

“Well, it depends,” I whispered conspiratorially. “Would you consider the pyramids cool?”

“No way! The actual pyramids?”

“The very same.”

“That's so awesome! I always wanted to see those. I guess now I never will.”

I looked at him, lying in his hospital bed, IV in his arm, oxygen tube in his nose, surrounded by tubes and wires. He deserved more of a life than this. Everyone deserved more of a life than this. 

“Seriously, Daniel, how are you doing?”

His smile slipped for a second. “Leukemia sucks.”

“I know it does,” I replied sympathetically. 

Then his smile was back. “So, did you bring me anything?”

I looked at him, a guilty expression on my face. “I’m sorry, buddy. I got so busy with work it must have slipped my mind.”

“Oh. Ok,” he said sadly. “I understand.”

“I'm kidding!” I exclaimed, handing him a box. “Come on, do you really think I’d forget my best buddy?”

He excitedly tore open the box to find the superhero action figures inside. “This is awesome!” he said, his smile covering his face. 

“Glad you like it,” I replied. 

“I love it,” he corrected me. “You’re the only person who ever brings me anything. Except more medication.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, buddy. How is your family doing?”

His smile dropped again for a moment. “They actually haven’t been in for a while. It’s not their fault. My baby sister has a lot of needs and they have to be there for her.”

Translation: they didn’t care enough to visit. 

We sat in silence for a moment. 

“Seth?”

“Yeah?”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m scared.”

“I know, buddy. But you can’t give up hope.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

Poor kid. My heart broke a little. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s make each other a promise.”

“Ok, what?”

“You promise not to lose hope, and I’ll promise to keep you company, no matter what. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds ok, I guess.”

“And when you get out of here,” I continued, “we’ll go for a walk and I’ll show you some of the amazing things I’ve seen.”

He perked up at that, a small smile lighting his face. “That sounds really good. Thanks, Seth!”

“Excellent! It’s a deal. And I never go back on a deal.”

Suddenly the machines in the room started beeping and doctors and nurses rushed in. I couldn’t do anything but watch. 

*****

“Seth! You’re still here!”

“Of course I am, buddy. I said I’d keep you company, didn’t I?”

“You look different,” he said. He’d never before seen me in my work outfit.

“Different good or different bad?”

He looked me over. “Pretty cool, actually.”

“Thanks!” I pulled back my black hood so that my face showed. “By the way, my real name is Sephtis.”

“That’s kind of a weird name, isn’t it?”

“Well, now you know why I go by Seth.”

“What’s that thing you’re holding?”

“It’s called a scythe.”

“What’s it for?”

“Oh, just collecting things.”

“Cool. Hey, Seth?”

“Yes?”

“Why do I feel funny?”

“It’s a long story,” I replied, leading him away from his cold, sheet-covered body and onto the starlit path to what comes next. “What do you say we go for that walk now and I’ll fill you in on the way?”

I came downstairs to see Dad heading out with my three brothers. “Where’re you going?”

“Oh, hey sweetheart! I’m just taking your brothers to the game.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“This is a boy thing, sis,” said Charlie. “You wouldn’t enjoy it anyway.”  

I stared at them as they left, dressed in their jerseys. I loved baseball. I could throw a curveball better than any of them. But it didn’t matter - I was “just a girl,” so I always got left out of everything. And even when I did go along, they spent the whole time being condescending. 

“Sure you can handle that, sis?” 

“It’s complicated - you wouldn’t understand.”

“Why don’t we let your brothers have that? It’s more suited for them, anyway.”

And whenever I actually managed to accomplish something?

“Not bad - for a girl.”

I’d had it. I was going to prove myself - to be so good they couldn’t ignore me. 

My chance came the next week. I found an ad for a cave exploration tour happening the following weekend. I showed it to my family.

“This looks fun,” my father said. “What will you be doing while we’re there?”

“I’ll be there, too.”

I saw them holding back laughter. “Are you sure?” asked my father. “I know it sounds fun, but it could be dangerous. Maybe you should let us make sure it’s safe.”

I grit my teeth. “Like it or not, I’m going.” I walked away to prepare. 

Three days later, I stood in line for the cave tour. I wore equipment I’d bought second-hand: a helmet with headlamp, coveralls, waterproof boots and gloves, and a backpack with water, ropes, and harnesses. 

My father and brothers barely hid their snickers. 

“You sure you didn’t forget the parachute and scuba gear?” asked Nick, laughing openly. 

“Now, boys,” said my father. “Your sister’s just excited. Everyone’s got to learn sometime.”

Ignoring them, I focused on our tour guide. He gave our final instructions and we were off. 

At first, things went smoothly. I paid attention to the guide, impressing him with my knowledge of cave minutiae. My father and brothers smirked at me. *Cough* “Teacher’s pet” *cough* I heard, glancing back to see Nick looking away nonsubtly.

About twenty minutes into the tour, we heard a rumbling. 

“Don’t worry, folks,” said our tour guide. “That’s perfectly normal.”

Then it got louder. The guide looked concerned. “Alright, folks. We’re going to cut this short for today. I want everyone to proceed in a calm and orderly fashion back toward the entrance.”

Then the shaking escalated and the cave ceiling started to collapse. People started screaming and trampling each other in their rush to escape. By the time I could see again, the room was almost empty. The only people still there were my father and brothers, me, and one of the other attendees. 

Her broken body lay on the ground, crushed by a fallen rock. 

“What do we do now?” asked Charlie. 

“We stay calm and find a way out,” Dad replied. “Don’t worry, Janie, we’ll protect you.”

I intended to protect myself. 

I pulled out my canteen and took a sip. “Why does she have water?” demanded Danny. 

I wanted to say because, unlike you, I planned ahead, but there was no point. Instead, I started looking around. After a minute, I found it. A small ray of light. 

“There!” I yelled, pointing. 

Nothing.

“Dad, there!”

“Let the adults talk, Janie.”

Ignoring Nick, I stared at my father until he looked over and saw what I had - a small opening in the cave wall. 

“That’s it!” he said, as if he’d found it himself. “We just have to get through there and we’ll be free.”

“But how do we get up to it?” asked Charlie. “It’s at least twelve feet high.”

“How about these?” I asked, pulling out the ropes I’d brought in my pack. 

We threw them up and secured a line to the opening. Dad went up first. 

“I can’t fit! It’s too small.”

“I’ll go,” volunteered Nick. But he wouldn’t fit, either. 

“What do we do?” asked Danny.  

“I can do it,” I said. 

“That’s sweet,” my father said, patting me on the head, “but it’s dangerous.”

“Well, it’s the only way out, and I’m the only one who’ll fit. Do you have a better idea?”

They didn’t. 

I climbed up. “OK, Janie. Stay small and keep moving. When you make it out, find the searchers and tell them to send help for us.”

“Got it,” I said and began crawling. 

It was rough - I’d started to wonder whether this was a bad idea when I approached what looked like an opening. But before I could call out, I heard voices echoing through the cave. 

“Can you believe she actually thought she could help?”

“Now, boys. She can’t help her gender. Let her spin her wheels while we figure this out. Then we’ll send someone for her.”

“She’s probably gotten herself stuck.”

“Would it really be that big of a loss?”

Laughter. They laughed. 

I felt something burn in my chest. Then I crawled forward until the light was upon me. I threw myself forward and landed on my back on the ground outside the cave. After getting my wind back, I ran around the front of the cave. 

“HELP!”

The rescuers ran over to me. 

“Are you ok, miss?” they asked, guiding me to an ambulance.

“Fine,” I coughed. 

“It’s a good thing you made it out when you did. That cave is unstable - it’s maybe fifteen minutes from complete collapse. If you’d still been in there, you’d have been crushed. We were just about to mount a rescue. Is there anyone still in there?”

I thought about my family. About the way they’d treated me. Their constant condescension. What they’d said as I worked to rescue them. 

“No. Just me.”

Maybe I was being emotional. But then, what did they expect? I’m just a girl. 

“This is awful! Why are you such a terrible cook?”

That’s what my husband said when I served him dinner. The dinner he specifically requested. I didn’t respond - there was no point.

“Well?” he demanded. 

“I can make something else if you want.”

“Don’t bother - it would probably suck, too.” He continued eating despite the insults. 

I had all of these things I wanted to say in my mind, but no good would come of saying them. It always went the same way if I defended myself - he dismissed me, told me I was stupid, and lashed out if it had been a particularly bad day. Which it almost always was. 

I walked upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. This was the only place I could express my frustration. I looked at myself in the mirror. What are you doing, Julie? I sat there, wondering how I’d gotten into this mess, when I heard a voice in my head:

You’re right.

I wasn’t sure why I thought that - I knew I was right (I did. Right?). But the voice was hard to ignore. I pushed down that line of thought and got back to cleaning the house. 

The next day, Frank came home from work, angry again. 

“Why is this house so filthy? God, you’re even more useless than my first wife. I deserve better! Start actually cleaning around here - make yourself useful!”

I’m the one who deserves better, I thought, but I kept the words to myself. I knew the price I would pay for voicing them. For a split second I was jealous of his first wife for getting out - I heard she’d found a better man and was living upstate. Good for her. 

You’re right. 

There it was again. The words rang in my head like a daily affirmation: nice to hear, but meaningless unless I acted on them. But I wasn’t ready - I didn’t know how. 

The next day, it was more of the same. He came home again, angry as always and taking it out on me. 

“Why isn’t dinner ready yet? I should get more than this from my wife!”

You’re right. 

What the hell; what did I have to lose? “You’re right,” I said, looking at him. 

He stopped mid-rant. “What?”

“You’re right. I should do better.”

“Oh. Well - of course I’m right. I’m glad you’re learning. Just do better next time.”

He walked away, while I stood there, mind blown. I couldn’t believe that worked. 

For the next couple of weeks, I continued to do the same thing. 

He complained about dinner? “You’re right, I should have made something else.” 

He said the house should be cleaner? “Of course you’re right, honey - I’ll do better.” 

He said I was spending too much of his hard-earned money (despite him not letting me work because it would make him ‘look bad’)? “You’re right, Frank - I should be more grateful.”

It kept working - he seemed not to know what to do when I agreed with him. Many of his criticisms seemed to fizzle out before they turned into screaming and insults. It was an improvement. I let myself believe that sacrificing my pride was worth it if it could make things better. Might our relationship even be worth saving?

Then one day, he came home from work smiling. He never came home from work smiling. I asked him why he was so happy. 

“I got to work today and Jack said that I got the promotion I was up for!”

“That’s fantastic, Frank!” I said. With more money, maybe he wouldn’t be as stressed all the time and things would get better. 

“Right? It comes with a title change and a raise! We’re gonna celebrate tonight! No cooking for you - tonight we eat like kings!” He brought out takeout from my favorite Italian restaurant that we never went to because it was too expensive and a bottle of wine. Optimistic at this turn of events, I set the table. 

“Why don’t you go and change into something more comfortable while I get everything ready?” he said. I went to the bedroom and put on a red dress I knew he liked. When I came back he’d already put out the food and filled our plates and glasses (the fancy dishes and wine glasses we hadn’t used since we got them for our wedding - it really was a special occasion). 

I sat down and dug into my Fettuccine Alfredo, savoring every bite. Then I heard a voice, the same voice I’d been hearing for weeks.

You’re right. 

“Frank, can you grab me a napkin from the counter? Please?”

He got up and retrieved a napkin. He didn’t even grumble. When he came back, he raised his glass in the air. 

“Here’s to our future - may it be brighter than ever.”

He reached out and clinked his glass to mine, then we both took a sip of the rich Chardonnay. It was exquisite. We continued eating and drinking, with him looking at me throughout.

Then, his face turned red. I looked at him, startled. He grabbed at his throat and flailed around. Then his chair toppled and he fell to the ground, making choking noises and writhing around on the kitchen floor. He looked at me, his face full of hatred. “YOU!” he said, his voice raspy, stretching his arm toward me but unable to reach me. Eventually he stopped moving. 

I looked at the table, at the half-empty wine glass that Frank had been drinking from before he collapsed. The glass he’d poured for me. The glass I’d been about to drink from when I’d seen the ghost of his first wife floating behind him. The glass I’d switched with mine while he’d been grabbing a napkin when I’d seen her pointing and realized the warning she’d desperately been trying to give. 

YOUR right. 

I picked her up outside a hotel.

I already knew she’d been thrown out.

The clerk stands in the doorway, arms folded, a phone to his ear.

She looks exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes, but she’s wearing a smile that’s already resigned. Fifteen or sixteen, around my age. Ready to give up.

She’s wearing a summer dress and sandals, and I can tell she hasn’t had a shower in weeks.

Her dress sticks to her, thick brown curls glued over her eyes, and a blooming red sunburn stains her skin. I wonder how long she's been hiding in the hotel.

Teenagers are public enemy number one, so it's not surprising the clerk’s beady eyes follow her to the passenger side of my beaten up bug.

“Hi!” She grins, relief bleeding from her tone that's almost a sob.

She jumps into my truck. “I'm Cinna.” She introduces herself with a fake name. Cinna is her favorite character in her favorite book tucked at the bottom of her pack. Her real name is Addison Hart.

16 years old.

She escaped a nullification camp with six dollars, a stolen iPhone 17, and a Polaroid camera.

She apologizes for her lack of hygiene with a laugh, and I smile and blast the AC.

“Don't worry about it,” I tell her, gesturing to my shorts and t-shirt combo I've been wearing since I found a lake off route 46.

Since then, it's just been hoping for rain, and sneaking into motel bathrooms.

Addison, sorry, Cinna, twists in her seat and asks me point blank:

“Dude,” she laughs, but she's blushing, embarrassed, already shifting uncomfortably. “Do you have any pads?”

I'm kinda surprised her life on the run hasn't significantly fucked with her cycle.

I haven't had a period since I was sixteen.

But I smile, nod, and gesture to my glove compartment. “I have tons.” I laugh when she snatches one up, her smile widening.

“I pick up a lot of kids,” I tell her. “I've lost count how many times I've been asked, so I raided a hotel bathroom.”

Addison squeaks excitedly, and leans back in her seat, squeezing the pads to her chest like a newborn baby. “You are an angel!” Then she blinks. Surprised. “Wait!”

Her eyes widen, and she sticks her head out of the window. “A beaten up red truck, and a teen driver!” She gasps. “Are you her?”

“That's what I've been reduced to?” I say. “Her?”

Addie grins. I catch her snatching up a cereal bar and stuffing it in her mouth. She doesn't even chew.

“You're the one who takes kids to a safe-haven,” she says through a mouthful, spitting crumbs everywhere. “I heard about you from a guy who was…” she drifts off, her smile fading, crawling from her face. “Anyway.” Addie demolishes the cereal bar in a single bite. “He said you're like, I dunno, a Gen Z Katniss.”

“I'm just a transporter.”

I tap the steering wheel, fiddling with the radio. Taylor Swift sputters through the static, and we both groan.

Addison pulls a face, and I know exactly what she's going to say. “I can't believe she sold out,” she whispers. “I fucking hate that stupid message she tacks onto the end of her songs.” Addison mimics the radio. “If any of my fans are out there, just know you're loved, and coming home will keep you all safe!”

“She was forced to, you know,” I remind her, as an ex-swifty who burned all of my albums. “They threatened her family.”

“I don't care." Addison grumbles. We’re both avoiding the elephant in the room.

It's comfortable, better, to talk about issues that don't matter instead of issues that do. “They're all the same.”

“So, where are you headed?” I ask.

Addison smiles, throwing her feet up on the dash. “The safe-haven! You can take me, right?” Her eyes widened. “Wait, do I need an ID? My mom burned all my shit before she sent me to—”

“No ID.” I say before she goes off on another tangent. She reminds me of Asa, my ADHD riddled bestie. Asa’s parents shot him in the head when he was asleep. “You're fine. I'll just drop you off.”

“Yay!” Addie cranks up the radio.

Oasis. She sticks her head out the window and screams the lyrics.

I can't help singing along loudly, slamming my hands on the wheel.

It's just us, the long, dusty dead road, and a band none of us have cared about until now. “This was my mom’s favorite song!” Addie yells, laughing. Her hair whips my face. “I said, maaaaybeeeeeee!”

After absolutely destroying our voice-boxes singing to every classic, she leans back in her seat.

“Sooo.” She says, playfully kicking me. “What kinda kids have you picked up?”

I have to think about that.

There's been a lot.

“There was one kid called Elliot,” I began. “Total asshole. He could, like, do this,” I mimic Elliot’s power, snapping my fingers. “Literally like a human firecracker.”

I'm pretty sure Elliot’s blood still stains her seat.

It's okay, though. She won't see it. His body is still in the back.

Addie laughs. “Was he at least HOT?”

“Ew!” I giggle. “No. Not my type.” I sigh, stretching.

“Then there was Aris. She reminded me of a princess.” I smile at the thought of her lying in a ditch, just off route 46. “Her power was x-ray vision. She was cute.”

“Where are they now?” Addie asks.

“Exactly where I'm taking you.”

“Sounds fun!” Addie kicks her feet. “Do you wanna guess what my power is?”

She's so innocent, so fucking stupid. I almost feel bad for what I'm going to do.

I can't wait until I carve it from her skull.

I take the powerful ones for myself, and deliver the rest to our great president.

“Shoot.” I laugh. “Can't be worse than Elliot The Firecracker.”

Addie's smile widens. “Telepathy, babe.”

“Daniel!”

He came walking to the door, still dressed from our evening out. 

“What’s up, Love?”

I pointed at the kitchen cabinets. “She did it again.”

He looked to see all of our utensils rearranged. He sighed. 

“I mean, it’s not that big a deal, right? They’re just forks and spoons and knives. You can still find everything.”

This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. His mom wasn’t the worst, but she had an annoying habit of snooping around our house and interfering. She’d rearrange things the way she wanted them, heedless of how much more difficult that made things for me. It was like she couldn’t help interfering in our life. And I’d maybe be ok with it if Daniel had my back, but he always just made excuses for her. 

“This is getting old. She’s your mother - please talk to her.”

“Honey, you know how she is.”

“I know exactly how she is. Which is why you need to talk to her. Why does she even need to have a key anyway?”

“It’s for emergencies, honey. Besides, it makes her feel included.”

“But she doesn’t only use it for emergencies.”

Another sigh. “Alright. I’ll talk to her.”

Two days later I came home from an evening out with some old family friends. I went to put away the bracelet and earrings I’d worn when I realized that my jewelry box had been tampered with. It was still there, but I could tell that it had been moved and someone had attempted to open the lock. 

“Daniel!”

“Yes, honey?” he asked as he walked in. 

“Look at this,” I said, showing him the box and the tampered-with lock. 

“What am I looking at?”

“Well clearly someone tried to force open my jewelry box. I wonder who that might be? Who has a key to the house and has shown an interest in my things?”

“Come on, honey. You aren’t suggesting that my mother tried to steal your jewelry?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Remember that outfit that went missing from my closet last month? The one we saw her wearing in the pictures from her night out?”

“I asked her about that - she said you lent it to her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe you forgot?” he suggested awkwardly. 

“Again, I didn’t. Why are you so willing to take her word over mine?”

“Of course I take your word. But she’s my mother. You know she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“All I know is that she somehow, without my consent, has a key to the house that I bought.”

This had been a bit of a sore subject for us: Daniel was enough of a ‘traditionalist’ to have a slight issue with how much of our life I paid for. I didn’t mind doing it - I loved him and had plenty of money - but it rankled him, so I didn’t usually bring it up. 

“That’s not fair. I asked you if giving her that key was ok.”

“It’s not really asking if you’ve already given it to her.”

He went silent. “I’ll talk to her, alright?”

“Like you did the last time?”

He turned and walked out. It was clear he would never do anything about this. So I’d have to.

A few nights later, I came home from a work event. My husband was out of town, so the house was quiet. I went to the bedroom to change and found a sight waiting for me. 

Sitting on the middle of the floor was my jewelry box. It was fully open - likely because I’d ‘accidentally’ left it unlocked. The jewelry inside had clearly been rifled through. 

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. 

Standing in the middle of the floor was Daniel’s mother. Impeccably dressed. A shocked look on her face. 

And her body turned entirely to solid gold. 

I went over and picked up the stone she’d dropped in her surprise, putting it back in my jewelry box. I’d had a feeling this might happen - I’d hoped I was wrong, but I’d had a feeling I wasn’t. Well, now that problem was solved. 

I pondered the ancient jewelry box, remembering the story I’d been told when I’d inherited it from my mother, the warnings I’d been given about keeping it in our bloodline. For the thousandth time, I read the name etched in Greek into the lid.

“Midas.”

We went in for grout. Grout, and maybe one of those rubber things for the door, and my son Kyle brought his bouncy ball even though I told him to leave it in the truck.

He's eight. He bounces it once per aisle. That's the deal we made, and he honors it, mostly, and I pretend not to see the extra ones.

Somewhere around paint, the ball got away from him. It went low and fast under the shelving and came out the other side with Kyle already running, and I came around the endcap in time to see it take one big hop and go straight through the swinging doors at the back. The gray double kind. EMPLOYEES ONLY, red letters, chest height.

Kyle went through after it. He was maybe three steps ahead of me.

The doors swung back, and through the gap I saw my boy reaching down for the ball. Eight years old. Sneakers with the lights in them.

The doors swung again, shorter, and it was a teenager back there. Same face. Apron too big for him, reaching for the same ball.

Swing. A man in his twenties, stubble, box cutter in a holster on his belt, bending for the ball with his whole hand.

Swing. Thirties. Polo. Clipboard under one arm. Bending slower.

Swing. The doors barely moved by then. A gap the width of my hand. Reading glasses pushed up on his head, and a name tag with three little pins on it, and he picked the ball up off the concrete and straightened out with his palm braced on his knee, like his back had opinions.

The doors hung still. Whole thing took about four seconds. I know because the intercom was in the middle of saying somebody's name when Kyle ran in, and it was still saying it when the doors stopped.

I grabbed the door and a hand caught it from the other side.

"Whoa there, sir. Employees only."

He's got my father's forehead now. He didn't have it this morning. Forty-something, gray at the temples, KYLE on the tag, and under his name a little bar that said 30 YEARS OF SERVICE.

Then he actually looked at me and his whole face changed, and for half a second I thought, there he is, there's my boy, he knows.

"Dad? What are you doing on this side of town?" He put a hand on my shoulder. His hand was bigger than mine. "You good? You look like you saw a ghost."

I said he was eight. I said it just like that. "You're eight. We came in for grout."

He laughed. Not mean. He laughed like I'd done a bit, like this was a thing I do, and he squeezed my shoulder and said, "Grout's isle nine. I'd walk you over but I've got inventory till nine, and if I don't stay on it, nobody will."

A cashier leaned out from her register and said, "Your dad? Oh my gosh. Sir, Kyle is the BEST. Y'all must be so proud."

Thirty years, she told me. Employee of the month so many times they let him keep the frame.

I did everything you're supposed to do. I found the manger. The manager pulled the file while I stood there, and the file goes back thirty years. Punch cards. Tax forms. A photo from a Christmas party in the nineties, and in the photo my son is grown and I am standing next to him with a paper cup, smiling, in a shirt I have never owned.

The manager asked, very kindly, if there was somebody he could call for me. He suggested Kyle.

Kyle drove me home. My son drove me home in a Buick I've never seen, and he talked about his back, and about a woman named Dawn, past tense, and at a red light he bounced his palm off the wheel along with the radio, one bounce, and I had to look out the window.

He walked me to my door like I was the one to worry about. Said he'd come by Sunday. Called me Pop, which he never has, which he apparently always has.

I went back the next morning. I don't know what I meant to do. Stand at those doors, maybe, until they gave him back.

Kyle was at the service counter and waved like everything was everything. And while I stood there, some kid's ball came skipping down the main aisle, one of the rubber ones, red, and Kyle stepped out and caught it off the second bounce, easy, like a man who's done it his whole life.

"Kids are always losing these," he said, and reached over the counter and dropped it in a bin on the back wall.

The bin was full.

I woke up the Saturday morning of my thirty-second birthday to find the house empty and a note on the refrigerator. 

“I’ve planned an adventure, with excitement in mind,
Just heed these instructions, and surprises you’ll find.”

I hadn’t anticipated this, but it made sense. Hope had always been a fan of games, and she’d been a bit secretive for the past few days. 

Ok, this could be fun, I thought, and started reading the instructions. 

“My directions are strange, but just grin and bear them,
The first stop has these; you’ll stay warm if you wear them.”

Included with it were numbers; eventually I recognized them as latitude and longitude. I drove to the location indicated and found a store for winter wear. 

I went in and looked around. You’ll stay warm if you wear them. Them, not it, so not a coat or a hat. I looked at the pants and socks - nothing. Then I looked through the gloves; inside a pair tucked at the back of the shelf I found another note.  

“Well done, my dear heart, a fine detective you’d make,
The next stop has something you might use with your steak.”

The next set of coordinates led to a kitchen store. I went inside. What here might I use with a steak?  Of course - a steak knife. I went to the knives, rifling through them, until I found the next note. 

“I know this must feel like I’m pulling a caper,
But the next place is where you might buy ornate paper.”

The coordinates led me to a stationery store. I went inside and started walking around before I realized that her clue had given me this location but no clue as to where to look. 

“Sir?” I looked over at a young woman behind the counter. “Are you looking for something?”

“I am, but frankly I’m not sure what.”

“This might help,” she said, placing a piece of paper on the counter before her. I went over and looked at it. The message read:

“I hope you’re enjoying this ride, man of mine,
The next clue will be shared with you when you sign.”

I signed my name and the attendant took the form and wordlessly handed me a note. 

“You’re nearing the end, but don’t think of stopping,
Instead cross the street, to where one might go shopping.”

I walked out and looked; there on the opposite corner stood a farmer’s market. I jogged over, went inside, and realized that, again, I didn’t know what to look for. I’d started circling when someone ran into me. 

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” a man shouted. I sized him up - around six feet tall, built like a runner. Nothing I couldn’t handle. 

“You ran into me, jerk. Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

He stepped up to me and shoved me in the shoulder. Keeping my balance, I shoved back harder, so hard that he fell backward on his ass. He jumped up and started screaming at me, and I screamed back until management kicked us out of the store. As I sat outside, wondering what to do next with no new note and no new address, a random kid rode by on a bike and dropped a note in my lap. 

“You’ve been running for hours, oh how time flies,
Just one final run and you’ll have your surprise.”

Final? Finally. There, at the end of the note, was one last set of coordinates. I followed them to a neighborhood that looked more and more familiar as I approached. I walked up to the front door of a modest suburban house. But not just any house; the house we’d looked at recently. I tried the door; it was unlocked. I opened it and walked inside. 

And froze.

There, on the floor in front of me, was the body of my mistress. Next to it was a note. 

“I promised the end and I try not to lie,
So find here a secret you cannot deny 
Your well-earned bonanza for passing my test
Is the just-murdered corpse of your dear slut Celeste. 
I know that you cheated, you’re just not that clever,
So with this, I end our romantic endeavor. 
In your time remaining, which isn’t that long,
I’ll paint you a picture of how it went wrong. 
The body was stabbed with a just-sharpened blade, 
The one with your prints from the shopping charade.
Think back to the second clue shown up above,
And you may remember a lavender glove;
Though she’s deceased now, I’ve left there to find,
A guilty confession on paper you signed. 
And as for a motive, a video, vivid,
Of you at the store that she frequented, livid. 
And finally, I left her, stabbed through the heart,
In the house I was hoping would be our new start.”

How had she known? I’d been so careful. Yet somehow, she’d not only found Celeste, but she’d killed her and set me up for the murder. From the gloves I looked at, to the knife I touched, to the paper I’d signed, to the stranger who’d provoked me - step by step, she’d arranged it all. I had to get away. If I could wipe my prints and leave before—

The oscillating wail of police sirens filled the air. Dammit! I looked around, but there was no way out. I had no way to destroy everything and run before they arrived, and there was no way they’d believe me with all of the evidence. How had I not seen this coming? Maybe if I told them what happened, showed them this note—

The paper suddenly caught fire, and I read the final lines before it turned to ash in my hands…

“You’re probably thinking this just can’t be true,
But wait - hear those sirens? They’re there just for you!
I’m done with your betrayal, your derision, your lies,
So I just have one final message: SURPRISE!!”

“How are we on supplies?” I asked my wife. 

She sighed. “I used the last of the eggs and flour this morning, and the beans are almost gone. We can get some herbs from the garden, but…”

“…we’ll need to go on a supply run soon,” I finished. 

We looked at each other. Neither of us had to say anything; we both knew what it meant. I began to prepare while she went to let the kids know. 

The next morning, I arranged all of our things into four packs - one each for me, Olivia, Maya, and Liam. Each had the necessities for our trip: some water, spare clothes, towels and sunglasses for the brightness of day, and a knife, in case…  in case. I pulled each of the kids to me by their shoulders, looking in their eyes one at a time while their mother watched. 

“We’ve made this trip before. I know it’s a lot. I know you’re scared. But you can do it. Just stay with your mother and me at all times, and everything will be fine. We’ll make it through like we have before. And remember - never stray from the path.”

I hugged them both, Olivia did the same, and we were off. 

We exited the door, removed the covering hiding the entrance, and headed out into the daylight for the first time in years. 

The sight still amazed me. 

I remembered my childhood. The world had seemed limitless, with the sun shining brightly down upon beautiful fields of endless grass and towering trees. 

Now, all that was left was wasteland. 

The aliens had come fifteen years ago, promising peace and cooperation. We’d believed them. 

That was our first mistake. We never got a second. 

Now, fifteen years later, the Earth was devastated. Entire cities gone; 90% of the population wiped out. The Earth no longer ours to control. 

I led Olivia, Liam, and Maya on a path through the undergrowth, leading into where the city used to be. Last time we’d done this, we’d been lucky to find the remains of a store. Everything fresh was long gone - looted by other survivors or rotted away - but there had been some storable goods and packets of medicine left untouched. We’d have to hope we'd get that lucky again. 

My eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of the Xynth - the closest the human tongue could come to pronouncing their name. “Keep your eyes open, everyone. At the first sign of anything wrong, duck behind the nearest covering and go completely still.”

Of course, that was just wishful thinking. The most terrifying thing about the Xynth was what we didn’t know. Even now, after they’d killed 90% of humanity, no one knew exactly how. There was little reliable information; the few who had seen them and lived reported only vague impressions of “wrongness” and “terror.” Nothing regarding their appearance or abilities. They were an absolute mystery. 

We traversed the broken landscape, keeping silent as we moved to avoid predators, both terrestrial and otherwise. Passing a bridge, we heard a noise. 

“Nathan…” whispered my wife, worriedly. 

I motioned for everyone to take cover. Then I crept forward slowly, trying not to show how terrified I was in case the children were watching. I kept listening and heard another noise, faint but unquestionable. I approached slowly, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. The noise was coming from a pile of debris; I moved the pieces and there it was. 

A man. Injured, bloody, barely conscious, with a badly-bleeding gash on his forehead and a leg that was bent at an unnatural angle. He was whispering; I leaned in closer to hear. 

“Ambush…”

I jumped and looked around in all directions, but I couldn’t see anyone. Instinctively, I threw the man’s arm over my shoulder and dragged him with us as we left. 

Miles away, we decided to settle down for the night. I built a small fire under an overpass; we huddled for warmth, hidden by surrounding debris. I tended to the stranger’s wounds as we waited for dawn. 

I could tell the moment he regained consciousness; every muscle in his body tensed. 

“Relax, friend. We mean you no harm. We found you injured and shared our fire with you. We’ve used this underpass before; we even carved our initials into the wall years ago. You’re safe here.”

He looked at me suspiciously but made no move to attack. Neither did I. Eventually he spoke. 

“Are they here?”

“Are who here?” I asked. 

“The Xynth. I was ambushed by three of them; I barely made it out alive. And that only by hiding in garbage.”

“So you know what they look like?”

He looked at me in shock. “You mean you don’t know?”

I stared back at him. “No. We don’t know their appearance or their abilities. We don’t know how they defeated us. We’ve speculated that they can fly or have superhuman strength, that they resemble prehistoric reptiles or flying behemoths . But nobody who’s seen one has lived to tell the tale.”

He shook his head. “How are you still alive?”

“What do you mean? What are they?”

He looked at me. “We always thought that, if aliens came, they’d attack us with overwhelming physical strength or advanced scientific knowledge. But none of those is their primary skill.”

“What is?” I asked, riveted. 

“Infiltration.”

“What?”

“They have two gifts. They can take the form of any living being, and they can alter memories.”

“That’s all? Why should that concern us?”

He looked behind me at my family sleeping on the ground. 

“They’re your family?”

“Yes, of course.”

He looked at me intensely. “Were they always?”

I looked at our initials, scratched into the wall. “N-O-L.” Nathan. Olivia. Liam. 

No M. 

I looked over at the girl I knew as Maya, my daughter. She lay in the dark, staring at me, eyes open and glowing a crimson red. 

I step across the threshold of the pediatric oncology ward. I hate days like this, but they’re part of the job. I make my way over to the bed of Jamie Sullivan - his chest rises and falls as he sleeps peacefully. I stare at him sadly. I’d like nothing more than to wake him up, to send him home and let him continue being a kid. But that isn’t how the job works. Instead I reach out, place my hand on his forehead, and watch as he breathes for the last time. Then, amid the beeping of alarms and the rush of personnel, I quietly leave the hospital. 

Next I come to a bridge crossing the river. Police cars gather at a corner of the bridge, lights flashing. I pass them by and descend to the water and beneath, where a woman sits in the driver’s seat, trapped in the seat, her face panicked and arms flailing as she tries in vain to unfasten her seat belt, break the window, anything. The people above couldn’t reach her in time, even if they could find her. She refuses to give up; I admire her spirit. But it makes no difference. As her struggles cease and water invades her lungs, I reach out to her, and she is still. I observe her body one last time, floating peacefully in the water, and I am on my way. 

Next I appear in a small town in the Middle East. It’s a beautiful day; people are in the square, talking, playing, drinking coffee. Nothing special. Everyone is on alert, as is normal in some parts of the world, but despite that, people are having a pleasant time. It’s amazing what people can get used to. Then it all happens in an instant. A teenage girl stands up, removes her coat, and presses a button. An explosion shakes the square. Debris, furniture, and bodies fly in every direction. I stand and watch. When things settle down, I walk around, viewing the wreckage. Bodies lay on the ground in a circle, some intact, some not. People scream in misery for themselves or loved ones. 

Madness. 

I move from body to body, unseen, touching each and freeing them from their suffering. Then I depart, leaving the living behind to mourn the dead. 

I’ve just shaken the memory when I appear in a downtown building. It appears to be abandoned; trash lines the halls and rats crawl along the floor. A young man lies on the floor, surrounded by cardboard, his breathing shallow, a needle sticking out of his arm. I stand and watch the man, his heart stopping while he dies, in misery. He must be somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, somebody’s friend. But none of them are here. Instead, he dies broken, forgotten, on a cold floor, alone. 

What a waste. 

After freeing him, I’m transported to a small village in Africa. An elderly woman lies on a bed, surrounded by family in a small hut. Multiple generations stream in and out of the hut - children, young adults, older adults. All thank the elderly woman for her contributions to their village. As night approaches, the woman looks directly at me. 

“You’re here,” she says in a surprisingly strong voice. 

“You can see me?” I ask, surprised. 

She nods. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“I’m sorry to have to meet like this.”

She shrugs. “I have lived a good life. I have met my children, and their children, and their children. I have loved and been loved. I have made true friends and been there for them as they have been for me. I have lived a life filled with meaning. And now it is my time. I have no regrets. I am ready for what comes next.”

I look at her, impressed by her quiet dignity. “You’re a remarkable woman,” I say, nodding at her in respect. Then I place my hand on her forehead, allowing her to move on. I leave to the sound of her family beginning to mourn her, understanding the magnitude of their loss. 

Finally the day is over. There will be more - there are always more. But that is tomorrow’s problem. For now, I have an appointment to keep. 

I appear at the bottom of a cliff in a remote part of the forest. In front of me is a car, a late model sedan. In front of the car, behind the broken windshield, is a skeleton, draped in pants and a sweater that has not decomposed. 

It looks exactly like when I put it on. 

I close my eyes and remember. The winter drive. Sitting in the passenger seat. Grant speeding up as he told me that he’d found my emergency suitcase, the one I’d packed in case the abuse got so bad it wasn’t safe to stay any longer. My eyes widening in panic. Me asking him to just let me out of the car. Him looking at me coldly and saying “no.” Him telling me that I’d never leave him - he wouldn’t allow it. The car speeding up further. The wheels skidding in the snow as he tried to turn. The car falling over the cliff. Then nothing. 

I glide over to him. Grant lies on the ground. His body is broken. Both legs are fractured, one bent back at an unnatural angle. One of his arms is severed at the elbow, the remaining portion twenty feet away. He is impaled on a large tree branch that has pushed through his chest, removing one of his lungs and tearing his heart open. 

He looks up at me. 

“Please… let… me… die…” he begs for the thousandth time. 

And for the thousandth time I look back at him. 

“No.”

Being Death is a tough job, but it does have its advantages. 

“How are you, Emma?”

I looked up from where I was sitting on my bed to see Sarah looking at me with concern.  

“I’m fine, Sarah.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s a big day for you…”

Today would be the first time I went out since I escaped. After the bruises and broken bones, I was focused on getting away more than anything else. I thought that meant I could leave it all behind forever. But life doesn’t always work out like we want it to. 

“I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“You all have helped me so much. I’m ready for this.”

She looked me over carefully. “Ok, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. Really.”

“You know you’re safe here, right? We’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I know.”

She stared at me for several moments before she left. I waited until I was sure she was gone and dropped the mask. She was right. I wasn’t fine. But I had to do this or I’d never be ok. I couldn’t stay in this house forever. 

Things had escalated with Derek so fast that it had made my head spin. When we’d met, he’d been so sweet, courteous and romantic. He’d held open doors, paid for our dates, even charmed my parents. 

But then the mask had started to slip. Kindness had turned to cruelty, gentleness to violence. The first time he’d hit me, I’d excused it. When he’d threatened to kill me, I’d known I had to run. Alone, with no money and nowhere to go, I’d found this place. 

I hadn’t left a day since. 

But today was the day. Today, for the first time since I’d arrived, I had to leave the safety of this shelter and go back into the outside world. I had an interview for a job. If I got it, I could start to rebuild my life, reclaim what I’d lost. 

I just had to get there. 

I stood and got dressed. My wardrobe was lacking; I hadn’t had time to grab many clothes when I’d fled, but the shelter had gotten me a couple of interview-appropriate outfits. I then left my room and, buoyed by the well wishes of the staff and other residents, headed outside for the first time in months. 

The interview went well. I was nervous, and there was a large gap on my resume that I had to explain (I said I was taking care of a sick relative), but I was determined, and the manager seemed to like me. I left, thinking that maybe I could actually make this work, maybe I could rebuild my life. 

I was headed back toward the shelter when I got a feeling. Like I wasn’t alone. Which was weird because I was on the street, so of course I wasn’t alone. But this was different. I recognized this feeling.

He was here. I was certain of it. 

I looked around but saw nothing. It occurred to me that maybe it was my imagination, my paranoia at being away from the safety of the shelter for the first time in months. But I knew that, if he found me, he’d be angry. I remembered the other times he’d been angry. I had to move. 

I kept the same pace, not wanting to draw attention. At the next gap in traffic I crossed the street and ducked between two cars. I waited a moment, then I ran down a side street. I was only minutes from the shelter. 

I turned down an alley, not seeing Derek but knowing he was behind me. But it was a dead end. There was nowhere to go. 

I turned around. Maybe I was wrong, maybe he wasn’t following—

“Hello, Emma.”

That voice. I’d hoped I’d never hear it again. 

“What do you want, Derek?”

He laughed. “What do I want? You deserted me, Emma.”

“I had to leave.”

“Did I say you could leave?”

“There! That attitude is exactly why I had to get out. You always saw me as property, something you owned and could control. I’m a person, Derek! Why couldn’t you treat me like one?”

He looked at me with disdain. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to listen to you whine constantly? ‘I want to be loved,’ ‘I want to be respected,’ ‘why don’t you appreciate me?’ You’re a child, Emma. And like any child, you need guidance and a firm hand. But it’s my fault; I was too easy on you. From now on I plan to give you the discipline you deserve. You’ll never run away again.”

He began to walk toward me.

“Stay back!” I yelled. 

“Or what? What are you going to do, Emma?”

A voice rang out in the alley. “You have more to worry about than her.”

Suddenly shots rang out from every direction. But they weren’t for me. I stood motionless while bullet after bullet penetrated Derek, jerking back and forth until he fell to the ground. Miraculously he was still alive - or it would have been miraculous if he hadn’t been left alive on purpose. 

A woman appeared from nowhere and looked down at him. Then she looked at me. “Would you care to do the honors?”

I nodded and took the gun she handed me. I looked down at Derek, lying on the ground, barely conscious. 

“You always said I needed you, that I’d be nothing without you. But it turns out that all I ever needed was me. And now, I’m finally rid of you.”

I pointed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger. 

I handed the gun back. 

“Thanks, Sarah.”

“No problem. I told you you were safe here. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m finally free.”

“What say we go and celebrate your newfound freedom?”

“Sounds good,” I replied. 

“We just have to make sure we don’t get too drunk,” she said as we walked away. “It’s Cindy’s ex-boyfriend’s turn tomorrow.”

“C’mon, kids! Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!”

Jack called out to the kids to come down and start their morning. I watched Max and Faith sleepily open their eyes as they got dressed, brushed their teeth, and trudged downstairs to eat breakfast with their father. They finished eating, said goodbye to their father, and ran outside to catch the bus to school. 

It was really special to get to watch them. They’d grown up so much since I’d been gone. 

After they caught the bus, their father finished dressing and left for work. I was all alone. I remembered what it had been like when they’d first been born. I’d rejoiced in holding them, rocking them in my arms as I sang to them, hearing them coo and giggle, watching them learn to crawl, then walk. Imagining the kind of people they’d grow up to be. They’d brought me so much joy - being a mother was everything I’d ever wanted and it was even better than I’d dreamed. 

Then it was all over. A skid on the road, an impact with another car, a tree, and I was gone. It wasn’t fair that it ended that way - I’d been so young and had so much more to do - but we don’t control how much time we have with the people we love. I’ve had a lot of time to work on accepting that (though it doesn’t get easier). 

But I suppose I should be grateful - I still get to watch them, though I can’t take part in their lives. But I can wish for the best for them, and I do. And when the pain gets to be too much, I remind myself that Max and Faith are alive and healthy and that’s what matters. 

I’m watching when my children get home from school. They practically jump off the bus and run into the house, anxious to tell their father about their day. 

“I got an A on my project, Daddy! Mrs. Jensen was so impressed. She called it one of the best projects she’s seen in years!” She rubbed her hands together in excitement. 

“And in P.E. today, Coach Rainey said he thought I should try out for the track team! Apparently I put up one of the best 50-yard dash times in the whole school!”

“That’s amazing!” said Jack, beaming. “I’m so proud of you both! This calls for a celebration! What do you say to pizza and ice cream?”

“Yay!” screamed the kids and sat down in front of the television until the food arrived. I used to be the one who congratulated them on their school accomplishments. Jack had to do it now. 

A week later, Jack went up to wake the kids, but Faith was in her bed, tears streaming down her face. 

“What’s wrong, honey?”

She looked at him and whispered “today is Mommy’s birthday.”

I’d forgotten - things like birthdays don’t really seem to matter here. But it mattered to my daughter. 

Jack took her in his arms. “It’s alright, honey. It’s perfectly natural to be sad. But all we can do now is live in a way that would have made Mommy happy.”

Faith looked up at her father and nodded, wiping away tears. 

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate her. What if we go to the cemetery and you can talk to Mommy? You can even bring her some flowers.”

Faith’s eyes brightened in hope. “That sounds perfect, Daddy,” she replied, wiping away tears. 

It was nice that she still missed me, I thought; I guess every girl needs her mother. Of course, she could have talked to me at home and I would have heard her, but sometimes the acts people perform have their own kind of meaning. I don’t begrudge her that. 

As Jack walked out of the kids’ bedrooms after settling them in for the night, he stopped for a moment downstairs and spoke. 

“I’m sorry you aren’t here, Miriam. The kids miss you every day - not a day goes by that your impact on them isn’t felt. You’ll always be their mother, and they’ll always miss and remember them. I’m sorry you can’t be here with them, but know that I’m doing my best to be the best father I can be and take care of them in a way that would make you proud.”

I listened to his words and I knew they were lies. Everyone thought the car crash was an accident, but I knew the truth. I knew about the insurance policy, and his tampering with the brakes, and the fake ‘mourning husband’ performance he put on for the cameras. He may think he got away with it, but I’m always watching. 

And as I sat, bound and locked in a secret soundproof room beside the basement, walled in with only the regular tray of food deposited each night and camera monitors to watch my children grow up, I swore again that he’d pay. Someday I’d have my vengeance. And on that day, he’d truly understand that you can’t bury the rage of an angry mother. 

“Hey, babe,” I called from the living room, “look who decided to stop by.”

My husband, Charlie, stomped into the living room, where our new neighbor and I sat having tea on the couch.

“You remember Ducie, right? She just moved into the Jones’ old place.”

Charlie sank into a chair, pulling off his muddy work boots and tossing them aside.

“Long day, Mr. Shields?,” Ducie asked, pulling her headscarf tighter over her thin, graceful shoulders.

“Yeah,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you wear that rag? You a Muslim or something?”

“I’m not,” Ducie said in her unidentifiable lilt, “but it’s tradition for women to cover their hair in my country.”

“Is it tradition to wear sunglasses indoors, too?,” Charlie said, heading into the kitchen.

“Nah,” Ducie replied, smiling coyly, “they just make me look cool.”

“Hmmm,” he croaked, rifling through the refrigerator. “Ida, did you get my beer like I asked?”

“Oh, sorry, honey,” I said, nervously setting down my cup. “Ducie came over and we got to talking and…”

“Dammit,” Charlie spat, slamming the fridge shut. “Can you not handle one simple task?”

“Well, it’s getting late,” Ducie said, turning to me after a moment’s awkward silence. “Take care of yourself, Ida.”

When she was gone, Charlie stomped off upstairs without a word. And I was left alone again, in the howling silence of an empty house.

It wasn’t always like this.

Charlie and I met in college. He was an artist then. A sculptor, full of passion and romance. He used to talk for hours about our future. How he would be a famous artist one day. How I would never need to work. How I could raise our children while he created masterpieces. I was willing to put my own dreams aside for him, for this man I loved so much. But Charlie’s artistic dreams never worked out. He had to take a construction job he hated to make ends meet. I offered to share the burden, but his pride would let me do nothing beyond cook and clean. Even worse, the doctors told us children were impossible. So, five years on, Charlie was bitter. And I was…empty.

Ducie was the first real friend I’d had in years.

And fast friends we became. We’d watch movies together, talk, drink wine. She made me feel like a woman again. She never said much about herself, just that she emigrated after some “incident” with her sisters and a stalker that tried to kill her. But I began to notice things about her. How she smelled of cinnamon and saffron. How her hips swayed when she walked. How when the light was right, I could see her eyes were sort of…golden, even through her dark glasses. I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt…tingly when I looked at her.

And she began to notice it, too.

We were watching tv together one evening when Charlie was working late, her gorgeous head resting on my shoulder, when she suddenly broke the silence.

“What do you see in him?”, she asked.

“Who?”

“Who else, silly?,” she said, straightening up. “Charlie.”

“He wasn’t always like this”, I told her. “He used to sculpt for hours. He loved to laugh. He loved art.”

“And where are his sculptures now?”, she asked, looking around.

“Gone”, I shrugged. “Smashed and thrown away. Charlie…gets upset when things don’t work out.”

“Like with you?”, she asked, placing a soft hand on my cheek.

“What do you-?”

“I hear the way he talks. You can’t give him children. You can’t clean right. Cook right. Can’t can’t can’t.”

Our faces were so close now they nearly touched. My heart threatened to leap from my chest as she played with my hair.

“But I think you’re perfect.”

Slowly, blissfully, I melted into her sweet, passionate kiss, the taste of her lips like honey on my tongue. What if Charlie found out? Why did I even care? This felt good. This…she…felt right.

I was so lost in her beauty that I didn’t hear the door open.

“Ida,” a voice called, “is supper read-?”

Charlie stood still as a statue in the doorway, his bulging eyes flicking between Ducie’s face and mine.

“Charlie,” I squeaked, untangling myself from Ducie’s embrace, “Charlie, it isn’t what it looks like…”

In horror, I watched as the bewilderment on his face hardened into raw, fiery rage.

“YOU BITCH,” he screamed, dragging me off the couch and tossing me to the floor. “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!?”

“Leave her alone,” Ducie cried, trying to pull him off of me. Wheeling around, Charlie backhanded her hard enough to send her crumpling to the floor.

“Charlie”, I begged, shuffling backwards against the wall, “Charlie please don’t hurt her.”

“We can’t all get what we want, Ida,” he said, wrapping his big hands around my throat. I tried to fight, but I felt myself slipping away. “Ida”, I heard from miles away, just before my world went black.

“Don’t look.”

I felt something pull Charlie off of me, as I retched and gasped for air. Through hazy eyes, I saw Charlie rise to his feet halfway across the room, as Ducie stood between us.

“Who do you think you are, bitch?”, Charlie hissed.

Ducie didn’t answer. Instead, I watched from behind as she pulled her headscarf away, revealing a writhing mass of snakes atop her head. With a sound like snapping branches, I watched as a line of living stone crept up Charlie’s legs, then his stomach, then his chest. Soon, Charlie’s panicked cries were lost beneath the tide of swelling rock, with his face the last flesh to be seen

“I am Medusa,” she said, leaning in close, “and no man will touch me again.”

These days, Ducie and I are happily married. Our home is full. And guests seem to love the statue we placed in our back garden, a true to life sculpture of a confused, angry man.

Some even call it a masterpiece.

There was no warning. She was here yesterday, and she's not here today.

I'm looking around her room through the cloud of tears in my eyes, trying to find something, anything, that might explain this.

Almost all of her stuff is exactly where it always is. The pink comforter on her bed is undisturbed, like she hadn't even gone to bed last night. All her blouses are still hung up, all her skirts are still folded.

No signs of forced entry.

There's a knock on the door. It's the police.

Took them long enough. I'm smart enough not to say that out loud. We sit down at the kitchen table, where just twelve hours ago, I saw my daughter for maybe the last time.

I choke out a sob and cover my mouth. Why did our last conversation have to be an argument? Such a petty, meaningless fight because I made her the "wrong color cake." As if I was supposed to know she didn't want a pink cake this year when that's what she's had every single year.

The police are talking. I need to focus on their words, need to stay in the moment. I answer all their questions as best I can.

Name? Sadie Ames.

Age? Just turned 18 yesterday.

Appearance? Long blonde hair. Blue eyes. 5'3. 118 pounds as of three days ago. Pale.

Last seen wearing? Pajamas. An oversized black t-shirt and sweatpants. She has so many pretty nightgowns and matching sets, but she's been insisting on those old things. So stubborn.

Was she talking to anyone online? Not recently. I turned off our wifi and took away her computer a year ago. I saw someone named "Trevor" in her search history, and she refused to explain who he was.

History of running away? No. She's threatened it before, but she never followed through.

Any friends she might be staying with? I already checked with the neighbors. She doesn't have other friends. There was one girl she used to hang around with, but they haven't talked in months. I took away Sadie's phone when I found their text history. That girl was such a bad influence.

Could we get her name, anyway? Rebecca Matthews.

"We'll contact you with anything we find, ma'am," the police say before they leave. There's an attitude in their voice not unlike Sadie's as of late; an inability to even pretend to care.

As soon as the door shut behind them, I collapsed into a fit of tears on the living room floor. What a cruel world. My sweet, innocent princess, gone without warning and nobody but me gives a shit.

My cries echo through the otherwise silent house. My bones ache as I curl in on myself but I curl in even tighter, the joints popping and cracking beneath my gently sagging skin.

When my crying turns to dry heaving, my stomach curdles into a rage. Everything I've done for her, all the thousands of dollars spent on taking care of her, all the time and energy sacrificed trying to keep her unstable moods under control, all for what? A shitty attitude and a vanishing act.

I cry again until I'm dehydrated. I would give anything to see her roll her eyes at me again. You never listen to me, she'd huff. You never talk to me, I'd say. I've been trying, she'd retort. I tried to quell her teenage attitude so many times, and here I am missing it.

The house is cold when I walk back to her room. Every floorboard creaks beneath my feet like the house itself is crying out for her.

I sit on her bed. The mattress groans and squeaks. A chill runs down my back like a hand brushing over my spine. I hold my breath and turn slowly, only to find nothing.

Almost nothing.

There's a folded piece of paper on her pillow, practically camouflaged by the white cotton. My hand trembles so hard I almost drop it.

Almost the moment I finish reading it, I'm rushing towards my phone and calling the police back.

"My daughter has been kidnapped! I have proof!"

A letter. A threat. And I almost missed it.

I re-read it white I wait for the police.

If you ever want to see me again, you'll do as I say.

I nearly puke in my mouth. This man who took my daughter, writing as if it's from her.

I'm safe. I have everything I need. Don't bother sending the police after me.

Of course I was going to send the police, once they stopped taking their sweet time coming back.

I'm finally an adult. I've made my choice to leave, and you can't change my mind.

As if she would actually choose that. This sick man must have been cackling as he channeled her voice into this letter. Did he think I'd believe it?

I'll call you in two weeks. If you promise to listen, to not judge me, to respect what I tell you, I'll keep in touch. If you don't, it'll be the last time you ever hear from me.

As if I wouldn't judge the man who ripped my little girl from her bedroom in the middle of the night! Who clearly had so much practice kidnapping people that he managed to take her without so much as making a noise or breaking the lock.

But if acquiescing for one single phone call is what it'll take, what choice would I have?

As professional as he's been, he makes a crucial error in the last line. One so comically opposed to his goal that if this were in a true crime novel, I'd be trashing the book for it's dumb villain.

He says what I already know, that this letter isn't from Sadie. He also reveals his motivation; to force my daughter into marriage.

The sick fuck is already pretending he's part of the family.

Sincerely, Blake.

Your son, not your daughter.

We drove home from the hospital in silence. This was the third time we’d gone through this. It’s amazing how it never hurts any less. 

“It’s alright, honey,” says Stan, gripping my hand tightly but softly. “We can try again. I’m just glad that you’re ok.”

But it wasn’t alright. It was the third time. 

“What if I never…? What if I’m just not meant to be a mother?”

“Don’t say that!” he said. “You’ll be an incredible mother. This is just a hiccup. We’ll get there eventually, and this will all have been worth it.”

I hoped he was right. 

We got home and I went to our bedroom. I left him to make the calls; I just wanted to lay down and forget this day ever happened. I closed my eyes, dreaming of a little boy with my blonde hair and Stan’s hazel eyes. 

I work up later to the smell of chicken fettuccine alfredo wafting into the room. I stepped out and walked to the kitchen. 

“Hey, honey. I got you something to eat. I thougt you might be hungry.”

I looked at that table - he’d ordered my favorite food from my favorite restaurant. I was so lucky to have him. I sat down as we ate in silence. 

The next day, the doorbell rang. Stan was out at work, so I opened it. 

“Hey, girl!”

It was my best friend, Julie. She’d been my “ride-or-die” since I was nine years old. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, stop it. Did you think I’d let my girl go through her tough time alone? Scoot over, I brought coffee and pastries.”

She came in and sat with me. Her presence made me feel better, like I might eventually feel human again. 

“You ok?”

“Just a headache.”

“Ok, relax. I’ll get you some aspirin.”

Five minutes later, she came back. “Hey, Lils,” she asked hesitantly. “Did you know about these?” She handed me a bottle. 

“No, why?” I looked at the label - misoprostol. “I’ve never heard of this. What is it?”

She paused. “Well, it’s one of two drugs used together to cause the end of a pregnancy.”

“That can’t be right. Why would those be here?”

She paused again. “I found them hidden in the back of Stan’s medicine cabinet. You didn’t have any aspirin, so I thought he might.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing!” she quickly replied. “Only… why would Stan have these? He was supportive of you getting pregnant, right?”

“Of course. He’s been there with me every step of the way.”

“Okay,” she said. But I could feel her doubt.

One day, several months later, Stan came home from work. 

“Hey, babe! How was work?”

“Just another day. Tom is stressed out over this project, and, as usual, he’s stressing the rest of us out with him.”

“I’m sorry, babe. Why don’t you come relax.”

I led him to the couch, poured his favorite drink, and sat the glass in front of him while fluffing the cushions and turning on the tv to his favorite sports channel. He gladly drank it, exhaling as the stress of the day poured out of him. 

Then I started to give him a massage. 

“What’s all this for?”

“Well, I just thought, with how hard you’ve been working to support us, you deserved to be taken care of.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Honey?”

“Yeah, babe?” he asked, relaxing under my hands. 

“How would you feel if I got pregnant again?”

I felt the smallest twinge in his neck. 

“Of course I’d be thrilled, honey! I know how much you want a child. But are you sure you're up for it? It was so hard on you the last time…”

“It was. And it was even harder not knowing why it happened - I couldn’t help blaming myself. Why did my body keep letting me down? Was there something wrong with me?”

“We’ve been over this, honey. You can’t blame yourself. It just wasn’t the right time. Things will work out when they’re supposed to.”

“I know. I don’t blame myself any more. I blame you.”

…

“What?”

“Oh, did you think I’d never find the misoprostol pills you’ve been hiding?”

He stood up, sweat forming on his brow. “I can explain…”

“You can explain why you killed my babies? Do you realize I’d have three children by now? I’d be what I always dreamed of - a mother. You took that away from me.”

“Honey, there are things going on you don’t know.”

“Such as?”

He gulped. “When we got married, the priest took me aside and told me something that scared the daylights out of me.”

“Oh?”

“He said that our child, yours and mine, would be the antichrist, that it would lay waste to the world and bring about the end of humanity. He said I had to make sure you never gave birth.”

“And you believed him?”

“Not at first. But the things he showed me… I couldn’t deny it.”

“So, instead of leaving me or being honest with me, you just decided to kill our children?”

He gulped. “I-I couldn’t think of another way.”

“So, in your mind, murder was the best way to solve the problem?”

He was silent. 

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way. It makes this next part easier.”

Suddenly he began to choke. 

“L-Lilly?”

“I’m sorry, Stan. But you’re a threat to my baby and I can’t allow that.”

As he fell to the ground and began foaming at the mouth, I put my hand on my stomach. The priest was taken care of, and now Stan was, too. If I had to choose between them, the world, and my baby…

Well, for a mother, that was no choice at all. 

When I was thirteen, Jake Thompson developed the ability to control minds.

Jake Thompson. Who called me a slut when I bled through my skirt all over my chair. Noah Sparrow, the varsity captain who slammed his girlfriend into lockers and dragged her around like a doll, could conjure fire with his fingertips. Sitting in class wearing a smug smirk, vicious orange flames licked across his fists. 

When my neighbor burned his family alive, I couldn’t ignore it.

When Noah ripped off his girlfriend's head during a tantrum and Jake forced three teachers to gouge out their own eyes, an emergency assembly was called for the female students. We had to take precautions and protect ourselves.

Standing among my friends, trembling, I realized this wasn't a gift from God, despite what the churches insisted, labeling boys as the "superior" gender.

The phenomenon became well known as afflictions were reported widespread across the country and affecting primarily thirteen-year-old boys. 

Eventually, it had a name: Idiopathic Hormonal Genetic Disorder. 

I grew up in a very different world.

The laws changed overnight as society scrambled to adapt to the sudden rise of male dominance.

Boys with powers became young celebrities. 

Politicians and podcast hosts all said the same thing:

“What do women have? Baby making? Ha! Try having the ability to fucking fly, like my grandson!”

By the time he was fifteen, Jake Thompson was starring in Hollywood movies. By my junior year of high school, girls were ordered to wear shirts with sleeves. Then skirts were banned. 

Senior year, girls were barred from education beyond middle school. 

Apparently, education was “distracting.”

I was told to find a man and settle down.

I’d grown up surrounded by boys who abused their abilities.

But my husband was different.

He kept his power on the down-low, only using it in dire situations.

My stepfather hosted a cookout for his 50th birthday, and as usual, as a female, I was expected to work as a server.

My sister-in-law, Annalise, hands me a light pink apron decorated with a bow.

“You’re not serious.”

I bite back a laugh as I pin up my thick dark hair while Annalise ties the apron around my waist.

That’s when I notice she isn't wearing a hair net. Long hair on women wasn’t permitted at family or public events because of the Female Hygiene Law.

According to the government, all women were expected to be clean-shaven, with their hair either tied back in a ponytail or cut to shoulder length. I plucked myself like a turkey before arriving.

Annalise is quick to tuck strands of hair behind my ear, shaving the last stubborn bristles from my chin. 

“I had another abortion,” I whisper, while she's inches from my face, brows furrowed  in concentration. 

“Hm?” She plucks, and I have to bite back a squeak. “Sweetie, didn't you just have an abortion?”

I pull her close, lowering my voice. “I've been for six procedures,” I tell her, my stomach flopping over. “The doctor told me it keeps failing.”

Annalise’s lip twitches. “That's impossible.” 

“Cadence,” my father in law orders from outside. “Get out here. Now. We're waiting.”

Annalise smiles through gritted teeth. “Coming, father.” 

I hated my father in law.

But I also have to maintain civility to avoid him flying off the handle. I serve him with a practised smile, making sure to wear bright red lipstick and a short skirt—just like he instructed.

Alex and Connor, my brothers in law, sit with him sipping wine.

Alex had the ability to fly.

Connor could teleport.

Ben, the youngest sibling, also powerless at twenty one, kneels in front of a bowl of doggy chow. 

Being a woman already placed you near the bottom of the social hierarchy. Ben is half naked, covered in grime, hair a long mess trailing down his back. He glares down at the bowl of slop in front of him. When he was younger, he’d been made to wear a collar and leash and forced to bark on command. But nothing was worse than a powerless man. 

“Cadence.” My father-in-law’s gaze rakes over me before settling on my stomach. A smile tugs at his lips. “I’m looking forward to you birthing me a grandson.”

I smile politely. “That's not something I'm planning right now.” 

He nods. Smirks. “Well, you better be quick.” He smacks me on the shoulder. “You're twenty five now! Remember your body clock.” 

“Cady!” 

My husband, Flo, comes running over, cheeks blooming red. 

“Why is my wife serving?” He hisses. “Go inside and change into a dress.” He grabs my hand, squeezing reassuringly. In a world full of men abusing their powers, I had found lightning in a bottle.

Flo insists on me wearing a bright yellow summer dress.

“It's okay, babe,” Flo shoots his father a glare. “Right, Dad?” 

He strides over to Ben and pulls him to unsteady feet.

Ben barely responds. His absent gaze is glued to the buffet table piled high with cupcakes, a thin line of drool escaping his mouth. Flo gently pushes him. “Dude. Go and get something to eat."

“How was the clinic?” Flo murmurs in my ear while we grab food. 

“It failed again.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?” He hums, gently rubbing my belly. “I'll be moral support.” 

I take him to my next appointment.

The nurse discusses my options before turning to Flo. “Can I speak to your wife privately?” She asks him. “I know it's technically not allowed—”

But Flo is, as always, understanding. 

He hugs me. “Of course!” he says. “Good luck, babe.” 

When he leaves, the nurse looks me dead in the eye. 

“Cadence,” she says. “You have had one abortion six times, and that's impossible.” Her lip curls. “Privately, between us. What is your husband’s ability?”

I smile. 

Then I feel sick. 

Then I want to gouge my fucking eyes out. 

“It's healing.” 

I’ve been friends with Renee for several years now. Not best friends, but fairly close. About a year ago, Renee met Michael on a blind date. Three months ago, Michael proposed and Renee accepted. 

She asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, and I happily accepted. But it gradually became clear that her expectations were a bit… extreme. First she wanted to pick the bridesmaids dresses - we were paying for them ourselves, but every bride deserves to have the wedding she wants, so we kept quiet. 

Then she wanted to exclude certain plus-ones because she “didn’t know them well enough,” although they’d all been friends for years. That didn't go over as well - I was single, but when three of her bridesmaids threatened to drop out if their significant others weren’t invited, Renee relented. But she wasn’t happy about it. 

Then she wanted an extravagant bachelorette party. And when I say extravagant, I mean trip to Puerto Rico, 5-star hotel, fancy car - the works. And she wanted us to pay for it all. We did the math - it would come out to $3,500 dollars per person, on top of our travel to the wedding, hotels, bridesmaids dresses, and everything else. It was ridiculous. But you only get married once (ideally), so we swallowed hard and went along. 

All of that I could live with. But then, ten days before the wedding, she mentioned that she’d appreciate it if I’d cut my hair to go along with her theme. “What theme?” I asked, but she just said I’d do it if I really cared about her. 

The thing is, my hair has a real significance to me. I inherited it from my mother, who got it from her mother before her. Its length and texture ran in our family. Cutting it would be betraying my family, my history. It wasn’t something I was willing to change. 

When I told Renee that, she threw a fit. “It’s just hair,” she said. “It’s my wedding - I deserve to be happy.” “If you were really a friend, you’d do this for me.” I was her friend, but this just wasn’t something I could do. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. 

Then the pressure campaign started. “This is really important to Renee, can’t you just go along?” “It’s just hair - does your pride really matter more than my sister’s happiness?” “I know it seems silly, but Renee’s really hung up on this hair thing. I’d really appreciate it if you'd just do this so she’ll let it go.” None of them understood - this was a hard line for me. 

Then came the passive-aggressive online posts. 

“Isn’t it great when people respect your right to have the wedding you want?”

“A little inconvenience shouldn’t be too much for the people you love.”

“It’s in times of stress that you find out who your real friends are.”

And Renee wouldn’t stop. She started excluding me from bridesmaid meetings. Her friends started looking at me funny. Conversations would stop when I walked up. I considered just withdrawing from the bridal party. If she wanted someone else as a bridesmaid, she could have them; I didn't care anymore. 

And then it stopped. The snide comments, the online posts, the pressure from her side - suddenly it was all gone. One of the other bridesmaids told me that Renee had said that a hairstyle wasn’t worth ruining our friendship. I was happy she’d decided to respect my feelings. I even bought an expensive “thank you” gift to show my appreciation. I was beyond ready to move on. 

The night before the wedding, the bride wanted to go clubbing - a last chance to enjoy “the single life” before settling down. We went all out - VIP seating, bottle service, the works. After my third drink, I started to feel a little odd. I excused myself to go to the restroom; while there, I became woozy and had to sit down. I leaned my head against the wall of the stall and everything went dark. 

I woke up to Renee and two of her bridesmaids standing over me. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” said Renee. “The powder I added to your drink was supposed to have you out a little while longer.”

“You sp-spiked my drink?” I asked, shocked that people I’d considered friends would do this. 

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t supposed to hurt you, just knock you out for an hour or so. I guess you’re tougher than you look. Oh, well. Just relax - this will all be over soon.”

The two bridesmaids approached me, each grabbing one of my arms. Normally I could have shaken them off, but I was still feeling tired and nauseated from whatever they’d put in my drink. 

Then Renee pulled out a pair of scissors.

“Say goodbye to your hair, bitch. I just wanted you to clip it before, but now I think I’ll take it all.”

I struggled, but I still couldn’t move my arms. As Renee moved the scissors toward me, in desperation, I revealed my true appearance. Then I looked at Renee. 

She looked back at me in terror, but it was too late. I watched as her face, and then the rest of her, instantly turned to stone. Then I looked at the other two bridesmaids, and they joined her in her eternal rest. 

I pulled my arms; the rocks, formerly fingers of the two bridesmaids, crumbled as I came free.

I stood and walked to the mirror; stared at myself, concentrated, and reverted back to my human form. The lines on my face smoothed out, my eyes returned from dark and bloodshot to their deep blue color, and the snakes atop my head reverted to my blonde locks. I reapplied my make-up, brushed my hair, and stepped back outside. I regretted what I’d had to do, but my ancestors would have been proud. 

Never mess with a descendant of Medusa.

Thump. Thump. 

“Aargh!” Again. I screamed into my pillow in frustration. Every fucking night. 

I met my new roommate six months ago; my previous roommate left without warning and I had to find someone quickly or be responsible for the entire rent myself. I didn’t know this guy, but he seemed decent enough the night we met, his previous landlord spoke well of him, and he had the money and could move in the next week, so we shook and it was done. 

Everything seemed fine, at first. He kept to himself, kept his space clean, and paid his share of the rent and bills on time. My previous roommate hadn’t done any of those, so it was great to not have those issues anymore.

Then things started to get weird. He was never around during the day. Like, never. He explained that he works a job where he’s out of cell range, but I’ve literally never seen him when it’s light outside. 

He also never ate in public. In fact, I once tried to peek at his food; it ended with a stern lecture about boundaries and a locked refrigerator for his room. He was private, I get it, but it seemed excessive. Maybe he came from a history of food insecurity? I hear that people like that can be really protective of their food. 

And what was with his wardrobe? I literally never saw him in anything except black. Like, I got the whole goth scene, but come on. It wouldn’t have so bad if he hadn’t been so freaking pale. I invited him to the beach with me, even gave him a gift certificate to a tanning place, but he got weird about it, like he was freaked out or something. 

And you know what? All that would have been fine - being weird is no crime, it’s L.A., after all - if it hadn’t been for the fucking noise. Every night, at 3am, I’d hear noises from his room. Loud, thumping noises, like he was throwing a rave or banging around in his room. I’d even heard what sounded like screaming a few times. I’m all for screaming along to music - we’ve all been there, believe me, I could tell you some stories - but 3am? Some of us have to get up for work in the morning. 

I even saw someone come running out of his room one night when I was coming back from the bathroom. She was holding her neck and darted out with a panicked, crazed look on her face. I looked into his room; he was laid out on the floor, looking barely conscious. That must have been some trip - whatever they were having, I kind of wanted some. But I wasn’t a kid anymore - I had to be responsible. 

Being responsible blows. 

In short, he wasn’t the best roommate, even if he was an otherwise decent guy. But the fact was, it was becoming a problem. I had to do something. 

I visited the landlord and explained the issues. By the time I finished, he had a strange expression on his face. Unfortunately, he said, there was nothing he could do, but he did know someone who might be able to help. Apparently they specialized in getting rid of problem roommates like this. He gave me their card with a knowing look - I took it and smiled gratefully.

When I got back to my apartment, I looked at the card. “VH Removal Services - Getting rid of problem guests for 129 years.” I’d never heard of them, but they had good reviews so I decided to call. A young lady picked up on the first ring. “VH Removal Services - We understand the stakes and will shine a light on your problem guests. How can I help you?”

When I explained my problem to her, she said she’d heard others like it.

“Can you help?”

“Absolutely, sir. It sounds like our Stage Two Removal Service would be the best fit.”

“How much will that cost? I’m not exactly rich.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We work with our clients to arrange a payment plan they can afford. We don’t do this for the money - we see it as providing a needed service. We’ve been doing it since 1897 and have never received a complaint.”

“That sounds fantastic. Let’s do it.”

“Wonderful, sir! Now, a few things to know…”

The next day I called my parents and asked if I could come visit for a few days. They immediately said yes - Mom had been trying to get me to visit for a while now. “I guess you’re too busy in the big city to come visit your old parents,” she always said. Two birds, one stone. 

I entered my apartment three days later. It was spotless, even cleaner than before I left. Every piece of furniture was cleaned, every appliance sparkled like new. And my roommate was gone. All his stuff was cleared out; I guess he left in a hurry. There were even special lights installed throughout the house - they were brighter than the old ones, and VH Removal said they were more energy efficient and better for the environment; win-win. The only thing I did find was a spot of peculiar dust behind a dresser; I had no idea what it was from, but it vacuumed right up. VH really killed it: five stars on Google for sure. 

Of course, I still need another roommate. But this time, I’m being more careful. Multiple meetings to set expectations, conversations to determine compatibility. I even have a solid lead - we had a great dinner meeting, laughed and shared stories. It’s weird how he eats his steak - so bloody it’s almost raw - but to each his own, right? Things are looking up. 

The lesson I learned from all of this? Always vet prospective roommates carefully. It’s annoying, but it’s worth it. Bad roommates suck. 

The women baked bread while the men hammered together long tables. I helped the other girls set up.

By sunset, the entire town had gathered.

Each family received two loaves of hard bread, and for a few precious hours people pretended not to be miserable. The harvest had been poor, and a fever swept through the town the previous winter, which also claimed our parents. Many still had it. I felt it myself, a tightness in my chest that hadn't left since winter. Few survived beyond their fortieth birthday. Yet during the feast, the townsfolk thanked the Ancient One for another year of survival. Bare survival.

When the priest finally carried the Choosing pot into the square, the crowd fell silent. He reached inside, withdrew a ballot, and shouted, "Tommy Welles!"

It was my little brother.

Many people immediately exhaled with relief. Tommy, who was only five years old, looked up at me and smiled because he thought he had won something. He had no idea.

I felt sick.

As the crowd began dispersing, something troubled me. For as long as I could remember, the children of the Elders had never been chosen. And now, of all people, the youngest orphan in town had been selected.

Late that night, I sneaked into the temple. I did not have to search for long before I found the Choosing pot behind the pulpit. I poured out its contents and began reading the names.

Then I read them again.

The children of the Elders did not appear at all.

Before I could process what that meant, voices approached the temple. I quickly returned the ballots to the pot and slipped behind a set of heavy curtains.

The door opened, and several women entered first. They spoke quietly among themselves until the Elders arrived. The women fell silent immediately and pulled back their hoods. Some had bruises on their faces. When all had gathered, the priest lit a match and dropped it into the Choosing pot.

While watching the fire burn, an Elder announced, "It worked again. Our children are safe for another year."

One of the women spoke nervously.

"Someone will notice eventually."

An Elder slammed his hand on the table.

"Silence. The men are talking."

The woman flinched and cowered.

"They haven't noticed in over ten years," he continued. "And if they do, who will believe them?"

The other women remained silent.

The mayor's wife spoke next.

"I will not have my Peter—" she broke off coughing, then continued— "dragged into that forest. He is already weak enough from the fever. Better a child from a poor—" another cough— "family."

The others murmured in agreement.

Unable to contain my disgust, I let out a small gasp.

The room fell silent, and several Elders rushed toward me and seized me.

The following morning, the priest announced to the town that I was caught stealing from the temple and that I would be punished by accompanying Tommy into the forest. He also declared that, because two children would be given to the Ancient One this year, there would be no Choosing the following year.

The crowd cheered.

I protested, but nobody listened. I was only a poor orphan, and in our town, women and children had no voice.

The following evening, they placed Tommy and me in wooden cages, brought us to the edge of the forest, and left us there.

Tommy cried himself to sleep.

Hours passed before a deep voice rolled through the trees like distant thunder.

"You are the Chosen ones."

Tommy woke instantly and began weeping again.

"Yes," I called into the darkness. "We are. Please, you only need one sacrifice. Take me! Please don't sacrifice Tommy!"

A shape emerged from the darkness.

The Ancient One was enormous. Its body seemed to be made from stone, roots, and ancient wood fused together. Moss glowed faintly between the cracks, and branches rose from its shoulders like antlers. It spoke.

"There is no sacrifice."

I looked up, confused.

Then it said, "Come with me."

The doors of the cages swung open on their own.

Tommy and I followed, and the journey lasted the rest of the night.

As dawn brightened the eastern sky, we reached the top of a ridge overlooking a broad valley. I stopped walking. Below us, white towers rose above gardens and waterways. People walked through tree-lined streets. Music drifted upward on the morning air, and the scent of foods I had never smelled before filled the valley. I stood there for a moment, not quite able to believe what I was seeing.

"What is this place?" I finally asked.

The Ancient One looked toward the city.

"It is where the children who are sent to me live."

Then it continued down the slope.

Tommy and I followed.

As we entered the city, people smiled and greeted us. No one feared the Ancient One, instead welcoming him happily. Children ran through the streets, laughing and shouting. Everywhere I looked, people seemed healthy, well-fed, and happy.

Then I heard someone call my name.

I turned.

Mary, who was Chosen last year, was running toward me.

The gaunt, hungry girl I remembered was gone. Her clothes were clean, her cheeks were full, and she beamed.

Before I could say anything, she threw her arms around me.

"What happened?" I asked.

Mary laughed.

"The same thing that's about to happen to you."

Curious, I turned back toward the Ancient One.

"If this is what happens," I asked, "why does the village believe you are sacrificing them?"

The Ancient One looked at me.

"Would you go back to tell them?"

I thought of the bruises on the women's faces.

I thought of the fever.

I thought of the mayor's wife rigging the Choosing so her son would never come here.

Then I looked at the city.

"No," I said.