Chapter One:

Thirteen years ago – 1993

Francis’ breath fell short before he spoke, quiet nervous hiccups he attempted to hide from the others rising in his chest but their piercing gazes would catch every aspect of his panic, fear, and stubborn determination to continue forth. None listening would judge him as either some moment in the near future or earlier in today they’d shared their own dilemmas to the handful of men and women stationed in cool metal chairs around him. Francis leaned forward with his dirty swollen fingers squeezing against his knees. Francis could feel aches echoing in his muscles with each shallow breath from a twelve hour work day. His dark skin was made only darker by grime and oil and his wrinkled face pulled further from exhaustion. He closed his eyes allowing his chest to inflate before allowing the first few words to escape his cracked and dry lips.

“I guess I feel more alone than anything. I think that’s my problem.” Face turned to the side, cheek puckered like a wad of tobacco pressed to his lower gum. His head bounced; a frail attempt of self-encouragement.  “I miss her. It seems like it’s the only thing I tend to feel and it doesn’t feel real still. These two years since she’s been gone have just merged together, moving slowly and filled with nothingness.” Francis paused for a moment, scratching at his graying beard with layered dirt underneath his nails. He brought his attention towards the center, gray stormy eyes diverting downwards from his companions. Dark haired brow creased forming ripples above his wide, once broken, nose.“I’ve tried drinking but it doesn’t help. Wish it did. All I have now is this bottle of bourbon I drink every once in a while. Its main job is to collect dust.” Francis bit his bottom lip. Distinct expressions of personal sorrow sail from his lips; each word spoken comes with child-like hesitation. These were his own thoughts, terrible and vile from where they grew so bringing them out would only give them room to prosper. Vocalizing them tended to only provide them strength. Those were concepts he’d previously believed and once worshipped until she broke the incorrect sentiment from his way of life. So now more than ever he needed to continue forth. “It doesn’t help being in the same place where we lived, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave it. It makes me feel like I’m admitting that she’s really gone. She is. I know that…” The metal chairs around him sat in silence. Their faces melted into unidentifiable blobs the more he spoke. The room along with his stuffy mildew scents and hot air drifted away, there Francis’ sat alone on a stage with a circular spot light beading upon his head leaving the surrounding area pure darkness from his perspective. “I think my biggest fear is that I’m never going to see her again, you know? She was a perfect, innocent person. Always kind, always endearing, always smiling, always happy, always loving and I—” Francis stared at his hands for a moment seeing the blood, dirt, and gunpowder residue from years ago. Echoes of shouts and commands rose from the dark and he began to feel the tremble. A tremble which had woken him up in the middle of the night. A tremble which caught him off guard at work. The haunting wails of a past never to be forgotten. “And I’ve done what I’ve done in life. She’s going to heaven. She deserves to live in God’s paradise.” Francis’ head shook sluggishly, his lips folded into one another in a futile attempt to stop the glossiness rising in his gaze. “I don’t deserve that. I didn’t do anything to help them. I didn’t save them. I didn’t protect them. I just watched and failed and I see it every night as I close my eyes and I hate that sometimes it crosses my mind more than Peni does. It didn’t. Not when Peni was here. When Peni was here all I could think about was her. She made my mind at ease. She rested my soul and breathed light into my life and now she’s gone I don’t have that anymore. The only time I get to see her is when I sleep but I’ve begun dreaming less and less and the only time I remember her face is when I’m staring at a picture of her.” Francis’ eyes lowered, his bottom lip curling under his teeth. He bit down hard using physical pain to block the emotional; it failed as it had every time before. “She only passed away two years ago.” His head snapped to the side, the words upon the forefront of his mind biting due to their honesty and shame. Francis’ felt the words he needed to admit. “Why do I struggle picturing her so much?” He sat for a moment, silence filling the dark room. He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. A small tear rolled down his cheek soaking into his beard. He rubbed at the hair, allowing his hair to flow to his chin. His face didn’t turn to the small gathering, neck craned over as if an attempt to get as far as possible. Francis squeezed his eyes shut, droplets squeezing out and felt the tremble rise in his arm. “Sometimes I wonder how I lived before her and then I realize I didn’t, I couldn’t. I was never a strong man; I was just held together by her and now I’ve lost my strength.” Francis faced forward, shoulders rolled down in defeat with a head low to match. He squeezed his hand, his stubby nail drawing red onto his dark palms. His voice grew faint and strained as he whispered, “I’ve lost my strength.”

Francis stood outside the church, fighting with his lighter in the rain as he tried to light his last cigarette. The lighter sparked, flickering a small dull flame as he took one drag before watching the smoke trickling against the falling droplets which grew heavier and heavier. “She would hate this,” Francis said, tossing the almost full cigarette onto the ground and crunching it with his boot. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the shaking in his hands. He turned, walking away from his apartment. Away from the meeting and into the beaten rain. 

Francis tasted her caramel skin, several shades lighter than his own; he saw her hazel eyes which shone in the sun; he heard her laugh which filled his chest; he felt her touch, warm and soft against his coarse skin. Yet, what was the shape of her nose? Was it more pointed like an arrow or soft round like a cherry? Were her lips thin or thick? He should know this as he’d kissed her thousands of times. He’d been with her for three decades so why did these small details vanish from his mind? He could remember the important things. How she made him feel. How she laughed. How she would curl up next to him with an old blanket they should have thrown out years ago reading a book she’d already read before. How she always ordered pancakes at the diner but switched between chocolate chip and blueberry depending on the day. How she always smelled so sweet even after a full day out in the sun trapped against the city’s smog. How her voice was aloft with a small southern twang from her childhood in Virginia but he couldn’t remember the shape of her nose and it distorted the image of her like a stone to still water. 

Francis hadn’t looked up from his feet as he walked until the red and blue lights flashed against the glossiness in his eyes. A crowd of officers, firefighters, and paramedics stood in front of a small, rundown apartment building similar to Francis’ own. His eyes glazed across the scene until he found a familiar face, Officer Lawrence, a man he’d known for many years squatting in front of a boy whose deep green oversized hood was pressed in by the heavy rain. Francis walked over, excusing himself past the small crowd of attendants which were escorted from the building. 

“Where’s your Mama?” Officer Lawrence asked the boy. Officer Lawrence was a few years younger than Francis, although he possessed more gray within his disappearing hair. Fair skinned and short in stature Officer Lawrence never presented an intimidating figure and many within the community had been shown many kindnesses by the man. “She often goes out this late?”

Francis paused for a moment as he grew closer, taking the time to read the name on the boy’s oversized jacket; ‘Turner’. Francis cocked his head, eyes wide towards the boy. “Eliot?”

The boy looked up past the Officer and towards Francis. His small face with chubby cheeks looked exhausted and his eyes were puffy. His mouth was agape, showing teeth which had grown crooked, some looking too big for his small face. He only rose to Francis’ hip, small for his age. Officer Lawrence turned towards Francis, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Frankie?”

“Yeah,” Francis said, eyes glued to the boy. “Is this Sam Turner’s boy?”

Officer Lawrence glanced down at the kid then grabbed Francis by the arm pulling him out of earshot. “Yeah, how do you know Sam?”

“I work with him down at the glassblowers,” Francis said. “Is he alright?”

Officer Lawrence sighed, taking off his cap. “Oh God. I’m sorry, Frankie. Were you two close?”

Francis blinked, stricken by the sudden drop in Officer Lawrence’s voice. The man’s eyes fell, unable to meet Francis’ gaze. “I’ve worked with him for a long while. We’ve gotten beers together a few times. I’ve met Eliot once or twice over the years. What’s wrong?”

The older officer’s fingers fidgeted with his cap, this was the only part of his life-long job which still made him uncomfortable. “The boy found him hanging from the ceiling after getting out of bed for something” Officer Lawrence said, keeping his voice low. “Think the boy was stunned, watched it for a while. We found an empty bottle knocked over on the ground. We think he just got drunk and made a rash decision. Eliot called it in.” Officer Lawrence smacked his lips. “You know where his mom is?”

Francis took a step back, his heart dropping; the words unable to process. “I just– I just saw him.”

“I know, Frankie. I know,” Officer Lawrence said. The older man put a hand on Francis’ shoulder. “We need to know where the boy’s mother is so we can contact her.”

Francis shook his head. “She left a few months after he was born. She’s either dead or long gone. Sam never told me her name.”

Officer Lawrence exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damn it. What about other family? He got grandparents? Uncles, aunts?”

“Sam’s parents died a few years back. He had a brother, but he uh,” Francis paused for a moment, eyeing Eliot who seemed to be investigating a puddle. “Didn’t make it out of the army. They joined together.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lawrence said. “Tonight’s been awful. A kids’ body turned up in Delaware and there was a car accident six cars long— two dead. Mugging two streets from here, a woman in the hospital from that.”

“I could take him,” Francis offered quickly. “At least for the night. He shouldn’t be stuck in a police station all night long after that.”

Officer Lawrence glanced at the boy, who was now poking the puddle watching the ripples. Eliot’s eyes were drawn heavy and his small body swayed with the whipping wind almost blowing him over. “Yeah, yeah. That’s a good idea,” Lawrence said. “You got the same number?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t have changed.”

“You still up in that old apartment?”

“Yes, Lawrence. Same spot.” 

“Alright,” Officer Lawrence said, resting his hand on Francis’ shoulder. “I think this’ll be good for the boy. I’ll come by tomorrow morning, alright? We can get things situated.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thank you, Frankie,” Lawrence said, putting his cap back on. He fixed it with both hands. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright,” Francis said.

“Have you been eating? You look thin.”

“Just age,” Francis said, painting a smile. “You go do your job, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Officer Lawrence walked Francis over to Eliot who looked up at the man towering over him. Eliot’s face was blank for a long moment, devoid of emotion. Francis took a deep breath and tried to smile; it came out as a loose facade. “You okay to come home with me tonight, El? You remember me?” Eliot nodded, turning his head back towards the puddle beneath him. “Good. Your Daddy ain’t feeling well. We can talk about it more on the walk if you’d like,” Francis said, his words came out slow and meticulous. “I ain’t far. Only three blocks down south that way.” Eliot’s head bobbed again as if it was the only thing he could muster. Francis turned, waving to Officer Lawrence who reciprocated the gesture before turning to the other officers. Francis began walking down the city street with Eliot trailing behind, his small boots splashing in the rain. “El, I got to explain something big to you, something you may have never experienced before but it’s something your Daddy’s been inflicted with. I know you’re a big man, Eliot, so that’s why I’m going to tell you the truth.” Francis could only see the verdant hood of Eliot’s father’s Vietnam war jacket which was strayed with pulling fibers from years of use. Francis had a similar one from his time in Korea but now his was so worn he stopped wearing it. Francis chewed his lip feeling a strange sense of self-guilt upon the death of his friend. He knew there were signs of such things, everyone who spent time overseas had signs; especially those who came out wounded from Vietnam like Eliot’s father had. Sam Turner had walked with a limp. His hip shattered when a stray bullet caught him on the side. He was lucky to be able to walk and often he required assistance when moving glass in fear of it falling and shattering but no one ever complained in aiding Sam. “Do you think you can handle the truth?” Francis asked.

Eliot didn’t move his head, his eyes watching the trash being pushed on the street by the small river forming from the skies. The young boy moved mindlessly, Francis holding a hand on his shoulder to make sure he didn’t walk into poles or twist his ankle in small holes within the sidewalk. “Yes,” the boy finally whispered.

“Good. It’s better to be that way in life, Eliot,” Francis said. “Your Father is gone now. You won’t be able to see him again. He’s going to a different place, above us where many friends of mine have gone. Where my wife has gone.” Francis placed his arm out in front of Eliot, making sure he didn’t walk out onto the busy city street. A car went by and the light changed. Francis moved his hand and walked across the street with Eliot trickling behind him. Francis slowed his step as Eliot’s tiny legs were only able to keep up at a certain pace. “It’s okay though. They can rest now. Sometimes that’s better for them. You know, taking a long sleep can be peaceful for some folk. We all do it one day. It just was your Daddy’s turn.” Francis took a deep breath, stepping up on the curb. Eliot took a big step over the curb, his foot squeaking against the sewer drain. They continued walking past the small corner store where Francis buys bags of chips before work. 

They turned, Francis holding open the door to his apartment building. Eliot walked in and wiped his boots off the black mat at the front. They climbed the steps up to the third floor room eight down the hall to the left. Francis pulled out his key, sliding it into the lock and opening the door pushing it to the side for Eliot to walk in.

Francis’s apartment wasn’t big. It was cluttered but not dirty and filled with more of Peni’s things than his own. He could never get rid of the books which filled every shelf and stacked on tables like towers. They were part of a collection Peni had spent her life formulating, while small, the collection was hers and one of many everyday reminders of her presence. Eliot looked up and around the room, his eyes trying to read the words on the stacks of books which pressed against the walls. “I know. I got a lot of books. Most of them are my wife’s Peni. You can read ’em if you like, I don’t mind.”

“Do you read them?” Eliot asked. His voice was small, barely a faint whisper. It was high pitched and filled with innocence. 

“I do.” He took off his hat and coat hanging it on the back of the door. “When I can. I try my best to. My wife taught me how to read. Well, how to really read. I could read street signs and stuff but she taught me how to know a book.” Francis paused, licking his dry lips. He hadn’t known if it would be better for the boy to continue talking or if the young man would require silence to process all of this. Francis figured there was no one way to handle a situation as delicate as this and now more than ever he wished Peni was here to help him. She knew how people really were and she was especially good with little ones like Eliot. “Would you like me to take your coat?”

Eliot shook his head, clutching tightly to the wet cloth. Eliot kicked off his boots, taking the time to place them onto the rack before turning up to Francis expectantly. “You must be tired, Eliot. Would you like to go to bed?”

Eliot stared down, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Francis pointed to his bedroom. It was clean and less cluttered than the living room besides a pile of clean clothes Francis hadn’t had the time to fold. Eliot climbed on the bed and rested his head on the pillow, the large green hood casting a shadow over the boy. Francis sighed, rubbing his eyes. He walked into the bathroom then turned on the shower. He stepped out while it heated, grabbing fresh clothes and resting them on the toilet’s cistern. He washed his hands, shut the bathroom door with his foot and stepped into the shower. The water as his feet turned brown with dirt and grime making it look like Francis had begun to melt.

The shower only lasted five minutes. Francis grabbed his towel drying himself while standing in the tub. He pulled back the curtain, putting on the clean clothes he brought with him and stepping out holding out his dirty clothes placing them in the laundry bin.

Eliot was asleep when he entered the bedroom. There were bags under his small eyes darker than the night sky. Francis gave the boy’s sleeping body a faint smile. “Sleep well, El.” Francis said. Francis sat down on the couch, taking the small bottle of bourbon from the shelf. The glass was coated with dust thick enough to be felt under Francis’ finger tips. He slid the cork off with a sly pop, staring at the open bottle as the smell began to fill the room. Francis didn’t drink often, except after Peni died, but usually only on special occasions. Him and Peni would drink wine, another thing she taught him to appreciate over their three decades together.  

“To you, my brother,” Francis whispered, taking a dirty mug stained with cold coffee from before his twelve hour shift. He poured well over a shot into the mug and filled his mouth with the strong, smoky flavor. His teeth tightened and he stifled a cough, twisting the cork back on placing it on the table with a satisfying click of glass. Francis rubbed his eyes then turned towards the glass above him which pattered with rain, illuminating his face with the dancing city lights. 

Chapter Two:

September – 2006 

Sweat rolled down Eliot’s face, beading down his neck and dampening the collar of his stormy gray smock which failed at protecting him from the lashing heat. Heavy tongs burned his wrists as he spun a malleable ball of molten glass. Orange liquid steamed, forming into blobs as it cooled and hardened while Eliot worked. The licking heat was the only part one never got truly used to but glassblowing had grown to be the only work Eliot had known and he’d done it well the past four years. Eliot started after high school and almost a year ago he’d been able to take himself down to McGillian’s for the first time. Eliot ordered a beer on tap, just one, then took himself home to shower all the grime he’d built up during the day’s work— the same grime which littered his face, arms, neck, and body now.

He tossed his gloves off, wiping sweat off his brow. Eliot sat down catching his breath and trying to cool down although the whole factory was above eighty from the burning furnaces.

“Come on El,” Timbo said. “Stop woiking and get te ye lunch.” His northern jersey was stronger than any jersey boy Eliot had met before. Timbo was a tall man with darker skin than Pops. His hair was shaved low like most of the glassblowers besides Eliot did, making hair one less thing for them to worry about. Eliot kept his hair long or else he’d be in trouble with Vanessa back home. 

“I’m coming Timbo, I’m coming,” Eliot said, kneeling to his metal locker, number ninety-two, and flicked up a small black lever to grab his brown paper bag filled a sandwich he made for himself this morning with a bag of Herr’s chips he bought at the store and a pack of cigarettes before he came in. He stepped outside, the city street moist from continuous light drizzling rain peppering everything with small droplets. His boots crunched and squeaked as he walked towards Timbo and a small group of other glassblowers: Tommy, Rodney, and Wren. They sat on dark blue old milk crates which were taken from a nearby restaurant months ago after their old ones broke. Eliot sat down after pitifully wiping the droplet off his designated crate. 

“It’s fuckin’ hot in there,” Wren said. Wren was a smaller white man two years senior to Eliot. He had brown hair shaved short and a nose crooked from getting punched one too many times as a kid or maybe as a new adult growing used to the privilege of drinking at bars. “Even in February I’d rather be out here in the cold than in there. Fucking baking alive.”

Timbo nodded, unwrapping his own lunch and taking a bite of the sandwich. “What you got in there, Timbo?” Rodney asked. Rodney was a larger black man who’s been working at the factory longer than any of them. He knew Pops and his father, Sam, from two decades of working here. Rodney said Eliot looked like his father a lot, everything but the eyes which were held by a mother he never knew. Eliot didn’t disagree but he had only a few photos of his biological father to go off of and he didn’t really see the comparison. 

Eliot thought about the first time he met Rodney back when he was eight at the church where the priest spoke with distaste of the sin his father committed. Where the pews weren’t very full, only holding some men his father worked with and veterans who were still alive to pay respects to Sam Turner. Most of the men muttered some sort of condolence to the boy which Eliot had now long forgotten but Rodney came out with Pops and Eliot later in the day in an attempt to take the boy’s mind off the events. Back then his face was much slimmer, hair much darker, and his face was a lot smoother than the man before him now. 

Timbo glanced down at his sandwich, lifting up the pieces of bread to double check what he ordered from a nearby deli on the way in. “I got a bologna, brown mustard,  mozz cheese, pepperjack cheese, colby cheese and some of them spicy pickles on some rye bread,” 

“The fuck?” Tommy asked. Tommy always looked like one of those grease monkeys with slicked back black hair, usually wore a wife beater which was stained with marks even the washer couldn’t get out. His arms were fuzzier than most wild animals and his jaw was more busted than Wren’s nose. “Who the fuck eats that kind of shit? Is that a Jersey thing? You Jersey folk are disgustin’. I’m surprised the meat shack even made such a thing for you.”

“It ain’t a Jersey thing,” Timbo said. “It’s just a thing. Why can’t it just be a thing? Always gotta be a Jersey thing with you. Jersey ain’t that bad.”

Tommy shakes his head. “No way that sandwich is good.”

“I dunno,” Eliot said. “I used to eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches as a kid. All sorts of sandwiches one can make.”

Rodney scoffed. “What kind of shit is that?”

Eliot laughed, then shrugged. “I dunno. Something me and Pops would do when money got too tight.” Eliot unwrapped his sandwich, which wasn’t peanut butter and pickles but instead a dry ham and cheese sandwich, then took a bite. “You gotta do it right though.”

“How you do that shit right?” Wren asked.

“Make sure you get the creamy peanut butter,” Eliot said. “Not that crunchy shit, the pickle will provide the crunch. And it’s best to get those little sweet pickles, you know what I’m talking about.”

“The bread and butter ones?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, pointing towards Tommy. “Those ones go best with the peanut butter. It’s better than you think I promise you that.”

“Ain’t nothin’ gettin’ me to try that fucking sandwich, Ellie,” Rodney said. “I don’t care if Frankie swears up and down by it.” Frankie is Eliot’s Pops: Frankie, Frank, Francis, all the same. It felt like everyone in the city knew who Francis Golding was, whether or not they knew Eliot Turner was a different story. Most people weren’t aware they were related, not by blood as Eliot was white as day and Pops was black as night. They were family though Eliot never doubted that.

Eliot took another bite of his sandwich. “Miss out then, Rodney. I don’t know what to tell ya.” Eliot’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, reading the front of the screen to figure out who’s calling. He wiped off the rain, reading ‘Hariet’s Senior Care’.

“That Vanessa?” Wren asked. “That girl’s been on your ass.”

“She got ya woiking for it ain’t she, Ellie,” Timbo said.

“It ain’t Nessa,” Eliot said. “Fuckin’ scumbags.” Timbo smiled, still chewing. “I’ll be right back, I gotta take this.” Eliot walked with his sandwich stepping a good twenty paces away. He flipped open his phone, putting it next to his ear. “This is Eliot Turner speaking.”

“Hi, Mr. Turner,” the voice on the other line said. It wasn’t the usual nurse who spoke with him, but someone much younger. “You’re the primary caretaker of Francis Golding, correct?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Eliot said. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Mr. Turner. Francis is doing fine. We were calling because we noticed you’ve missed a payment about six days ago.”

Eliot sighed. “Yes. Yes I’m aware and I apologize for that. I’m coming in today and I’ll have that money for you. I apologize for the lateness. I just had a few bills piling up.”

“That’s alright, Mr. Turner. Just wanted to make sure you were aware before we hit you with the overdraft fee. But if you turn it in by the end of the day you’ll be fine,” the nurse said. “We will see you later. Have a good day, Mr. Turner.”

“Yeah, you too. Thank you,” Eliot said, closing his phone and taking another bite of his sandwich. He sighed, staring up at the grey clouds trying to clean the grime off his face. Eliot turned, moving back towards the group.

“Everything alright?” Rodney asked.

“Yeah, yeah. They were calling because I was running a bit late on the payments for Pops,” Eliot said. 

“You need to borrow some money?” Rodney asked. “I don’t mind. Not for Frankie I don’t.”

Eliot shook his head. “No. Thanks though Rodney. I got the money all scrounged up. I’ll be alright. Thank you though.”

Rodney frowned but didn’t push the subject, instead he wiped his hands off before standing up and moving back inside. Soon everyone else trickled in leaving Eliot outside as he was finishing up his sandwich and opening his bag of chips. He checked over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking and pulled out his small notebook and began jotting down his thoughts for the day. 

At work Eliot was always thinking about his thoughts. Glassblowing had become a monotonous activity for Eliot giving him the opportunity to think many different thoughts while working. Yet these thoughts he was thinking often came while he was in the middle of his work, never giving him the time to write them down instead he would focus on thinking his thoughts he wanted to keep but often like the wind they’d blow away. Vanessa had been suggesting he carry around a journal for a long time but it was only recently he listened. There were the two things he always thought about while glassblowing: Vanessa or his writing: characters, plots, settings, themes, single quotes he churns in his mind over and over until it becomes smooth like a rock in a stone tumbler. In the month since he had gotten the notebook he’d almost filled out the whole thing with ideas or little drawing, all sorts of things really. He knew he’d go home and Vanessa would encourage him to write his thoughts down in a more permanent space. Most days after working, visiting Pops, and handling any other errand he needed to run he was too tired and didn’t have time to move those thoughts he’d been thinking to a better spot. He wished he had the time because if he did his thoughts would be ironed out like a nice pressed suit jacket one of them lawyers or fancy businessmen up town would wear. He’d be actually able to do something with them for once rather than collect a jumble mess.

Once Eliot finished writing down his thoughts for the day he hopped off the wet milk crate. Eliot put his notebook in his big side pant pocket along with his black pen and finished his last few chips, throwing the bag all the way back to make sure he got every last crumb because he knew from Pops that there were two important rules about food in life: never waste any and never refuse any.  

Chapter Three:

Twelve years ago – 1994

Francis’ back groaned as he sat down in the familiar squishy booth of his weekly diner visit, as was the tradition he and Peni had started many years ago. He hadn’t missed a Saturday since her passing. Now ever since Eliot had come to be a part of his life Eliot had been his companion every Saturday. It was a welcoming feeling having anyone across from him while eating again.

Francis had been taking care of the young boy for a little over a year now and the time had flown by. Once Peni died it felt like a day took a week, a week a month, and a month a year. Everything seemed to slow as if the world was torturing him for his mistakes in life by not letting him see her again. By not letting his end grow closer, instead placing it further and further out of reach. He didn’t need the world to remind him of the things he’d done wrong, Francis reminded himself quite enough. Now, with Eliot in his life, time was pressing on the gas and things melded together as they sped by. 

The process of legally getting Eliot was a pain but there was no family left for the boy. They attempted to get in contact with his mother yet they had no luck. It didn’t take much convincing for Francis to take him in as Officer Lawrence didn’t want the boy to fall within the adoption system. Being stuck at an orphanage or bouncing between foster parents would ruin the boy more than life already has and he was too old to be picked up by most considering adoption. It took a long time, but with Officer Lawrence’s guidance and his connections from thirty years in the force Francis had become the official legal guardian of Eliot. 

Eliot sat in front of Francis, quiet as usual, stacking little container jellies in a pyramid. The ones at the edge of every diner, neither of them had actually used one. They were apparently used for your toast but Francis was a simple man who always buttered his wheat toast he got with his western omelet: extra peppers, extra onions. 

“Hey Frankie,” Margery said, standing at the end of the table with her hand on her hips. She was the same age as Francis, mid fifties, with hair that was dyed but gray roots began to show after not going to the salon for a few weeks. “Hi, El.”

“Hi, Ms. Margery,” Eliot said, his feet kicking the booth and sometimes Francis’ leg. “Could I get a glass of milk?” Francis raised his eyebrow at him. “Please.”

“Why of course, El. I’ll be right back with that. Same as always for you, Frankie?” Margery asked.

“Yes please, but can you get me a side of extra toast? I know it comes with, I’d just like extra today that’s all,” Francis said. 

“And what’d you like to eat, honey?” She asked, turning to Eliot.

“Can I get the french toast, please?” Eliot said, looking up from his jelly and marmalade pyramid. 

“Of course, honey. I’ll be right back with that.” Margery walked away, writing down the order and sliding it through the window to the cooks.

Francis watched the pyramid construction. “We’re gonna need to get you a haircut soon. We can go today if you’d like.” Eliot agreed, his tongue sticking out in focus at his work. He only had two jelly containers left and one marmalade. He made a pyramid with a base of four, so instead of trying to make the pyramid wide. He tried to stack them on top of the tip creating a wobbly tower on an already loose structure. The stack fell over leaving only parts of the pyramid on the table while the rest fell onto his lap. Eliot picked them up, organizing them on the counter by their type and disassembled the rest of the pyramid. He counted them, noticing the orange marmalade had much more than the grape jelly. “How’s school going, El?” Francis asked. Eliot shrugged, moving around the jelly containers around the table creating something Francis couldn’t quite tell what it was. “What’s your favorite subject?” 

Eliot shrugged again then looked up at Francis in thought. “Not math.”

“Not math?” Francis asked. “I was never too good at math either. Do you have homework to do over the weekend?”

“Yes,” Eliot said. 

“When do you want to do it?” Francis asked, which was immediately received by another shrug. “How about we work on it together after breakfast? Then we can go get you a haircut.”

“Can we do the haircut first?” Eliot asked. “It’s cold out. I don’t want to go back out.”

“Sure,” Francis said. “We can do the haircut first.” 

Margery came back with milk for Eliot and a cup of coffee and water for Francis. They both said thank you. Fracnis reached over the table, grabbing one of the orange marmalades from his pile. Eliot didn’t seem to mind, focusing on the small house he was building. Francis fiddled with it in his hands, his large fingers swollen from years of working picking at the small corner tab.

“How much longer do I have to go to school?” Eliot asked, his eyes glued to the house formed of marmalade and jelly.

Francis frowned. “You got some time now, El. You’re only in fourth grade.”

“And there’s twelve?”

“And college after, if you’d like to go,” Francis said. “So yeah, about eight more years at least.” Eliot sighed. Francis leaned forward on the booth. “Why is everything not right at school?”

“It’s fine.”

“Are the kids messing with you at all?” Francis asked. “I could go in and talk to some of the teachers if you’d like.”

Eliot shook his head, not meeting Francis’ eyes. “No. It’s fine. Just boring.”

“School can be,” Francis said. “But it’s very important to educate yourself.”

Eliot took apart the house, slowly this time instead of letting it crumble. He put all the marmalades and jelly back into the holder besides the one Francis picked at. “I know.”

“Don’t want to end up like me, I don’t know shit,” Francis said with a smile.

“You do,” Eliot said. “You’re very smart. You got all those books.”

“They aren’t mine,” Francis said. “They are Peni’s.”

“I know,” Eliot said. “You read them though.”

“I do, you do too,” Francis said, putting down the marmalade he picked at. “I think I should get some of the fancier ones from the attic for you.”

“I didn’t know we had more in the attic,” Eliot said.

“Yeah, we got a little crawl space above us. We keep the ones that wouldn’t fit in there,” Francis said. “Peni collected books her whole life. A lot of her thoughts are in them.”

“I know,” Eliot said. “I like them. She’s smart.”

Francis smiled, a small one, the kind one does to themselves rather than for the world. His voice grew serious and quiet as he spoke although Eliot didn’t seem to notice. “She would have loved you, El. She really would have.”

“Thanks,” Eliot said, intertwining his fingers together with his feet banging against the booth. “I think I would have liked her too.”

Margery came with two plates, placing the french toast in front of Eliot and the western omelet with six pieces of toast in front of Francis. Francis glanced down at the plate, tilting his head and pressing his eyebrows in confusion. He’d come here for years and each time there would be four triangle slices of golden brown toast,  never six. Peni was a waitress when they first met at a diner not so different from this one. When they went out she made sure he knew how to tip right even though it was never her own money. He obliged every time, not that he had anything wrong with tipping nicely, his family just stayed quite the conservative folk growing up.  Eliot unraveled his silverware and began digging into his french toast. “Can we look at the books tonight?”

“Yeah, we can,” Francis said while unraveling his silverware. “I meant to ask how’d you like the movie last weekend?”

Eliot shoved a forkful of french toast in his mouth, too much for his small mouth. He waited to answer the question as part of Francis ‘etiquette’, although Eliot had noticed on more than one occasion Francis broke it himself. He swallowed, moving to chop off another slice. “I liked it a lot.”

“Would you like to see another one? Rodney from work wanted to start doing it once a month,” Francis said. 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Eliot shoved his mouth with another piece of french toast. He found the french toast was sweet, crispy gold with a layer of butter underneath all the cinnamon. So sweet he felt he didn’t need maple syrup. 

Francis ate his western omelet with hot sauce, not Tabasco— he hated that pepper-water. One of the reasons why Peni and he started coming to this place, even though there were a few closer diners, was because it had something besides tabasco. He never bothered to ask what brand, just knew it wasn’t that flavorless pepper-water. 

Francis’ eye laid on the jellies and marmalades, remembering his desire to try the small containers of jam and he felt himself get overly excited, nothing a fifty-something year old man should get excited about but he did anyway, peeling back the thin layer on the fingertip-sized containers. He spread the marmalade on the toast, taking a bite. Far too sweet for his liking. He found he couldn’t eat most things that were sweet anymore. He handed the piece to Eliot, who took it without questioning, rare for the boy as Eliot was always hesitant to try something new. 

“It’s too sweet,” Eliot said, handing it back to Francis. 

“I thought the same thing,” Francis said. “You’re supposed to like sweets though. I thought every kid had a sweet tooth.”

“I guess not.”

“You’re eating french toast,” Francis said. “That’s like the sweetest thing on the menu.”

Eliot shook his head. “Nuh-uh, there’s chocolate chip pancakes.” Francis chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. 

A few moments went by and Eliot pushed his plate forward, leaving half of a piece of french toast on it. Francis pointed at it with his knife. “You gonna finish?” 

Eliot shook his head, holding his hand on his stomach. Francis swiveled the plate over to him, even though he was already full. He topped it off, wiping his powder covered fingers down on a napkin. Most of the time they came Franics end up eating a breakfast and a half, but he’d rather stuff himself then watch food hit the trash can.

They closed out, leaving a two dollar and seventy-five cent tip, over forty percent, and headed out into the cold city streets only a few blocks away where Francis knew a barber named Michigan. Michigan had been cutting Francis’ hair for the past twenty-five years, he was one of Michigan’s first customers. When Francis went the first time Peni didn’t like the haircut at all. She told him to never go back as somehow the barber managed to make her ‘pretty boy’ not the prettiest. Francis laughed, saying he didn’t mind the haircut even though the sideburns were uneven, the thin hair on the back of his neck still tickled and never offered gel afterwards because when he went Michigan had just opened up the place and the young man was nervous. He’d explained to Francis the business was brand new. It was all the money he earned through cosmetology school while working at a cafe near Rittenhouse square. Francis knew from the second he entered the building it was a new business: the wait was long, impatient folk were complaining and it was understaffed. Even though all that was happening, Michigan talked to Francis. Michigan spoke kindly and the next time Francis came in, three months later when he came in again without telling Peni, Michigan remembered his name. Ever since Francis went and his haircut only got better over the years.

The bell above the door rang as they walked in, Eliot taking a seat on one of the black waiting chairs. Michigan smiled at them, walking up and sticking his hand out. Francis grabbed it, pulling Michigan into a brotherly embrace. The man was taller than Francis by a few inches but his shoulders were much slimmer. Michigan was light skin with a small gap in his two front teeth he’d whistle through while he worked. “How are we, gentlemen?” Michigan asked. 

“We’re good,” Francis said, turning towards Eliot. “Come on, El. Don’t sit, be kind.”

Eliot slid off his chair. Eliot had only come here twice in his time with Francis. Eliot stood next to Francis, nudging against his leg. “Hi.”

Michigan squatted down, for he had more youthful knees than Francis, ruffling Eliot’s hair. “We got a lot on you today, were you raised by lions? You’re growing one of their manes.” Eliot grinned. “Let’s get you a seat, shall we?” Michigan stood up, walking Eliot over to a table. Francis sat waiting, flipping through a magazine listening to the conversation Michigan attempted to have with Eliot. As always Eliot spoke very little and it was mainly Michigan talking, trying to ask him about school or hobbies. Eliot answered with one word responses and after a time they grew quiet.  

Francis watched, hoping perhaps Eliot would speak up a bit more but as always there was nothing much the boy wanted to say. It worried him. He didn’t know what the boy was like before his father passed, only meeting him a handful of times when Turner couldn’t get his hands on a babysitter when school had their off days. He knew the boy was always quiet, but after a little his shell was cracked and he talked some of their ears off. Now it was difficult for Eliot to say more than five words to anyone besides him.

“Francis, can you come here for a second?” Michigan asked, his eyebrows pressed in worry.

Francis looked up, laying the magazine on the chair next to him. Michigan glared pointing down at Eliot’s neck while lifting his hair. “You didn’t do this, did you?” Michigan asked.

Eliot’s neck was bruised. His long hair covered it but now it was exposed, red scratches with underlying purples on his pale skin. These bruises ran down his back, dull in color. The scratches were red, only lightly with bits of scabs towards the bottom. Francis shook his head, mouth agape with a tightness contorting his chest. “No, no that wasn’t at me.”

Michigan nodded, continuing to cut Eliot’s hair. Francis sat back down now with a knot in his stomach. What had caused such marks? They were deep, as if he’d been hit again and again. Francis’ tongue pressed against his teeth, why hadn’t the boy told him? Francis knew things were hard for Eliot and always had been, as much as Francis’ didn’t want to disgrace his friend he hadn’t known Sam’s ability to be a father. Sam’s problems most likely reflected upon Eliot in a way, causing him to shy and grow untrusting towards adults. Now, Eliot faced problems he shouldn’t have to be alone for. 

Francis could feel himself growing angry, not at Eliot, but those who caused his boy so much pain. As Francis thought about it he felt his eyes grow glossy, his teeth chewing on his lip in frustration. Eliot stayed quiet, looking down as if disappointed he’d been discovered— as if he was about to get into trouble. Michigan finished the haircut and Francis gave him a twenty, telling Eliot to wait in the side chairs.

“I peeked down his shirt, Francis,” Michigan whispered. “It got worse as it went down, have you not seen it?”

Francis shook his head. “The boy is old enough to clean himself, take care of himself besides food and stuff. I didn’t know. I knew he’d been having some trouble at school and never liked talking about it.”

“He’s got to talk about it now,” Michigan said.

“I know. I know, I will,” Francis said with a low voice. Michigan placed his hand on Francis’ shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you.” Francis stuck his hand out and Michigan shook it. Francis walked to the door and Eliot hopped off the chair following Francis with his head down. 

The apartment was five blocks east but Francis led them one block north then towards the piers rather than home. Eliot was quiet but hugged close, bumping into Francis a few times. “You know when I was a kid,” Francis said, the morning haze lifting from the streets as he spoke. The winter city streets attempted to thaw in the rising sun, but the cold still reached their bones past their heavy coats. “There was a kid named Trevor. Now Trevor was a scrawny kid, about your size when we were in fifth grade. Trevor was well liked— or he was. Had these round glasses, I’ll never forget them. They looked as if he had fish bowls over his eyes, I woulda sworn they’d fall off his head every day. He got them that year for his birthday. His parents were poor and his mom spent every last penny she had to their name to get her kid a pair. It wasn’t some cheap brand either, real silver with a sturdy nose piece. A pair he’d be able to grow into and wear for years. 

“I remember his mom a lot, I went over his house a few times. She was a sweet woman, always smelled like vanilla and the whole house did as if she spent her life baking. So I’m over there and Trevor’s dad, he was a deadbeat. Lounged around, on and off work, never cared much for Trevor. Not like your dad did or I do. But his Mom, his Mom was the sweetest thing.” Francis held out his hand, which Eliot took as they crossed a busy street, the Delaware river coming into view. Eliot’s hand only wrapped around three of Francis’ fingers. “Like I said, Trevor was well-liked but then he got these glasses. There was this girl, I can’t remember her name for the life of me, but she had a mole on her right cheek. Trevor liked her, liked her a lot. But so did the other kid named DeShawn. DeShawn was a big kid, bigger than I was at that age and I was one of those big chubby kids. Well, one day Trevor asked this girl out and before the girl could answer DeShawn started laughing at him. See, Trevor spoke too loud when he asked because he was nervous and DeShawn made fun of him. She never even had the chance to answer with the whole class laughing at them and Trevor fell real quiet. Recess came and DeShawn taunted him more and more, got angry when the teachers weren’t lookin’. Next thing I remember DeShawn threw a fist, broke Trevor’s month old fishbowl glasses his Mama had spent every nickel and quarter she had on. Trevor cried, taping up the middle. I went home with Trevor that day because no one else seemed to care that his new glasses just broke. When his Mama asked him what happened, all he said was that he fell. When she asked me what happened, I lied, told her he fell during recess. Later that day when I went home, his old man ended up beating on him for falling at recess and breaking his glasses. Trevor went quiet after that, getting picked on by DeShawn and some of the other boys. He only talked to me and by the time middle school came around I didn’t see Trevor any more. It’s rare a day goes by I wish I didn’t stick up for Trevor. Maybe if I told his Mom what happened his dad would have never lashed out on him that day, maybe he wouldn’t have shelled up like he did.”

By the time Francis finished his recollection they had reached the pier, a small metal fence blocking them from stepping down to the riverbed which was filled with jagged rocks. Eliot let go of Francis’ hand, holding on the metal and peeking over at the water his small face rose from the cold. 

“Do you understand why I told you that story, Eliot?” Francis asked. Eliot stepped up on the first rung of the metal railing, his head barely reaching over Francis shoulder. Eliot nodded with his eyes low. “Are you like Trevor?” Eliot paused for a moment, looking away from Francis towards the bridge over the Delaware.

“Am I a burden?” 

Francis blinked twice, fast. It wasn’t the response he was expecting at all. The question made his heart plummet, a far too familiar coldness seeping into his heart. “No. God, no, Eliot. How could you think that?”

Eliot looked down, his small face hiding in the hood of his coat. “I told one of the kids at school that you were my Daddy. And they said you weren’t, that my Daddy would be a different color.” Eliot paused for a moment. “Then I told them what happened to my other Daddy. They told me I was a burden, that’s why he did what he did. I cried and the teacher asked what happened and I told her. Then they started shoving me around, smacking me, and then I asked the teacher for help, but she didn’t believe me.” Francis’ eyes pressed down, hot air pluming from his nostrils. “Now they just do that sometimes.”

“Do what?”

Eliot looked at Francis, his eyes wet. “Shove me around. Smack me. Call me names.”

Francis sighed. “And the teacher doesn’t say anything?”

“No one does.”

Francis rubbed his tongue against his teeth. He felt his nose flare in frustration, mind bewildered. How could the teachers just let that happen? How could the kids be so cruel? “I’ll come into school with you on Monday, alright, El.”

“No,” Eliot said quietly. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Francis said. “Make sure you’re alright. It won’t be a biggie, I’ll just take you inside.”

Eliot’s small hands gripped the railing. His eyes didn’t raise to meet Francis’ as he spoke. “Can we go look at those books now?”

Francis smiled. “Of course, El.”

Eliot hopped off the metal railing, hugging close to Francis as they walked. Francis picked up Eliot, putting him on his shoulders. Eliot gave a small giggle, whacking every street sign they walked by with a metallic clang. Francis grinning as they walked, Eliot clinging to his hair as if Francis would ever let him fall. He wouldn’t; Francis knew he’d never let anything happen to Eliot, he just wished he could move the world to do so.

• –

The morning air was chilly, chillier than most mornings. Francis had walked Eliot to the street right before school every morning since he enrolled, watching as he entered the school to make sure nothing happened. Then Eliot would walk home himself, letting himself in each day because school ended two hours earlier than Francis’ work. This morning was different, he’d already called work telling him he’d be late today. They didn’t ask why as they knew Francis normally got there early and usually left late to finish work. 

Eliot held Francis’ hand, squeezing it harder the closer they drew. They walked through the door and Francis squatted down, helping Eliot take off his big poofy jacket. “You gonna be okay today?” Francis asked. Eliot nodded with his head lowered. Francis folded up Eliot’s jacket, handing it to him. “Did you bring your homework?” Eliot nodded once more, eyes glued to the ground. “What’s wrong, El?”

“I don’t wanna go.” 

Francis felt his heart break at the words. He sighed, taking Eliot’s hands into his own. “Today will be better, I promise. I’m gonna go speak with your teacher and I’m going to make things better, alright?” Eliot stayed quiet. “School will page me if anything happens, alright? I’ll pick you up.” Eliot sighed, but didn’t speak. “I love you, alright. Go get in there. Have fun today.” 

“I love you too,” Eliot murmured, then spun around and entered the classroom. Francis stood up and walked down the hall to the principal’s office, where he didn’t bother knocking instead walking to the secretary. She had poofy hair and was about ten years younger than Francis.

“Hi, I’d like to speak with Mr. Balder,” Francis said. 

The secretary clicked on the keyboard, her chewing gum knacking as she chomped and chomped, blowing a bubble then letting it pop. “Mr. Balder? Do you have an appointment?”

“No ma’am, I do not. But this is urgent regarding my son,” Francis said. 

“Who is your son?” the secretary asked, clack clack clack. 

“Eliot Turner,” Francis said.

“And your name?”

“Francis Golding.” 

She paused for a moment, squinting at him, then continued the clack-clack-clack of her gum. She typed a number in on her desk phone, lifting the large off-white plastic phone to her ear. “Hi, Mr. Balder. I have Francis Golding here to see you.” Clack-clack-clack. “Yeah, yeah. Says he’s Eliot Turner’s father.” Clack-clack-clack. “Mhmm. Mhmm. Yeah. Yeah, alright. Yeah.” She hung up the phone looking back up. “Yeah, he’ll be ready for you in a moment. If you’ll have a seat right over there.” She pointed to the small brown seats with green cushions made out of an itchy fabric. Francis took a seat, staring at the clock on the other side of the wall, listening to the clack-clack-clack of her gum. 

Francis took a deep breath, his leg bouncing in anxiousness. He really hadn’t planned out what he was going to say to the principal, only knew things needed to change. After about twenty-three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, Francis stared at the clock the whole time, he was called into the principal’s office, sitting in front Mr. Balder’s desk in a matching uncomfortable green cushioned chair. Mr. Balder was a white man five inches shorter than Francis. The top of Balder’s head was shining, reflecting the sharp light of the overhead lamps. He wore a brown suit with girthy shoulder pads making him seem bigger than the scrawny man actually was. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Golding?”

“Hi,” Francis said, sticking out his hand. “I’m here because I’m worried about my boy being here.”

Mr. Balder stared at the hand for a moment, making Francis unsettled. Then he took it, the grip was weak and the handshake was briefer than most. “Eliot Turner, correct?”

“Yes sir,” Francis said. “I found bruises down his back. I know he’s been having trouble making friends at school and all, but to this extent it was… more than I was expecting.”

 Mr. Balder picked up a pen, twirling it in his hands. “I see. Did he give you specifics?”

“No, Mr. Balder. I didn’t get any names. He just told me he was having trouble at school with some of the boys. Physical altercations, name calling, mocking. It’s really been affect Eliot.”

“I see,” Mr. Balder said. He played with a black fountain pen, spinning the cap. “Is he having any trouble at home?”

Francis frowned, taken aback with a sour expression. “Excuse me?”

“Is he having any trouble at home?” Mr. Balder repeated. “Any altercations between the two of you? Maybe others who live in your home life.”

“It’s just us two, Mr. Balder,” Francis said. “He’s having trouble with boys at school. I know this. He tells me he never wants to come. He says he’s getting shoved around and called names by some of the other boys.” He sighed, looking at Mr. Balder. “I need him to feel safe here. He’s a bright mind but without proper education he’s going to fall behind. The boy has been through enough he shouldn’t have to go through more here.”

“What type of things has he been through, Mr. Golding?”

Francis twisted his head, putting his hand on the desk. “We spoke about what happened when the transition into my care occurred, Mr. Balder. His father passed away last year and his mother has been missing since he was a baby.”
“I understand, Mr. Golding,” Mr. Balder said, eyeing Francis. “What else has he been through, more recently.”

Francis scoffed. “What are you implying?”

Mr. Balder rolled his eyes as if it was as clear as day. “I think you heard me properly, sir. What else has the boy been through at home recently? Drugs? Alcohol? Have you potentially been taking a load off after work? Oftentimes when boys get into consistent physical altercations it’s due to issues with homelife. ”

“Don’t ever!” Francis pointed at him. “Ever! Question me again on those matters, Mr. Balder. That boy is the only thing I care about and you have been doing a shit job of making sure he’s well protected. He says his teachers won’t even help him. That he’s all alone while they call him names and shove him around and all you do is sit on your ass, Mr. Balder.”

Mr. Balder puts his hands up in defense. “Just need to clarify, Mr. Golding, it’s part of the process.” He bites on his lip. “Although, that anger should be put in check.”

 “Why are you and I not seeing eye-to-eye on the problems at hand?”
“Because you haven’t given me anything, Mr. Golding. No names of the boys, no specific incident, day.”
“The boy is nine years old!” Francis said. “Was he supposed to write it down when he got beat on? With a date, time, location, and witness reports?”

“No,” Mr. Balder says. “All I’m saying is that it may not be the school grounds where he’s having trouble.”

Francis clenched his left hand, out of Mr. Balder’s sight, and took a deep breath. “With all respect, Mr. Balder. The only time he isn’t with me is when he’s here. So for the love of God, can you just look into it for me, Mr. Balder? Let’s work together. If you want to question me with all this bullshit make sure it’s not happening on your school grounds first.”

“All right,” Mr. Balder said. “I’ll look into it.”

“Here’s my pager number,” Francis says, handing Mr. Balder a little sheet he’d written on this morning. “Anything happens, I’ll be here.”

Mr. Balder took it, leaving it next to his computer. “Alright, thank you for coming in and telling us this.”

Francis turned, zipping up his coat as he walked. “Fucking prick,” Francis muttered as he walked out of the school grounds and headed to work. 

Francis’ thoughts began to spiral, sinking down like an anchor. If that asshole doesn’t do anything I’ll have to find a new school for Eliot. I can’t have him walk home too far though. I’d have to leave work early every day to pick him up. Surely they’d understand, Sam worked for them for fifteen years. They owe it to him; owe it to me too. What if it just happens again? Another school, new, fresh, small, and quiet. Gets picked on by the bigger kids and the cycle repeats. Or worse, it happens again and I don’t know. How long has he been keeping this from me now? How much longer would he have been willing if Michigan didn’t find it? Is it a trust thing? Does he not trust me enough yet? I can’t blame the boy, he lost his father in front of his own eyes and his mother never was there. I can only imagine Sam struggled for years, not taking the best care of him with everything going on in his head. I can’t protect El from all the world throws at him, especially if he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me things right away. I can’t protect him from things I’m unaware of. 

Francis sighed, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes as he opened the door to the factory, the heat from glass blowing pressing into him, saving him from the bitter cold until it grows drearily hot like it does everyday.   

Chapter 1:

Robert’s morning alarm hollered at him, but of course he was already up. Today was a big day for Robert and he couldn’t sleep the night before. Instead he was already well-dressed for the morning in an off white eggshell button up dress shirt, black pants littered with streaks of light gray cat hair, dark leather shoes, and a vibrant red tie. On his wrist was the silver watch his grandfather had gotten him years ago before he passed. It was easily Robert’s most treasured possession, it was rare for him to not have it. His curly hair had dashes of ginger streaks that mixed with the darker brown which was still damp from his morning shower. His breath was already minty fresh, using both alcoholic mouthwash and his proper allotted time of two minutes of brushing, exactly two minutes, with a pea sized dollop of light blue toothpaste. Of course he flossed as well in between each tooth with a fine minty line; he would never miss a day of flossing, that would upset his dentist.

He fiddled with the remote recording the episode of ‘Wheel of Fortune’ to watch later in the night, even though it comes on at seven-thirty but who knows if they will need him late, it’s his first day after all.

 Robert was already ready so he left a little early, taking time to go get breakfast. 

The diner doorbell rang as Robert walked in. He wore a grand smile with a pep in his step taking a seat on the over-cushion red barstool.

He set his briefcase down on the floor next to him. The handle was left with a sweat imprint of his clammy hands. Robert already had the job, but today was his first day and he had worked hard to get here. Six grueling years of school plus a year of internship landed him at a dream job at ‘Frank and Earl’s Divorcing Firm.’  It wasn’t most lawyers’ dream spot, most people hated dealing with divorce, truth be told, so did Robert; but it was a job and it paid very very well.

“What can I get you honey?” an older pale woman asked behind the counter. Her short curly hair bounced as she moved. With a cheesy yet sweet smile that reminded Robert of his favorite elementary school teacher. Her white apron was tied tight around her stained with grease and ketchup from the early morning rush. 

“Blueberry pancakes please, and can I get a coffee as well?” Robert said. The sweet old woman nodded; jotting down his order on a small yellow pad before turning to the next customer. Robert’s first shift started in one hour and ten minutes. He planned to eat breakfast here eight days ago; it was the closest diner he liked near his new firm. It was an exact seven minute and twelve second walk from the diner to the firm; he had practiced the walk each morning for the past week to make sure. Robert would leave here fifteen minutes before the shift started. Not too early, that would be too ambitious, and of course not late. That would be Robert’s nightmare.   

A medium roast coffee was placed in front of him. Robert loved a good medium roast, he didn’t like his coffee to be dark. He leaned over grabbing a pack of Domino sugar, ripping it open and sliding the sugar into his coffee. The small steel pitcher filled with whole milk was cool to the touch as he poured it in– just a splash of course. His silver spoon clanked against the mug as he spun it around in the brown liquid, turning it into a lighter color. He took a sip, the heat leaving a singe on the roof of his mouth. Robert could already feel the effects of the coffee lifting the heavy bags under his eyes. He felt tired today, he was tossing and turning all night. Of course his cat K.C deciding the best place to sleep was his face at three in the morning didn’t help much either.

Around the diner were many younger people dressed in business-like attire similar to his own clothes. Other customers were small groupings of elderly ladies enjoying gossiping over breakfast. Next to him was a larger man wearing a gray sweater vest that was stained reading a newspaper. The man’s trucker hat had a Buc-ee’s logo on it which Robert only recognized from his vacation to Tennessee when he was a child. The newspaper was from yesterday, the sunday funnies were on it; Robert watched the man read while sipping on his coffee

“Can I help you?” the man asked. He folded the newspaper down, raising his eyebrow at Robert. 

“Oh no sir sorry, I was just trying to read the comic that’s all,” Robert said, raising his mug. Why did I do that? A pang of guilt ran over Robert, but it was washed away as the man chuckled, handing the paper to Robert.

“You look nervous, kid.”

Robert’s hands were shaking, the newspaper trembled in his grip; his fingerprints leaving small sweat imprints. “Yeah I guess I am.”

“Why’s that?” the man frowned. 

“Today is my first day at a new job,” Robert said. “I haven’t had a new job since I was eighteen.” It was true, he didn’t really have a job most of college besides the unpaid internship he had. Even though his parents weren’t well off they did their best to support him financially.

The man nodded. “Ahh the first day jitters. You’ll be alright kid, you already got the job, they can’t get rid of you easily now.” 

Robert smiled. “Thank you sir, I hope I do just fine.”

“You will,” the man said. “I gotta ask though, why the briefcase if it’s your first day?”

Robert looked down and sunk in his stool. “I thought it looked more mature.” 

The man chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it does.” The man pulled out his wallet, throwing down a twenty on the table. He grabbed his light jacket and fixed his trucker hat. “It was nice talking to you, son, good luck.” 

Robert watched him leave. “You want your newspaper back?”

“Nah, keep it, at least you got something in that briefcase.” 

Robert smiled, giving the man a small wave goodbye. The waitress placed a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of him. Its smell reminded him of home. Robert grabbed the bottle of syrup drenching his flapjacks in the thick viscous maple sugar. He cut a piece of the pancake and shoved the fluffy piece of heaven in his mouth. They tasted exactly like the ones his mother made, the wonderful fluffiness that melted in Robert’s mouth with pops of flavor of the dark blue spotted blueberry marks. 

Within a few minutes, Robert finished. He left two twenties on the table, an over tip, but he felt good about today now rejuvenated by the delicious pancakes. The deep purple bags under his eyes had gone anyway. He got up grabbing his suit jacket and briefcase which was now filled with yesterday’s newspaper. Leaving even earlier than he anticipated, a whole twenty-six minutes before his shift started. He knew it may have looked eager, oh but what the heck, it was a nice day outside anyway.

He walked with pride as the bell rang behind him and out onto the city streets. The sun warmed his skin; the bright light caused his light blue eyes to squint in strain. He stepped off the curb walking towards the street in between two parked cars feeling a lurch in his chest as he underestimated how deep the drop was. 

The city buildings were large and overwhelming at times. Today Robert felt bigger than the skyscrapers. Nothing could tear down his confidence. He strutted forward, his briefcase swinging by his side. He looked to his right, and swung his head to the left. Then Robert walked forward, his leather shoes scraping against the cement. He walked past the two parked cars as a bellowing horn blew to his left. It was too late as a blue truck crashed into him sending his body sprayed in different directions.

In a brief moment Robert Thyme was no longer a person, but instead splattered into paste on passerbyers, other cars and decorating the truck driver’s windshield. His main body flew into the side of a car creating a large dent and triggering the car alarm then it plopped down, leaving exposed organs in a pile on the city street. 

Screams of horror from peoples commute rang throughout the city streets, some running in fear while others urged to get a closer look at the pile of goop that was once Robert Thyme.

His blood leaked onto the cement, slowly mixing with the dust, dirt, and rocks left over from people’s morning commute. In an instant, Robert Thyme was no longer on this planet. An aspiring young man on his way to his first job had lost everything. 

The city streets filled with the echoing sirens of police cars and the flashing of red and blue lights. The driver of the truck stumbled out, held back by police to try and get a closer look. He was shaking, muttering to himself about what he had done. As the police approached the pile of flesh, it had vanished, replaced with a naked Robert Thyme staring up at the skyscrapers with a few of his organs laid on top of his stomach. 

His breath was slow, and his mind raced as the footsteps of the officers approached him. He felt no pain. He felt nothing at the moment, as he stared up at the sky. It was awfully blue today, with two wispy clouds that seemed to stare right at him.

Chapter 2:

Robert watched the vibrant red and blue lights flashing against the dented car above him. Three distressed officers surveying the scene stood, each one looked sickly pale. Blood ran down Robert’s face, his vision grew blurry as it leaked into his eyes. He could feel something sticky all over him as if he was covered in the same maple syrup as his pancakes were just a few minutes ago.

“Where are the paramedics! They were supposed to be here by now!” One of the officers hollered over the sirens. He was older and skinny with a white wispy beard. “Get the people out of here.” He pointed to the youngest officer, who nodded, leaving to follow the orders. 

Robert could hear the crowd’s whispers and shocks of concern. He was confused, just a brief moment ago he was crossing the street. How did I end up laying on the street? His eyes stared at the clouds which seemed to be moving just to get a good look at what happened. 

“The paramedics should be here soon,” the other officer said. He was much older, gray hair filled his face and head. “But damn man, no one lives through a truck plowing through you like that.” The skinnier officer briefly glanced down at Robert, unable to hold his gaze. The officer’s face grew ghastly pale. “Look how much blood there is. We’re gonna have to scrape him off the cement with a snow shovel. His spine must be shattered, ribs gone. I’m surprised we can make out which body part is which.” 

“Still, they should be here Doug, they’re taking a long while. What if he could make it? He doesn’t look too bad for being hit, there is just a lot… a lot of blood.” The man’s voice trailed off as his eyes examined the different splatters of red painted on the city street. Am I dead? Robert thought. He didn’t feel dead, although he didn’t know what being dead felt like. For his twenty-six years of life, he had been alive through all of it. 

Actually, he felt great. He had some pains, anyone laying on the city street would have pains. Small rocks jabbing at his sides, plus all the blood didn’t make him feel comfortable. What are they talking about? 

“Hello,” Robert called. The three officers head shot downward, staring in amazement at Robert. He waved with a shy smile. He could feel the blood sticking to the cement as he raised his hand. Why am I not bothered by this? Robert felt… numb. He thought he should have panicked, yet he felt more calm than anything.

“Holy shit!” the older officer shouted. “You’re alive?” 

“I think so,” Robert said. “I would hope so.” Robert moved his arms towards his chest. The stickiness made him shiver, his fingers danced around something squishy on his chest. I didn’t think I was gaining that much weight. It felt unnaturally squishy.

“What the hell,” the middle-aged officer muttered. An ambulance swung onto the scene, and a legion of paramedics arrived on the scene. Robert tried to lean forward to get up. “Don’t move!” he ordered. “Let the professionals help. You’re lucky to be talking right now,” 

Robert laid back down. He never thought the looming towers around him could look any bigger. He felt so small, maybe it was the people looking down upon him. “Look, I have my first day at work-”

“Kid you just got hit by a truck, you got bigger problems,” the older officer said, “ain’t nobody likes work that much. I sure don’t.”

It was his first day, he needed to be there. He lifted up his left wrist looking at his silver watch. The glass was shattered, the tiny shards now littered on the pavement. The thin metal arrows were bent out of place. He frowned, it was a gift from his grandfather, he cared a great deal for the watch and now it was broken. It was the last thing his grandfather gave him before he passed. They used to go out to really nice asian restaurants, the type of food his family was normally grossed out by. I’ll need to go to the guy on forty-seventh to fix it. Robert shook his head to himself, he had bigger problems to worry about right now.

“Sir, I need you to go back to your vehicle,” the younger officer’s voice called. Robert glanced up, seeing the polite man at the diner he was talking too. His face was stricken with horror, examining the scene.

“Is he alive? I coulda sworn it was the kid.” The trucker man from the diner looked around at the bloody scene. He turned and threw up on top of a car that had a large dent in it, a human shaped dent. 

“I’m okay really, don’t worry about it.” Robert said. He leaned forward, the officers winced as he moved.

The officer grabbed the truck driver by the arm, bringing him back towards his vehicle. After a few more moments, paramedics arrived and began assessing the scene. 

“Hello gentleman,” Robert said, “Oh sorry, hello miss.”

The female paramedic turned towards Robert, her eyes widened with shock. “He-hello, how are you feeling sir?” The other paramedic, a larger dark-skinned man looked in horror upon Robert.

“I’m okay, how are you?” Robert asked. 

“Sir, you don’t have to worry about me right now, let’s get you into the ambulance, they are bring-”

Robert swung himself forward, sitting fully up. He felt weight lifted off his stomach and chest as chunks of flesh rolled off in front of him. Small chunks of flesh–aorta, stomach, intestines, muscles, bones, and lungs– fell onto his lap; soaking his pants in deep red blood. It looked like a cannibalistic chili. Yet his skin was completely intact, Robert felt no pain.

That didn’t stop him from leaping into the air as he felt the mush of stomach smack against his leg. “Oh what is that!” Robert grabbed at his stomach, his light chub with a trail of belly hair was still there. Except the belly hair was damp with blood.

The female paramedic leaned forward, touching his stomach where the shirt was ripped apart. “Sir, you don’t have a wound.”

“Why would I?” Robert asked, bewildered by the comment as if the whole conversation with the officers didn’t exist. 

“You just got hit by a truck,” the other paramedic said.

Robert looked down at the pile of intestines, stomach, blood, muscle, and bones. They seemed so foreign to Robert. Then he looked down at the spotted blood all over his shirt, the tear in the center which showed the slight chub to his stomach, which was blood stained. He held his hand there, feeling the wisps of stomach hair he had on his belly. 

“I-I- WHAT!?” Robert exclaimed. He shot up from the street, more of his guts plopped off his back behind him. Robert looked around at all the blood around him, “Is is-” he could feel his voice tremble as he tried to speak. “Is that mine?”

The male paramedic looked at him, his eyebrow shot up in shock. “I thought so, but now I’m not sure.”

Robert’s stomach churned, he felt as if he was going to get sick. Then he stepped forward, the pile of organs squelching underneath his step. “Uh oh,” he muttered, feeling his head growing light. His knees buckled and the paramedics caught him. They threw him onto a blue stretcher and his vision faded to black. 

Robert awoke to several doctors staring down upon him, many were scratching their heads. None of the doctors seemed to notice he was awake. Each one wore the same white lab coat with black pants and one of those stethoscopes around their neck. It almost looked like they were wearing spirit Halloween costumes instead of uniforms. 

“This man was hit by an eighteen wheeler?” one of the doctors asked. She was a tall lean doctor with short black hair that barely reached her shoulders.

“Yes yes that’s what I’m telling you,” a younger doctor said. He had curly hair and was much shorter than the other doctors. “This young man got thrown over thirty feet by an eighteen wheeler earlier this morning. We got video footage, it was him.”

“And the only thing that happened was he got a little light headed and he passed out?” Another doctor asked. He was an older man, chubby with a large white beard. To Robert, he looked like a perfect person to do a caricature of.

“He was surrounded by blood stains, chunks of bone, organs, and flesh which were sprayed everywhere,” the younger doctor said. 

“He has no open wounds,” the older doctor said.

“X-rays show that everything is fully intact, yet when running samples of tissue from what we found on the street it matched the patients. But somehow Mr. Thyme here is still with us and seemingly perfectly healthy from our initial tests. We still have many things we need to go over him to make sure but so far we have concluded that nothings wrong, besides high blood pressure”

“And he got hit by an eighteen wheeler?” the same female doctor who asked the first time repeated. 

“Yes!”

“Did someone replace him? When the real victim’s body got pulverized by the truck,” a quieter doctor in the corner suggested. He was scrawny with a long, thin nose. He looked like a pencil.

“No! Everything matches and we have the footage of the accident,” the young doctor said. 

“Well Dr. Weaves, he didn’t have two stomachs,” the older doctor said.

“He didn’t before,” Dr. Weaves said. “But now he does.”

The other doctors shifted uncomfortably at the comment. How could a person have two stomachs, or not be born with one, but grow another later in life so rapidly. And what of his bones? Bones cannot reform so quickly, not the way they would have been shattered into pieces. All of the blood he had lost already replenished? Not even a bruise was left on his body. What of his heart? Lungs? Organs that you cannot live without for more than brief moments, yet Robert not only survived without them but re-constructed them on his own. Almost instantaneously. It was as if it had never happened in the first place which made it difficult for Robert to realize what was actually happening.

“Umm, hi,” Robert said. He was now in a hospital gown, resting in a stark white hospital bed. He had small white squared stickers placed around his body, each with a wire stemming off into a small machine that displayed his heart rate. It was a healthy seventy-four. The beeping annoyed him and his eyes kept daring over to the green line watching the bumps on the screen.

The doctors turned to him, their heads like vultures looking at a dead corpse; they were supposed to be looking at a dead corpse. Instead, they stared at an intact, alive Robert.

Dr. Weaves coughed slightly, then nervously brushed his hands on his shirt. “Mr. Thyme,” Dr. Weaves said. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. It’s a little cold here, I guess,” Robert answered. He was always susceptible to the temperatures, anything below seventy made Robert freeze. It was something he got from his dad. Though neither of his siblings retained the trait, they were both warmer bodies like his mother. 

The doctors chuckled. “After what you survived Mr. Thyme be glad a little chilliness is your only issue,” Dr. Weaves said.

“How long have I been asleep?” Robert asked.

“Almost eight hours. Your family has been waiting to see you,” Dr. Weaves said. “We will send them in for some time. Then I have to come back in and ask some questions.” 

Robert nodded. “Thank you.” The other doctors behind Dr. Weaves still gawked at him like he was a zoo animal. 

“Of course, just so you know, even if you feel good we may have to keep you in the hospital for a few days to run some tests,” Dr. Weaves said. “It will be better if you are under our observation.”

“I understand. Thank you doctor,” Robert said. Dr. Weaves nodded, leaving the room last of all the doctors. Robert’s parents and siblings patiently waited outside until they left. His mother rushed in and threw herself onto him with a large motherly hug.

“Robbie!” His mother cried, squeezing the air out of his lungs. She was a larger woman with wavy, dark-brown hair that curled near her lower-back. Her face had grown wrinkled in her age, but it looked proper. She was a lover, the more obvious caring one in the family. Robert reached around hugging her back but not as tightly, he could barely breathe.

“Honey please, you don’t want to break anything on him, some bones may be a gust of wind away from snapping,” his father said. His father was much different, he was a skinny and tall man. It was where Robert got his height from. He had been a bald man for the last thirty years, thankfully Robert did not have his father’s head of hair. Instead Robert had small tight-knit curls, which no one knew whose side of the family they came from.

His father was usually very content, very hard to shake. But Robert could see the puffiness around his father’s eyes, the exhaustion of worry creating purple bags. It made Robert feel guilty about what happened.

“Robbie, are you okay? What happened?” Victoria asked. His sister was two years younger than him, but had always been more mature. She looked much like their mother with the same narrow nose, raised cheek bows, and thin eyebrows. Victoria also had some of their father’s height, she was only a few inches shy of Robert. There was a comfortable chub to her face and her body, unlike their mother who was overweight. 

“I just didn’t look properly I guess. Cross the street enough times you forget to look,” Robert said.

“How are you alive?” Daniel asked. Daniel was Robert’s youngest and only brother thirteen years of age. He wasn’t exactly planned for the family, but he was spoiled more than the other two. Daniel was already showing signs of massive height for his age, already passing their shorter mother. Robert was never close with Daniel, though he tried his best to be close with him but it was hard to relate to someone half your age. 

“A miracle Daniel, a miracle,” his father said. 

Robert’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know if it was that.”

“Well none of us got hit by a truck before today. I think it may be time to show a little faith,” his father smiled. Robert nodded dismissively, and Victoria rolled her eyes.

“Did they say when they are going to let you out?” Victoria asked.

He shook his head. “Not an exact day, but Dr. Weaves said they’re going to have to keep me for a little bit to run some tests so I’ll be here tonight.”

Victoria nodded, her eyes drifted off out the window and onto the city streets below. She was more intelligent than the rest of her family. Even though neither of them came from studious parents, both Victoria and Robert ended up going to college and getting difficult degrees. Victoria had her masters in computer science with a bachelors in mathematics and was currently working on a degree in physics ‘for fun’. While Robert passed the B.A.R exam with flying colors, landing an internship at a popular firm. The only reason he didn’t work at that firm was because it was outside the city, something Robert didn’t enjoy having to deal with. Even with both of them having college degrees Robert always considered Victoria to be more intellectual than him. 

“Be careful when they let you out,” Victoria said. “The press is already trying to talk to the ‘Miracle Man’.”

“The Miracle Man?” Robert said.

“That’s what they are calling you, ‘The Miracle Man’,” Victoria said, turning back to Robert pointing down to the city street. Robert left his bed, walking over in his hospital gown to look out the window. The wires glued to his chest tugged as he approached Victoria. A large grouping of press flooded in front of the main entrance to the hospital. Police officers attempted to herd the growing crowd away, but it seemed impossible.

“My brother’s a superhero!” Daniel cheered.

Their mother laughed. “In a way.”

Dr. Weaves gave the glass hospital room door a slight knock. “Sorry to intrude, but we really have to run some tests on Mr. Thyme. If you guys don’t mind coming back tomorrow, anytime you’d like.” 

“Of course, thank you doctor,” Robert’s father said. “Take care of my boy.” Dr. Weaves gave a reassuring nod. Robert’s family left, leaving Robert feeling alone even with Dr. Weaves in the room. 

“I apologize for having to do that,” Dr. Weaves said. “I know it’s hard, but we have to make sure everything is okay.” 

“I understand,” Robert said.

“I see you can move about,” Dr. Weaves said.

“Yeah my legs feel great.”

“Good. Let’s run some other tests, shall we?”

Chapter 3: 

Robert’s life the past few days had turned into test after test after test. Various MRI’s, X-Rays, ECG’s, Ultrasounds, blood tests, physical tests, almost everything modern medicine had achieved at this point in history. Each test showed the same result that nothing was wrong. Robert was thankful, each doctor said it was a ‘miracle’, but it didn’t sit right with him. 

Robert should be dead. 

Yet here he was.The same car that Robert had crashed into has already been sold for half a million dollars as the news of the ‘Miracle Man’ began spreading. Rumor was that it would be sold at auction with a starting bid of three million next month. 

Four days after the accident they deemed Robert medically cleared, free to leave. Doctors said that he would have to come in at future dates for further testing to make sure things were up to par. 

Victoria made sure she was going to be there to walk with him out the hospital. The hospital doors had been flooded ever since he had entered. Various news reporters sat outside with large cameras and strange microphones hoping to get a glimpse of the story from Robert himself.

“Just stay calm, keep your head down. We are going to get into the police vehicle, they offered to escort us to Mom’s,” Victoria said.

Robert nodded, he could feel the tension in his chest. It felt like that time in the fourth grade talent show when he stood on stage all alone to play his ukulele he got for Christmas that same year. Except instead of a small crowd of uninterested parents it was the whole world that wanted to get a look, to understand what happened. Robert didn’t understand it himself. How could he explain it to millions?

The glass hospital doors slid open and chaos erupted.

“Mr. Thyme, what happened?” Camera’s clicked attempting to get his photo. Robert’s hand ran to his face, trying to cover it up from what felt like thousands of cameras. 

“We have seen the video. How did you survive?” Flashing lights blinded Robert’s eyes, causing him to squint.

“What happened afterwards?” Large video cameras on the broad shoulders of cameramen were shoved in his face; small red lights displaying they were live and running. I’m being broadcasted? How many people were interested in this? Robert’s heart beating began to drown out the sounds around him.

“How do you feel now Mr. Thyme?” Different black foamed mics were thrusted in front of him, some connected to large metal rods that lurched over the crowd.

“They started calling you the ‘Miracle Man’ How does that make you feel? Is it true?”

“I’m not a ‘Miracle Man’ I promise I’m just a person,” Robert said. Both his hands raised against the blinding lights as they erupted when he spoke. His chest winded tight; he had never felt like this before, the center of attention. Robert was a quiet man, kept to himself, worked hard but always kept his head lower. Now, for the first time in his life he was being forced to look up and face the crowd.

“Then how could you explain survi-”

“Explain what happened then if you are-

“Is that your wife? Miracle Woman?”

“Did you have faith in God is that why you sur-”

“-will you do now?”

The noises. The questions. The cameras. It was all too overwhelming. Robert just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, begging them to leave him alone. His breath drew shorter and his palms were already lingered with thin layers of sweat that he profusely wiped on his pants. The floor was the only thing he could see, yet his neck felt tight with tension as his teeth clenched. His chest bobbed up and down with his fast nose flares attempting to breathe. Nothing but the clicking of cameras and varied shouts from several sources echoed in his ears as it grew louder and louder. Stop please just stop-

Thankfully, Victoria was there to drag him away. She moved around, placing herself in between him and the crowd. Unlike Robert, Victoria worked hard except with her head held high in confidence of her abilities.

“No further questions please,” Victoria said, ushering him into the police car. The clicking of cameras only grew louder as she asked for silence. Even sitting in the car the crowd swarmed around them, banging on the windows to try to get a scoop. A police officer stood on the other side of the door, trying to stop the monstrous vultures from moving forward but like sand in the ocean he was washed away. The car pulled out from the street speeding away from the hospital. Robert felt as if he could breathe again. His heart still pounded against his ears, but it was slowly calming. His hands were so wet, as if he washed them without a towel. He attempted to wipe them on his pants but it didn’t seem to help much.

“That was horrible,” Robert said. 

“That was only the start of it,” Victoria said.

“Oh god,” Robert said. He put his face in his hands, focusing on his breath as the car continued moving across the city bridge towards home. He could feel the dampness of his palms making his face uncomfortably warm.

“You’re going to have to speak to them, eventually,” Victoria said. “Gotta accept that.” His hands were trembling. He could feel his heart pound against his chest, pleading for escape. Why god, why do this? I have done nothing wrong. Maybe that’s why he survived, because he was a good man. The paparazzi and press were going to hunt him down for a scoop of the story. Robert simply wanted to be home with his cat curled up next to him watching Wheel of Fortune.