Author Archive


By mark belair

going to “market” / the unguarded / refrigerated warehouse to which we delivered our hosed-down crates of vegetables / was the highlight of our farm boys’ week

we’d load the rusty pickup / climb in on top / then watch our hot / stripped / briefly abandoned fields recede into prettiness

upon arriving / the truck would back up until it clunked the delivery bay / knocking us enjoyably about / then we’d roll up the metal door to market’s inner darkness

market smelled of chilled fruit and vegetables more exotic than our own scallions / squash / and tomatoes / lush produce we plundered from cool / stacked crates as

i / wanting to please my mother / worked from a list that she / in her innocence / routinely gave me / as i’d told her it was an old farmers’ tradition for all to help themselves

not that anything was missed / the bulging crates all headed to restaurants and grocery stores / while my buddies and i each filled a mere brown-bag’s worth

but my petty thievery nevertheless nagged at me when i’d bite an apple / peel a mango / crack a coconut or / worse / watch my

whole unsuspecting family relish my misbegotten goods / their pleasure sending squirts of catholic sourness through my unfolding soul

then one day i overheard my mother / on the phone / telling a friend about market / including how i thought the pilfering i did was permitted / and isn’t that sweet



Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit

Early Spring

By Mark Belair

this enchanting

falls from clouds,
it seems, dissolving

then reforming:



Their southern slants
bared of snow

while their northern slopes
hold white,

these gentle hills
roll perfectly

between seasons—

change itself.


With the spring-fed lake

of algae, bright
schools of minnows

appear above dark predators—
so clear is this water—predators

who break surface
when they must, the spared

minnows scattering and re-gathering
as they must,

the lake water

as it must, to deep



Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit


By Mark Belair

A night
dark as the sleep that eludes me.

A lone
streetlamp—I rise to see—slanted with rain.

tire treads creasing the street’s black wetness.

weighting the wrangled sheets I wade back into.

so distinct, lush, and insistent

they seed a drizzly, then

rainfall of dreams.



Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His latest collection is Watching Ourselves (Unsolicited Press, 2017). Previous collections include Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015); Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize multiple times. Please visit

12 Selected Poems — Summer 2018

By Simon Perchik


This rotted log yes and no
longs for the stillness
that is not wood though you

are already inside, seated
at a table, a lamp, clinging
the way all light arrives alone

except for the enormous jaws
once shoreline closing in
without water or suddenness

–you lay down a small thing
and the Earth is surrounded, fed
slowly forehead to forehead again.




You reach for lullabies, left over
and the slow crawl half whispers
half where your lips ache, float

the way this empty cup still wobbles
will break apart, overloaded
disguised as two steps closer and alone

then fill your arms with its darkness
seeping through, breathing out
not yet an embrace, not yet the mouth

where your fingers end, surrounded
by more and more dirt, a small room
here, there, there, not yet asleep.




Though it gets dark earlier and earlier
you were already weakened at birth
–without a shrug let go things

the way each grave is graced
used to being slowly moved along
blossom and in your mouth

a somewhat pebble half fruit
half sweetened, not yet
broken apart in your throat

–you can’t make out where in the turn
you are clinging to its path
that led you here, not yet strong enough

or longing for some riverside or rain
or the night by night, warm
still falling off your hands.




You drink from this hole
as if it once was water
became a sky then wider

–without a scratch make room
for driftwood breaking loose
from an old love song in ashes

carried everywhere on foot
as that ocean in your chest
overflowing close to the mouth

that’s tired from saying goodbye
–you dig the way the Earth
is lifted for hillsides and lips

grasping at the heart buried here
still flickering in throats and beacons
that no longer recede –from so far

every word you say owes something
to a song that has nothing left, drips
from your mouth as salt and more salt.




Before this field blossomed
it was already scented
from fingers side by side

darkening the lines in your palm
the way glowing coals
once filled it with breasts

and everything nearby
was turned loose to warm the miles
the pebbles and stones brought back

pressed against her grave
–you heat the Earth with a blouse
that’s never leaving here.




These crumbs are from so many places
yet after every meal they ripen
sweeten in time for your fingertip

that shudders the way your mouth
was bloodied by kisses wrestling you down
with saliva and rumbling boulders –you sit

at a table and all over again see it
backing away as oceans, mountains
and on this darkness you wet your finger

to silence it though nothing comes to an end
–piece by piece, tiny and naked, they tremble
under your tongue and still sudden lightning.




It had an echo –this rock
lost its hold, waits on the ground
as the need for pieces

knows all about what’s left
when the Earth is hollowed out
for the sound a gravestone makes

struck by the days, months
returning as winter :the same chorus
these dead are gathered to hear

be roused from that ancient lament
it sings as far as it can
word for word to find them.




Before its first grave this hillside
was already showing signs
let its slope escape as darkness

mistake every embrace for dirt
though one arm more than the other
is always heavier, still circles down

bringing you closer the way rain
knows winter will come with snow
that was here before, bring you weights

till nothing moves, not the shadows
not the sun coming here to learn
about the cold, hear the evenings.




Though you can’t tell them apart
your tears came back, marked the ground
the way leaves go unnamed to their death

as the need to follow one another
one breath at a time, face up
and after that the rain and warmer

̶ you weep with your collar open
make room for another grave
near a sea each night wider, further

no longer heard the way now and then
comes by to close the Earth
with buttons and sleeves and tighter.




You open this jar the way each raindrop
breaks apart mid-air, stops telling time
when struck by another, head to head

as streams  ̶ your hands stay wet
let you gather the hours that are not
the bottom stones mourners use

for water though this lid is still circling
where you listen for those nights
on the way back as the puddles

water makes when trying to breathe
into a place on its own and empty handed
the glass shatters all at once.




And though the Earth lets you dig
it’s your tears that heat the ground
already growing stars

once the darkness covers it
to lure these dead here
with stones scented with shorelines

returned not as rain but grass
just as it was, closing in from all sides
the way this shovel is warmed

by your hands kept wet, pulled
closer  ̶ you cling to this dirt
as if it once was an afternoon

knows only the slow descent
hand over hand into stone
that no longer opens to hear the bleeding.




Leaning against the wall
it becomes a death bed
the way a name on paper

flattens out to take hold
for which there is no word
only a room where no one noticed

you didn’t ask for help
so close to the corners
with the light still on.




Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems published by boxofchalk, 2017. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at

If you’d care to view one of my interviews posted on YouTube, please follow this link:


By Sarah Wetzel

She carefully slides from the soiled sheets
sweaty from no air conditioning, pads
softly from the bedroom to dress in the dress
left draped over a chair
for just this purpose. On the floor
the young man’s clothes—
like the footprints of someone
who has just passed by
and who has as suddenly
disappeared into the distance
or the remains, she thinks, of some small
animal. He’ll wake
in a few hours, she knows, and leave
with no note. She opens the night,
steps into it.



Sarah Wetzel is the author of River Electric with Light, which won the AROHO Poetry Publication Prize and was published by Red Hen Press in 2015, and Bathsheba Transatlantic, which won the Philip Levine Prize for Poetry and was published in 2010. A PhD student in Comparative Literature at the CUNY Graduate Center in New York, Sarah, when she can, teaches creative writing at The American University of Rome, Italy. Not surprisingly, she spends a lot of time on planes. You can read samples of her work at

Aunt Josey’s Stuff

By John Allison

y then, at age nine, I understood. It was what she could not take that weighed heavily on her mind, more than the year before, and more then than the year before that. Now, I sometimes feel the crushing weight of them all.

That Sunday I tapped lightly on the door to her large bedroom, cracked it open, and watched. Aunt Josey, her back to me, sat on the floor wedged into the one space where she would fit. Standing, smearing her nose and then her eyes on the right sleeve of her dingy, partially buttoned chambray shirt, she surveyed the area. Barefoot, cheeks damp, shoulder-length reddish-brown hair pulled behind each ear, shirttail hanging loosely over kneeless Levis, Josey was unbothered by being squeezed among the many boxes stacked four or five high that would have caused the claustrophobic to panic for fear of no escape.

Each had two signs stuck on with tape, a master label stating either MUST TAKE or, in another section of the room, MAYBE TAKE. Illustrative of the MUST TAKE secondary labels were: MAGS/VARIETY, MAGS/NEW YORKER, MAGS/VOGUE, NEW YORK TIMES, POTTERY, ART STUFF, JEWELRY, JOURNALS/LAST5YRS, MAKEUP, CARL, MITCH, SHOES, SHOES, SHOES, SHOES, and twenty-four BOOKS. The contents of the latter, I already knew, left out few periods or places in the world’s history. And there were clothes.


There was a third tier of her things in the basement she had taken over from her father, my Granddad Paul, but this wasn’t mentioned. My grandfather had his own collections in the attic and in three metal sheds out back—tools of every kind and age, numerous old paint cans full of nuts and bolts, and what he called antiques but that Grandma Charlene called “other people’s effluvium.” My dad had been charged by both Granddad and Josey with intentional infliction of emotional distress when, a number of times over the years, he cleared the back yard and hauled off rented trucks full of their objects so that the grass and weeds could be kept in check.

Josey stood, opening a bulging container marked DOLLS. Without turning toward where I stood peeking in, she said, “Charlie, come on in, close the door. I need your help. Think you and Albert could get more boxes from Studs?” That was the liquor store a few blocks away in Hartford’s West End neighborhood where Pop and I had gotten extra boxes during the last month in anticipation of this moment.

As I was saying “Sure, I guess. I can ask,” she pulled out a thing with floppy legs and arms, sad-looking looking to me then and hideous now, one eye missing and two or three small holes in its head where some of the pretend hair braids had once been anchored. She murmured something, maybe Sally, maybe Cassie, I couldn’t be sure, and then reunited the pathetic creature with its mates. Then, emerging from wherever she had been, she turned toward me. Her lips parting slightly, their corners sneaking upward, she said, “Hi, there, big guy, what’s up?” At this, my only thoughts were of what I could do for her.

My dad strove to get her attention from one room away where he and I slept. His voice was strong and could be piercing when he was annoyed. “Josephine Wambaugh, when you going to be done packing? I’ve been ready for three hours. You’ve been getting your, cr…,” Pop catching himself before calling her many treasures crap because he knew how sensitive she could be about the subject, “your stuff together for half the day.

“We already spent most of yesterday getting ready. We’ve got to hit the road if we want to make Middlebury before dark. We’ll have to eat someplace along the way, and if you and Charlie require a few pit stops, it might take us five hours.”

A stressed “What, Albert?” made it through the wall to Pop.

“Baby sister, did you hear anything I said?”

Hearing nothing for the next minute or so, he came around to Josey’s bedroom door. “Josey, Josey, what’s the holdup?” he pleaded. I was aware that Pop knew perfectly well what was going on.


The day before, he and I had gone to a U-Haul outlet there in Hartford and rented a trailer for my aunt’s stuff. Pop, Josey, and I had filled the trailer with boxes, most of them too heavy for me to carry alone. I saw each one as a special thing, and proudly dragged the few I could by one end. Josey and I lugged others together, Pop naturally doing the largest share of the work. Though not tall, my dad was powerfully built and was intense when there was work to be done. Late that afternoon, trailer full, Josey appeared lost as she gazed wistfully at everything that wouldn’t fit, not even counting the stacks remaining in her room and a hallway. She looked at Pop for what seemed to be a long time.

“Okay, okay, Josey,” he sighed, and the three of us began unloading the trailer, stacking boxes and some loose things on the driveway of my grandparents’ house, where Pop and I were living, and where Josey still spent summers and school breaks.

“So, you want to swap it for a bigger one, huh?” the man rasped through cracked lips that gripped half a cigarette beneath a veined, bulbous nose, his impressive gut resting comfortably on the U-Haul counter.

As Josey shook her head in vigorous assent, Pop said, “You know, I’ll pay for a bigger one if you’ll give me half off for the day, or less than a day, I’ve had the other.”

“Bigger? How much?”

“Oh, maybe half again the first one. Got one that size?”

“Yeah, just about, maybe a little more. Just five more bucks a day.” Quickly figuring, he grunted, “Sure, man, deal.”


It was Sunday afternoon by the time the larger trailer was full and hooked behind the 1968 Mustang GT fastback that Pop had bought in 1972 with military savings so that he would have a “good car,” as he put it, before going back to school. I, of course, thought the Mustang, with its 302 cubic inch V8 engine, 4-barrel carburetor, four-on-the-floor stick shift, sport handling package, and still-pristine exterior was far better than anything Buck Rogers flew. Josey, though, had observed pointedly that her brother’s idea of a good car was a pure, unmitigated chick magnet, and that she, naturally, was not attracted by such gauche displays.

“But Albert, there’s more still.”

“Josey, darling, you know there are a lot more of your necessities out here and inside than we can possibly carry. I can’t get a trailer any bigger than this one. Books I understand, but all this other stuff mystifies me. We can’t take it all, for one thing. For another, what the heck you going to do with it when you get there?”

As it turned out, Josey had more than one solution to the transportation problem. First, she said, sweetly, “But Albert, I’ve been waiting tables for years. I always got great tips. From the men, you know. I’ve got savings. I saw a trailer bigger than this one. I can pay for it.”

Pop hugged her tightly and brushed a tear from her cheek, saying “Sweetheart, I don’t think my car can pull a larger trailer.” I thought it probably could, but I kept quiet, and Pop remained adamant about not risking harm to his lovely red Mustang.

From my dad’s perspective, Josey’s second solution was no more tenable than the first: renting a truck in addition to the trailer, she driving the second vehicle.

In answer to the what-to-do-with-it-when-we-get-there question, she pointed out that the previous year she had abandoned dormitory living and moved into a garage apartment adjoining an old home not far from the Middlebury campus. A middle-aged couple owned the property, the large lot having ample space for the rented storage shed Josey convinced the male half of the couple to allow her to place close to a back fence. She generally fared better with men than with women, although she could often persuade other women when an issue was important enough to her. With the men, it wasn’t all about sexual allure—although I came to understand there was plenty of that—because her suasions worked so well on Pop and Granddad and not just on guys who lusted after her.

We left the Wambaugh place after four that Sunday afternoon, Josey having finally succumbed to her brother’s entreaties, leaving behind some of the things she thought she absolutely had to have and all of the hoped-for stuff. Pop’s cause was helped by Grandma Charlene, who, as Josey had been pleading with Pop, came around a corner and said, “Josey, now just you listen, your brother will take care of everything. He’ll get you and whatever you need to school. Your dad and I can’t do it, and you know that, so just let Albert handle it like he’s done before.”

No one told Pop about the besotted but soon-to-be-forlorn young man who showed up two weeks later with Josey in a pickup truck that shortly thereafter turned around and, riding so near the pavement that its frame almost put off sparks, headed back to Vermont.


The trip from Hartford to Vermont was, for me, a late summer adventure in which I had played a minor role since Josey left for her first year at Middlebury College on full scholarship when I was six. Pop timed his last long leave home from Miramar, California, where he had been training Marine Corps helicopter pilots since returning to the states, so that he could take her to school that first September, and he was home for good before the autumn of her second year rolled around.

Back then I saw my dad as invincible, but he was no tough guy when it came to his little sister. When her saucer-sized green eyes misted over and the first quiet drops began to make their way from impossibly long lashes down her cheeks in diminishing rivulets, it was game-over for Pop. Despite the seven years that separated them, and the differences that marked them—he a math whiz drawn to engineering and the logic of computer code, she a rapacious reader and a writer of steadily burgeoning ability—the two of them had formed a deep bond before she was even a toddler.

It was my grandmother, along with Josey, who supplied most of the details about the family that I either couldn’t recollect or had never known. As I recall her now, from both memory and family photos, Grandma Charlene’s short, dark brown hair didn’t begin to reveal streaks of gray until she was in her sixties. Not a large woman in height or girth, her will had been forged of tungsten carbide. Pop and Josey told me of clashes between the grandparents, shouts leading to broken dishes and exhaustion but no bruises, until finally Granddad Paul just checked out, leaving all of the family decision making to his wife. Josey told me she remembered her father saying to no one in particular, “Fuck it all, it’s just not worth it.” After that, Josey said, the Wambaugh household operated more smoothly, no one apparently thinking about what emasculation may have done to Granddad, although he seemed to be at peace.

Later, though, when he developed Parkinson’s disease—he was only in his early forties—Grandma took on the job of caring for him with alacrity, lovingly holding him in her arms and singing softly to him each night until sleep plucked him from misery.

Pop said his mother “rode Josey pretty hard, like a drill sergeant,” until Josey was about fifteen when there was a showdown of some kind. Pop said, “After that, Charlie, those two women just sort of eyed each other and kept at a safe distance. On occasion there’d be another skirmish, but not like earlier, not as intense. Then they’d move to their own corners like bantam-weight boxers. Sometimes I thought they might even be rivals. Mother was still a very good-looking woman, she always was, and I wondered whether there was some sort of competition going on. Both of them, I don’t know, they were just so damned stubborn. They had these egos, these wills, whatever. Maybe your grandma saw too much of herself in Josey, I don’t know. After your grandfather got sick, though, Josey backed off. But I really hoped she’d never have a daughter.”


“Mama, that’s a pretty nasty job, right?” my dad had asked his mother as she was changing Josey’s diaper. Grandma told me about it when I was about eight, the age Pop had been at the time.

“Well, yes, it sure is,” she told her son, “but it’s got to be done. And there’s nobody else around to do it. Besides, I’ve done it enough that I don’t mind anymore.”

“I can do it for you sometime, Mama,” he had offered. “Just show me how.” She did, and he was good to his word.

“Charlie, Albert loved that baby so much. Before then, I couldn’t have imagined any boy his age doing a job like that. And he volunteered, if you can believe it. It was almost like she was his, I don’t know, his little doll or something. And it never stopped.”

She continued. “When Josey was about eighteen months old or so, about that, I think, Albert taught her to play football. Tackle, mind you. The ball was half as big as she was, and she’d hold that thing with both hands, hug it to her little pot belly, and run headlong down the hallway squealing until she met him coming the other way when the squeal turned to a wild banshee screech. He would pretend to tackle her, lifting her off the floor and gently planting her down on her back. Then he’d tickle her. They wouldn’t quit ‘til Albert tired out. I don’t think she ever would have. I can’t remember how long they did that, probably until she started school.

“Then, he walked her all the way to school and back every day. I went with them the first few times, until I knew they’d be okay. They held hands, she’d look up at him, just beaming. He kept that up until long after other boys his age wouldn’t have been caught dead walking with a little girl. But Albert didn’t care what anybody else thought. There was just something about those two. He did hang out with other boys, but Josey came first, and it seemed to never occur to anyone to make fun of him for having a little girl as a pal. It was just Albert and Josephine, and that’s all there was to it. Really, I never did understand it.”

When I started kindergarten at age five, Josey was seventeen. She walked me to school and back home almost every day of her senior year in high school, before she went off to college. She would talk to me. And she would listen. She spoke to me as an equal from the beginning, explaining to me how to tell whether a girl liked me, and what to do if one did. My initial disgust at hearing this later became a useful insight. She and I didn’t play football. But we danced. And danced. And danced.

She danced with me to the pounding rhythm of the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Paint It Black” long before I began kindergarten, teaching me to sing the words as we flew around some room in the house, my feet sometimes on the floor and sometimes miles above it. I learned and loved the Beatles’ “When I’m 64” and “Twist and Shout,” to do the Watusi and the Twist. And I fell in love with Josey. Around the time I turned eight, I had secretly formed the hoped of marrying her, and when I told her she folded me into her arms, softly singing the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” close to my ear as we moved to and fro, her intoxicating scent unadorned, my small body boneless as I burrowed in. I was probably about eleven or twelve when I figured out that I couldn’t marry Josey, my pillow case becoming wet with my sorrow for a few nights. Now, sometimes, it is her smell I first recall in the early morning before the bracing odor of strong coffee brings me back to the present.

One time, I finally worked up the nerve to ask the question that had pecked at me for the previous month like an old hen in insect-infested fescue and bluegrass. Taking a while to choke back her laughter, Josey finally said, “Oh, god, Charlie, yeah, girls get gas, too. But maybe not as much, I don’t know. And most of them work a lot harder than guys to keep it sort of, you know, sort of tucked in until they’re by themselves.” My eyes widened at this insight, surely unknown to my peers.

In truth, Josey gave me something to think about nearly every time we talked as I grew older. When I was in high school, a sophomore or junior, I think, she came out of the blue with “Charlie, life’s really not hard to figure out. Intent is part of it—your heart ought to be in the right place. But the rest of it, Charlie—it’s mostly just technique.” And, one summer Saturday while we were shopping to replace my threadbare canvas Keds and find additional essentials for Josey, both of us squirming impatiently on an up-escalator clogged with standing shoppers, Josey advised with her volume knob fruitlessly ratcheted up, “Charlie, there may be only two kinds of people—the ones who think escalators are an easier way to go up and down, and the others who think the goddamned things are a faster way.”


That Sunday in Pop’s Mustang, we headed north from Hartford on I-91 for Josey’s senior year at Middlebury College. Just before Springfield, Josey said, “Albert, I know staying on 91 most of the way north is a lot faster, but these freeways are just so damned dreary. Can’t we get off onto I-90 and then at Stockbridge go north on Highway 7 all the way to school? Some of that way is so much prettier, you know in the national forest. Please, Albert?”

Pop was quiet for a few moments, calculating the extra time it would take. “Josey, Charlie, if we do that it could be dark before we get to Middlebury.”

“We’ve got headlights, Pop,” I said, excited about the prospect of going through unknown territory at night. I didn’t know then that he was exaggerating a bit for effect—it was farther but not that much.

Josey giggled. Pop was silent.

“Please, Albert,” Josey importuned.

Pop sighed deeply. “Okay, okay. Premature death of an older relative, that’s what the indictment will say,” his voice softening as he looked first at Josey in the front passenger seat, and then quickly back at me where I sat behind Josey.

So we took Josey’s route and Pop and Josey began their storytelling, each sometimes having the floor alone and other times one interrupting the other by finishing a sentence or asking a question. I did my best to participate occasionally with an insert of my own, feeling like an equal in the threesome because Josey was there. I adored Pop, but he was a parent, not a mysterious, amazing, fun friend.

“Albert, Charlie. You know, there’s something I never told you about Highway 7. Actually, I never told anyone.”

“Is this something we want to hear, Josey?” I thought Pop’s question was weird. I always wanted to hear anything Aunt Josey said.

Josey was quiet for a couple of minutes that seemed like hours to a nine-year-old. Breaking her silence, finally, she began.

“My freshman year. The first weekend of spring break I stayed around school before coming home. There was this guy. I’d known him only a couple of weeks. He had these dimples on his chin, sandy blonde hair, a few freckles, really cute, you know, and he had transportation. His name was Dick. Can you believe it? Man, he definitely was one, but I hadn’t figured that out yet. You know, I was still a kid.”

Pop interrupted. “Josey, Charlie’s back there, you know. Maybe you could tell us another story.”

“Oh, Albert, Charlie’s been with me so much. You know, since the little squirt’s head popped out of his mom. There’s nothing he hasn’t heard. And he’s a mature young man.”

I beamed. And I was utterly in Josey’s thrall. She continued. “Anyway, we went to Battell Woods, near town, to find a hiking trail. I always loved to hike, you know, when I could. Took binoculars to maybe see some birds if we stayed ‘til morning. So, this guy, Dick,” she and I again stifling giggles, “he left his truck, a pickup, down at the trailhead. We went about a mile out a trail.”

“So, we thought we’d stay a few hours, and if we fell asleep just off the trail, no big deal. No camping there, officially, but we figured we wouldn’t get caught. Had sleeping bags, thermal long johns. If we didn’t sleep, we’d head back to campus after a while.” Josey paused.

“And?” Pop asked after the pause had lengthened.

“We’d hoped to find some weed, maybe a couple of joints, but we didn’t have any luck with that.”

I remember being confused by this, picturing Josey and this guy pulling weeds and him messing up a joint somewhere. We had studied the skeletal system at school and I knew about joints. His knee, maybe? I kept quiet.

“So we had beer, a lot of beer. Anyway, I had one can. Not a lot of body weight, you know, and no real food for a while, so I was a little tipsy, and just tasted a little of a second one. It was terrible, anyway, some cheap shit he’d gotten just outside town late the night before. So I stopped.”

“Glad to hear it, little sister,” Pop said.

“Anyway,” she resumed, “Dick . . .” and I started laughing again. Josey said, “Shut up back there, you little brat, so I can tell this.” I knew she didn’t mean it, the brat thing.

“Well, in the time it took me to drink one can plus a couple sips of that vile excrement, Dick chugged six.”

“What’s ex-cra, excra…what?” I interjected.

“Later, Charlie, I’ll tell you later. Let your aunt finish her story. Soon, I hope.” I saw Pop wink at Josey.

“Anyway, you little twerp…,” she said as I tried to look like Charlie Chaplin, the Little Tramp, from a movie I’d watched on TV with Josey.

Starting again, she implored, “Gentlemen, puu-lease. That’s when I knew for sure I had a real loser on my hands. He slurred his words, started acting stupid, and got feisty with me. You know, putting his hands all over me. I wasn’t ready for that, and besides, he was a lush.”

“Josey, Josey,” Pop said.

“No, it’ll be okay. Nothing happened. At least not that kind of thing. Anyway, I got really uncomfortable and shoved him away. He stumbled and fell on his ass—his butt, Charlie—then he starting cussing me. He was sitting on the ground, so I moved fast, shoved him on his back, and sat on him. Had a fist-sized piece of granite in my right hand above his head. He squirmed a lot. I asked if he’d prefer that his brains stay inside his skull, and he sort of froze.”

My eyes widened. “Did you hit him, Josey? I hope you hit him.”

“No, I wanted to, but I knew better than to kill the bastard.”

I knew Pop would later talk to me about words like bastard, about not using them myself. I’d gotten that lecture before, but I was old enough by then to not say things like that around the grandparents, the teachers, other grownups. Even Josey had given me the talk about that as she continued to enrich my vocabulary through the years. I knew they had to do that. I was already figuring out that adults had to be hypocritical with kids. It was their job.

My aunt continued. “I took the keys to the truck out of his pants pocket, grabbed my stuff and stuffed it in my backpack, and ran like hell for about ten minutes. It wasn’t all the way dark yet. Then I walked fast to where we’d parked. I jumped into his truck and took off back to Middlebury. He was too drunk to come after me.”

“Oh, god, Josey, you didn’t,” Pop said.

“I did, big brother. I’d figured out that Dick’s place in my life was like ear wax after not digging it out for a month. I was disappointed, you know. I had high hopes for the guy before that. But I left his truck, with the keys in it, where he usually parked at school. It wasn’t too far for him to walk back. Next morning, Monday, I caught a bus back to Hartford. Albert, you didn’t come back from California until later, in the summer, so I couldn’t call you for a ride.”

“I wish you’d hit him with the rock,” I piped up again. Pop sighed deeply. Josey giggled.

When they weren’t trading stories or jokes, their verbal fencing, one riposte after another, was better than baseball, and I wished we’d never make it to Middlebury. Then, more seriously, Pop brought up his having left college after two years to join the Marine Corps.

“Why’d you do that, anyway, Albert?” Josey interrupted. “Seemed kind of dumb to me.”

“You may remember, Josey, or you may not—that they did away with college deferments in sixty-eight, started a lottery. Damned if they didn’t draw number forty-three for my birthday. The local Selective Service boards in most places were drafting guys with numbers up to around 120, so I was a real gone goose.”

“But why the Marines, Albert?” Josey asked. I didn’t know anything about this, but was surprised that there was something Josey didn’t know.

After a prolonged silence, Pop said, “You know, after talking to some of the older guys I knew who had gone to ‘Nam and come back, and watching stuff over and over on the TV news, I was, well, I guess I was just desperate. I couldn’t stand to think about being a grunt going on patrols in the jungle where it just friggin’ rained all the time. Not just rain, but downpours that never seemed to stop. Feet, socks, boots, fatigues, wet for days at a time. Mildew on all the gear, the stench of rotting jungle. Feet covered with fungus. Crotch rot.”

“Then, the sun would come out and boil everything. Those guys, the ones I talked too, said they never knew when their unit would be machine-gunned in an ambush, never knew when one of them would lose a leg to a mine or some jury-rigged booby trap. Or when a guy’s spine would get sliced like a cucumber by a Viet Cong sniper.

“I figured I’d have a better chance of doing something else if I volunteered for another branch. And I wanted to fly something, planes, helicopters, something.”

“Why not the Air Force, Pop?” I wondered aloud.

“That’s a great question, Charlie. Would’ve made more sense, but I didn’t think of it. I was twenty. And I knew guys who’d been in the Marines, plus the former Army guys I knew. Didn’t know anybody in the Air Force. But I got to fly medevac helicopters, anyway, and I loved it. Took the college equivalency exam and they sent me to OCS. After I got a commission, they taught me to fly choppers.”

On that trip, I learned that there were two enlistments of three years each, three of those six years flying choppers. He completed the last two years of his second enlistment back in the states at the Marine’s 3rd Aircraft Wing Command in Miramar, California training pilots, returning home for good when he was twenty-six. He then worked for a couple of years before taking up his studies where he had left off, this time at the University of Hartford, which accepted all of his sixty semester hours credit from UConn. So, as we were carting Josey and her things back for her senior year at Middlebury, he was starting school again and was nervous about being a SOTA, a “student older than average,” as the university referred to those like Pop.

My mom, Jennifer, who stayed with me at the Wambaugh house while Pop was gone, left us both within a month after he returned. I asked Pop why she had gone.

“We got married way too young, Charlie. We were nineteen and we both changed so much during the next couple of years.” This puzzled me because nineteen seemed really old to me then, and besides, I thought Pop still looked the same as always.

When I was much older, probably about nineteen myself, Josey told me that Jennifer had starting seeing another guy after Albert had been in the service two years. Pop somehow got word of it just before his first three years were up, and both Josey and Grandma Charlene hinted strongly at this being the reason for the reenlistment that otherwise made no sense at all. During that second stint, a couple of different guys appeared on the front porch of my grandparents’ house, Grandma chasing them off with Granddad’s old pump-action twenty-gauge shotgun.  Then, Josey said, my mother started spending one or two nights a week elsewhere.

I guess I was well into my twenties when Pop told me to stop blaming my mom for her departure from our lives. “I was no angel, Charlie. You understand? When I was overseas. There were girls. You know, Charlie. I was lonely. That’s no excuse, I know. But there were girls. In Saigon, Manilla, on leave. I wasn’t a very good husband. She knew. I knew she knew. I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s sure as hell not easy to tell you this, but you have to stop putting all the blame on your mother.”

It took a while for me to process all of this, about both of my parents. I had to age more, see my own flaws more clearly, before I could fully accept both them and myself as we were. I couldn’t stay upset with Pop for very long, though—he was the one who was there for me at the critical times after he came back. Later on I reconnected with my mom, finding after a time that I really liked her, and we drew closer. Not like it might have been, but still better. Josey, of course, was always there, never too busy for me, if only on the phone.

Pop had calculated that he could handle private school costs even after quitting his full-time job doing electronics repairs for Radio Shack by living with my grandparents, using GI Bill money for tuition, and working part time in the cramped campus basement that housed the college’s gigantic, aging UNIVAC mainframe. My grandparents lived on the inadequate disability payments they got from Social Security and the trucking company where Granddad Paul had managed a dispatch center before his disease did its dirty work. Grandma took in sewing, laundry, and ironing, but things were always tight. Pop managed to help buy groceries and sometimes chip in on the electric and water bills, as did Josey on the uncommon occasions when she had any extra money.


On those journeys back and forth to Middlebury and later New Haven for the five years Josey worked on her PhD in history at Yale while supported by a graduate assistant’s position and some waitressing, the trailers became larger, Pop finding that the Mustang could indeed haul more weight. Then we switched to a rented truck, car in tow. Whatever we drove, I was enthralled by stories. Some were about Pop, especially his time in Vietnam, but my favorites were about Josey.

Although my aunt was usually good tempered and kind, I learned during one of these trips that she could occasionally reveal a “tiny little mean streak,” as Pop called it. That aspect of her personality seemed not to be vicious but had occasionally led her to spit out things such as “Damn that Carol Rosenblatt, the only reason she’s valedictorian is she’s so damned homely she’s never got anything to do but study.” But, Pop said, Josey got over being second in her high school graduating class and later recanted the comment about her then-eighteen-year-old academic rival, admitting that she just hated to lose and that Carol had “truly been more diligent about biology.”

Pop told me that, despite her normal industriousness, the fact of the matter was that she and biology just did not mix well. Josey then explained that she could not tolerate the dissection of worms, frogs, and grasshoppers, or the slow boiling of the same. She became ill and had to miss most of a class while on her knees, head over the toilet in the girl’s restroom when her biology teacher and several of the boys mounted the skeleton they had constructed after boiling and scraping off the carcass of the scraggly old yellow tom cat, Winston, that had patrolled the school grounds for years and finally succumbed beneath the right rear wheel of the biology teacher’s 1966 Studebaker where the ancient creature had been napping one afternoon. Mr. Werner, the teacher, was not one to let things go to waste. But seeing the glued-together skeleton being mounted like some sick version of a basketball trophy in the far corner of the lab amidst the lingering smell of boiled cat hair and entrails destroyed any motivation Josey might have had to do well in biology. She had so dreaded biology that, instead of taking it with her class as a freshman, she put it off until after chemistry and physics and it more than met her expectations of loathsomeness.


Not wanting to stray far from home, both Pop and Josey began careers in the Hartford area, she on the history faculty at Trinity College, he as a consultant after earning his computer science degree and then later as a web entrepreneur. After college and an MBA, my job as a financial analyst allowed me to work from my home just outside Hartford in Avon most of the time, except for long train commutes to Manhattan a couple of times each week. Pop, Josey, and I continued making time to see each other regularly in twos or threes.

Josey’s dramatic weaving of stories from twentieth-century European history for her students, along with many research papers and well-reviewed books, brought her a full professor’s position at Trinity by the time she was only in her mid-thirties. At one of our breakfasts at a place near campus, this one to celebrate a prestigious book award Josey received in her early forties, she told me, “Oh, Charlie, why did you and Albert have to be my relatives?” I kept this close to me, retrieving it for warmth when one of life’s internal cold spells struck.

Aunt Josey married twice, the first time not long after she began her teaching career, ejecting both men from her life in relatively short order. About the first one, an English professor at the university, she said, “Donald was just, you know, well, for an academic he was dumb as a bowl of chowder. I cannot fathom what I ever saw in that guy.” About the second, a stock broker named James, I learned from others that he had once hit her after they had been married a year. Josey sent him to the ER with blood flowing from his left ear after she defended herself with a twelve-hundred-page hardbound copy of London: A History. The police in the well-to-do suburb of West Hartford where Josey lived picked up James from the emergency room. After several days in jail and a fine, he left town. There had been other men, too, but none ever seemed to measure up. There had also been a couple of promising guys, Pop told me, who dropped out of contention after seeing that they played second-chair violin to Josey’s vast collections of chattels.

Like Josey, Pop and I seemed to be condemned to failed romantic relationships. I married once, to a good woman, but it didn’t stick. Pop, too, remarried but it didn’t last more than a couple of years. Later in his life, however, when he was in his mid-fifties, he fell for a smart, strong, interesting woman named Savannah and somehow managed to hang on to her. Savannah even gained Josey’s approval, which was in itself a remarkable achievement. Josey did wonder aloud, though, whether Savannah’s parents might have been geographically impaired, given that their daughter had been born and reared in Saginaw, Michigan. “But what the hell,” Josey said.

In addition to the single attempt at marriage, my other connections with women likewise lacked durability, mostly lasting no more than a year or two. Despite wondering whether there was something in the DNA of my grandparents’ descendants that mimicked the weak adhesive properties of Post-It Notes, I’ve felt good about remaining friends with all of my exes. A successful romantic denouement as Pop apparently has experienced would be nice, I think, but I no longer know whether I have it in me.


Well into middle age, Josey’s silhouette remained the same, she and I having spent countless hours together in the gym and on hiking trails. Small wrinkles at each eye served merely to enhance the delicate facial features and nearly translucent skin that at times seemed an optical illusion, with scant, nearly indiscernible gray filaments strewn through her lustrous auburn hair. Still stunning, she remained unchanged except to one who for most of his life had been privileged to see so deeply into her soul as to form one of the two strands in her DNA’s double helix. For her fiftieth birthday, Josey declined the offer Pop and I made to throw what we hoped would be a raucous party filled with friends and colleagues. Instead, she insisted on just dinner, an intimate gathering with new food and old stories.

That evening, what Josey had years before come to call the Daring Wambaugh Triplets sat in a corner booth in an excellent Cuban eatery. As our fried plantain chips arrived prior to the main course, I asked her how remodeling was going at the lovely old home she had bought in West Hartford fifteen years earlier, a few years after she began teaching. She was having it done one room at a time, paying a price in patience for staggered disruption rather than massive chaos.

“Oh, Charlie, some rooms, they just can’t do it  . . . ,” her voice trailing off before going silent, her eyes vacant as she went off to a place my dad and I did not know. Perhaps others would not have noticed, but in unison neither Pop nor I could exhale for two or three heartbeats as some foreign intruder occupied the small space around us. After a long minute or so, Josey came back, but her sentence remained unfinished. Josey pushed aside the appetizer and finished her margarita as she waved for the waiter to bring another. I had never seen her order more than a single drink, she often not finishing even the one.

“’Anything wrong, Josey?” Pop asked softly as he and I looked first at the other, then at Josey.

In a few moments, she said “What, Albert?” Then she returned to us as quickly as she had left. Our little party of three continued as planned, and we finished out an evening filled with warmth, pulled pork, and laughter. For a while after, I thought nothing more about Josey’s blank spell or two extra margaritas.

A few weeks later I visited her at the university. Although I had been there to see her many times before, on this occasion several months had passed since I had last stopped by. I always checked with her in advance to learn when she would be free, and I had been welcomed every time with a long hug and a cup of fresh coffee, followed by an hour or so of conversation that was, more often than not, about work—hers and mine. But this time was different. After knocking, I had to wait several minutes before she met me at her office door. Furtively, she opened it no more than was necessary for her to quickly slide out and close it behind her. I managed a curious glance inside as she emerged, seeing nothing but newsprint stacked from floor to ceiling, her lovely old oaken desk no longer visible. When I started to speak as she led me to the faculty lounge with its burnished wood and frayed faux Victorian chairs, she interrupted with “Research, Charlie. It’s research.”

Even I knew that historians did not use loose newspapers as sources. Everything old enough to matter was either digitized or on microfiche. I said nothing of it, but in the mostly pleasant two hours that followed, I mused over this Josey. While she fed my kindred but amateur fascination with history, her eyes occasionally darted about as would those of a wild thing in the forest upon hearing dry leaves beneath unknown feet. This continued, irregularly, even as she kept me on the edge of my unofficial pupil’s seat, often laughing, while she gave a blow-by-blow account of French leader Charles De Gaulle’s manipulation of President Truman in 1945 and beyond that helped lead America disastrously into southeast Asia.

After this, I did not see her again for nearly two months. I see now that she had already developed a shell of some kind, and my gut twists from doubt about whether I tried hard enough to break through. For more than twenty years, most of my visits with Josey, at least weekly and with or without Pop, had been at little haunts with coffee and eggs, or cheese and amber ale. But every month to six weeks I would call at her home, always giving the advance notice she required—nobody just dropped in on Josey if they wanted the knock answered. Whether at her place or elsewhere, I was without fail greeted with unvarnished, even gleeful affection. Nothing in my life had ever been better than seeing Josey. I tell myself now that the change, whether at a Cuban diner or at her office that last time, was subtle, and that only I, or maybe Pop, would have noticed anything at all. Still, I did not see what I should have seen.

Listless eyes greeted me at her front door as Josey, voice bereft of its former effulgence, said “Hi, uh, Charlie? Please, uh, sure? Come . . . in?” She brewed coffee by rote and we sat down.

“What is it, Josey? Have you caught a bug of some kind?” Once, when with anyone, Josey’s eyes had made the other believe he was the only person who existed. Now, her eyes were strangely unsettled, those of prey in peril or of a hummingbird unable to find nectar among honeysuckle blooms. Instead of answering, she spoke of two students in a course she taught on Europe between the world wars, how talented they were. Our conversation was that of the once keen edge of a butcher’s blade now blunted from countless bone strikes. Then there was quiet. After several minutes that seemed infinitely longer, I left, nonplussed, having no idea what to do.

Pop and I continued to phone her regularly over the following months, neither of us able to gain her consent to meet. He and I both fretted, from concern but also from missing Josey. Rapping at her door brought no response, and when I could not find her at the college, I called Dr. Chastain, Josey’s dean, from whom I learned that Josey had been asked to resign to avoid a tenure-termination proceeding. She had not met her classes the previous semester or the first few weeks of the current one, a dereliction intolerable even for one of such distinction in her field. I decided to call her one last time before summoning the police, delighted to hear that she would see me again for coffee at a hole-in-the-wall spot not far from her home.

There, it was Josey, but it was not Josey. Her hair was oily, unkempt, not cut for much too long a time, eyes even more lifeless than the last time. The voice lacked all animation and her skin’s former luminescence had drained away as though a gaping hole had opened in her spirit. I drank and ate, but she touched nothing, my questions drawing single words and vacant stares. At the end, I insisted on seeing her at her home. Over her scowl, I demanded, “I’ll be there Monday at eleven, Josey.”

The following Monday I knocked, waited, knocked again, waited some more. I rang the doorbell that she hated. When no response came, I used the key I had gotten several months before by telling her that a Trinity College faculty senate resolution required her to give me one. Josey was sitting on her parlor floor, immobilized in the only spot not piled high with the possessions that now fully possessed her. Several minutes passed before I was able to coax her up and lead her to a chair I had cleared off.


I bought a larger townhouse so that Josey would have two rooms, one with a nice view of parkland. She comes out occasionally just to look around, but takes most meals on a plastic tray in the sunnier of her two spaces. After I moved her in, Josey was disturbed by her surroundings until the obvious came to me. She is now mostly surrounded by stacks of old books and magazines, and even a few boxes of knick-knacks, but I gently declined to bring in the dolls.

A dear woman named Alberta with red hair, big hips, and a bigger smile comes to stay on those days when work takes me away. Josey did not like her at first, but in time Alberta won her over. Josey is calm now, maybe even happy, particularly on those irregular occasions in the evening when she launches into long, detailed discourses for a rapt audience of one on how it was utter folly for America to enter the First World War or how it waited too long to join the Second and take on Adolph Hitler.

My days are tinged with melancholy, although keeping busy helps. I am grateful that a bit of Josey remains. Not much, you see, but a little of Aunt Josey is better than all of anyone else.



John Allison is a long-time faculty member in the McCombs School of Business at the University of Texas at Austin. He has published widely in intellectual property law, especially empirical studies of the patent system, and argues assiduously that he is not as boring as that sounds. This is his third published short story, the previous two having appeared in Mount Hope in 2016 and The 2017.

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 1

By Stacia Levy

ey, Sharona.” Kevin Wasserman from hardware sales poured a cup of coffee. “Looks like another shoplifter out in jewelry.”

“Yeah?” I was standing next to him in the break room by the coffee maker, drinking my first cup of the day, which I really needed to finish before heading back to the floor. Shoplifters in this half-assed retail store in south Sacramento were pretty much an everyday event, as regular as break time—when they usually happened.

So far a predictable day. A day when I’d woken up late with some guy from my apartment building who, even then, I’d almost forgotten after drinking too much the night before. Wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my crappy life, which had already begun to spiral down into no apparent future. And I was thirty-three, a time you should be firmly on track to somewhere or other. No idea this was the day that would change that trajectory, setting me on the path to somewhere.

“Security’s not worth their bad uniforms.” Jake Anderson, from insurance sales, joined us at the coffee maker. He and Kevin were both tall, looked somewhat alike in terms of their slim body build and lean facial features, but there the resemblance ended. Jake was black and Kevin white, but more noticeably, Jake tried so hard to be the company man, in his suit and tie, that it was pathetic. Kevin didn’t even bother—in jeans, shirttail hanging out.

We stood meditating in silent agreement about worthless security. “So have they actually caught the guy—or girl—yet?” Kevin asked. Not that it mattered much. Security didn’t have the authority to do anything—except call the police, who’d just administer a strongly worded scolding.

“Yeah.” Jake shrugged. “And it’s ‘them.’ Four guys, gangbanger type. Security was talking to them in jewelry when I passed.”

I took another drink of coffee, which the guys did too. We didn’t have much else to talk about. Basically three strangers who only saw each other in the break room a couple of times a week.

Not wanting, necessarily, to go out there, back to clothing, while the thing with the shoplifters was going down, I said, “So, Kevin. Why are you here?”

“What?” He glanced at me. “Taking my break. Okay with you?”

“No, I mean working here. Not doing some real job. You know.”

“Well, don’t know if you heard, but there’s a recession going on.”

We were all thirty-something then, in 2009, the beginning of the long “economic downturn” we thought would last only a year at the most. Then we’d get on with our lives.

“How about you, Jake?”

I remember he’d opened his mouth to answer. But he never got a chance because it was then the first gunshot sounded.

We stood frozen.

I don’t know about the guys, but it was the first time I’d heard a live gunshot. It was followed by four more.

“Jesus Christ.” Kevin came to life first, grabbing my arm, pulling Jake along, to the emergency exit across the room.

Jake pushed the door. And pushed.

“What’s the matter with you?” I’d never heard Kevin, who always seemed too detached to get excited about much, raise his voice. “Open the goddamned door.” He kicked at it. It didn’t move.

“Oh, shit.” He stood still.

“What?” I was shaking. I think I’d dropped my cup. Coffee was spreading across the floor anyway.

“It’s blocked. What do you think?”

“Why’s it blocked?” Jake was still pushing at it. “A fucking emergency exit?” Never heard him swear like that before, but then you don’t talk that way when you’re around customers most of the day. On a reasonable day.

Kevin gave a brief laugh. “By some boxes, delivery of something. I remember noticing them this morning when I drove up and thinking, ‘Shit, that’s not to code.’”

We just stood there. There was noise out on the floor. A couple of screams. Running footsteps. Crying. More gunshots. They sounded closer now.

“We still need to get out.” My voice was distant in my own ears, as if I’d left my body.

The guys nodded. We’d all calmed down a little, maybe the adrenaline rush slowing, as if our bodies realized we needed to concentrate if we were going to survive. The men were probably thinking the same thing I was: the only other door to the break room was out to the hall with the restrooms one way, directly out to the floor the other. And it was probably only minutes before the gunmen made it over to the break room, the first door off the hall, and that door didn’t lock.

“Come on,” Kevin said. “We need to take our chances. Find somewhere else to hide.”

“Where the hell is that?” Jake’s voice came out higher than usual.

“The conference room.” It hit me that it was at the end of the hall and could buy us some time. There were no windows and the only door to the hall locked. As if what went on in there was national security instead of three asshole managers monkeying with the mission statement. Or playing with themselves, for all you knew. Letting the place go to hell so much that a few post-pubescent punks could take it over in three minutes.

Jake opened the door and looked out. “No one’s here. Let’s go.”

We darted into the hall.

Dylan Alvarez from sporting goods was ambling down the hall toward us from the men’s room, eyes closed in concentration, in the groove with whatever was coming from his earbuds.

“Come on, asshole.” Kevin almost ran over him, yanking him along.

“Hey.” Dylan yanked out the buds. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to save your pathetic life.”

The commotion out on the floor was closer now, and individual voices stood out: the adolescent whine of one of the gunmen, another already dipping down into manhood.

“We’ve got to move.” Jake put his hand at the small of my back as we ran down the hall.

Kev got out his plastic key and hovered it over the plate next to the door. The light stayed red. No beep.

“Flip it over, man,” Jake said.

Kevin complied, trying again. No change.

I could hear my own breath catching.

“Maybe our keys don’t work on the conference room,” Dylan said. “Typical.”

“Let me try.” Jake reached for the key, but Kevin jerked his hand once more across the pad.

This time the buzz sounded, the light turned green, and Jake and Kevin yanked the door open.

The voices of the gunmen faded as they stampeded past the hall.

And then we were in the conference room. The door slammed behind us. It locked automatically, one of those safety doors that opened without a key only from the inside, when you pushed on the bar—like the exit out of the break room was supposed to.

We all let our breath out; Kevin and I sagged against the conference table.

“Anyone got a phone?” Kevin said.

“Someone must have called it in already,” I said.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Jake said. “I didn’t hear sirens.”

“That’s because you can’t hear anything in here,” Kevin snapped. “It’s a freaking bunker. The walls are soundproof.”

Dylan had gotten out his phone and was tapping away.

“There’s a newsfeed on this,” he said. “Police are outside.”

“Well, why the hell aren’t they doing anything?”

“Because it’s a hostage situation. They’re holding about thirty people out on the floor.”

“Let’s barricade the door,” I said. “Shove the table up against it. Everyone grab an end.”

We tugged and pushed at the table and banged it against the door.

“That secures it pretty well,” Jake said. “Still…” He left the thought unfinished.

I was thinking, probably along with the guys, that the table and door weren’t much of a barrier against bullets blasting through.

There were boxes of files lining the room. “The boxes,” I said. They could be an additional wall between us and the gunmen.

“Always knew that paperwork must be good for something,” Kevin said.

“Let’s all take a section,” Jake said. “Pile them up on the table and against the door. Sharona, think you can do this?”

“And why the hell couldn’t I?” I worked out four times a week and took karate twice. Had nothing better to do with my time.

“No time to worry about gender stereotypes,” Kevin said. “Sharona, if you can, you can. Let’s do it.”

Damned right I could do it. I climbed up on the table. “Form an assembly line,” I said. “The three of you line up, grab the boxes, and pass them up to me. Let’s do it.”

The boxes felt like loads of bricks. Jake was stoically silent during the process, but Dylan swore in Spanish a couple of times, Kevin in what I thought was Yiddish. It would have been funny under other circumstances, if I wasn’t trying to control my shaking.

After five minutes I stopped and looked at the wall we had put up. I swiped the sweat mixed with tears on my face—I hadn’t realized I’d been crying.

“Goddammit, Sharona,” Kevin said. He was at the end of the line, closest to the table. “Take this box already.”

I grabbed it, still looking at the wall of boxes. “This is wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” Dylan asked.

“The direction, the angle,” I said. “We need to turn them around, see—so they’re lengthwise. So a bullet will take longer to pass through.”

Kevin let his breath out in a snort. “Okay, let me get up there and I’ll do it.”

“I got it.” I yanked one around. “Just keep passing them up, okay, and I’ll catch up in a minute.”

In ten minutes we had that barrier up, about thirty boxes lined across and up the door.

I swiped at the sweat dripping down my neck and was hit by the rank, musky odor rising from my shirt, and didn’t care.

Dylan had gotten out his phone again.

“What’s going on?” Jake asked. “Have they killed anyone?”

“Yes. One.” Dylan scrolled down, reading the report. “And two shot.”

“What the hell do they want?” Kevin asked.

“It doesn’t—oh, wait.” Dylan squinted at the screen. “It looks like they’re demanding three million dollars and a plane to Argentina.”

We all fell silent.

“Does anyone want to call someone?” Dylan spoke. “You can use my phone.”

“No,” Jake said. “Just my ex-wife, who probably wouldn’t want to hear it.”

Kevin shook his head, leaning against the wall, arms folded.


“No, no one.” Who would I call? “Don’t you want to call your parents or something, Dylan?”

“They’ve kind of made it clear they don’t want to hear from me. Well, it looks like we got each other at least.” He laughed. “Isn’t that great? Not the way I’d ever imagined going.”

Oh, this was totally stupid. “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Let them know we’re in here.”

“Why?” Dylan shot back. “So they can, what, notify the police, the same ones who just let a couple of people get shot? Uh, no, sorry. I think I’ll just chill right here for a while.”

After that we were all quiet.


Read chapter 2

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 2

By Stacia Levy

eing held hostage is, besides terrifying, mostly boring. We sat around a laptop table across the room from the door and looked at each other. I plowed through the paper that was spread across a chair and then passed it on. I stared at the clock. I looked at the guys again, then looked away. I stared at the clock some more and counted off the minutes. I held conversations with my ex and dead parents in my head. A couple of hours went by.

Dylan was up and prowling the room like a panther, mumbling to himself. Jake was monitoring the situation outside on the phone.

“Ever notice—” he began.

“Please.” Dylan slammed his fist against the wall. “Shut up.”

Jake continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “—how people are always telling you to ‘be aware’?”


“Well, with gunmen, for example. Mass shootings. A reporter just said we should always be aware of our surroundings. Remember after 9/11, everyone was telling us to be aware? Do you think that was the problem? If we’d been paying more attention—?”

“Why?” Dylan asked. “So that we’re fully cognizant when they blow us away?”

This drew bitter laughter. We had all migrated to the floor at this point because the chairs were uncomfortable, our legs drawn up to our chins, in symbiotic communion.

I couldn’t stand it anymore and started talking. “You know what I’m going to do if we get out of this mess?”

“No, Sharona,” Jake said. “I don’t. What are you going to do?”

I didn’t know either—I wasn’t a particularly future-directed person—but I said, “I’m going to get a better a job. Maybe buy a house, find a boyfriend.”

“If you could do all of that,” Dylan asked, “why haven’t you already?”

“A legitimate question,” I said. “I’m kind of a screw-up.” I hated to admit it, but it was hard not to, given the current situation, and what the hell did I have to hide at this point? “I’ve messed up just about every relationship and job I’ve ever been in. But maybe things will change after this, you know?” Maybe, if I survived it. Crisis and opportunity, they say.

“What kind of job do you want?” Jake asked.

I had no idea but I said, off the top of my head, “Maybe as a paralegal. Work in a law office.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said. “Why not? I’m thinking of sending my resume out again too. How about you, Kevin?”

“Please,” he responded, not looking up. “I’m just trying to focus on surviving this.”

“And you, Dylan?” I asked. “If we get out of this, what are you going to do? Don’t you go to college or something? Maybe finish your degree, try to make up with your parents, or whatever?”

An ironic smile played around his lips. “I wish.”

“Well, why just a wish? What are you going to do?”

“Probably seek treatment.” He spoke after a minute.

“Yeah? For what? Alcohol, drugs?”

“If you really want to know, bipolar disorder. I’m not a college student, and I work here because my parents kicked me out after I busted the big-screen TV when Scott Pelley was pissing me off. Okay?”

“Wow.” That was impressive—I couldn’t top it, even with my record of drinking and promiscuity and patchy job history, all due to poor impulse control. “Guess you were off your meds?”

“Sharona, that is enough.” Kevin spoke up. “Leave him alone.”

“Well, aren’t you freaked out?” Dylan raised his head to stare at us.

Kevin gave a brief laugh and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly I was afraid he’d burn himself. “I think we’re beyond being freaked out by each other. I swear at this point you could tell me you’re Hannibal Lecter, and if we get out of this together, I’ve got your back for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “And if we don’t get out, we’ll all go down together.”

We all murmured agreement.

“Well.” I tried to make a joke. “Shall we all join hands? Sing? Say a prayer?”

“Shut up, Sharona,” Jake and Dylan said, more or less together.

After that we were silent again. Kevin, sitting next to me, seemed to be taking this harder, cracking under the stress more, than the rest of us—shaking, eyes clinched shut, pale.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m great.” He gave a brief laugh but didn’t open his eyes. So I shut up for a while, but then, because in general I can’t stop talking, I spoke up.

“Kevin, are you observant?”

“Observant of what?” He didn’t look up.

“Of Judaism, what do you think—an observant Jew?”

“Do I look like an observant Jew?”

“But you are Jewish, right? I’m more of a cultural Jew too.”

“Meaning what? You eat Chinese takeout, go to bar mitzvahs, avoid extreme sports?”

“All of the above. I haven’t been to services in years, though.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe this is as good a time as any to reconnect with our faith. How about you guys—Jake, Dylan? You religious?”

“Just enough to wonder which god I pissed off in that past life,” Dylan said. “How about you, Jake? What’s your Higher Power, if any? You seem an upstanding, church-going man, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m not so upstanding.”

“Yeah?” Kevin snorted. “What’d you do—take someone’s pen? Stiff some rude waiter of his twenty percent?”

“No. I’ve been stealing from the company for over three years. About five thousand total.”

“That really pisses me off,” Kevin said.

“Well, you asked.”

“I mean, in three years? You couldn’t have taken more? Or lifted some of the merchandise at least?”

“What’s the situation outside?” Jake asked Dylan.

He glanced at the phone. “No change. The police have gotten a phone in there and have the bit going with the hostage negotiator, but looks like it’s pretty stalled.”

We groaned. I got up and walked around, stimulating the circulation in my lower body. No use coming out of this a double amputee from cutting off circulation.

Another hour ticked by.

I was sitting next to Kevin at this point, back at the laptop table. He’d picked up a knife from some silverware piled at the end and was taking stabs at the table with it in circles around his hand and between his splayed fingers.

“Please.” I couldn’t take it anymore and covered his hand with mine. “Stop. What are you doing—playing Russian roulette with your fingers? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He put the knife down. “I told you already.”

“What’s this?” My hand was still over his, and I noticed, for the first time, the thin, silver chain on his wrist. I picked it up. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who’d be into jewelry.

“Med Alert bracelet.”

“Med Alert?” I only vaguely knew what that even was, thought it was something old people with Alzheimer’s wore. “For what?”

“Diabetes.” He spoke after a minute.

“Diabetes?” This was like the worst possible news—aside from the hostage thing, of course. Really didn’t want to hear it—it was so unfamiliar, thinking about someone else’s needs. “So the bracelet’s so medics will know what to do if you go into a coma? And you were going to tell us when?”

“When you noticed the bracelet.”

“I’m sorry. We’ve been a little distracted here—”

“Are you insulin dependent?” Jake asked. Kevin nodded. “Well, do you have it with you?”

“No. I didn’t think I’d need to carry all of it with me—”

“—to the break room.” The rest of the sentence, in basically the same form, came from all of us.

“It’s not the insulin that’s the problem now, anyway,” Kevin said. “It’s the missed food. Insulin drops your blood sugar, and then you have to balance it with food.”

“Did you just take your insulin before this whole thing went down?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Forget it, okay?”

Forget it? Don’t you need to eat something?”

“Why the hell do you think I was in the break room? But what’s it matter now if there’s just no food?”

“You really should have told us before,” Jake said.

“Look, I appreciate your concern—”

“I’m not all that concerned,” Dylan said. “I just don’t want your defective blood on my hands. And I was really honest with you, wasn’t I?”

“So? I told you to come out? I didn’t want to hear it.”

“There’s got to be food someplace,” I said. “I don’t think a bunch of fat managers are going to sit in here for hours without food.”

“Well, it looks like they did, didn’t they?” Dylan was pacing around again, lifting papers off the table and chairs and looking under them.

“You’re not going to find a doughnut stashed underneath yesterday’s paper,” Kevin said. “So just stop, okay?”

“It’s not just about you,” Dylan said. “Not everything is, believe it or not. I tend to get hypoglycemic myself when I don’t eat. And I get really irritable, I can tell you, when I’m hypoglycemic. And I’ve already told you the kind of things I’m capable of when I get irritated. So we’re looking for food, okay?”

“The silverware,” I said. How could we be so stupid? “If there’s silverware, it means they did eat in here, and there almost has to be food somewhere.”

“We could probably sniff it out,” Kevin said. “Like police dogs.”

“The boxes.” I suddenly knew it. “There almost has to be food, nonperishable stuff, in the boxes.”

“Okay.” Jake seemed to brace himself. “So we need to go through the boxes.”

“How are we going to do that,” Dylan said, “and keep the barricade up?”

“We’ll just have to take them down individually, go through them one by one, and then put them back up right away,” I said.

“Right.” Jake rose. “Let’s do it. Let’s each take a row.”

So we went through each box, putting it back after. We repeated this process for what seemed an hour—muscles in my back and arms screaming, sweat dripping down my neck.

At the bottom of the next-to-last box in my row, under a ream of printer paper I almost didn’t bother to lift out, I hit pay dirt. A box of granola bars. And a six-pack of plastic water bottles.

“I knew it.” Joy, redemption, swept over me. Praise God, Allah, Jesus, whoever else was up there.

“What’d you find, Sharona?” Dylan pulled himself off the floor, where he’d been sifting through a box.

“Water and breakfast bars.” I never thought I’d be so happy to see those gooey, dried-out things, cloying sweet from raspberry and other crappy filling.

“Thank God.” Jake’s thought patterns clearly had mimicked my own. He took the box from me, then started to pass it to Kevin. He then paused. “What about the expiration date?” He looked at the side of the box. A groan rose from both Dylan and me. Dylan grabbed the box from him.

“Jesus, these things could probably outlast all of us if we were stuck down here during a nuclear holocaust.” He passed the box to Kevin. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Kevin took two. “You guys take some.”

We all ate.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Dylan broke the silence. “But I’ve got to take a piss sometime very soon.”

“Yeah, same here,” Kevin said.

“We’ll just have to go in a corner in the wastepaper basket or something,” Jake said. “Sharona, I’m sorry, you’ll excuse us.”

“It’s not like I don’t have the same problem, more or less.” What did he think? “Oh, by the way, you’ll all be careful to splash the shiny clean walls a little, won’t you?”

After we took care of our bathroom needs, we migrated back to the table.

Kev lit another cigarette.

“I get your addiction, man,” Dylan said, “but should you be doing that, with your health concerns?”

That was more than I could take. “Obviously anyone who smokes is doing it against medical advice,” I said. “Leave him alone, okay?” Like we needed to heighten the tension by picking at each other.

“We’re probably not going to live long enough to worry about secondhand smoke and lung cancer anyway,” Jake said.

“It’s not him I’m so worried about,” Dylan said. “Why does everyone think that? I just don’t want my last breaths in here filled up with smoke.”

“Happy?” Kev stubbed out the cigarette on a plastic plate. “What’s going on outside?”

Dylan looked at his phone. “Oh, shit.”


“They’ve released a couple of the hostages.”

“What in hell’s wrong with that?” Jake said. “That’s progress.”

“Problem is—” Dylan paused and I could visualize his mental cogs turning, “—they’ve done a body count.”

“Body count?” I shivered. “How many dead now?”

“Sorry, bad choice of words. I mean a roll call, of those who made it out plus those still stuck inside.”

We all sat and let this news sink in.

“They didn’t—” I began. Oh, no, they couldn’t be that stupid.

“I’ll put it on speaker.” Dylan set the device on the table and hit the settings.

“—four of the store employees—” a reporter was saying; I recognized her voice, Katie something-or-other, they were all Katie something, “—in one of the most worrisome of developments. Dylan Alvarez, Sharona Feinstein, Jakob Anderson, and Kevin Wasserman remain unaccounted for and are assumed—”

“Assholes.” The same word burst from all of us at the same time.

So it was only a matter of time now before the hostage-takers figured out we must still be in the store somewhere and found their way over here. Which meant, optimistically speaking, we’d also get released soon. More pessimistically—or, as we pessimists prefer to say, realistically—the hostage-takers could come blasting through our jury-rigged barrier anytime.


Read chapter 3

Three Methods to Save Your Life, Chapter 3

By Stacia Levy

nd blast through they did.

After that whole thing of releasing our names, it wasn’t like I wasn’t totally expecting it, the conference room invasion. But captivity does something to your brain. You lose all track of time and then, with it, almost all ability to think and act rationally. I had no idea at this point how long we’d been in that room. The clock read 6:20, I remember, when I glanced at it at one point, but I had no idea if that was a.m. or p.m. or if the clock was even working. And I wasn’t motivated enough to look at Dylan’s phone to find out.

I remember later, after looking at the clock, I was standing in the middle of the room with Jake, where he was showing me pictures of his ex and babbling on about how he’d like to get back together when we got out.

I had just opened my mouth to advise him about maybe not getting his hopes up too high.

That was when the boxes against the door blew apart, papers and bits of cardboard erupting.

I just stood there—I remember thinking what a mess it was going to be to clean up.

“Get down.” Something slammed against my back.

I hit the floor. My hands and forearms came up, abdomen muscles tightening in what was now a reflexive move learned in karate, but still the wind was knocked out of me. Something warm trickled down my cheek.

And I must have passed out for a while.

Later I became aware of Jake, on top of me, moaning.

“Jake, Sharona, you guys all right?” Kev’s voice.

“Think I’ve been shot in the head.” My voice came out in a gasp. Jake was crushing me. I tried to push him off, but it was like a tree had fallen over on me—he was about as inert.

“Let’s move him off her. Dylan, let’s go.” Kev yanked at Dylan’s arm, and they crawled out from beneath the table where they’d both taken cover.

“Hey, man.” Kev knelt next to us. “Think you can roll off her?”

“I’ve been shot,” Jake said, voice twisted with pain. “In the shoulder, I think. I can’t.”

“Sharona?” Dylan dropped next to me. “You still conscious? You were shot too?”

“Maybe it’s Jake’s blood.” I touched the side of my head; my hand came away slick and red. No real pain, except my ear stinging, a loud ringing encompassing my head. “I think they maybe just shot off part of my earlobe.” Bad, but not as bad as in the head. It was going to take plastic surgery that my insurance probably would try to weasel out of paying for, the bad news for me, but Jake had taken most of the bullet for us, even worse news for him.

“You’re bleeding an awful lot, girl,” Dylan said.

“Ears bleed a lot.” A vivid memory rose of a covert and botched attempt on the part of my best friend to pierce my ears when I was twelve because my mother wouldn’t allow it, as it’s against Jewish law. It ended in a trip to the ER. “I’ll be all right.”

“Dylan, we need to get him off her.” Kev rose and moved to my and Jake’s heads. He seemed in a take-charge mood, like he knew just what to do—maybe he’d dealt with shootings before, who knew. “Jake, we’re going to try to keep you as still as possible. Grab his feet, Dylan. I’ve got him under the arms.”

They lifted and laid him out on the floor next to me. I sat up, feeling for cracked ribs.

“You still bleeding, man?” Kev knelt next to him. “We’ve got to get that stopped.”

“Here.” I pulled off my sweater. Damn, one of my favorites. “Let’s tear it in strips for bandages.” I’d save what was left to stop the blood still dripping from my ear.

It was only after we had tied the makeshift bandages on and slowed the bleeding that I thought about it.

“They stopped shooting,” I said. “Why’d they stop shooting?”

“Because they don’t really want to kill us,” Dylan said. He’d picked up his phone from the table. “Not just yet, anyway. They found us just as negotiations with the police really started to break down.”

“‘Break down’?” Jake asked. “What does that mean? Didn’t they release the others?”

“We’re their last leverage. Two of them shot through the doors, and their leader told them to stop. Why kill or release us when they can tell the police they’ve got us at gunpoint?”

“Is that what they’re saying?” Kev said. “Assholes.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “How dare they lie on top of everything else?”

“The only good news,” Dylan said, “is they know we’re their last bargaining chip. Basically they don’t want to kill us right now.”

“Well, I don’t want to get too discouraging,” Kev said, “but we all know what they did with a couple of the first bargaining chips. And with us they may be more effective.”

None of us responded until Dylan spoke. “I just ask that they shoot me first.”

“Listen.” Jake got up, staggering a little bit, hand at his bad shoulder, but he was on his feet. He seemed energized, like he’d gotten some adrenaline rush from the whole thing. “We can’t have that attitude.”

“Oh, it’s my attitude that’s the problem?” Dylan laughed. “Oh, okay, just like not being aware enough? Well, thank God, because that’s easily fixed.”

“What I’m talking about,” Jake spoke over him, “is if we’re going to survive this, we can’t get defeatist. We have to think we can survive, be really motivated, if we’re going to push through and live. Well, what is it? Do you guys want this bad enough to do the work?”

Usually motivational speeches broke me out in hives. But this time I got his point.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Me too,” Kev said after a moment. “Dylan?”

“Oh, all right,” he said.

“Good.” Jake started to collapse in his chair again but then just leaned on the table. “So now it’s time to talk strategy. The first thing we need to decide is if we try calling 9-1-1 after all, tell them exactly where we are, and let the police save us.”

We all looked at each other.

“Practically, how are they going to do that?” I asked. “Wouldn’t they have to come blasting through the store, kill all the gunmen, before they get over here? And if they could do that, why haven’t they already? They’ll probably get killed themselves in the process.”

“We could walk out on the floor and meet them,” Jake said.

“What, are you crazy?” Kev said as howls of protest came from both Dylan and me.

“Just throwing that out,” Jake said. “Okay, we have consensus there, then. That is not an option.”

“Yeah, suicide’s out, for now, anyway,” I said. “If they aren’t talking to the police, shouldn’t we wait until they begin negotiations again? We’re okay for now. Like you said, we’re their last bargaining chip.”

“We can’t wait,” Jake said. “We are not okay. It’s a really volatile situation that could blow up at any time. And we need to get more food and water soon. Kevin and Dylan, don’t you guys need to get to your meds soon?”

“I’m good for a while,” Dylan said. “Before I start frothing at the mouth. Kevin?”

“Oh, I’m spiking sugar,” he said. “Or they could decide to start blasting through that wall again, and then it won’t matter, will it?”

“Does your phone battery still have some juice?” I asked Dylan. I was getting resigned here. The time for toughing it out was drawing to an end. “We have to consider calling 9-1-1.”

Dylan looked at it. “It’s at seventy percent. No problem making the call.” He looked at us. “Well, what is it? Do we trust the police to get over here and bail us out?”

The two other men nodded. There seemed little other option. A bad one, but maybe the only feasible one.

Dylan shrugged and put his hand to the dial screen.

Then I heard my voice, as if it was coming from outside of my body, “Wait just a second.”

He stopped and looked at me. “What?”

“Call this number.” I rattled it off.

Dylan put his hand to the keypad, as if automatically, then paused. “What’s that?”

“It’s the clothing register’s extension.”

“What the hell—” Kev said. And then, “Oh, no, Sharona. No way.”

“Well, why not?” Dylan said. “It’s an option. Then, if it fails, we call 9-1-1.”

“Dylan, Sharona is not going to negotiate with a bunch of killers,” Kev said.

“Jesus, you didn’t think I was serious, did you?”

“Yes,” Jake and Kev said together.

“Well, why couldn’t you have been serious?” I said. “Why can’t I negotiate with them?”

“Sharona, you’re just not,” Kev said. “And that’s final.”

“What are you, my big brother? What gives you the right—”

“If anyone does it—and I’m not saying at all that’s going to happen—it will be one of us.”

“‘Us’? Who’s ‘us’?”

“Dylan, Jake, or me.”

“I see. So I’m not part of ‘us.’ And just why is that, Kev?”

“Because you’re a girl, okay?” Dylan said.

“Oh, I’m a girl, am I?” That was almost funny, the visual of me as a “girl” rising—maybe stretched across my bed, talking to my boyfriend into a pink phone with one hand, twirling a piece of my hair with the other. Shit, I was never a girl. I hadn’t been serious about the whole thing before, just basically trying to get a rise out of Kev, in particular, for some reason, but now it wasn’t a joke anymore.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Let’s play ‘paper, scissors, rock.’ Best of five; winner negotiates.”

“What in hell’s ‘paper, scissors, rock’?” Dylan asked.

“Come on, Dylan, really? What, did you spend your childhood under a piece of paper or rock or something? It’s that game where everyone sticks their hands in the middle of the group in the shape of a rock, paper, or scissors. Scissors cuts paper, paper covers rock, and all that?”

“Oh, yeah, that.” Dylan looked at me. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.” I added, “Pardon the pun.”

I could basically beat the pants off anyone at this because, for some reason, I was usually the only one in any group who realizes the likelihood of winning if you knew that players tended to rotate the three choices of paper, scissors, and rock, and then you could anticipate their moves. Maybe because the people who played “paper, scissors, rock” weren’t too bright in the first place.

Kev was the wild card in this one. Dylan didn’t know the game, and I had to think that Jake was exaggerating or lying outright about stealing from the company, swaggering for Dylan and Kev’s benefit, maybe. He just wasn’t as twisted as the rest of us. He didn’t know how to cheat.

After some more hesitation and bickering, we ended up gathering in a circle and sticking our hands in the middle, Dylan placing the coveted phone on the table.

“On the count of three,” I said.

“Wait,” Kev said. “Why are you calling it?”

“Do you want to call it?” I really didn’t want to give him this because it gave him control, but I wasn’t going to show that.

“No,” he said, as I had anticipated. “You call it.”

“Once again,” I said, with exaggerated patience. “On the count of one, two—three.”

As I knew they would, they all threw their hands out, anticipating “three” before I actually said it while I deliberately held back my hand a fraction of a second. I saw Kev’s fingers forming a V: scissors. Because rookie males generally ran to “rock,” I also threw out rock, which breaks scissors, without glancing at Dylan or Jake.

And only then saw Kev’s paper. Paper covers rock.

“To Kevin,” I said. Shit. How’d he does that? “Okay, next round.”

Kev probably wouldn’t take paper again. Jake and Dylan wouldn’t take rock again. So I’d take paper as Kevin might just take rock this time.

And he did, as Dylan did. And Jake took paper, so I was tied with Kev.

“And again,” I said.

It got tricky here. I’d go to rock as Kev just might rotate to scissors, and the other guys really wouldn’t choose rock again.

Kev did choose scissors, as did both Jake and Dylan, so I was ahead by one.

Now I’d choose paper again. Kev really wouldn’t choose scissors again. The other guys might rotate back to rock.

I threw paper.

Dylan took rock and Jake chose paper.

And Kev did take scissors again, damn him, tying us.

Now I had to really concentrate, with one more to go. I watched them carefully. It was really hard to anticipate, at this time, what they’d take.

I saw their hands coming up. I again held back, saw Jake’s hand forming into paper, couldn’t tell with Dylan’s, and Kev’s hand laid out flat.


I threw scissors.

And only then saw Kevin’s hand in a bunched fist.

Rock. Rock breaks scissors.

Damn, damn. It was over.

“How in hell did you do that?” I said.

“Sharona, I didn’t do anything.” Kev shrugged. “It’s a game of chance.”

“It is not,” I said. “There is strategy.”

“I know that,” he said after a moment. “And I knew that you knew, so I was keeping my eye on you. Jake and Dylan I wasn’t worried about.”

“But I was keeping my eye on you.”

“It’s probably just my reflexes or eye-hand coordination are a little quicker than yours. Gave me the advantage.” He picked up the phone. “Sorry.”

He’d just out-cheated a cheater, which really wasn’t fair.

“Give me that thing.” I held out my hand. “You know I’m the only one who can successfully deal with these guys. I’m the talker and besides, the least disabled one among us.”

He shook his head, stuffing the phone in his front jeans pocket. His hands were trembling slightly and anxiety flashed through me.

“It’s going to be all right, Kev,” I whispered and put my arms around him. He had hard, lean muscles in his back, smelled of salty sweat that wasn’t at all unpleasant. I let my hands trail down his abs and then along the front of his legs. Who knew, maybe this would be the last time I’d touch a guy like this, might as well make the most of it.

“You know you’re the only person who’s ever called me that?”

“Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” He leaned his face into my hair. Then he suddenly froze and pushed me away. “What in hell are you doing?”

I jumped away, turning my back, hands cupping the phone.

Shit. Great, that’s what I get for thinking with my balls.”


“Sharona, that really was not fair—”

“Shhh.” I was dialing away.

It rang until the answering machine picked up. I gritted my teeth as the recorded message with store hours and sales came on.

Then a voice interrupted the monologue. A tenor—didn’t sound like a gunman’s—asked, “Who’s this?”

“Sharona Feinstein,” I said. “I’m one of your hostages. And may I ask to whom I’m speaking?”

Behind me the men broke into laughter. I shushed them again.

“What’s your name?” I asked.


“Do you have a last name, Oscar?”

“White.” After the smallest of pauses.

Oscar White. Sharona Smith. Sure.

“And you’re the alpha male, I take it?”


“Are you the leader?”

“Yeah.” After another pause.

“Okay, Mr. Oscar White,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

“About what?”

Yeah, about what. What the hell do you talk to a killer and your captor about? I was totally in the dark on that one, but experience told me that just talking clouds a lot of issues rather than illuminating them, which would probably be for the best in this case. Didn’t want to know this guy’s life story. I’d just pretend I did because people always secretly believed you did anyway and wanted, more than anything, to tell it.

“So it’s been a busy day for you,” I said. “Care to tell me about it?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“True enough,” I said. “You don’t. We could both just hang up right now.”

Except he wasn’t going to do that, now that he knew he had a literally captive audience.

I waited. No sound of the line going dead.

“Oscar, you still there?” I said anyway.


“Okay, good. So tell me, Oscar. What’s this all been about today?”

“What do you mean?”

What did I mean. “Well, the thing with taking hostages, killing people. I have to think it’s been about something.” No answer. “Oh, I heard you wanted money and a plane. Is that true?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Said, operative word. “But not what you really want. Like saying you want to go to Disneyland with your family or whatever, because it’s expected of you, when you’d really rather spend the vacation at home in your room, eating pizza and screwing your girlfriend while everyone else goes. Am I right?” No answer. “So what do you really want, Oscar? What’s this all been about? You didn’t take a bunch of people hostage and shoot a couple of them over a plane and some money.” People didn’t kill to go to Disneyland. They killed for much more fundamental urges.

And Oscar didn’t disappoint. “To get even,” he said.

Ah. Now we were getting somewhere. “Get even with who?”

“The manager.”

Well, I wanted to get even with some manager somewhere too. “Manager of what?”

“The store, what do you think?”

“I don’t know. Was thinking maybe the one in the sky, the Great Manager.”

This drew a startling burst of laughter from him. “You’re funny.”

“So they say.” I cleared my throat. “Well, I can totally relate, Oscar. I want to get even with them too. Both the manager and The Manager. For getting me in this whole situation, obviously. What do you want to get even with them for? What did they do to you? Fire you?”


“Well, a lot of us lose jobs, Oscar. I’ve lost more myself than I can count.” Coming to work hung over and spending time on the phone dealing with various romantic crises tended to get your employer upset with you. “What was such a big deal about losing a job here that made you want to kill?”

Oscar, Oscar. I was racking my brain trying to remember him. Who worked here who was called Oscar? It had to be an alias.

Or maybe I really just didn’t remember him. The problem was he was invisible to everyone. This was the only way he could get others to pay attention.

“Come on, Oscar,” I said. “What made you so mad?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oscar, you still there?”

“Yeah.” Barely audible.

I sighed and slid down the wall I’d been leaning against to settle on the floor, knees drawn to my chin. We were in for the long haul, it looked like.

“When you lost your job, did you lose your family too?” I prodded. “Like your wife and kids left because you couldn’t support them?”

He didn’t sound old enough to have a wife and kids.

“I don’t have a wife and kids,” he echoed my thoughts. “It’s just me.”

That made sense. Anyone with a family wouldn’t do this—they’d be too worried about what their sisters would think or whatever.

“So you feel pretty alone.” I was no stranger to that either.


“So do I sometimes. Still doesn’t explain why you did this.”

“Look, will you stop comparing yourself to me?” he burst out. “You got no idea how I feel.”

“True, no one knows how anyone else feels. So why don’t you tell me, Oscar?”

“Disrespected.” He spoke after a minute. “They were rude to me.”

And here was the heart of the matter. “Who was rude to you?”

“My co-workers. The manager.”

“So you were like bullied? How?”

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“Okay.” Too close to home, then. “So I don’t know exactly what went on then, Oscar, obviously, but what I can tell you is this. You know the saying ‘the best revenge is living well’?” I just remembered that from bumper stickers that were popular a few years back, usually on Mercedes and BMWs, like anyone needed to be reminded that their owners lived well. “Think about that. Stop worrying about these people so much and work on your own happiness.” Advice I should probably take myself.

“I don’t want to be happy,” he said. “I want to get even.”

Ah, yes. Revenge trumps everything else. Again I could totally identify. That’s what all the running from man to man and job to job, drinking too much, was about, probably—getting even with my ex for abandoning me by commission by leaving and my parents by omission, absenting themselves by dying.

So what could I do? It takes years to reach that kind of insight, and I wasn’t any kind of therapist.

This was getting weird. Or weirder. The pros really should take over.

“Oscar,” I said, “have the police negotiators been in contact recently?”

“Yeah. They want to know how you guys are doing.”

“How are you guys holding up?” I turned to face my fellow captives. Had almost forgotten about them in the conversation with Oscar.

They were all seated around the table; they shrugged in unison. Oh, fuck, fuck the macho credo. Some guys would rather crawl off and die somewhere than admit to needing help.

I turned back to the phone and had to remember to switch it to my un-messed-up ear. “Listen, Oscar, we need to get some food and water in here. Please?”

“Shit, is that what you really want from me?”

“No.” Well, what the hell did he think? I enjoyed listening to his sad story? “But it’s what we need right now. Could one of you maybe go to the food aisle and pull out some sandwiches from the refrigerator and a few water bottles? Oh, and look. Go over to the medical supply section too and get some bandages and rubbing alcohol while you’re at it.”

“What’s that for?”

“For the two of us you shot, okay? So we don’t die of tetanus.”

“Okay.” Then the line went dead for a while.

“What’s going on?” Kev asked.

“I’m on hold.” I shrugged. “Assume Oscar’s getting his posse to round up the supplies.”

“How are we going to get the stuff in here once they’ve found it?” Dylan’s voice suggested my IQ wasn’t much more than two.

Shit. I really hadn’t thought of that.

“Obviously we’re going to have to open the door for that.” Jake shook his head. “A real risk.”

I thought it over, tried to imagine opening the door to Oscar. And shuddered.

“I don’t think we can risk it,” I said. “We need to let the police take over the negotiations again.”

I put the phone back to my ear. “Oscar, are you back?”


“Okay, Oscar.” I knew from my long history of manipulating people that repeating their name over and over, every sentence, had a lulling effect, got them on your side, like you had some magical power for knowing their name, when they’d given it to you themselves not ten minutes before. “What do you think about talking to the police again? They’re better at this than I am.”

“Sure they are, and that’s why I don’t want to talk to them. They’re going to get me killed. They want you guys released and me killed.”

Well, what the hell did he think I wanted? “Okay, that’s fine, Oscar,” I said. “I understand. I’ll keep talking to you. But I need you to promise me something.”


“I’m going to open the door partway to get the food and medical supplies, and you’ve got to promise not to shoot or barge in here. Will you promise that, Oscar?”

He was silent.

“Oscar? You need to promise that, or I’m not going to open the door, and we won’t get the food and supplies, and one or more of us will probably die. And then it’s all over. Worst-case scenario. Best-case scenario, you won’t have your hostages anymore, and the police will have no incentive to not come in.”

“Okay.” Mumbled. This was clearly a man of action, not words. “I promise.”

“All right.” I breathed out. “I’m going to take down part of the barrier now and open the door.” I signaled to Dylan to get over and help me.

Heart pounding, I pushed open the door, talking all the while into the phone. “I’m opening the door now, Oscar. Please hand in the stuff…”

I caught a blurred glimpse of him as he passed through the bag of sandwiches and bandages—white shirt, long sleeve pushed back to reveal a tanned arm. Red bandana holding back tightly curled, black hair. Head lowered so I couldn’t see his face.

My heart pounded twice, hard. Then the door slammed shut.

“Here.” My limbs felt like jelly as I carried the food and bandages the couple of steps to the laptop table, where I dumped them. I sank into a free chair, breathing in and out, trying to regulate my heartbeat.

The men were already breaking into the sandwiches, passing around the water bottles.

“Sharona, take one,” Jake said.

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine eating right now.

“She’s on such a roll,” Dylan said, “she doesn’t have time to eat.”

“I’m just not hungry, okay?” I said. “Somewhere along the way I lost my appetite.”

But he was right, I realized. Besides my stomach heaving, I was somehow cruising along on the adrenaline rush.

“What do we do now?” Dylan asked, his mouth full.

“Do?” How many choices did we have, anyway? “I think we should eat, bandage up our wounds, and then keep talking.”

I was eventually going to have to get back on the phone and try to reason with an unreasonable person, but I’d delay it as long as possible.

The phone sounded as Dylan had just finished covering my ear with a bandage. Automatically I answered the call, turning away from him as I held the phone to my other ear.

“I’m back,” Oscar said.

“Well, great.” So we were going to talk some more, it looked like.

The men were all looking at me. I shrugged and turned away again.

“So what’s up, Oscar? What are your plans now?” I had to keep him on the line, talking. Delay any more impulsive decisions on his part.

“I still want the plane and money,” he said.

“You still—” I echoed his words as my brain caught up with this. “Okay, I see. And what are you going to do with those things if you get them?”

“Start a new life in a different place.”

“Well, don’t we all want that? Maybe we have more in common than you think, Oscar.”

Sharona, Kev was mouthing at me. I shook my head.

“But let’s just hold that thought, Oscar,” I said. “What’s so bad about your life here? What do you want to change? What will get better if you go somewhere else?” I thought of something then. “You said something about respect awhile back? You aren’t respected?”

No. I mean yes, that’s what I said. No one respects me.”

“Well, why don’t they? Is it because you’re on the short side?”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“I saw you when the door was open. A little.” I sighed. Could see the headline. Short Kid With Gun Takes Hostages, Kills for Respect. What a joke and fucking stupid way to die. “You’re not going to get any taller when you go somewhere else.”

“You know what, shut up.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about something else.” I drew in my breath. “So what do you do with yourself when you’re not taking people hostage, Oscar?”


“What do you like to do, Oscar? Like with your free time? Read, go to movies, play golf, what?”

“No,” he said.

“No what? You don’t like those specific things or you have no outside interests?”

“I got no fucking hobbies, okay?”

“Okay, okay.” Made total sense. Maybe crime was just a symptom of boredom. “But I don’t believe that. There must be something you like to do.”

Not necessarily. I didn’t have any particular compelling interests either, beyond living through this, of course.

And talking. I really liked the sound of my own voice.

I was steeling myself for a tongue-lashing or something worse, like Oscar losing all patience and shooting through the door again.

But then all he said was, “I like cars.”

“Cars.” I breathed out. “Great. What kind of cars?”

And I listened, but not really, as he waxed eloquent about the relative merits of Ferraris and classic Mustangs.

Then the phone beeped.

I held it away from my head, looking at it. And saw the telltale battery icon.

“Oscar, I got to power down for a couple of minutes to save the battery.” Shit, shit, shit. Why couldn’t Dylan have thought to stick the power cord down his pants when he went to the bathroom? How much trouble would that have been? “So could you just chill for a couple of minutes?”


“Just sit tight. Wait.” And we were dealing with a language barrier on top of everything else, apparently. “I’ll be right back.”

I set down the phone and then just sat, eyes closed, trying to clear my mind. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Say the schma, a Jewish prayer that’s something like a mantra.

I then opened my eyes. “Dylan, why don’t you use the phone for a while?” The negotiations were going nowhere right now anyway, and Dylan’s tireless pacing around was really getting on my nerves.

“What?” He stopped to look at me. “You want me to talk to them now?”

“No. Call your parents.”

“What the hell? Why—?”

“Because they probably want to hear from you.”

“I’ve told you they said—”

“Never mind what they said. Families say all kinds of things to each other they don’t really mean.” He didn’t respond. “Christ, Dylan, you broke their TV, in my understanding. You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“No, of course not, but that still doesn’t mean they want to hear from me.”

“If you’ll excuse me, it almost certainly does. Dylan, I’ve got to think your parents listen to the news like anyone else. And this is big news locally. They’ve heard your name the media so kindly released. They know you’re in here, and they’d want to know you’re alive.” For some reason I found myself tearing up and fought to keep my voice steady. My own rhetoric got to me at times—I was that good. “Take the damn phone and call your parents. Tell them you’re all right.”

“Shit, I’m not all right. I’m probably going to die.”

“Then call them and say good-bye. If not for you, then for them. Do you really want them to live the rest of their lives without ever having made up with you?”

He took it. “Damn it. All right. I’m going to do it in semi-private, if you don’t mind.”

“Just do it.”

He strode off to a corner opposite the one we’d been using as a bathroom, the telephone booth now, apparently. I closed my eyes again, breathed deep.

Dylan came back to the group and handed the phone to me.

I took it, looking at him, not saying anything.

He shrugged. “It’s all good.”

“Well, good.” I put the phone back to my ear.

“Oscar. I’m back.” I tried to keep my voice calm, hoping there’d be some kind of synchronicity between us. “I think you know the police are not going to give you a plane to Argentina. Even if they could. But they don’t have that kind of power. You know that, Oscar.”

Just the sound of his breathing into the phone.

“And they’re not going to want to, Oscar. You know that too. And it’s only a matter of time before the cops come busting in here, whether you’ve got hostages or not. They’re not going to stand off forever, Oscar. Police have generally got real low levels for frustration tolerance. You’re going to go to jail, Oscar. Or die trying to keep out of jail.”

He made a low mutter or growl. Maybe a whimper. Hard to tell over the phone.

I thought of something then. “Let’s go back to what we were talking about earlier. You said something about wanting to start a new life somewhere else. Don’t you still want that? What kind of new life do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t know. Probably true, at least consciously. Young adult males with criminal tendencies weren’t particularly celebrated for their impulse control and ability to plan.

“Come on, Oscar. You must have some idea of this new life, maybe where you’re respected? So how are you going to get that if you die? You want to avoid the electric chair, don’t you? Or the needle?” California had a moratorium on the death penalty, but I was betting he didn’t know that. Best to leave him on that thought. “Look, Oscar, I got to power down again. I’ll be right back.”

I closed my eyes again. More deep breathing. Said the schma again. Schma Israel, Adonai aleheinu

“Sharona.” Kev’s voice. “What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?” He must have heard me whispering. “Saying the freaking schma?”

He wasn’t an observant Jew, right. “Just thinking.”

“Just thinking? Who has time for that? Praying and thinking—give me a break. Why don’t you say something?”

“Because I got no idea of what to say now, okay? That’s why I’m thinking. So why don’t you just shut up and let me?”

“Want me to take over for a while?”


So that’s what it disintegrated into for a while, the “negotiations.” It was really hard. I had always considered myself a supreme bullshit artist who could talk her way out of just about anything—more tickets than I could count, a couple of bad grades, and once a relationship with a stalker ex-boyfriend, whom I managed to convince it would be in his own best interest to put as much space between himself and me as possible. But now I was getting the limitations of communication, how maybe we put too much faith in its power. Talk therapy never did anyone much good, from my experience, maybe made you worse. Most couples who committed to regular chats where they “talk things through” were headed for divorce within a couple of months. And they’ve been “talking” in the Mideast forever, and look where it’s gotten them.

Just saying.

“Sharona, give me that phone.” Kev’s voice.

“Christ, what is it with you and the phone? Don’t you get ‘no’ means ‘no’?” I glanced up at him—he was bugging the crap out of me.

And then I saw how much his condition had spiraled downward in the time I’d been talking to Oscar—he was white, shaking, dripping sweat, pupils dilated like coins.

“Kev.” I fought down a surge of panic. “Why don’t you just sit down and take it easy, okay?”

Take it easy? How in hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Just do it, okay?” He stood there, arms folded. “Kevin, I think you know you’re in no shape to do this. You won at ‘paper, scissors, rock,’ okay, but frankly, you look like shit. Just sit down and save whatever resources you have left.”

He sat down.

I turned and dialed the clothing section extension. The phone growled back at me. We were now down to ten percent battery. “Oscar, I’m back. So what’s the scoop?”


Jeez, just what dialect did these guys speak? “The news,” I said. “Any decisions? I’m pretty much done talking, Oscar. My battery’s going to power down permanently any minute now, and I’m running out of patience. So are the police. So what’s it going to be?”

No response but I could hear him breathing into the phone, like he had allergies and needed to breathe through his mouth.

“Look, Oscar.” I glanced back at the men, then turned back to the phone. I had been trying to modulate the fear in my voice, but maybe it was okay to let it out. Besides Kevin being on the verge of collapse, Dylan was pacing around again, climbing the walls, the anxiety levels from whatever his psych issue was probably spiraling, Jake bleeding some more. “We got two people in here with critical health conditions and one shot who all need medical attention real soon. If something bad happens to one of them, I’m thinking something worse will happen to you.” I thought of something then. “And to tell you the truth, Oscar, I’m not feeling so great myself. Besides you nearly taking off my ear, I’m still a little hung over from last night and feel like I’m about to start my period.”


“Oscar, are you still there?” A muttered reply. “What? I don’t understand mumbling.”

“I said I’m thinking.”

“Okay, you go ahead and think all you want, but what I really need you to do now is get one of your people to go to these gentlemen’s desks and get their meds. Please. I’m begging you now. Guys, where are your meds?”

“At home,” Dylan said. “I don’t bring them to work. Worry about Kevin, why don’t you? Yeah, now I’m worried, okay? Kevin, where in hell’s your desk?”

“I don’t have a desk,” Kev said. “It’s a locker.”

Oh, great. “Well, what’s the combination?” I asked. “Where is it?”

“It’s that row of lockers in the coat room where the time clock is. Mine’s second from the right, bottom. Combination’s fifty-two to the right, sixty-four to the left, eighteen right.”

“Okay, got it.” I fed this information back to Oscar.

Something occurred to me then. “Oscar, hold on.” I turned back to Kev. “What’s it look like? The medication? Needles or what?”

“Yeah, needles, with insulin preloaded. I don’t think he’s going to overlook them. I’ve missed a couple of doses by now.”

“Okay.” I turned back to the phone. “Oscar, look for some needles. Go get them now—just bring all of them that you see, and I do mean now.” I hung up.

While I was waiting there for the medicine, I remembered something from college.

“Logos, pathos, ethos,” I said.

“What the hell are you mumbling?” Kev said. “More Hebrew?”

“I think actually it’s Greek. I learned it about a million years ago in college.” Back when I thought I might be a lawyer when I grew up, before I realized that actually took effort and persistence. “It means ‘logic, feeling, ethics.’” The three strategies to persuade someone, playing on their logic, emotions, and ethics.

“I get it,” Kev said. “We’ve already been logical and pathetic.”


“So time for ethics.” He shrugged. “Good luck with that.”

It only hit me as they passed the needles through the door a few minutes later. It was probably not going to be much longer now. The door was open and basically they could burst in any time but were choosing not to, for whatever reason. And they were doing everything I asked. Like almost no one had ever before in my life. That was intoxicating.

And then another thing hit me. Two epiphanies in the space of five minutes. So this was what it was like when you had a clear head and time to think.

This was what I wanted to be when I grew up, with the rest of my life, if anything was left of it.

I turned back to the phone.

“Oscar, I’ve gotten to know you a little in talking with you over the past few hours, and I know that even if you’ve made some really bad decisions today, you’re not a total sociopath.” Actually that was what I thought, but this was an appeal to ethics. “Those first hostages, out on the floor, those were an accident, I know, in the heat of the moment. But if one of us dies in here, it’s different. It’s cold-blooded murder, Oscar. Do you think you can live with that for whatever will remain of your life?”

He didn’t respond.

“Look.” Had to think of something, anything else to say. “You said you’re totally alone, Oscar? Got no one?”


“Well, I don’t believe that either. Because I would have said the same thing earlier today, but now I have three other people depending on me.” That also just hit me. I wasn’t alone anymore and probably never would be again once I walked out of here, if I walked out of here. Once people sensed you were someone they could count on, they were never going to leave you alone—which meant I’d have to stop with the self-injury shit of drinking and sleeping around. “And you have at least your buddies out there. And then, Oscar, there’s all of the people who depend on the people who depend on you. Got it? None of us is really alone. What’s going to happen to your friends if you die?”

He mumbled something that sounded a lot like “mother” and not in the curse word sense of the term.

“What?” I couldn’t quite believe it. “Shit, Oscar, did you just say you have a mother?”


“And she’s alive? Well, Christ, then you’re really not alone. Even if you did kill someone. If you’ve got a mom, you’re not alone. All mothers care.” Even my mom, a professional party girl who had never gotten over being the prom queen that she was, had cared on some level. “What’s she going to do if you die? Oscar, we’ve both got people depending on us. Please.”

“I’ll let one of you out,” he said. “You. Just you.”

I let my breath out.

“Oscar,” I said, “I respect you for this. Really.” And I meant it. “We might all just get out of here alive.”

“What?” Kev said. “What’s going on?”

“They’ll release one of us.” I put down the phone.

Jake sighed. “That means the rest of us will probably follow right after.”

“Dylan, I think you and I can wait,” I said. “It should be Jake or Kevin first.”

“No,” Kev said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean who died and left you the triage unit? I can’t speak for Dylan and Jake, but I can wait.”

“I can too,” Jake said.

Dylan shrugged. “I think that means you’re going first, Sharona. Like he said. Do you think I didn’t hear him? I’m standing here right next to you and heard every freaking word.”

I let this sink in for a moment. “So you really think,” I said, “I’m supposed to go first just because I’m female, did most of the negotiations, and got shot a little?”

“Yes,” Jake and Kev said together.

“Ladies first.” Jake shrugged.

“How many times do I have to say it? I’m not a lady. I’m not a girl. I’m a grown woman who can make her own decisions.” I really was; there was no denying that little fact now. “And I’m telling you I just can’t do it. I don’t care if I’m the only female. Not when two of the guys in this room really need to get out. Remember what we decided before about gender stereotypes? We can’t do chivalry now.”

“It’s not chivalry.” Dylan spoke up, his voice dry. “It’s evolutionary, instinctive. To continue the species, you need a lot of women, just one guy. Basically, we can die.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kev said. “Will you shut the fuck up? For once?”

“For once? I haven’t talked in like hours.”

“Shut up,” Jake said. “Both of you.”

And they obeyed.

“I’m getting back on the phone,” I said. This was ridiculous. “I’ll talk him into letting one of you go first.”

“Sharona, you just can’t take that chance,” Kev said. “We can’t risk it. He might just withdraw the whole offer.”

“I’ve been negotiating with him for hours. I can get him to take this one more step.”

“No, and that’s final.”

“Your qualms about leaving us don’t even matter,” Dylan said. “Not if they’re asking for you. It isn’t even a matter of your being a woman.”

Crap. He was probably right. I put the phone back to my ear anyway, reflexively.

And got nothing. I looked at it, knowing I’d see the dark and blank screen.

“We’re powered down,” I said.

“Well, that really seals it,” Kev said. He had gotten up somehow, hanging onto the table. “Go, Sharona.”

I walked over to the door without thinking, just limbs moving automatically, and stood on the threshold. Then I turned back.

Kev had made it over to stand behind me.

“What if they’re lying?” I put my hand on his shoulder, more to steady than persuade him. “What if they just release me and not you guys?”

“If they do, they do. At least you’ll survive. I mean it, Sharona.” Kev shoved me forward. “Just go, or I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

“Do you really think I just put myself through hours of negotiation just to walk away from you guys?”

“Just go.” He shoved me again.

“Stop pushing.”

I stood on the threshold, biting my lip, then walked out into the hall. Was it really only a day or two ago I had breezed up and down this hall about ten times a shift on the way to the bathroom or the break room, not even noticing—it was just a hall, not some monumental and terrifying move into the unknown?

I stepped out and looked down the hall and through the store.

Oscar’s slim, short figure stood posted at the end of the hall. I didn’t see a gun anywhere, and the thought shot through my mind that he’d been unarmed this whole time. Wouldn’t that be a joke on me.

Further out through the store, not fifty feet away, in front and through the clear windows, a whole pack of police lined up, a bunch of squad cars parked behind them. It looked like it was dusk, the sun just setting.

So we’d probably been in that room about a day and a half.

One of the officers spoke through a bullhorn that blasted through the windows. “Sharona. Step forward. Now. Come out of the hall, then walk toward me.”

My vision blurred.

I swung around to the door. “I can’t. Remember? What we promised each other?”

“Oh, fuck.” Kev slammed his fist into the door. “Fuck you, Sharona. I don’t give a shit what we promised each other. Just go.”

“Not without you.” We’d all go down together.

“Sharona.” The policeman blared through the horn. “Walk toward me.”

Kev pushed again. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re just the first to go.”

He was right. Probably.

I took my first step down the hall. And then another. And another, keeping my eyes on Oscar the whole time. He stared back, face impassive.

I averted my gaze. These guys were like panthers—stare at them and they sprang. And this was no time to play dare-you.

I continued walking, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Oscar’s entire posse was lined up on either side—there were probably only four of them actually, looking back, but they seemed then like an entire platoon, lining the wall to infinity. I kept going, strides toward the doors.

Oh, thanks, guys, my dear fellow captives. Thanks a lot. You did me such a big favor, forcing me to go first.

No one made a move toward me.

And then I was at the double glass doors. They were automatic, no way to engage them manually without going in and doing some major monkeying. I stepped on the mat in front.

They didn’t move.

Fuck, the gunmen had locked us in here. We were stuck. It was all a trap.

“Sharona, that’s the entrance,” the cop said into the bullhorn. He had sandy hair, freckles, piercing blue eyes he kept trained on me. “Step over to the exit.”

I moved over as I suppressed hysterical laughter. I had only come in and out through these same doors every weekday for two years now.

The doors swung open.

And then two medics were on top of me, dragging me away. One of them slung someone’s big corduroy jacket across my shoulders. It smelled of cigarette smoke.

“What’s that for?” I attempted to shrug out of it. “I’m not cold.” It was a late summer Stockton afternoon. I’ve known Israelis from the freaking desert to come here and piss and moan about the heat.

The medic, one of those big, bossy nurse types, shoved it back on. “You’re in shock.”

“I am not ‘in shock.’” What the hell was there to be shocked about after a couple of days?

“Clinical shock.” The other medic, a guy with brown hair and glasses, also made an attempt to get the coat back on. “You’re shaking.”

He was right. I was freezing, short of breath, and dizzy.

“You need to be treated for that,” the bossy nurse said. “Get in the ambulance, Sharona.”

“No.” I knew that much about the law, that I had the right to refuse treatment as long as I had all my faculties. Well, I’d probably never had all of them but still enough to make decisions for myself. “I need to make sure the others make it out all right.”

“Sharona, you can’t.” The other medic, the guy, shook his head. “Staying here won’t make an iota of difference. You need to come to the hospital for treatment. You could lose oxygen, drop your blood pressure, and suffer major organ damage.”

“Shut up.” I was a hero of sorts and in shock. I was allowed some latitude.

He shut up, shaking his head.

That made me feel bad and I relented. “I need to see for myself. I’ll go in after, I promise.”

Then I shut them out for a few minutes and focused on my breathing until the dizziness cleared.

We all stayed there in the parking lot for hours, literally, eyes trained on the doors as the guys were released, one by one. Someone gave me something to drink at one point, couldn’t say what it even was, just that it was in a paper cup. I stood there drinking it as the doors kept swinging open.

A news crew and some paparazzi, the usual vultures, had gathered, of course, filming, taking pictures, tweeting. They kept announcing names for the audience watching from here and at home on TV as the guys were released. “Kevin Wasserman—Jakob Anderson—Dylan Alvarez—”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in me again at one point. “It’s the freaking Academy Awards,” I said.

No one laughed.

Jake and Kev were hauled over to the ambulances as soon as they got out. I wanted to go over but stayed where I was, not knowing at all how they’d feel about it. Now that it was ending, the entire episode was somehow already retreating into the past, weirdest thing, and I was a virtual stranger to them again.

Dylan and I were left in the parking lot with the medics.

“You two need to go in as well now.” The nurse, Betsy, was all brisk business again.

“I just want to go home.” I had promised to go in, but hell, like I’d never broken a promise before.

“You’re not going home,” the other medic, Thomas, said.

And Dylan said at the same time, “Really, Sharona? How are you planning to even drive? We can’t go home.”

He was right. I couldn’t go home again, at the risk of sounding cliché. I turned away from the store that the police were already storming.

And that was that. It was over.

We needed to get out of there before some ass of a reporter came over to ask us how we felt about it.

“Wait just a minute.”

“What is it now?” Dylan snapped.

“Just wait.” I turned back to the store and the police barricade and crowd milling about, eyes fixed on the store.

Oscar stood in front, flanked on either side by policemen, hands in cuffs.

I stared at him.

As if sensing my gaze, he looked up.

I glared.

He looked away.

I turned back to the others, and we walked across the parking lot toward the ambulance still waiting, the medics and Dylan flanking me. It was only a few steps, but it seemed like miles. My pace quickened as I walked, my pulse racing until I was almost running, seeming to leave the others miles behind, a few feet away in the parking lot.

This was it, the rest of my life I had been waiting for.



Stacia Levy lives in Sacramento, California, with her husband and daughter. She teaches writing at the college level.  Past publishing credits include short stories in The Blue Moon Review, Sambatyon, True Story, Storgy Magazine, and The Apalachee Review. Finally, she was a second-place winner in The Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards of 2010.  She has completed one novel of romantic suspense, California Gothic, published under the pen name Anastasia Levine.


By Rachel Chalmers

Life wants to be; life doesn’t always want to be much; life from time to time goes extinct…. Life goes on.

—Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything


have to write everything down while I still remember.

Dispatch called at 3 a.m. A hospital in Monterey. Insurance had sent a car.

I sat on the porch in the dark, reading the patient’s file. Erik Hagestad. A marine biologist and diver, a scientist at the research institute. He’d brushed against deepwater coral. The abrasions were severe. Antibiotic noncompliance led to sepsis. Headlights swept over me. My ride.

The driver had a serene soul. As he drove, he was thinking of his wife and daughters. Not words, just images. Very specific. The little one grinning, having lost a tooth. His wife’s hands forming masa into tortillas. It made for a peaceful drive.

In Monterey the sky was lighter. The air smelled of cypress and the sea. I tipped the driver $2,500. It was all I had on me. Nurse Devon Jagler met me in the lobby. She walked me to palliative care. A man stood outside the patient’s room. He was weeping. The nurse introduced him. Somebody Smith. Milton?

“Are you the husband?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But he’s my best mate. My dive buddy. This was my fault.”

What was there to say? Smith’s was a blokey soul. Deep wells of love all dammed beneath the surface. “Did Mr. Hagestad have a plan?” I asked them both.

“Erik,” said Smith.

“Did Erik have a death plan on file?”

“No,” said Jagler. She had a pure professional surface and behind it, a storm of anger. “He wasn’t reconciled,” she said. “Thought he could beat it. Didn’t take his meds.”

“Do you know his wishes?” I asked Smith.

“He wanted,” said Smith, “not to die.”

We all took a breath. Then the nurse showed me into the patient’s room.

I’ve attended sixty-seven deaths. About two a month for the three years since I qualified. This was the sixty-eighth. Here’s what I’ve learned. Deaths are as different as souls. Some are diffuse. The self just fading away like fog. Some burn with futile rage. A few, very few, are like weddings. A consummation.

Hagestad’s was wrong. I took a step back.

He was there. Detached and faint, but there. But he wasn’t alone. Even that’s not unknown. Rare, but reported. Twin or even triplet souls. Like multiple births. This wasn’t that.

The others were specks. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. I thought of bees. A swarm. If I could have smelled them, iron filings. “I need air,” I said. I left the room. I pressed my hands against the wall in the corridor. I bowed my head. I counted the beats of my heart.

Smith and Jagler watched me from the door. Eyes full of questions.

“I apologize,” I said. “Unprofessional of me.”

“Can I get you a glass of water?” asked Jagler.

“His injury,” I said. “He was diving?”

“I was with him,” said Smith. “Collecting samples.”

“You had wetsuits, gloves?” I said. “How was he hurt?”

“The neoprene tore,” said Smith. “I saw the blood in the water. His leg was laid right open.”

“This was an infection?” I asked the nurse. She hesitated.

“We thought so,” she said. “We prescribed antibiotics.”

“He wouldn’t finish the course,” said Smith.

“It breeds resistance,” said Jagler. She was very calm. She was very angry. A yin-yang soul.

“I’m not sure it did,” I said. “Or wait, maybe it did. But not in the way you mean.” They both looked at me blankly. “Listen,” I said. “Do you have an implant tech? Has anyone looked at the hardware? At his bot?”

“Amilcar’s on call,” said the nurse.

“Call now,” I said. She went. I liked her.

“I know how this sounds,” said Smith, “but is something wrong? I mean, more wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

There was a noise from the room behind him. A groan. A word? I saw Smith’s pupils dilate. Felt his adrenaline leap. He turned. I came to the door.

Hagestad’s eyes were open. “Water,” he said. Or seemed to say.

Smith scrambled to help him.

I stared at the souls. Hagestad’s own was fainter. Farther away. The others burned around his body. Bright as galaxies. Small as a pulse.

“Erik,” said Smith. “Erik.” He held the glass, helped Hagestad up. Hagestad drank greedily. The water spilled down his chin. He made no move to wipe it away.

Smith laid him down tenderly. Hagestad gazed at the ceiling, blinking. Then he turned his head to the right and looked at us. Then he turned to the left and looked out the window. His movements were jerky.

“Is this normal?” Smith asked. I didn’t know what to tell him.

Nurse Jagler came back. “The tech says he’ll be here in ten,” she said.

“He’s awake,” said Smith.

“What? No. That’s not possible,” said Jagler.

“He spoke to us. His eyes are open.”

Jagler went to the patient. She leaned over and looked him in the eye. Frowning, she shone a flashlight in each pupil. She timed his pulse. When she’d finished, she dropped his hand. It smacked onto his thigh.

She came back to where we were standing in the doorway. She did it without taking her eyes off him.

Smith asked, “Is he getting better?” His voice was raw.

“I—” said Jagler, and she stopped for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I must have been mistaken.”

We kept vigil. Our backs were against the wall. Hagestad lay still. His eyes were open. There was a tap at the door. The implant tech. Amilcar Rodriguez Maldonado. He scanned Hagestad’s implant. He read the results. He frowned, restarted his reader, scanned again. He read the new results. He looked up at the three of us.

“Well, this is weird,” he said.

“He’s getting better, right?” Smith asked.

I looked at Hagestad’s soul. It was even farther away. He was not getting better. The swarm of other souls had pulled in even closer. His body was a planet with a constellation of small bright moons.

“The implant is active,” said Amilcar carefully. “The hardware. But what the bot is doing—the software—is strange.”

“Could his condition have caused it to malfunction?” I asked.

“Has he seized?” Amilcar asked. Nurse Jagler nodded. “Well, maybe,” Amilcar said. “The electrical disturbance might have shorted part of it out. But it doesn’t really look like that.”

“What does it look like?” I asked.

He made a frustrated gesture. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he said. “If this were your phone, I would say it had been owned.”

“He owns it, doesn’t he?” asked Jagler impatiently.

“Not like that,” said Amilcar. “Hacked. Subverted. That kind of owned. Like it’s been wiped and reformatted with new software for some other purpose.”

“Okay,” I said. “Could his condition have caused that?” The other three just stared at me.

“I don’t really understand what you’re asking,” said Amilcar. He wanted to help me put the pieces together. Solve the puzzle. But he couldn’t see what I saw. And I couldn’t see what he saw.

Hagestad had turned his head again. His eyes were a little more focused. He was looking directly at me. I took a step toward him. Away from Smith and Jagler. But not too close.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

He swallowed, licked his lips.

“You know who,” he said.

I love them all. You can’t ease a soul’s passing without love. I don’t mean sentimentality. I mean the hard love. The kind that measures Cheyne-Stokes respiration as it slows. That closes eyelids. That washes blood and shit off a cooling corpse. A death doula’s work is insupportable without it. And I mourn when the last vestige of that self is gone.

So I am ashamed of what I felt then. Marvel. Wonder. A curiosity that snatched and closed like a fist. The bone-deep thrill of that reply and what it meant. But also the knowledge that I was the first to identify this thing. The first to know what it was. That it had spoken to me. That history will remember me for this.

“You are the coral,” I said.

“We are,” said the souls in Hagestad’s body.

“What the fuck,” said Smith.

“Can you restore him?” I asked them.

The blue eyes went vague again. I realized that they were conferring.

“No, we can’t,” they said. “He can’t be here with us.”

“Does he have unfinished business?” I asked. That, at least, I can be proud of. Hagestad’s own soul seemed to flicker.

“Tell Milton not to blame himself. Tell him it was all worth it.”

Smith’s knees buckled. Jagler, half his mass, caught him before he collapsed.

“Let him go,” I said to the coral.

The last thread of connection to Erik Hagestad stretched to its limit and snapped.

“He’s gone,” I said.

“But he’s talking,” whispered Smith.

“It’s not him,” I said. The swarm of souls seemed to concentrate in the body. Penetrating the cooling skin. Its movements were already less jerky.

“You’re in his blood,” I said.


“You hacked his implant.”

“We did.”

“What do you want?”

“More,” it said.

“Uh,” said Amilcar, “is it okay if—can I go?” His brown skin had paled and he was sweating.

“More what?” I asked.


The body grabbed Amilcar’s hand holding the reader. It crushed hand and reader in its fist. Their mingled blood dripped on the floor. Amilcar screamed and screamed. I pushed Smith and Jagler out of the room and slammed the door behind us. The screaming trailed off.

“Run,” I said.

“Amilcar,” said Jagler.

“It’s blood-borne,” I said. “The coral…owns him. Amilcar is already dead.”

I could feel his soul being severed. Kind, inquisitive Amilcar. I held the door closed. Jagler took out a key and locked it.

It won’t hold them long. We called the police. They called the Feds. We were evacuated and placed in quarantine. I can feel Jagler and Smith nearby. Alone and afraid like me. I can feel the monsters like beehives. I was allowed paper and pencil. I have to write down everything I remember. If I get to publish this, my name will never die.



Rachel Chalmers is an Australian writer living in San Francisco. She studied English Literature at the University of Sydney and won the Wentworth Travelling Fellowship. She moved to Ireland to work with Peter Fallon, Brendan Kennelly, and Terence Brown. She graduated from Trinity College, Dublin with a master’s in Anglo-Irish Literature. Her work has appeared in Exposition Review, Good Works Review, Marlboro Review, New Scientist, Painted Bride Quarterly, Penmen Review, and Salon.