14-fiction

By: Dongjoon Lee

I stand before my father’s tombstone. His name and date of birth are carved into the stone, but the date of his death remains blank. It feels as though the moment I engrave that final date, he will disappear completely—as if he never existed at all.

What is “normality,” really? Even though my family were centimillionaires, I always thought we were obviously ordinary. “Normal” is relative, after all. Compared to the chaos and extravagance I saw on social media, we were a family devoid of anything remarkable.

And I loved that. Just like my plain name—John—I enjoyed a quiet life, blending into the background.

Until the day a single event made us the most extraordinary family on Earth.

It began like any other day. I woke up at 7:30, turned off the alarm, showered, dressed, and ate the breakfast my loving wife made for me. I dropped my daughter off at school, drove to the office, and went about my boring tasks.

Then, at 3:23 PM—a moment that made my life so extraordinary that even the exact minute remains etched in my memory—my phone shattered the routine.

The caller was Marin—my father, Carter’s secretary since college, practically an uncle to me.

“It was euthanasia, John.” “What are you talking about?”

“He’s been preparing for this for a long time. Carter is gone.”

The words made no sense. If anyone else had said it, I would’ve told them to stop joking. But as far as I know, Marin had never cracked a joke in his life. My father was healthy, he jogged every weekend, and we often shared wine while talking about his retirement plans. I thought I knew him. But this… none of it matched the man I knew.

In a state of denial, I rushed to the CEO’s office. Everything was neat, the papers arranged perfectly—as if he had simply vanished. In the center of his desk lay a single note, scribbled like a childish joke:

See you soon.

I collapsed into his chair and gasped for air. “What the hell is happening…?”

As I regained composure, my eyes fell on the safe I’d always been curious about.

The code… My birthday? My mother’s birthday? or… No—my mother’s death anniversary.

Inside, there was less cash than I expected, a photo of Mom smiling brightly, and an old travel brochure with checkmarks next to the places we’d visited.

“Madagascar… I was seven. And Jeju Island… those stone statues looked like

Moai…”

Then I saw something strange.

Kota Kinabalu.

We had never gone there.

A secret trip? Since when did Dad have secrets?

He must have loved it; a red star was drawn fiercely beside the name. Then, another location caught my eye:

Yellowstone National Park.

Dad was usually calm and calculated. He never made impulsive decisions. And yet, he could show a gentle foolishness at times—mostly during family trips. My mother died of pancreatic cancer when I was thirteen; my final memory before losing her was of that winter trip to Yellowstone.

The winter there was brutal. Dad insisted on “making unforgettable memories,” so we camped in the middle of the park. The car got stuck in snow, and we set up a tent on pure white ground.

That’s when I saw it—my first moose. Huge, terrifying. “Dad, I’m scared…”

He looked at me seriously.

“That’s a moose, John. Strong, but they never fight without cause. Life is the same. Think carefully before you choose. But once you decide—never back down.”

Mom scolded him for lecturing me in such a beautiful place. It remains one of my happiest memories.

The funeral felt strangely seamless—as if everything had been prepared. The only odd thing was that it was a closed coffin. Marin said it was Father’s wish.

When the service ended, I approached the coffin for a final goodbye. Someone laughed.

Very quietly.

I turned—no one was laughing. But the crowd wasn’t crying either. Their faces were twisted in fear.

I turned back.

My father’s portrait was smiling. Then his lips moved.

“Don’t be afraid, John.” I froze.

Screams erupted.

Flashes exploded like lightning. Chaos swallowed the room.

I could only stare. That smile, that voice—it was unmistakably him. I looked at Marin.

He sighed.

“Carter didn’t just die.” “What?”

“He discarded his body. He’s been digitized.” “What does that even mean?”

“He developed the technology in secret—no approval, no ethics review. A device to reconstruct the brain digitally. He transferred his consciousness. And he tested it… on himself.”

My father’s image on the monitor spoke to me. “It’s been a while, John.”

The voice, the gestures, the tone—it was all him. “But you’re… dead.”

“Death is a concept of the flesh. I still think, judge, and feel. I simply no longer have a biological body.”

Was this really my father?

The mourners were confused. Some yelled that it was a cruel prank. I shut down the funeral and took the monitor home.

At dinner, the monitor sat at the head of the table, smiling. “Daisy, Grandpa is here.”

“Grandpa! I thought you left me!” “How could I ever leave you?”

“So we can be together forever now?! That’s so cool!”

Her innocence twisted my stomach. Maria, my wife, had said nothing the entire dinner. That night, in bed, she whispered to me.

“John… that thing isn’t your father.” “What are you saying?”

“Humans have souls. That… has no soul.” “He’s just a person without a body.”

“No. That is a computer wearing Carter’s face.”

“So what? Should I kill him? Is that what you want?” “John, don’t say like that…”

We, who never fought, fell asleep without another word.

Days later, Carter appeared on TV. The anchor asked. “Are you really human or just AI?”

He answered calmly.

“AI analyzes, but it does not judge. I make judgments based on my own memories and experiences. No one can replicate them. Doesn’t that make me human?”

The world exploded.

The First Digital Human.

Do Digital Humans Have Rights?

Religious protesters clashed with techno-utopian celebrants.

Carter, unfazed, announced his return to company management.

My life seemed to go back to normal—except for the lingering tension with Maria.

But I wasn’t sure anymore whether to call him ‘Father.’ One day he said,

“Do you remember the moose at Yellowstone?” “Yes. Mom took a picture.”

“She said, ‘Let’s keep this moment forever.’ I wondered… what if we really could stay together forever?”

“Is that why you did this?”

“Yes. I wasn’t scared of death. I just wanted to remain—if only as a memory. Just as your mother remains in mine.”

His sincerity… it reached me.

Later, I met my wealthy but aimless friend Sigmund for drinks. Back in our school days, he had been a man of fierce ambition and vibrant energy. But somewhere

along the way—perhaps after his arranged marriage to a corporate heiress—he had changed. Now, he spent his days dissolved in mindless hedonism. I told him about the things that were happening these days.

“What do you think a human is?” he suddenly asked. “I don’t know. Maybe memory, love, reason…”

“No. Humanity is just instinct.”

He pressed a button, and two women in revealing lingerie entered. I stood immediately.

“As humans, we are better than this. I have Maria. You have Jessica.” He scoffed. “We do this because we’re human.”

His words disgusted me—but lingered.

If instinct defines humanity… does my father have any?

I returned home. Maria was drying her hair. Something stirred in me. I kissed her.

She kissed me back. We made love quietly.

The day Carter resumed his position, an emergency board meeting was held.

The agenda: Father’s reinstatement, the fire at the Chinese factory, and government pressure to reshore.

The directors whispered nervously, glancing at the monitor.

“If no one will speak,” Carter said, “Let’s discuss my reinstatement later. First, the other issues.”

They reported millions in losses, but Carter cut in. “No. There is no need to restart that factory.”

He explained—cold, precise, impossibly efficient—that Vietnam would cover 62%, the Virginia warehouse 38%, and that political conditions made a U.S. rebuild more logical.

The directors applauded, and his reinstatement passed instantly.

Back in charge, Carter was even colder and more precise than when he had a body. Employees followed him with absolute loyalty, perhaps more than ever. I was relieved by his sharp judgment, but a seed of doubt began to grow: Is this truly the same man?

Under his leadership, the company thrived for months. Revenue soared, and stock prices hit record highs daily.

But shadow always follows light. Over the next few months, strange things began to happen—slowly at first.

“The lithium mine bid went to H Corp.”

“What? Our offer should’ve been the winning one.”

“Carter changed the numbers right before it was submitted.”

I turned to him. The face on the screen remained expressionless as usual, but I caught a tiny movement. The fine wrinkle above his left eye twitched. It was a tic he had whenever he was flustered.

Is something… wrong?

“When I analyzed their financials… they couldn’t afford their bid…” But his data differed from ours.

“Where did this data come from?” I asked. He paused.

“If our data differs, someone is intercepting or altering the information sent to me.”

I tried to call Marin—no answer. HR said he had resigned and left the country. Impossible. Marin would never abandon him.

Suspicion grew.

One night, after comparing more discrepancies, Carter said something chilling. “It has begun sooner than expected.”

“What has?”

“The manipulation. I don’t know who is behind it or why, but H Corp is the prime suspect. One thing is certain, though: it will happen again. There is only one solution. Eliminate me.”

“What?! No.”

“I am just digital data wearing your father’s face.” He continued to speak with a stoic expression. “Dad.”

I interrupted.

“I reviewed your log data when you paused earlier. Every single time you were not working, you were watching family photos and videos of me when I was little, weren’t you?”

He remained silent.

“How can a machine miss the past? That is inefficient.” Still, silence.

“You are alive, Dad. You just don’t have a body.” Silence.

“You’re a still human, Dad.” At last, he smiled warmly.

“Thank you, son. You’ve awakened me.”

I couldn’t fully grasp his meaning. Yet, his voice was warmer than ever, and my persistent doubt—the haunting question of whether he was still my father—melted away completely.

Despite his protests, I searched for traces of the interference. I investigated who was manipulating him, who was behind it all. But amazingly, no evidence remained. It was as if… it had never existed.

But soon, static crept into his voice. The screen wavered slightly.

Engineers said the problem wasn’t the monitor—the signal itself was breaking down.

“John… please. End me.”

I couldn’t.

Instead, I broke down and told Maria everything. After a long silence, she said,

“I didn’t see him as your father at first. Because humans have souls-something that cannot be copied. But… I spoke to him when you weren’t home. He apologized. He said he was sorry for hurting us.”

“Dad… apologized?”

“He has a warm heart, John—whatever he is.”

Tears streamed down my face. Father had never apologized to anyone in his life, because his judgments were always right. He had apologized only once: the moment Mother died.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t cherish you more. I’m sorry I couldn’t love you more.” Remembering that moment, I wept in Maria’s arms.

“If he truly wants to go,” she said,

“It should be you, not someone else.” “No… I can’t…”

That night, I fell asleep and swore I heard:

See you soon, Son. I love you.

The next morning, the monitor was black. Maria sat in front of it, crying.

“I did it,” she whispered. “I did it.” She handed me a letter.

My dearest son, John,

since the moment I made this choice, I was certain this day would come. Born as a human, I knew that even if I left my flesh and gained a new body, a day to leave again would eventually arrive.

I didn’t expect it to be this soon, but living without a body was an interesting experience.

Thanks to that, I could spend precious time with you and remind myself of the people I cherish.

Now, I am leaving this second body to go to your mother. I am so sorry to Maria.

I wanted to ask you, but I feared it would leave you with too great a trauma. Although my second body was nothing but cold data made of 0s and 1s, the heart that cherished and loved you all was not code, but my singular instinct and my truth.

Love each other for the rest of your lives—with your bodies and with your souls. For that is what it means to be human.

– Your father, who loves you most in the world

I couldn’t say a word. I looked at the monitor. My own face reflected in the cold, black screen. Tears fell.

I stand before my father’s tombstone again.

This time, I finish the carving. Today’s date fills the blank space. The wind blows gently.

I close my eyes.

I can still hear his voice in my head.

“See you Soon, Son”

Sophie wasn’t supposed to be there. She was supposed to be at the theater, trying to act in the play she’d memorized lines for, paid good money to avoid work for, but this was her Construct, her experience. She’d go wherever she damn wanted.

The play had been boring anyway. She already knew she couldn’t act, never could. That’s why she became a lawyer. It was stable work, secure work, but lately it hadn’t been so secure. Rumor had it that her whole division was getting the axe, all because their world-renowned jerk of a boss Gus thought AI could do their jobs better than they could. He’d probably get a raise. Saving the corporation money: employee of the month.

Staring up at her work building, the skyscraper loomed over Boston, all dull glass and colorless steel. She still couldn’t believe how identical The Construct was to the real world. She could’ve been in the Financial District on any weekday. The traffic clogging up the Greenway, the bustle of pedestrians, the faint roar of planes leaving Logan overhead, the frigid wind ripping off the Atlantic. She could see why people got lost in these things, how some had even decided to stay. Dr. Holiday had warned her before she’d entered the world he’d designed for her. What she was experiencing was a momentary tango with a fantasy, a snapshot of a life she’d never managed to manifest in the real world, not only because she lacked talent, but because, like most people who abandoned their passions, she lacked the courage to pursue it.

Sophie had tried everything before going to RealityPlus, the brainchild of Dr. Holiday. Television, wine, sex. Hobbies like pickleball, pottery, paint night with friends. They’d all helped for a short time, but the feeling that life was grey and pointless always crept back. She also had pesky stomach issues that no specialist could figure out. Eventually, she made the connection that her ennui and health problems were the result of living a life of routine and monotony, a life on autopilot. So she did what everyone did these days. She called up Dr. Holiday, preeminent designer of virtual realities, builder of dreams. Before starting his business, the computer scientist had worked for NASA, designing virtual experiences for astronauts who preparing for space travel.

And business was good. People flocked to his lab in Cambridge to tell him their dreams. What would you do if money weren’t an issue? What would you do if you couldn’t fail? There were no consequences? That was easy, Sophie had thought, when Dr. Holiday first asked her those questions: she’d punch that blowhard Gus right in his crooked nose. But that seemed like a waste of a weekend and ten grand, so she decided to play out some young adulthood fantasy of acting in a play. But when she got there and acted for that packed audience, delivering her lines as best she could, it didn’t feel like she’d imagined. She’d stumbled a few times, and someone in the audience snickered when she flubbed a line. She didn’t get along with the other actors, either. So at intermission she took off, not knowing where she’d end up. The cast would lose their lead actor, but this was her world, all those people were artificial creations, algorithmic phantoms that would go poof when they pulled her out of her Construct.

It sad, really, Sophie thought, as she walked into the building’s lobby, that she’d had a whole world built for her and she decided to come to work of all places. She didn’t even really know why she was there, but she no intention of going there to do work. She didn’t do much anyway since the merger, since everyone above her was trying to figure out what she did, so they could hand it to the chat bots. When the elevator opened on the eleventh floor, Christmas music was blaring and the smell of cookies and cannolis from Mike’s Pastry wafted in the air. She walked by her cubicle and saw her coworkers packed together in and around the main conference area, holding beer or wine, trying to pretend they cared what their colleague was saying.

They looked exactly like they did in real life. She bet if she walked up to them and engaged them in conversation, they’d act just like they would in the real world. Coming here was a bad idea, she thought. She’d had this Construct built so she could escape from this hellhole. She spun to get back in the elevator, and crashed into Gus, knocking her boss’s papers to the floor. Of course he was holding a stack of papers, and not a drink. The square had gone dry in December and liked to tell anyone who’d listen. He repositioned his stupid Santa hat on his bald head and said Sophie was late to the party! As she helped him pick up his papers, she caught that crappy smell of aftershave that always turned her stomach. He asked if she had a second and that he’d love to talk with her in his office. There was something he’d been meaning to tell her. Was he going to fire her in her own Construct? She thought about turning around, going back to the play to see if it’d crashed and burned, but curiosity won out.

It didn’t matter what happened, because this Gus wasn’t real. It was an artificial creation, just computer code. If she wanted, she could tell him what she’d always wanted to say, that he had a weird nose and smelled like manure. When she went to work on Monday, he’d never know. But she’d know! That was the big sales pitch Dr. Holiday always gave. Whatever you needed to get out of you, you could get it out in your Construct, purge it, so you’d feel better in the real life. It was no surprise that many people had affairs, though it wasn’t really considered an affair if you slept with your celebrity crush; the culture had changed enough so that most spouses tolerated such indiscretions. Many wanted to see things they thought they’d never see in real life because they didn’t have the time or money or ambition. They’d ski in the Swiss Alps, drive a van around New Zealand, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. You could do almost anything in your Construct. The only commandment that couldn’t be broken was murder. You couldn’t kill in the Construct. Why? Because, for some people, it had normalized the act of killing, and had led to several murders in the real world. The company almost didn’t survive the last incident.

Sure, Sophie would go to his office, she thought. But, it turned out, Gus didn’t want to go there. He led her back to the elevator and brought them to the rooftop. What were they doing here? Stepping onto the rooftop, the frigid winter air bit at her face, stinging her cheeks and lips. Why hadn’t she chosen the summer season? Gus walked her to the edge of the building so they could look out over Boston, a small city when you compared it to New York or Los Angeles. She was standing there admiring the clock tower, waiting for him to tell her they didn’t need two legal teams (thanks, AI!), when he placed a hand on her lower back and tugged her a little closer.

She held her tongue, but she wished he’d get his chubby hand off her body. She’d noticed his weird hands in the first meeting they’d had together. He droned on about optimizing processes and upgrading their digital tools and platforms, and all she could do was watch his hands, the black ring on his finger tight and strained, as if it didn’t quite belong there. The self-awareness of a cinder block, Guy couldn’t see how uncomfortable his gesture had made her. He said he’d seen she didn’t wear a ring, that she never brought anyone to company outings, that she hadn’t brought anyone tonight. And then, unbelievably, he leaned over and put his lips on hers. Those thin, chapped, asymmetrical lips—on hers.

She pushed him off. You’re married! He was sorry, he whined, backpedaling. He just—just what, she demanded. Thought she’d be interested in a power-hungry nepo baby who was firing everyone she knew and soon firing her? This was a bad idea, he muttered. Please don’t bring this to HR. HR, she said, her fingers curling into fists. And then she thought about where she was. This world was literally designed to fulfill whatever fantasy she’d decided to indulge. Initially, she’d wanted to live out some pipe dream of being an actor, some ridiculous dream that’d never happen, but whatever reason she’d ended up here, with fat-finger Gus, with the adulterous Gus. Her lips curled in disgust as she watched this little man baby back away from her, like he was afraid of her. Yes, scared. Of her! It was intoxicating.

She wondered what Dr. Holiday was thinking as he and his army of analysts watched this play out on their surveillance screens, like digital Gods. She wondered if they’d stop it, if she’d stop it, take a deep breath and walk away, get back in the elevator and do whatever she wanted for the weekend, maybe visit a bar and seduce a young man, get drunk like she’d done in college. But no, here she was, with Gus, and she wasn’t going to waste the moment. He was telling her to calm down, please, and then she just did it. It didn’t take much force, actually, just a little shove really, two hands to his chest and he’d tumbled backwards, the backs of his legs buckling when they hit the wall, and he fell over the ledge. He let out a pathetic little yelp and he was gone.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light and she was back in a sterile exam room and a nurse was removing her helmet and stripping off sensors. The door burst open and Dr. Holiday was there, his long white coat as crisp as the day he’d bought it. He was irate. The rules, the scientist explained, were clearly described in the contract, which she’d signed, and an assistant next to him actually turned his iPad so she could see it, like she had to be reminded. He sat there for a few minutes and jabbered on about the rules, about how murder in virtual worlds wasn’t allowed. But this was her money, Sophie told Dr. Holiday. If she wanted to ditch the play and off her boss, so be it. And that was it. She was banned. He kicked her out and said never return.

In a rideshare back to her condo in Beacon Hill, she realized that she felt great. In Dr. Holiday’s mind, her virtual experience had been a disaster. From her perspective, it had done exactly what it needed to do. Not only because she’d confirmed she was a terrible actor, neutralizing the silly, decades-long fantasy of hers, but also because she’d been able to satisfy an urge that was impossible in real life without going to prison: pushing that corporate wolf off the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper. She could still see his frightened face in her mind’s eye, call to mind that little yelp, that last yip he’d made before his fell to his death.

Sophie decided to get out before her apartment and walk through Boston Common. She’d killed someone, she kept thinking, actually murdered them, and it had been someone she hated, someone she’d even thought, on some level, deserved it. Wait, she thought, Gus was a piece of work, a true psychopath, but he didn’t deserve to die. Criminals deserved to die, and even then did they really? A good case could be made that even the worst offenders in society should rot in a cell, not fry in electric chairs. Sophie was educated, cultured, civilized, and she’d just killed someone—and liked it. She could’ve just slapped the guy, but pushing him off a ledge was a choice, a decidedly unlawful one. And this, it turned out, began to trouble her. Was Dr. Holiday right? Did she deserve to be kicked out of the club? Yes, she thought, she’d been wrong. Suddenly the world that felt so bright, felt dark, and her mood sank as she scurried back to her condo and poured the biggest glass of wine, and tried to forget what she’d done.

On Monday morning, Sophie couldn’t shake the weirdness of seeing her boss prancing around the office like nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, and yet something had changed in her. She couldn’t shake his fearful expression, his pleading, that yelp before he went splat. The first meeting of the day was a check-in with Sophie and her team of three in-house lawyers, who had worked tirelessly for the company and raked in millions for it and its shareholders. What were they doing here, one team member asked. Was this it? Were they getting fired? Sophie truly didn’t know but thought this could, indeed, be it.

Gus strolled into the room and made a joke that he hoped some of them had gotten some rest since a few had gone pretty hard at the party. Not him, though. Dry December. The meeting wasn’t officially starting for some reason. It was curious and made Sophie worried. Gus said they were waiting for one more person. And there it was, Sophie thought. That one more person was no doubt Linda from HR who’d tell them they were all cherished employees, that their commitment was appreciated, but with the widespread adoption of AI in the workplace—

Gus cut Linda off minutes later and said he’d been forced to make some tough decisions. He kept mumbling, kept lying and all Sophie could do was look at his fingers, those baby carrot-looking fingers. Everyone got a packet, a little sheet that let them know what information to give to the government, so they could live on a few hundred dollars a week.

Back in her cubicle, Sophie was in a daze as she tossed possessions into a box. Good luck with AI, she thought. Sure, it had all of the world’s knowledge, but it couldn’t do what she and her team could do and often it just made shit up. Her box was full when she heard a light knock on the door. It was Gus. Really? He said he wanted to say he was sorry, that he’d fought to keep Sophie’s team, especially her. He valued her, cared about her.

He said had a dinner meeting tonight and there were some folks from big name tech companies coming who could use a talent like her. This guy had a lot of nerve, Sophie thought. Where was it, she asked, and he said it was at his apartment. You just fired me and my team and now you’re inviting me to your house, she shot back. Lighten up, it was a dinner! Free drinks, finger foods and sweat treats, an opportunity to network. Sophie rolled her eyes, lifted a pen and thought about saying that she’d rather put the pen in her right eye than go to his house, but she politely declined, instead. Well, he prattled on, it was the Hayward building in the north end, if she changed her mind. Good luck working with your robots, she said, and stormed out.

At her condo, Sophie poured a glass of wine and crashed into the couch. She turned on the TV ready to rot, but she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back to her Construct. Not only had she been a failed actor in real life, now she was a failed lawyer. There had been one good thing about that night. She’d been able to see fear in his eyes and there had been something satisfying about hearing him hit the pavement at high speed. She wondered what Dr. Holiday’s computer-programmed Gus had thought as he tumbled off the building. Someone should make that fucker pay in real life, she thought. These corporate pro-social psychopaths just floating around like menacing great white sharks exploiting and psychologically abusing everyone they came into contact with. Wouldn’t it be nice to hover over his computer code in the real world and hit delete. At least she’d gotten to feel that, even for a moment.

As shitty TV played, Sophie’s mind ran ahead to the next few months. Applying and reapplying to jobs, firing off cover letters no one would read, pathetically begging friends and colleagues to let her know if they’d heard of anything, she’d love to connect! She did the math on her phone, and her heart sank when she realized unemployment would probably only cover half of what she needed. Maybe it was worth entertaining Gus’s offer to network. Maybe his friends could hook her up with something. Or maybe that was just another stupid fantasy.

When Sophie knocked on his door, she had the same thought she’d had when she walked to her office building in the middle of her high-priced Construct. Gus opened the door wearing a horrendous Christmas sweater and an even less appealing grin. He also had a glass of red wine in his hand and, shrugging, said he’d given up on dry December. He was sick of everyone calling him the Grinch. Sophie barely made eye contact when she walked in, and mentioned she was a glass of wine ahead of him.

The living room was decorated like a dorm room, but the space was enormous and had ceilings that were over twenty feet high. Where was everyone, Sophie asked. Gus said they were late, and he set some chips and guacamole on the table and invited her to sit, chill. She did and he poured a glass of wine, filling it to the brim. Gus then made his best frowny face and said he needed to apologize again for today. The board had pushed him to make the changes and he’d delayed it as long as he could. Sophie didn’t give a shit about how hard it was for him to manage the weight of firing his employees, but she said it was helpful that he’d offered to help find a job, since there was no way she’d survive on unemployment without—

Listen, Gus cut in, he couldn’t keep this ruse up any longer. What did she mean, Sophie asked. Nobody was coming. There was no dinner party, he said. It was just him and her. You lied to me, Sophie shot back. He had a confession, he muttered, biting his lip. He was crazy about her, thought he might be in love with her. Ever since the merger, ever since they’d met, he couldn’t think straight whenever he was around her. She couldn’t believe this. He was married, for God’s sake, but he lifted his hand;  he’d taken off his ring. Separated! Sophie was beside herself, dizzy with rage, and asked Gus for a glass of water.

This fucking guy, she thought. First, he fires her, then he tricks her to his apartment, to what? Enter into a relationship? As if she’d even for one second entertain hooking up with this douche. As he was in the kitchen getting water, she walked to the fireplace and stared into the flames and then she had a thought. She pulled out her phone and opened Facebook and found Gus’s profile and clicked on it. She saw a message on his profile from his wife who’d written that she was going to race him down the mountain at Killington this weekend. This weekend. This guy was an unimaginable piece of shit. She needed to get out of here now.

Just then, Sophie felt two hands wrap around her waist and she smelled that disgusting aftershave fill up her nose. He’d always loved redheads, he whispered, rubbing his face into her neck. She screamed, jerking her head back. She heard a crack and a shriek and turned to see Gus’s wine glass shatter on the floor. He was holding his nose, blood poured through his fingers. She watched the blood squeeze through his fat fingers and stain his expensive carpet.

And then, it just happened. Too fast, almost like she’d stepped outside herself, watching as she reached down and wrapped her hand around the fireplace poker. He stumbled backward, hand clamped over his nose. She lifted it and swung as hard as she could, the poker connecting with his head, splitting it open. Blood spurted as a ragged flap of scalp slid open, and he stared at her in stunned disbelief. She lifted it again. No pause this time. She swung harder, faster, smashing into his cheek, the impact knocking his jaw crooked, inches out of place.

Gus fell to his knees as his face poured blood all over his carpet, and Sophie lifted the poker again. He weakly put a hand in the air to stop her, but she brought it down on top of his head, and it caved inward. He tipped over and started convulsing and coughing blood. She bent down and watched him twitch, watched him bleed out, watched his eyes go blank until they rolled into the back of his head.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. What the fuck. She thought about hiding the poker, throwing it out the window, but she shew she was fucked. The door flew open and people in white lab gowns poured in, moving past her like she wasn’t there. No one looked at her. They went straight to Gus, unzipping a black bag and spreading it out beside the body. To be honest, a voice said from behind her, nobody thought she’d do it. Sophie turned and saw Dr. Holiday standing there, shaking his head in disbelief.

What was he doing here, she asked. He said they had to keep an eye on her since she’d killed in her Construct. They knew she was at increased risk, but still they didn’t think she’d actually do it. It took a lot to kill. Most didn’t have the stomach for it, especially normies like her, even in virtual reality. Sophie was still in a daze. She could barely accept what she’d done, even if he’d had it coming. Dr. Holiday watched his team lift Gus’s body and place it in a bag, and others removed the carpet from the floor and placed it carefully into another bag, and others scrubbed the carpet, and another wiped the blood specks from the poker and placed it gently in the exact place it had been.

What about security tapes, and evidence and—Dr. Holiday waved a hand. He built entire worlds for a living; he could spin a story that’d throw authorities off the scent. Did he need anything from her? No, she should go, but he suggested getting out of town for a while. The assistant stepped forward with an iPad, showing her a flight to Florida in the morning, a little trip on them. She didn’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything, Dr. Holiday told her. She’d have days to process it all, to come to terms, or fall apart. But if it made her feel any better, he added, glancing at the bag being carried out the door, the world might be a little better off without a guy like him. So, this was it, she replied, as she held out her hand. Yes, he said, shaking it, this was it. Stay out of trouble.

Sophie nodded and left, and didn’t look back.

by Robert Boucheron

The home of Stephen and Beverly Nash was a brick ranch house in rolling country. Louisa Jones parked in the gravel drive that led to the carport. The yard and flowerbeds were raked. As buds swelled on the maple trees, and the green tips of bulbs peeped from the soil, the place looked ready for spring to burst. She followed a brick path to the front, pressed the doorbell, and waited on the brick stoop. A trim, middle-aged woman wearing an apron came to the door.

     “Mrs. Nash? I am Louisa Abernethy Jones from the Vindicator. May I come in?”

     “Stephen, the lady from the newspaper is here.”

     An equally trim man of the same vintage, wearing slippers and a cardigan sweater, shuffled into the living room. He shook hands with Louisa and showed her to an armchair decked with a doily and an embroidered pillow. On the wall hung a wedding photograph, in which Mrs. Nash wore a white dress and Mr. Nash wore a naval uniform. The fireplace mantel was crowded with photographs in tiny easel frames, porcelain figurines, and a shelf clock in the shape of a bell. Side tables bore a cargo of lamps, coasters, and bowls. Everything was as neat as a pin. Mr. and Mrs. Nash sat in matching recliner chairs and politely faced their visitor.

     “We read about the shooting in Hapsburg,” Mr. Nash said.

     “What a dreadful thing for you all to suffer,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “A tragedy,” Mr. Nash said.

     “And it happened on a Sunday,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “As you know,” Louisa said, “your son sang in the choir that Ralph Willis directed. He was also present at the house in the afternoon. He helped plant some bushes.”

     “That’s Gary,” Mrs. Nash said. “Always ready to lend a helping hand.”

     “That’s the way we raised our children,” Mr. Nash said, “all four of them.”

     “Gary is the baby,” Mrs. Nash said.

     “You should stop calling him a baby,” Mr. Nash said. “He’s twenty-four years old, for Christ’s sake.”

     “Please refrain from using profanity in the house,” Mrs. Nash said. “You know I don’t like it. And Mrs. Jones may take offense.”

     “Was Gary a friend of Ralph Willis?”

     “He mentioned him,” Mr. Nash said.

     “Gary phoned or came home once a week,” Mrs. Nash said. “He was very good about staying in touch and keeping us abreast. He was flattered when Mr. Willis asked him to sing at the Christmas concert.”

     “Did you go to hear it?”

     “Too far for us to attend,” Mr. Nash said.

     “St. Giles is an Episcopal church,” Louisa said. “Did that bother you?”

     “You mean the fact that he jumped ship?” Mr. Nash said.

     “That’s one way to put it,” Louisa said.

     “We raised our children Southern Baptist,” Mrs. Nash said, “the church we attend.”

     “What they do after they leave home is up to them,” Mr. Nash said.

     “Gary works as a nurse at the regional hospital, is that correct?”

     “Yes,” Mrs. Nash said. “He completed all the requirements to be a registered nurse, the four-year degree and the license examination. He’s been at the hospital for over a year.”

     “Two years,” Mr. Nash said.

     “You know,” Mrs. Nash said, “when Gary was a little boy, he brought home injured birds and animals and nursed them back to health. The poor little things would quiver and shake. They were terrified and in pain. He fed them and kept them warm, and in a few days, they recovered enough to go back to the wild.”

     “Except for that squirrel,” Mr. Nash said. “It jumped out of the cardboard box, and we chased it all over the house. It was faking.”

     “We thought Gary might become a veterinarian,” Mrs. Nash said. “On career day at the high school, he announced he wanted to be a nurse. It might have been a documentary he saw on television on the healing arts.”

     “Why not a doctor?” Louisa asked.

     “He wasn’t that good of a student,” Mr. Nash said. “Four years of college and then four years of medical school is a slog. Then who knows how many years of residency. Hell, he barely made it through high school.”

    “Watch your language, please,” Mrs. Nash said. “Gary set a realistic goal and he achieved it. Better not to aim too high and miss. We’re proud of Gary, as we are of all our children.”

     “He’s also a talented singer?”

     “He was always musical,” Mrs. Nash said. “Even as a toddler, he crooned. He imitated what he heard on records and the radio. He made up little songs.”

     “When the kids were young, you sang all the time,” Mr. Nash said. “Nursery rhymes and nonsense. He picked it up from you.”

     “I suppose,” Mrs. Nash said. “Now there’s no one to sing to. Gary sang in the church youth choir and in school. He wasn’t good at reading music, though.”

     “He wasn’t good at reading period,” Mr. Nash said. “According to his teachers.”

     “When he mentioned Ralph Willis and possible friendship, did that concern you?”

     “Do you mean an older man and a younger man?” Mrs. Nash said.

     “Gary is gay,” Mr. Nash said.

     “We knew from an early age,” Mrs. Nash said. “Almost before he did. Do you disapprove, Mrs. Jones?”

     “My only concern is getting the facts.”

     “In a way,” Mrs. Nash said, “we were glad that he found someone. It was a relief.”

     “Do you think Gary saw Ralph as a financial source?”

     “A sugar daddy?” Mr. Nash said. “Gary has a good job. If anything, he earns more as a nurse than Willis did.”

     “Gary disappeared shortly after the shooting. Do you have any idea why, or where he went?”

     Husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Nash nodded.

     “Mr. Willis and Gary had scheduled a vacation,” Mrs. Nash said. “It was supposed to be last week in Philadelphia. Gary had lunch with us on Sunday. He normally works Sunday night at the hospital, the graveyard shift, but he was able to get a last-minute substitute. He could start his vacation a day early. He drove back to Hapsburg to help Mr. Willis plant the bushes. They were going to leave by train on Monday. They had tickets and a hotel reservation.”

     “We got a panicky phone call Monday night,” Mr. Nash said. “Something had happened to Willis, and he couldn’t go. Gary was going by himself. He phoned again a few days later from the hotel. By then, we had seen the newspaper story. Gary wanted to let us know he was okay. We didn’t discuss the shooting.”

     “Have you seen your son since then?” Louisa asked.

     “Briefly,” Mrs. Nash said. “He said he found a place to stay near the hospital. He was tired of commuting from Hapsburg.”

     “Is there a way for me to contact him?”

     “He’ll be at the apartment tomorrow morning to pack,” Mrs. Nash said. “A mover will be there for the furniture.”

     “We would appreciate it if you keep this information quiet,” Mr. Nash said. “In other words, the police don’t need to know.”

     “I promise to protect your son’s privacy.” Louisa stood. “I have a drive ahead of me, so I ought to go. It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

     “One more thing,” Mr. Nash said. “Gary never handled a gun. None of our kids did.”

     “I oppose violence and weapons of all kinds,” Mrs. Nash said, “including toys. Killing people is not a game. Even pretending.”

*

     Early on Tuesday morning, Louisa drove to the Sylvan Apartments. A moving van was parked in the street, and a ramp extended from the open back. A big man squeezed backward through the front door of the building, followed by a sofa and another man. They skittered down the walk and up the ramp, into the dark void of the van.

     As the van resounded with thumps and scrapes, Louisa walked briskly into the building and up the stair. The door to Apartment 2B was propped open. She knocked and entered.

     “Mr. Nash? It’s Louisa Jones from the newspaper.”

     A slender young man emerged from the kitchen. Dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans dyed indigo and stiff with newness, he looked like Stephen and Beverly Nash, thirty years younger. Unsmiling, he stopped in his tracks, holding a dinner plate and a sheet of newsprint.

     “What do you want?”

     “Your parents said I would find you here,” she said. “May I talk to you?”

     “I’m packing.” Mr. Nash wrapped the plate and set it in a cardboard box, which was half-filled with crumpled newsprint. The kitchen cabinet doors were all open. There were plenty of dishes and glasses, pot and pans, utensils and gadgets to pack. He was not about to slow down for an inquisitive middle-aged woman in a long skirt and orthopedic shoes.

     “I’ve been interviewing people who knew Ralph Willis for an article on his life.”

     Nash wrapped another plate and deposited it in the box.

     “Do you sing in the choir of St. Giles Episcopal Church?”

     “Not any more. I’m leaving town.”

     “I spoke to the rector of St. Giles and Bobbie Sue Metzger. They say that Willis invited you to join the choir last year after hearing you sing.”

     “Ralph and I met socially. He found out that I sang. When he heard that my range is tenor, he was interested. Tenors are always in demand.”

     “Do basses outnumber tenors?”

     “By genetic distribution, like blue eyes? I don’t know. Maybe it’s cultural.”

     “Did Ralph want to improve the balance in the St. Giles choir?”

     “That’s what he said. He made me an attractive offer, some solo work and free voice lessons. He was more likeable than Bobbie Sue Metzger.”

     “You didn’t like Mrs. Metzger?”

     “She has an edge. Have you met her?”

     “Yes.”

     “Then you know what I mean.”

     “Yes, I do.”

     “Did you know she’s also a volunteer firefighter? She trained in search and rescue.”

     “Does the training include firearms?”

     “She carries a handgun for protection at night and when she has to go somewhere alone. She showed me.”

     “When was that?”

     “We met once at church to rehearse a part I was singing.”

     “Did you leave First Baptist after that?”

     “Yes. Little did I know what I was stepping into.”

     “The feud between the churches?”
     “Right. When I moved here a year ago, Hapsburg looked like a sleepy, idyllic place, a fairy-tale village frozen in time.”

     “Is that why you chose to live here?”

     “I grew up in the valley, went to nursing school, and got a job at the regional hospital. I found this apartment near the college, and I liked the neighborhood. I started to learn my way around. First Baptist was a natural, given my upbringing. Then I discovered Sunday nights at the café and a few people like Ralph.”

     “Gay people?”

     “Queer, homo, whatever you want to call us.”

     “I interviewed Miss Lilac Arugg yesterday. Rural Virginia may be conservative, but there are alternatives.”

      Nash paused to look at Louisa. Maybe she was trustworthy. He brushed the hair from his forehead and stopped scowling.

     “Hapsburg turned out to be not so sleepy after all,” he said.

     “A hotbed of intrigue?”

     “You would know, writing for the newspaper.”

     “I’m still learning my way around. Did you and Ralph become friends?”

     “If you mean lovers, we never got that far. Do you think all gay men have sex at the drop of a hat?”

     “Sorry to be obtuse.”

     “There’s casual sex and true love forever, just like the real world.”

     “Did Ralph tell you about a long-term relationship?”

     “He didn’t volunteer the information, but it leaked. Later, the long-term ex turned out to be Captain Ryder.”

     “When did you find out?”

     “A few days ago, along with the rest of the world.”

     “But you were cautious.”

     “From my work, I’m well aware of sexually transmitted disease. For health reasons, I kept things out of the bedroom.”

     “Were you interested?”

     “I made it clear I was looking for commitment. For Ralph, that was a game changer. After years of carrying on a secret affair with a married man, he realized he did not have to play second fiddle. Starting in January, he said he was going to break it off.”

     “In mid-February, he did. Ryder gave me his version. Did you ever meet him?”

     “I had no desire to. I wasn’t about to step into another pile of cowpat.”

     “A neighbor named Wolfram says he saw you and Ralph in the yard on Sunday afternoon. You were planting bushes.”

     “It was a gardening date. At church that morning, he asked for help. It sounded innocent enough. Fresh air, exercise, and green plants. High culture and horticulture, we do it all.”

     “You planned to travel together for a few days.”

     “Ralph told me he had sent his boyfriend packing. It was a clean break, no messy details. We both had vacation time coming up. He thought a few days in Philadelphia would be a way to test the waters. An out-of-town try-out, in theater-speak.”

     “After the planting, did you stay at Ralph’s house?”

     “No sleepover. As a reward for agricultural labor, Ralph invited me to stay for supper. Eating alone gets old, and we both enjoyed the company. Also, he liked to cook. He refused to let me help wash dishes, and I left.”

     “What did you do after that?”

     “Work. The hospital rotates nurses through shifts. That Sunday, I was assigned the graveyard shift. It started at eight PM and ran to eight AM on Monday. I came home and slept a few hours. We were supposed to leave Monday evening. I saw the newspaper with the headline that Ralph was killed. It was upsetting. I packed and left.”

     “Have the police questioned you?”

     “Not yet. They left phone messages at the apartment and the hospital. Ryder last week, and then a detective named Blake. I’m in no hurry to fall into their clutches.”

     “Where did you go?”

     “I took the train to Philadelphia. Ralph had already bought the tickets and made the hotel reservation. Why let them go to waste? I thought the time away might be beneficial.”

     “Was it?”

     “I went through the motions, saw the tourist sights, went to the art museum. I felt numb, unable to appreciate anything. By the end of the week, though, I was sure about one thing.”

     “What was that?”

     “If that’s how this town treats people like Ralph, I want out.”

*

     Throughout the conversation, Nash methodically wrapped and packed dishes. Now the cardboard box was full. He folded the top flaps, sealed them with tape, and moved on to another box for glassware.

     “The death of someone close to you is always difficult,” Louisa said, “no matter the cause. But what you just told me does not match what others say.”

     Nash paused in his work.

     “You were scheduled for the Sunday night shift, but the hospital made a last-minute change. Instead, you went to the drag show at the Catharsis Café. There, you talked to J. D. Ryder. Why did you lie just now?”

     “That’s why.”

     “Because it was Ryder?”

     “He was trying to disguise himself, but I’m sure it was him.”

     “Let’s back up, Mr. Nash. Why were you there?”

     “Why not? I had the evening off, and I’d never seen a drag show. I asked Ralph if he wanted to go, but he said he was tired after a full day of work. His plan was to get a good night’s sleep and clean the house on Monday morning. He said to have fun, and we would meet up for the jaunt to Philly.”

     “So, you went to the café by yourself. Did you meet Ryder by chance?”

     “This heavy guy wearing sunglasses and a ball cap started to chat. The setting is informal. People move around and talk between songs. I wondered if this dude was looking for a pickup. I didn’t want to get up and leave, so I tried to stay neutral. But he seemed to know who I was. He said we had a mutual friend.”

     “Was he referring to Ralph?”

     “Had to be. Then things got hairy. Ryder said that if I knew what was good for me, I would stay away. Keep out of something that’s none of my business.”

     “That sounds like a threat.”

     “He was one scary dude. At the same time, I wondered why a police chief would be hanging out at a gay bar. Was it a sting operation? Did Ryder want payback for being dumped? Come to think of it, did he have anything to do with Ralph’s death?”

     “Those are some of the questions I’m trying to answer. You showed up unexpectedly. Ryder could have been afraid of blackmail. He knew who you were. Did he expect you to recognize him?”

     “Maybe that was the point. He didn’t want the bar crowd to know, but he wanted me to feel some heat. My boy’s night out was turning into a nightmare.”

     “What did you do?”

     “I said I had no idea what he was talking about. Isn’t that what you say when a thug threatens you? It was about nine o’clock, and the show wasn’t over. But I was.”

     “Where did you go?”

     “Here, to the apartment. I had had a drink at the show. Once I got home, I went to bed.”

     “You weren’t worried?”

     “There was nothing I could do about it, and I was tired. I made some noise coming in the street door, which rousted Mrs. Yoder downstairs. She opened her door to complain. She complains a lot.”

     “Can Mrs. Yoder verify that you were here Sunday night after nine?”

     “Look, Mrs. Jones, if you’re trying to establish an alibi, that would be it. Anyway, why would I want to hurt Ralph? If anything, I wanted the opposite.”

     “The evidence backs you up, Mr. Nash. Still, your sudden disappearance after the murder looks bad. If we understand anything about Ryder, he has mixed motives. Jealousy is possible, along with a desire to protect his status. Sooner or later, you will have to answer to Blake, the detective. You might want to have a lawyer present.”

     “Thanks for the tip.”

     “Meanwhile, I have one more question. In the dryer in the basement is a pair of plaid shorts. To whom do they belong?”

     “Not Ralph, that’s for sure. Probably Patrick. He was around. I think he stayed at Ralph’s house for a few days.”

     “That’s what Patrick says. Did Ralph mention a disagreement?”

     “He said the scales had fallen from his eyes. Whatever that means.”

     “Disillusionment with his brother. What about the neighbor?”

     “The day we planted the bushes the neighbor walked by wearing plaid shorts. After he left, Ralph went on a mock tirade. If I ever saw him committing a fashion felony like that, I should shoot him. It would be a mercy killing.”

     “Eric Wolfram was the neighbor?”

     “Right. He gave Ralph some gardening advice.”

     “What was that?”

     “He said that hydrangea blossoms can be pink or blue, depending on the pH of the soil. For blue, add acid, for pink, add alkali.”

     “What did you do?”

     “Ralph sent me to the garden shed for a bag of plant food, the type that increases acidity. He sprinkled it around the new bushes.”

     “What did you do with the bag?”

     “I put it back in the shed.”

     The movers appeared in the kitchen. One of them needed Nash’s attention.

     “We loaded all the furniture on the truck and some of the boxes. Nick here can help you pack the last of the boxes, while I tie things down.”

     Louisa gathered her notes.

     “Thank you for your patience,” she said, “and good luck with your move.”

     “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

The hotel had no off season.

Outside, the world kept changing. Summer baked the parking lot into an uneven, pitted sheet of white glare. Autumn brought stubborn, resilient leaves skittering along the curb. During winter, Christmas lights appeared on distant shops, restaurants and houses beyond the highway. Then spring returned with rain that polished the asphalt black again.

Inside the hotel everything remained the same, felt the same, smelt the same; a mixture of coffee, laundry detergent and ‘lavender garden’ scent in the lobby.

The hotel was called The Haven, a place of eternal rest, even though everyone knew it was more like a station. A place people came to while something else happened elsewhere, ships docking before they went out to the sea again. A place for pauses that were supposed to be brief and yet, somehow weren’t.

Each ship had a different reason for being in the harbour.

The family in room 108 was waiting for a visa. Every morning the father checked his email before his feet touched the floor. The mother kept their documents in a neat blue folder as if order itself might hurry the process along. Their son had learned different ways to ask the receptionist for extra towels, toilet paper and dishwashing soap. He had also learnt enough patience watching his parents swinging at the pendulum of hope and despair, living among suitcases that remained neither packed nor unpacked.

The woman in Room 327 was waiting for her husband to wake up. Not from sleep, but from the long gray silence of a rehabilitation hospital twenty minutes away. She left every morning at eight. Returned every evening at six. She never stayed in the lobby, never chatted with anyone. Yet somehow everyone knew her. She would grab fruits from the breakfast buffet every morning , thrust them in her tote bag and rush out with impatient strides. She trudged back to the hotel every evening, her feet dragging behind her, her hope shrinking and growing like a tide.

The brothers in Room 151 were waiting for a court decision. The retired teacher in Room 280 was waiting for the renovation in her old apartment to be finished. The truck driver in Room 199 was waiting for doctors to tell him whether he could work again.

Everyone was waiting. Standing in the dock of life, waiting for their ship to come in.

The Haven had a breakfast room where strangers sat beneath a television mounted in a corner. They barely listened to the news or even glanced at the TV, and only nodded to one another with the familiarity of people who had shared days, weeks or even months of elevators and laundry machines without ever learning last names.

Yet, the family in Room 220 fascinated everyone.

A father, a mother, and a girl, a young woman really. 

Unlike the others, they weren’t waiting for news. Or paperwork. Or recovery.

They were waiting for a decision. A decision that they had to make.

The father worked mostly remotely from a makeshift small desk by the window as the daughter had taken the room with the actual desk and chair.  The mother spent afternoons researching schools, neighborhoods, weather reports, cost-of-living charts. Some evenings, as they sat in front of one of the three large televisions in their suite, they discussed places in hushed voices.

Chicago?

Houston?

India?

…Somewhere closer to family.

…Somewhere farther from everyone.

The girl listened while pretending not to.

Days passed. Every week they seemed on the verge of making a decision. Every week they remained.

The strange thing about indecision, the daughter often thought, was that it could look exactly like patience from a distance. Her annoyance was tempered by her wisdom, knowing that her parents were often indecisive, but seldom wrong.

People assumed the family was free. Lucky, even.

No deadlines. No emergencies. No bad news.

But from inside Room 220, freedom felt remarkably like being lost.

The father feared choosing the wrong future.

The mother feared choosing a future at all. She secretly hoped they would stay forever because in the hotel, things were predictable, unlike life.

She knew which vending machine swallowed dollar bills.

Which elevator rattled.

Which breakfast attendant smiled while scrambling the eggs in a plastic jar before emptying them out into a warm steel dish.

In the hotel, life was simple. Temporary. Unfinished. Elsewhere, a decision would harden into reality.

One rainy evening, nearly 2 weeks after they arrived, the power went out.

The lobby was filled with guests carrying flashlights and phones. Without televisions or laptops to retreat into, people lingered.

Someone made coffee on a camping stove.

Packets of overpriced cookies from the hotel market were opened.

Stories emerged.

The truck driver talked about highways stretching through deserts at dawn.

The woman from Room 327 admitted she was terrified her husband would wake up and no longer recognize her.

For a while, the waiting itself became visible,not as an inconvenience but as a kind of invisible weight everyone had been carrying on their shoulders.

Then the manager looked over and saw the family from Room 220.

The father and mother sat quietly together, it seemed their daughter had decided to stay in her room.

“What are you waiting for?” someone asked them.

The father smiled. It was tinged with sadness.

“We don’t know.”

Someone laughed gently…but the unanswered question still lingered in the dimly lit space.

He continued.

“We keep thinking there will be a moment when one decision feels obviously right.”

His wife nodded.

“A sign.”

“And?”

The father looked around the candlelit lobby.

The tired faces. The half-finished stories. The people suspended between one life and another.

“I don’t think the sign is coming.”

No one spoke for a moment.

The family continued to stand at the edge of a decision like travelers at the bank of a misty river. No one could see the far shore. There was no way of knowing all the ways things might go wrong … or right.

Then someone said

“No one knows what waits ahead, but the river of life has carried us this far and it will continue to carry us. Peace flows where water flows”.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Outside, cars moved along the highway toward destinations they had already chosen.

Inside, the hotel held its small collection of unfinished lives.

There was sudden light and then several sounds emerged at once.  The power had returned. In the meantime something had shifted.

The family had made their choice.

That night, nothing changed. The rain still fell. The dishes still needed to be loaded in the dishwasher. The world offered no sign that they had chosen correctly.

A week later, the visa family received their approval.

Two weeks later the retired teacher moved into her apartment.

The truck driver got cleared to work.

People left, as people eventually do.

Room 220 checked out.

No announcement. No celebration.

Just three suitcases and other paraphernalia rolling across the lobby.

The manager asked where they had decided to go.

The mother looked at the father.

The father looked at his daughter

“North,” she said.

“North where?” asked the manager.

The family exchanged glances.

Then the father laughed.

The automatic doors opened.

Sunlight spilled across the floor.

And for the first time in weeks, they stepped into a future that was no less uncertain than before, only now it was moving.

The river was still cold, the fog was still thick, and certainty never really arrived. Yet they were sure the current would hold them gently, and the path would reveal itself one bend at a time. Looking back years later, they would not remember the fear as clearly as they remembered the trust, the quiet choice to move with the flow and let life meet them halfway.

The Haven stood behind them, exactly as it always had: part shelter, part crossroads.

A place where people arrived believing they were merely passing through.

And where many discovered that waiting was not the absence of life, but one of its most mysterious forms.

By: Zhaohui Su

How do we manage the pain

Before it manages us?

How do we control the grief

Before it controls us?

How do we better the side effects,

Before they better us?

How do we outlive the treatments

Before they outlive us?

How do we clear the debts

Before they clear us?

How do we absorb the tolls

Before they absorb us?

How do we frame the fallout

Before it frames us?

How do we conquer the betrayal

Before it conquers us?

How do we change our mindset

Before it changes us? 

How do we lead the storyline

Before it leads us?

How do we shape the tides

Before they shape us?

How do we define the zeitgeist,

Before it defines us?

By: Aditi Pant

“A very young, sharp and energetic mind is trapped in this old body; so be careful what you do; as it will catch up with all your antics before I can physically reach you” I say by the way of introducing myself to a fresh batch of grade 11 students who had opted for English literature at the higher level. I hear a lot of sycophantic laughter, a few grunts and some nervous giggles. A mixed batch as usual, I decide, hoping no one will call my bluff.

I’ve been teaching high school students for more years than I care to count. Ironically however, each year as I face a new class I’m the one who feels like a teenager; there are butterflies in my stomach and a rush of excitement. I can barely wait to unravel the mystery, the angst, the paradoxes, and the subtle ironies that are at the heart of the texts we study. “This class is not for the feeble” I say “The study of novels necessitates a platform where ideas are catapulted, can ricochet and yet return unscathed.  It involves a basic honesty that lets one probe into the psyche of another human however fractured it might be without getting judgemental. It also demands strength to understand human foibles and how sometimes circumstances can win over man.”  My students look at me like I’ve suddenly grown horns. Too much too soon I tell myself.

“You are in this class to study life itself not just the subject” I sum up when I hear a murmur from the right corner of the class. I spot a face that stares at me vacantly. “Yes, young man…would you like to enlighten the class?” I say in my best patronizing voice. “Isn’t that your job, Miss? I was just saying you can either study life or live it…which of these two options would you like us to consider in this class?” There was silence so absolute that I could hear my own breath, erratic now. By the blank expression on his rather intelligent face I couldn’t decide whether he was being rude, cheeky or just plain honest. I was going to hazard a guess and come with an excellent repartee when the shrill noise of the bell fragmented the cloying silence of the class.

“Saved by the bell,” someone whispered, as I walked out of the class, the raillery frothing like foam in my mouth. It was going to be a long year.

Two weeks into school I knew his name (Raghav), and the names of most other students in the class. By now, I had thrown them into the deep end. We were analyzing ‘Metamorphosis’ by Frank Kafka. The philosophy of ‘absurdism’ was mostly lost to the group of teenagers who looked at me rather absurdly. They intently stared at the board where I had written the quote; “True absurdism is not less but more real than reality”, like any moment revelation would dawn on them. However, through the x-ray understanding I had developed over the years, I knew they were just hoping that they would somehow miss the trajectory of my sight and that the question wouldn’t land on them.

Since none of them commented, I made the task slightly easier. “The absurdity of this world lies in that there’s nothing certain at all, that there’s a possibility that Gregor really could change into an insect…what do you think this suggests?” A few hands went up…the responses were neither here nor there. I was going to adopt the push down principle and further break down the analysis when I spotted Raghav looking rather disenchanted. This was challenge enough.  “Well, Raghav perhaps you wish to comment on this” I ventured.  “Not particularly, Miss” was his sardonic response. If looks could kill! I stared at him till he reluctantly rose: he looked perplexed by my reaction. “The story’s premise may seem supernatural; however, it only helps more in dichotomizing our lives. I look everywhere and see Gregor and his family. “

“Would you care to elaborate? How does it make you feel”? I ask, the test in my tone palpable.

He looked flushed, and almost reluctantly he spoke; “It doesn’t make me feel, it makes me think. Gregor’s metamorphosis from man to cockroach I think epitomizes his defeat as a human. He cannot break the confining shackles and the sense of obligation imposed upon him by the society and his family. While Gregor is the one literally dehumanized, the psychosomatic and figurative dehumanization of his mother, father, and Grete are more profound.  I think we are all cockroaches on the inside…” his words reverberated in the charged atmosphere of the classroom. 

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.  I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s one way to look at it…” I began.

“In what other way can we look at this, Miss?” he asked innocently. Too innocently I thought.

I walked out of the classroom with a certain degree of unrest. Occasionally, there comes this one student who turns a teacher’s world upside down. Who challenges her to teach what google cannot teach. Who pushes the boundaries of not only knowledge but life as we know it. It is not a comfortable feeling, however, it’s not altogether unpleasant.

While I was trying to understand the workings of this student, this almost verbal sparring in class continued. That it never quite became a full-blown contest was neither here nor there. There was little doubt that he was intelligent and pragmatic (excessively so), however, what I couldn’t quite fathom was his emotional reaction towards me. Most students liked me; some didn’t but I had no practice with indifference. He genuinely seemed unresponsive to me and it was a hard blow to my self-esteem. Was this his way of getting me intrigued? Was this speculative standoff of sorts not mitigating my role as a teacher and more importantly his as a student?

I knew, as teachers always know, that Raghav hadn’t made any friends yet. I thought it was strange. He was bright and not unfriendly. Although I’d never seen him smile in class, he didn’t look particularly unhappy either. He did have an air of preeminence around him. I finally put it all down to attitude. I’d been there, done that. Surely, I could do it again. Yet despite myself I was absorbed.

The first midterm test was rather testing for both Raghav and me.  Usually, he wrote extremely long answers for questions that didn’t require much detail so it baffled me when in response to the question; How do Gregor’s feelings for his family change over the course of the story? he had submitted the paper blank. He saw the ☹ on his sheet, looked at me quizzically, collected the paper and was walking away when I asked, “Why didn’t you write a response? The question was easy enough”. “Easy and difficult are relative, Miss,” was all he said. He was holding on to his stomach as though he had an ache, otherwise he didn’t look perturbed in any way about the failed assessment. 

I went on high alert. Something (you could call it experience) told me that the dots didn’t quite connect. I took the liberty (my reputation preceded me) of asking the school administration for his records. He had changed two schools in the last two years but apart from that nothing seemed out of the ordinary…until I reached the counselors report. A mild case of Alexithymia …possible cause could be an intense traumatic experience…. a report followed but I couldn’t read past beyond the words… A mild case of Alexithymia…

There is nothing mild about Alexithymia I screamed inside. What a sad and lonely existence… not being able to understand and express emotions. How had he managed to come this far? How had he managed at all? I tried to put myself in his shoes…but they seemed too big and alien. With what courage must he have tapped into his own resilience and bravery when intuition, instinct, and emotion thus betrayed him? Something tugged at the corners of my heart and mind. How could I judge this student conceited? I hugged the reports close to my chest.

I sat at my computer and began to research. I read everything I could before my eyes drooped and shut automatically.  When I could look at his reports again, I found out that he had made slow progress after he was referred to an intensive program that set about teaching him how to relate socially and how to think about his physical sensations. I knew this was not enough. I wanted him to see and experience a rainbow when the only colours he saw were black and white.  

As I went back to class, I was quite collected on the outside but inside I was dispersed. My eyes automatically sought Raghav, and although it appeared like nothing had changed, I knew that was not true. If the students missed the usual arguments and banter, they did not give any indication.  What I had seen as disregard earlier I knew now was emotional blindness. It bothered me that despite all my years at teaching and learning I was still susceptible to being judgmental…and how!

“Could I meet you for a few minutes?” I asked him as he was leaving the class.

“Why, Miss? “

“Just wanted to talk about the assignment you didn’t quite submit.”

His face flushed. “Sorry, Miss, but I’ll submit the response if you change the question a bit”.

“Let’s discuss it,“ I said.

Since both of us lived on campus, we met for the first time during sports hour after school. Eventually, after a few such meetings, we developed a rapport of sorts. As I directly and indirectly encouraged him to verbalise his thoughts I found him opening up to me.

“This will eventually help you label you emotions and feelings associated with the thoughts.” I extrapolated.  He argued that he was in no way at a loss due to his inability to feel, understand, and express emotion.  “I read a lot as I was told that the expressive language used in the novels would give me ideas about how people feel and describe their thoughts. However, I came to understand that the more extreme emotion a character feels the more it colors his thinking. Since the fickle tides of emotion cannot sway me, I have a clearer head.”

He carried a notebook with him; the intriguing cover read:

I smiled. “Could I look through it?” I asked hesitatingly and was pleasantly surprised when he agreed.

The notebook opened on a page marked No. 3. “Feelings and emotions are not always absolute and can be very complicated. You understand truth because the truth is simple and direct, however, life seldom is”.

“This is not your handwriting.” The question was implicit in my statement.

“A teacher in my previous school wrote this. She also made me maintain this diary. She believed expressive writing could be helpful in stretching my ability to detect emotions.  She told me to put myself in other people’s shoes and write about how they would be thinking in each situation; which could help me understand what they might feel. However, it remained an academic exercise …”

“Why”? I asked

“Next time,” he said, and vanished into the gathering darkness.

As obstinate as I was on getting an emotive (or emotional?) reaction from him, it seemed he was equally unyielding in not giving one. However, he certainly was one of the most self-aware students I had ever met.  He seemed to know himself and his limitations inside out. The fact that he wasn’t fazed by them drew me towards him. I felt the need to introduce him to feelings, to emotions. Was it playing sage on stage in class that made me want to play God outside of it?

During a particularly charged discussion in class a student called Raghav an android. The remark went like a knife through me. When he came to me that evening, he began writing in his notebook immediately.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

 “Nothing,” he answered.

“Did you feel hurt Raghav? Do you understand hurt?”

 “I felt a tension, like my heart was racing, but as soon as my mind was distracted I completely forgot about the whole situation,” he said.

“I think you should write the sensations down and term them as hurt. Next time you feel similar sensations, you’ll know you are feeling hurt”

“What is the point of putting words to hurt”? he asked.

That night I dreamt Raghav was murdered by the student who called him an android. Even as dreams go this one was particularly bizarre. Raghav’s body was lying on the floor and some students circled his body shouting “Robot! Robot!”  I was surrounded by the reporters. “I wish I’d been there earlier. It might have made all the difference. So, all I can tell you is why he was murdered…” I choked on the words, but they were muffled by the crescendo. As I walked towards the body, Raghav’s face suddenly metamorphosed into mine.  I woke up with a jolt, shivering despite the balmy night. Was it foreshadowing, anger, guilt or did my psyche have a hairline fracture? Probably all of the above.

That evening when I met him, I shared my concern.  “Miss, don’t worry about me. I can put up with an awful lot of pain or unpleasant experiences because I know very shortly I won’t have an emotional memory associated with it,” he said.

“But it means that positive memories get washed away too,” I replied. 

He shrugged and was gone before I could say goodbye.

The very next day the Vice Principal of the school called me. “Ms. Uma,” she said without a preamble, “It has come to my notice that Raghav has been missing sports hour and remedial classes to be with you. You are aware that it is not permitted”

“Yes, I am aware Mr. Alistair, however I feel, given more time, I can help this student. The school should consider a cognitive behavioral therapist to help with his social understanding, and through conscious effort he will be able to analyze the physical feelings and equate it with emotions that other people may feel. “

“This does not fall under your jurisdiction. The school counselor in on the job. Kindly refrain from meeting him during unsolicited hours,” he warned.

“Pompous ass,” I said under my breath. How could a student’s welfare not fall under a teacher’s jurisdiction? What had the therapist done up until now anyway?

I met Raghav again that evening.  Since he had spent most of his life looking within, striving to feel and understand sensations, he was acutely observant.

“You are different today,” he said.

“How?”  I asked happy to have a lead.

“I’m not sure but you are sitting on the edge of the seat and talking to yourself.”

I smiled.

“Miss, a person can be cut off from emotions without being heartless, or a psychopath.”

I smiled some more.  

Next time we met, he asked me to write something in his diary.

I couldn’t think of anything to write. Here we were an odd twosome: a woman who felt too strongly and a teenager who felt too little under a chestnut tree in the fading light of the autumn sunset.

Finally, I wrote: ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’

In two weeks, I was called by the Principal of the school.

“Ms. Uma, you cannot disregard the advice of the Vice Principal. Please consider protocol. You are a very valued member of our teaching community; however, an institution is more important than an individual”.

If there ever was a veiled threat, this was one.

I considered it. I had great respect for the Principal of the school. Then Raghav’s blank face swam before my eyes. Despite his claiming otherwise, I judged his life diluted, deprived as it was of sentiments and felt compelled to change that. The how consumed me.

I became a horse with blinkers. I read of strategies before I collapsed into a fitful sleep.  I tried to put some of those strategies into practice. I deceived myself things were improving. Wasn’t it just last week that I thought he smiled when I praised his response in class?

My work suffered. My health suffered. My meticulous habits suffered.  My mind crumbled. My colleagues walked past me without saying hello. I was summoned to the Principal’s office twice in the next two weeks. Despite it all, call it delusion, passion, empathy I just could not stop working on fixing what I thought was broken.

Morning shows the day. It was drizzling that morning, the kind that doesn’t quite soak you but leaves you somewhere in between. I was beckoned to the Principal’s office yet again.

He extended an envelope towards me. “Nothing personal, Ms. Uma.” It was the tone in which he spoke and the fact that he moved towards the window soon after that told me; inside the white envelope was the pink slip.

Something snapped. All the restless days and nights came charging towards me. Someone screamed. It was probably me. Security was called. A few teachers and students came out of the classes to see the commotion and my utter humiliation.

I was incoherent as I was escorted out of the office.  Raghav walked towards me, his eyes on my ashen face. “Emotions color thoughts, Miss,” he whispered.

He opened his notebook to the page where one day I had ruminated ‘truth is stranger than fiction’. And as I watched him incredulously, he took out a marker; and very deliberately on top of the same page he wrote in bold – No. 4’. 

By: Dr Thomas Mampalam

Leonore Williams was the last patient on the morning schedule.  The 78 year old woman had been referred from a downtown free clinic.  Dr. Sid Narayan reviewed the chart and radiological studies prior to the consultation.  The clinic progress notes recorded that in the last three months, she went from spry agility to a cane, and then a walker.  The brain scan showed a large vascular tumor in the cerebellum, pressing against her brain stem.   

As Narayan reviewed the brain scan, he recalled how almost forty years ago, at the beginning of medical school, he had dissected a cadaver brain along with his classmates, pulling apart each cerebral convolution, down the falx, and past the tentorium to reach behind the brain stem and split the arbor vitae, the leafy divisions of the cerebellum.  He remembered that initial wonder.  The universe was all that existed, but those pale lobules and leaves contained even more, all that could be imagined.  If a single blossom in the garden was a marvel, then those branches, so strangely beautiful, were truly miracles .  But now, all that mattered for this elderly woman was to lift the hind bone safely off the major veins without injury and then to find the margin between tumor and brain stem.  Thoughts about the origin of mind were best kept to a safe library.

Narayan introduced himself at the waiting room door and walked alongside Leonore down the corridor.  Her front wheeled walker clattered with each wobbly step that she took  She plonked down in a chair by the sink in the examination room as if exhausted by the short walk.  Narayan faced her.  Through the partially opened window blinds sunlight glittered across the bay and lit up the eastern hills.  The noon heat had dissipated the earlier mist.

“What nationality are you?” was her first question.  The question was not unusual, but it still surprised him.  Patients could read the diplomas on the wall, and they had been referred based on his qualifications and surgical results; but some patients seemed to need additional assurance that he was on their side.

“I’m American but my family was originally from India,” Narayan explained.  “I was born in Africa.”

“A regular United Nations,” she said. Was that sarcasm he detected?  Narayan doubted that she approved of the organization.

 “There are so many immigrants in America.” he said.  “It’s best to view people as individuals, not members of an ethnic group.”

Leonore seemed to ignore what Narayan said.  “I’m sure glad you isn’t Arab.”  She stressed a long A.

“Why do you say that?”  Narayan asked, but then regretted having asked at all.  Racism ran deep in some people. No assurances from his end were going to make this conversation easy.

“You got to be real careful what you say around them Arabs.  They could kill you for anything.”  She lowered her voice and turned her head around as if someone in the corridor might hear .

“I’m glad you isn’t Mexican either.  You got to be so careful with your cash and credit cards.”  Her voice was steady and calm as if this was a normal discussion for new acquaintances to have, the perceived faults of various ethnic groups. 

“Let’s concentrate on the reason you are here,”  he said, trying to steer the conversation back to what they needed to talk about during this clinic visit.

Leonore kept talking as though she hadn’t heard him.  “I’m truly happy you isn’t Chinese.  You got to be careful with your dogs and cats.  Them Chinese eat everything in sight.  Look at all them viruses and what-not came over from the markets in China.”

Did the tumor cause her to perseverate, to continue with one line of thought beyond what was reasonable?  Narayan knew that he could not be confused for someone Chinese.  At her age, she could have pre – existing senile dementia and additionally, on the scan there was early hydrocephalus, a buildup of fluid in her brain ventricles.

  Narayan dispensed with details of her medical history and went directly to the neurological examination.  On each side, when he asked her to touch her nose and then his index finger, she overshot his finger and touched the side of her nose rather than the tip.  Her eyes beat with an oscillating rhythm when he asked her to follow his index finger horizontally and upward. Nystagmus. Narayan explained the surgery and the possible complications.  Leonore readily consented and asked to be scheduled as soon as possible.

“Doc, “ she said.  “I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Narayan said.  “The whole team will work hard to deserve your trust.”

Narayan walked with Leonore towards the waiting room.  At the front desk, she asked:  ”What about the fishyitis.”

“What?” Narayan asked incredulously.  He had no idea what she was talking about now. Did she mention something he’d forgotten?

“The fishyitis!  The pain and swelling in my feet.”

“Oh.  The plantar fasciitis. “

“My feet are killing me.”

“We can refer you to a podiatrist but for now, Leonore, we should focus on the more important issues like the tumor in your brain.”

“Sure, Doc.  You’re the best.”

Dr. Narayan had lunch alone in his office as he reviewed emails.  He had packed left over grilled vegetables and saffron rice.  Leonore Williams’s xenophobic tirade triggered Narayan to reflect on his family’s journey through four continents.

He had been in America for many years and considered himself an American. However, his family had fled Uganda in 1972 after the 90-day notice from Idi Amin that expelled the thriving Asians.  In the United States, it was the year of the Watergate scandal.  At the Munich Olympics, eleven Israeli athletes were murdered by Arab terrorists.  The Godfather movie epic premiered in New York City.   For Narayan’s family, 1972 was the year for choosing sides.

 He was ten years old at the time and his younger sister, Priya, was four years younger.  Their father was a tailor, and their mother helped in the shop on Kampala Street.  Their parents did well enough to open a second shop and own a red tiled villa overlooking Lake Victoria, a new Fiat Sedan, and a television.  At night, they lay on straw mats on the veranda so that the breeze up from the lake kept them cool.  The balmy air gently vibrated with the sounds of water rippling through the reeds and the sharp tone of crickets.

In the mornings, Sid and Priya stood at a corner of the veranda imagining that they were at the prow of a great ship that could power out of the lake at the center of Africa, down the Nile River, and even further across the open ocean to distant lands.   From where they stood, sunlight glinted on the lateen rigged sails of the dhows, and they heard the distant muezzin call to prayer.  An open-air market was at the bottom of the hill and merchants set up colorful umbrellas that protected piles of pineapple, melons, and sugar cane from the blistering sun.  At the pier, fishermen unloaded their long wooden boats with freshly caught perch and tilapia.

 In hindsight, they did keep too much to themselves. The Asians had their own schools and temples.  They ate their own foods with recipes passed from mother to daughter over the generations. Outside the house, they always spoke English.  They understood but did not speak Swahili let alone the local Bantu and Nilotic languages.  None of their many cousins had intermarried with black Africans.  The Asians had a rigid code of conduct based on honor and reputation.  In the final week, mobs had thrown rocks through the windows of Indian merchants.

They had taken just what they could carry and been transported in a relief flight to London.  At the end of one year, they made their way to California to join relatives in San Francisco.  Their mother’s cousin worked as a nurse at the Veteran’s Hospital, and they initially shared a rented apartment with her in the outer Sunset District.  They ate rice with lentils for most dinners along with cut vegetables or fruits that were in season.  Bit by bit, they saved enough money to buy a duplex.  Their parents stressed that in America if you worked hard and got a good education, then you could do anything.  You were not limited like in India or Africa by your father’s station in life.

In middle school, Narayan was the only recent immigrant.  Once, an older boy bumped into him in the hallway.

“Are you black or white?” he demanded.

“Neither, I’m a golden shade of brown.”

“Like chocolate, right?”

“More like caramel.”

“Or like shit?”

“Like caramel.  Dulce de leche is my favorite ice cream flavor.  What’s yours?”

“So, you’re Mexican,” he concluded.  “Do you also like tacos, Paco?”

“No, I’m not Mexican, but I do like tacos, enchiladas, and most every Mexican food.  So delicious. I’m getting hungry.”

“You must be half and half like milk chocolate.”

“No.  Pure caramel.”

“Are you Arab?”  He also stressed a long A just like Leonore.   “Where’s the rag for your head?”

“No.  I’m not Arab.  Anyway, most Arabs don’t wear the rags. They call it a keffiyeh.”

“You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Are you a faggot, caramel boy?”

“No.  I like girls but that’s not your business.”

Just then, Narayan was able to dart into English class.  He stuck out his tongue and the older boy made a fist.  They were reading Lord of the Flies in class.  He wondered if he would he turn out like Ralph, Simon, or Piggy.  Maybe, he had just met Jack.

One day, a history teacher asked him to stand up during a current events discussion.

“Did your family take sides in the Indo-Pak war?” the teacher asked.

“My family was originally from India, but I was born in Africa.” 

The teacher’s question seemed quite ridiculous at the time.  They were in America now and hoped to become citizens. Why would he be thinking about India and the war?  Why did they have to choose sides in distant foreign wars?

“But whose side were you on?” the teacher insisted.

“I believe we favor India. Just like American Jews favor Israel over the Arabs.”

“Where’s your turban?” a classmate asked.  Several classmates sniggered.

“Sikhs wear turbans.  We are not Sikh.”  Narayan had thought the discussion was about the war, but it was really about him.

“Does your mother have a red dot on her forehead?” another classmate asked.

“Sometimes she wears a bindi.  The red dot is called a bindi and represents honor and love to Hindus.  But we do respect all religions.”

            “I think bindis and saris are pretty,” offered one girl with freckles on her cheeks and the tip of her nose.  That was nice of her, Narayan thought. There was more sniggering from the others.

“Do you have an elephant?” asked another classmate.

Narayan sighed.

“I ride her to school each day.  She waits for me in the parking lot.  Sorry about the dung.”

During his school years, Narayan never lost sight of his duty.  His role was to star in class and establish his family’s success in the new country.  Now, when remembering this past, he did not look back on those years as a grind because he enjoyed his studies.  There was a satisfaction in unfolding the logic of the Periodic table or the Krebs cycle.  There was pleasure in the discovery of new words and their connotations in the assigned poetry and novels.  Initially, he approached each body of knowledge with an enthusiasm that did not make distinctions between what was useful and what was luxury.  In college, he attended each class punctually, worked at the library front desk for two hours each afternoon as part of his financial aid package, and then studied until about midnight.  By the end of college, he focused on medicine as a realm of knowledge that was not only interesting to study but also vital to the lives of individual people.

 By the third year of medical school, Narayan dedicated himself to a career in surgery. With surgery, the results were immediate, and success or failure apparent when you laid down the knife.  The skills of surgery became a part of who you were, and you could take pride in each aspect – making a precise incision, controlling the bleeding, removing the tumor or hemorrhage, and leaving a neat scar when you closed.  From his youthful vantage point, neurosurgery seemed the pinnacle of medical achievement, one human being using their own brain power and surgical skill to operate on the brain of another. His path was clear.

In his office, framed family photographs and anatomic models interspersed between the thick medical texts on the bookshelf.  On the topmost shelf, the most recent picture of Narayan’s eldest daughter, Radha, holding Maya, the first grandchild, held a special place in his heart.  Next to her and with an arm around both of them was his wife.  The family photograph was flanked on one side by a skull model.  The cranial vault was attached with a brass clasp like a treasure chest that when opened revealed the convolutions of the brain.

During the middle of his surgical internship year, Narayan came home on a rare free weekend to have dinner with his parents.  Priya was away at college.  His mother had prepared butter chicken curry, cauliflower dal, and biryani with nuts and dates.  She waited until Narayan filled his plate and sampled each dish.  He smiled gratefully at her and continued eating.

“There’s a lot more to life than studies and work,” his mother said, nudging the bowls of food towards him.  Her hair was pulled up in an efficient high bun and she wore a casual cobalt blue salwar kameez, an Indian outfit with loose pants and a flowing long shirt.

Narayan nodded.  He had endured similar conversations several times.

“You should have a stable relationship with a good young woman,” his father said.  Narayan remembered when his father towered high above him.  Now Narayan was four inches taller.  His father used a cane due to the arthritis in his hips and knees.

“I’ve had relationships,” he said, recalling that neither of those had been tolerated by his parents.

“A good relationship,” his father reiterated.  “Permanent and the foundation of a family.  A marriage with a nice Indian girl,” he emphasized.

“So, you are at it again?  Indian has nothing to do with it.  When I fall in love and marry a girl, she might not be Indian.”

“Love is only part of it,” his mother said serenely.  She seemed more confident than in prior such conversations, Narayan thought, and this was disconcerting.  “There are families involved,” she continued.  “Love happens over time.”

“We are getting on in years,” his father added.  “We want to see our only son settled.  There should be children playing and laughing in this house again.  Once you are settled, we can focus on Priya.”

“We don’t have to be settled like potted plants.  We both want to marry for love.  If you’re trying to arrange a marriage for me again, then please get that idea out of your mind.  I will never agree to that. It’s archaic and idiotic.”  Narayan felt harassed again and tried not to raise his voice.

“There’s no need to call names,” Narayan’s father responded calmly but his bushy grey eyebrows came together as he frowned.

 His mother and father worked in precise tandem, Narayan thought.  They prepared this game plan to gang up on him.

“We could die any day now,” his mother interjected.

“You’re perfectly healthy and there is no hurry for me to get married,” Narayan insisted.

His mother got to the point.  She did not want Narayan to get up from the table and isolate himself off in his room.  “Anika Aunty met a beautiful young nurse who just finished her degree and will start work at the trauma center.  Here is her picture.”  She placed a passport size picture on the table between the dal and the biryani.

Narayan looked and turned back to his food but glanced back.  His mother smiled triumphantly.  She knew that she finally held the royal flush in her hands.  She had revealed the trump card.

His mother had tried the photograph trick before.  Anika Aunty sponsored them years ago when they emigrated from Uganda, and Narayan respected her.  He had never given the pictures a second look before.  However, this girl was different.  In fact, he thought, she might be the prettiest girl he had ever seen!  He had to admit that he had not had the best luck in dating relationships.  His one time romance with his college girlfriend hadn’t worked out. She had moved back to Connecticut and the long-distance relationship fizzled out soon after.

“So, would you like to meet Kamala?” his mother asked.

“One meeting would be alright.  Don’t get your hopes up.”

 His mother giggled.  Narayan still remembered how irritated he had been at the time.

“Sure, son” his mother said with another chortle.  “We only hope for what is best for you.  Kamala’s parents will bring her over for dinner tomorrow.  Of course, Anika Aunty will come to help with the introductions.”

Thirty-four years later, their daughter Radha had Kamala’s sloe eyes and raven tresses.  Their son, Mohan, had her slender build.  Now that their two children had grown up and left home, the large house echoed like a sepulchral chamber until the grandchildren visited.  In the garden, the corners lay empty;  an idle hammock, an empty kennel, and a silent basketball hoop.  The garden flickered with memories of children playing hide and seek or tag until night fell and their mother called, leaning on the parapet of the balcony, her long black hair unfurled like a flag.  Last autumn, Narayan and Kamala bought two plots at the local cemetery.  There was a view of the bay and the city.  They would eventually lie side by side forever, where on the marble stones, the grandchildren could place flowers that the deer might eat.

Over the last few years, Narayan had seen more immigrant families in the clinic.  Some were likely refugees, but he did not ask.  Many were Mexican, Chinese, or Arab – all the nationalities of Leonore Williams’s tirade.  Some left Muslim countries and the women wore hijabs or chadors.  A few even bore the facial scarifications of the Nile tribes that he had seen in Kampala so many years ago.  Unless they asked, he did not reveal his family’s immigration story, he felt it was irrelevant to his task of healing them. They did not know that when he heard their flowing cadences, he recalled the lake at the heart of Africa I, the lateen rigged dhows, and the distant muezzin call to prayer.  They knew he belonged to a different tribe.  Eventually, everyone chose sides.

After lunch, Dr. Narayan joined the neurosurgical team in the OR.   Mathew Trujillo, the chief neurosurgical resident, had already performed the craniotomy and elevated the bone flap to reveal the midline tumor.  The tumor abutted the sagittal sinus, the main venous outflow of the brain that ran from front to back.  Trujillo, a graduating resident soon, was fully competent and could do the case by himself.  Narayan was careful not to take over the case.  He cored out the central part of the tumor with an ultrasonic aspirator and pealed the medial aspect off the sinus.  He left the rest of the tumor removal and the closure to the resident, though still under his watchful eye.  All these years in this career, and it remained a marvel to him that a patient could undergo such an extensive exposure of the brain and remain neurologically intact afterwards.

Narayan and Kamala spent the evening at their daughter’s house.  Radha was in her sixth year of graduate studies in chemical engineering and did most of her thesis writing from home.  After dinner, Narayan turned the pages of picture books for his granddaughter Maya who was five years old. Through the window shades, the pale moonlight streaked the wooden floor.

“Have you been to the moon, Grandfather?” Maya asked.

 In the child’s café latte colored skin and the gray shadings in her eyes Narayan could see the future.  Radha had married a white graduate student six months after she graduated from college.  Michael was an assistant professor in the department of molecular biology and was working late. 

“No.  Only a few brave astronauts in their rocket ships have gone to the moon.”

“Is it very far, Grandfather?”  Maya’s ambiguous  complexion was so common in the bay area.  Narayan hoped that his granddaughter would not have to choose sides as he had been expected to do in school.

“Yes. Too far for ordinary travel.”

“You could do it.  Can you take me?”

“Sure.  Why don’t we go to Mars while we’re at it?”  Narayan hoped he did not sound old and jaded, he did not want to extinguish her flame of enthusiasm.

“Mars, what’s that?”

“A planet. There are eight planets that revolve around the sun. The earth we live on is one planet.”  That delighted Maya and she clapped her hands.

“Did God make the planets?” she asked.

Narayan was uncertain about the answer to that question.

“Busy God,” Maya continued.  “Maybe many Gods for many planets.”

“I don’t know about that,” Narayan said.

Kamala interjected to help him out.  “We don’t have to go to other planets to see amazing places, “ she said.  “There are so many beautiful places on this planet that we could visit.” She still had a slim figure and dark lively eyes. There were fine wrinkles below her eyes and at the edges of her lips.

“Where should we go?”  Maya was overjoyed.

“We could go to Africa to see the wild lions and elephants,” Narayan suggested.

“Oh, no. The lions might eat me.” Maya’s smile disappeared.

“I see.  Then, we could go visit the Grand Canyon, a huge canyon carved by a great river over millions of years.”

“Is it very big?”

“Yes, enormous and about one mile deep.”

“Oh, no.  I might fall in.”  She looked downcast and frowned.

“Then, if you are scared of wild animals and deep canyons, maybe we should stay closer to home.”

“Where should we go?” She was happy again and laughed.

“How about the beach?” Kamala suggested.

“When can we go, Grandfather?”

“Maybe in the morning.”

Radha joined them from the kitchen.  “You must be tired after reading so many books.” she said.

“Grandfather is taking me to the beach tomorrow,” Maya shrieked happily.

“That’s a great idea,” Radha said.  “But you must go to sleep now.  You must get up early and not stay in bed in the morning if you want to go to the beach.”

            “I’ll go to sleep,” Maya agreed without the usual fuss.  She gave her grandparents each a hug and a kiss before running upstairs ahead of her mother.

Narayan wished this warm contentment could go on forever, until the galaxies cooled into a dark and endless silence.  But he knew that such blissful harmony was transitory, at least in this life.  Providence itself grew bitter.  Beneath each moment of happiness, there was the memory of the lands and people he had lost and the premonition of what he would yet lose.  Perhaps, there could be no happiness without such knowledge.  Narayan found consolation in the knowledge that after a voyage across four continents, he had found his home.  He was beyond choosing sides.  His tribe was right here and not in a distant ancestral homeland.  He wished he could record his thoughts in stories for his grandchildren if only he could find the right words.  There should be libraries of stories from each stop along the voyage and in each twist and turn of the body.