Winnie didn’t listen to the rest, though. Her mind had drifted to curly red hair. And of course, curly red hair made her think of Auden. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Winnie! Hey!” She looked up. Auden waved a magazine in front of her. Her long, curly red hair was draped around her heart shaped face and round blue eyes, wide with impatience. They were sitting at the Overlook, a small café near the library. Winnie had been drinking bitter black coffee and writing in a small, spiraled notebook while barely listening to Auden’s rambling. “What?” Winnie asked. “Have you been listening to a word I said?” Nope. “Yeah. I’m right here.” Auden rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, just tell me what you think I should do.” Crap. “Um. I don’t know. I think—uh, you should do what you feel is right. I mean, what do you want to do?” Winnie tentatively replied. Auden shot her a classic “are you kidding me” look, lips pursed and eyebrows arched. “Well, I don’t think it’s a matter of ‘right’ when I’m deciding what to wear. But if you’re not going to help me, I’ll just get Mia.” She tossed her hair back and returned to reading the magazine.
“Why don’t you round up Congress while you’re at it.” Winnie mumbled, going back to writing. It had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Auden’s eyes slowly rose from the issue of Vogue she’d been poring over. “Excuse me?” she coolly asked. Looking straight at her, Winnie replied, “I’m just saying that it’s not really a big deal. Just pick an outfit.” Her brows furrowed. “I don’t get what your problem is, Winnie. I really don’t.” “I don’t have a problem.” “Yes, you do. You’re just different now.” Winnie didn’t answer, trying to ignore her until she’d eventually shut up, but Auden kept going. “There’s just been something wrong, something off and I don’t know how to explain it. The fact that you can’t even tell me proves it.” “I. Don’t. Have. A. Problem.” Winnie repeated. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” All the growing irritation Winnie had built up started bubbling into anger and at this last remark, it erupted out of her like steaming lava. “You know, you’re really pissing me off. I have a problem because I don’t want to hear about your life problems every second of the day? ‘What do I wear, who do I go out with, what do I put on my eyebrows?’ If anything’s really changed, it’s just the fact that I’m sick of it all. I’m telling you to get over it,” she snapped.
and his shoulders ached worse no matter how much he stretched. She’d kept up the year-round routine while he took a season off. They would swim together on the school team next year. But by the first week back, signs were already showing. “Your shoulders are going to give out,” she told him. “You know what they say. The ones who swim in college aren’t the ones who are good; they’re the ones who are left.” “You’re being dramatic,” he said, which didn’t really work because they were sitting in the trainer’s office and his arm was pulled across his chest with a heating pack on the back muscles. “You’re pinching the nerve,” the trainer said from across the room. “If you’re not careful, you could destroy it.” Jenny glared at him. Thomas wouldn’t look at her. Ultimately, she convinced him to go in for the surgery; he would have ignored every parent, coach, and doctor that disagreed with him if it weren’t for her. ‘I want to finish the season,’ he said, texting her from the waiting room as if she might let him off the hook at the last minute. ‘We’re team captains this year. We’ve wanted this since we were freshmen.’ ‘You’re more important than being a captain Tom.’ ‘But I’m not going to see you. You’ll be at practice and meets and stuff.’ ‘We’re not being separated dummy. I’m going to see you.’ ‘Yeah okay. I know.’ ‘I love you.’ ‘I love you too,’ he wrote and hit send. But this was their thing. It had always been their thing and here he was quitting it. He went in for the surgery and they told him he wouldn’t be
“I didn’t want you to get the surgery because of him,” she said “…We hadn’t seen each other in a year until a few months ago and we weren’t even friends then.” “Why’d you do it then?” “Tell you to get the surgery?” “No. Why’d you do him?” Jenny swallowed again. “It wasn’t because of you,” she said. “And it isn’t because of Cameron either. I just, we’ve been together for years now, and we kind of, I mean I kind of—” She had teared up, so he knew that whatever was coming next was going to hurt, a lot. “It felt stagnant.” It was worse than what he’d expected; Thomas winced despite himself and she said quickly, “And I know that isn’t fair—” “Oh, really?” he said. “But it, it—” she stammered and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It felt like it was all far away when we were at meets together.” “So what? Did you think that meant it didn’t count?” “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head and crying now, “I don’t know what I was thinking, I just felt like a different person once I was out of town. The sneaking around and the…God, it all just felt different.” “Well,” he said, “You’re certainly different from what I thought you were.” Jenny took this without a fight. “It’s not an excuse,” she said. “I know it doesn’t make it right and apologizing doesn’t make it right and nothing’s going to, but…” she looked up at him with big eyes. “Can I at least take you to the hospital to check on your shoulder?”
satisfactory education. We had just enough food to eat and could listen to the croaking of the frogs outside our compact mobile home as the last light of the sun faded over the horizon. I have tortured myself trying to think of alternate situations where the accident on the soccer field did not happen---how I could have prevented my injury based upon the precise moment of the misstep I made. I should never have played soccer. I should never have been so careless. I should never have gotten surgery. But life does not have a rewind button. And when I tore my ACL, everything came crashing down. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- September 1, 2016, 3:00- 3:03 p.m. A barrage of tears pour from Daisy’s waterline, and a wail escapes her parted lips. Every student riding on our school bus immediately turns around and stares at her tortured face. Her eyes break my heart. All of the light and life has been drained from Daisy’s irises, leaving only a dull grey color. Because when home does not feel like home anymore, it becomes something else. Something insidious. I’m silently begging for the school bus to break down as it slowly pulls up to our dilapidated street. When it approaches our house, I reluctantly wave goodbye to my two best friends, Martha and Sarah. Daisy digs her jagged nails tightly into my palm. "C'mon Daisy, you can do this. One step at a time." "B-b-b-but Mama-" Her teeth are chattering.
It felt like a normal day up until now. Just this morning I put on my uniform and headed out to my school: a 3-floor plain looking building only a block away from our home. The school secretary, a family friend, greeted me when I walked in and asked me how my grandmother was doing. “Much better,” I replied. She had gotten sick last week and was recovering. “She’s grateful for all your prayers.” “Wonderful. Tell her I said hello, I’ll see you all on Sunday.” she smiled and walked away. It’s a private school so most of the staff here go to our family’s church. In fact, most of the Christians in our town do, since there’s not very many of us. My grandfather used to be a pastor there when he was alive, so everyone here pretty much knows my family, and by default, me. My mother speaks before I do: “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you earlier my love, we just weren’t sure yet.” she says. “But what about here?” I question her. “don’t you like it here? Won’t you miss our home or your friends or our church?” I added as I realized I would probably never see my classmates or Viola ever again. I don’t even remember the last thing I said to her, but I remember this morning when she waved to me as I walked towards my class’ line in the recess lot, not long before we pledged allegiance to the flag of Egypt and went up to our classrooms. I had first met Viola almost two years ago, at the beginning of second grade. One of the reasons we had become best friends is probably because we’re both the shy type. Since neither of us had had very many people to talk to, when we had met and found out we had so much in common we had held onto each other instantly. She is just easy to talk to and I don’t find that in others very often. “Did you do Miss Sandy’s homework last night?” I asked. “Yes, Baba made me,” She replied, “even though I swore to him it won’t affect my grade now in the last week of school. What about you?” She added.
I walk into Public School 50 the next day. Their recess lot on the way in was the biggest I have ever seen, there’s carpeted areas with bookshelves around them in the classrooms, projectors are shining on the boards, and the hallways are made of colorful tiles- blue, green, and red. It looks pleasant as far as I’m concerned, how scary could it be? A staff member with long curly hair leads me to my classroom. “Here we are,” she says. “room 304. Do you remember the way here?” she asks with some hand motions to make sure I understood. I didn’t remember the way actually. I was so distracted trying to see inside the classrooms. “Yes.” I nodded anyway. When I walk in there’s a seating chart on the board; I follow it to where my seat appears to be and sit down. I take out my journal and begin to draw as I wait for class to start. But suddenly, as more people start coming in, I hear a voice directly above my head. “You’re in my seat.” A tall girl with beady eyes and short brown hair looks down at me. “…This?” I ask pointing to my seat to make sure I understood. She squints, looking confused. “Yes, this.” “But my name is… here.” I say in broken English as I walk to the board to point. “That’s in the front of the classroom,” she explains, over-enunciating, “not in the back.” “Oh, sorry.” I say as I collect my things and move. I feel her staring the entire time I do so. When her friends arrive I see them whispering and pointing towards me from the corner of my eye, but I pretend not to notice. After a while a girl who looks Arab takes a seat next to me. “Hi, you speak Arabic?” I take a chance and ask.
down on the other mattress. He must be exhausted from lack of sleep, and he’s doing this because he believes it will give me a future. I can’t give up just yet. The next Friday we read aloud a story in English, taking turns reading in paragraphs. My ESL teacher had encouraged me to practice doing so and not shy away from opportunities in class so I give it my best shot when it’s my turn. “‘Back when Florida was wild, when it con…sisted of nothing but pal…metto trees and mosquitos,” I am interrupted by a burst of laughter. I didn’t recognize that last word and I must’ve pronounced it wrong. I feel blood rushing to my face. “Hey.” Mr. Adkins yells, looking at the same group from earlier, who must’ve started it. “Go head Mariam. You’re doing great.” he says. “No thank you. Fatmah can finish.” “That back group right there.” He calls their names later as he walks out of the room. “Come out here.” Maybe he’ll give them a warning and they’ll finally leave me alone now. When they come back they’re rolling their eyes and mumbling to each other, giving me dirty looks. But it wasn’t my fault this time I say to myself. Later in the carpool lane they walk up to me. I stay still; I’m not sure they’d let me walk away if I tried. “What was that for?’ the tall brunette girl asks. “What?” I reply. “I did not do a thing. You laughed.” I said a little nervously. “Cause you were funny. Do you hear yourself?” one of the guys says. “You shouldn’t be reading in class in the first place.” “Now you got us all in detention, because you’re so sensitive and illiterate. Just thought we’d let you know.” They turn around and walk away. I had made things worse. They definitely won’t forget me now. On Saturday my mom’s cousin drives me to
“It is?” “Are you kidding? The contrast of color is brilliant, and your shading is advanced for your age.” She pauses. “Are you signing up for the art contest?” I look back at my painting, analyzing it with a new perspective. “Yes.” I answer. Before I leave she asks me to wait for a moment and comes back with a small device in her hand. “It’s an electronic dictionary,” she says. “for those homework assignments.” It’s been about two months since my first art class and I sit in the car of my mom’s cousin who’s driving me to school. These haven’t been the best two months of my life. Going to school has become like going to the doctor to take a shot. I can’t make a noise without feeling like eyes are on me. As the weather got worse, so did my allergies and I had to excuse myself out of the room every time I needed a tissue. Then, my hair became frizzy and they accused me of not washing it. I tried everything to calm it down but I couldn’t. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. One time I walked away from my lunch table and came back to find a tissue in my milk. I didn’t even see it until I finished drinking. And when Fatmah was absent once a guy from class came up and asked me out. “It was a dare,” he claimed. Apparently it was amusing to pretend someone could like me. And that one group would comment on everything, from my height to my colorful clothes; I couldn’t escape their commentary if I tried. I stayed behind once to excitedly tell my art teacher about the contest, but somehow they heard me. “So you really believed her that one time, huh?” the brunette girl, (Anna, as I would learn) told me. “You think you’d win a country-wide competition? And it’s not even your country!” Their words would echo in my head sometimes. But usually Ms. Gerges’ words would be louder: “Amazing brush strokes… brilliant use of color… talent for your age…” That’s
shamelessly in class, learning from my mistakes rather than dwelling on them. They didn’t completely leave me alone, and I know they probably won’t, but their words don’t hurt as much. They never will; not if I can help it. I’m sitting in the living room when the phone rings. “Hello?” I answer. “Mariam?” It’s Ms. Gerges. “Yes, it’s me!” “Guess who just won 3rd place and in the abstract art category and a $1000 reward.” She says with an audible smile. “That’s a rhetorical question in case you didn’t catch that. It’s you, friend.” With the right hands, rainy days can become great paintings. The City Through the Window by Hannah DeMaioNewton Years later as I walk down the street watching my lips force clouds from my lungs I will realize that I can either be the hero or the fool who the relatives shake their heads at and, realizing this, I will remember you. It is Christmastime, in Cedar Rapids, and as I walk back to my apartment I remember the last time I saw you: your face framed by the light of a nearby, open apartment door, washing your face in its amber glow. I looked up at you, through the thick air of winter, and as I pulled you into a hug, I noticed the smell of your clothes. It is not often, that a person is so close to another that such an intimate detail can be unearthed, but during this season the bitterness of winter forces people to live close to one another, whether I complained in this moment or not. Through the darkness, I felt you hesitate, and as I noticed the smell of cooking oil on your collar,
My mother breaks the silence. “Drink some coffee! I’ll see you tonight, grumpy pants!” The phone buzzes dead. I breathe in the silence, listening to the phone buzz buzz buzz until I hang up too. “Christmas Eve Eve,” I utter. “My favorite holiday.” I pull the comforter over my head. --- I don’t own a car. So the soles of my shoes wear out quickly, and, walking through the streets to my mother’s house as the sun sets, I remember when I came home, on the first day of winter. I waltzed through the door slightly breathless from my walk home from work and you greeted me from the couch, home early. I sat down and you looked at me, through your lashes and the quiet, and you took my thin ankle in your hands and looked at the bottom of my shoes, smiling to yourself and shaking your head. I remember what it was like, for someone to understand me like this. The uneven asphalt presses against my thinning soles. I close my eyes before I knock on my mother’s door and, rearranging my face, bring the knocker down. My sister greets me. She is older than me, and perhaps more of a free spirit. She has a presence that swishes around her hemp skirt and curls around her painted wrists. I’ve always said people must think her presence screams “I have a goat, I live on a farm, I am aggressively happy”. Her three children run in circles around me, screaming and blowing kazoos. This cacophony is part of the made-up dinner party tradition. Through the noise, we cook. ---
With shaking hands, I got out of my bed and grabbed both Montgomery’s and Hampton’s purses, pulling out their passports and train tickets and handing them to the man. His nod of approval calmed my nerves, but only momentarily. Thoughts of my bed at home flashed through my mind, and I wanted nothing more in that moment than to be there. The head officer then approached the other girl in the car. Her crying had ceased moments before they entered, but she remained curled up against the wall. She appeared to be asleep, but I knew she was faking. I wish I had thought of that. Shaking her roughly, the officer again demanded, “Documents, s'il vous plaît!” The girl opened her eyes and began to whimper again. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a train ticket and a passport. For the first time, I could see her clearly. She wore a long tan dress and a black hijab. Her face was marked with tearstains, but she was beautiful. But within her eyes, I sensed desperation and sadness. Where was she from? The officer momentarily reviewed the passport, and then a look of triumph swept across his face. “Zis ees not real! You are ze illegal on zis train!” The girl’s whimpers turned to complete sobs. A thick Middle Eastern accent came through as she stammered, “N-no…please! I have nowhere else to go. Please!” “Ze French Republic ees not open to illegal immigrants.” The two officers, who had been standing by the door, began to move forward. “You cannot ‘ide ‘ere or bring terrorist practices wiz you.”
He never said “good morning” like a normal dad; every day for as long as I could remember he had a different greeting. In fact, not much about my dad was normal. He drove a green Subaru Outback that was as old as dirt, was 6’2” and skinny as a teenage boy. He had a shaggy beard and piercing eyes that made him look wild, like a werewolf, but his bright smile showed he didn’t bite. Our whole family was proud because Dad had recently been put on assignment for National Geographic, his dream job since age 10. That was the reason we were on this river boat cruising down the Amazon slower than even that dang Outback. My mom, a doctor at the biggest hospital in Wyoming, was on medical leave for three months for back surgery, and Kira and I were out of school for the summer. The timing couldn’t have been better. I plopped down between my parents and began scooping my own papaya fruit clean of seeds. “Hey, could you tell Kira to stay in her own bed at night? It’s getting really annoying,” I said. Mom looked up from her papaya. “Melly, you know she gets scared sleeping in new places. I know it’s hard but try to be patient.” “Your mom’s right,” Dad said, “but I’ll try to get her to help me with photos later today so she’s out of your hair.” I smiled a smile of gratitude. I loved my sister, but being crammed together on a tiny boat in the Amazon was tiring. To make matters worse, we weren’t stopping in any more villages for the next two days.
“Melly, what the heck? Are you that brainwashed?” She peered into my eyes, genuinely concerned. “Melly…. wait, are you…” I stammered, the dense fog in my head thinning for the first time in years. “I’m your mother, darling. You’re safe now, in the hospital,” she replied. “Your dad and I, we never stopped searching for you. You and Kira have been through something awful, but the doctor says you will recover with time.” For a good three minutes I lie there in complete silence, that woman staring into my soul as I struggled with this new wealth of information. Scenes of the rickety riverboat, my smiling parents, clasping Kira’s hand all flashed through my brain, streaming through the holes in the freshly broken fog. All the while my brain kept repeating, “Pleasure is pain, pain is pleasure, pleasure is pain, pain is pleasure.” ---------------------------------- It’s been four months since we were rescued from Camp Ecstasy. We’ve had a steady stream of reporters and camera men trampling the bison fur rug in the living room. Dad calls them our “personal paparazzi.” He bought a new Outback during our five years in hell. This one is more of a beige than a hunter green, and can make it up hills a lot faster than the old dump. With the pills slowly working their way out of my system, recovery has been hard. I think it’s been the worst for Kira since she is younger and more impressionable. Just two weeks ago, my mom caught her banging her head against the wall in the bathroom, chanting the Ecstasy
“Because I didn’t die, did I?” comes the flippant remark. “No, but you wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, so I was right to worry then, and I’m right to worry now,” Marco seethes, words laced with sharp, accusatory venom. The jab leaves him drained and, once his spurt of anger dissipates, perhaps a little guilty. He softens his voice a touch in apology. “Look, I know I’m no good at it, but I’m really trying here. I love you, and I want you to be better, but I’m not gonna look over your shoulder constantly: I’m your husband, not your mom. So tell me what you need, and whatever it is that’s the matter, tell me what it is. But don’t lie to me and expect me to know what to do.” Alex releases a shuddering breath. “You can’t help this time, Marco,” he admits, somehow managing to twinge his lament with fierce conviction. “It won’t do any good.” There’s a flood of hurt in Marco’s eyes. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, “we’ve been through worse than a couple of drinks on a Tuesday night.” Alex shakes his head exasperatedly. “You don’t know what’s happened, Marco. It’s not just the job, alright?” “Then what is it?” Marco pleads. “This—this is exactly what I’m talking about! Nothing’s ever gonna change unless you’re honest with me.” Alex steels his voice, looks away from the desperation in Marco’s bewildered, wide-eyed gaze. “I know you don’t want to be lied to, but I really think you’d rather not hear the truth about this.” “You’re wrong.” Marco declares, but his assertion wavers, savoring of an apprehension he didn’t know he had.
“From then on, she was treated akin to a maid. My dad tried to stop his family, but you both know he isn’t the type of man to be perceptive of these types of political machinations and as such, he wasn’t able to do much. Even though they had a maid, they fired her and forced my mom to do everything.” “She didn’t have to live this way for long though. My dad had made plans to go to America for his new job anyway so he contacted his boss and asked if he could transfer earlier. My mother and father left that house within a week and they haven’t looked back since.” After her story, we all sat there for a few moments, letting all the revelations of the past few moments sink in. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to look at Saraswati Aunty the same way ever again. Now that I knew what she had gone through, her reaction didn’t seem so extreme. My mom sighed a few moments later and asked Anjali, “Do you love Rahul and does he love you?” Anjali nodded, sure of herself in this case. “Alright then.” She looked at me. “Go get Rahul and let’s settle this once and for all.” I didn’t know what my mom was planning but I hoped she knew what she was doing. I left the kitchen and walked through the house to the front door. Throughout all this, I had forgotten about the family and friends waiting in the tent. Hopefully, someone had started serving lunch. And what was I going to tell all the people who were wondering what was happening? I didn’t have a watch but I guessed my mom and I had been gone for at least a good half-hour or so. Patching a sari blouse definitely doesn’t take that long. In the end, it didn’t matter. Once I got to the tent, Rahul was waiting outside of it for me. From the look of the grass beneath his feet, he’d been pacing for a while.
Figuring the worst of the storm had passed, I crossed the room to my mom. “Well, this went downhill fast.” She smiled and said, “At least it’s over. I was worried they’d never resolve their fight and that the wedding would be called off.” I gasped in horror at that reminder and looked at the clock above the fireplace mantle. We only had twenty minutes left before the wedding! “Hey guys, so I know this is bad timing but the muhurtham is in less than twenty minutes. I don’t know if you want to stick to it but if you are…” I let my voice trail off as scrambling ensued throughout the room. My mom took charge of the situation before it could get out of hand. She sent Rahul back to the tent to make sure the preparations were all ready and to check on the guests. As he left, she herded the rest of us out of the study and into Anjali’s room to become presentable again. She set to sewing up the rip in Anjali’s blouse and repining her sari as I fixed Anjali’s makeup. Saraswati and Lalitha Aunty were told to fix themselves up and go back to the tent to help Rahul out. Everyone worked at record speeds. Both aunties were done within five minutes and after making up and coming dangerously close to tears again, they rushed off to make sure everything was set. My mom and I finished with Anjali a few moments later. Before we left the room, my mom asked her how she was feeling. “Honestly, much better than earlier. And I can proudly say that rather than being anxious like other brides, I’m rather excited to get married, especially since I get to join such a great family.” “Yeah, you can say that again.” I sighed. “I hope I find someone like Rahul someday. Not only are you lucky to have him, he’s lucky to have you.” She smiled at me and I smiled back, glad to see that she was back to being herself.
“Oh that’s just-,” Lisa sputtered furiously. She could have wound on for hours, except for the fact that Virginia managed to interrupt her. “Speaking of the married life, here comes your car, Mrs. Morallis,” she said as she pointed down the road. The car Virginia had noticed was spluttering down the campus road in a unique state of disrepair. The front bumper was rusted, the paint was starting to chip, and the steering wheel didn’t seem to be completely obedient. Eldon could be seen through the windshield, sitting in the driver’s seat, grinning and bobbing his head along to the song he must have been humming. “Oh please! Don’t!” Margo laughed as she buried her head in her hands, “That car’s not mine. It will never be mine. That junker is all Eldon.” Lisa laughed as the car pulled closer. She stuck her tongue out at her friend. “Go get in your car Mrs. Morallis, we won’t miss you ‘round here.” Margo rolled her eyes and stood as his car rumbled up the curb and came to the smoothest stop the “junker” could manage. Eldon leaned across the passenger seat, unwound the window crank, and poked his head out of the window. “Hey there Goh, how ya doin’ ladies?” Eldon inquired cordially. His eyes focused on his new wife and his mouth stretched into a joyful, goofy grin. Without waiting for either Lisa or Virginia to respond, he asked Margo “Are you ready to go, dear?” “Uh-huh, yeah,” Margo gave him a tamed smile.
You’d expect me to be surprised, but Hunter wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already know. I was already on the run from the foster system. Instead, I sighed. “So I’d be a runaway two times over.” “Correct.” I couldn’t believe my life had gotten this low. I was sharing a mildewy, hollowed out log with forest creatures and a guy I met off the streets and surviving off dumpster scraps and stolen goods. I never in a thousand years would’ve thought this was how my “freedom” would be. If I had known how exhausting this life was, I might’ve never left my group home in the first place. The only thing that made this life manageable was Hunter. He was a friend, a mentor, an ally. He was the one who calmed me down when things got too chaotic. I couldn’t survive without him. “If that man does know I stole things,” I whispered softly, “would you leave me?” Hunter finally turned his head to look at me. His eyebrows had unfurrowed, but he wasn’t smiling. His mouth was figured into a straight line. He looked more neutral, like he didn’t care what happened from this point on. He didn’t answer for a while, but his gaze remained on me. The silence between us was starting to scare me, but then he said, “Do you remember what I said to you when I first found you trying to break into that house?” I laughed. “You said, ‘Paper clips only work in the movies, sweetheart! If you’re trying to break in there, you’re gonna need some deluxe lock picking kit from the Walmart up the street’”
“I’m quite sure I don’t. You walk here every day, sir, with that withered look in your eyes. I’ve seen you. Let me--” Emiliano muttered a curse under his breath. He spun on his heel, facing the stranger fully. The man matched Emiliano’s stature, but his sunken cheeks and knobbly hands gave him the appearance of a starving beggar. He still clutched his briefcase, and upon catching Emiliano’s eyes roving over it, clasped it even tighter against him. “I haven’t the slightest idea who you are, or to what you are referring, sir. Here.” Emiliano reached back into his wallet and pulled from it a crinkled 1000 córdoba note and thrust it into the unwilling hand of the stranger. “Now, get on your way, sir, and I’ll be on mine.” Emiliano noted that he and his adversary had distanced themselves from the now crowded Calle la Calzada. The faint notes of music drifting from the bar were dissonant and the street lamps were eerie orbs, floating in the distance. “Sir, please. Wouldn’t you like to take a look?” “I told you, young man, that you have the wrong person. And to be quite frank I-- “Just allow me to show you, sir, and you will surely change your mind. Tenga.” He awkwardly slipped the note into his breast pocket and offered Emiliano the briefcase. Emiliano leveled the man with one last, lingering look of pity. “I’ve had quite enough.” “No sir pl--, y-you can’t--.” Emiliano turned on his heel and stalked away, but had made it no farther than a few steps when he heard a quiet thud and felt a sharp tug on his back. The stranger had gotten ahold of his coat and, like a child does to win its parent’s attention, was pulling on it. He seemed now to have
place where every wise man goes. A place where... The words looped in his head like an endlessly spinning record. “What’s gotten into me?” He forced himself to sit on the edge of his old mattress and tucked his hands under his thighs. As his legs swung back and forth, his mind still on the mesmerizing words, his heels knocked into a hard surface. With a puzzled frown, Emiliano rose and dragged a sturdy metal box out from under the bed. His parents’ safe. He hadn’t opened it since the day before his parents’ funeral when he’d read their wills. Emiliano pulled an envelope from the safe and ran his fingers over the broken seal. He was flooded with unwanted memory. Fausto, Emiliano’s lawyer, had arrived at his parents’ flat minutes after Emiliano, with a small, golden key in one hand and a stack of invoices in the other. “Bills from the electric company, sir,” Fausto clarified at Emiliano’s questioning look at the thick bundle of papers. “The invoices date back nearly two months.” “Y esto, what’s this?” Emiliano asked, nodding towards the key. “It opens your parents safe, señor,” answered a bold voice from behind the lawyer. Outfitted in an austere navy dress with a neat white trim about the edges that fell to her knees was a young woman. Her hair was folded neatly into a crisp bun, without a strand of hair out of place. “I’m Eva Medina. I was the housemaid here, for your parents, señor, but they sent me out weeks ago. They gave me a month’s worth of salary, this key, and sent me on my way.” “And the safe, where is it?” “I’ll show you, sir.” She pushed past Fausto’s large frame and moved determinedly towards the bedroom. If she’d been phased by her employers’ sudden deaths, she showed no signs of it. Kneeling down