“We can’t call 911.” Bryce hesitated for a moment, then realized he was getting caught up again. “Why, Scott?” he sighed. “Why can’t you call 911?” Wheezy breathing whistled from the phone. Bryce hovered over hanging up. “We don’t have the money. Um.” Another awkward pause. “You know that.” “Wait, I thought the bank would do whatever you want.” Bryce couldn’t help himself. “I thought Sarah’s sister did tech startups and could get anything you need.” “Yeah um…” “This is stupid. Why don’t you just take your car? You still have a car, right? Or maybe it wasn’t even yours.” “I can’t get Sarah up,” Scott breathed. “I tried but I can’t move her.” Bryce froze. Sarah had always been too busy talking to actually eat. If Scott couldn’t sit her up that meant she wasn’t helping at all. He began mentality thumbing through the checklist for aneurysm, then stopped. Or maybe Scott was just lying. He was getting caught up again. “But um, we can’t afford the hospital either,” Scott admitted. “So I guess it doesn’t matter?” “Scott, what is wrong with Sarah?” “She won’t get up. She talks a little, sometimes. Uhm. I thought, maybe. She was just being, you know?” “You thought she was lying to you.” “No!” For a moment Scott’s signature mouthbreathing caught, then, “I guess maybe. Fine. I thought maybe, just, you know. There was blood, and I thought maybe it was, like, like, you know, I thought. I thought she was just doing someone new. She wasn’t talking right. Phillip, can you please come and look?” “My name is Bryce,” he scowled. “You said ‘blood.’ What about the blood, Scott?” Silence. Scott mumbled something. “What?” He mumbled something more. “Scott, stop it. Where is she bleeding?” “She was supposed to be done last week,” Scott whined. “I kept bringing her pads, and kept trying to help, but, but…” Bryce’s brain caught up. His voice dropped a half-octave. “Scott, listen to me. You need to hang up and dial 911 right now. Do you hear me? Right now. This is serious Scott. If you don’t, I will.” “No, don’t! Please Phil-, Bryce! Please just come over and look! You’re basically a doctor! We can’t afford it, or the hospital. The car doesn’t even work, I had to walk. Bryce, please! Just please come!” Bryce stared at the phone. “I’m not going to be a doctor,” he muttered. He was getting caught up again. His eyes cut over to the bright red crash kit. It should be in the locker at work, but he took it home to practice. He shouldn’t have, but now… “I’m sorry, ok!” Scott begged. “I’m sorry about those things, and how you…” he took a breath. “I’m sorry I lied. All those times. I thought it would make everyone happy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry okay. I just, everyone was so happy. I’m sorry. Please come see. Please!” Breathing hitched on the far side of the phone. Wet snot-sounds. Bryce closed his eyes. “I hate you so much.” He hung up. He felt the car keys in his pocket. “Caught again,” he muttered, then rubbed his forehead. “Fine. Whatever. I’m an idiot. Fine.” He grabbed the kit. * * * * * “Where is she?” The lawn was more dandelion than grass, heads-up white and wispy with patches of bare earth where nothing grew. The scrabby house used to belong to her grandmother. They made trailers bigger nowadays. The siding glistened with dull teal spraypaint applied in uneven coats. Sarah had said she painted houses before, but she lied. Just like Scott saying the lawnmower was always broken. He lied. A sheet of gray cloudcover stretched out forever. It looked like Bryce felt. “Hi Phil – Bryce. Hi.” Scott stood his slobby self. His shirt wasn’t big enough. His pants hug too loose. If you asked he’d tell you some story about using his belt to lash together a stranger’s truck. Bryce didn’t ask. Scott squinted, which left his face always a little scrunched up. His chin quarreled with a razor about once every other week, and never to satisfactory conclusion. “Where is she?” Bryce repeated. He gripped the responder bag he shouldn’t have. So dumb. “Yeah, come in, thank you, I mean it, come in.” Scott stumbled over himself trying to pull him through the door. The air was dense as ever, full of vanilla candle and neglected catbox, summer-warm because she kept getting cold. Nothing had changed. The broke-down cushions of the couch fairly groaned under his glance. They had gotten the armchair off the street by the Uni. Same for the coffeetable. It had gotten too beat-up even for the college kids, but Sarah saw it and immediately fell in love. The battered fossil of a TV was still there. It probably still wasn’t hooked up right. The picture of the Leaning Tower hung next to it, all crooked so the Tower was straight. No Sarah. “Where is she?” Bryce repeated. He grit his teeth. The smell wormed its way into his brain. Weird he used to look forward to this. So, so, so dumb. “Right, c’m, c’mon.” Scott wandered into the living room with small, heavy steps. Whatever was under the linoleum creaked. He paused at the TV and touched the screen. He rubbed his fingers together and shuffled into the kitchen. Bryce followed. The kitchen looked like both of them thought: new recipes enthusiastically printed collided with old recipes never fully cleaned up. A dozen poorly-conceived evenings sprawled over table, counter, and stove. An old-garbage smell covered by vanilla. “Uhm,” Scott wobbled up and touched the trim above the kitchen door. He glanced back at Bryce, then hurried on. “Uhm, hold on, hold on.” He opened the door to the pantry closet. He glanced back, then peered inside with exaggerated stooping and staring. “What are you doing? Scott,” Bryce paused. “Oh dammit.” He pressed his fingers over his eyes. “I am so dumb. You did it again. I hate you, I hate you so much.” “We have to go a little farther,” Scott muttered. “No Scott, no!” Bryce exploded. “Dammit Scott, I can’t believe you. You know what? I’d never be a good doctor. Nobody this dumb should cut people open. I’d be that guy who took off the wrong leg. I’m so stupid.” He turned and headed back to his car. “No, Phillip, wait, wait wait,” Scott slammed the pantry door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know, you know I get confused. And then, you know. I say, I tell things, I say things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I can’t. I can’t help it. It’s so hard, sometimes. I can’t keep anything straight!” Scott sagged into a heap of disheveled misery against the counter. His face crumpled. Squint-eyes squeezed shut. Bryce drew in a long, slow breath. “I thought you were going to be a great doctor,” Scott continued. “I really did. And maybe you can still be one. I think you can. You always know what to do. It’s just in you. I see it. Everyone does.” “What, your cousin going to help me out?” Bryce rolled his eyes. “He had a way to get me in without all the school? There is no way, Scott. I asked. I made calls and checked. I spent months waiting, but it was never true.” Bryce’s mouth firmed. “You really messed up my life, Scott. You and Sarah both. I don’t forgive you, either.” Scott just sagged there in lumpen misery. Bryce stared for a drawn-out second, then turned to go. “There never was a cousin,” Scott murmured. “I know Scott. I figured that out too. There was never a cousin. You don’t have a truck, you don’t run a tire shop, Sarah doesn’t take trips to France and Japan. You didn’t lose the password. You never owned any coins. You aren’t licensed for anything. You don’t help catch child abusers. The governor doesn’t invite you to barbecues. You don’t know anyone.” He glanced over his shoulder for one last shot. “And there’s nothing wrong with Sarah.” He headed for the door. The couchsprings squeaked from the pressure of his passing. “Bryce, please, wait wait,” soft clammy fingers wrapped around his arm, then leapt back. “Please, she does need help, please. Please just come and look. I didn’t know who else to call.” His hands came up open-palmed. His whole face threatened to dissolve into snot. Scrubby beard flapped as brain and tongue couldn’t settle on a single plan. He was going to start blubbering. Bryce closed his eyes. “Please, please just come look,” Scott whispered. “We’re nobodies, I know, I know. I deliver packages sometimes, that’s all. Not even pizza, I got fired. We can’t even pay the tax on this place. Please come look. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t lose her. Please come look.” Bryce sighed. “I really hate you,” he said. “Yes I know, you’re right. It’s my fault. I’m broken, I am, I am. Just please, please.” “Go on then, show me.” Bryce turned around. “I am such a moron.” “Yes, come, come on.” Scott hurried through the kitchen. He grabbed a dishrag as he passed and hurriedly mopped his face. It left crumbs in his beard. “We have to,” he started, then stopped. “Ok, maybe we don’t, hopefully. Come on, lets– I hope we don’t.” He shuffled down the hall and gently cracked open the bathroom door. Loki immediately shot between his legs and vanished into the kitchen. The smell of dank catbox wafted after him. “Ah, sorry, sorry, I had to, um.” Scott snaked his hand into the bathroom and flipped the lightswitch on-off, on-off, on-off, three times. He turned to say something, but one look at Bryce put him off. He hurried off towards the bedroom. “In here, in here please.” Bryce followed him down the familiar trail of vanilla. The bed was still crammed exactly where he had left it, disheveled and never-made. Piles of books, dirty clothes, and half-eaten bags of polyunsaturated whatevers grew up in the corners between nightstand and wall. She always insisted on having a candle lit, but now every wick stood cold. Nobody had bothered to inform the smell. And there was, of course, no Sarah at all. Scott hurried over to the small window at the back of the room. “She’s, uh. Probably outside,” he said. “I’m done. Goodbye. Don’t call me again.” Bryce hefted his kit and swept around. Scott yelled something, but Bryce was actively not listening. “I’m done,” he muttered. “Done done done-done-done.” He stomped past the bathroom and through the kitchen. A stack of dirty pots and baking trays shifted as he passed and sent a spray of unwashed utensils clattering to the floor. Unintelligible Japanese snaked in from the TV room. Bryce shook his head. So dumb. “Oh hey Phil.” Bryce froze. Gareth lounged on the couch with Loki curled in his lap watching some anime – no, wait. His real name was Tom. On the screen a kid with spiky hair got thrown three time zones by a lizardman in a catcher’s outfit. Tom lifted the remote and turned the volume down. “Sorry, subs aren’t on, lemme find it.” He began poking through menus. “When did… the TV works?” Bryce blinked. A shiny flat-screen stood on the weird half-cabinet they used for a stand. “That wasn’t…” He trailed off. “Yeah, Az got it off layaway finally. The manager finally picked up his phone.” Gareth craned his neck around and grinned. “Crazy.” He noticed Bryce’s bag. “Oh man, you finally graduated? Dr. Phillip! Gratz!” “No, it’s just from work,” Bryce muttered. “Oh good, good.” Scott huffed in. “Look, look at this, Phillip’s back.” “Good to hear! Every team needs a doctor!” Tom gave a thumbs-up, but he was back to watching the screen. The spiky-haired kid threw an energy beam which rearranged the landscape for the entire time zone. “Thousands dead,” Bryce muttered, just like he always did. The lizard guy wasn’t even hurt. “Yeah!” Tom grinned back up at him. “I’m glad you’re back, man. Things haven’t been the same.” Caught up again. Bryce squeezed his eyes shut and headed for the door. His car keys rattled as he clawed them from his pocket. He flung the door open and fairly leapt out. Almost into the pool. Bryce grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself back. The scrubby yard was gone. The dandelion fluff had all blown on, leaving a gleaming pool of sparkling blue curved around a neat concrete boardwalk kinda shaped like a ‘J.’ Bryce blinked. No car. No street. No driveway. Just a clean wooden fence and trimmed rich-people-hedges. A phalanx of lounge chairs overseen by gleaming towel racks. A slender stand holding a pitcher full of fresh icewater. “Yeah uh, try not to think too hard at it. It isn’t, really, um…” Scott devolved into muttering. “It’s shaped like a joke. I remember this.” Bryce muttered. He glanced at the siding and the remnant of the front stoop. “Your house got turned around.” He paused. “I got turned around.” “Yes, that’s good, yes, that. Remember? Remember she wanted a pool like she saw in Italy, but we couldn’t put it in because we didn’t have the right soil, right? Remember?” “She never went to Italy,” Bryce gaped up into the perfect shining sky. “Yeah she did! Remember? She went with her aunt, and to London and Vienna. She sent postcards and everything.” “Those were from Amazon. I found them.” Bryce finally turned around. “What is this?” “Hiiiii Phil!” called a voice from across the pool. Bryce looked back just in time to see Katerina dive in. A silvery ripple shot along the bottom, then burst to the surface a little over half-way. She pouted and splashed the rest of the way. “Uh, hi…” Bryce trailed off as he struggled for her name. Her real name! She was Rasputina, but that was fake too. Wendy or something? But not? Ugh. She had a bad tattoo of a little bird kind-of on her cheek, kind-of under her ear, like a sticker made by a 6 year old. What was her name? It had been on the chart. It wasn’t Bad Face-Tattoo Girl. “Hi,” Bryce repeated. “Yeah good, good, like that,” Scott nodded so hard his head almost wobbled off. “Hey Eff, we’re trying to find Phil’s car. Have you seen it?” “I thought you used Katerina.” Bryce couldn’t help it. “That’s forever ago,” she stuck out her tongue a little bit. “It’s Ephreal now. It’s from a game.” She threw her gap-toothed grin. “Dunno where your car’s at. I’ve been holding this place down.” She gave a lazy splashy twirl in the water. “I lost track of the pool boy.” “Oh, oh right.” Scott shoved his way to the water’s edge. “His name is Abelard Maratine, remember? Very tall, very thin, more of a treepicker boy than a pool boy. Dark hair. He’s shy and doesn’t like to talk. He’s probably hiding, just waiting for you to need something, like maybe behind a tree or a bush. You should go look for him.” “Sure, right,” she laughed. “I’ll hold this place down, don’t worry.” She grinned and kicked back from the pool’s edge. “Come on, your car’s over here, I think.” Scott shuffled away along the pool’s edge. He urgently motioned for Bryce to follow. Bryce hesitated. He glanced back into the house. Gareth was still planted on the couch glued to his anime. It looked like the catcher-lizard had been defeated. Weird. Usually it took six or seven episodes for something like that. “C’mon Phil!” Scott leaned from foot to foot like a kid in line for a desperate pee. He made hand-over-hand pulling motions. Slowly, Bryce wandered after. “You told me we needed to find Sarah,” he mumbled and shaded his eyes. The sun was out winter-hard. He squinted like Scott always did. Behind him, Ephreal called out for Abe. “Yeah, and you told me you wanted to find your car. You said you were going home.” Scott nodded. “You need your car for that, right? You can take Sarah to the hospital. That’s really, really good of you. I haven’t been a great friend, but it helps so much.” “Scott, what is this? Eff – gah, what’s her real name? She stopped taking her meds. She had that fit at club and they took her into Maplewood. What’s? Where’d the pool come from?” “No no, you heard wrong. She only said she stopped, but she actually never did, she’s fine, see? I asked her to watch the pool for me. It’s um. It’s, yeah. I need her here. Phil, c’mon. We have to go.” He huffled off. A path of red-brown cobblestones with a border of white stones led away from the hedges surrounding the pool. Fresh-trimmed rich-people-grass filled the air with a clean Saturday scent. Every three steps Scott looked back like a spaniel dying for the park. “Where’s Sarah?” Bryce asked. “You said she was bleeding.” “No no, I said I wanted you to look at her. There was blood, was. It’s a normal thing, you know, to have blood? But she needs help. I need you to come look at her. Come on, we have to hurry.” Bryce shuffled along behind him with small, hesitant steps. He squinted. He heard Abe singing a song for Ephreal, but couldn’t catch the words. Up ahead was… was… Up ahead was a graveyard. “Scott?” “Um, use ‘Az’, please. It’s polite. Or maybe Jacobsen, you know? Like in the old game? It would help. Come on.” He huffled back and took Bryce by the elbow. He pulled away. “Where are we? Is that Sarah’s house?” Bryce squinted. The glare made it hard. “Yes, you remember? She was looking for a big, old rickety house overlooking an old graveyard, right? You told her to look at auction sites, remember? Houses like that probably wouldn’t be with normal real estate. Guess what? You were exactly right. She never would have found this place without you, and thanks to the inheritance she’s even fixing it up. Look, come on. Let’s go inside.” He could see it now. An old rickety manse like on the cover of a Halloween book. Peeling paint, three stories – maybe four, if you counted the tower-turret-thing. Those things had a name. Old oaks roots toppled over gravestones right up to the peeling porch-paint. A purple wreath hung on the front door. Sarah always liked purple. Scott scrambled up the steps and waved for him to follow. “Scott, what’s wrong with your face?” he asked. “Az. Or Jacobsen. It’s always been like that,” he replied. “Come on now.” Scott pulled him through the door. The old couch squeaked hello. The old dusty TV leaned against the wall, fresh from Sarah’s grandma’s, still not hooked up. Vanilla and catbox came down like a hammer. The kitchen counters threatened to dispense the house’s entire arsenal of tableware onto the floor. They were always so tickled they had fixed the Leaning Tower. Scott’s same house, in the same place, what they left but come back to. Bryce squinted. Was this right? “Azrael! I was getting worried,” a cheery voice called. “Yeah, um. So was I. But we made it. Hey hey, look who’s back?” “Phillip!” A moment later T… T… T-something threw her arms around him and glommed on like a big friendly marshmallow. She made happy purring noises, like a T-something would. “T-Teresa?” Bryce guessed. He thought he met her once or twice, back before all the fights. The girl on the couch who took up space and tried not to talk. “Maybe! Who am I?” She beamed over at Scott. “He’s absolutely right. You’re still Teresa, just like you always were. Thanks for watching Loki for me. I’m so sorry about putting all this on you. Sarah will be back from Tunis on Tuesday, but my unit still needs me for another couple of days. I can’t tell you what a good friend you are. And… what! You didn’t have to do the dishes for us, or clean. We just wanted you to change the catbox and give him pets. Teresa, you are such a fabulous friend.” Bryce blinked. That was… that was right. He put his hand on the back of Scott’s old, battered couch. The floor sparkled shiny-clean. All the toys and minis were stood up in neat lines on the shelves. The scavenged coffeetable had been repaired into a heavy old dignified thing, with a big lip to catch over-enthusiastic dice. Spotless pink linoleum shone from the kitchen. Immaculate countertops like an insurance ad. “Oh, it wasn’t anything!” Teresa beamed. Her eyeholes crinkled into deep, delighted folds. “It’s what any sort of friend would do! What am I doing next?” “Well let me tell you,” Scott pulled the door shut behind him. “Look Phillip! She even washed the windows! This is amazing, Teresa. I don’t know what we’d ever do without you.” Teresa smiled so wide it almost unhinged her jaw. Little gibbets of tears leaked down her face. She scrubbed them away with the hem of her sleeve. “What happens now is really easy. You sit down on the couch and get out your laptop, like always. You’ve been writing, and it’s been almost a whole 100 days without missing once. That’s fabulous. You’re almost done too, so keep at it. We both know how special this one is. While you’re there keep your DMs up because I’m pretty sure Brahms is going to message you back. He decided he didn’t have a girlfriend anymore, and remembers all the nice thoughts you always had about him. You two are going to talk for hours about nothing and everything, and laugh and pretend and play secrets, and you’ll write it down to remember it. He’ll come over later, maybe. He’s hoping you’ll let him.” “Oh!” A strangled whine slipped from her lips. She clutched her hands together, then pressed them over her face. She turned around, then again, then back again again. Skirts swished. Tears flowed. She burbled with uncontained joy. “Thank you Az, that’s so wonderful. I can’t wait, I can’t wait!” Furniture rattled as she hopped in place, then hustled over to the couch and flopped down. She frowned and patted around, then the whole couch creaked as she pulled her laptop from between the cushions. She snapped it open and buried her nose in the glow. “Come on, Sarah’s probably back in her bedroom.” Scott trundled through the sparkling kitchen towards the back of the house. “Scott, please,” Bryce felt like his brain crashed back into his skull. “This doesn’t make any sense. Where’s Tom? Where are we?” “What?” Teresa jerked up from her screen. “What do you mean?” She frowned and studied his face. The couch quivered a little bit, like the weave flipped between horizontal and vertical. The wallpaper twitched. Maybe, just maybe, someone had installed brighter lightbulbs. “No no, no no no, it’s all good. Everything’s fine, fine.” Scott hurried back. “Phil is helping me find Isabella. She caught a cold on her way back from Algiers, and is resting.” He made frantic patting noises. “I’m Azreal, yes? Right?” He gave Scott a pained look. “You’re behind on your writing, Teresa. I loved your last chapter. It’s like, like, beautiful and innovative. It reads like poetry. I don’t understand how you can do it so well, so often. You’re going to be so famous someday. I hope you still remember me when you’re famous.” “Oh Az, that’s, you can’t say those things. I’m not that good.” Teresa turned back to the laptop with a dreamy smile. “You are, you are, just keep working. Take care of Loki while I’m gone, would you? Just remember, Loki and your writing. Just sit here, tap-tap-tap. I’m counting on you.” Scott grabbed Bryce’s elbow and fairly drug him away. “Azreal, please. From now on, Azreal. You have to believe, Phillip.” “What is going on?” Byrce balked again in the kitchen. Scott winced, so he lowered his voice. “Where’d Tom go?” “He’s still there, he’s holding the marker, like Ephreal. Come on, we have to hurry. I was gone so long Teresa almost lost herself. Come on, please. Please.” Bryce shook his head slowly. The stove gleamed fresh-scrubbed. Not a crumb marred the countertops. A fresh breeze wafted in through the window over the sink. It smelled ever so faintly of vanilla. He craned his neck to maybe glimpse his car. Nothing. Why was he still holding his keys? When Scott hurried on, Bryce found himself drawn along in his wake. “In he4re.” Scott pulled open the door to the bedroom. “... oh.” There was no bedroom. There wasn’t anything at all, not that Bryce could see. He squinted. It was white, yes, but not. It was blindness, yes, but not. It oozed along the doorframe like questing mold. Scott stood a dumpy silhouette against the glare. “This isn’t good,” he muttered, and mopped his hand over his forehead. “Az, this is a really weird question,” Bryce started. “But how many fingers do you have?” “Enough,” Scott muttered. He held his hand in front of his face for a moment, then clenched a fist. He whirled around on Bryce. “Remember… you remember, right? I’ve got four fingers on each hand, and a pair of thumbs too, right? You remember? I had the dice in my hand, but there were like thirty of them. I had to borrow from Michel, but I couldn’t roll with so many and… and… damn, who was he being? The guy… the guy. I was just talking to him!” Scott pulled at his beard with four fingers and one thumb. “He got so mad, said I should do two at once, and we’d need a shoebox. Damn, the merc guy, always pissing around. Tragic? T, T, Trouble? I threw him out when he kept touching – damn, the other girl. Damn. Damn!” Four fingers and one thumb beat themselves against his forehead. “Trajan,” Bryce answered. “But his real name was Willis.” “Yes! Yes! I knew you were the right person! Tell me about him, Phil. It’s too deep. I can’t be here.” “Uhm.” Bryce wobbled forward. The glare poured over Scott’s shoulders like a tide of hungry white. “He was bad for the table. He’d play like normal, then suddenly go way dark and made everyone uncomfortable. That’s why Melody left, right? He got put in charge of some kids, then wouldn’t stop talking about the things he did to them and she just started sobbing. You threw him out, remember? Right before the game ended.” “Oh, yes, right, right. He was the Street Artist. Trajan. Yes, I remember. Yes, do you see him? There – see him?” Scott pointed out into the white. The glare seemed… there was a hallway, right? Green-and-white tile, and a dirty drop ceiling. Kind of? The lights were eye-test bright. In the distance… yeah. A plastic chair, and someone sitting in it. “He’s here?” Bryce blinked. “Yes, yes, I called lots of people, come on.” Scott shuffled down the corridor. “Hurry. How did he wear his meat on his face? You remember, right? Tell me again.” “His what?” Bryce half-stumbled on the green-and-white fog under his feet. Linoleum swirled like new-morning mist. Scott swam ahead with great sweeping strokes of his limbs. “His face? How was it?” he called. “He was normal. I mean, normal for a guy. He didn’t look special at all.” “Come on Phil, you have to remember something!” Scott struggled forward. The figure in the chair didn’t seem any closer. “He had a mole on his neck. It was just a spot or something. He joked it was cancer, and he was gonna die. Uhm. He always had nose hair poking out. I think he needed glasses but he said he didn’t. He held up his cards right in front of his face like Franklin did.” “Yes, thank you,” Scott breathed. He took a final step and put his hand on the back of the plastic chair. “I don’t need glasses,” Willis replied. “I’d rather put a knife in my eye.” He didn’t turn around. He sat with his hands folded, legs crossed. His chin came up. “I have decided to kill myself.” “What? No, stop it.” Bryce scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “I can’t deal with you right now.” “No, good, that’s good!” Scott interjected. “Tell me about it! How are you going to do it?” He leaned in and stuck his beard in Willis’s face. “I’m going to jump, I think. Or maybe something with pills. That might leave me a vegetiboy, but maybe they won’t have a funeral if I’m splattered everywhere. Or I can get real sick somehow, so it takes a while and mom has to watch. There are things I can eat for that. I looked it up. There are so many good ways.” “Wow, you put a lot of thought into this. What’s the difference? Like, what way is best?” Scott looked to Bryce for support, but all he found was wide-eyed silence. “It makes a lot of difference for the funeral,” Willis smiled. “If you mess yourself up too much they’ll close the casket or just have a little urn with a picture. That’s not what I want. I want to be there all done up. My mom there, crying. Everyone from Group, Sergeant Miller looking down at me, remembering what I told them. All the idiots lined up, and someone would say,” “We messed up,” said a voice. Bryce’s head jerked up. A few dozen cheap stackable chairs slipped in around them. The harsh white dimmed into the muted buzz of recessed halogen bulbs. People weren’t there, but then they were. Shadowy blob-figures in suitcoats and dresses, drifting in procession and dripping all sad. Willis was there too, up front snug in his casket. His mother stood out in stark detail: brown hair, black outfit with a midi skirt, ugly-faced with baggy, hanging skin smeared with tears and running makeup. She sobbed on mute from her stool. “I overreacted, bad,” the voice continued. “The police didn’t need to get involved.” “That’s right,” Willis agreed from his seat and his casket. “It was terrible, and unfair,” Scott nodded. “It was wrong and I knew it,” a mourner in military uniform said. “Those rules were all bullshit anyway.” He tore a handful of medals from his chest and tossed them on the rust-brown carpeting. “And then Deacon Castel would get up and remind everyone how well I did in class, how I should have gone to college. He knew they kept me out.” A podium had always been standing right behind his mom. A solemn balding man coughed to get everyone’s attention, then dropped a thick rubberbound folder atop it like the very book of judgment. Tears leaked from his eyes as he began pulling out evidence. “It will be great. I can’t wait,” Willis said. “Yeah! Keep going!” Scott almost nodded his head off. “But, uh.” Willis blinked. “But, but… uh.” He looked around, first at Scott, then at Bryce. “But Deacon Castel blew out his liver last year. I sat right here at his funeral.” Willis frowned and stared around. “What?” The figure of Deacon Castel gripped the podium with skeletal fingers. Withered flecks of skin clung to what was left of his face. His jaw flapped open in some unhinged mockery of speech. “Who… who’s in the casket?” Willis pushed himself up and stared around. “What is this?” “Phillip, help.” Scott stared at him. “Please, remember for me. Please.” Bryce couldn’t tell anymore either. The thing in the casket seemed out-of-focus. Sheer white began leaking in between joints in the ceiling. Willis clutched the back of his chair like he was about to start swinging it around. Wherever his eyes fell vague people-mourners shuddered and winked out. The walls bled into waxpaper. “Melody would definitely be there,” Bryce interjected. “You remember her, right? From Az’s game? Brown hair, big smile, her father owned the grocery. She sat next to you, remember? She thought she wanted to be a rogue but couldn’t stop being main healer. She had Melody-disease, remember? Compassionate Terminale. Right?” “I never should have turned him down.” Melody whimpered beside the casket. “He was so nice and I just, I don’t know. I couldn’t stand anyone that nice. I’m so bad.” She hung her head. Tears sparkled on their way to the carpet. Willis jerked around as if on wires. All around Melody wood darkened and firmed. The casket grew bigger. Deacon Castel and his podium shuffled off-scene and blended into wainscoting. The glare receded. “Give him more,” Scott whispered. “Um,” Bryce began. Scott pulled five-fingers against each other. “Um, she told me –” “I always thought he was cute,” Melody wept. Chairs tumbled as Willis pushed his way forward. He hovered behind her and listened with his whole being. “Yes, right, exactly,” Scott murmured. “I overreacted, a lot,” Bryce-and-Melody said. “I thought he smelled great, and whenever anyone said anything I made sure they knew it. I knew… I knew how people talked, I was scared. So I kept moving when he sat close. It was dumb.” Bryce stopped talking. Melody didn’t. “I had one chance, just one chance, and I blew it. I’m so bad. I’m so bad. I’m so bad.” She balled a tiny fist and hit herself on the hip, then again. “Yes,” Willis agreed. “You are.” He shuffled closer. The casket began fading into a dirty wooden workbench covered with tools and sawdust. “That’s good, let’s go. He won’t want forever,” Scott whispered. He pointed towards the back exit and tugged at Bryce’s sleeve. Bryce hovered for a moment. He looked at Willis and the shuddering notMelody, then back to Scott. He hurried after Scott. “That felt awful,” Bryce muttered as they angled for the door. “You made him happy,” Scott countered. “He was never happy much.” “You never listened once. You didn’t even read,” Willis told her. “Babies can read.” Funeral parlor began fading towards exposed wood and wiring – a shed, maybe, or a basement. Dust and turpentine tickled Bryce’s nose as Scott slammed the door shut. Bryce turned. He looked. The world made no sense. It had been making less sense for awhile now, but this was no-sense, none. His eyes squinted completely shut, then backed towards the funeral parlor. Even dealing with Willis would be better than this. “There, she’s there,” Scott breathed. He pointed everyway. He used too many fingers. “Good, good. Phil, you gotta go help her. You gotta get her to come back.” “What? No! I’m just following you! You show me!” “I can’t. I can’t go any deeper.” Scott’s beard snaked into forked braids, then receded. He had a hat, two hats, then none. “I can’t, I keep trying but I can’t. I’m sorry Phil, I’m sorry. I’m not me-enough. I’m just broken. I can’t keep things straight even on good days. I think I remember, but then find out they never happened. I just want everyone to be happy. I’m sorry I said all those things, I am. Just, please. Go bring her back. I can’t even remember her name anymore. You keep saying ‘Sarah’ but that isn’t right. I can’t go. I can’t keep track of myself.” “Out there? I can’t see.” The landscape churned in mosaic fragments. He couldn’t look at it. He couldn’t not. He turned away again. “Yes, that’s why you’re so good, so solid. You never believed anything. That’s why I called you. You yelled and pushed and you can push back, I know it. Please, just remember her. Actual-her. I can’t keep track anymore. I think? I think we met in Paris? Or the other one, the other France-place. I’m confused again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Scott hung his heads. “I remember we spent hours under the blanket when the house got cold talking about all the things that were about to happen, and all the places we would go when her throne was recognized. We would throw parties. We’d make a nonprofit. We gave it a dozen different names. We’d open offices everywhere. Everyone would come to us for everything.” He looked up broken-faced. “It isn’t enough to find her. It isn’t solid enough. I can’t, I don’t know. Phil, you gotta go find her. You never believed anything. That’s why you’ll make it. I remembered you yelling, and nothing I said made it better. I’m sorry, it was my fault. Please just go find her. I can’t keep going alone. Please bring her home.” “I believed every word,” Bryce scrubbed his eyes over his face. Scott couldn’t decide how many arms he needed. He stood superimposed on himself, a Shiva of many beards. Bryce wobbled and rubbed his eyes. “Please go bring her home. Please, please help. I’ll go back and keep the markers fresh. I’ll go get Regis, I’ll beg… I’ll beg Yo… Yo… Yahhh!” He shook. “I’ll beg her until she comes! She’s on a button on my phone, I think, I think I think I think. Just go, please, tell her I’ll keep bringing help. Please Phillip! Please! Try to remember her. She’s probably forgotten.” Scott whispered a final ‘please,’ turned, and huffled straight through the door as if it wasn’t there. Bryce reached out and brushed the wood with his fingertips. The paint flaked off to let the Nothing shine through. The entire door crumbled in on itself and was gone. Bryce shut his eyes and tried to breathe. He could feel it leaking in under his eyelids, the mosaic everyness, the manything confusion. He didn’t dare look down. “Scott? He called. The sound didn’t echo at all. It felt weird and alien. “Azrael? Jacobsen?” Nothing. His hair waved like underwater. He wondered where the air was coming from. The thought made him seal his lips and puff his cheeks like a squirrel. “Sarah?” The words vanished as if never spoken. He peeked with one eye, but it was like staring into a spotlight. He clutched his responder bag. Maybe there was something in there he could use. He reached down and started fumbling for the zipper. Bandages wouldn’t help, or masks, or cold packs, or trauma pads, but maybe something with the eye drops. He fumbled around. That alcohol smell, all sterile regret wafted up like the hallways at work… Bing. “Paging Dr. Montgomery.” The intercom echoed down smooth, painted hallways studded with beds and monitors and rolling multiuse stands whose names he could never memorize. A quiet beep… beep… beep echoed from ahead and from behind. His hair swayed in the constant breeze of the air conditioning. He could almost feel the sanitizing gel between his fingertips. “Paging Dr. Montgomery.” “You shouldn’t be carrying that,” a stern voice informed him. Bryce flicked his eyes open but it was hard to focus. It was Maplewood, yes, definitely. He knew the lights and tile. There was a person in front of him – maybe Shelly? Maybe even Dr. Brenda. His eyes were gummy. He probably looked both drunk and high. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. He thrust the kit out as if it burned. “I just borrowed it, just to look. I’m sorry. I just…” he trailed off. Caught. Going to get fired. His heart seized. His head whipped around. Maybe if he hid behind his mop-cart, maybe, maybe… “I’ll see this gets back to staging. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on errands. We pay you too much to be a gopher.” The figure (tied back hair, dirty blonde, no makeup ever – yes, Dr. Brenda herself) reached out and took the kit from his limp and unresisting fingers. Bing. “Dr. Phillip Montgomery, please report to Room 319.” “That does mean ‘now,’ Phillip.” Dr. Brenda informed him, then turned and marched off. All around the nurses and doctors and orderlies huddled around their desks with one eye on the monitors and one ear to the gossip. He patted his chest. He wore a white coat with a badge on a lanyard, and underneath that one of those thin jumpers they dumped in the hampers at the end of the day before he came and took them to be high-temperature cleaned. “Dr. Phillip Montgomery, please report to Room 319.” Bing. The nurses glanced at him. He stood there, legs half-jelly. They filed away this new gossip and buried their noses in their business. He straightened up. Room 319 was down the hall, to the right. Wastebasket against the wall, sharps bin out of child-reach above the sink. Check behind the bed for fallen wipes. He marched off before anyone started asking questions. People stepped politely out of his way. He turned the corner and everything was as it should be. The hallway was a little more crowded, maybe. Maybe they were turning one of the rooms into a double. He tapped at the door of 319, then remembered that wasn’t how doctors did it. He rapped hard twice, waited several whole milliseconds, then pushed the latch and stepped inside. Vanilla hit him in a full-body wave. The curtain around the bed fluttered a little bit. The chair squatted in the corner with its fresh pillow and blanket, neatly folded and unused. A candle burned on the shelf next to the 319 TV Remote. Its tiny flame wavered warm and intrusive. He frowned. That wasn’t allowed at all. He stepped inside. She was in the bed, either asleep or passed out or just sunk low in despair – at work he could never tell which. Sometimes they woke up when he bonked the wastebasket. Only her face and arms peeked from the sea-green hospital gown. Her hair still showed remains of the punky-pink she had last time he saw her, but the rest showed blistered blonde and natural brown. She had wanted a full sleeve tattoo but was only able to afford a single-session sketch which looked more like an old roadmap than a bird. That had been one of the things that started him thinking. An architect should have been able to get her art finished. He frowned. She didn’t move. It didn’t even seem like she was breathing, all waxy-pale. There was a chart in the holster at the foot of the bed: one of the new ones with the electronic screen and a big room number sticker on the back. He picked it up. The screen said SHE NEEDS A TRANSFUSION “So what’s our next move?” A nurse loomed in the doorway. Her face was a mass of shadows. He knew the voice, but couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t… “She needs a transfusion,” he finally said. The nurse nodded. He glanced back at the chart. 2 UNITS WHOLE BLOOD AB+ “Whole blood, two units, A-B positive.” “Got it,” said the nurse and sauntered off. Down the hallway, some subtle change in air pressure told of less gossip and more work. “Hi Phil,” came a voice from the bed. She was awake. She smiled like she always did, with her whole heart and body and more. “I knew you’d come back.” His fingers gripped the chart. A halo of white ringed his fingernails. His lips firmed. There was something he was going to say, if this happened, if he ever ran into her again. He was going to say something. He looked down at the chart. HI SARAH “Hi Sarah,” he breathed. He bowed his head. “So what’s wrong with me, doctor?” She looked up with big, serious eyes. “You lied and hurt me real bad,” he muttered. “Whaaaat?” She struggled to scooch upright, but the IV dripping blood into her arm made it hard. She winced every time she moved her hand. Too-thin arms wrestled with the guard rails until she made it almost halfway. “Is it ever going to get better?” she breathed. Again with the eyes. They caught the edges of the candle-flame. He looked down at the chart. Lines and lines and lines scrolled frantically across the screen. Big, block-faced, with lots in italics and underlines. He took a sharp breath, closed his eyes, then returned the chart to its holster. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Oh good.” The smile bloomed across her face. The room felt ten degrees warmer. “What should I do, Doctor? I haven’t felt together at all.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve written you a prescription for three kinds of pills. One will help you remember better, and you should take it every morning. One will help you sleep, so you actually go to bed. Take that in the evening, and don’t put it off. The last pill will relieve any sorrow of any kind, regardless of its source or cause. Be very careful with these. There are only two of them, and we cannot get them anymore.” “Ooooooh,” she replied. “Thank you Doctor. I was thinking I wasn’t ever going to get better.” “You’re welcome,” Dr. Phillip replied. “I just… I’m so glad to help.” He shook his head and looked away. “Here,” she said. She took his hand and pressed a clean white pill into his palm. “If there’s two, you can keep one. You deserve it. I’m sorry you got drug into this, but I’m so glad you’re back.” She hugged him, and after a moment he squeezed her hard. She gave her little happy squeak. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for finding me. I just can’t keep ahold of myself sometimes,” she grinned. “You should get ready. I’m sure you’re going to have lots of patients soon.” She shrugged off her hospital gown to reveal the hiking gear underneath, then dug around behind the bed where they always lost the wipes, found her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. She put a hand on the door-handle and waved. “Wait, where are you going?” Phillip called. “Az needs you to come home! He said he was going to find more help!” “I can’t go back!” she laughed. “I haven’t found her yet.” Phil gave her a bewildered stare. She hesitated with her hand on the doorframe. “I’m looking for a lady who knows how to live through dreams. I keep seeing her, a little bit, but I haven’t found her yet. Her name is Gita, and I need her to teach me how to do it too. I have to go deeper. Tell Scruffy-Darling ‘thank you’ for me, when he comes through with someone else. He’s the best ever, but don’t tell him I called him that.” Her eyes sparkled by candlelight. She leaned back in, just a little bit. “And thank you too, Doctor Phillip. I always believed in you. I’ll come visit.” Dimples flashed, the door swung shut. Sterilizing light rained down. Idly, Phillip reached over and snuffed out the vanilla candle. It wasn’t allowed for at least three dozen reasons. He shook his head. Bing. “Paging Dr. Montgomery. Please report to Triage B,” Phillip shook out his coat. Pens and highlighters clacked. He adjusted his lanyard and turned his badge face-out. He opened the door and swept down the hall. “Thank you, Dr. Montgomery.” Bing.
