The Era of Common Good

I

Mundane rituals create a prison of convenience. It's the yearning for simplicity that makes it so difficult to break away.

         The gears never stop.
         He didn't mind fourteen-hour shifts, six days a week. Didn't matter that they came off the line a little quick. What better use for dry & calloused hands than a machine tight grip; keeping busy, holding jars instead of a bottle, numbing himself either way. He can't be the same person that burned so bright, once upon a time. But meager pay makes for poor kindling. And it's easier to be content, just doing his part, dumping pennies down the darkened void at the center of the swirling shadows, to keep the ship afloat. He can still hear the instructional video reminding him, every piece matters for the submarine to function.
         Whatever else, it is majestic down here. The dank, sullen hull gave him comfort on the everlasting midnight shift. He loved to measure his pace using the sonar's tick in the background, timing perfectly with each jar spilt and not the pause in between. It's why he doesn't complain; others might think him ungrateful. Or they might feel his shame, realizing he's nothing more than a glorified cupholder. Instead, he drowns the shame in cheap liquor at the local cantina, spilling on himself when he can't stop the tremors.
         Soon, his wearing will make him obsolete. He can't hide it forever. A body is a machine but he's merely human. He can't be repaired. He'll be replaced. They're going to turn him into chum. He can't mess up. He will mess up. His knuckle tipped the next jar over the side! The rest kept coming; glass crashing, pennies launching everywhere. Pure panic set in as vicious eruptions shattered the submarine's hull, sending flames & floods to consume all those he doomed trapped within.
         Rorick's eyes burst open.
         Quick as he rose, he fell back on his pillow, happy to know a boiling death wouldn't take him in the deep blue corners of his bedroom. He fanned the comforter until the sweat stains dried, the printed spaceships blasting off on each wave; all while ignoring his phone's alarm a bit longer as he tried to shed the lingering exhaustion.
         It starts with false hope, burrowing under the covers again, knowing he can't survive on hibernating breathes anymore. Followed by a deep stretch, paired with a hangry yawn. Ten more seconds resting his eyes. Then finally, come the attempts to attend to the horrid cascading chime.
         Closer. Closer. CLOSER.
         Tips pushed it away.
         One more plunge...
         And...
         "Bitch, damn you."
         He didn't mean to push it over the lamp's organizer. By then, it's easier to gently tug it within range from the charging cable. As a reward for his efforts, he took a brief morning scroll. The sudden silence withered his anxiety, but he harbored no anger towards his phone for singing so early, keeping that blessed promise to spectacularly ruin every morning. A violent start gives the caffeine some momentum. That's why he stays up until 3AM every night, doing nothing in particular; to get the full effect.
         His mom's gone to the world halfway through her favorite late-night monologue, and wakes up before the roosters. It seems unnatural to him. Unless you're a farmer, or conduct business with farmers, there's no reason why the day can't start at noon. But there is hope for his assimilation; she wasn't exactly a saint in her youth either.
         Rorick groaned loudly, heaving a visible fog as he threw off the covers. It's the sound of a stick scraping concrete when he itched both ends of himself, somehow managing to get his raggedy hoodie on while straightening his manhood.
         She chose a vibrant yellow for the upstairs hall, and also liked leave the lights on in the morning, claiming it's to help him get moving; not by request, but it did add its own accelerant to the flame. He could hear her heels already clacking downstairs, in the kitchen.
         The old-timey spigot takes a hard crank & a long minute before the hot stuff comes through, giving Rorick a chance to brush his teeth the lazy way. When he closed the medicine cabinet, the mirror showed back a frumpy young man, dark as an almond, or the hands that pick 'em. On his head sat a black mop of long, nappy curls that lived their own lives most often. Two-weeks overdue for a cut, according to Ma-Linda.
         "But you have such a handsome babyface!" or, "Stop hiding those big brown eyes!" She'd say. And he keeps on his way to the kitchen with his dishes.
         He put the nozzle right above his neck to soften the stiffness from sleeping badly for the hundredth night in a row. Eight months ago, he was partying his ass off on a high horse, senior year in sight. With only a few months left, he didn't know it would feel this weird. Twelve years, sixty-seven percent of his life, growing up next to essentially the same group. Now, they'd all split off to find what feels like the right destiny. Some knew it so well already.
         He wrote about a different career dream in each college application, hoping one might spark a flame, or at least achieve a warmth greater than this shower. There's still a chance, he supposed. Hard to get attached to a school until he knows it wants him too. If he can picture himself at it, then that'll be the one.
         The clock liked to sprint ahead during these times of idle thought. This shirt; those pants. It didn't really matter which, so long as they passed the sniff test. He checked the contents of his backpack, confirming six binders were layered into an evened brick and his graphing calculator sat sleeved in the front pocket. Rorick rushed to the kitchen next for some cheap fuel & vitamins.
         And there she was.
         A cup of coffee in her hands, having a staring contest with the floor. He knew whatever was bothering her had to do with work. Rorick snuck a hug around her arms, careful not to wrinkle her suit. The black pants topped by a white shirt & indigo blazer brought a vibrance to her dark complexion. He dropped his head low as to not tatter her bob, nor its perfectly crimped edges. Melinda looked at the time before acknowledging his presence, wondering why he hadn't left yet.
         "Damn, ma'am. I am, I am. Just a little behind."
         "You do have little behind." Melinda clapped. "Eat something first; I can write you a note if you need. And watch your language this early."
         "It's five o'clock somewhere."
         "You know, if you woke up just ten minutes earlier, you could make eggs."
         "NoooOOOoo." He started shaking what that woman over there gave him as her eyes rolled back to the Middle Ages.
         "I grabbed the mail this morning." She yelled down the hall, where he'd gone looking for a windbreaker. "Do you plan on opening any of these? You got another big one; that makes three. And I'm just saying, they don't send big ones for rejections."
         "I've got a few months." He shrugged, even though she couldn't see him.
         She was good about letting him breathe.
         "At least eat something real."
         Melinda watched him take a bite out of a fiber bar in one hand, while a beef stick stood ready in the other. Rorick felt it best to ignore her negativity.
         "Don't you usually head out ten minutes ago?"
         "I just need to be there before the meeting." She said. "I have a bit of time, if you want me to drop you today."
         He shook his head, downing a small cup of coffee, then kissed her on the cheek on his way out. "You handle your business and I'll handle mine, thankyouverymuch." Letting the door slam shut behind him, to make his pointless point stronger.
         Campus was only six blocks up the street, but it's always against the wind. Rorick jogged by the mismatched houses to catch up on lost time; taking bites mid-stride for speed boosts, hopping around dog turds, and over patches of grass growing between the concrete, knowing when the slabs would suddenly shift.
         He wished she hadn't said anything. Hearing the words out loud made it hard to pretend time is frozen. He missed the scent of elementary school. Holiday arts & crafts, square wedges of pizza transporting mozzarella logs, a bucket of broken crayons. But most of all, he missed the blissful certainty. Free to believe he could grow up to drive a tractor. Nothing about owning a farm, just driving a tractor. Success seemed so guaranteed in the second grade.
         Rorick slowed near campus.
         Their school features an especially grey concrete, fit for the finest of prisons. Its only tincture came from orange brightly lining the marquee that displays upcoming events. No structure this ugly should elicit a sentimental pull. Familiarity can do strange things.
         Rorick squeezed through his peers gumming up the octuple doors, thankful to their body heat for melting the tundra biome that overtakes the school at night. He could never stand there to chat, but did offer the customary what up a dozen times in passing, pretending he could hear anything over the shoe squeaks.
         Each room borrowed some personality from their teacher, and since Mr. Proctor didn't have any to spare, the walls remained their natural glossy white. Rorick sat at the bell's ring, checking his bag once more, in case the auto-pilot earlier missed something.
         "Did you get the last couple on the homework?" Someone whispered from behind.
         "Yeah, why didn't you ask me sooner?" Rorick took his layered coats off.
         "Check your phone."
         "That's like two minutes ago, ya bish. Here." He passed his stuff back. "Spent so long on the last one, but I got it."
         Tom gave him a few knuckle-taps to say thank you.
         Always such the gentleman.
         "Good morning, class." Their teacher called monotonously. "Before we begin, the school has asked me to pass around these handouts regarding senior week activities." He walked by the front row, looking warm in his wine red sweater vest over a yellow button down, giving precise stacks of flyers to pass back. "Settled down, settle down. You'll have plenty of time to discuss who's going to what with whom later; it's still a few months away." He dryly proclaimed. "Keep those flyers, look over them in your spare time, pass your homework forward."
         Then nothing but the sound of angry backpacks being violated. Rorick pretended he was looking for the holy grail buried deep at the bottom, while Tom put hearts over every i. As Mr. Proctor started making his rounds, Rorick kicked back for Tom to hurry.
         Three columns left.
         Someone asked a question.
         Two columns left.
         Heroic idiot dropped the papers.
         Tom chicken scratched the last bit, passing it forward, and down the line both of theirs went. Out of sight, like everyone had done this before. It's the full team effort that really counts.
         With his excitement tokens used for the day, Rorick essentially dragged his head behind the rest of his body from room-to-room, all of which were showing reruns of dry paint on the walls. Ms. Kaufman liked to decorate using student gifts she'd gotten her over the years, offering plenty of options to space out on.
         For lunch, he rode with Tom, who brought Celine & Abby to get food at the court by one of the business parks. Though a mess in there, at least it was a hot mess. They cleared a table themselves, Abby having thought ahead to bring wet wipes; turning to disarray again quickly, but they cleaned it once more when they were finished. He thought the last two classes would breeze by, until Dr. J busted out a surprise quiz in AP Chem. Should be illegal on a full stomach. And last was AP World History, where Mr. Harper gave what Rorick can only assume was an excellent lecture on the North Pacific.
         Then it finally came.
         The sweet, sweet symphony of the last bell mooing its song of freedom.
         A proper swerve out of his seat will give Rorick the right momentum to be the first one out the door... landing the dismount... good form all the way through... hand at the knob...
         "Rorick, would you mind if I had a quick word?" Came from across the room.
         He could hear the collective boo in his head. But this was a legal interference and he had to accept his disqualification with dignity. Rorick salmoned his way up the stream of people until he reached Mr. Harper's desk, now talking to Denise; a fidgety girl with some new question every day.
         Hurry up. Hurry up. I'm hungry, and I'm tired of smelling you all. Hurry up!
         It would help if Mr. Harper sped her along at least. But no. He let her take her time, and get thorough assurances. It was very inconsiderate. When she finally stopped, she apologized to Rorick on her way out. He smiled and told her it's okay, he's not in a rush.
         "Hey."
          "Rorick; my favorite name of any student I've had, by the way."
         "Thanks." Rorick forced a chuckle.
         "You said it was Germanic?"
         "Yeah, good memory; that was the first day of class."
         "That's why we do those introductions. Usually a couple stand out."
         "It's a long story how I got it."
         Not really, but he didn't feel like sharing.
         "I'd love hear it some time."
         "Maybe after the AP test."
         "That's reasonable." Mr. Harper laughed.
         "So, everything alright?" Rorick awkwardly blurted, hands stiffly dug in his pockets.
         "Of course, just wanted to see if you're okay."
         Here we go.
         Just let him give his speech.
         "I am, thanks for asking."
         "Good, good. Wanted to make sure, after what happened at the courthouse, and see if you're feeling too pressured for the upcoming test."
         Once again living in the shadow of his super mom. Mr. Harper was referring to a week earlier, when the Russian launderer guy's son spat at Melinda and tried to attack her for shaming his father in her opening statements.
         "It was definitely weird, but she's got it under control, I think." Rorick waved his hands like he didn't want the server to top off his water.
         "We're all very proud of the differences she makes in our community. But these men are dangerous, and I'm sure that can be stressful for you too."
         "Yeah... I mean, she doesn't really bring her work home. Plus, he's got an ankle monitor now, and everything's been okay since."
         "Truly great to hear. I hope it stays that way." Always the good guy, that Harper, with his endless plaid shirts & khaki pants. "Think you'll be okay for the exam?"
         "I'll take an automatic A, if you're offering."
         "Not a chance, but nice try."
          "I really do appreciate you and the rest of my teachers checking on me. My mom's definitely been stressed, but she's a tough cookie; no need to worry."
         "Well we do, and not just because it's our job."
         Not knowing what to do next, Rorick stuck his hand out for a shake, thanking Mr. Harper an extra time. On his way home, he felt grateful of his teachers, wishing he had their kind of passion for more than just stuff covered in melted cheese. This one was okay, but it did get annoying when people kept asking him about the case.
         "Do you think it's going to be over soon?"
         And he'd shut them down with a, "That's classified."
         Some were dumb enough to believe it. The rest got mad.
         He couldn't wait for it to be over.

II

Mundanity is not a poison, drunken slowly.

Thrill can never supersede stability in the long run.

It's for the nae & reckless to think excitement worth losing it all.

         A blacked-out sky.
         Probably from spending the night in Tijuana again. The contact hangover added some heft to Rorick's rising, always more exhausted than the night before. This was it. This was growing up. Soon the hairs on top would move to his back & below, and he'd spend his days wondering what's happening in his low-risk mutual fund.


         - Can't even shave his three chest hairs in peace -


         The kitchen's fire alarm sent him on a morning sprint towards the smell of burning. There, he found Melinda balancing poorly on a stool using a table mat to fan the irate sensor.
         "You gotta kill the source first, Ma!"
Rorick protected his face from the mushroom cloud of black ash blooming in the sink as it consumed the blue batik cafcurtains hanging above. One final blaze of glory in the name of her shame. He stirred the pan until the boiling water stopped cackling and the last vapors began to thin.
         "Thank you." She said once the beeps stopped.
         "Were you planning to fan all day?"
         "Hush! Thought I'd surprise you, say thanks for making dinner."
         "Ha, you're sweet, truly. But you know I like my eggs runny. And while we're on the subject, how do you burn eggs?"
         "I got a phone call!"
         Melinda grabbed the crispy remnants.
         "They're not that bad." She said.
         "I put soap in there."
         "Good, then you know they're sanitary. Just eat from the middle." She shoved the pan in his face while he swatted her back like a fly. "Fine. You won't hurt my feelings; too classless for proper gourmet."
         "I'll stick with Pop Tarts, thank you."
         "Eat something real!"
         "But like, you're the one who bought them?"
         "Whatever, child. I need to look over some stuff before I go."
         At least it's Friday.
         The Great Breakfast Fire of '23 set the pep in his step that gave Rorick time to sit & eat. She was studying her documents at the dining table, so he sat quietly. Then he started chewing loudly. Then with his mouth open, adding smacking noises until she scoffed.
         "What's all that about?" He sloppily mumbled through a mouthful.
         "It's work stuff. You wouldn't be interested."
         "Probably, but I'm good at pretending."
         Melinda laughed, never losing her place on the page.
         "Did you see how dark it is outside?"
         He never understood how she read while talking.
         "What're you new here? Never mind, actually. Might be fair to say you haven't looked up from your papers in two decades."
Now she gave him a straight face, too early for that type of sass.
         "You want a ride to school in case it rains?"
         He pondered briefly before surprising her by accepting the offer.
         "Give me two minutes!" She squealed.
         "I don't believe you, so I'll go warm the car."
         He knew exactly where to dig for her keys, in the side pocket of her purse atop the tipping shoe cabinet. Gum & coins took the opportunity to make their escape, but he was quick to shake them loose.
         Inside the garage could easily be ten-degrees colder than the ice caps. Rorick hurried to the driver side, in need of the brake pedal to get the push start going. He stepped as he would over a puddle, careful not to leave any prints on the still immaculate lining of her new mid-size. Three minutes and forty-two seconds later, Melinda casually strolled in, finishing a phone call as she reached the door.
         "You don't want to drive?"
         "I'm good, it'll be easier for you when I get out."
         Didn't take long for the awkward silence to build.
         Any excuse to break it would be nice.
         Something like...
         Umm.
         "Any plans this weekend?"
         Melinda nodded.
         "Meeting with my investigators tomorrow for lunch. Sunday will be all mine, and I might do brunch with Alexis. How 'bout you?"
         "Two tests next week. Two papers due in the next two weeks. Gonna be lotta headphones-in time."
         "I can't believe my handsome baby is graduating in a few months. I know you're still not sure what you want to do, and there's nothing wrong with that." -He should've known this was a trap- "In fact, I'm happy you don't. Take time to know yourself. Don't do something because you feel like you have to. And community college is a great place to start..." Melinda used her high, hopeful voice. "I don't see a reason for you to rush. Or if you want to travel a bit! We can open you a credit card, and you can take a backpacking trip!"
         She really is the best.
         "Thanks for saying that. We'll talk about it later."
         She gave a few quick nods, hugging his head as best she could from the wheel. "Not having a direction yet makes no difference because I know you're capable of so much."
         "MA."
         Luckily, campus was just ahead.
         "I'll get out here so you don't have to get in traffic; thanks for the ride!"
         "Love you!"
         "You too, Ma-Linda."
         She pinched his cheek so hard he needed the car's frame to push himself free. Melinda made U-turn at the stop sign, giving her the perfect angle to wave & shout out the window, honking just in case he didn't see. A pack of girls laughed like the take-no-prisoner adolescents they are. And all Rorick said was,
         "You wish you knew her."


         He had so much time to remember. But it's still easier to blame his mom for throwing off his routine. She'll be forgiven, this time. Thanks to Tom in all his fiery-haired chivalric grandeur, Rorick wouldn't be walking home umbrellaless & defeated. In rain this heavy, that rusty red deathtrap formerly known as a 92' Buick becomes a mighty stallion.
         "Don't mess up my new leathers."
"Didn't know they came pre-torn, but it does explain why it smells like a cow's ass in here."
"That's your mom's ass." Tom dug around the glove box for his pipe somewhere under the crumpled receipts. "Here, pack this. You going to Katie's tonight?"
         "Go out? Do you not have the same test next week I do? Or was that someone else covering my neck in garlic breath every time he got a text."
         "It was my girl!"
         "Your girl." Rorick rustled Tom's hair. "My freckly little man's come so far since Tuesday." He feigned tears in a nasally voice.
         "It's been four weeks." Tom howled on crowd control. "Just been official since Tuesday."
         "Wait no, I swear you hooked up like two weeks ago? Yeah, it was definitely after Valentine's."
         "Right, but she was giving me eyes before that."
         "Ohho." Rorick laughed. "That's why you asked if we thought she's cute on Warzone last month. Here I thought you had game; turns out Val did the work."
         "Ay, I'm still the one who went for it at David's."
"Yeah yeah yeah, I know you're a beast."
"So, you coming out?"
         "No."
         Rorick cherried the pipe for Tom.
         "C'mon, who cares at this point. Colleges don't give a shit about second semester, unless you fail."
         "But my mom does, and I'm not fucking up this close to Spring Break. She's cool how we do... so long as I get my shit done."
         "Alright, alright. She's let me crash on your floor a lot so, outta respect for her, I won't keep pointing out how much of a twat you are."
         "Twat." Rorick laughed.
         "What? It's my culture. I'm allowed to used it."
         "That's British shit. You look like a stretched-out leprechaun. And you're from Cleveland."
         "Whatever, it's the same shit, dude."
         "I hope you know your ancestors just rolled in their graves."
Smoke garnished his exit, disappearing in the g-force winds that slammed the door shut behind him. Rorick flexed his middle fingers back towards Tom in gratitude for his charity. Now it was time to cozy up in his cozy home. He threw his bag in the den with a blatant disregard for safety, setting the heater's dial at ten-minutes on his way to scrounge together a well-deserved feast.
         Munch munch munch.
         Slurp slurp slurp.
         Then face down, drooling into the olive green fuzz of their suede couch. A few twists & tosses later, he was wrapped around one of the base cushions. Scenes flickering on TV dimly lit the otherwise darkened stead, shifting from mostly red to mostly green. Back & forth. The rain had paused briefly, now pouring harder than ever, drowning out most of the chatter beyond periodic laugh tracks. For Rorick, it'd become a single white noise, unable to stir him anymore. Not even the knocks at the front door.
         Four humble requests, just above the handle, reasonable under different circumstances. The bell may have been more effective, if strangers knew where to find it behind the potted dracaena varieties. So Rorick dreamt away, now huddled like a fetus beneath his hoodie, in normal fashion for couch naps. A hymn from the fridge's compressor began to sing in harmony with the raindrops.
         He loved stormy nights.
         Their next attempt came as hammers in a rapid set of five, close to the oaken door's hinges. The waning pleasantries did little to trouble Rorick, whose smile arched in synchrony to the cheering audience. Within seconds, a more furious bashing using the butt of their fist put some stress on the deadbolt. A triple peep from the alarm momentarily quelled the offender. Rorick scanned the room, his unconscious-self deeming it safe to lay down again.
         BRBRBRBRBRBR!
         He was flung from the couch to the hard floors, just shy of the coffee table's rug. Chaos unending; he staggered hazily in the dark towards the deafening barrage of rolling drums trying to break down the door. Around the corner, Rorick could see the wood vibrating in its frame. Where shouting failed, the porchlight succeeded in an instant. Then, it was as if the whole world stopped moving.
         The door's resilience did little coarsen Rorick's nerves. It bothered him that there were no shadows moving through the frosted glass panes. Nor footsteps running away. He slipped on his hoodie, sneaking; careful to tip-toe over the cluster of squeaky boards.
         He confirmed the alarm was set on his way to the peephole. At every narrow angle, he looked to be alone. A pair of headlights slowed as the Meyers pulled into their driveway across the street. It helped Rorick muster some courage that was swiftly charred in anger. He cursed the whole way, opening the door, greeted only by a hefty frozen gust & a wet doormat.
         He kicked on a pair of rubber slippers to walk the concrete path, closing the door behind him, and used his phone's light to scan the bushes. Mr. Meyers sauntered coolly under an umbrella and checked his mail, waving once he took notice of Rorick.
         "Hey, Mr. Meyers! Did you see anyone out here?"
         But the rain was too loud.
         It had to be Tom.
         He lives a block down, likely headed to the party. Or maybe not; Rorick had no idea what time it was. Well soaked, he blustered back inside, swearing as the door slammed. The clock agreed with his estimate, reading half past eight. He began to wonder why his mom hadn't joined the fun. The empty garage gave him a solid clue. Still, he called her name a few times to make sure. He expected some exquisite texts to piece the mystery together.
         In no rush nor mood, Rorick patted the pillows straight, doing his best to capture falling debris on his dirty dishes, never bothering to turn on a light beyond the central hallway row. The faucets are a game he's never mastered, trying to balance on the thin line between scolding & hypothermia. But a splash is all it takes, and the machine does the rest.
         Heavy storm clouds blended into a single grey skyline, only visible by the lightning kernels popping deep in its belly, crackling pleasantly from afar while he loaded the dishwasher. Even after a day spent soaking, he couldn't scrub the hardened soot now engrained to the frying pan. It might require extreme measures, if he dared to use the steel wool.
         "WOAH OH."
         A single strike crossed half the sky, nearly plummeting Rorick to the kitchen tiles. Its following thunder gave their meager town a good shake before the storm settled to the pleasant entrancement of its natural bedlam. Laughing eased his lingering angst, leaving Rorick with negging tingles in his tummy.
         It's at Katie's, so Chlowill most likely be there. Her big brown bug eyes always make him feel like he's moving weird, and smiling weird, and talking weird. They made out on Tom's dryer freshman year; his first kiss, and she kissed him first. But by the end of winter break, she was dating a sophomore they'd later call Aegon, because he conquered half girls in his grade. Probably, his flowing bleached hair had something to do with it too. Sad for Chlo he earned the title while they were dating. She's stayed single since dumping him a year prior. Might be, Rorick just goes for an hour, and hangs back by the laundry room...
         Maybe next time.
         He rummaged the fridge for a breakdown of his dinner options. Anything decent required motivation. If he clung to the hope of getting leftovers later, then five pizza bagels could hold him over. He considered texting her to play it safe, in case she's stuck at work.
         "Where's my phone? Where'd it goooooooo." He sang away the anxious desire to do more with his night. "Wait." Rorick swerved to put the bagels in the microwave first.
         He spent the next minute rehydrating, unawares prior how bad he needed it. Trickling water pooled into his already damp shirt. In the middle of pouring his second refill, an unfamiliar sedan caught his attention, driving slow with its lights off. He got an eerie feeling when it chose to park in front of their house.
         Rorick watched the driver exit awkwardly, as if to not let the interior suffer a drenching too. The person almost went into the flooded gutter, hoodie first, but managed to break their fall by sacrificing a leg in to the murky stream. Paying it no mind, the person began waving frantically using both hands, occasionally pointing at Rorick with the same urgency.
         "Who the fuck are you looking at?"
         No one could be on their pointed terracotta roof. Rorick's futile attempt to see from the window seemed to set off the stranger, who now looked to be a man of average height & build. He went for a crowbar in the backseat, kicking the door shut, and rambling angrily as he pointed it towards Rorick, then the mailbox.
         He wouldn't dare.
         The box exploded on its post, sending letters downwind & downstream. Rorick nearly tripped himself rearing for the door, and again when he turned to the stair closet. He picked a light metallic bat, its tape well-worn to match his grip. He marched confidently and ripped the door open.
         One foot touched the pavement, the other never made it. He felt the crack in his jaw lead the way down. It had to be sledge hammers, instantly traumatizing wherever they struck. He curled tight against the bat, scared of what another head blow might do, begging the rest of his body to endure. Some shots hit the same spot between ribs, pushing the air from his lungs. Cruel laughters howled so near to him, yet none declared a motive.
         "STOP!"
         Rorick kicked blindly. A poor retaliation, but the minor offensive allowed him to finally see his assailants. His two tiny assailants, the taller being no more than fifty inches. Their faces; he didn't understand what he was looking at. Both had cue ball sized eyes sitting narrowly adjacent, above slitted nubs in place of a nose. And mouths don't usually go so ear-to-ear in the literal sense. All daubed on enormous heads atop fit frames vested in tiled leather armor. The further one with tied braids had a softness to her features, apart from the odious scowl. Her partner was uglier than his rotting teeth.
         The gruff fellow used Rorick's bewilderment to sneak a stern blow on the softest part of his temple. Then, just as quick, their excitement turned to muddled shrieks, overlain by the alarm's whirl. Repelled a few steps, the woman cursed at him in a heavily sibilated language Rorick couldn't place. His eyes struggled to level; the last hit poisoned him with vertigo.
         From a distance, they kept tight the bare fists used to tender his flesh, bickering about their next move. They might've reprised the attack if not for the man who lured Rorick shouting behind his assailants. The hissings they returned had nothing nice to say. Neither party seemed to understand the other beyond a need to hurry.
         "Just. Get. Him. And. Let's GO!"
         Rorick swung hard against the closest head. Her shriek was brief, cut short when she hit the pavement. Twitching, lying in her own head-spill. He noticed a shine protruding down her back. The other charged him before he processed what he saw. The gruff thing moved as though the laws of physics didn't apply to him. Rorick closed his eyes, keen on a homerun. The bat pinged where the gruff thing's forearm bore the least meat. He screamed bloody-murder lumbering on the grass, behind the gun. Breathing heavy, Rorick dropped the bat and raised his hands.
         "Why are you doing this?"
         "Just get in the fucking car."
         He whipped the pistol across Rorick's head, repeating himself. His captor looked human in every sense. He was a few shades lighter than Rorick, distinctly Middle Eastern. Their accents were similar, though the other man had a bilingual tinge to match his roots.
          The impatient vein above his captor's brow grew as Rorick struggled to walk straight; blood rushed to fill the growing welt. He stretched Rorick's neckline, shouting at the gruff thing to get his unconscious friend. Rorick's heart pounded worse than his head. He shoved the man's elbow, causing the gun to fire as it went flying.
         He must've hit the concrete. Rorick sorta remembered the gruff thing tackling him. The sensation of a wrecking ball smashing his gut. Trying to recall what happened next caused a new throbbing to start. On the plus side, his left brain swelling took the ache away from his right temple. Soon its blinding pain would numb as well. The mushy grass helped, giving him a gentle massage, passing by.
         Each assailant, of the cognizant two, dragged Rorick by an ankle. The gruff thing shouldered his friend, nearly dropping her multiple times as he stumbled. Both heaved their hardest, panicked by the neighbors turning their lights on at the alarm's unremitting whistle. As the fuzziness wore, Rorick began to kick & kick & kick, wriggling free. It didn't matter anymore if they had the gun; he refused to let that car become his grave.
         A chorus of sirens neared to join his own. Wasting no more time, the man let go, cutting his losses. The gruff thing cursed & hissed, doing the same. The car sped away, leaving Rorick in the mud. He sat, waiting for the police. Two cars pulled right in front. Guns drawn at first as they came closer. Shivering on the ground, soaking, shoeless; they lowered their weapons to check on Rorick, too dark to see the red saturating around him.
         "Are you okay, son?"
         Rorick nodded, even though everything hurt.
         "What happened here?"
         "Is that your firearm?"
         He struggled to shake his head.
         "Let's get you inside. May we enter your home?"
         "Yes."
         One under each arm, they partially carried Rorick, making sure he didn't fall. Rorick stopped them by the alarm's panel, unable to handle it himself.
         "Four-one-four-six."
         Silence at last.
         They set him down gently on the couch, giving Rorick a moment to catch his breath. He found the remote under him and turned off the TV.
         "What happened?" The first officer asked again.
         "Lawn gnomes tried to take me."
         The two officers looked at each other.
         "I don't under-"
         "No wait. One was a fairy. She had dragonfly wings."
         "Son, I think you're concussed. The ambulance is almost here. For now, why don't you take it easy. I guess your parents aren't home? We should give them a call. Do you know where your phone is?"
         Rorick dug in the cushions until he found it, putting the passcode in and handing it to one of the officers. He was in a dead stare, in disbelief. That couldn't have happened.
         "Your mom's called you a few times; guessing they sent her a notification same time we got one. She left a text message earlier saying she was going to dinner. Guess you were sleeping on the couch when she left; she sent you a picture of yourself."
         The officer dialed her number. He was a burly, graying man, whose posture said he'd been doing this a long time. His partner was a younger guy. Square-jawed, with the hair to match, probably left the service recently.
         "Hello, Ms.-"
         "Addams." Rorick said. "Melinda Addams."
         "Ms. Addams. I'm Officer Murrin. I'm at your residence with my partner, Officer Collins." He explained to her what happened and Rorick could hear Melinda screaming. She asked Officer Murrin to put him on. "Ma'am, he's a little concussed right now and I don't think that's such a good idea until the paramedics check him out." He looked at Rorick mouthing, "Do you want to talk to her?"
         He nodded his head, but never reached for the phone.
         "I see the ambulance." Officer Collins announced.
         "Ma'am, he's okay; he's just in shock. We're here with him. We'll see you soon." Officer Murrin paused to listen. "Yes, ma'am. We'll be here when you arrive. I see the paramedics now."
         While Rorick underwent a physical, more officers swarmed the street. Soon the place was taped off, news vans & neighbors standing outside under umbrellas. The rain had washed away most of the body's worth of blood by the door.
Melinda flew in screaming, ready to push her car through the crowd, if need be, crying for her baby. Once inside, she squeezed so tight, the paramedics had to ask her to be gentle, leaving her face print on his damp shirt after she finally let go.
         "Come on, Ma." He fought his own tears. "Saw you this morning; hasn't been that long."
         "What happened?? Who did this?!?"
         The officers came closer, Collins taking notes. Rorick told them about the knocking, the man outside the window, and getting attacked by the small people.
         "You mean like, uh, little people, as in Dwarfism?" Murrin asked.
         "No, I mean like, I don't know what I mean. They were just small. Like less than four feet. But they were built like him." Rorick pointed to Officer Collins. "And moved so fast."
         The officers looked fretfully at each other. He understood their concern, deciding it best not to mention the weird faces. But he knows what he saw.
         "What about the third guy; the one outside the window? Was he full-sized?"
         "Yeah, around my height, like five-ten. He hit me with the gun, and it went off accidentally not long after. Then I got knocked out."
         "Where was the girl?"
         "She was unconscious. That was mostly her blood, mixed with a bit of mine, by the front door. I don't remember what happened next. I woke up with them dragging me to their car and fought back. They left once your sirens got too close."
         "Did you see what kind of car?" Collins asked.
         "A newish sedan. Dark-colored. Maybe black, or blue. I didn't see what kind. It had tinted windows, I think. The two little ones also spoke some weird language I've never heard before."
         "Sounded like some kind of Russian?"
         "Yeah, but not really. Had to be some old European dialect. What the fuck does Welsh sound like?"
         "Rorick."
         "It's okay. What about the big guy?"
         "He was for sure Middle Eastern, but raised here." Rorick answered. "He spoke English, but I think I heard him swear in Arabic once. His skin was a light tan; the little people were a tanned white."
         Officer Collins continuously scribbled notes. Officer Murrin asked Rorick to go through his story again, in the hopes he might gain some clarity. He stood by every detail, telling it exactly the same. Unsatisfied, the officers decided to leave it be.
         Paramedics glued the cut on his head, clearing his need of an ER visit. They recommended an appointment with his primary care, and told him not to lay down for a few hours. He couldn't anyway, not while fighting the sparks shooting from his retinas.
         "I hope you and your son have a good night from here, Ms. Addams." Officer Murrin said. "We'll keep patrols close tonight. Don't hesitate to call us if you need anything, or if he remembers anything later."
         Within fifteen minutes, officers had removed the crime scene tape and retrieved their markers. Lingering film crews began closing shop too. The neighbors had mostly gone; some kept peeking through their windows. He wondered if anyone else saw the little people.
         "It's late." Melinda said. "We can talk tomorrow, if you want. There's no way you're going to school on Monday."
         "Yeah, I'd feel better if we did it that way too."
         "How's your head?"
         "I'm okay. Stings, but the bandage helps. The bruises on my sides from those little fists were like getting jumped by a gang of golfers."
         "I still don't-" She started. "Never mind. You take a shower; I'll make tea."
         He walked straight to the kitchen where the wine bottles hang, pouring a glass to the rim. He sipped a big gulp off the top, then handed it to Melinda.
         "Rorick! You have a head injury. What are you even thinking?"
         "I'll be fine, I promise."
         She could slap him sometimes.
         "Love you, Ma."
         "Love you too."
         He wished he'd put some towels down before sitting on the couch.

III

         New beginnings.
         An unintentional twenty-three days off did a lot to set Rorick straight. The first two weeks had been a rough go, but minor brain swelling was certainly preferable to AP Calc, and he relished the endless excuse to sleep. His healing time then bled into a lackluster Spring Break spent wishing he could be in the videos his friends posted. The parentless weekend at Heddy's parent's cabin was especially painful to watch. Val & Chloe mid-giggles in the hot tub. Tom & Connor downing their red solo cups after losing some games. It wasn't fair. He was the victim, yet he's the one that got stuck with police orders not to leave town.
         "Where's my wallet at."
         Kind notes from well-wishers still cluttered every surface in his already messy room. But he thought it rude to toss them so soon, before the bouquets at least had a chance to die. He'd received everything from cut roses to potted begonias, turning their home into a giant potpourri bowl, thanks to the endlessly falling leaves.
         There'd be stacks of baked goods too if he hadn't shared the wealth whenever possible. Key club alone brought three full lemon meringue pies that must've weighed five pounds apiece! Of which, Officer Daniels' pregnant wife appreciated two. He often tipped his publicly paid private security in excess sugar. They deserved every divine calorie, considering how many local strangers & weirdos the story attracted.
         Rorick spotted a sliver of worn brown leather peeking out at the corner of his desk by the window. The rest was hiding under a large framed photo he'd been meaning to hang. It arrived in a great big box, to everyone's surprise. Luckily, no bomb diffusing robots were harmed, after calling the phone number included on the return address and discovering it to be a gift from the county's minor league baseball team.
         Inside, he'd also found season tickets, wrapped in a classic cream & navy pinstripe jersey, embroidered with RORICK 01 on the back. He planned on wearing it to their first game next weekend. But his favorite part was the signed maple bat gripped in a spongy auburn tape. Engraved across its thick reddened barrel proclaimed, keep on sluggin.
         Rorick jabbed the curtains aside to scan the perimeter, hoping no news vans lurked about today. Even if Melinda suddenly changed her mind about interviews, he'd never do one. Nothing good could come from repeating his demented ramblings in front of a camera while knowing the truth of every word. A genuine plea will be what ruins his life.
         The police station had already given him several tastes of that ridicule, dragged into an interrogation room for hours, so a new set of condescending grins had their chance explain what he may have actually seen. He was just about ready to agree if it meant he didn't have to take another walk of shame by the exhausted tip lines as a new urban legend spread like a summer fire.
         Meanwhile, detectives struggled to find any real leads. Melinda's colleague who deposed the Russian said he genuinely seemed confused by the allegations. Nor did his extended family make any suspicious contacts or withdrawals, according to the ongoing IRS audits.
         Regardless of motive, the attackers likely skipped town the same night. So, after three weeks of protective detail, the department decided to shift their resources in favor of frequent patrols. Melinda didn't take the news well, whereas Rorick celebrated with a midnight blunt. Though grateful for the officers' commitment to his safety, it hadn't been his favorite seeing cops posted day & night in front of their new mailbox.
         Soon, he'd have his own car parked there. Melinda found some decent options from the late-nineties that had a vintage shine he liked. He never pestered her for one. Now, she refused to drop the subject. Who is he to turn down such a fine gift? They planned on checking a few lots this coming weekend. In the meantime, Tom offered his chauffeur services.
         Today marked Rorick's first day back to school, and the first of his ketchup exams. Ms. Jacobs offered him another extension, but it's only an essay. And Rorick thought it best to get done before he forgot the book entirely. For once, he'll be starting school fresh, ready to learn, and thirsting for the comfort of a herd.
         Downstairs, Melinda looked cozy with her laptop by the fireplace.
         "You posing for Norman Rockwell today?"
         Off her guard, he gave her a spook.
         "What does that even mean?"
         "Why are you looking so special, wrapped up?"
         "I didn't feel like going in today. Nothing specific I need to take care of at the office, so I'm working from home."
         "Lockdown seven-point-oh. Want me to grab you anything before I go? Wouldn't want you ruining your battle station with peasant work."
         "I'm okay." She smiled bigly. "I'll go shopping once the morning rush settles. Anything you want?"
         "Hmmm, I'll text you." He said. "Also, think I might go to the girls' basketball game later."
         "You sure you're feeling up to it?"
         "I could definitely use a night out, yeah."
         "Oh, Abby's daughter's on the team! I'll see if she's going. At least then we can leave early if your head starts to hurt."
         "Works for me." He said. "But this time, if you're going to bring wine in a water bottle, at least make sure it's white."
         "We'll see what I'm in the mood for. Now get going before you're late."
         He threw a granola bar at her and sped out the door.
         "Bye-eee."
         "Good luck with your test! Take an umbrella!"
         And he did a little dance back in to grab one off the wall. Down the street lurked the Channel Five news van. He gave them a proper headshake to make his intentions clear, then continued to shake at their shameful behavior, standing cross-armed. They took the hint, fearful of Melinda's wrath. The van scuttled onto a neighbor's driveway to turn, disappearing in the morning fog.
         With the world nice & quiet, he started the meager journey to campus, absentmindedly watching where he stepped. The oak trees that lumped the sidewalk as their roots grew created a danger to parading over the wrong dip. Most were still surrounded by the mushy remnants of their autumn leaves.
         A few houses down had the roughest terrain from years of neglect. Its tall evergreens leaned over the fence, letting bugs drip sticky piles of honeydew. One dip in those puddles will ruin his shoes forever. As he walked around, from behind came the familiar emphysemic horn of Tom's unintentional low-rider.
          "Man, your wounds are healing fast! There's like nothing on your head already. Pull your hair back." -Rorick did as commanded- "Damn bro, I doubt that'll even scar. You good? How's your mom?"
         "We're both alright, thanks. I'm just happy everything's finally winding down, but there's still cops close by pretty much all the time, if you hadn't noticed."
         "Yeah, you ruined my midnight runs. I've been smoking on the side of the house after my parents pass out."
         "I know you think that sounds like a cool name for it..."
         "I'm just saying, those asswipes can eat shit and blow a cactus. But I doubt they'll try that shit again after barely getting out last time, cause my boy had 'em running! AYO, Bark's got bite!"
         "Don't start that shit up again." Rorick tried not to laugh.
         "Bark's got bite, and fuckin elves belong on a shelf. I'm calling it now; pussies won't be back."
         "I hope not."
         "You remember any more?"
         "Not really; everything's still fuzzy when I think about it. It's hard. To remember stuff, I mean. Like pieces just go missing, even if you knew them before."
         "But the weird-faced little people were real, right?
         "Yeah. You haven't said that to anyone, have you?"
         "Promise, I haven't." Tom assured.
         "The cops already don't take me seriously; I can't be adding new shit now."
         "Everyone's gone nuts. They'll probably make it a holiday by next year."
         "They can leave me the fuck out of it."
         "So, was it about the case, or were they trying to take you to Narnia?"
         Rorick shrugged.
         Tom found a spot near the back of the fenced lot, where some douche in a lifted truck had parked over the line. But it offered a crack to see the white shirts coming while blocking them from security's view, not that they ever trek this far until after the first bell. In no rush, Tom grabbed his pipe, along with the dryer sheets wrapped over a toilet roll.
         "Thanks for bringing me those edibles, by the way."
         "Yeah, dude, I was nervous as fuck when the cops walked me to the door."
         "Told you they wouldn't search you after the first time."
         "Still nervous as fuck." Tom laughed. "Were the treats good?"
         "Man, they put me on the moon, home alone."
         "Sorry they wouldn't let you come. That was such bullshit."
         "Chloe really asked about me?"
         "Dude, I'm telling you, she was bummed you didn't make it. Jake tried to hook up with her, and she started duckin' him. I told Val to invite her out this weekend; the four of us can ride together."
         "Ride where?"
         "I don't know, fuck, there'll be something going on by then."
         "I'm down for a party. The FOMO's been real. And I feel like the neighbors are watching me all the time now."
         "That's only a few assholes, like Crazy Red. My parents had some people over on the weekend, and she showed up; no one invited her. After a couple drinks, she wouldn't stop yelling about sending you guys away, saying this was your mom's fault. Like no one even brought it up. Most told her to mind her own business. She can't do shit, and she was full of shit like always."
         Rorick dropped into his own lap, staying low, letting mini coughs release smoke through the tube.
         "Like Crazy Red needs another reason to hate us. You ever seen that folded flag on her mantle through the window? Behind the magat shit, it's a Confederate flag."
         "Nah, it's not white."
         They choked on water, savoring Tom's classic piece of wit.
         "Can't say I blame her though." Rorick heaved. "My mom wants us out too. She considered a hotel. I talked her out of it, but last night was the first time we've had no cops so she's on edge. She even stayed home from work today; I've never seen her do that. Ever."
         "Sorry, dude. I hope she's alright."
         "Thanks. I think she will be, eventually."
         "How long would you be stuck in a hotel? Separate rooms at least."
         "Obviously."
         "Like, you need alone time."
         "That's what I'm saying! She's avoided bumping into anyone. If she finds out Red's on the offensive, she might book the hotel."
         "Whatever, it's not Red's call to make." Tom took his turn to duck. "And my parents, and mostly everyone else, stood by you guys. Plus, it's almost over, isn't it?"
         Rorick shrugged again.
         "We'll see. She really doesn't like to mix work and home. I wouldn't be surprised if she has another kid over there."
         "She'll win." Tom cleared his pipe.
         "I hope so. She deserves it, and so do those fucking twats."


         The essay prompt proved mediocre. Something about themes as they apply to stages along the Hero's Journey. At least she let him skip class and take it in the library. After that, the rest of day went on & on & on & on & on & on & on. Too many strangers welcomed him as if they held the keys to campus. He didn't even see Chloe, and he ate lunch by the library to brush up on the necessary formulas for his Calc exam.
         Once home, he needed an energy drink or four to keep off his mattress, in an attempt to power through the growing backlog of homework. His slow pace took the sky from a dim gloom to a pitch dusk, melting in the aftermath, by the tranquility of heavy rain as Lo-Fi beats murmured behind the PowerPoint on his laptop. How easy it'd be to lay for another night and watch the world go by on one or several screens.
         "Are you ready?" Melinda called, downstairs.
         "No, I need another hour."
         He went for his rubber booties in the closet, sitting neatly under all his hanging clothes, and chose a nice & snug navy jumper that would layer well under whichever windbreaker he'd eventually select.
         "I'm going to leave. It's not that far of a walk; you'll be fine."
         "You think you're funny, but when I freeze out there, they'll wake me up in twenty-thirty-three and you'll be nothing but bones and dust."
         "In twenty-thirty-three, I'll be a fifty-two-year-old queen. And we're getting Abby on the way, so hurry up!"
         "WHAT?" Rorick let out a long, drawn & dramatic groan. "Doesn't she live way down the other way?"
         "It's a few miles. Her car's in the shop and Samantha's already at school."
         "Okayokay, gimme like thirty seconds."
         "Better hurry it up."
         He called Tom and asked if he'd left yet.
         "That mean I can ride with you?"
         "Hell yeah it does."
         "Cool. Ready when you are."
         "I'll come by in like a half hour, if that's Gucci."
         "Gucci-nuff. I'd wait a lifetime for you."
         "You got problems, man."
         Rorick latched his phone to its charger and crawled on the bed.
         "Ma! I'm riding with Tom; you do your business!"
         "Okay, come say good-bye."
         "You come here and say good-bye."
         "You don't love me."
         "I do, but I'm busy!"
         "Fine, I'll see you at the game. Love you!"
         "You're still here?"
         She clapped her hands at him.
         "Yeah yeah, love you, love you. I'll see you there."
         The garage door opening... and... she's gone.
         The timer woke him at a quarter-past, feeling almost satisfied. Fifteen minutes extra meant fifteen minutes prettier. He swapped his t-shirt out for the gift jersey, wearing it under the jumper. All that remained were gloves in the nightstand, so his nose could smell like pleather whenever he went to warm it.
         Rorick snuck into Melinda's special cabinet, filling a water bottle from the cheap stuff. An extra swig for him went down like a flaming haybale. Ten minutes later, Tom cruised by, his car already reeking of the finest skunks.
         "Oh fuck yeah; I got a bottle too, but it's whiskey."
         "That's cool, we can use it to pregame." Rorick said.
         "Do you have any chaser?"
         "Shit! Good catch, lemme run back in."
         He sprinted as best his boots allowed, vaulting over the walkway puddle. After nearly breaking his ankle, Rorick thought it best to deal with wet sneakers. By the time he returned, Tom had a new bowl packed & ready.
         They kept the smoke close to the window cracks, in case an officer happened to pass, on patrol. The lot gate for campus was left open, half-packed near the front with cars of spectators.
         Rorick spotted a couple friends, inviting them to join the parked party. As they cleared the first bottle, Tom's poor sound system tried its best not rasp around the lyrics. Twenty minutes past, he started to panic. Val usually went in during the third quarter and he wanted to be there.
         If only the main doors had been closed; Rorick needed every layer, plus a few more swigs, to stay warm in the thinly dense crowd. Most had green apparel, supporting their own Shamrocks. A few chunks on either side bore the purple of their Panther rivals from a neighboring town.
         None's cheering could compete with Tom, who broke the sound barrier every time Val made the net swish. It took Rorick half the other bottle to get on his level. Then a fight broke out in the fourth quarter when an opposing point guard shoved their captain from behind, bringing the stadium to a parallel glee. It was when Samantha came to Rorick in the stands looking anxious that his smile faded.
         "Hey, have you heard from your mom? She never went to get my mom, and I guess she's not answering her phone. Maybe she fell asleep or something?"
         A churn toiled in Rorick's stomach.
         "She left before I did. I figured they got distracted, or something."
         Rorick walked across the bleachers, calling her to no answer.
         "Hello, you've reached Melinda Addams with the district attorney's office..."
         He called again.
         "Hello-"
         He hung up and called once more.
         "Dude, I can't get a hold of my mom."
         Tom stood so they didn't have to talk loudly.
         "Call her one more time."
         "What if it's them?"
         "Just call her again first."
         They did. Still no answer.
         "Give me like five minutes." Tom said. "I need some water and we can go where she was headed."
         Rorick threw on his hood and sat down.
         "Everything alright?" A friend asked.
         "Yeah."
         But his foot was tapping.
         Tom downed another water bottle.
         "Alright, I'm fine. It was only three swigs."
         On both sides of the gym, Rorick noticed administrators anxiously scanning the stands. He waved at his counselor Ms. Murphy and her wide-eyes drained him of any wit. Rorick sprinted through the gaps between spectators; his balance nearly tipping by the time he jumped off the edge.
         "Rorick, come with me, please."
         "Where's my mom?!"
         Tom had followed as best he could from the footpath, now listening if he needed to be there for his friend. But Ms. Murphy only signaled to follow her outside, further from the gym.
         The rain had stopped.
         Ahead, Rorick saw two men in suits waiting at the side entrance of the campus lot, parked in an emergency lane, exactly where she led them. Her heels pummeled the concrete fast as Rorick did in sneakers.
         "Ms. Murphy! What. Happened. Please, tell me!" His voice cracked.
         "There are FBI agents here for you. There was an accident."
         "WHAT?! She only went like three miles up the road!"
         Her stride hastened.
         She's fine.
         She's okay
         She's been through worse.
         Nearing the two men, they flashed their badges.
         "These are Agents..."
         "...Dover, and my partner Agent Medani. Hello, Rorick." The agent clasped him with both hands for a warm welcome on a cold night. "We're sorry to meet you under these circumstances. My partner and I have been assigned to investigate the increasing violence against a public official and her family.
         We were alerted by the local department that your mother was run off the road, causing her vehicle to flip. She's in stable condition, but sedated. There's an ongoing manhunt, and we're concerned you might be targeted again as well. Officers have been dispatched to your home and posted at the small clinic where she's being treated, and that's where we'll escort you."
         Dover, a burly pinkish man, stood about 5'10. His partner was a lean & clean shaven African, towering at about 6'2. Everyone waited for Rorick to say something, but he couldn't take a proper breath, drowning in a parking lot.
         "Why's it so hard to catch these people?"
         "You guys kept lowering their security when you hadn't even caught the bastards, now his mom almost died!" Tom shouted. "What did you think was going to happen?!"
         "They're not the local police, Mr. Healy." Ms. Murphy objected. "Just let them do their jobs."
         "We can understand your frustrations." Agent Medani spoke with the tight, rolling inflections of an African dialect, occasionally swapping long & short vowels. "It's a failure of law enforcement when predictable harm occurs to people under their care." Even soft spoken, the struggles of a hardened life coarsened his sentiments.
         "The best thing for us to do now is get you to your mother." Agent Dover, refocusing the conversation.
         "I'm coming too." Tom shouted.
         "Sorry." Dover refused. "This is still considered an ongoing attack. If anything happens to you, the Bureau is liable."
         Rorick looked at Tom.
         "I'll call you later."
         Tom hugged Rorick tight and told him everything would be okay. Then he turned to the agents and gave them a clear set of instructions:
         "Take care of my friend."


         Rorick's thighs tensed each time they slowed at an easy yellow. It's all he could do not to rasp against the tightly padded leather seats in what became a heedlessly silent ride. Neither agent cared to interact beyond their duties; Medani tweaked the police scanner at every cackle. It looked tersely rigged to the dash in an otherwise pristine Lincoln Continental. Rorick tried to distract himself by staring out the oversized moonroof with hardly a moon to see.
         Texting Tom diffused some anxiety, but he agreed; Rorick needed to speak up. Even now, that sweet angel's lessons about how you talk to people had him searching for the right tenor. Rorick cleared his throat.
         "Excuse me, is there a siren, or something? We're going to cut through downtown if we keep going this way."
         "We'll get on the freeway soon." Agent Medani assured him.
         But Dover already past two entrances. At the next one, Rorick kept his finger pointed until they were committed to the course. He texted his mom again, dripping tears on the screen as he typed.
         "What hospital is she at?"
         "Are you sending messages?" Medani peered at Rorick around the headrest. "That's dangerous; put your phone away!"
         "I'm not going to tell anyone anything. I just want to call the hospital for an update."
         "They'll contact us if her condition changes." Dover assured.
         "It's a hospital. The staff is very busy." Medani added.
         Now Rorick's foot wouldn't stop tapping. He searched for clinics in the direction they headed. The closest was thirty-six miles, and it closed hours ago.
         "There aren't any hospitals this way; who the fuck are you? Where the hell are you taking me?"
         Medani turned, flaring a gun.
         "Give me the phone."
         The words were muffled by blood rushing to Rorick's ears.
         "Kidnapping me isn't going to get your dipshit boss out of prison." Anger overtook fear as he slapped his phone on the center console.
         Medani paid him no mind, inspecting it briefly. Then, without a word, he cracked the window and pushed it down on the speeding highway below.
         "What the fuck! Guys, please... I don't have anything to do with this."
         Dover watched the tears well up in his captive's eyes, while glints in his own darkened irides salivated over Rorick as if he were a pot of gold.
         "You really don't know, do you?" He asked.
         Medani butt the gun into Dover's arm.
         "It is not your place!"
         "Don't know what? What the fuck are you talking about?"
         He kept on them another minute, wearing Medani's patience into another fit. The rage touched so personally. Rorick wanted to signal for help, but the only vehicle left was a moving van behind them. Passing the last of the lampposts, they entered the darkness of the intertwined oaks & firs. Each side became a narrow single lane, lifted high above the muddy rain gutters.
         I need to jump.
         You'll die.
         If I stay, I'll die.
         Sixty. Miles. An hour.
         I'll roll.
         You'll DIE.
         No logic could pervade the cloud of anxiety formed by Rorick's struggle to take more than hiccup sized breathes down a bone-dry gullet. Getting away from them was the only thing that made sense.
         Below, he saw a balmy shimmer in the aqueducts that likely meant they were flooded. Periodic breakers separated the dirt incline, too uncertain if he'd make it through or get a face full of concrete. But there'd be an extra wide gap soon, never restored after a construction job. Then he'd go for the trees. No looking back.
         Press the release,
         pull the lever,
         tuck & roll,
         protect your head,
         run for cover.
         Dover veered in a fit! The roar of an old muscle car came too close, treading the line round the bend, opposite their lane. Its headlights turned into taillights without incident, but Dover cursed them all the same. His squeaky yammering was so easily silenced by Medani raising one finger to coolly answer a buzzing phone call in his native tongue. Screaming on the other end caused him to wince.
         "What are you doing?" Dover said.
         Medani turned to see.
         "Nothing. I grabbed the handle for balance when we swerved."
         "I can see your hand on the seatbelt."
         Rorick gave a blank stare, turning back to the window. He still had time. Just as the translucent grey line of the breakers vanished, he pushed & pulled, but only one returned a click. They'd put the child safety on.
         PLEASE LET ME GO
         He refused to beg out loud.
         In the midst of his own dread, Rorick saw Medani's eyes widen through the side mirror. He fumbled the radio in favor of his gun, right as the same sun worn muscle car cut lanes to match their speed. Dover cracked his window in confusion, thinking the driver would do the same. Instead, they overtook him and slowed their speed. When Dover tried to go around, the ashen black muscle car swerved to block his path.
         "Who the hell is this?"
         "We've got trouble."
         The window still had a ways to roll by the time Medani fired. Dover squealed, fidgeting the wheel and nearly tipping Medani, who leaned too far out. Undeterred, he emptied a few more rounds. The muscle car jerked before speeding off.
         "Fuck!" Dover yelped. "Give me some fucking notice next time!"
         "Shut up, they're coming back."
         He couldn't possibly be worth a gun fight. Not knowing what to make of it, Rorick balled up, ducked down, and clenched the seatbelt tight. As its engine neared, Medani fired three shots in quick succession. Three more when the driver didn't flinch.
         "MOVE!" He screamed.
         "AHHHH-"
         Rorick never saw what happened. Only heard the windshield shatter. Felt the tugging sway from side-to-side of the car losing balance. Dover had gone silent almost immediately; Medani followed suit when his corner crashed into the breakers. The car posed at an angle momentarily. He was pulled to the left when it tipped to his right, as the hill neared his window and shattered it, powdering him in glass flakes. An invisible hand then wound him by the neck in sync to the car's tumble.


         A spin.


         Thrashing against the muddy cliff.


         Another spin.


         The hood slammed on the edge of the concrete, splashing into the waterlogged gutter. With its left headlight wedged, everything tore above the engine, flung another twenty feet. Rorick's forehead smashed into Medani's headrest on the landing. The torment shifted to a violent rumble as staggered stones anchored the trunk, tipping once more on a bigger bulge. What remained of the car landed on its side and scribed half a circle in the mud.
         Rorick hung in the seat groaning, agonized by every movement. Distressed beeps from the dashboard helped him stave off the pervading darkness of a looming black out. He retched, and heard it pass his right ear. The stench of bodily fluids coupling with the airbag's aerosol became suffocating. In front of him, Medani looked to be dead or unconscious. Dover was most certainly dead, showering Medani in blood from sizable holes in his chest.
         Rorick pressed the seatbelt latch relentlessly, getting it to unjam around the tenth try. He fell where blood & bile made a revolting acquaintance. Immediately, the warm puddle seeped into each of his layers. He sat, crying, unable to find the strength to move. But momentary defeat may have saved his life. He was still hidden in the shadows when two yellow eyes came searching overhead.
         Her colossal top half looked down on him from at least eight feet. Light shined through the loose drops of goo in place of hair on her head. She wore a vest made of leather scales that resembled the scute texture of her greyish-green skin. Her fingers scarcely fit under the grip to jimmy the handle, bearing razor-sharp teeth in irritation at the bent lock. Panicked hiccups escaped him as Rorick tried to bury the fear in his lungs. He never planned to die a rabbit's death.
         Every so often, her attention turned towards the road, as if wary of her own predator. With her urgency amplified, she pulled too hard on the handle causing it to snap. She howled, hitting the window, seething as she struggled to peer in through the tint.
         Finally, she yielded her attempts. But it was at the approach of an associate Rorick had no interest in meeting. Venting through the unstained part of his shirt was all he could do to breath. He saw his opportunity where the moonroof broke from its hinges. The rest looked ready for a good kick. And straight ahead was the forest.
         Too late for escape; the whole car rattled at the sudden landing of an ash grey creature on the door above. Rorick clung hard on the seatbelt to avoid another dip in the puddle. He then used it to pull himself deeper in the shadows, standing still as the quiver of his nerves allowed. The creature laughed at the woman, saying something in an aerated voice, using a language reliant on a lot of jaw dropped vowels.
         Rorick watched in horror as the creature's mace punched a hole in the window. The glass frosted, otherwise intact. A few shards joined the debris collection in his hair; the rest jammed around the spikes, refusing to let go. As the creature thrashed it loose, Rorick threw his shoulder into the moonroof.
         The creature shrieked, watching him launch out the opening. Rorick's pants caught the frame, tripping him where the hard earth turned slushy, stammering, never falling. He fixated on the darkest place between the trees, and made it four wobbly steps in the mud before something whipped him down.
         It slithered over him, eyeless, waiting for the wrong move. Not a creature, but a tail attached to the colossal woman in place of legs. The grey creature jumped from the car, cupping around Rorick to trap him beneath. Its haggard laugh tickled his skin an inch from his face. He was shaking too much to play dead, unsure if he'd pissed himself. Its bulging amaranth eyes sat in indented sockets. They covered a large portion of its face, nubbed by two shaved horns right above. It ran a long, sharpened finger across his cheek. The rest somehow curled neatly in a loose fist.
         What the fuck.
         What the actual fuck.
         He heard the whistle first and so did the grey creature, right before a blue glow skewered the side of its olive-shaped head. His enemy reached to him for help as it struggled to bear the weight of a shimmering trident atop its broken neck. The weapon hypnotized Rorick. Its dowel looked to be made of a sharpened arctic andara, radiating where exposed under a pristine white metal that formed the vaulted outer prongs, each facing to the same point in the shape of an arrowhead. Quicker than it came, the trident vanished leaving a mist of its etching. And from three craters sprayed a familiar shade of red.
         He was stunned by the scene. His mind, trapped in binary thought, still offered a shivering hand to help his fallen foe. A nightmare would've ended by now. The cold wouldn't prickle like this. He didn't want to see her tail swaying in the dark. Though it stared right at him, she looked the other way, where clangs on the roadside were marred by the occasional shriek.
         Rorick quietly heaved through the muck on all four, making it to the first trees by the time she noticed. He never got the footing to run; how easily she slid to pin him down. She was so angry at him. Blaming him for everything happening. Rorick shouted, "I'M SORRY!" but she didn't care, whether or not she understood. She took him by the hair, tearing at the roots. What little light the night offered disappeared as she dragged him deeper in the woods.
         "NO! NO!" He kicked & squirmed. "NOOOO!"
          The duff offered a hundred nicks before he found a decent stick. Rorick gouged her forearm hard as it'd go. Her hand snapped free and, by the pitch of her cry, he may have drawn blood. Her patience worn; she whipped his chest to send him the distance of six trees.
         Rorick tried not to writhe from the burning in his lungs. He landed where the freshly dampened brush was plump, stumbling to his feet through a coughing fit. Her silhouette sharpened in the dark, leaving him no choice but to flee the way he came. As the main road neared, he saw what at first looked to be a large man examining the wreck, until its snout leapt to his scent.
         "Is that a fucking minotaur?!"
         The manbeast wore its own fur for warmth. It carried a battle axe on the unplated shoulder; the other, fastened by a leather belt that matched its breeches. A steel helm covered most of its oxen head, splitting where each horn rose high. It came closer, emphasizing the true horror of its size. Rorick scarcely rivaled the beast's waistline.
         He backed away at its pace, passed the first trees and right into the serpent woman's rigid underbelly. Her cackle weakened his spine as she slithered all around. He looked his most pauper, staring up at her, begging. He hadn't noticed the flickers above until a shooting star speared one of the bug-eyed little people out of the sky. The other dashed to evade the trident's next shot.
         A woman stood by the breakers, unmistakable in her moonlit armor. It seemed more ice than metal, thickened where blows may prove lethal. She threw a man's body in front of the bull to its disbelief. As it roared, the serpent woman snatched Rorick under one arm and slunk into the shadows of the forest.
         "HELP!" He shouted at the top of his lungs. "HELP ME, PLEASE!"
         Distracted by his plea, an arrow spiked his savior in the head, spared from death by her shining armor. Though it rocked her good, she made a hard strafe, jumping down to meet the bull as more arrows followed. Her eyes now fixed on two enemies, she stayed low, inching forward.
         Arrows came, to no avail. She'd learned their rhythm and danced with her trident towards the beast charging at a speed unthinkable for its size. Her trident soared high, barely missing its agile target. It reappeared in her hands just as she stabbed down into the bull's unplated shoulder. She stepped on its head and thrust the trident again, this time piercing the center spike between its bug eyes. She then ran towards Rorick; a genuine angst in her stride. But the bull tackled her from behind as more trees blocked Rorick's view.
         "LET ME GO!"
         Punching her side did him more damage. Flailing slowed her better, landing a kick or two on her face. Annoyed, she pinned him to a tree yelling to stop, he assumed. Her goo drops in range, Rorick wrenched to see how easily they'd shred. She grabbed his wrists, helping him pull harder in the effort to get him off.
         They both let go at the sound of rapidly approaching splashes in the mud. The serpent woman turned in time to stare at her own death; three-prongs, gutting her belly. His savior used both hands to drive the trident higher, savaging the serpent woman's lung. She squirmed inches from Rorick, gurgling, reaching out to strangle her killer. She wanted to avenge herself, if she could only reach.
         He didn't wait to see what happened next.
         The path had quickly flooded from a new rain seeping through the densely packed leaves. His shoes became puddles, trekking in serpent woman's scurried tracks. It led him safely to the wreck, surrounded by corpses, and the hill behind. Digging deep, he searched for the coarse earth underneath the sludge. It didn't matter how much flesh his fingers lost, so long as he kept climbing.
         Then, something stirred at the corner of his sight. His grunts & cries must've woken the manbeast, who now fought to rise, still lacking most of its wits. He began reaching higher on the cliff to compensate for the reticent change in his pace. At the top, he nearly kissed the asphalt, briefly laying. The frigid air burned his beaten chest, and dogged pants slowed his endeavor to rise faster than the bull.
         "Is that?"
         Behind his savior's worn muscle car sat a human body, slumped against the moving van. He thought to blame himself for the senseless loss of an innocent victim who stopped to help, until he noticed the dead man left three lines of blood as he'd slid down the cargo box.
         Rorick pushed the body straight, in search of keys or a phone. The man had soiled himself at the end, and the rain had spread it well. He tried not to breathe nor look at the lifeless scowl of a dude who seemed familiar. Dumbfounded, he realized it was the man that tried to abduct him. He didn't look much older, maybe twenty.
         A large shadow dimmed the moonlight. Rorick dove under the van just as its hooves clacked down nearby. In an instant, his cover was gone. The manbeast lifted the moving van, roaring down at him. It leaned, as a shot putter would, and threw the van far into the woods. By then, Rorick was halfway to nowhere, still miles from civilization. The clacking followed him, drowning out Rorick's own steps.
         Don't you dare check.
         He braced, feeling the gust come first. Then, everything went black until the ground caught him by the shoulder. With each bounce, he left more of himself behind, tumbling to a stop on his side; one arm stuck behind his head, the other trapped beneath his waist. He gave up. He had nothing left in him. Rorick lay waiting for the bull to kill him or take him. It didn't matter anymore.
         "GNAAAAHHHHHH!"
         Something happened where he couldn't see. He jerked his arms to their sides, turning as best he could. And there she was. Standing on the back of the beast. She twisted the trident in the bull's neck, cracking the bones. Rorick took one last breath as everything faded away, feeling an odd sense of comfort as it happened.