I Swear I’m Not Insane 154j2a

I Swear I’m Not Insane

C.M. Petersen

Contents

Day 3

11:54 PM—A bar somewhere in Kentucky

Day 3

2:47 PM—A low-budget supermarket in Cincinnati, Ohio

Day 4

2:22 AM—On the road to Tennessee

Day 4

2:32 AM—On the road to Tennessee, Mark finishes his cigarette

Day 1

2:41 PM—Outside NYC

Day 1

4 PM—Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art

Day 2

5:05 PM—Charleston, West Virginia

Day 3

9:00 AM—Charleston, West Virginia

Day 3

2:00 PM—Corbin, Kentucky

A month ago

1:30 PM—Bridgewater, Massachusetts

Day 4

5:15 AM—Cumberland River, Tennessee

Day 4

6:25 AM—Gas station, Tennessee

Day 4

6:35 AM—Sunrise Motor Inn, Tennessee

Ten months ago


Day 4

12:05 PM—Sunrise Motor Inn, Tennessee

Day 4

12:29 PM—Clothing Store, Tennessee

Too long ago to

3:47 PM—Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court

Day 4


Day 4


Day 4

5:00 PM—Dyers Creek, Tennessee

A year ago

3:31 PM—Suffolk County Superior Court

Day 4


Day 4

6:04 PM – Restaurant, Tennessee

A month and a half ago

11:30 AM—Bridgewater, Massachusetts

Day 5


Day 5

8:56 AM—Nearing Paris, Tennessee

12 years ago

10:48 PM—At a party

Day 5

11:00 AM—Interstate 40 heading west

2 weeks ago


5 days ago


Day 5

7:50 PM—Family style diner in Lafayette, Louisiana

Day 6

9:04 AM—House, Louisiana

Day 6

1:10 PM—On the road to San Antonio, Texas

22 years ago

9:34 PM—Francis’ Family Home, Massachusetts

Day 6

1:45 PM—Fairground near Beaumont, Texas

2 years ago

9:34 PM—Bill’s Family Home, Massachusetts

Day 6

7:32 PM—San Antonio, Texas

Day 6

10:45 PM—Laredo, Texas

Day 6

10:45 PM—San Antonio Police Department

Day 6

11:25 PM—The Mexican Border

Day 7

7:00 AM—ABC: Good Morning, America

About the Author

Book Club Group Questions

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Copyright © 2021 C.M. Petersen eBook ISBN: 978-9-08-315338-4 Print ISBN: 978-9-08315339-1 All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, the publisher via this website - www.cmpetersen.com Published by C.M. Petersen 2021 Amsterdam, The Netherland the author’s mailing list at www.cmpetersen.com to be the first to hear about updates, advanced reader copies (ARCs) and new releases. Get to know the author! Follow C.M.Petersen on Instagram @amsterdamauthor

To my loved ones who and accept my insanity!

Day 3

11:54 PM—A bar somewhere in Kentucky

Somewhere in Kentucky, curtains are drawn as darkness consumes the sky and a cold chill fills the air. The ground, dry from drought, flakes as the wind brushes against it; small particles lift and swirl around in the air. The dust rises higher and higher, just before a still pocket of air causes it to plummet back to earth with a thud so soft not even a cricket would hear it. The earth is cold and lifeless again. Life is rather scarce in this undisclosed location where the population is noted on the sign as you drive through, like it knows you won’t be staying long… or won’t be leaving. At least there is a bar! After all, you need somewhere to drown your mind in poorly-made alcohol. Quite certainly not the same substance as written on the label on the bottle—Johnnie Walker Brown is not a usual color of choice for a patron of a reputable bar. However, this was no decent establishment; it was, to be frank but fair, a shit hole. And within this shithole is where our story begins. Inside the indecent bar, at this undisclosed location somewhere in Kentucky, noises are being made unlike any you have heard before. The bangs, wallops, moans, and slicing noises are so blended together that you could compare it to… well, a blender actually seems as good a guess as any. Unfortunately for some, it is not the sound of crunching peanuts and mashing banana merging to form a singularly delicious-flavored smoothie. Don’t worry. This isn’t the type of place a cheery couple would come on a spontaneous-yet-casual date. So, rest assured that you’re safe, for the moment. No, this is more your scum-of-the-earth type of bar. A place where those inside are more concerned about the glass in front of them than the bottle about to hit them in the back of the head. You either need your wits about you or no wits at all to be able to wander in and out without a scratch.

The blender stops. Rather surprisingly, two male friends are sitting quite comfortably at the end of the wooden bar. It feels still. Aside from them the bar is empty; the only sound is from the wind brushing against the door. It’s just as cold inside as out, but they seem content as they share a quiet smoke, resting their feet along a rusty metal pole that runs parallel to the bar, two bags lying at either side. The room is somewhat nondescript, but here’s a description all the same. Wooden ed walls, some of which are peeling or have long ago come loose. There are stained outlines of where things used to hang on the ing, except for one photo of a dog riding a surfboard which remains hanging intact and untouched. The floor is made of cheap blue-and-black tiled carpeting on top of which stand four tables. The fifth table is leaning diagonally against a wall with whiskey running down it, trickling onto the floor. Six chairs are toppled over while the others are upturned; the floor shimmers from broken glass among dozens of beer coasters. The friends—two men: one fair-haired, one dark—sit on torn-covered bar stools. The first ires the ceiling as the second takes a drag of a cigarette and es it over, before bending over the bar with a pen and coaster. On the bar lies an ashtray; smoke is wafting off it from an earlier butt. The dark-haired man takes a drag. He’s sitting relaxed and wearing a muddy, largely oversized Patriots hoodie, although a moss-colored turtleneck would look more appropriate on him, especially with his snug pair of light denim jeans. “Stanley” is considered pretty tall at just over six feet, but next to his friend he feels small in all respects. Mouth wide open, smoke comes back out of Stanley’s mouth before words follow. “Do you know why Irish bars have artwork on the ceiling?” he asks, still examining the ceiling. The second man continues to doodle as he replies, “We’re in Kentucky.” His large bare biceps bulge as he draws on his coaster with concentration. He stops to adjust his extraordinarily tight, sleeveless cream sweater. With his broad shoulders, “Mark” has a posture that resembles an alpha gorilla. Mark’s not a caveman from millennia past. He doesn’t hold himself like a strapping stallion; he’s built more like a Belgian draft horse—the kind used for plowing, logging, or pulling. He has a charm to him, rather like the beast from Beauty and the Beast. Though he’s not the most talkative guy you’ve ever met, his silence makes him intriguing to those around him… which can be good or bad. Sighing, Stanley responds, “I know,” adding “but the lack of art in here intrigues

me.” Stanley never shuts up; he can’t help the way he enjoys the sound of his own voice. It’s comforting to him. He’s attractive and alluring in a can’t-putyour-finger-on-it kind of way, sporting a small dirty-blonde beard that covers a youthful, smug face that can wind people up. Something about him is interesting and odd at the same time: his smug grin can be creepy and cheeky simultaneously. But his nose is currently swollen. Mark sniggers. Pen in hand, he glances up and catches the eyes of the first man and says, “This is art,” as he stabs his pen into the doodled coaster with conviction, before rubbing away a scab of crusty blood from the recent bite on his ear. He has the face of someone who had been through a few fights. “As much as I think there is some serious talent there… it’s not exactly what I meant. Besides, that coaster would be pretty tough to see from the floor,” adds Stanley, looking from floor to ceiling as he assesses the distance, then suddenly he finds his nose hard against something. Mark has rammed the coaster into his face. “Perhaps someone shouldn’t have ruined my notebook then.” He swiftly pulls back the coaster to make a few seemingly-crucial edits to his doodle. Stanley looks at his friend and examines the intensely focused expression from the side. “Look, B—” He pauses. “Look, Mark… you know I’m sorry about that. Just let it go.” Mark turns just his head, like a bird, briefly glaring into his friend’s eyes before quickly turning back to his doodle and speaking under his breath. “Easy for Stanley to say. He’s no artist.” Sitting upright, Stanley leans against the bar while resting his elbow to keep his long torso from slouching and takes another drag of his cigarette. He can tell Mark’s concentration has increased as his tongue has popped out the corner of his mouth. “Mark, I think it’s time we head off,” he says, patting Mark on the back of his shoulder. “Watch it!” exclaims Mark, protecting the coaster with his arm. His body tenses. Without even thinking, most people would instinctively take a step back from him. “I won’t let you destroy another one of my masterpieces. I have a collection to build.”

Stanley takes his hand off Mark’s back and stands up to stretch his long legs. “I know, Mark, I know. Now, shall we?” says Stanley as he indicates the door. Mark raises a sausage-sized finger. “One minute.” Rolling his eyes Stanley sits back down, lighting up another cigarette. He smiles to himself. “What did the cannibal do after he dumped his girlfriend?” Mark shrugs. Stanley pauses for suspense before adding, “… he wiped his ass!” and bursts into laughter while Mark ignores him, remaining fixated on his doodle. Becoming impatient, Stanley sways his feet above the rusty metal pole footrest, tapping on the bar top to get Mark’s attention. Eventually, Mark holds up his masterpiece, hoping to get a reaction to his art. Stanley forces a smile and gets up. With a heavy thud, the back of Stanley’s head hits the floor. Dazed, he looks up to see Mark standing over him. He looks like a giant from Stanley’s worm’s-eye view. Mark grins from ear to ear as he holds the coaster above Stanley’s face. “So, is this an Irish bar?” And Mark takes Stanley’s stunned headshake of “no” as a win. “Point proven,” he states, putting out his hand and pulling Stanley to his feet with one forceful tug. Mark was six feet, four inches, and 205 pounds of muscle. But he was a machine that had been seriously underfed (a year ago he weighed 230 pounds). Carrying his weight in his arms and shoulders, Mark is built a bit like a brick, although you wouldn’t think so at first glance. At the age of thirty-five, Mark is just five or so years older than Stanley, but physically he feels much older and certainly acts it. He gives off an experiencedman vibe, as if his every scar has an incredible story you just couldn’t wait to hear—and then he’d tell you about it. He puts a handgun in his back pocket before throwing the two bags over his right shoulder. Using his right hand, he nabs the cigarette that’s still resting between Stanley’s lips and flicks it to the floor. The cigarette catches fire as it lands in some of the spilled whiskey, a small flame that grows rather quickly. “Hey, I just lit that!” Stanley exclaims like a child whose ice-cream has fallen

out of his cone. He picks up his own gun, keeping it in his left hand as he follows Mark. Mark heads towards the exit at the other end of the bar, stepping over broken glass as he goes. He slips for a moment before catching his balance. Looking down, he carefully lifts his shoe out of the oozing pool of blood at his feet and steps over the unrecognizable man on the floor. Stanley avoids another dead man as they carefully meander around the carnage of bodies. Mark’s shoe clips one in the back of the head. He bends down, going straight for the man’s jacket and riffles through the pockets before pulling out a set of very sticky keys. Standing back up, Mark heads straight for the door, unfazed by who this man was. After all, he wouldn’t be someone much longer. The man lets out a moan as he rolls his head to face Stanley. There is a cold look in the moaning man’s piercing and soulless deep-blue eyes. Stanley finds a pit of sickness in his stomach he cannot stand, and forcing himself to look forward, he stamps down. The body goes limp again. Walking away, Stanley almost trips on that body’s thick-laced boots as he avoids looking down. Mark, standing at the exit with his hand on the door handle, comments, “Was that really necessary? Come on, let’s go. Or would you prefer to stay here?” Irritated by the remark but unwilling to show it, Stanley hops over another bloodied body lying face-down and stands to attention in front of Mark with that cheeky grin on his face. Mark pushes open the door and they walk out into the pit of darkness that is the parking lot. The night takes them into its embrace as they go out into the cold. Stanley’s next cigarette and the flicker of the flame from inside the bar are the only things glowing. Mark, holding the sticky car keys, clicks a button and a car’s back lights flash. They walk over to the old red Ford Mondeo parked next to a Ford pickup. Stanley begins to walk over to the driver’s side when Mark waves him to the enger side, shaking the keys with his fingers. Stanley pretends not to have seen this, continuing to the driver’s door. “Stanley, wrong side.” Mark says. “What?”

Mark almost walks through Stanley to the driver’s side door, barely touching him since Stanley has stumbled back from the threat. Mark opens the door with a chuckle. “Oh, Stanley, will you ever learn?” he adds, slipping behind the wheel after tossing his bags into the back seat. Stanley grumbles and walks around the car in a fuss, muttering under his breath, “I’m a better driver than Mr. Chunky Monkey.” Annoyed, he yanks at the enger door handle. It won’t open. He taps on the glass. Mark is struggling to push the unfamiliar seat back so he’ll fit. Stanley taps on the window again, more agitated, pulling the door handle at the same time. The door unlocks and locks. Stanley pulls harder. “Wait!” Mark exclaims as he raises one hand and leans over to pull the inside handle. The door swings open and Stanley jumps inside. “Wait? Wait?… It’s freezing. You try waiting in the cold while you watch a whale squeeze into a bikini.” Smiling hard, he tries to contain himself before bursting into spluttering laughter. Using his sleeve to wipe his mouth dry, Stanley leaves a lump of phlegm wobbling on the dashboard Mark is used to this type of behavior from Stanley. He rolls his eyes and starts the car. As it reverses, he hears a thud, which makes him raise his eyebrows. He checks the mirrors, but nothing is behind him. Must have been a raccoon, or Stanley. Whatever it was Mark is tired and isn’t in the mood to think any further. He pulls away from the parking lot, stopping for a moment to move the gun prodding into his right ass cheek. He manages to get it out of his back pocket and places it in the door well. Five minutes later, having collected himself, Stanley is no longer amused and the fact he’s just a enger begins to nag at him. “You know… I intended on being the driver.” “Yep,” is all that Mark says in response, uninterested in engaging with Stanley with a long drive ahead when he has a faint sick feeling from being awake for eighteen hours—no, wait, twenty hours. Hang on… oh, who cares? It’s been a long time and he’s still going. Roughly forty-two seconds later Stanley chimes in again “I don’t care, but it’s just a bit uncool of you. The assumption that you should

always be the driver is, well, obnoxious… but whatever.” Mark shrugs but says nothing. This starts to grind on Stanley, who has begun to play with his seat belt, wondering how useful it would be if you got hit by an eighteen-wheeler. Mark glances over at Stanley, who looks like a naughty child on a time out. Stanley catches his eye. Damn it, Mark thinks, focusing back on the road. Three, two, one, he counts down in his head. “Why do you always get to drive? We’re partners,” Stanley asks. Mark opens his mouth to speak, but Stanley interrupts. “It doesn’t make sense. I’m a good driver, right? You’ve seen that. What is this, a punishment for damaging your precious coaster? Because if that’s true, then, well … fuck you,” Stanley rambles. Going from cold to hot in a flash: this isn’t the first time Stanley has preempted a situation by taking the first punch regardless of if one is coming for him or not. After all, he might as well get the first insult and last word in all at once. Tired and not in the mood for one of Stanley’s endless monologues, Mark’s temples tense as he recalls the… institutional fruit cup incident of two weeks ago. Stanley had been waiting in line for his daily fruit cup when someone cut in front. This, of course, did not go down well with Stanley, who ended up not getting a fruit cup as a punishment for what you’d describe as an extreme reaction. After this, Mark spent the next four days listening to Stanley’s one-man courtroom, during which he laid out the situation from every angle, all of which led to the conclusion that the line-cutter had it coming. Needless to say, Mark did not have the energy required to endure the legal case of Who Drives. “Because I had the fucking keys. Next time, how about you dig through the pockets of a dying man… Exactly. Now would you just shut the fuck up?” Surprised by the intensity of Mark’s response, Stanley loses his train of thought which had been all geared up to go through arguments ranging from years of driving experience to his personal interest in Mondeos. His stepdad had owned one which Stanley often took for joyrides with his friends. That was something

he had enjoyed about that period of his life. “No response?” Mark remarks. “You look like you are going to burst a blood vessel,” says Stanley as he bites his fingernails. There’s a rough bit of nail that’s now his new center of attention. “Oh, and swearing sounds weird coming from you. It makes you look like an imbecile,” he adds. Mark takes a deep breath and counts down from ten. “Are you trying to mumble profanities under your breath?” “No.” The brightness of a harvest moon lights their road; the orange hue around the moon makes its size double in the empty night sky. It’s actually peaceful. Mark opened the window an inch for some fresh air. He starts to feel somewhat normal again with someone in the enger’s seat taking a nap. While three kids would be causing restless havoc in the back seat, he’d turn up the radio to try and drown out the noise so that Lizzie could sleep, legs up on the dashboard. She always looked so perfectly comfortable that he didn’t want to disturb her. He glances over every now and then picturing her instead of Stanley in that seat. Her long brown hair which would shade her face from the sun coming through the window like a curtain—pure beauty resting underneath. Mark shakes his head, trying to dismiss the memories interrupting his thought process, but he can’t. He feels a lump in his throat and a pain in his chest when a familiar voice interjects like a fart at a funeral. “Just FYI, I call shotgun for you next time,” murmurs Stanley, who looks rather comfortable now with the seat back and his legs stretched out. He appears to have found a sweater from the backseat that he is now using as a neck pillow. Mark is brought back to the present in an instant with one last thing from Stanley. Not a moment too soon. “You can’t do that. You know that, right?” Looking confused, Stanley curls his left side of his lip as he thinks for a second. “Yes. Yes, of course I can.” Stanley sits up to explain.

Mark is intrigued to hear the excuse for this one. “If you think about it, the shotgun is your right-hand man, so he sits right next to you as a guard. And who looks more like a bodyguard: me, the lanky one, or you, a Mark from Marcus meaning ‘Mars.’ Heck, I don’t need a bulletproof vest with the god of war to wield a weapon!” “Damn you.” Mark laughs, impressed once again by Stanley’s ability to charm everyone, including those whose job it is not to be swayed. Stanley has the ability to make people see his perspective easily, unlike Mark, who struggles to stop people making assumptions purely based on his appearance. Stanley, on the other hand, could lead someone through three steps. First Stanley would state his demand, which usually would be quickly regretted. This is when Stanley presents a fact—step two—which he would use to substantiate his argument, regardless of its value. Finally, Stanley would give you a compliment, either placing emphasis on something that you felt proud of or sometimes, more deviously, use your Achilles heel. For Mark that was his size: he doesn’t notice it himself, but knew others did and this made him uncomfortable. Stanley sounds wounded. “Really? So, my efforts back at the bar were not helpful?” He reaches his long arm behind him, lifting one of the bags forward to his lap. “Leave them.” Mark becomes antsy, looking around and checking the mirrors. Stanley unzips the bag slowly; he likes to wind Mark up. “What’s the big deal? We’ve confiscated stolen money. That’s our job. We’re supposed to be the good guys, .” Stanley shakes his police badge in his left hand. “Yes. Now put it away. We’re also supposed to be undercover… ?” Mark says as he pushes Stanley’s badge down. “At least keep that on the floor, out of sight. We don’t need to take any more chances.” Mark, looking to the horizon, adds, “Let’s just have some quiet time.” Stanley leans away and looks out of the window, before making one more remark. “I don’t believe we’ve developed language in all its forms to reduce conversing between peers.”

Stanley always wants to have the last word.

Day 3

2:47 PM—A low-budget supermarket in Cincinnati, Ohio

The confusing beige building resembled Mecca, with the swarms of women coming from all directions to get their 40-percent-off price on fresh produce. The parking lot became a minivan showroom on weekdays. Today they all lined up just slightly out of place because of one antisocial Ford pickup which was parked over two spots. A few abandoned grocery carts drifted about, creating an entertaining obstacle course as one woman nervously weaved in and out to avoid damaging her van’s paint work. Pretty and young, Megan leans in her parked minivan, carefully unbuckling her young daughter. Her daughter signs to her, “Can we get ice cream?” Her mother smiles and signs back, “Maybe later, Haley.” As Megan continues to fiddle with the buckle with all her focus, there is a groan from Haley, who despite her hearing disability was just like any other five-year-old girl. Megan looks up to her daughter, who is pointing behind her. An agitated woman cannot move her car because Megan’s car door is open. Megan signals with her finger to suggest she will only be a moment, but the woman decides to honk regardless. Megan turns back to her daughter. The child is none the wiser, and she gets back to the challenging buckle. The mother can’t stand pushy people; she feels everyone is always endlessly rushing around for no valid reason. At a snail’s pace Megan eventually appears from the back seat with a beaming smile. By this point the agitated woman’s face has turned bright red, with her two children frozen in fear in the enger seats. Megan swings Haley up and out of the car and onto her right hip, closing the car door with her elbow and strutting towards the carts. Haley slid happily into the

child’s seat, as she was relatively small for her age. Heading inside, shoppers read a sign above the door that assures them that they are about to get some unbelievable discounts. The entrance is gridlocked thanks to a group having a “quick” gossip. This doesn’t bother Megan, who glides around the women with a smile. In her shopping cart seat, Haley wiggles about, giggling as she tries to grab at anything she can get her hands on. Bring it on, Megan thinks as they enter the candy aisle for one purpose only: her daughter Haley’s shared birthday party with how-can-you-not-think-she-is-amazing Gabby the following Saturday, which “wonderful” Gabby’s mother insisted would be even more fabulous with a cute—and inevitably messy—cupcake competition. As expected, Gabby’s mother is unable to assist with the “preproduction,” and so mother and daughter find themselves in the supermarket at the mom rush hour. If only young Megan had skipped “Welcome Week,” perhaps she’d have been able to avoid Gabby’s mom and the others, maybe not forever, but she would have certainly avoided a t birthday party for her soon-to-be six-year-old Haley. My daughter’s coming “t birthday party” is not entirely terrible, Megan thinks as her little Haley beams up at her and she beams back, finding it incredibly adorable how her daughter has somehow opened a packet of powdered sugar over her own head in the split second Megan has looked away. Quickly, she begins walking on to avoid the annoyed expression of whoever would have to clean this up. Around the corner, next to the fresh meats, there’s a sample stand and a butcher standing behind it. Megan wheels them over to get pre-made burger patties and see the look on the butcher’s face as he has become mesmerized by her blonde, green-eyed, and literally sugar-coated little girl in leggings and a shiny top. The samples butcher asked, “Would you like to try some?” Haley reaches out and mumbles, at which point her mom nods to give the A-OK. Megan says, “Yes.” As she turns to Haley and signs to confirm, her daughter bounces up and down eagerly awaiting whatever the sample is. “Haley would love some, thank you.”

The butcher held out a sample. “Here you go, Haley, this is chorizo. It’s Spanish.” Haley signs “Thank you,” and takes the piece with a smile. Megan intervenes. “She’s deaf,” she says. “Though those outstretched hands are a pretty big hint that she likes it,” adds her mother with a laugh. The butcher also laughs, awkwardly, looking more closely at Haley. She just looks like a normal little girl, because that’s what she is. Nevertheless, the butcher now feels uncomfortable. “Oh, right,” he says, now extra-carefully handing over another piece. Assuming she is more fragile in her situation, he tries to recall his friend’s dad who is hard of hearing, and loudly says “Enjoy!” as he gives the girl a thumbs up and rubs his stomach. Megan cannot help but hide a smirk. She knows the butcher was just trying to be nice, but still. The butcher hands over a different package of patties, “I’d recommend these, not as many additives and cheaper.” Megan thanks the butcher and heads on; she wasn’t planning on spending any longer in here than necessarily. The butcher waves to Haley as they stroll into the next aisle. Haley waves back, smiling with a mouth full of chorizo. When they arrive at the cool glass cases for dairy products, a chill fills the air. BANG. Panic spreads throughout the store like a wave as an armed group shouts angry commands. There are a few screams, followed by a sequence of more bangs. The supermarket, usually filled with chatter, becomes deathly quiet. Hidden between the aisles on the floor with the cart, fear kicks in for Megan. Like the discomforting silence between lightning and thunder, thuds begin as the heavy footsteps of the armed group come down the aisle.

Heart pounding, Megan looks up at her daughter from the floor where she had instinctively dropped. Haley is looking at a packet of crackers, as if willing them to come to her like she was Matilda. She isn’t aware of the situation. Megan knows it’s only moments before Haley will start making noise. The robbers are wearing a variety of masks, from Friday the 13 th to Mickey Mouse. They move through the store, collecting everything they can from the petrified shoppers: watches, wallets, phones. One out-of-place man wearing a Mighty Ducks jersey decides to resist and quickly learns what it feels like to have Buzz Light Year swing a sawed off shotgun into the side of his face. There is an audible crunch as it collides with his right cheekbone. Falling to the ground like a rag doll, the man’s palm opens and his keys fall beside him. Buzz scoops up and pockets those keys. Haley’s fascination with the crackers has dwindled and, confused by her mom’s choice to crouch down, she is bouncing round. Megan smiles at her daughter, but fear fills her eyes as a pair of thick-laced boots stop beside her. At the front of the store a man calmly shouts, “Sit tight and comply. Thanks in advance for your cooperation.” A man’s hand opens in front of Megan’s face. She feels for her wallet but cannot find it. It’s chore day, so she has her Mary Poppins bag with her. The man becomes agitated and grabs Megan aggressively, turning her to face him. His dark blue eyes pierce hers with a cold stare disguised by the forced smile of the cheap clown mask he’s wearing. She tries to speak but can’t. Frozen in fear, she mouths, “I’m sorry, don’t hurt her.” Panic slowly sets in and Haley, now aware that her mom is not smiling, starts to get upset too. Looking down at the man from her seat in the trolley, Haley wants the mean man to go away. She angrily pulls at the man and tries to shake him like the powdered sugar. But he is a bit tougher than cardboard packaging and doesn’t budge. The clown man’s arm stiffens as he thrusts the cart, and Haley in it, away aggressively. Instinctively, Megan hits the man and bolts up trying to get to the cart that’s spinning out of control.

Haley feels disoriented but excited by the rush, then pain kicks in as the cart hits the other side of the aisle and her legs knock against metal. The shelf wobbles before a lifetime of crackers tumbles into the cart, leaving Haley utterly in awe. A sudden flash. Haley’s attention is brought back into the room. She frantically tries to wiggle free. She is completely overwhelmed by everything around her. Realizing she’s stuck, she looks around to see her mom. She can just see her out of the corner of her eye. Megan is behind her. Haley stretches her little fingers as far as possible to no avail. She signs “mom” over and over as a red color comes through her mom’s top. Slumped down on the floor, Megan cannot reach back. In the rest of the store people start to freak out as the sound of one bullet causes a chain of others to be let off. The bandit leader by the s shouts to the others, “Time to go.” They have the money and he’s starting to lose his cool— he’s ready to get the hell out of there. The group makes their way back to the entrance. The clown-masked man looks first at the mother and then the child. Her sweet face terrified as she looks back at him, with his piercing and soulless deep-blue eyes. He smiles at her as his grin widens under his mask, and you can feel his sick sense of enjoyment under your skin as he throws Haley under his arm; she’s far too small to get free of his tight grip. And in a moment, the thick-laced boots are gone.

Day 4

2:22 AM—On the road to Tennessee

It’s still dark. Mark is in need of a serious caffeine fix as he watches the breeze in the fields push the silhouettes of tree tops to-and-fro against the night sky as they drive past. The car has become really warm in the past hour or so after Stanley turned the heat up and turned on the heated seats, and after using another colorful description to explain why Mark wouldn’t understand what cold feels like, having been exiled to the mountains back in 100 AD. The dirty fuel gage indicates they are going to have to refill sometime soon, but it’s a bit of a guess as the dial seems to jump and drop by a quarter, as if to say “Nope, we’re good; keep going. On second thought… ” Keeping a lookout for any sign of a gas station, Mark’s left eye begins to twitch. Blinking more frequently, he tries to stretch out his eyes. He sees himself in the side mirror: he looks manic, eyes wide open like a terrifying mime. With each mile they he feels heavier. Trying to relax any way that he can, he places his left elbow against the window, but it’s too small a space and his elbow just slips down. Perhaps it’s his seat. He tries to readjust it while driving; the seat falls back flat. Seat belt taut in front of him, he grips the steering wheel and jerks back up; the car violently veers off onto the hard shoulder. Mark pulls the seat adjustment lever and the seat smacks him in the back of the head as it scoots back into an upright position. Focused on getting back to speed and in the right lane, Mark leaves it that way. Stanley was shaken out of his watchdog-like sleep as his leg fell from the dashboard while he was jostled, and now he has a cigarette out. He winds down his enger-side window and lights up. Stretching his shoulders back, he takes a deep drag as he pinches the cigarette between his lips. The cold air helps Mark stay alert. “I thought you were cold?”

“Cold? It’s been like being stuck in an oven. I don’t know how you can even stay awake.” Mark’s too tired to react. He reaches over with his right hand and takes the cigarette from Stanley. As the smoke flows through him, he starts to feel a lot better, the nicotine giving him that stimulant he’d be craving. Breathing out, he feels his muscles relax from their tensed positions. Stanley then asks, “Why are you sitting in that full, upright landing position? All that academy training?” “What?” Mark says. Stanley explains, “Sitting like that, you look like you have a mental disability.” “I could have one, and how would you feel then? More importantly, what would you know about seat landing positions? Have you ever even been on a flight?” Stanley hadn’t ever been on a plane. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even been on a train. This was the most he had ever traveled. He was actually starting to understand what those campervan families were thinking. Being on the road had a charm about it: the highway was endless as the landscape changed. He had never felt so able to do anything in his life. Stanley had never felt young and free; he’d never felt much at all. He did enjoy driving, though, and the freedom it gave. The rush when he’d put his foot on the pedal and feel the front of his shoe touch the floor. He ed speed as a brief rush that he’d savored before he’d drive back home. It didn’t have a white picket fence, but home was in a comforting suburban neighborhood near Springfield. Mark can see Stanley is lost in thought. “So, how are you feeling about the shooting?” But Stanley doesn’t react. Mark continues, “Going to need you to check in with me, partner.” Stanley blinks. “Well, it’s all part of the job. I don’t like it, but that’s undercover work for you! It’s going to get messy, so… put on an apron!” Mark laughs hysterically. “An apron? What are we doing, taking down bad guys

or baking a cake?” “No, I was thinking more like a butcher. You know, we are ruthless and calculated.” Feeling like a badass, Stanley’s moment quickly fades as Mark is still laughing. “You just don’t understand my complex way of looking at the world.” Mark continued to laugh. “Ain’t that a fact!” Stanley mimics Mark and comments, “‘Ain’t that a fact?’ Are you ever going to master at least one language?” Mark, once again infuriated by Stanley, rolls down his window. The wind in his face feels refreshing. He still has Stanley’s cigarette between the fingers of his right hand as it rests on the steering wheel; his left arm is now—finally—able to rest on the open windowsill. Stanley lights another; he knows he won’t be getting that one back from Mark now. Mark is what you would describe as an “anti-social” smoker: he’d decide he wanted one when he saw yours and then he would just take it. Stanley had remarked in the past that this was essentially theft, at which point a debate had ignited about the difference between petty theft between friends and asking to borrow something when you have no intention of giving it back. Eventually, they came to no agreement at all, but did enjoy ranting for a solid forty-seven minutes about people who ask things like “Can I borrow some toothpaste?” His new cigarette resting between his lips, Stanley examines his handgun. He uses his multi-purpose sweater pillow and some spittle to get a drop of blood off of it. Eventually he scrapes the last bit clean with his pinkie nail. Feeling satisfied, he takes a moment to check it once more, before putting it away in the glove compartment, next to his now-very-shiny cop badge. Mark is just driving past a stand of trees when Stanley decides it’s time to tune the radio again. The car has a new satellite radio. They’d left it on a national station, reliant on the Mondeo’s old sound system. But over the past three days it had not taken them long to come to the realization that this meant “top hits” over and over again, which soon went from “oh, I know this one” to “I want to head butt the dashboard until my ears burst.” What made it worse for Stanley was that Mark was not the best with words, and

would constantly replace lyrics with whatever sounded correct in the moment— regardless of whether it made sense. Mark’s renditions of French Montana and Ariana Grande were disturbing on so many levels, and this really wound Stanley up. Stanley considers himself a bit of a wordsmith. His quick wit was the result of ample reading in his youth. The snappy remarks make him feel like he was Alan Shore on Boston Legal, an apt comparison seeing as he was from there. But he, like Alan, has social and boundary issues. Stanley had often been stuck with no one to confide in at home and unable to trust anyone outside. So he had found himself with his head in books. Unlike movies, books had offered Stanley the peace of mind he was desperately craving. He could read the words at his own pace, unlike at school where he felt rushed and would stumble. And the words would speak back to him; they could describe worlds that he could imagine and be part of. One of the things he would do was replace a character’s name at the beginning of the story with his own, scribbling his own name in place of that of the protagonist. As Mark drives, Stanley wonders what sort of story he is in now.

Day 4

2:32 AM—On the road to Tennessee, Mark finishes his cigarette

Despite it being night, the sun visor is down on Mark’s side. The view has not changed, and the brightness of the harvest moon combined with the effects of not being a regular smoker have given him a sharp headache, with a tingle in his left eye he ignores as long as he can before he pulls over to the highway shoulder. “All right, buddy, you’re up,” Mark gestures as he taps the wheels and goes to unbuckle from the driver’s seat. Stanley, who has finally begun to enjoy his role riding shotgun, feels very comfortable and is no longer in the mood to drive. After all, they had a ways to go yet. “Um, it’s pretty dangerous to switch here,” Stanley offers as an excuse, and he looks to see absolutely no one around, exactly the same as the past hour. Except a car in a field that looks like it was up to no good—people screwing. “We’ll switcheroo at a gas station,” he says, giving Mark a thumbs up before getting comfortable again in another position. Mark, unwilling to show his discomfort, puts the car back into drive and heads on. Minutes by and the pain in his eye starts to become more severe; he contorts his face as he tries to deal with it silently. He blames his lack of sleep as a contributing factor, thinking perhaps if he could just get a couple of hours’ rest he’d be back on his feet; unfortunately his body is telling him differently. His eye is now burning. Mark holds on with gritted teeth as he counts down from ten over and over in his head. His luck changed a few miles back when he saw a sign for a gas station; now it was just a matter of him making it there in one piece. A sharp right turn, and the car jolts to a hard stop in front of the pumps. Stanley flings his crossed arms open to stop himself from flying forward. “Who the hell do you think you are, Evel Knievel?” he yells at Mark, who’s already unbuckled and gotten out of the car.

Gas station bathrooms are not a place you’d want to find yourself on all fours, but right now that’s Mark: cowering over the toilet bowl like the hunchback of Notre-Dame. Meanwhile, Stanley is wandering around inside the twenty-four-hour gas station, perusing their snack options. “Salty or sweet? Sweet or salty?” he asks himself as he picks a selection of nuts, candy bars, sodas, and a magazine. He grabs anything he cannot the taste of, as well as anything he doesn’t recognize, and takes the pile over to the counter. Then he asks for two cartons of Marlboro Gold cigs. Mark trembles, balancing himself on the rim of the toilet seat, feeling a hairy, sticky substance squish between his fingers. The cubicle is barely worth the name: the door is hanging off and the tiles are the green of an oxidized statue. The walls are covered with the usual mix of badly drawn cocks and phone numbers, which probably won’t result in a love-at-first-toilet-seat situation. His vision pixelated, Mark makes his way to the sink. He pumps the empty soap dispenser in hopes of just a drop before scraping a congealed piece off and rubbing it profusely in his hands before rinsing them off. In the gas station, the woman behind the counter has raised her coffee-ed head to see which nutcase is buying what appears to be the entirety of the confectionery shelf. “Anything else?” she says so slowly Stanley can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “How about your phone number?” he says with a cheeky grin, which unfortunately comes across more like a threat as he cracks his knuckles and stands there with a swollen nose. “That’ll be a hundred and eighteen bucks,” says the cashier with a blank face, dark circles around her eyes barely hidden by a layer of poorly-applied concealer. Smugly pleased with himself, Stanley winks at the woman whom he finds clearly too nervous to reply and fishes in his pocket for a bunch of twenties that he’d taken from the bag in the Mondeo. The joke’s on her, Stanley thinks, slamming the money on the counter. Stanley swings around and heads to the door. She glances back to the money—surely more than $120—hesitant to pick it up.

Surprised, the cashier shouts, “Don’t you want your change?” Loot in arms, Stanley calls back “More where that came from,” as he strolls back to the car, smiling. Through the window one can see the cashier, who is now very much awake, crossing her arms and staring at the back of Stanley’s head. Now back in the car, Stanley is playing with his badge in the driver’s seat. He’s already dug into his beef jerky and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Switching from one to the other between bites, he rocks his head side to side as he enjoys the nutty, meaty flavor war going on in his mouth. Finally, Mark walks up to the enger’s side and gets in. His face is pale. Stanley puts his badge away and looks at Mark. “What happened to you?” Mark wipes at his mouth and says, “We don’t need to talk about it.” A sour smell wafts through the car. Stanley ignores the obvious signs and gives Mark a thumbs up as he speeds off onto the highway, munching away at some more jerky. Mark says, “Do you ever feel like this is too much?” Hyped up on sugar, Stanley cannot understand where his miserable tone is coming from. “No, not all,” he says as he washes the contents of his mouth down with a swig of Red Bull. “It’s all about how you look at it.” As Mark sits in thought and rubs his wedding ring the color slowly returns to his face. “I need some entertainment.” Stanley offers, “Want to hear another joke?” He adjusts the seat to a more comfortable position. Mark says, “No!” And he pauses as he hears another thud. “Did you hear that?” Stanley glances at Mark’s seat and says, “Grab the magazine I got.” He points at Mark’s butt. Mark pulls a bent magazine from under himself. “What do you want with this?”

“Reach inside my pocket,” Stanley states. Mark is not amused. “Get in there,” Stanley says as he pushes his hip towards Mark, who reluctantly puts his hand in. There’s a hole in Stanley’s pocket and Mark’s finger grazes Stanley’s thigh. “Oh, now ask for my number first!” Stanley says, raising an eyebrow and blowing a kiss towards Mark, who has managed to find and pull out a pen from the pocket. Stanley likes to make Mark uncomfortable. Mark is always about being a man’s man, and this gives Stanley the urge to tease him. “So, what’s this for?” Mark asks, showing him the pen. “Go to page sixteen,” Stanley says. Mark turns on the enger side light and flicks through the pages of what he now can clearly see is a woman’s magazine—more specifically, a teenage girls’ magazine: makeup trends, perfect panda eye tutorials, the “how to get him to say I love you first” article, and a perfume sample. Intrigued, Mark opens the sample and has a good sniff. Not bad, he thinks. Quite fresh and a little fruity. He drops his smile of enjoyment to a manly frown as he notices Stanley watching him. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of Miss Coco Chanel,” Stanley says, swooping back imaginary long hair. Embarrassed, Mark explains, “I have two daughters, they love… loved this stuff.” He coughs, feeling a lump in his throat. “Well, this magazine has quizzes in it, too, so I thought we could…” Mark nods. “Sure!” To Stanley’s surprise, this isn’t Mark’s first time. Mark spent many drives listening to and answering questions read out to him by Laura and Helen, Mark’s twin daughters who he swore were twelve going on twenty based on the antics they got into in the back seat as he chauffeured them around. They never paid much attention to their driver unless it was to make him answer girly questions, which would send them into giggle fits. He now knew plenty of pointless facts

about himself on vital topics like “Who’s your perfect prom date, Justin Timberlake or Brad Pitt?” After these revelations, the two girls would follow him around for days making comments about how much he loved Brad Pitt. Mark went along with it; they found it so incredibly funny, and he loved hearing them laugh. Mark reads aloud, “‘Your BFFs would describe you as?’ Well, that’s clearly for me, and I say you are… Fearless.” Stanley smirks, pleased with himself. “Next.” Mark kept going. “Okay, what is your perfect party style: relaxed friends, wild club night out, or cruising?” “Relaxed friends.” “Huh.” Mark is surprised. “I thought you’d be a cruiser.” “I guess I’m a mix of both,” Stanley smiles, raising his eyebrows. One arm outstretched, the other on the wheel, Stanley is enjoying his role as driver. Knowing he is in control of his own fate makes the long drive much better. A different side of Mark comes out as he dials down the cussing and shakes his head sadly. “These girls are just all so young, but look like they are in their twenties.” He flicks back and forth through the pages under the glove compartment light. “Next question. ‘What’s your fashion sense?’” He looks Stanley up and down. “Hmm… None doesn’t appear to be an option.” “I’m not that bad,” Stanley replies. Tense, he checks himself out in the rear view mirror. “Really, you think that…” he says anxiously as he continues to examine himself while keeping one eye on the road. “You’re no beauty queen either; more like Shrek’s less-attractive brother.” Mark doesn’t usually sport a sleeveless sweater. In fact, unlike Stanley, Mark usually looks well put together. He isn’t stylish in any sense of the word, but rather he conforms to his own standard: dark jeans, black polo, jacket, and boots or sneakers. That’s his year-round wardrobe; it’s not exciting but does the trick. Stanley is more unconventional. He looks fine… or would have if it was twenty years ago. And, while that could’ve been a cool hipster look, it now comes

across more as a moth-ridden-closet-chic. Mark continues, “Moving on, which city would you most like to visit: Paris, NYC, or Tokyo?” “New York City,” Stanley says, warmly smiling. He looks off down the road, a wistful look on his face. “I know we’ve only just come from there, but when we arrived I felt overwhelmed with excitement. It was just so, so wonderful. That was a special time…” Whack. Mark’s hand smacks him on the balls. Stanley squeezes his legs together, groaning from the pain as Mark shakes his head in disappointment. Stanley looks over and says, “Yeah, after New York I had that coming.” He shifts in the driver’s seat, trying to get comfortable again. A few minutes before he asks, “We started, so we might as well finish, right?” “And, the absofuckinglutely useless result is… your fall hairdo should be a cute bun with bangs,” Mark states. He closes the magazine and drops it on the backseat, holding onto the perfume sample but keeping it out of Stanley’s line of sight. “Bangs? What the hell is a bang?” Stanley says. “Sounds more like some sexual act, you know… A cute bun gets banged.” He makes a fist on top of the wheel and pokes his other forefinger through, grinning like an idiot, before trying to emulate other sexual poses with his should-be-concentrating-on-driving hands. Mark seriously wonders if Stanley has ever even met a woman who wasn’t an animated character or a prostitute. Sustaining their energy with sugar, it’s only a matter of time before the radio repeats the top hits again, and they find themselves back in the teen magazine out of sheer boredom. Through the early hours they discuss outfits they like, Stanley adding points for “fuckables,” but what they really enjoy is the advice column. They get into a back and forth on whether or not Daisy from North Carolina should finally cut the cord with her boyfriend of two years who wants to commit (but only when he’s got his career together). Stanley is on the boyfriend’s side, believing that some things take time and you can’t rush it. Mark, on the other hand, adamantly disagrees and thinks there is a time limit on

talking without action. The next several hours are quiet after things get heated; Stanley’s nose is swollen and Mark holds a multi-purpose sweater against a slightly bloodied bite mark on his ear. Pulling his badge out, he looks at it and looks at Stanley as he drives, feeling conflicted. His mind flashes back to the bar. It already feels like it was in the distant past: like time has ed and wounds have healed. Mark’s healing cut was fading, but emotionally he didn’t feel anything, which was more concerning to him than anything else. Having begun their journey in Massachusetts three days ago, Mark and Stanley have put their plan into practice. Crossing borders and boundaries for justice, badges, and weapons in hand—en route to Mexico. Mark felt prepared for what would come but feared what darkness they would unearth. Mark would never have chosen Stanley as a partner, but circumstance and opportunity had meant that it was either work with him or be stuck in the same position for years to come. The question was, would they be able to complete the mission or would their contrasting views doom them? One thing was certain: “undercover” or not, this trip was going to change both of them. They had to follow a path, and they had to cover their trail, cutting all loose ends. Even though he’s exhausted, Mark decides to stay awake with Stanley every mile they go.

Day 1

2:41 PM—Outside NYC

It had been a wet start in Massachusetts. Mark and Stanley had not planned anything. In a last-minute rush, Mark had gathered the necessities (identifications, badges, guns, cash) in a string sports bag, while Stanley packed a duffel bag with the accessories (clothes, caps, snacks, and a camera for evidence shots). The partners had gotten in their rough-but-ready late edition Subaru Forrester and rushed off from their location near Boston, heading south through Connecticut. Mark had no intention of hanging around; Stanley had never been outside of Massachusetts, so he was ready to see everything. Stanley hadn’t had many adventures, and all of them had been very brief, bland, and nondescript. His clearest memories were mainly from what he had read in books, although this wasn’t because he was forgetful. His memory was quite something, although bizarre on occasion: for instance, sometimes he would vividly recall what he ate that last Thursday. Not just the time and meal, but also the ingredients, texture, flavor, and his emotional reaction to it all. He would the smell of someone’s perfume, the touch of someone’s skin, the way someone moved, and more. Mark had often told Stanley that he would be an excellent salesman . When he really wanted to, Stanley knew how to get someone to sympathize. Only twenty-five miles from Manhattan, Mark is behind the wheel. Stanley, while experienced in joyriding, had never quite legalized his ability with a formal state-certified license. He did have “a” license, but this was the kind you’d want as ID in a bar, not the kind you want to be run through a computer system. And Mark was reluctant to let someone who hadn’t taken an official exam drive him about, regardless of experience.

“Francis has this ability to retreat into himself and just disappear into his mind, sometimes for hours on end. In the past he has woken up in the dark and gone to sleep in the dark, having the whole day ed. This could be managed with a prescription.”

Dr. Arnold Joseph’s patient notes

So, in the hope of not drawing more attention to themselves, Mark had made a unilateral decision. He was feeling better, this morning’s anxiety had faded, and he was enjoying using the cruise control as they steadily made their way south. “Why not take a break? We have a long way to go,” Stanley says. “There is no point pushing yourself too hard or too fast on the first day.” Mark is taken aback by Stanley’s new-found interest in his well-being. He feels tired, but he isn’t exhausted: just the usual fatigue from sitting in a Subaru for too long. After contemplating the idea, he doesn’t feel that they’ve really gotten far enough to stop now. “Best we power through.” Stanley doesn’t like this answer. He crosses his arms like a schoolboy in detention. Mark sees a sign for New York. “The Big Apple,” he states. “You know, that was on my list for the family—a trip for when everyone was older, though. I I did go in my twenties. We had a pretty good time just wandering around, taking in the sights and smells of the city.” Stanley, who had always wanted to see New York, becomes jealous. He knows Mark has experienced a lot more than he has and this is a point of frustration, since Stanley had spent so much time inside; “paused” is how he described it. “Do you know why it’s called The Big Apple?” he asks Mark, compelled to outsmart him, already positive Mark doesn’t know. Mark shakes his head no.

“Some people think it comes from a brothel madam called Eve, but that’s bogus. It comes from Fitzgerald,” Stanley began. “You know, John J. Fitzgerald?” Mark’s blank expression shifts to a confident nod, “Oh, yeah, the guy who wrote Gatsby!” Stanley shakes his head no, and grins, uncrossing his arms as he explains, “You’re thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald. John J. Fitzgerald was a horse-racing writer back in the 1920s. He was a columnist for the New York Morning Telegraph.” This was a newspaper that was around at the time Gatsby came out, but Stanley doubted Mark knew that either. “This Fitzgerald sportswriter heard the term used to describe New York City race courses, so he began calling his column ‘Around the Big Apple’.” Stanley took this moment to try to persuade Mark. “I have many cool stories to tell you about New York, but seeing it would be better.” Mark finds it somewhat interesting but he’s not that interested. He likes to hear facts, but they tend to go in his one ear and out the other. Unlike with other people, Stanley’s ability to get his way is sometimes lost on Mark. He might not be book smart, but Mark knew when he was being tricked. He saw the mischievous look in Stanley’s eye. “We are not detouring to the Big Apple.” Stanley stomped his foot. “Don’t be so damn boring! The mission can wait for an afternoon. Live a little, Ebenezer.” Crossing his arms again, Stanley looks out of the window. He’s frustrated that he can’t use his knowledge to outsmart Mark. His thing was being able to outtalk and outwit others—he was not a personable guy at all. However, Mark was focused. They had a mission, they were undercover, and this trumped fun. Still, Mark didn’t like being called “Ebenezer.” While he wasn’t much of a reader, he knew the story of Ebenezer Scrooge very well. You see, Mark had been raised in a single-parent religious household in Massachusetts. Mark had never met his mother and knew little about who she had been, except that she had been a Jehovah's Witness. His dad had been a strict man who’d put him in after-school sports when possible. He had not truly been ready to be a father, so Mark’s dad focused on what he could do, which was provide a heated, safe home. Mark therefore grew

up learning his life lessons from his coaches. When he hit middle school, his father was quickly nicknamed Ebenezer for his curfews and not-so-cozy attitude, particularly around the holidays. As Mark opens his mouth to object to being called Ebenezer, Stanley pipes in, resorting to his last method of getting his way: being irritating. “Come on, don’t be such a dick; let’s go and do something fun for once before you die of old age.” Stanley continues to repeat this message with a variety of insults and continuous protests—for miles. Mark eventually snaps, “Oh, would you just shut the fuck up for once?” smacking Stanley on the back of his head in frustration. Stanley is stunned. “Honestly, you’re your own worst enemy sometimes. You’re like a walking, talking, pain-in-the-ass dictionary who doesn’t know when to stop.” But Mark’s already secretly decided he wouldn’t mind a break either, and since he won’t be coming back to New York… So Mark heads towards the city, not bothering to tell Stanley, who has resigned himself to the fact it will not be happening. It isn’t difficult for Mark to keep a straight face with his hard brow and caveman features. He maintains his game face most of the time without even trying. His reddish complexion looks more like fury than anything else, which usually makes people hesitant around him. Actually, while he is quite excited about a quick side-trip to New York City, and he doesn’t want to show this to Stanley; he often wishes he could share his emotions more easily. Especially, he wishes he could’ve shared feelings with those he cared about and even loved; back then he’d struggled to say the words, while inside he would be screaming them from the rooftops. In fact, the idea of sharing himself emotionally had been inconceivable for him until the day he met his wife. Mark re Lizzie well. Her eyes had pierced his seemingly emotionless exterior. She was almost six feet tall, with long, ash-brown hair and a calmness that softened the intensity Mark brought when he entered a room with her on his arm. Although he didn’t share much, she knew what he was feeling and accepted how he was, and this changed his life. His world had expanded as she showed others what she saw in him. Eventually, through her careful nudging, Mark

found an emotional outlet that worked for him. His father had not been big on emotions. Mark loved his father, and respected him greatly, but didn’t have many caring memories of him except for a few from when he was little. When he was in first grade, Mark would come home after school and his dad would have laid out colored paper and pencils, crayons, cardboard, and magazines for inspiration, all on the kitchen table. It didn’t matter what they made together, just that they made something. Mark’s father would play music in the background and they would create, in silence. While they didn’t talk, it was one of Mark’s favorite bonding experiences. But over the years Mark’s father focused more on his work, ing his son less and less. When Mark started playing sports, their drawing together disappeared entirely. And now here is Mark with a police badge. But his dad would have been the one proud to be a cop: enforcing the law, condemning sinners, and protecting the innocent. As the New York skyline appears ahead, Stanley’s eyes light up and excitement truly sets in. When they turn onto the George Washington Bridge, Stanley puts his head out of the window, totally transfixed by the view, the air, the feelings rushing around inside of him. It looks just like what he’d always imagined it would look like. For him, the allure of the Big Apple had always such a dream that bookish Stanley feels like he has been there many times before, as Stanley Gatsby, Stanley Bateman, Stanley Caulfield, and many more. “We’re here… are we here?” Stanley asks in astonishment. He can’t quite understand how they’ve gotten to New York City, but here they were. The feeling of happiness confuses him. Stanley was always a sarcastic guy, but he’d never been a very happy one before. The feeling is brand new, and he loves it. “Yes, but soon we’ll be far from here,” Mark adds, trying to make sure Stanley doesn’t think that they can just cancel their plans and their mission to hang out in the West Village and eat wings from Woogies. Mark takes his eyes off the road and glances at Stanley, who clearly hasn’t heard him. Mark’s never seen this reaction from Stanley; the guy is beaming, and his cheeks glow like a kid who’d just gotten a present he’d always wished for. Mark feels himself reach out as he has a paternal urge to stroke Stanley’s head. Stanley pauses before turning sharply into the palm of Mark’s hand. “What the

hell are you doing?” Mark doesn’t actually know what he’s doing. Embarrassed, he blurts out, “Nothing.” He draws his hand back to scratch his right temple. Paternal. Mark had been just twenty-three when he had his daughters. New responsibilities: he’d felt overwhelmed with the daunting task of raising not just one little girl, but two. He’d tried to coach them, but they didn’t respond well to that approach, and it made him feel like a failure. It wasn’t until Mark had his son Jack four years later that he became more confident as a parent and started to realize that he wasn’t so bad a father after all. He thinks Stanley, who’s never had a kid, would never understand.

Day 1

4 PM—Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art

Stanley suggests they go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where they were hosting a Garry Winogrand exhibition. Mark actually re some things about Garry and starts to tell Stanley, “He was this amazing street photographer, like the best ever. He captured the postWorld-War-II changes in New York and they have apparently… around…” he pauses for suspense, “two hundred and fifty thousand previously unseen photos. So this exhibition could mean an epic explosion of new work from a guy who kicked it thirty years ago.” Stanley looks pretty impressed; it’s the first time he had heard something come out of Mark that he would consider “basic.” In line for the ticket counter, Mark is reading the prices when he turns around to see Stanley has disappeared. “Just like him to leave if it’s not something for him,” he mutters to himself. Looking back again he sees someone who looks a lot like Stanley rummaging around in the gift shop. Mark leaves his spot in line and awkwardly makes his way past the people behind him. Inside the museum store he looks around and gets a glimpse of Stanley in a corner. He marches over and smacks him with a book he pulls from a shelf. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he demands. “Waiting for you. Jeez, relax a little bit and stop cursing all the time. It’s obnoxious.” The comment startles Mark, who puts the book down and repeats, without swearing, “Okay. So what are you doing?” “Look.” Stanley says as he points to a staircase that leads into the gift store from the back, as they watch a few tourists come down. “It’s a discount way in,”

Stanley whispers and grins. Stanley walks up those stairs. And Mark waits to see what happens, expecting the inevitable security to come back down with Stanley. When Stanley hasn’t returned after a few minutes, Mark also smoothly heads upstairs. Mark spends the next hour enjoying the sights of the Museum; it’s more than anything he’d imagined. He’s at peace and only realizes the time when he can no longer see Stanley. He wanders back through the gift store and buys a postcard of one of Winogrand’s photos. As he walks outside he spots Stanley sitting on a step to the side, reading the book he had hit him with earlier—a book he has stolen from the gift shop. Stanley doesn’t see him approach. Mark comes up beside him. “Hey, how long have you been here?” Mark asks. Stanley, without looking up, says, “About an hour.” “Why didn’t you tell me you’d wait here?” Mark said. Stanley looks up, shrugs and says simply, “You seemed happy.” Mark’s surprised by his kindness. “Want to get some food? It’s quarter past five.” Checking his watch Stanley says, “Don’t you think we should get back on the road?” “Nah, we haven’t even seen the Empire State Building yet.” Mark says. “I know where we can go.” They head down some stairs into the subway. Stanley struggles with the turnstile. “Have you never used one before?” Seeing Stanley’s face, Mark takes their Metrocard and swipes it for him. “Of course, you haven’t,” Mark acknowledges, pushing Stanley through the now-open barrier. After navigating the subway, they finally find themselves downtown. Like a dog on a leash Stanley is eager and ready.

Unconcerned with anything and excited by everything, Stanley begins walking around; he wants to walk everywhere but doesn’t know where he wants to go. It was particularly warm this evening and couples were standing hand-in-hand, most of them still dressed in their work attire. One couple is violently interrupted by Stanley as he storms through the pair, knocking into the woman and leaving Mark to apologize as quickly and politely as possible before shyly walking away —avoiding the angry glare of the man who is being held back by the woman. Mark comes up in front of Stanley, who is sitting down with eyes glued to his camera, and yanks it from him—raising his arm as if about to smash it into the ground. Pausing, Mark waits. “Cut it out!” Stanley yells. “Don’t you want to have any photos? I’ve taken some really good ones.” “Promise you won’t do that again.” Mark growls. “Do what?” Stanley asks, pausing for a moment before adding, “You mean knocking into that woman? Who cares?” He flashes his badge at Mark. Mark looks irritated. “I care, Stanley. I care. That badge doesn’t give you the right to act like a complete tool.” He readies to throw the camera. Stanley gets off the seat and falls to his knees. “I’m sorry, okay?” he screams, throwing his arms in the air as a gesture to compliance. Loud enough for the couple to notice. People are staring. “Stanley, get up.” “No. And, if you break it, I’ll only go and get another.” Mark grumbles, “And I’ll smash that one too.” Stanley is still on his knees. “What’s your problem?” he pleads, his eyes wide, his eyelashes flickering, clearly upset. “I just wanted to take a couple of photos, that’s all. Okay, I’m sorry I upset Mr. and Mrs. Humpty Dumpty, but look,” he says looking at the couple who are still there staring as Mark stands over Stanley. “They were put back together again!”

Mark sees the expression on the couple’s face, and it wasn’t Stanley they were staring at, it was him. What am I doing? he thinks to himself. He quickly puts out a hand and pulls Stanley to his feet, gives him the camera, and pats him on the back. As if to indicate that everything is fine. Mark’s emotional outburst has shaken him. Stanley, happy to have his camera back in one piece, sits back down and begins to chat away as if nothing has happened. Mark squeezes in next to him, trying to avoid the awkward gaze of the couple. “I’ve never been anywhere this cool. It’s once in a lifetime for a guy like me.” Mark nods, and when he looks at Stanley he realizes the sad fact that Stanley is right. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for Stanley, more than likely his only chance to experience normality. The thought is off-putting to Mark, as he starts to think that perhaps the same could apply to him too. In a low, morecontrolled tone Mark says, “Just make sure you keep the pictures offline, okay? Don’t go and put them in the cloud.” Stanley agrees, not really having any clue what Mark means. After a thirty-minute subway ride they get to the World Trade Center Memorial at around six o’clock. They stand and watch as the water gushes into the vast empty space where the second tower once stood. It is chilling and beautiful at the same time. Someone handing out flyers comes up to them and offers a discount on two entry tickets to the TWC 3-D Experience for the evening. Stanley jumps at the chance; Mark has to jog to catch up with him as he is already heading up the escalator to the ticket booth. As they get to the entrance line they do not expect the airport-style security check that awaited them. Mark is glad he’d insisted that they leave their guns in the Subaru, strapped to the undersides of the front seats as if they were life vests. As they are launched 100 floors above the ground in the 3-D experience elevator Stanley is flabbergasted. After walking around the observation deck twice Mark is done, but Stanley bounces from corner to corner until he selects one spot facing the Empire State Building, misusing the camera by snapping pictures from every angle. Mark tries to grab the camera, but Stanley—faster and more nimble—slips through his fingers. The observation deck will be closing in half an hour. Stanley continues to gaze

north toward the Empire State Building. They watch the skyline change: city lights come on as the weather turns; a line of redness comes from the clouds on their left and shines through the glass.

“Would you like anything else?” asks their waitress in the One World Observatory Restaurant. Over two hours have ed and Mark sits in the above restaurant, having dug into a burger that he is now chasing down with a beer. They had certainly gotten their money’s worth. “Just the check, thanks,” Mark says in response. The waitress takes his empty plate and walks toward the kitchen; the chef is preparing crème brûlée for nearby diners, tableside. The waitress remarks to the chef, sotto voce, “That guy over there has a scary vibe. He’s literally been sitting for two hours… two hours! while the other guy I assume is his disabled brother just sits and looks at the view. It might be sweet if the big guy didn’t give me the chills.” The chef looks up and laughs for the benefit of the nearby diners, blow torch in hand. “What’s wrong with him?” he asks her quietly. She looks back. “I don’t know, just something about how one of them looked up at me from the observation deck. It was like he was looking through me with these dark hazel eyes; it gave me the chills. Honestly, it’s a serious odd-couple situation,” the waitress says with pursed lips. “And, then there’s the big guy. He asked for a pen and pulled like fifteen drink coasters from his sports bag and started drawing on them. I worried that if he ran out of those, he’d start drawing on the tablecloth.” Chuckling as he carefully cleans the edges of the dish the chef asks her, “Were they any good, these drawings?” The waitress pauses, “There was one silhouette of a woman that was quite good. Anyhow, I’m ready to get out of here once I give this guy his check. Catch you later.” Mark clears things to the side of the table as the waitress returns with their check, holding a forced smile as she waits. And Mark pays with cash, counting every note.

As 9 p.m. comes around the tower closes, and they have to leave. They walk back uptown toward where they’d parked the Subaru, but soon realize they will have to tackle the subway again, for as they walk block by block they get tired. So down to the subway they go. They get out at 42 nd Street and Times Square. It’s like nothing Stanley has seen before. Hungry again, at this point he suggests they go to the Hard Rock Café. Mark, who can always eat, is happy to comply. The bar is bright and playful, as is the food; Stanley feels comfortable. He’s hands-on with his food, having lost the etiquette his mother had taught him so many years ago, when he had tried to bond with her by taking elocution lessons. However, occasionally a small bit of manners will still come through, like when Stanley places his napkin on his lap. When the waitress first comes over, Stanley slowly looks her up and down. After that she only addressed Mark. At the end of this dinner, Mark’s second dinner, the waitress comes over with the bill, and she asks them if they want a photo. Mark is very uncomfortable, still ing how that couple had stared at him, but he reluctantly agrees. Stanley hands her the camera. After she takes the shot, she hands Stanley the camera back and Mark tries to grab it. After his partner reluctantly agrees it’s time to go, Mark— ing the restaurant bills and checking his wallet— becomes keener than ever to leave. Stanley’s quite pleased and gets up to head outside for a cigarette. With nothing better to do, Mark doodles on a coaster, looking around at the vast array of memorabilia, the famous outfits, guitars, and photographs of the stars, from Madonna to Billy Joel. The photographs remind him of the exhibition at the MET that afternoon. He’d been there once before, with his wife. It had taken her longer to drag him inside than it had Stanley today. It was around the time that he had started to draw again that they had decided to come to New York… just the two of them; she thought he would find it inspiring. And she’d been right; it had been inspiring. Mark’s face slowly turns sad—and angry. He feels his chest ache, quickly gets up, pockets his coasters and rushes outside. He needs air. In the process he almost knocks into Stanley who is flirting with two women

outside, resting his hand on one of their shoulders and cracking his neck. Mark takes a deep breath. “Hey, watch it buddy!” Stanley says angrily, attempting a New York accent but while mimicking the body language of a 1920’s movie gangster. The women quickly rush away from Stanley into the crowd. Stanley just shrugs. Mark leans against the wall to take another breath. He walks down a side street, away from the brighter lights of Times Square. Stanley follows him. It’s ten minutes before the staff realizes that they had skipped out on the bill. Eventually Mark turns and walks into a quiet bar. He takes a seat in a small wooden booth and Stanley sits opposite. Moments later a waiter comes by and Stanley orders them two beers; even though Stanley is not much of a drinker, he really likes the bar environment. Stanley sits, ing the first beer he’d ever had. It was with his stepdad, just before his first major case. The evening prior to his hearing, Stanley and his stepdad had sat on the porch of their family house near Springfield. Stanley was quietly pondering, when his stepdad came outside with two cans, opening one and handing it to Stanley. They didn’t say much: just observed the night sky, the stars, the smell in the air. When Stanley’s mom had gotten home late as usual, Stanley’s stepdad had covered for him by saying he’d had a stressful day at work. While Stanley is reminiscing, Mark gets up and heads to the bathroom. Mark splashes some water in his face and looks up into the mirror. Dark circles are slightly visible under his eyes. Coming out of the bathroom he calmly walks to their booth; the beers have arrived. Stanley hasn’t touched his yet. Mark takes a seat and pauses for a moment before taking a large gulp and letting out a deep sigh of relief. Mark starts to tell Stanley how he felt alive in the museum; the comment makes Stanley smile because Mark doesn’t show interest in much, while Stanley shares everything—rarely filtering what he says. As it is getting late, they realize they will probably have to stay in town that night. Mark speaks with the barman, who says he can get them a place to crash with a buddy of his around the corner. After asking him some questions, Mark gives the guy a generous tip as thanks, as well as to rectify the karma of the Hard

Rock Café. Just as they step outside it starts to rain.

Day 2

5:05 PM—Charleston, West Virginia

At seven that morning they are on the road from New York City; they need to get moving if they want to keep to the schedule they’ve set. Their drive is at least not delayed like the morning traffic heading back into Manhattan across the Hudson, and the view is great. Mark loves rivers, loves watching the water flow. Their aim is to make it to Kentucky by this evening, and they will be heading through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Maryland on the way. Stanley enjoys his last view of the New York City skyline while Mark drives. Stanley, who has never traveled, is thrilled. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted to travel, but he’d felt stuck, unable to go anywhere. So, he simply hadn’t. His mother was not an adventurous type at all; the one time he had gotten a “road trip” was with his stepdad. When Stanley had just turned fourteen, he had been caught joyriding in the family car in Springfield by a member of the motorcycle highway patrol. Stanley had always wanted to be a cop and was thrilled to meet one. He’d thought it was dope; the idea of getting a gun and a badge and being able to drive cars really fast was amazing. After a grueling back-and-forth the officer had chosen to phone Stanley’s parents instead of taking him in. Stanley’s stepdad had been furious, swearing as he let out his anger driving their second car as they came to collect Stanley, who was waiting with the officer. Stanley’s mom sat in the back seat, dealing with it by focusing on fixing her daughter’s hair since she was preparing the girl for a pageant. By the time they got there, Stanley’s stepdad was out of things to say, and his wife had not acknowledged a word of his tirade. Stepping out of the car, she darted into the front seat and sped away to the pageant, leaving him with their problem son. Stanley’s stepdad watched, fuming, as without a backward glance back she was gone. He walked over to the officer, ready to bribe him if required, when he realized the officer’s finger was pointing in jest. Stanley and the officer had been discussing yoga poses, for as it turned out the officer was a bit of a yoga expert

after having tried meditation to de-stress after work. Stanley ed that he, personally, wasn’t interested in yoga back then, but he’d read about it in one of his mom’s magazines and was able to share word-for-word tips and tricks. The officer just handed over the car keys to Stanley’s stepdad after checking his license and registration. As they drove away, the policeman waved them off, and at that moment Stanley’s stepdad turned the car and drove in the opposite direction from home. Road trip. This day was when Stanley, who hadn’t been fond of his stepdad at all, saw another side of him. While Stanley muses on the past, Mark pushes their trip south forward, and for him the driving drags on and on. It feels like walking up an endless staircase but it has been just over three hours so far. It’s more than a physical challenge: Mark’s lack of sleep is making him begin to mentally crash. “I think it’s time for a coffee break.” Stanley turns to Mark. “Already? Come on, let’s keep going. I want to see West Virginia. It’s supposed to be picturesque.” Slowly, Mark’s migraine grows, and he feels woozy. “Stanley, that wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I’m driving, I’m deciding.” Stanley frowns before saying, “Fine. I’m in need of a coffee injection after last night’s drinks anyway.” Which is true. Stanley has quite a hangover: he rarely drinks, so he’s feeling it. However, aside from dehydration, he isn’t doing too badly. “Good.” Mark stretches against a tight pain in his side, “I’m not sure if it’s the two meals I ate, my copious beers, or that fistfight last night, but whatever: it’s wreaking havoc with my system.” That fist fight. The evening before Mark and Stanley had waited an hour for the bartender’s buddy to show up. He was a nice guy and was quickly chatting away with Mark. Stanley didn’t say much because the two of them had started talking sports and that wasn’t Stanley’s area. After walking around for ages they got to this small box apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. There was a two-seater sofa— sleeping option number 1—and a stained rug, which was sleeping option number 2. Neither preferable, they all stayed up having some beers they’d bought from a local store. Around 1 a.m. this nice guy’s girlfriend showed up. It began with her gently

opening the door with a slam, and sweetly screaming “You piece of shit!’ at the nice guy. Mark, who didn’t care for unnecessary confrontation, tried to calm the girlfriend down by saying “Calm down,” which of course did not make her calm down. Instead, it resulted in a handbag to the face. At this point Stanley jumped in and forcefully pulled the girlfriend off, which turned the nice guy into the defensive guy as he went after Stanley. Before it could become anymore chaotic, Mark swung himself between Stanley and the nice guy… which led to a punch in the face. That was it; Mark took the nice guy out with a swift fist to the chest, initially winding him before he “helped him to the ground” as Mark later described it while they raced back to the Subaru. Mark and Stanley left immediately, making sure to bring the few things they had on them. Mark had his string sports bag with all his beer coasters and wallet in it. Stanley, of course, kept his things either in a duffel bag or on his person in his jacket as the pockets were extensive. They decided they’d be choosing an awkward conversation with the police and inevitable charges if they stayed. So here they are: on the road, short on sleep, and hung over. “It’s a good thing we paid with untraceable cash,” Stanley says. “It would’ve been ridiculous for our mission to be compromised by some shrieking bitch.” Mark just clenches his hands on the steering wheel.

It was warm and humid, as usual, in Charleston, West Virginia: an area that was both rich in history and nature, known for the Civil War and the lofty hills that surrounded the battlefields. During that war West Virginia—the mountain state —had formed, separated from Virginia. Generations down the line you had Mark’s father, who was born and raised here.

“Francis’ idolization of Bill is much like that of a son to his father.”

AJ’s notes

Winding down the driver’s-side window Mark feels the weird, yet familiar air hit his lungs. Mark is conflicted when it comes to this city, but he does have fond childhood memories of being with his father here. Mark and his father would go to visit his grandparents for long weekends, oldsters who lived in a quaint house outside the city. As a child he was treasured by his grandparents, but as he got older he started to realize that they were not the nicest of people. Strict Christians, they would tell off Mark’s father from the second he and dad stepped in their house, which explained why they traveled so far for such short visits. The trips to his grandparents abruptly stopped when Mark was a sophomore in high school. Mark never knew why, but when his father ed away, shortly after his eighteenth birthday, he decided to go on his own and visit them by himself. It was his first road trip alone; he took his father’s truck and made the twelve-hour journey by himself. During his last visit, when he had been a freshman, his grandmother Lily sat him down and told him more about his mother. It was during that long fall weekend that light was shed on Mark’s past, about a mother that Mark couldn’t even picture. He had imagined what she would be like; the truth was very different. Mark’s mother and his father, also named “Mark,” had dated in their early twenties for just the first two months of a spring when his father had promised to convert to her religion, in order to be with the woman he loved. Knowing that

marrying outside of her faith is not commonly punished with banishment from the faith, his mother was willing to take the leap, even though it was something that would weaken her as a Jehovah’s Witness. During the summer, not long after they were married, Mark’s mother became pregnant with him. Then, at the beginning of her third trimester (when the glow shifted to discomfort and swelling), Mark’s father realized it was all too much for him. It was a few days before Christmas and his father had gotten his mother an early Christmas gift, but she’d turned it away with discouragement and exclaimed that celebrating Christmas was against her religion, and that this was not a joke. It was a sin. At this point Mark’s father began to panic. He was young and felt foolish. He now realized that he couldn’t convert. He didn’t want all the rules and regulations, not for himself and certainly not for his unborn child. Eventually the news that he would not convert made it to her mother’s family who became shamed by her actions, although furious with her sin. But she was family, so they took it upon themselves to rectify the situation. Mark’s father got full custody of his son and moved away. His father’s parents did not his decision to “run,” and called him a fool at first, but they grew to understand his choice. After his father left Mark’s mother, she immediately married the younger brother of her father’s friend, a man who was twenty years older and a strict Jehovah’s Witness. Months after she had given birth to Mark she’d fallen pregnant with her second child. On very rare occasions, Mark’s grandparents would see someone from Mark’s mother’s family, and that’s how they came to learn of Mark’s halfbrother, Joseph. They decided to share this news with Mark in his senior year; after battling with Mark’s father they decided he deserved to know. Months later both his grandparents ed on in quick succession. Mark did not meet his half-brother Joseph until he was married. They met in Charleston, West Virginia, one summer because Mark’s wife wanted to see where he’d come from. Joseph had piercing eyes like Lizzie, but he was a little shorter than Mark’s wife and had a flabby yet gangly build. It wasn’t until Mark had children that he had decided to reach out to his brother

again. This wasn’t for any particular reason; he simply didn’t “click” with Joseph, and it was awkward. Mark had also been so involved in his own life and his self-made family he’d forgotten to think of his half-brother anymore. He knew he had this other Jehovah’s Witness family, but he didn’t know if it was something he wanted, and he trusted that his dad had chosen to leave for a reason. The last time Mark had seen his half-brother Joseph had been over a year ago. Joseph was still working for the publication Kingdom Hall—remotely, as an illustrator for The Watchtower, and was still single. But right now, on today’s drive south, Mark doesn’t feel like visiting. He’s stuck with Stanley, who is far from a brother. Stanley reminds Mark more of the rookies on his college football team at UMass—trying to be hard, but not ready for what was to come. Having been excited all day about traveling to West Virginia, Stanley’s face begins to fall as they drive through the state. “This is not what I expected.” Stanley states loudly, looking around and seeing the area was not as he had imagined. “It’s just so… deprived. I mean it looks okay, but it’s nowhere near what I had in my mind.” “Oh, just shut up!” Mark shouts at Stanley as he stomps his foot on the brake, coming to sudden stop at a traffic signal. Mark feels the urge to talk to someone other than Stanley right now, who is interrupting him as Mark reminisces. Thinking about old times makes Mark wish he could talk to his family. He knows it isn’t possible, but as he sits waiting at the light he has to do a double-take as he catches a glimpse of someone who looks like Joseph. BEEP goes the horn of the car behind them. “Hey, it’s green, move!” yells a head that pops out of that car’s driver’s side window. Mark slowly edges away, allowing just enough time so that the light turns red for the car behind him, smiling in the mirror at the grimacing face of the other driver. Stanley would have chosen a slightly louder approach, having previously reversed into a honker and sped away laughing. “Mind dropping me off at the library?” Stanley asks out of the blue.

Mark, knowing where the Kanawha County Public library is, nods and drives on. “Sure. But it’s a weird-looking place. I saw it many times before I found out what it was,” Mark adds. Stanley rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t look like a library because it wasn’t one.” He takes a breath and continues with another verbatim quote from something he’d read. “The library itself is rather old for standard beginning in 1908. Though this building had only been used since 1967, it used to be a Federal Building—” Mark interrupts, “Right! Got it, thanks. It’s a library that doesn’t look like one. Clear.” Stanley stops at the beginning of his chain of thought, becomes scrambled and concludes, “Anyhow, it’s supposed to be pretty decent.” Driving, now in actual silence, Mark is able to think about the guy he saw who looked unmistakably like his half-brother Joseph. It is in fact very possible that it was Joseph, because he wasn’t the type to go anywhere. In fact, every time they had met was here in Charleston. Mark isn’t sure whether it’s better to stick with rambling Stanley to keep his mind focused on the mission, but it isn’t a smart move to go looking for Joseph. They pull up to the library, with its high arched pillars, and Stanley hops out. For a brief moment, Mark thinks about ing him but decides against it and drives on, calling out, “I’ll be in Sam's Uptown Café.” Sam’s is within spitting distance of the library so Mark decides to go for a drive first, like he used to. Stanley, now safely out of the sight of Mark, pulls out his camera and takes a photo of the library before going inside. A vast array of books never ceases to amaze Stanley; he walks in and feels instantly warm as the books engulf him in the room. Surrounded by tales of both fact and fiction, Stanley walks up to the librarian behind a desk and asks for directions to the history section. She points to an aisle. Clearly, she’s too shy to look up, Stanley thinks as he wanders off. He breathes in the smell of the books, closing his eyes with delight. The scent actually makes his body tingle. Meanwhile Mark is idling the Subaru, parked at the corner of a residential street, and has his hands planted on the steering wheel. His palms are sweaty.

Stanley’s put down the book in his hand as he notices a sign that reads “First Floor Travel Books.” Most of the travel books are there, between 910 and 919. Picking his choice, he pulls out a book on Maine from the shelves. Flicking through the pages, he lands on one about fishing in Maine, and the photos are incredible. Stanley, so used to imagining places, is taken away. The sights he has seen so far, however dull, have given him a rush. But this is wonderful. His every breath is deeper, every glance longer, every movement slower… out of sight, Stanley finds a quiet corner to continue to enjoy the book. Mark hasn’t left the car yet and is still reminiscing. When he was eight, he and his dad had been on their annual trip to his grandparents when there was an argument between his grandmother and grandfather. He wasn’t sure what it was about, but it was enough for his dad to grab him and put him in the truck. Before driving completely away Mark’s dad took them down the river, to Paint Creek, and taught Mark how to fish for trout using some rods he had taken from the grandparent’s house. It was an afternoon Mark ed with mixed emotions. He was freezing cold as it had begun to rain, and they were ill prepared, but neither of them showed it to the other. A few hours ed and after a tug, Mark, with his dad ing him from behind, reeled in the biggest fish Mark had ever seen. His dad patted him on the back; that had warmed him from his heart to his fingers and toes. They wrapped the trout in a newspaper they’d had in the truck and returned to his grandparents’ house. Mark’s dad knocked on the door and Mark had the fish in his arms. The expressions on his grandparents’ faces were hilarious. They were stunned, proud and worried at how wet the two were. That evening Mark’s grandmother prepared and cooked the trout with a side of buttery mashed potatoes and chopped beans. It was the juiciest fish he had tasted, and he’d caught it himself. To top it off, Mark’s grandmother brought out an apple pie, which surprised Mark’s dad who had fully intended on leaving until he noticed Mark’s coloring book and pencils on the counter. After that, year after year, Mark and his dad would go fishing—at first, so that Mark’s dad could avoid confrontations, but it quickly became their ritual. They’d challenge each other on the way down, placing bets on fish size, weight and quantities; and Mark’s grandmother would be ready with an apple pie. It’s warm sitting in the Subaru. Mark wipes the sweat off his forehead as he tries to cool down. Lowering his seat back until his face is in the sun, he winds down

the window. A light, cool breeze flows in and over his face. He gulps and closes his eyes. His memories are falling back to when he was twenty-six years old. Mark’s daughters had just turned four, and they were a handful. Mark was struggling with the stresses of work but didn’t show it. He always entered the house with a smile on his face, but the bags under his eyes gave it away to his wife. It was around the time of year that Mark used to drive to Charleston and Mark’s wife thought it would be a good idea for him to go and see his brother. Mark hadn’t ever gone without Lizzie, so this would be his first one-to-one visit with Joseph. On the drive down, Mark was unnerved; he didn’t know why but he wasn’t as comfortable going without her. Eventually, Mark arrived in West Virginia and it quickly became clear—again— that he and Joseph didn’t have much to say to each other. Mark felt responsible to come up with something as the older of the two. After an awkward beer at the very Sam’s he was now parked outside of, Mark was ready to leave. Joseph wasn’t much of a bar guy; he sipped one beer for an hour while Mark polished off three (and that was him being conservative). Mark’s usual conversations were with burly men who watched sports by his side and they’d make statements like, “Terrible decisions, he’s completely open!” That was the level of banter he usually got into. But Joseph wasn’t much of a sports guy, so Mark was lost. Then it came to him: they could talk about fishing. Since Mark’s dad’s ing he hadn’t gone to Paint Creek until he took Joseph. The twenty-two-mile drive along the river felt different in the driver’s seat, a good kind of different. Joseph was not a natural; he struggled but that was okay. Mark was very patient and took him step by step. They did not catch anything except a funky smell on their clothes from accidentally spilling some bait in the car. Most of the time, Mark found Joseph slightly off, but on this day he had actually found a fun side to him. Mark never went back to Charleston again without his wife and children, but he did pick up his fishing tradition again—on occasion inviting Joseph to tag along. But now it was catch and release, as his twin girls Laura and Helen didn’t like fish; it was too “fishy.” Back at the library, books piled high, Stanley finds a small chair and parks himself on it. A child comes over, wanting to sit down, which results in a stareoff. Stanley wins when the mother of the child quickly grabs her son and takes him away, for Stanley’s fixed focus unnerves her. The small chair is because he’s

in the children’s section, and the book in his hands is Flat Stanley. He stares at the front cover for a while and just thinks. Before getting up he hides the book in his pocket. He thinks how Stanley’s close friend of many years and confidant AJ would always tell him off for his sticky fingers. AJ had always described him as a “cheeky” guy, and Stanley’s sleight-of-hand had been worrying to him. But AJ had been Stanley’s best friend, and Stanley had routinely shared everything with him. He was going to miss AJ. The guy was not like Stanley in many ways, but he was smart and well-read. He was the rock in the department that kept the other guys sane. And AJ’s interest in human behavior made him even more curious to spend time with Stanley. Eventually, AJ got Stanley to open up, and this gave AJ a sense of achievement in his ability to him as a friend. They’d often laugh and spend over an hour debating the ways of the world. AJ had a challenging day-to-day routine, where he often lost touch with his own values, so his time with Stanley made things that much easier for him. However, when Mark was transferred in, things changed. Stanley and Mark quickly bonded, and Stanley was more focused on his new buddy. Stanley could tell that AJ was becoming jealous as he would often bring up Mark and want to know more about him, but Stanley respected Mark. Stanley was not the easiest person to get along with, but he’d found a new confidant and didn’t want to ruin that by failing to protect Mark’s privacy. It wasn’t long before Mark and Stanley were scheduling their own meetings and laying out their plans for their assignment. While AJ was better at keeping Stanley focused on the task at hand, Mark’s hands-off approach had given Stanley a freedom he had never known. Heading out of the Charleston, West Virginia, library into the early evening, Stanley feels nervous and excited as he walks between the pillars, acting as if they were metal detectors. It’s nice out: warm with a gentle breeze. Walking over to that place Sam’s that Mark mentioned, Stanley finds noticeably less exciting. It certainly isn’t New York, Stanley thinks as he crosses the street But Mark is not at Sam’s Uptown Café. When Mark finally gets out of the Subaru, he walks over to Joseph’s house, which is just fifty feet away. Hoping Joseph still lives there, Mark feels hesitant

as he gets closer. Will Joseph even want to see him now? The last time they’d seen each other had been awful. It was a moment branded into Mark’s brain like it had happened yesterday, and he could still feel Joseph’s piercing eyes on him as he had walked away. “Why am I even bothering?” Mark asks himself as he turns on one foot. The last thing he’d said to Mark was, “Salvation is a gift that only God can give.” Those words have stuck with Mark, but there is something about the “only God can give” part that he can’t agree with. Mark is not a believer or disbeliever. While his dad had given him rules in line with those set out in the Bible, he had never associated them with the Bible, and had never made Mark read or study to be a Christian in the way his father had (which was another issue with Mark’s grandparents). Perhaps the past year has cleared the air, Mark thinks to himself. But part of him believes this is unlikely, and that a brick wall is ahead of him. Pivoting, he is stuck. He re that last moment in court, surrounded by the chaos of people in the final hearing. It had been a strange time for both of them. And Joseph had never reached out to Mark afterward, although he rarely had reached out over the years so this was not so different. Slowly, carefully, Mark approaches the simple bungalow-style cottage, walking across the stone path between the wild grass. He takes one step at a time up to the door as his chest grows tight. He’s worried he will be recognized; he is on assignment and this is not part of the plan. But he can’t help himself; he’ll never have the chance again. At the front door Mark knocks before he can change his mind. He’s not sure what will happen but doesn’t think there will be any harm in talking. As he waits, he wonders what he might say to Joseph and what Joseph might say to him. The wait drags on as the door doesn’t open. Mark looks in the windows near the door for signs of life inside. A thin white curtain is draped shut but the outline of the room is visible as the sun shone through. It looks like Mark re it, the same-sized sofa in the same position, the shelf in the corner (filled with books about being a good Jehovah’s Witness), and on the porch there is a familiar worn down “God be with ye” doormat. At a second glance, Mark realizes Joseph must still live here. A few minutes and it’s clear that Joseph is not home. Perhaps he finally decided to do something new, Mark thinks as he

heads back down the small steps. “They’re out of town,” a female voice says, startling Mark who had thought he was alone. Turning to face the mature woman behind him, Mark forces a smile to look less out of place. This doesn’t quite work and the woman, who is clearly the neighbor based on the open hanging front door in the distance behind her, eyes Mark up and down suspiciously. Mark drops the awkward smile, flashes his badge, and replies, “I had a feeling he might be.” “Do you need something?” asks the clearly nosy neighbor. Mark quickly says, “No, but thank you. That’s a lovely scarf you’re wearing,” he adds. “Anyhow, I must be going.” He walks as fast as possible toward the Subaru. The neighbor says, “Oh, thank you” and she looks up from iring her own scarf to see Mark driving away. Heading back inside her house she watches as the car speeds down the road and veers around a corner. “Very strange,” says the neighbor to her husband as she walks into her living room. Her husband is sitting in a chair in the corner of the room with a newspaper and pen in hand. “What is it now?” he asks, his eyes darting around the Sudoku in front of him. “A man was knocking at Joseph’s door; he seemed very anxious,” the neighbor says, standing by the window and peering out of the curtains. “He had a badge. I wonder what Joseph has done?” she adds, thoughtfully, “And he looked familiar.” Placing his newspaper in his lap the husband looks up at his wife. “What did he look like?” he asks, now intrigued. Perching herself on the edge of the couch beside her husband. “He was huge! Looked like he could crush someone with his pinkie.” The husband exhales slightly. “Hmm, that sounds like Joseph’s brother,” he says,

pausing as he thinks. “But that doesn’t make sense.” “I can’t him. Anyhow this man drove out in a blue Jeep-looking car.” “Well, that settles that; Joseph’s brother is a Ford-truck guy,” her husband says, ending the conversation as he picks up his newspaper and goes back to his Sudoku. The female neighbor walks into her kitchen, unconvinced but accepting her husband’s conclusions. For now. Parking the Subaru around the corner from Sam’s, Mark begins to worry as he heads into the bar and walks up to Stanley who is on a barstool with a book in one hand and a drink in the other. “Where have you been?” Stanley asks, looking a little tipsy already. Mark thinks Stanley’s a lightweight when it comes to drinking. Sitting down, Mark starts rambling quietly to himself, but loud enough that Stanley can hear him. “I’m so stupid. What if they recognized me? What if they noted the license plate number? What if they call Joseph?” Stanley swivels to Mark, “Who are you talking about, and what do we need to do? Do we need to go and shut some people up?” he says, trying to imitate the straight-faced look Mark has in serious moments but failing to cover an air of excitement. “No, no! Nothing, we do nothing,” Mark states firmly. “I’m just thinking aloud,” Mark lies. He gets the bartender’s attention with his right hand—signaling for a beer—and Stanley, shrugging, goes back to reading Flat Stanley. As Mark’s heart begins to settle, he wonders what the neighbor meant when she said “they.” In the thirteen years he has known Joseph there had never been a “they,” it was always just him. Mark has a feeling she meant other Jehovah’s Witnesses. Shaking the moment out of his head he looks at Stanley and his book. “Where did you get that?” he asks. “From the library. What did you think? That the bar has a selection of classics next to the menus?” Stanley says, rolling his eyes.

He pulls the book from Stanley. “You mean you stole it?” he asks, annoyed. Stanley lightly nods his head and pulls the book back. Mark pulls the book from Stanley again. “We’re supposed to be under the radar and you did petty theft?” Stanley yanks the book back, but Mark’s grip is too tight. “First of all, it’s ‘committed’ petty theft, not ‘did petty theft’ and secondly, didn’t you just confess to almost getting caught by someone?” Stanley asks smugly. Mark’s grip loosens and Stanley is able to pull the book back. “I didn’t,” he says defensively. Stanley just looks at him in disbelief. After all, Mark’s not a great conversationalist and usually puts his foot in his own mouth. Mark takes a sip of his beer. “Seriously, I didn’t,” Mark insists. Turning to Stanley he adds, “I got the information I needed, complimented her, and drove away.” Stanley looks at Mark with a small smile of pride “Well done. I’ve taught you well.” Stanley pauses. “Although, it’s easier with a woman, because they love attention. Was she a little honey?” Stanley asks, cracking his knuckles while raising an eyebrow. “No, jeez, Stanley, calm down.” Mark knocks Stanley’s leg with his. “I was looking for my brother if you really want to know. He lives here.” Stanley looks upset. “When were you going to tell me? I didn’t know you had a brother.” “Half-brother. You didn’t need to know; it’s not relevant to our assignment,” Mark explains. Stanley clearly looks hurt, for he starts to frown. He shrugs his shoulders and pushes Flat Stanley away from him. Mark can see that Stanley isn’t happy, but doesn’t know what to say. “I just thought it might be a good idea to check in,” Mark begins.

Stanley is silent, which isn’t good for Mark who tends to fill the silence once he has started talking. “I know it’s not exactly part of the plan, but it’s on our route and just made sense to have a known pit stop along the way,” Mark continues. Stanley remains silent. “We will be on our way soon, so, it’s all good,” Mark says. “Was he there?” Stanley asks stiffly. Mark breathes out as Stanley breaks the silence. Mark shakes his head. “No,” he says, sounding disappointed. Stanley hops off the bar stool, putting the book into one of his many jacket pockets. “Great, that means we have a place to crash!” he says, downing the last of his beer before walking out. Mark is, at first, confused. He almost falls off his barstool as he tries to get up to leave, but at the door two men block his exit, arms folded. Mark tries to walk around them. The bartender calls out after Mark, “Trying to skip the bill?” he says. Mark turns, his badge showing, “I’m sorry, my partner rushed out, I was just trying to catch him.” Mark tries to explain as he takes out a twenty dollar bill and tries to hand it to the bartender. “That’s fine, officer. Wait. Do I know you?” the bartender says. Mark pauses, hands over the twenty and says, “No. The beers were great, keep the rest.” The bartender looks at the back of Mark’s head as he leaves, then gets the change, shrugs, and puts it in his tip jar. Outside the bar, Stanley is smoking a cigarette on the street corner. “What took you so long? Is your replacement hip not doing the job?” he jokes.

Mark flares his nostrils as he walks up to Stanley and flicks the cigarette from Stanley’s lips. Stanley waves away the floating ash before he sees the butt burning into his shoe. He kicks it off and stomps it out. A few moments later, after checking that nothing else is burning, Stanley says, “Calm down, you hideously angry giant. Whatever happened to the BFG? I thought Big Friendly Giants were supposed to be friendly!” Mark doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks over to the Subaru, gets in, and turns on the engine. Stanley quickly follows him and hops into the enger’s seat. “Off to your brother’s we go!” he says with anticipation as he straps the seat belt in. Mark turns to Stanley, his hand on the emergency brake, “You actually want to stay there?” Stanley responds, “Well, why not? He’s not there. Why not take advantage of a bed for the night” Mark realizes that Stanley is making a valid point. They’d already had one awful night’s sleep in the Subaru at an interstate rest stop and Mark is truly exhausted. Knowing they had a long way to go, he decides to agree with Stanley, which is something that doesn’t often occur. Mark knows his agreement will delight Stanley, so he just nods to avoid discussion. Stanley, grinning from ear to ear, puts the radio on and they drove the short distance to his brother’s house. As they get closer Mark is definitely looking forward to a real bed. He feels much older than Stanley in certain moments, and this is one of them. His body is sore and aches like a receiver who had just caught the over the middle only to be leveled by a linebacker and pressed deep into the ground. To be honest, pain from football is what he wishes he was feeling. He missed that wonderfully agonizing pain associated with a great win, the bruises like warrior wounds, and the camaraderie from shared ailments. Mark didn’t have this in common with Stanley; Stanley never seemed to physically feel anything at all, or at least he’d never shared it with him. Waiting until late, in order to by the nosy neighbor, they park the Subaru a few blocks away. Mark takes his string bag with him, concealing his weapon inside it. Stanley has his gun in his left jacket pocket, next to a half-empty packet

of gum, and his duffel is in his right hand. After some muffled debate, they approach the house furthest away from the neighbor. Stanley smokes a cigarette as they slowly walk through some trees behind the cottage, trying to be careful to not make much noise on this quiet suburban street. Fallen branches snap and crunch under their feet, noises as sudden as someone trying to be quiet in the morning and then turning on a hairdryer. They quickly pick up their pace and get to the porch. Stanley takes a look around, and heads out of sight. Mark starts to shuffle his feet as he waits further away, having been informed by Stanley that he wasn’t the most inconspicuous of persons. He hears a bang and clang; Mark’s chest tightens, and he holds his breath as someone across the road places a trash bag at the end of the sidewalk. Eyes widening, he notices trash bags in front of all the houses, except from the nosy neighbors. He begins to flap his hands in the air to try to get Stanley’s attention, but Stanley can’t see him. Panic dawns as Mark hears the looming footsteps of a woman and a sharply toned “Can I help you?” Mark looks behind, but sees no one. He shuffles his feet from side to side, holding his right thigh with his hand. Come on, Stanley, hurry up, he thinks to himself. The seconds drag on; then Mark sees a light-colored rock that seems to be floating in the dark. Shortly behind it is Stanley, who is holding it in the palm of his hand. “Would you believe that anyone thinks this is a good key hiding spot anymore? Morons!” he whispers loudly with a smile of victory. Mark puts his finger to his lips, looking left and right he quickly scurries up the steps and through the back door that Stanley is holding open. In the kitchen, Mark closes an open curtain in the kitchen at the back of the house, as Stanley turns on a light. “Turn that off now!” Mark whispers, wanting to yell. Stanley flicks the switch back and the room goes dark, “I don’t get what the big deal is.” Stanley says at normal volume. “The big deal is that the neighbor I met knows my brother is out of town and will probably find it strange to see a light on when no one is here!” Mark exclaims, whispering as loudly as Stanley speaks.

Stanley shrugs, disinterested. He takes off his jacket, pulls out a chair in the kitchen, and drops the jacket on it as he walks through to the living room. He slumps back onto a sofa, casually putting his feet up and turning the TV on. Mark picks up Stanley’s jacket, and moves the chair carefully back into its original place. Flustered, he walks over to Stanley to again insist he be quiet by picking up the remote and lowering the volume. “No one is supposed to be here,” he emphasizes, gesturing to the television and Stanley’s overly-relaxed demeanor. “Yes, I know,” Stanley states, tapping the empty space on the sofa beside him. “But, we are and I don’t intend on tiptoeing around for the night. We can clean up tomorrow if you insist,” he says with a grin. Mark sits down on the couch. Exhaustion is like a wave that rushes over him as he feels the heavy weight of his legs lighten. Kicking off his shoes, he feels his feet breathe for the first time in over thirty-six hours. His back sinks into the soft cushion behind him and it forms around him like memory foam. Stretching his arms back he closes his eyes as his back cracks, freeing a muscle cramp he had gotten from the drive. He couldn’t it it, but Stanley was right; they needed a break.

“Drawing has helped Bill’s aggression, but he needs to move past his old life, accepting the one he is in now just as it is.”


It takes just a minute before Mark is out like a light. And once Mark has flopped over and taken the sofa as his own, Stanley decides to take a look around. Stanley lights up a cigarette and wanders as quietly as he can around Joseph’s house. The place is unlike anything he’d expected from a Jehovah’s Witness. It wasn’t plain in the slightest; instead it’s full of personality and bold paintings. Not those classically stereotypical ones that everyone has: truly diverse pieces—

one unmistakably a Mark original. It’s a simple drawing of a man; at first it looked like a self-portrait to him, but the image is too vague to be certain. The furniture is comfortable, Stanley thinks as he tests another chair in the living-room corner. Different, but comfortable. To the left of it stands a solid wooden shelf; the high shelves are filled with books on travel and culture, while on the lower shelves books about being a Jehovah’s Witness are squeezed in together, almost bursting from the shelves, with more piled up against between the chair and the shelf. In the kitchen, Stanley examines the table, which is beautifully carved, and has a cute combination of similar but mix-and-match chairs carefully covered with seat cushions in a range of colors. Stanley begins to rummage through the hall closets. On the top shelf of one he finds a dusty record player. Curious to see if there are any records to play, he continues looking around. On one chest are some family photos; as he picks up a frame to examine one more closely, he thinks Joseph’s face looks more mature than he’d imagined. Joseph’s blue eyes looked sharp and controlled. Next to him in the picture is a taller woman, who had piercing green eyes and a warming smile, and two little girls stood in front of them in matching tee shirts. Stanley thinks of his own sister—well, his half-sister. He can’t how long it’s been since he’s seen her: at least a decade. Seeing his own reflection in the glass of the frame, Stanley can’t believe or accept how long it’d been since he’s even spoken to his sister. Feeling uncomfortable, Stanley puts that picture frame down and moves on to another. The next one includes a photo of a stiff-looking older couple. The man is much older than the woman, who—straight-faced—is standing by his side. The woman had positioned herself away from the man, who had one hand strongly on her shoulder. “That’s my mom,” says Mark from behind, while taking his cigarette and causing Stanley to jump. The tobacco smell had woken Mark, so he’d gotten up from the couch, leaving a large imprint behind. “I’ve never met her… but I don’t think she was a happy person,” Mark says softly. Mark looks away from the photo and picks up the one of Joseph and a pregnant woman. “I miss you,” he says to the photo.

Stanley looks confused and states, “I’m right here,” before laughing at Mark. “No, not you. I’m talking to the photo,” Mark says, tapping the frame. “Oh. Well, your brother will be back at some point.” Stanley replies. “No!” exclaims Mark in frustration as he looks back at the photo. “I’m talking about her,” he explains, pointing at the photo. “My wife, Lizzie.” Stanley grabs the photo from Mark to take a look. “Your wife?” he asks. “She’s hot!” Stanley says, cracking his neck. Mark looks at him with annoyance. “Relax.” Mark went on looking at other photos. “That’s her.” He says with a mix of warmth and sadness. “She’s standing with Joseph down by Summersville Lake. It’s not too far from here,” he adds, looking up while thinking. “This isn’t that old,” Stanley says looking at the photo. “It wasn’t. In fact, it was around this time around four years ago.” “Why aren’t you in the photo? And who are the kids? Are they yours too?” asks Stanley. “Yes, they’re mine,” he says hesitantly. “I don’t know… I must have taken it,” Mark adds as he looks around the room. It was nothing like it had been last time he was here. The bright colors in the accents on the furniture, the vivid paintings, the books on the shelves. It all felt familiar, but it didn’t feel like Joseph. It had a woman’s touch. He feels like he is looking into Joseph’s future, but he only knows his past. Stanley turns the frame around, taking the glass out to look more closely at the picture, which is bent on one side. Carefully he unfolds it to reveal a man who stood on the other side of the woman, holding a fishing pole. It was Mark with a neat hair cut and beaming smile. A smile Stanley hadn’t ever seen on him before. “Mark, it’s you,” he says. Mark walks over and looks more closely, freezing as he recalls the memory. The photograph was taken during one of Mark’s wife’s attempts to get Joseph to

bond more closely with the family before his son Jack was born. Lizzie had planned that they all go on a drive outside of Charleston, West Virginia, thinking that the change of scenery would be good for both Mark and Joseph. Their first day camping had been miserable and cloudy; Mark had instantly regretted the decision to come, and the twins were complaining to high heaven. But, positive as always, Mark’s wife kept up their morale and the next day they all woke up to the most perfect morning. It was sunny and warm, with a slight breeze. She had gotten up early to set up some folding chairs with a view of the water, along with a picnic blanket and assortment of bread, spreads, and juice. By the time Mark was up and had gotten out of his tent, Joseph, the girls, and his wife were in high spirits. It was more than Mark could have hoped for and it was all because of Lizzie. Later that day Mark led them all on a mini-fishing expedition, and even the twins were excited to in—which made Mark buzz with excitement. Mark’s daughter Laura, the elder of the two by minutes, was the first whose line started to wiggle. Soon after, so did Mark’s. Helen had given up and was waving her fishing pole around like a wand, pretending to turn herself into Cinderella. Joseph too had walked away to talk to Mark’s wife, leaving his pole propped up against a rock. Mark felt the tug increase; he was ready to battle his fish, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Laura being pulled as her pole went wild. He left his own, although he knew from experience that this was going to be a big one. But Laura was struggling, so Mark paused and then dropped his dad’s fishing pole which was quickly sucked under the water and gone from sight. Together Laura and Mark wrestled against the fish. Mark kept the pole and Laura steady and she reeled it in. Mark’s wife had jumped up, camera at the ready. Suddenly, there was a “‘splash, plop, swoop” and the fish practically flew out of the water onto the ground in front of Helen—who squealed in surprise. Everyone burst out laughing except for Helen, who was not amused. Mark was beaming with pride when he saw the expression on Laura’s face. After a few photos Laura carefully released her fish back into the lake. Later that afternoon, before they packed up, Mark’s wife asked a er-by to take this photo of them to capture that day. Mark looks at the fold in the picture, bending it this way and that, so he was hidden and then back in sight. He feels a sharp pain in his chest. Then Mark grabs the side of the chest the picture frame was on to himself, letting the frame go. The glass shatters and scatters across the floor. Stanley goes to Mark, but Mark pushes him away, insisting he’s fine as

he goes back to the couch. He doesn’t feel like himself, and he doesn’t recognize the man he saw in the photograph. He wants to cry. The noise of the TV goes weird and sexual. He turns to see Stanley is watching a provocative music video, rocking from side to side. Mark looks over. “Turn that down. What are you doing?” he asks. Stanley smiles, “Enjoying myself while I can!” he says, looking at the halfnaked dancers backing the singer. “Do people even like this music? Or is it just for the guys to watch the women… I’m guessing the latter,” he says, moving along to music. Mark leans back into the couch, stretching out his arms along the back and watching with Stanley while the on-screen rapper throws money. Then Mark looks over at his string bag, and wishes some of those music video banknotes would make it inside since their resources are already running low and they have a long way to go. As Stanley continues to enjoy endless music videos, Mark looks around, taking in Joseph’s place. It feels strange; it doesn’t make him think of Joseph at all. He knew that he himself had changed a lot in the past few years, but Joseph was different: he was reserved in his ways from his religion. It was hard to believe that something—or rather someone—had led him away from his calling. As Mark relaxes he sees Stanley start to walk around like he owns the place. His partner makes sandwiches for the two of them, and gets some blankets, and then starts rummaging around—looking for some liquor. “You’re not going to find any booze,” Mark insists. But, to his surprise and Stanley’s delight, ten minutes later he uncovers a bottle of still-gift-wrapped wine (clearly a badly chosen gift) and a bottle of concealed unnamed hard liquor that had been hiding with the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. After a large glass of the mystery booze Mark drifts off, and that night was the first in many that he did not have to struggle to fall asleep.

Day 3

9:00 AM—Charleston, West Virginia

That next morning Mark wakes up on the couch covered by a blanket. He feels refreshed; his muscles are relaxed. Getting up, he looks around but he can’t see Stanley. After a while he hears the sound of running water and walks upstairs. In a bedroom the sheets are sprawled, and Stanley’s duffel is at the foot of the bed. Mark can hear singing from inside the bathroom. Stanley, with his amazing memory, was rapping songs that he’d heard for the first time yesterday. Mark knocks on the door and promptly the performance halts. “Yes, can I help you?” says Stanley’s muffled voice through a stream of water. “We should get going,” Mark says. The water stops and a few moments later Stanley appears, one towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hair. As he uses a Q-tip to clean his ears, he mumbles, “Okay, I’ll be ready in five.” Mark looks Stanley up and down, not quite believing what he is seeing. “Excuse me, if you want a show you have to pay. And believe me, honey, I’m not cheap.” Stanley says smugly. Mark leaves the bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind him while Stanley rants on behind it. He heads downstairs and waits until he, too, can have a shower. When he gets out of the bathroom and comes downstairs, he’s ready to yell at Stanley who’d put on Mark’s football hoodie and left Mark with Stanley’s much smaller sweater which was too tight. However, when he gets into the kitchen Stanley is already making them breakfast, which was an assortment of breads and some spreads like peanut

butter and cream cheese. Mark’s smile made Stanley smile back as he leaned over to pour Mark a fresh cup of coffee. The food is edible, but not great. The bread is a bit moldy and the spreads are questionable: the cream cheese is runny and has a pink tinge, and the jam is runny and has mold spots. However, the coffee is great, absolute rocket fuel, and after one cup Mark feels like he could score a touchdown. There’s something about Stanley that Mark doesn’t mind; he really hadn’t wanted to team up with him but he wasn’t all bad. In fact, it’s the kindest behavior I’ve ever had from the guy, thinks Mark for a few minutes until he realizes that it would be all on him to clean up not just the kitchen but the entire cottage. Stanley’s hopeless attempts at clean-up were not going to fool anyone. So Mark does his best to cover their tracks, but he isn’t very detailed because he can’t quite what goes where. Eventually, Mark decides it’s good enough, which is necessary since Stanley is becoming restless parked on a chair in the kitchen and is struggling to keep his hands to himself. As they leave via the back door, Mark tries to put the key back in the stone, but his fingers are too big. He hands it over to Stanley and takes a look around. The morning is peaceful and the air is crisp. Mark takes a deep breath in and looks around, wondering what it would be like to live here. To go fishing on the weekends at Paint Creek, to have a beer in Sam’s, to go for a walk and greet his neighbors. For things to be simple, for life to slow down. But this thought is cut short when he sees the nosy neighbor’s husband scurry outside holding his robe shut with one hand and a trash bag in the other. Mark freezes. The neighbor glances over and sees Mark looking at him. Then he drops the bag and rushes back to his house, his robe open as he flaps his arms in the air to beckon his wife, yelling, “Whoever they are, they were in Joseph’s house. Call the cops!” Mark grabs his string bag and Stanley’s arm (he’s bent tying a shoelace), and they make a run for it. He can’t risk losing their cover now. Mark notices that Stanley doesn’t have his duffel, just as Stanley darts back for it… which worries Mark but he can’t stop for him. He’s full steam ahead and nothing’s going to slow him down. Mark is icily calm: all of his training is coming into play. He puts the key into the Subaru, starts the car, and is reversing at speed toward

Stanley—who is now sprinting toward the car. Stanley wrenches open the car’s back door and jumps in. Mark switches gears from reverse to drive; the tires squeal as they jerk forward with Stanley falling on the floor behind his seat. Mark puts his foot down on the gas and they are out of there, the neighbor’s husband a small blur in his side mirror. As they speed away Mark isn’t thinking about the neighbors, although he knows he should. He knows by now they have called the cops, and it’s likely they got a look at his car if not the license plate. If they’d seen the plate number he and Stanley were going to be in for trouble; this trip was supposed to be in stealth. But Mark simply cannot focus on the severity of their fuck-up. Instead, Mark has a ton of thoughts, memories, and questions running through his head. Things he wants to say to Joseph, questions he wants to ask. He wants to hold Laura, he wants to laugh with Helen, he wants to talk with his wife. But he can’t; he’s stuck on this mission with Stanley. So he drives on while they both hear a siren far behind them, receding into the distance. Inside Joseph’s cottage the living room seems clean, and unless you lived there you wouldn’t suspect there’d been a break-in. But Mark and Stanley don’t see— hidden on the floor from the now-glassless photo frame and its picture of Mark, his wife, his brother Joseph, and two daughters—a note that had been stuck in between the picture and the back of the frame. A note that read, "Jehovah I'm trying to do what's right. This feels right, she feels right. I prayed every day for a family and now I have the perfect woman and perfect daughters. I cannot say it in words so please listen to my heart. I am not anxious or fearful, I trust in you to guide me through."

Day 3

2:00 PM—Corbin, Kentucky

A rural town, that’s what Corbin is. With a tiny population and a low-income average, the town would not really be on the map if it wasn’t for one former resident who sold chicken there in his roadside restaurant and made it noteworthy. “It’s not New York,” Stanley says with a look of disappointment as it becomes evident that this town doesn’t have much more to offer. As Mark drives through the small Kentucky town, he’s salivating. For the past thirty minutes Stanley has been telling him the life story of Colonel Sanders. Mark had been about to cut him off but as the story went on Mark felt inspired. Mark had never experienced struggles like Sanders had, but Sanders had gotten up time and time again. From the army to laborer, law to insurance, ferries to lamps, chicken recipes to deadly shoot-outs… the guy had faced it all and come back from not just the brink of defeat but defeat itself and yet it hadn’t stopped him. However, it has been five hours since Mark has eaten, and once Stanley had explained who the “Chicken Guy” was, Mark has had nothing more than food on his mind. When they finally sit down in a KFC, Stanley dives straight into a bucket of extra crispy chicken, while Mark goes for his favorite meal—a chicken sandwich with a side of mac and cheese. Stanley makes a mix of awkward smacking noises as he eats. “I can’t decide between this Finger Lickin’ Good sauce or the buttermilk ranch… it’s got to be both. Try it,” Stanley insists as he tosses a sauce-covered wing into Mark’s macaroni.

But Mark doesn’t really notice. He’s very happily focused as he digs into his chicken sandwich: the way it looks, the taste of each bite, the taste of the bread, the chew of the meat… Mark is delighted. Once he finishes off his own meal with ease, he digs into the leftovers of Stanley’s bucket. Mark is like a machine that has, up until recently, been on restricted fuel. And, now that he’s able to eat what he wants, he goes for it. In fact, Mark is usually a meal planner: he is a strict three-meals-a-day kind of guy, but when that meal comes around, he is always ready to consume. And right now he is consuming the rest of the bucket of chicken. Stanley stares at him. Mark could really put it away! Not like Stanley; he has this thing about never feeling hungry, so whether it’s candy or chicken he always eats a bit. He just grazes continuously, never gaining any weight. Thinking aloud, Mark takes a brief moment to stop eating. “We need to ditch the Subaru, somewhere. In case they caught the plate number.” Then Mark nods to himself before he starts on another wing. “Where do you want to do that?” Stanley asks him, interested. Mark stops chewing and looks up. “Hm. I was thinking we could get someone’s keys at a bar, where they won’t suspect us.” “You—you stealing now? What’s next, Mark, murder?” Stanley replies laughing. The absolute freedom of their mission is rushing to his head but he’s envisioning himself as a Marvel-style vigilante, while Mark is just a guy who just likes order. With each bite Mark feels more pleased with the route they’ve found themselves on, although that pleasant silence is always interrupted by yet another recitation of facts that his partner has read somewhere. “Did you know that Kentucky is one of four states that calls itself a commonwealth? The others being Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Virginia.” Stanley tells him the second Mark seems to be done with the chicken. Mark, still chewing, nods. “It’s cool that we drove through all of it,” Mark agrees with his mouth still full before he swallows. A larger-than-life grin crosses Stanley’s face as he opens his mouth, “You might think so!” he pauses for effect, “but, no, not really. Unless you consider that

1776 was when Virginia became a commonwealth; I suppose you could sort of say we went through Virginia, since West Virginia only broke away during the Civil War in the 1860s. However, I doubt that was what you meant,” adds Stanley with a smug look on his face. Mark shoves a few napkins into his pocket and sits in the Corbin Kentucky KFC, trapped, as Stanley goes on for another thirty minutes about the history of the Commonwealth states. It’s like a narrative Mark can’t escape: from the KFC bathroom, to the Colonel Sanders gift store, to the photos Stanley takes with his camera both outside and inside of their car. It’s only when they drive west through Daniel Boone National Forest that Stanley finally shuts up, and Mark can exhale. Stanley wipes his mouth on his sleeve and winds down the window, the fresh pine-scented air rushing through his sandy hair. Mark relaxes into the leather seat as he feels an unmistakable stomach rumble. “Do you know why West Virginia and Virginia separated?” queries Stanley. Mark, who is by this point fed up with Stanley, feels like he is on a quiz show and this was the one question he may actually have a shot at answering correctly after having listened to his granddad. Taking his time, Mark has a think before he says, “Um, well, basically like any other case they wanted independence.” “Independence from what? I’m most intrigued; why do you think they wanted that?” Stanley asks, needling Mark. “Well, obviously the war was about slavery,” Mark begins. “So, those in West Virginia who wanted to human rights broke away from the more coastal areas of Virginia that had turned to slavery in farming and to manufacturing.” Coming up with this answer out of thin air, Mark thinks it sounds pretty solid, for about three seconds… … until Stanley shrugs. Mark sighs. “If you knew the answer, then why did you fucking ask me?” “Calm down, Chicken Little!” Stanley warns him, looking at Mark’s flushed face.

They drive on for a while in silence. Then Mark asks him, “Well, was I right?” He’s curious to know if he’d ed something correctly that his granddad had taught him. Stanley shrugs. “What’s that mean?” Mark asks, mimicking the shrug. “I don’t know the answer, actually,” Stanley says while looking out of the window and away from him. “I like to read, but I haven’t read everything,” adds Stanley quietly, feeling a little exposed as he says it. Mark is shocked. “What do you mean you don’t know? You know everything…” He pauses. “Anyhow, I’m glad if West Virginia formed that way, since my family is partly from there and I’m proud if we stood against slavery,” Mark says, blushing. The rumbling in his gut repeats. Sweat begins to trickle down his face. Suddenly, he swings the steering wheel to pull them into a rest area. “I know, I know,” Stanley says while looking down, “I should know it,” he adds, ashamed. Mark isn’t listening; he has other problems. He has to rush out of the car and behind a tree since he feels explosive stomach pains as the chicken is rushing through him. Once his painful diarrhea has ed, he realizes he’s stuck in that position without any toilet paper at all. Back in the car Stanley is still sitting, talking to himself. “You idiot, it’s our past, my past, everything…” Then Mark hears the car radio go on, playing an Elvis classic, and instead of hearing his call for some napkins or tissues. Stanley was taken away by the music. Stanley finds it hard to keep his attention focused on anything other than reading. He is constantly thinking and analyzing things at warp speed. Sometimes he can mentally suffocate himself with his own thoughts. What calms him is knowledge and understanding, because he was struggling to understand himself. When he was a child there was nothing he could do that would get him the same attention from his mom that his half-sister got, and he thought it was because he did not know enough. In the meantime, stuck behind his tree, Mark pulls out the few KFC napkins he

has in his pocket, although these just spread things around. He looks around for what else can be had. Hm. This was Stanley’s sweater, after all… The guy wearing Mark’s hoodie, who owns the sweater, is rocking to the music, doing little arm twists and turns as he sits in the enger’s seat, oblivious. And then, from the distance a stranger walks their way, probably to his car from the men’s room that had been too far for Mark to make it to. Stanley bursts into laughter at Mark’s disheveled appearance, not yet noticing that his too-tight sweater is now sleeveless. Mark’s muscular arms and red eyes make him look like a serious fuck-boy who was on his way to a club and had just taken a hit. Stepping into the car, he aims his right hand at Stanley in a “stop” gesture, as he does not want any smart-ass commentary right now. Shifting in his seat, Mark then adjusts himself to minimize the pain he still feels… below. They drive on in silence, except for the radio, for roughly forty-five seconds before Mark starts to hum along to “Hound Dog.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see Stanley spasm as he laughs silently. Mark looks in the mirror and adjusts it so he can see most of his body in the reflection: the floppy hair, the ridiculous sleeves, his nipples showing through the tight top and just shrugs and lets it go. He jumps into action as the “King” and owns it as he sings along to the music, with Stanley in full laughing .

“I believe that Francis will hold on to Bill, but what will happen if Bill is no longer around? What if he has no choice but to be alone again. Is there a danger of his past self surfacing?”


As the scenic route falls away the road starts to feel longer again. The view is now standard interstate: the backdrop is similar, the motion of the wheels on the tarmac is constant, and the engine runs on automatically.

Mark rests his hands at seven and five on the wheel and lets the road run beneath him. Driving on autopilot as the miles fly by, he doesn’t even notice as they creep closer and closer north toward the Ohio border. He only realizes when Stanley points out that the sign for Cincinnati would not pop up if they were going south. Mark quickly takes the next exit without thinking. As he tries to get back on the interstate and head south he notices construction is blocking the way and he has to take a detour. A missed turn later and they find themselves drifting further and further away from where they want to be; the road becomes more bare and the surroundings more sparse. Mark’s irritation grows; he’s tired, he feels dizzy, his stomach is tight and now his right foot is beginning to cramp up. A knot is developing in his arch that he can’t stretch out. “I am done driving this car,” Mark states loudly, surprising Stanley who lets off a live round out of the gun he’s spinning on his finger out of boredom. The bullet flies past Mark’s ear and into the roof of the car, causing Mark to swerve and the car to spin out of control as the noise rings like a gong against his right eardrum. “Fuck!” Mark yells as his head begins to pulse. Mark can’t tell where the road is; everything becomes a blur. Eventually, when they come to a stop at the side of the road, the engine stops. Stanley is holding onto the dashboard with his right hand, gun in his left. “We’re fine!” Stanley exclaims. “Things could be worse,” he adds just as the wheels of the car begin to roll them backwards and into a ditch, popping both back tires. The sun is setting as the two of them make their way by foot along the road. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be able to hitchhike on this sparsely-traveled road: attempts failed time and time again. But what did that matter, who on earth would want to pick up two men in the dark—one with huge arms, crazy hair, and a crusty blood on his ear, the other in a muddied Patriots top? It’s muddied because Mark shoved Stanley into the ditch after Stanley—in an effort to defend himself—said that the gun went off because he needed to practice his weapons skills for every eventuality, so Mark decided to promptly make him defend himself. Needless to say, Stanley was caught off-guard. Hence, the mud. About a mile after sunset they came to a bar somewhere in Kentucky.

A month ago


It’s a location twenty-five miles from Boston and about a million miles from normality. Welcome to The Bridgewater State Hospital with its bright blue sign shining at the entrance as the sun shines on another beautiful summer’s day. Psychiatrist Arnold Joseph walks down a corridor to his office. The sparkling bronze tile floor beneath his feet, he smiles at a security officer as he takes a right turn through a security door. The glossy white walls stand out against the silver-grey shaded doors. Inside his office Arnold takes a seat in his worn-in leather chair. In front of him is a neat wooden desk, and he powers up his classic Windows computer as he prepares to update his patient files after an unusual in-cell meeting. He thinks as he waits for the computer to boot, holding a pen in his hand, musing on how the conversation went. For this particular patient, Arnold had begun to keep some hand-written notes, as well.

Bill had more frequent lapses in concentration, with increased tendencies to slip away from a situation when his stress levels rise. A technique we practice is dayto-day reminders of reality to reinforce what’s there and what’s not.

Lifting his pen just millimeters from the page he moves it about between his fingers before scratching out his observations. He’s writing his patient’s computerized Subjective Objective Assessment Plan of Action (SOAP) notes, which include the subjective s from the patient, the objective opinions of the physician, plus an assessment and plan of action.

08/06/2018

Patient: 527/890

S: William Ledger states his sleeping has become less erratic and his headaches are no longer a cause for concern. He also emphasized his disgust at the yellow color of cell walls and asked if his Birthday wish could be to select another color. Usual complaints about the meals, but he is not having any eating issues. O: He appears aware as reported before, though his state of consciousness lapses when specific topics are brought up. Mood and attitude remain aggressive, but far more calm than previous meetings (he seems to be adjusting to his environment). In the last 12 months his speech has changed from polite to rude, having picked up using profanity. His judgement is more hands-on; he seems to almost have to mentally hold himself back. His size and strength have reduced; however, he is still frightening to some staff. He has stopped talking about his family.

A: I believe his thought process has been changed by incremental increases in his medication. The effects have been beneficial to those around him. However, I think that we need to pay extra attention to the effects on William Ledger. His behavior is more hidden and reserved, with sudden bursts of insight. He indeed does eat well, sleep well and defecate without an issue. There is a concern as to the way he has become robotically compliant. P: The changes in emotional and physical responses are enough to draw concern on the quantity of medication William Ledger is on—believe this may be causing him to dull his emotions. Last month’s increased strength pills are to be reviewed immediately. It appears additional doses of sedatives are being used to calm William when staff become overwhelmed with patient management. A change in medication will take place at the end of this month’s cycle, during which time I will review the dose in preparation for the change. I do not believe that the calming effect of the pill reported by the guards outweighs the almost extreme physiological transformation. Following this, William Ledger is showing zero signs of psychiatric help and should be able to shortly progress out of the system and into a mainstream prison population for the remainder of his sentence.

Arnold enters the details, briefly rereads, and clicks save.

Day 4

5:15 AM—Cumberland River, Tennessee

The twilight shines as they cross another mile to complete three hundred solid miles of driving since that morning. Stanley had insisted they cross state lines before they rested, which Mark agreed to. He needs the time to think about what had happened. But now they have money, they have a mission, and there is no going back. This journey is asking a lot of Mark, but he feels somewhat better now that they have more cash. And, he reflects, as much as he sometimes feels Stanley can be careless, those little moments of random fun that Stanley provides are providing brief moments that uplift Mark from his terrible circumstances. As they the “Tennessee—The Volunteer State welcomes you” sign they both relax. Even Stanley, whose carefree attitude has worried Mark since their escape in Charleston, West Virginia, understands now that blood has been spilled, it isn’t going to be easy. Just a few miles into Tennessee they head toward the Cumberland River, where they plan to dump the car. They aren’t sure how they are going to get around but know that this is their best bet to keep on going. As they approach a quiet rocky clearing, they find the best slope that runs into the river. Stanley gathers all the snacks and shoves some into his mouth and the rest into his jacket pockets, while Mark positions the car, putting the hand brake on. Mark makes sure he has his weapon and badge in his string bag, placing it to the side. Then grabs the two bags of cash which he tosses out of the way. “Get some rocks,” Mark orders. “Why?” asks Stanley while munching on some jerky.

“To help weigh down the car,” Mark explains. “Once the car fills with water and the air is out it won’t float up; it’s a metal structure,” Stanley argues. “Better safe than sorry,” Mark says as he begins to gather some rocks on his own. Stanley shakes his head at Mark’s obtuseness. Leaning up against a tree, he enjoys more snacks and just waits as Mark prepares the car. Mark checks the front and back seats before placing a slab of rock on the gas pedal, thinking this will help move the car further into the water, which amuses Stanley even more. Mark releases the emergency brake and pushes the car from behind, as low and hard as he can. “Ass to the grass!” Stanley yells in encouragement on the sidelines of this event. Once the wheels are moving nicely, Mark prepares for one more deep push and thrusts the car forwards. Stanley watches as the car rapidly heads into the river, and as he hears the entry splash he gets the bags of cash and puts them inside his duffel. Mark rubs his hands together and starts to turn away when he hears a very loud thud. Stopping in mid-step, Mark freezes on the spot. “Did you hear that?” Mark asks, looking around and signaling Stanley to be quiet. As they stand silently, the gurgle of water entering the car grows louder. “You’re just becoming insane, like AJ thought would happen.” Stanley laughs as he continues up the path. Mark frowns at this, grabbing his string pull bag and catching up to Stanley as the car is almost submerged. Thud, thud. Stanley raises his eyebrows, since now he also hears the noise.

“Did you check in the trunk?” Mark asks Stanley, as he runs back to the car. “No, I thought you did that when we tanked!” yells Stanley, also running. “Catch!” Mark yells, tossing his string bag to Stanley. The river is sucking the car in. Mark struggles to feel for the trunk latch as it too disappears. There’s one more thud before the noise stops. Stanley watches with angst, but like he’s only watching a movie, holding some popcorn. “Help me, you fucking idiot!” Mark roars at him, his legs soaked as it stays with the sinking car. Stanley slowly puts his bags down, removing his jacket and placing it on top. He wanders over, picking up a thin sharp rock. “Hurry up; I think someone’s inside the trunk!” Mark insists, using his monstrous strength to pull on the latch to no avail. He moves to the side of the car and attempts to wrench a door open, but it won’t budge. Desperate, he tries to prevent the car from sliding any deeper. His face becomes red with effort as he tenses his whole body, now soaked in the chilling water, but he cannot hold back the two-ton car that’s being pulled into the river. Eventually, at the trunk, Stanley pops his hands under the water, looking up to his left as he concentrates. He maneuvers the sharp piece of the rock until he feels a click and the trunk opens. Stanley feels around for the body he expects inside. There is a pop as a small, motionless body rises to the surface. Stanley stares at it silently. Mark makes his way around to Stanley as quickly as possible; he looks at the ghostly expression on Stanley’s face and with shock at the body. He scoops the child up with one arm, carries it out of the water, and carefully places the head of the delicate and ice-cold little girl down against the ground. “She’s cold from the water, quickly,” Mark says to himself as he begins to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and give her R. But she doesn’t move. He persists; no reaction.

“One, two, three, four,” Mark mumbles as he counts to fifteen before her giving two more breaths. Stanley hasn’t moved from the water; he’s looking out in the murky river as some final air bubbles escape the car as he hears Mark, behind him, try to bring the kid’s body back to life. After two rescue breaths, there is no response, but Mark keeps trying and trying. Suddenly, her eyes flicker and there is a splutter as she coughs up water to the side. Mark takes a moment to check her. “Her vitals seem okay, pulse is rising, and she’s breathing,” he recites as he looks at Stanley. Stanley relaxes his shoulders as he hears the cries of the little girl. Mark falls down beside her on the slope, exhausted. Stanley turns around to see the girl open her green eyes, looking directly at Stanley. She stands, shakily. Stanley goes to get the duffel, and rummages around for some clothes. He picks her up and starts to remove her top. With a face of horror, Mark sits up and grabs the girl away from Stanley. “I was going to change her. She must be freezing,” Stanley says quietly, while handing Mark some dry clothes. Mark relaxes as he realizes Stanley is right, and continues to take her top off, quickly putting one of Stanley’s t-shirts over her instead. It hangs below her knees to the ground, like a dress. He tries to take off her shoes and leggings, but the water has made them tight, so Stanley holds her, being relatively dry, as Mark yanks them off. Stanley sets her down. The girl smiles, clearly far more comfortable as she does a little run around in a circle. Mark is silent after what just happened, seeing the terrified faces of Laura and Helen in his mind’s eye. He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair as he tries to stop seeing blood. The soft touch of the girl’s skin as he pulled the tshirt over her made him ache. It’s too much. Mark gets up and rushes over to some rocks and heaves. Stanley rolls up his knee-high wet jeans. “You okay, buddy?” Stanley asks as he

puts on his jacket and goes to get the girl who is wandering off, dazed and confused. Mark takes his own wet clothes off and changes into a t-shirt. His upper body is cold, his lower body is wet. He puts the torn-sleeve sweater and jeans in the duffel and collects his string pull bag. As Mark gets around a corner the little girl is peeing and Stanley clearly doesn’t know what to do. Stanley looks at Mark, raising his hands in confusion. Mark automatically goes to the girl and uses the wet, torn sweater to clean her up. “Looks like no one likes my sweater,” says Stanley, smiling. Mark holds the sweater, unsure what to do with it. “Can I just leave this here?” asks Mark as he ponders for a moment. “I’d think not; some animal could come and get it and then … what if someone comes and sees the wheel tracks and finds the car?” Stanley thinks aloud. “You’re right; here you go.” Mark says tossing the sweater over to Stanley who catches it unfazed by the pee stain. Mark takes the hand of the little girl who is shivering and starts to walk up the path. A few steps in she falls. She’s clearly weak, so Mark picks her up and hands the duffel to Stanley. “Hee-haw,” says Stanley, mimicking a donkey. Mark frowns at him while holding the girl against his chest, one arm around her, the other ing her as her legs dangle. As they walk back up to the road Mark starts to think about the situation they are finding themselves in. He can’t quite take in all that has happened in the last twelve hours, and now he has this precious life in his arms. The little girl coughs up more water and some vomit onto Mark’s left shoulder. Stanley laughs. “Disgusting. I’d rather carry the pee sweater.” Mark doesn’t care as he shifts her head over to his right shoulder and keeps on

walking. “I’ve seen you do far worse, and she’s only maybe five or six years old,” Mark says to Stanley. Stanley shrugs. The girl leans back and peers up at the brute face of Mark; becoming scared, she weeps, trying to push him away. Mark strokes her hair and he looks down and feels the soft pressure of her hands as she pushes against his chest. She is clearly weak and dehydrated, Mark thinks as he holds her closely. “Don’t be scared, you’re safe with us. We won’t hurt you.” Mark softly says to the little girl, who blinks back at him. Eventually, the little girl wraps her arms around his neck, closing her eyes, her wet blonde hair damp against Mark’s warm chest. Mark looks down at the girl as they get onto the road and start looking for the closest town. “Where did you come from?” he asks aloud to himself. “My guess? Mr. Blue Eyes,” Stanley answers, watching his feet as water squeezes out of his shoes onto the road. The face appears in Mark’s mind, the cold dark eyes, the expression. He feels rage inside him build at the thought of this little girl being trapped in the trunk of that man’s car. Then Mark recalls how Stanley had stomped in that face and this makes him feel a little better. “What?” Stanley asks, catching Mark’s smiling glance. “Nothing,” Mark responds. Now paying attention to Mark, Stanley asks, “What’s wrong with her?” as he looks at how tightly she was attached to Mark. Mark looks with surprise at Stanley. “What’s wrong with her?” Mark repeats as he starts to explain it to Stanley. “Oh, I don’t fucking know. Maybe she was put in the trunk of some guy’s car, which she spent at least what… six hours in, and she almost drowned to death,” Mark ranted, quietly, so as not to disturb the girl. Stanley looks at Mark as he walks on. “Yeah. That makes sense.” Unsure of what to do now, with their plan messed up, they take a moment to sit in silence. Mark lightly rocks the girl as she drifts off to sleep in his lap.

Stanley puts down the bags and takes out a package of Reese’s peanut butter cups from his jacket and hands it over to Mark. Tired, and in need of energy, he thanks Stanley with his eyes and takes the candy. As he opens it and takes a bite for a moment he feels so much better. “Ohhh, yeah,” Stanley says, grinning at Mark. Five minutes later they decide they’ll head south toward a bridge they can see, a bridge which they think will lead to a town. As they walk down the dirt road the sun begins to come the rest of the way up beside them, and the touch of the sun is the welcome of warmth that they are looking for. Mark cannot help but think about what happened to this poor defenseless girl. He wonders who took her and why: did they know her, what were their intentions?

“Bill needs to be carefully taken off his high dosage to reduce physical sideeffects: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, sleeping problems, dizziness, aggressiveness, and potentially life-threatening seizures.”

AJ

He thinks about the trunk, about how long the kid was in there as they drove. “She’s lucky,” Stanley says, seeing Mark’s face change with his thoughts. Stanley didn’t have empathy for everyone, but he did for Mark. Frustrated, Mark says to himself, “And I could have checked the trunk at the gas station, like you said,” “True,” says Stanley. “You could have also picked up a different set of car keys,”

adds Stanley nonchalantly. Mark looks at Stanley, shocked, realizing he’s right. Mark’s look lingers as he protects the small, light-as-a-feather life in his large arms. “Whoever took her is unstable: there is no fucking way she could be the daughter of that gang. No parent could do that to their own flesh and blood,” Mark states. Stanley shrugs. “Yeah, whoever took her is unstable.” “Unstable? No shit, that sicko was unstable!” Mark says a little loudly, with one hand over one of the girl’s ears. Stanley has nothing to say to that. And Mark stops speaking. They walk on in silence as the air begins to heat up. Mark keeps his eyes peeled for a town as he wonders when was the last time the girl had a drink or ate. Ten minutes later Stanley chuckles to himself. Mark looks over but Stanley waves him away. “Nothing,” Stanley says, looking forward at his feet. “Tell me,” Mark insists. Stanley waves him away again. “No. It’s just a silly joke.” Right now Mark is feeling a strange mix of emotions: things from the scene at the bar to reliving rescuing the girl are whirling around inside his head. “Tell me, please. I could do with a bit of fun.” Mark pleads. Stanley walks on quietly for a little distance. “Fine. What do you call a dead baby with a broken jaw?” Mark clenches his jaw as he waits for the punchline. “Deep throat!” says Stanley, sprinting away. Mark shakes his head slowly as he calmly walks on. After a while Stanley is walking beside Mark again.

WHACK. THUD. “ARGHH.” Mark’s elbow jabs against Stanley’s diaphragm, knocking Stanley to the ground. “Not cool,” Stanley moans in pain as he curls up. Mark smiles as he walks on, because his retaliation for the horrible “joke” has not woken up the girl. Stanley’s on his knees twenty yards behind Mark. “I told you that you wouldn’t like it! But no, you had to hear it,” he calls out as he eventually gets to his feet. “Perhaps I’m just trying to beat the sick freak out of you,” Mark responds a little too loudly. The little girl begins to stir in his arms. Having walked for what feels like ages, but realistically had been more like about an hour, Mark is past ready for a coffee. While the girl is light, by now even his strong arms are straining from the fortyish-pound dead weight in his already-tired arms, attached to his exhausted body. Nevertheless Stanley is his biggest issue, whining constantly about being cold and rambling on about his aches and pains. As the endless moaning from Stanley continues to grind Mark down, he is relieved at the sight of the timely mirage that turns out to be a gas station, a source of relief for his caffeine headache and his arms.

Day 4

6:25 AM—Gas station, Tennessee

The gas station is quiet. There is just one car parked outside—that probably belongs to the cashier. Nevertheless, Stanley goes in on his own, tasked by Mark to get what they need. While outside Mark stays with the girl, keeping his distance on a quiet bench by a commercial garbage bin, to prevent any potentially prying eyes. The inside of the store is warm, so Stanley takes his time wandering around the snack aisles—and his sense of urgency subsides. He starts looking at the ments on the walls. He is a bit of a sucker for a good slogan, always optimistic that he could feel as happy as the people in the poster. This had yet to happen, but still Stanley hadn’t given up hope. Although his pockets had a good supply of candy he still wanted to have a look around, just in case he saw something new. There wasn’t much that he hadn’t already seen in the previous gas station, which was disappointing. Mark had asked Stanley to get some water and bread, so he did that, walking to the counter and placing them in front of the male cashier—grabbing some gum too. The cashier looked at Stanley’s (actually Mark’s) blue Patriots top and eyed him closely before looking outside. “No car?” asked the cashier, curious. “Nope,” Stanley replied confidently, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. The cashier looked at the northerner’s sports team logo on his hoodie again and into Stanley’s eyes, waiting for him to give an explanation, but Stanley loved the awkward silence and didn’t flinch. The cashier kept looking at Stanley, questioning him with his eyes, while sticking to his usual script. “Will that be all?” asked the cashier.

Stanley raised his left index finger. “Oh, yes.” He’d almost forgotten one of Mark’s demands. “Do you sell clothes?” Stanley asked politely. The cashier squints his eyes. “Um, we have a few Tennessee Titans tops, but they’re for kids.” Stanley smiles and says, “Perfect!” The cashier feels disconcerted by Stanley. There is something about his crooked smile that the cashier doesn’t feel right about. As Stanley looks around the cashier looks up at the surveillance camera behind him, to remind himself it’s there. “Bottled water, plain bread, and one kid’s top… and gum. Is that all?” confirms the cashier as he comes out from behind the counter to get Stanley the top. “Yep, that’s great,” Stanley says, forcing a bigger grin to show gratitude. The cashier sees Stanley’s wide mouth and it reminds him of a hungry lion. “You know, if you need any more clothes, not kid related, the stores around here open around eight,” the cashier adds, avoiding any more silence with Stanley. “Around eight, not at eight?” Stanley questions him. Confused, the cashier says, “Most of ’em open out at eight a.m.” “That’s not ‘around eight’ then. That’s just eight,” Stanley corrects him. The guy quickly gets back behind the safety of his counter. Then the cashier leans and looks outside again, there is no car nor any sign of anyone else. Turning back to Stanley he slowly says, “So… we have one for a baby and one for a larger kid.” He holds up the two options he’d collected. Stanley points at the children’s-sized one. And since Stanley senses a vibe from the cashier that he doesn’t like, he acts quickly. “Great!” He takes off the Patriots top and squeezes the children’s-sized Titans top onto his lean body. “Now I’ll avoid getting beaten up.” Immediately the tension lifts as the cashier responds “Ahh” with understanding

and laughs, giving Stanley a high-five. He rings up the order and Stanley pays cash. The cashier, who is now relieved, doesn’t notice one heavily-bloodied note as he puts it away. On the way out Stanley doesn’t lose eye with him, and gives him a thumbs-up. The cashier gives him one back as he grumbles to himself, “Today’s going to be one of those days. What a wacko,” as he watches Stanley walk out of sight. Meanwhile, Mark is sitting with the little girl who is bundled in a ball, asleep. He can’t help but smile at how adorable she is, dry blonde locks now flowing around her face. Her cheeks are now warm and blush-colored. As she drifts in and out of sleep he re he saw her sparkling green eyes—they’d pierced his heart like those of his wife—and he became angry. While the girl’s eyes were like looking into the wilderness, his wife’s green had been like looking into a burning fire; ing them, he felt scorched. Her eyes were warming; they drew you in like a bonfire on a beach. You’d be drawn in by the light and as you got closer you’d feel the warmth that radiated from its burning heart. You’d feel the heat on your skin, it would also feel like it was burning, but as you’d move away, the once pleasant cool breeze would be like a slap of ice. And, all you wanted to do was to feel that warmth again. Lizzie and his girls were gone so Mark can’t look away from this wild little wonder, and he has to suppress the urge to cuddle her like he would his own daughters. He finds her infatuating, but in a painful way. His emotions get the better of him as he feels her heartbeat; his instincts kick in and he cuddles her. The little girl wakes up, confused and now frightened. She tries to run but Mark holds her back; his naturally strong grip hurts her terribly and she cries. He lets go and she falls to the ground in pain. He’d gripped too tightly and there is a red bruise on her left wrist. Haley puts her head in her hands and shuts the world out. She wishes she was with her mom and tries to block out the fear she feels as looks at the huge hardfaced man in front of her. Mark is terrified, covering his mouth with his hands as he sees what he’s done.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats over and over in a soft voice, trying to not scare her. The little girl doesn’t respond, so he tries to make himself small and kneels down in front of her. Her small bare feet are shaking, exposed under the t-shirt as she just looks at the ground and avoids Mark’s eyes. Mark is distracted by the sound of whistling as Stanley strolls over. As Stanley approaches, Mark realizes Stanley doesn’t have much on him. He gets to his feet, keeping one eye on the girl. “What are you wearing?” he asks. Stanley looks down and realizes he still had the tight Titans top on, so he takes it off and hands it to Mark. “That’s for the kid,” Stanley explains. Mark shakes his head but doesn’t bother asking for the details, knowing that Stanley always has some reason for his madness. “Water and bread,” Stanley says, placing one large bottle on the bench and ripping off a piece of the bread for himself. Mark’s taken the girl behind the bench and shows her the size-appropriate top, but she sticks to staring at the ground and Mark decides to put the titan top on top of Stanley’s t-shirt thinking that at least she would be warm. Stanley cracks his knuckles, then shakes his head quickly. “She looks ridiculous,” Stanley says with a full mouth as the girl comes back around. “This isn’t a fashion show,” Mark says in defense of his choice, fearful that he would scare the girl again. Stanley says, “If it was, you’d lose.” And as he starts to laugh he chokes on the bread, which pleases Mark. Mark doesn’t want to get into anything with Stanley right now. He knows Stanley gets more sassy when he’s tired, and right now they were both exhausted —running on empty. Now that they had some water and food, Mark can at least be sure that the girl has been nourished. They cross the road away from the water. Mark decides that he doesn’t think any of them want a reminder of the river right now. As they head off on the

dangerous hard shoulder of the highway Mark is concerned that they will soon be picked up by cops. With each car he flinches, worried that they will fail their mission. And he fears what will become of the little girl—who is now walking in front of him, beside Stanley. Mark feels a little sad as he keeps an eye on the two of them from behind. Stanley isn’t even paying attention to the girl; he’s more interested in the bread. It’s amazing. It’s soft and chewy… Frankly, it’s the best bread he’s had in a while. And to think that it’d come from a Pit Stop in Tennessee. So he is not paying attention to the little girl as she slowly wanders over the line delineating the shoulder, onto the road. Mark, who is looking behind them, doesn’t see this, but he does hear the painfully-loud blast of a horn from a truck screaming down the road toward them. Stanley, preoccupied with the packaging the bread came in, keeps walking on. Mark’s eyes dart from Stanley to where the girl is. She’s standing still and is looking across the road at the river, right in the middle of the lane! Mark races over to her and grabs her. The truck is seconds away from them and leaning on its horn as it es, the driver tapping his temple and pointing at Mark. Mark shyly raises his left hand in thanks; the girl in his right arm. “It’s barely six a.m.; don’t these truckers have any manners?” Stanley says, glancing up at Mark whose blank expression doesn’t translate. Mark pats Stanley’s shoulder; since everyone is fine Mark thinks there’s no need to talk about it. But with every ing minute Mark is becoming really concerned. This is not a situation they can explain themselves out of. He thinks about it logically and he figures he can explain their guns with their badges, but the money’s another story… and, then, there’s this kidnapped girl. They’ll have to say where they found her and that will lead people back to that scene at the bar. He knew that even if they could find some miraculous way to explain the rest, there’d be no way to disregard five unreported bodies. Still, Mark decides they have no choice but to continue on and not look back. A minute later their luck comes in as they spy a sign for the Sunrise Motor Inn in

the distance. Mark puts the girl down to think for a moment. “Want a snack?” Stanley asks the girl, but she doesn’t react. “Just rude! Save your life and you give me attitude.” Stanley says, snapping his fingers. “Relax,” Mark says. “She’s obviously traumatized.” Stanley looks at the girl and back to Mark. “She could just be retarded,” Stanley states. “What? No, of course not.” Mark says defensively, rolling his eyes. Stanley looks at Mark with irritation, “Why of course not? One, there is nothing wrong if she is. Two, have you stopped for a minute to think?” Stanley rants. Mark is confused by the question. “We’ve been with her for over an hour, and you said that what… that she is around six years old, right?” Stanley throws his hands up in exasperation. “Well, what sort of six year old doesn’t speak? Have you thought about that?” Mark realizes that Stanley has made a good point. They have no idea why she doesn’t talk, who she is, or where she’s from. Looking down at the girl one thing was clear to Mark: she was obviously scared by the tall men yelling at each other. “Let’s figure this out later,” Mark says as he picks her up and walks towards the motel. “Right now, we need somewhere we can shower and sleep.” Stanley nods in agreement, “I’ll go in, book a room for tonight and pay cash. Oh, wait—give me your ring. That will make it even better.” “Why?” asks Mark. “Well, think about it. A guy wearing a wedding ring, booking a room for the night, dressed like this. Not exactly a romantic getaway.” Mark looks at his finger as he struggles, looking up to the sky and thinking about

taking it off. “Or you could book it,” Stanley suggests. Mark gets antsy; he’s terrible at lying in a situation like that. “No. You’ll be better at it,” Mark says, not wanting to let Stanley see his nerves. Mark bends his head as he removes his ring and gives it to Stanley. Like at the gas station, Stanley heads in alone to book a room for the night. Learning from his previous experience, Stanley decides to come up with an excuse to the owners of the motel, and comes up with an elaborate story about his wife having caught him having an affair to explain why he’s dressed the way he is and is checking in so early. He embellishes his story with unnecessary details. Using huge gestures he tries to show how his imaginary wife first tried to set the dog on him (to explain the mud), but of course the dog loved Stanley and just cuddled him. So then the crazy woman had decided to throw water in his face, which he had managed to dodge, but some still spilled on him, making his jeans wet. The whole description makes little sense and is overly dramatic. But one thing is certain: instead of looking at him with uneasiness the motel owners looked at Stanley with pity.

Day 4


Stanley opens the door to the room, tightly holding his duffel bag in his left hand, the matronly motel owner following close behind him. The room is pleasant: simple, but nice. The walls are a creamy gray and the floor is carpeted in a messy brown pattern. There is a nicely-made purple floral bed against one wall with a TV table and lamp opposite it. A matching floral twoseater couch stands in one corner, next to a small office table with cream-colored lamp on top of it, and a chair tucked in underneath. In the other corner of the room are a small coffee table and two chairs. And—bonus—it’s at the far end of the corridor, away from the reception and office areas. “All rooms are equipped with a television, air conditioning, telephone, handicapped accessible and…” she says, pausing for effect as she walks over a floor to ceiling window and opens the curtains, “all of the rooms have a view of the river!” Stanley smiles cheesily, and nods as the woman walks through the room and points out the towels and other amenities. During this Stanley follows her, and slowly edges her out of the room. Once Stanley has seen the owner head back to the office and, presumably, behind the reception desk, he walks back into his room and locks the door. He heads over to the sliding glass door, easing it open and looking around. In the grass off the road he can make out Mark lying down and starts to wave to him. Surprisingly, the little girl notices first and pokes Mark to get up. Mark looks left and right and then quickly heads over to where Stanley is and walks in through the glass door with the girl in his arms. Once inside he places her down on the floor and closes the sliding glass door and its curtain, double checking to see if anyone has been watching them.

It’s not as grimy as Mark had expected; it’s actually as pretty as a picture. There was just one bed though. Mark turns on the TV, putting the girl on the bed and taking a seat on the couch. Mark watches as the girl looks around the room instead of the TV. He rubs his bare wedding ring finger; it feels weirdly freeing which gives him a sense of guilt. Stanley puts his jacket on a chair and takes out Flat Stanley to read by the coffee table. The girl hops off the bed and tugs at Stanley’s sleeve, pointing at the book. Stanley pushes her away, but she comes back and points at the book. Stanley grimaces but she smiles back and then signs to him. Stanley can’t understand her, but she repeats it over and over. Mark’s eyes widen as he watches from the couch. Stanley taps his ear and shakes his head. The girl nods in response. Stanley turns his head to look at Mark. “She’s deaf!” they say simultaneously “Any idea what she is saying?” Mark asks in the hope that Stanley had found some time in the past to study up. Stanley shakes his head, irritated that he had decided to read up on Chinese Architecture instead of American Sign Language (ASL) the last time he had one of his random book selection days in the Bridgewater Library. The little girl pouts her lip at Stanley as she turns to Mark and repeats her sign. “I am Haley, I want my mom.” She signs as clearly as she can to Mark, who watches with a blank expression. Haley becomes frustrated and starts to cry. No one ever understood her except her mom, her teacher and the other kids at school —and without them she didn’t know what to do. And Haley was angry. How could they be so stupid?—she was speaking to them in basic ASL and they got nothing. She tried her best to read their lips since she had been practicing this in kindergarten. She realizes they aren’t going to be very helpful, but she felt they were nicer than the other guys. It had been hot and scary in the trunk of that car and her stomach was hurting.

“What is it?” Mark asks her. Haley bounces up and down as she understands what Mark says. She points to her stomach and wriggles about, but she could see Mark couldn’t understand. “Looks like someone needs the bathroom,” Stanley says, with Mark looking at him and back to Haley. “She’s doing the dance,” Stanley pointed out. Mark takes her to the bathroom. She closes the door on him, and Mark stands waiting on the other side. Stanley snickers at Mark. “What are you doing? You look terrified right now: like a bouncer outside a nightclub. Relax, she is going to the bathroom!” Stanley says, waving Mark away from the door. Mark can’t believe how much he’s mes. He feels so useless. He’s the one who had children, yet he was unable to even understand Haley, while Stanley could. It reminds him of how happy he was when he had his son Jack, because finally it was him doing the explaining to his wife about what was going on. Something she should have done regarding their daughters, when she could have, Mark thought, clenching his fists. Mark was the favorite in that parental scenario and it had made him feel important, but here he was again. Now, somehow, Stanley was the favorite— which annoyed Mark. Competitive by nature, he didn’t understand how Stanley would be preferable to Mark: the parent, the experienced one. He watched Stanley as he sat in his chair; he was now counting the money from the bags openly, on the coffee table. Mark sees the shimmer of his ring on Stanley’s lanky fingers and goes to say something but stops himself. “While you’re at it, hang up the wet clothes,” Mark tells Stanley as he decides to let go of his responsibility mindset, taking off his shoes and climbing onto the bed. Mark feels the sweet relief as his toes breathe, no longer constrained to his tight wet shoes. He removes his pants and climbs under the covers. A second wave of relief comes as his back sinks into the soft cotton sheets. It feels incredible, and minutes later Mark is asleep. Stanley rummages in the duffel. He takes out and hangs up Haley’s leggings and top, as well as Mark’s jeans, but decides to toss the torn-sleeve sweater in the

waste bin under the table—there was no saving it. Stanley takes off his rolled-up pants and sits in his boxers, hanging both his and Marks pants up on the small office table. A few minutes later Haley comes out of the bathroom g, “Good now.” Stanley gives her a questioning thumbs up. She gets this and nods. She is wearing just the Titans top, which fits her quite well, like an oddly cute dress. Stanley gets up and grabs some pillows from the other side of the bed and turns the two-seater into a cozy cot for Haley. She looks pleased with his work as she climbs and gets comfortable. Stanley feels a little sense of pride that he got it right. He had never been a huge fan of his own half-sister, but he didn’t mind this kid.

Ten months ago


It is very wet outside, but you can’t see this through the clouds that loom over Bridgewater State Hospital. Inside his office sits Arnold, and opposite him is William. You can hear the wind blow against the window panes. The glass rattles against its frail wooden frame. The noise of what was happening in the corridor is just enough to distract Arnold for a few minutes as he waits patiently for his patient to speak, but he never does. After two hours the session is over and William is escorted away by a guard. As Arnold closes the door behind William, he lets out a deep sigh and rests his head on his desk. Arnold’s hair is thin and messy, unkempt and uncared for. This is a man who was starting to feel his job was to separate the nut jobs from those pretending to be nut jobs to avoid prison, all of whom would eventually turn into nut jobs. Behind his wooden desk he’s making notes from his session with William, by hand; his computer is, as usual, broken. Hopefully a new one will be coming soon. Eighth meeting with William Ledger, he writes, pausing as he collects his thoughts while leaning back in his leather chair. Once again Mr. Ledger refrained from discussion after his initial statement: “I haven’t got anything new to say; I shit, I eat, I sleep. Can I go now?” Arnold takes a moment to consider what he could add to that statement, which is the same note he has made for the past seven weeks. He decides he needs to leave it as it is since it holds true to the patient’s current state of mind. Having expected William to be an extremely angry man, Arnold had been at a loss when a quiet man had entered his office. During their first two meetings

William had not said a word. Then the medication had begun and William had still not said a word, but his expression held a combination of defeat and sadness. Arnold is generally very good at getting things out of people, and considers himself a “silence game” expert. However, William is a worthy adversary at that game. So Arnold had opened himself to the possibility that William was neither a nut job, nor a developing nut job, and he had decided to change his usual approach and break the silence after an incident earlier this week. “Tell me what happened, William,” Arnold had asked calmly. William had explained that he had gotten away with keeping his wedding ring on him, by swallowing it before he came in, but now that he had “retrieved” it and was wearing it again, some patients had noticed. The morning before Arnold’s ninth session with William, some other patients and William had been waiting in line for their lunch while watched by a guard. Another patient was being taken in the other direction by a second guard. The sparkle of William’s ring had been a topic of conversation between other patients and finally jealousy erupted. A patient jumped toward William and tried to pull William’s ring off of his finger, but the metal didn’t budge over his thick knuckle. Both guards then grabbed that patient and threw him to the ground, but this left William exposed. In a flash he had two other patients on him, one attempting to hold him back while the other went for his hand. William twisted himself around with raw force, and was positioned behind the one who’d tried to restrain him. That guy was now trying to escape while his friend watched in shock. However, in pinning him by the neck against a wall William was accidentally suffocating him. The two guards had secured the other patient and within a second William felt a sharp sting; his body spasmed as he hit the ground with a humongous thud. They’d been quick to taser him; no guard wanted to go up against William. The patient he’d nearly choked lay unconscious on the floor with his friend slapping him in the face, trying to revive him. As more guards rushed to the scene, William used his last moment to roll to his left side in a ball and shove his left ring finger into his mouth.

When the guards questioned the other patients they said nothing, so the guards quickly dealt with the situation by putting them all in solitary confinement, without their medication. After examining William, who had again swallowed the ring, a group of guards collectively took it upon themselves to beat him, hoping this would teach him a lesson, although what lesson they were not sure. William did not move or scream, he just accepted the pain and went somewhere else in his head. And William recalled some advice about pain when his wife was to give birth. The midwife had told her to accept the pain, accept that it was going to happen, and that all she could do was embrace it. So, he did. He embraced all the pain she had caused him to protect that ring. To protect the symbol of the life he had expected to enjoy for decades, but it hadn’t been meant to be. The questions he could never ask. The answers he would never find. He knew that this was the end of his time in society, but he was damned if they would take away that ring —not until he had some answers. After this recitation, Arnold leant over and put his hand on William’s shoulder to show him comion. As William exhaled, it was a relief to both of them as a stiff, stagnant air rushed out of the room. Up until that session William, who had only recently been committed, had felt he had placed his trust in so-called professionals too easily. However, it became apparent that Arnold was unlike other psychiatrists. Arnold would really listen, opening up the floor to personal topics, using his own personal experience as a way to acknowledge situations. It quickly made William realize that when Arnold said, “I understand,” he truly meant it. By their tenth meeting William felt comfortable; he hadn’t spent that long with the doc, but William felt he knew Arnold. He knew a bit about his family, and background from the Boston area. How Arnold had been a social worker and then went back to school to be able to work with more complex cases. He never referred to case numbers, and over time William Ledger became Bill in their dialogue, because Bill told Arnold that was what his friends called him. After the attack had happened, it had somehow leaked to the press, and accusations of excessive force by hospital security were raised. Guard assignments were shuffled around, and William was now terrifying a new group

of guards. His friendly demeanor frightened them; they saw his size as a potential danger, and his manner as unpredictable. A patient who acted mad, yelled, and was angry was obvious to them. But William was different. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually hurt anyone; to them he was, by definition, a monster. This left him with Arnold. Having weighed the pros and cons of taking away the emotional crutch that the ring represented, Arnold determined William’s physical safety was his top priority. Arnold managed to convince William by their following session to take off his ring and trust that Arnold would look after it— perhaps even clean it after where it had been. At first, this was a serious challenge, and for a few days Arnold had worried that this decision would create instability in William’s mindset. But as the days ed things improved. To cope with the change, Arnold assigned William with a goal to develop a productive hobby. Knowing that William enjoyed drawing, Arnold provided him with a notepad and soft crayons he could work with. Arnold’s goal was to ensure that William was able to maintain a sense of reality, knowing that as time went on this could be a problem. William was being placed on a heavier prescription as a result of the incident. During their sessions Arnold would give William his ring, and he would wear it during the two hours they had together at one-thirty every Tuesday afternoon.

Day 4


Mark awakes to find that Stanley has neatly packed away the money in a bag under the coffee table and Haley is sleeping all nestled in the two-seater. Mark rolls over to face Stanley who is looking at him, which startles Mark. “Afternoon,” Stanley says with a chipper smile. “Jeez. Ever heard of personal space?” Mark says pointedly. Stanley nods in agreement. “Yes, perhaps if you would be kind enough to offer me some, then I could get some rest as well,” Stanley states. Mark looks around and notices that he has taken over the queen-size bed, leaving a small sliver of space for Stanley. Sheepishly, he smiles and edges backwards to the other side. “Thanks. So, what should we do about this?” Stanley asks. “About what?” Mark asks, confused. “Mark, in case you haven’t noticed, there is a small deaf child in a homemade cot behind you,” Stanley says, pressing his lips together as he waits for Mark’s thoughts on the situation. Mark is, however, not sure what he thinks. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, and was hesitant to answer. So he asks Stanley the same in return. “What do you think we should do?” Stanley is shocked that Mark is actually asking for his opinion. He doesn’t know what to say. “Kids aren’t exactly part of my reading material,” Stanley says in jest. He sits up on the bed, pulling his stained gun out and wiping it down with

the pillow case. “Put that away,” Mark demands. Stanley shrugs, “Why? What’s the big deal?” “She was just fucking kidnapped by guys who had guns, and I think she might not enjoy seeing another one.” Stanley groans and hides his gun in the bedside table before hopping out of bed and going over to the cot and waking Haley up. Drowsy, she wakes up, pleased to see Stanley instead of the inside of the car she was just dreaming of. She smiles as he kneels down in front of her and looks into her eyes. “Where is your mom?” Stanley mouths to Haley. “She is deaf. What are you trying to do?” Mark asks. Stanley glances over at Mark, “A lot of deaf kids learn to lip-read basic phrases early on,” he states as if it were common sense. Haley signs to no avail, then shakes her head and begins to cry, she reaches out to Stanley, who panics and carries her to Mark. Mark flicks through the channels on the remote, as Stanley comments on their view choices on the sidelines. “Dull, ignorant, rubbish.” Mark stops flipping through their choices when he gets to The Discovery Channel, ing how much little Jack loved How It’s Made. He hopes maybe Haley will like it too, though he isn’t holding his breath given his track record so far. He’s pleasantly surprised that she likes it, as does Stanley—who stares transfixed as molten metal fills a mold. Taking this moment, Mark thinks seriously about the situation they’re in. Mark gets up and looks at how much cash that they have: according to Stanley it was over nine thousand dollars. Stuck in thought he considers how much cash they’ll need, knowing it won’t be much longer before they’ve made it to their goal. Mark looks over at Haley and realizes what they’ll have to do, telling Stanley,

“We’ll have to take her with us.” This is said behind Haley’s back, so she can’t read his lips. “What? She can’t come on our mission!” “I’m not saying all the fucking way with us, just for the next day or so—until we’re sure she’s okay,” Mark explains. “Oh, please, she’s alive, so we’ve done enough,” Stanley complains looking at Haley, who seems content as she sits crossed legged on the edge of the bed, watching the TV. “Don’t be so fucking insensitive,” Mark says with frustration. “At least I don’t swear in front of her,” Stanley sneers. There is an awkward moment of silence as they look at each other and back at Haley, double-checking she really can’t hear them. “She’s deaf,” Mark whispers. Stanley huffs back, “It’s called morals, Mark.” Mark raises his eyebrows, “You have the most effed up morals I’ve ever seen, Face Stomper.” Mark mimics how Stanley mocks him. Stanley does not appreciate this. Mark becomes serious. “Look. For now, considering what she has just been through she is safest with us. No one else was at that bar and I didn’t hear anything on the radio about a missing girl.” Stanley thinks about glancing at the live news channels on the TVs in gas stations they’d visited; none had shown any breaking news about a missing kid, which leads Stanley to agree with Mark. “Fine,” he says. “So, what do we call her?” Mark wasn’t sure. “How about Lily?” Haley plays with the remote, changing the channel and putting on Project

Runway. “That’s so boring,” Stanley says to the screen. “What about something in blue?” “What? As a name? Like the color?” Mark asks. “Yeah, it’s cool. It’s mysterious and modern.” Stanley smiles, panning his head from one side to the other as if he were a model. “She’s a kid, not a fucking musician.” Mark argues. “Fine!” Stanley says, folding his arms. “What would you suggest we call her?” Mark thinks for a moment. He’d not been able to name his daughter after his grandmother and figured now was as good a time as any. After all, when else would he have the opportunity? “She’s Lily,” Mark insists proudly. Stanley snickers and Mark angrily smacks him in the face. Haley begins to cry, because she sees the rage in Mark’s face. “What’s that for?” Stanley yells. Mark jumps back; he feels his hands pulse as he tries to calm down. He sees Haley’s face and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Splashing water into his face, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror: his eyes are glazed and his hair is standing up. He flattens it with some water on it before taking a deep breath and heading back out. “So, strange giant, what now?” Stanley asks. “Two guys with a little girl. We are a bit of an odd couple.” Mark looks at Haley and at Project Runway, thinking. “True, and someone might be looking for her, so until we’re sure she is safe we should disguise her.” Stanley riffles through his duffel bag and pulls out a knife. “Stanley!” shouts Mark, grabbing the wrist of Stanley’s left hand. “What?” Stanley says calmly. Haley had no clue what was going on just above her little head. “I was just going to cut her hair.”

“With a knife?” Mark asks, shaking his head, but not surprised—just another crazy Stanley idea. “Any better suggestions?” Stanley says, playing with the tip of the knife against his finger. He rotates the knife on his finger and draws blood with the slightest of pressure. “Ouch,” Stanley adds. “Scissors?” says Mark bluntly. The classic Tim Gunn line comes through the speakers: “Make it work.” Stanley nods to Project Runway and raises a finger to Mark in a “one minute” gesture, leaving the room. Mark keeps his eyes on the door and waits for Stanley to return. “Tah dah!” Stanley says as his hand appears from behind the door with a pair of scissors. Mark stands in front of Stanley, arms folded, frowning. Stanley raises his hands. “Relax, Hulk—I’m just going to give her a haircut. As Tim Gunn says, I’ll ‘make it work,’” says Stanley as he rocks his hips from side to side and pretends he’s a model. Mark rolls his eyes and lets Stanley . Stanley bends over in front of Haley and slowly mouths, “I’m going to give you a haircut, okay?” Haley signs “no” and shakes her head vigorously, while holding her hair. Stanley tries to lower her hands but Haley won’t budge. Stanley mouths, “Don’t be such a baby.” In retaliation Haley blows a fart in Stanley’s face. Stanley gets to his feet. “That’s it, I can’t work with this attitude.” Stanley takes a seat by the coffee table. Mark looks at Haley and slowly asks, “Lily, would you like some braids?” Haley nods, making Mark smile as he takes a seat behind her and delicately separating her hair in half and then into sections. This was one thing he was confident he could do, despite his large fingers.

“Why don’t you head into Dover and get Lily some clothes she can wear,” Mark says to Stanley. “What’s wrong with what she’s wearing now?” Stanley says, looking at her in the Titans top. Mark rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. Where am I going?” Stanley asks. “Over that bridge there is a town called Dover,” Mark says slowly. “I’m not a complete imbecile you know,” Stanley huffs as he leaves the room, five minutes later returning to get his gun, badge, some money, and a bag from his duffel.

Day 4


Stanley is nervous but excited to be out by himself. As he gets into the small town he has a huge, beaming smile on his face, watching people as they go about their days. For the moment Stanley feels almost normal: aside from the gun he has concealed in his left jacket pocket, he is just like everyone. Who knows, perhaps that large elderly lady in the scooter is also packing a gun; this is the South, Stanley thinks to himself. There aren’t many options in the town and eventually Stanley just decides to ask someone on the street, “Is there a clothing store nearby?” When he asks, a person with a blank expression points him in the direction of a store. Strange he thought, he had been perfectly nice to them… then he saw his reflection in a florist’s window and realized he might need to get some clothes for himself, too. The blue Patriots top he took from Mark had to go. Inside the store, a saleswoman is looking through clearance items and unwrapping a freshly-delivered box of creative materials. The woman sees Stanley as he es the window, but as she turns back from stacking t-shirts on a shelf he’s gone. She looks around before turning back to the shelf. “Hey,” says Stanley, standing right in front of her with a wide smile. The woman jumps out of her skin, dropping the bundle of t-shirts in her arms. Stanley quickly bends over to help her pick them up, while she remains frozen on the spot. As Stanley hands her the t-shirts he towers over her like a walking shadow. Despite her surprise, the saleswoman politely thanks him with a smile and places the bundle on the shelf. “How can I help you?” she asks while pulling herself together.

Stanley looks around the store and his words spill out in a frenzy. “I’m looking for clothes, for a girl. A little girl, she is six, we think, I mean she is six! And we, I mean I also need some clothes.” He pulls at his top. The saleswoman asks kindly, “A bit of a makeover, or just some essentials?” Nervously Stanley shuffles, cracking his knuckles. He hesitates to speak, worried he won’t be able to explain himself and already slightly intrigued about what he may “have” to do in order to remain undercover. The saleswoman takes his arm and walks him over to another aisle. He can feel her soft, warm touch on his skin, and her sweet nature is unusual for Stanley who suddenly becomes armed in more ways than one. “I think I have just what you need,” she says with a wink, looking at him with curiosity. I wonder where this tall traveler comes from; he’s clearly on errands for his wife, she thinks as she rolls her middle finger along his ring finger. “I think it’s so great of you to look for clothes for your daughter; you’re too cute,” she says as she pulls out some options for him to try on. Stanley’s eyes widen; he knew he had game, but this is another thing entirely. As he came out dressed in a nice pair of jeans, shirt and green sweater, the woman began to compliment him. “You look great,” she says softly, rubbing his arm through his sleeve.

“All Francis knows to be real is the world within institutions.”


Stanley’s crooked smile in the mirror makes it obvious that he isn’t used to this type of reaction.

All of a sudden the woman taps his butt, making him tense. “And your butt looks great in these jeans!” she adds with a smile. Instinctively, Stanley responds by moving away from her “Hey!” he says. Stanley doesn’t know how to respond to her: he was always in the driver’s seat, and she is being so forward he feels oddly uncomfortable. The woman leaves Stanley in front of the mirror and returns shortly with some children’s clothing. “I think that these would look adorable with what you are wearing,” she says. “Though this jacket has to go,” the woman added, picking up Stanley’s multi-purpose jacket, but as she moves it around she feels the gun inside, and her smile fades as she pulls it out of its left pocket. “Excuse me, sir, but do you have a concealed carry permit to carry a loaded gun in Tennessee?” Stanley forcefully yanks the gun and jacket from her, pushing her up against the wall of the changing room. He stares into her eyes, his heart beats, he pushes his chin sideways to crack his neck and then kisses her. She turns her head away, which upsets Stanley as he is pres against her. She’s pinned against the wall, unable to move as he looms over her. Stanley’s hands begin to shake, and he clenches his jaw in self-conflict. “You’re all the same,” Stanley says, pulling away from her and walking toward the . He gathers the clothes she’d suggested for Haley, grabbing a pair of joggers as well, and dumps them on the counter The woman hesitantly walks over to the . “Will you be needing a bag?” she says, very reserved as she rings up the clothes, including the ones he has on. He pays, cash of course. But Stanley is agitated: she came on to him and now he was getting this attitude from her. He hates it. “Yes!” he says, aggressively ripping the bag from her hand and throwing the clothes in, as he motions her to hurry up.

Too long ago to

3:47 PM—Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court

The sun shone on this glorious summer’s day in Boston, and the inside of the courtroom was warmed from the sun’s glow. Sitting at the defense table was Francis Madsen, who was looking around at the wonderfully old architecture. Francis told his lawyer, “Did you know the Supreme Judicial Court was established in 1692?” and “It still operates under the oldest, still functioning written constitution in the world. I read that when we came in,” Francis added with a grin. Francis’ lawyer apologized to the court as the prosecution continued to read off a list of Francis’ crimes, all of which he has committed beyond the shadow of a doubt. The hearing was just a formality, for in this case there would be no debate. Francis did not shy away; he looked around a room of people who refused to look into his deep brown eyes. He looked into the faces of his victim’s family; unlike many others, he didn’t avoid or realize the personal and irreparable harm he had inflicted. His stepdad sat quietly in the back; his mom had been unable to come. First on the list, a reading of young Francis’ crimes. They began with him joy riding at fourteen, then the molestation of a cat, and then the robbery of an elderly woman which led to attempted assault. The three strikes and you’re out: that put him away in the system just before his sixteenth birthday. Out again at seventeen, due to good behavior, Francis’ rap sheet continued. Attempted sexual assault of a teenage boy in a movie theater, the rape of his short-term girlfriend at a party, and, finally, forcing a friend to give him oral while at gun point, an act which he took photos of on a flip phone and shared with his friends. These photos were eventually used as evidence at his trial.

The families affected were furious that Francis had been allowed back into society so soon without what was, they deemed, adequate mental treatment. Barely eighteen now, Francis pleaded guilty and the court convicted him. Mr. Madsen had now been tried as an adult and they sentenced him to life in mental correctional facilities, without the possibility of parole for a minimum of thirty-five years—most likely never to have natural freedom again in his lifetime. One newspaper which picked up the case called him “the error in the gene pool,” and included an old school photo of Francis in the article.

Day 4


After Stanley had returned to the motel with no underwear for Haley and nothing for Mark to wear, Mark decides to put on his dirty-but-dry jeans and go himself —a decision he realizes he probably should have made in the first place. As Mark walks into the same clothing store wearing his basic white t-shirt, he looks around and sees a woman stacking clothes. Well aware of his ability to overwhelm others, he taps the counter of the cashier’s desk and says, “Good afternoon”—from a distance. The same saleswoman as before turns around and is a little startled, as well as anxious from earlier. “How can I help you?” she asks, approaching him slowly. Mark wasn’t great at speaking to women until he met his wife; she gave him confidence by laughing at his booming voice and stumbling words. She didn’t care that he was loud, she just laughed and smiled. While women found Mark attractive, his wife was the only woman who made him feel like he was “okay” being himself. He had used an awful line provided by a teammate to talk to her in a bar: “Wow, you’re stunning, I think I just found the cure for impotence,” but after saying the first part Mark couldn’t the second and ended up being laughed at by his future wife’s friends for saying he was impotent. But, his future wife, Lizzie, smiled and ignored the stupid statement and asked if he had meant the first part, which he had. He had never felt happiness so great or pain so dark as he had with her. “Yes, I’m looking for some clothes,” he says, holding part of his plain t-shirt out and gesturing at his jeans. The woman smiles. “What do you need?” she asks, putting down the clothes in her hand and walking over to him. She gladly assists Mark, even taking him to her friend Jill’s store around the corner from hers when she realizes she doesn’t

have the size he needs. Mark finds a nice polo shirt, sweater, and pants combination that fits and now tries to work out how to buy some children’s underwear as well. He eventually puts a pack of girls’ briefs between his own selection of clothing, but the cashier takes it out as she scans the items, assuming it in his order by mistake. Standing outside of the store Mark doesn’t know what to do; he couldn’t expect Haley to wear the same underwear every day, and didn’t even know when the last time was that she had bathed. Unable to bring up the courage to walk back inside, he returns to the first store and speaks to the saleswoman who is standing behind the counter. “Hi, I’m back. I forgot that I need to buy underwear for my daughter, she is six. Could you help me?” The woman stares at him, the second single man today in her store to buy clothes for a six-year-old girl. She looks at his bare ring finger and up at him again. “Are you from Massachusetts?” she asks, curious. Mark is stunned; he barely has an accent. “Yes.” The woman’s jaw opens slightly as she thinks and adds, “And are you here with your family?” as she collects a multi-colored package of girl’s underwear. “My daughter and me,” he lies; neither of his daughters would ever allow him to shop for them, they’d be mortified. His eyes fade away from hers as he falls away from reality for a moment and becomes absorbed by his own thoughts of how wonderful it would be if they were on this journey with him. Aside from the violence it wasn’t too bad, the driving was long, and he realizes the past doesn’t matter anymore. Right now all he wants is to see Lizzie, Laura, Helen, and Jack —maybe even Joseph given his new-found, colorful side. The saleswoman stares at Mark as his demeanor changes. She begins to notice things like his dirty jeans, some possible blood stains on the denim in between the caked mud. His t-shirt is wrinkled and has a slightly fishy smell that she hadn’t noted before. Mark feels edgy and his eyes twitch. “No one else?” she asks, holding the bag with the underwear in her hand as she

looks at him with suspicion. “A buddy of mine and I—” The woman leans over the counter, “Is he a tall guy, with a Patriots top?” Mark quickly says, “No. This is a wonderful shop you have, really great, love the window display! Anyhow I must be going,” before handing her a twenty and leaving. The woman becomes distracted as she ires her display and says “Oh, thank you,” as she looks back Mark is already bolted out of the store and is heading down the street. Mark had learned that little trick from his wife who was always rescuing him from awkward social situations. When in doubt she had told him to end the conversation quickly and leave to avoid escalating a situation beyond one he was comfortable with. Step one, close the topic, step two, say something positive (compliments work well), step three, excuse yourself and leave (if you’re not there the situation can’t get worse). This process had helped Mark out of a few jams; unfortunately not all situations could be solved this way. The saleswoman runs around the corner to the other clothing store and rushes inside. Breathing heavily from her short jog she grabs at the cashier behind the counter who’s looking at her phone. “Jill… JILL!” the saleswoman shrills, putting her hand on her friend’s phone to make her look up. “What is it, Annie? I was trying to type a sexy text to this guy on Tinder… and thanks to you I just put ‘You’re cute let’s dt$@#’, which he probably thinks is code for fuck,” Jill says, huffing. “Oh, who cares if you put out on a first date anyhow,” Annie says. Breathing in, she continues, “You would not believe the big guy I sent you for his size. I thought that he was cute at first, like the guy from earlier,” she says, using her hands to emphasize each word. Jill checks. “The guy from earlier…you mean cute butt dude?”

“Yep, Mr. Face Sucker,” Annie confirms. “But this guy was also looking for little girls’ underwear…” Annie pauses for affect as Jill listens attentively. “And he was also from Massachusetts,” Annie says pausing again as Jill leans in, “and he had very dirty jeans,” Annie concludes as if this evidence was the most damning of all. Jill sighs, “Oh Annie, come on, none of the guys here have any clothing sense.” Jill has lost interest in the conversation. “But he wanted to buy kids’ underwear!” Annie repeats trying to pique Jill’s interest. “Hmm. Did he say who they were for?” Jill asks, ing that she removed a set from the items he bought at her store. “Yes, for his ‘daughter,’” Annie says, using air quotes. “Seems logical,” Jill replies. She glances down at her phone, pauses for a moment and swipes right before looking back at Annie. “Perhaps you just need to get a grip and get a guy,” she says, showing Annie a picture of the man she matched with on Tinder. “That kiss was the most action you’ve had in months,” Jill adds, rolling her eyes. “It hasn’t been that long. And, and he really freaked me out.” Annie is upset with her friend. “This wasn’t a funny kiss, it was… disturbing.” Annie says this as the blood leaves her face while she recalls the moment, struggling to explain what she means. Jill puts her hand on Annie’s shoulder, raises her eyebrows, and waits for her to explain. But just then Annie can see her manager walking toward her store. “I’ll tell you later!” she shouts over her shoulder, cutting their conversation short and dashing out.

Day 4


Coming up the drive, Mark is trying to get himself out of a mental funk he’s placed himself in. He knows he’s feeling off but does not know quite how to stop it: the more he tries not to, the more he flashes back to thoughts of his wife. He re looking into her eyes as he would drift off to sleep, re the warmth in his heart when he’d felt her skin against his. Holding her hand as they would people-watch on a park bench, and how she would squeeze it when she wanted his attention. When she would fall asleep on his shoulder during a film and he would play with her soft, floaty hair. How after a hard day’s work the little surprise of dinner and a frosted glass of beer. How she would listen and stroke his arm when he moaned about his day, as she showed true interest and care in her eyes. It then started to all fade away as he re the last look he saw in her eyes and the happiness disappeared. He imagined her now and felt painful shivers rush up his arm hard. He wanted to fight to feel real pain to compensate for the emotional strain. He wanted something to blame for the agony and retching feeling that would consume him at times. As Mark heads to the sliding glass door he relaxes as he sees Stanley’s hand behind the curtain. Stanley might be a weird guy, but he was always there, like a loyal dog. He sensed something and would come. Mark knocked on the glass and waited for it to be answered. The curtain opened a tiny bit and one of Stanley’s eyes appeared and disappeared. “Who is it?” Stanley said in a high woman’s voice behind the door. “Stanley, it’s me; now fucking let me in,” Mark said in a serious tone as he looked around to check he hadn’t been seen pulling hard at the door handle. “I am but a lone woman. Are you here to take me?” Stanley says in falsetto, with

a chuckle. Mark rolls his eyes and folds his arms. Moments later the door slides open an inch, “All right, all right.” Stanley sounds disappointed, but he opens the door the rest of the way. “Mr. Bore, I was just having a little bit of fun.” Mark has a headache and is ready to tell Stanley to grow the fuck up when he looks at Haley; she’s bouncing around in her new clothes and seems smitten with Stanley. Putting his bags down he asks “How has she been? Know anymore?” Stanley sat up and stated, “She has told me all about where she is from. Her parents Jack and Judy, they live in a cottage in a field by a pond. It’s beautiful this time of year. They are on their way to collect her right now.” “Really?” Mark asked astounded but not happily. There is a pause as Stanley blankly stares at Mark. “No, Mark” he says softly. “She’s deaf.” He adds slowly, “and after she changed we watched TV. I think she’s hungry because she showed a lot of interest at Man Vs Food but didn’t want to eat the bread.” Stanley notices Mark also needs some food and decides to leave the room. He returns with a pamphlet on where the best spots are in town and hands it to his partner who is leaning on the bed. “Why don’t we go out and get some food?” Stanley asks. “I don’t want to walk over the bridge again,” Mark says, closing his eyes as the room starts to spin. “I’ll drive,” Stanley states. Mark opens his eyes and sits up. “How?” he asks. Stanley walks over to the glass door and opens the curtain, pointing to a dusty white Nissan Altima. Stanley has a large grin on his face. “You stole it!” Mark stated angrily.

“Whoa, Big Guy! I’m not that stupid,” Stanley says putting out his hands. “Although I easily could have,” he mutters under his breath. Mark gets up and quickly checks the duffel under the coffee table, which is evidently light, “Stanley, how much did this cost!?” Mark asks firmly. Stanley shrugs, “Does that really matter? It’s spent now.” Mark flips. “Yes, Stanley, it fucking does matter. We have a long way to go and you have just cost us!” He smacks Stanley in the side of the head and knocks him to the floor. Haley cries as she looks at Mark’s scary red face. Mark panics, puts on a sweater he just bought and looks for the keys to the car. He sees them by the TV, rushes outside, gets in the car and starts the engine—pausing for a moment before driving away. As he drives he knows he was wrong, and he knew that he really shouldn’t leave Stanley alone with Haley, but he didn’t care. Inside the room Stanley is stunned; he sits up against the bed, takes out a cigarette and lights it up. “Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell,” Stanley quotes Caulfield, then takes a deep drag. Haley sits down beside him and looks at his head. Stanley takes his badge from his pocket and plays with it. He pretends he’s flashing it to imaginary people and then puts it away again. Haley watches him, fascinated. “Put that cigarette out; it’s bad for Lily,” Stanley says to himself in a deeper voice, impersonating Mark. “I’m starting to think you prefer her over me,” Stanley says to himself, pointing at Haley. “You know that’s not true. I’m not telling you to quit. I didn’t want you smoking inside my brother’s place either,” Stanley replies with a puffed out chest.

Stanley grins. “You know… ive smoking is still a danger regardless of whether someone smokes outdoors or not, as the particles stay in the air and settle in the dust of the room. Which can still cause issues. But fine, whatever.” Haley watches as Stanley moves from side to side muttering to himself; she thinks he is bizarre, like a large child with facial hair. Stanley continues moving his head from side to side in conversation with himself when Haley reaches out and pulls his beard. Stanley’s hazel eyes dart to Haley; they are so dark and ominous. He cracks his neck. Then to his surprise Haley wraps her arms around him and his eyes warm up as he feels a sense of security. Sitting in silence the two of them watch another episode of How It’s Made, and both are transfixed by processes taken to produce a fireman’s gloves. Every few minutes Stanley looks at the clock on the motel desk desk as the time slowly ticks by. Mark still has not returned. The show finishes, leaving both Haley and Stanley at a loss. Stanley doesn’t know what he should do; he’s waiting for Mark’s guidance in the situation but realizes he isn’t going to get it. Stanley begins to fiddle, and shake his leg; Haley is also restless from being cooped up indoors all day. “Mark,” Stanley says, “I think it would be good if Lily and I go for a walk, so if you have any objections let me know,” Stanley says. Then Stanley jumps up and gets the now-dry dress off the curtain rail and onto Haley. He takes Haley out through the sliding glass door before running back through the room, grabbing the room key and exiting the main door. ing the reception, he smiles to the owners before heading out, picking up a candy bar on the way. Stanley walks behind Haley, who looks just as giddy to be going outside. As they walk toward the bridge, Stanley starts to think a walk downtown would be a bit much and they take a left turn. “Mark?” Stanley asks his absent friend with a wish clearly in the question. “What is it?” Stanley replies to himself.

“I’m bored. Extremely bored,” Stanley says with a moan. “Why don’t you play with Lily?” Stanley responds with a deep voice. “How?” Stanley replies to himself, looking down at her small hand in his. “What are we supposed to do with each other?” Stanley’s chest drops as his looks down at Haley and then stares ahead with severity. “Do nothing, do nothing,” Stanley says with emphasis, gripping Haley’s hand more tightly as he leads her down a path toward a park.

Day 4


At the park the wooded hills rolled around a sparkling lake. There is a sheltered family area where small groups of eight or so people were doing cookouts in clusters. It isn’t busy, which is surprising since it is Labor Day weekend.

“Bill’s belief that he was a failure as a father is coming forward, but his kindness is clear in how he treats Francis.”

AJ

Stanley is wearing his nice forest-green sweater, holding Haley’s hand in his. She is wearing sneakers and some cute jeans with pink stitching, plus a blue jacket over a basic t-shirt. The majority of people were cooking and eating so when Stanley walks Haley over to the playground they find it is almost deserted. Stanley sits on a sling swing as Haley goes down the slide over and over—clearly bursting with energy. Stanley looks out over the lake. He’s glad he decided to take his camera, and captures a beautiful photo of Haley with the lake as a backdrop, the afternoon sun shimmering on the water. “Did you know, Lily,” Stanley starts, and she continues running around, “this lake, Lake Barkley, is connected to another lake, called Kentucky Lake—which means that it forms one of the largest freshwater recreation complexes in the

US?” Stanley asks. “Fascinating,” a man says behind Stanley. Stanley turns to see the friendly round face of a cop. He takes the swing beside Stanley. “What else do you know?” the cop asks, as he squeezes his large hips into the swing seat. Stanley is hesitant; he’d left his jacket in the motel, his badge and gun inside. He looks over at Haley and turns slowly toward the cop, then looks behind him to see if anyone else is there. The cop interrupts the silence. “Ah, sorry. I saw you alone and thought I’d say hey. I’m Officer Mathews; this creek is in my district so I like to take a break and look at the lake when I get a chance. Didn’t mean to interrupt you and your daughter.” Officer Mathew was average height, making him shorter than Stanley, but he was sturdy, muscular and fat—a guy who could run after an intruder but loved a milkshake and fries. Stanley relaxes. “Nice to meet you, officer.” He hesitates to say more. At this point, Haley decides to run over and wave to Officer Mathews, as her mom had taught her this was the right thing to do, before moving toward Stanley and g “Who is he?” Stanley put his left arm protectively around Haley. “This is Lily; she’s deaf and she’s pretty cool,” Stanley said. Officer Mathews laughed at how Stanley had introduced her. “Nice to meet you, Lily,” he said. Haley just smiled and waved at him again, which made Officer Mathews laugh. Stanley spoke before Officer Mathews did. “Did you know we are sitting near the largest inland peninsula in the United States?” he asked, pointing west. “Pretty cool,” said Officer Mathews politely, knowing the area like the back of his hand. After a pause he asks, “How old is she?” “Six,” Stanley says, suddenly deciding he is no longer interested in this

conversation. He stands up from the swing and picks Haley up. Haley doesn’t want to go, shakes her way out, and runs back to the slides. “She looks younger,” Officer Mathews states to Stanley. “Yeah, well, she’s not,” Stanley says agitatedly as he runs around after Haley. “Come here, Lily, come here!” he says with an aggressive tone. Officer Mathews gets up from the swing, kneels and waves at Haley, who runs over to him. “Good girl,” he says. Stanley comes from behind and scoops her up; this time she doesn’t protest. “So, where’s Lily’s mom?” Officer Mathews asks, looking from the ring on Stanley’s finger to the family shelter. “She’s gone,” Stanley says. “Oh,” says Officer Mathews. Stanley presses his lips together in sense of mourning and slowly lowers his head as he holds Haley in his arms. “Well, I hope you and Lily have a great time,” Officer Mathews says as he walks away, greeting some of the people from the nearby shelter. Once Officer Mathews’ motorbike heads out of sight, Stanley drops Haley back down and takes a seat on the swing. Staring at her, he feels confused: he doesn’t like the kid, but he doesn’t hate her either. Stanley decides to get up and put her on the swing, carefully giving her a little push-off and then pushing her gently as she swings back and forth. The wind flows through her braids and they lift in the air. Soon enough she is rocking it all on her own. Stanley takes the other swing; they begin to swing in unison. The chain rubs into his sides as he swings, but he doesn’t care. It’s fun. Stanley gets overly excited and forgets about Haley, who begins to fall from the too-large seat. Throwing his feet down to suddenly stop, sand getting into his shoes, he jumps up and helps Haley slow down. After five more minutes on the swings, Stanley is done.

They are really hungry now and the smell of hot dogs is making its way over to them. Eventually, Stanley gives in to Haley’s pulling on his top and pointing to the shelter. Taking a breath, Stanley becomes Stanley Gatsby, strolling toward the smell of the grills. He swoops into the shelter, grandiose in his movements, and laughing at nothing. He strolls around with Haley in his arms, as he is given sodas from one group and hotdogs from the other, before waving and leaving to find a secluded spot. The groups look silently at each other with the same strange, unified expression of confusion. “Did that guy really just come in and take what he wanted and leave?” someone finally voiced aloud—and everyone nodded.

A year ago

3:31 PM—Suffolk County Superior Court

Cars and people were driving up and down Cambridge street, its lush green trees turning bronze in the chilly fresh air. It was just another Tuesday as fall hit Boston, and unbeknownst to anyone outside the Suffolk County Superior Court was the fate of William Ledger. Inside the heavy stone brick building was a man who had lost all hope. “I didn’t do it,” William repeated over and over again to himself as he sat behind the defense table. His head in his hands like a guilty man, he was unable to face the crowd as he simply waited for the verdict from the jury. The impenetrable castle-like gates that were the entrance to this grand building felt like they protected those on the outside instead of those within its walls. William was tired, his back was sore, and his mind was a mess. When he looked over at his wife’s family, he felt the pressure of their silent accusations hail down upon him relentlessly. He was sick of it all, sick of the public’s opinion and ready for it to be over. William looked around for his brother, but couldn’t see him. Unable to stand the judgemental stares, he turned to face the judge. The judge looked toward the jury box and asked, “Will the jury foreperson please stand?” A smirky-looking red-headed juror stood up and, with stiff posture, turned to face the judge. During the whole trial William had looked at this juror with his harsh jaws and dark eyes—a stiff contrast to the young woman beside him. It felt apt that he would have to hear his fate from the demon-child, who had decided today to gel his red hair back—most likely for the news crew reporting the trial. The rest of the men in the jurors’ box were looking toward the judge; just the

women looked at William; as if they were trying to use their female powers to see the truth. William could never lie to his wife for she literally saw straight through him; it had made surprising her practically impossible. Today, however, wasn’t exactly a surprise for anyone—including William. There was one brunette who tilted her head as she continued to look at Bill; her eyes seemed tired but thoughtful, and she gulped as the judge said the following words: “Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?” A paper form was taken by the clerk from the forepersons and ed to the Judge. “Yes, Your Honor,” said the redhead as he looked from the judge to William. The room went silent as the judge read the verdict. This case, that had been pushed through the courts for months, was coming to a close after an exceedingly-long nine-day trial. At this point the jury looked like they were ready for it to be over with too. Over a year ago William Ledger had been arrested for the brutal murder of his wife and one of his twelve-year-old daughters, and the attempted murder of his other daughter and three-year-old son. All of them were attacked on the same evening in a cabin they had rented for a long Easter weekend. His wife’s throat had deep bruises from strangulation, her face left deoxidized and purple, locked in a terrified expression. Her legs were parted as she lay still in a dress on the bedroom floor, displayed to disgrace her. One of the two daughters was found just at the bedroom door, dead from a swift blow to the head from a blunt object —this was suspected to have happened when she had surprised the attacker. The other daughter was unconscious, face down on the floor beside her bed, her bare legs limp and her soft untouched skin as white as a ghost. Further down the corridor in the kitchen area was his son, lying in a mix of blood and blackberry juice with a small knife in his midriff. Almost sick on the spot, William had called the police, but quickly he found himself protesting his innocence. The situation was a complex one for William to explain. He had planned a surprise with his brother for his family. William was supposed to have shown up

earlier, having taken the day off work to head up to the cabin first. And, because it was meant to be a surprise, he hadn’t told any of her friends or family apart from his brother, for William didn’t want to spoil it. Nor had he informed anyone at work as one of his colleagues’ wives was close friends with his Lizzie. So William had decided to use up a sick day instead of a vacation day—a perfect secret that was now a perfect nightmare. Stumbling over his words, William could not explain things to the police when they arrived soon after, and started to draw conclusions. All of a sudden, William—who had no alibi—was the prime suspect because he was one of only two people who knew his family was there. Once he was arrested, his defense tried to push back the court date, in order to give him a chance to prepare William for the stresses and the accusations that would enviably come. William was stuck with a state-provided defense attorney thanks to his parentsin-law not believing him. One week ago, at the beginning of the trial, this attorney had presented him as “Bill” in his opening statement, and said: “Bill is a ionate man with a hard shell and soft interior. A man who could, on occasion, yell—but who doesn’t. At work Bill praised those who improved on the job, with raises and more. Although he sometimes made people work late, he stayed even later. This man has a driven character, born to lead and he did so by example. As a father, he was not there all the time, but when he was he was active! He would not idly sit and watch television by their side. He would take his kids places, teach them skills and sports, making the most of the time he had. And, as a husband he was a rock; he and his wife fought like any other couple, and yes, he could get mad, but not toward her. He never hit her and, more importantly, never emotionally abused her either. In fact, on many occasions we have proof of him doing the exact opposite, messages by text and email of comfort and ,” concluded his state-provided defender. Until this point, William had proclaimed his innocence. Perhaps he had the potential and the opportunity, but as a loving father, husband and brother he had zero motive. At first, the district attorney seemed to have a weak case. This was clear to the jury too, so he asked for a motion to postpone his main arguments. The DA went hunting for a motive to nail him. When they re-adjourned the following day William was feeling quite positive, which showed in his relaxed body language.

However, this soon changed once the DA used the first few days to bring some facts to light. William stared straight ahead as he learned of the affair his wife had been having during the past year with an anonymous man—presenting calls, texts, and meetups. How perhaps his loving wife intended to divorce him and marry her lover, how perhaps his wife had already begun the legal process to leave—having looked at the process on her computer—how perhaps his children felt less connected to their father and actually didn’t notice his absences. They compared the style of each murder to his relationships with each member of his family individually. They assessed that there was a method to William’s madness that stood out like a fingerprint. The crime a reflection of his emotions. How he watched his wife’s soul leave her body. The quick end for his favorite daughter and the hesitation on the other, claiming she had become William’s “surrogate emotional partner” during the affair. They didn’t have much of a reason for the little boy, stating he must have been caught in the chaos and that William couldn’t tell blood from juice in his emotional breakdown. As the witnesses came, one by one the same, the case against William grew stronger and a motive was born out of thin air. Sitting as still as he could, the muscles in William’s back moved and altered with each word, and the audience could see this big man boil as rage built until his skin. As the witnesses changed, and each came to the stand, the case against Bill grew stronger and stronger: the motive born out of thin air that fit perfectly. On the fourth day, the Judge called a recess before it was time for one of the cops to be cross-examined by the defense. William’s attorney panicked, asking William why he hadn’t informed them about the affair and told him things were not going well. William pressed his lips together, holding back pain as he explained that he hadn’t known. Stating he had obliviously been naïve about the life he’d thought he’d had. The defense attorney thought about this: he looked at William and for a moment saw the man the DA was describing, but he couldn’t have that in his head right now. He had to focus on winning the case if he was going to get that desk he so

badly wanted in the public defender's office. William could sense this shift in his attorney, where he no longer felt like he was defending an innocent man, but rather was attempting to win on behalf of a guilty one. As the recess ended the court went back into session. The cross examination of one of the cops from the defense was as good as you could expect, and he was able to relieve some of the pressure on William by introducing reasonable doubt. Questioning the DA’s lack of explanation for Bill’s son’s attack and asking where William’s brother was. Stating that condemning an innocent man would not be just for the victims, including William as a main victim in his horrific situation. While William knew his attorney had doubts, his fight didn’t weaken as he poked holes in the DA’s of events. However, he struggled to establish enough accurate timings that could place William somewhere during the time of the murders. On the fifth day, a few of William’s friends were character witnesses. However, while they are great guys they did not word themselves well under questioning, resulting in more damaging testimony. One shrugged toward William as he stepped down from the stand, mouthing “Sorry, buddy.” This made William smile. The DA quickly pointed out the smile stating, “This is not a joke, Mr. Ledger.” The jury was all staring now at William, who decided to look away. On the sixth day, the defense attorney determined that he had only one option, and this was to call William to the stand himself, which would open William up to cross-examination. Having not slept from nerves the evening before, William was on edge when he approached the stand. He did not like to be the center of attention, although this was rarely a choice he had given his size and stature. The defense attorney did his best to present William as a loving father and ionate man who had just discovered his wife was unfaithful, shifting the doubt toward the unknown lover. Now it was time for the DA.

The district attorney asked, “Mr. Ledger, you are the only one aside from the victims to know about the evening in question correct? William Ledger said, “Yes… well… ” The DA cut him off. “Please, Mr. Ledger, just answer the questions.” The jury looked at William, who nodded. The district attorney continued, “You planned an Easter weekend with your family and brother? Yet you planned to surprise them at 11pm.” William explained, “My brother was driving my family out for the weekend. I wanted to get there first, but I got stuck in traffic and then one of my tires burst. It was a nightmare.” The DA smiled. “You could say that,” he smirked while looking at the jury before he continued. “So, your brother was not meant to stay the night?” Bill replied, “No, he dropped them off so that the kids and my wife could relax . He texted me when he left.” The DA asked him outright, “Did you know your wife was having an affair?” William Ledger said, curtly, “No.” The district attorney then asked him, “How does that make you feel; angry, I’ll bet?” William’s face became red as he realized he wasn’t just angry, he was furious. “She could have told me! Then this wouldn’t have happened,” William blurted out. Innocently, the district attorney replied, “So if she had told you earlier, she would have been alive today?” William Ledger responded, with heat, “Yes!” The DA smiled, pausing for a moment. “Your wife didn’t tell you the truth and she paid the price. You don’t like lies, do you, Mr. Ledger. You’re from a strict

Christian background and your wife was sinning.” “No, I just mean that if she told me, we maybe wouldn’t have been there that night.” The DA went for the kill shot. “If she had confessed to her sins, you would have redeemed her?” William was confused by the question. “I did… do love her very much. It might sound silly, but I wanted her to have the world, not take it away.” “How courageous; too bad we’ll never know that,” said the DA with a sad shake of his head. Bill’s lawyer interjected, “Objection, inflammatory!” The judge calmly ruled, “Denied.” The district attorney continued, “What was your plan for this trip? Besides bonding as one could surely do at home,” added, raising his eyebrows to the jury. Bill replied, “Well, I had organized an Easter egg hunt for the morning. I picked up some chocolate eggs on my way up to the cabin.” “Ah, yes, the alleged chocolate eggs. The ones that went missing, without a receipt. The store you sadly cannot recall the name off.” William was pained. “I can’t . I was stressed out, and I didn’t think the receipt would matter,” he said shrugging toward the jury. “I just wanted to have a weekend with my family, a silly surprise, not fixing a tire on the side of the road.” The defense attorney clenched his fist under the table, still frustrated that he hadn’t managed to find the other driver. The DA continued, “I don’t deny you forgot your receipt and perhaps others events that happened, and I don’t deny you planned a lovely trip and wanted to enjoy a joy filled time with your family.” He paused a moment and then casually added, “Which is why, when you found out your wife was having relations with

someone else, you snapped and killed her and your daughter, isn’t that true?” Defense attorney: “Objection!” The judge, irritated, ruled, “Sustained. Prosecution will refrain from attempting to sway the jury with such outbursts.” “I apologize, your honor.” The district attorney was all sincerity—but the damage had been done, and he knew it. “Mr. Ledger, your family was brutally attacked. You were the only one to know where your family was. Did you forget this fact, like you supposedly forgot others?” In disbelief, William repeated, “I didn’t do it.” The DA was sarcastic. “Well, if that’s the case, let’s just all go home now! Let’s ignore your son’s stabbed body, your daughter’s limp body and the other girl’s cracked skull, and your wife’s strangled neck!” The room rustled with reaction and the judge banged his gavel. “Order! Prosecution is instructed to ask questions, not make statements.” The district attorney waited until the courtroom quieted down. “Mr. Ledger, do you know what strangulation is like?” Bill said, “No, of course not.” The DA smiled. “Then allow me to explain.” He spoke more to the room than to the defendant as he gave the graphic details. “Strangulation is a painful way to die. The panic, the struggle as the victim looks into the eyes of the attacker. It’s a very personal murder,” added the DA, turning to the jury for the next part. “And if the victim is lucky they out and die from lack of oxygen to the brain. Sadly, this is not usually the case. Usually the airways don’t get completely cutoff, so the victim suffers in agony or tries to fight back.” He held out his hand out to illustrate the act of strangulation as he looked back at William. “And, in doing so the victim causes more damage to their own neck, like we see in this photo of Mrs. Ledger.” “How would you know?” William asked angrily. The DA jumps on this. “You’d suppose I wouldn’t,” he said, pausing as he

wanted the jury to take in what William had said. He paced in front of the jury box. “Elizabeth died within a minute, and the bruising showed that she did indeed struggle, Mr. Ledger. She fought her attacker for sixty seconds, and that’s a long time. The large bruises on her neck showed she was overpowered by a man of a substantial size and weight. How large are your hands, Mr. Ledger?” the DA asked, taking a look at William’s hands and then back to the jury. “They fit. You must be Cinderella.” William’s hands tensed and his biceps bulged; the jury moved back in their seats. The snide look on the DA’s face hit William; distraught, he was now on edge. “How many times do I have to say I didn’t do it? My wife may have f’d-up and cheated, but everyone makes mistakes! I know I’m not the perfect husband, but that’s why I planned that weekend! I don’t know what happened,” he stated clearly, slowly standing to his feet to plead with the jury. The judge was stern. “Sit back down, Mr. Ledger!” he exclaimed, beckoning two court officers to stand closer to William. He breathed out softly and sat back down. “I wanted a lovely weekend to bond with my family. But it didn’t go that way. And now I’m on trial for a crime I didn’t commit because I haven’t got a good alibi.” The jury leaned back in their seats, startled, having not heard William’s words. They were more focused on his actions. The DA stepped back and said, “No further questions, your honor.” Then the judge then called a brief recess. William headed into a side room with his attorney. Nervously pacing the small room, his lawyer was thinking about his closing argument. William tried to look calm as he sat, realizing now how his standing up might have come across. There was a knock at the door and the defense attorney went to open it. It was the DA, and he let him in. The DA looked over at William with pity, then turned to the defense attorney and

said, “If Bill agrees to plead murder in the second degree, caused by a crime of ion and momentary lapse in self-control, we’ll give him twenty years.” The DA turned to William and added, “With good behavior that could be shorter.” “No,” Bills instantly replied, looking at the DA. William’s defense attorney tried to talk to him. “Bill, think about it for a moment. This is a pretty good offer for two counts of murder,” he said, sticking to the facts. “I would agree with your attorney,” the DA said to William. “But I didn’t kill my family,” Bill objected, pouting as his face welled up, near tears. “Memory loss is not an option,” the DA said frankly to the defense attorney as he left the room. And William’s lawyer nodded at the DA as he closed the door. Looking at William, his defense attorney finally saw a friendly giant. “I know, Bill,” he said, as he patted William on the back. “Let’s go in and fight this one last time. Together.” He stated it confidently, no longer thinking about his desk at the public defender’s office. In the courtroom, his defense attorney made a decision: he’ll use mental stability in his closing statement. One final argument and attempt to save William. As recess concluded the trial swiftly moved forward. However, the judge had to adjourn for a day. This gave William one more night in thought.

On the seventh and final day of the trial, both the defense attorney and the DA were ready with their closing arguments early in the morning. The spectators were dressed in thick, dark coats from tackling the cold outside; this gave the room an ominous and gloomy feeling. News reporters were ready for the verdict, as were the family and friends sitting in the courtroom. The DA used witness statements in his argument. “It’s clear to those who know Mr. Ledger that he is a ionate man, the same words his own attorney used to describe him at the start of these proceedings. And, this is a blatant crime of ion. Yes, this case was a little messy; how could it not be?” he said, gesturing toward William. “A man had just found out that his wife, his best friend, had been having an affair. In an instant he was overcome with rage and killed her. His daughter Laura came to her mother’s aid and paid the price with her life. Helen fortunately was only knocked unconscious in the chaos and little Jack lived, although he barely survived the knife wound.” He paused dramatically. “The jury must there is credible evidence that s a finding of guilty for Mr. Ledger. Those four victims deserve retribution.” Taking a deep breath, the defense attorney looked at William with a smile, before he turned to the jury, “This case is based on hearsay and speculation,” he began. Walking the jury through the case step by step he pointed out every point where doubt was possible, including the fact that there were no witnesses: his daughter could not the attack due to trauma, and Bill’s son had been too young to testify. Then, concluding with his Hail Mary—mental instability— he firmly reminded the jury that this is a man without a record or any prior violence to his name, emphasizing William’s humanity.

It was two days later and here it was: the jurors’ deliberation was in. Having swung back and forth in discussions their verdict was finally ready. Having read and acknowledged the verdict, the judge es the form back to the clerk to read it aloud to the courtroom. Holding up the form the clerk coughed to clear his throat as he looked down. “The jury finds the accused William Ledger: for two counts of murder in the first degree, not guilty. For two counts of attempted murder in the first degree, not guilty. For two counts of murder in the second degree…” Making a final glance around the room, catching the eyes of the solemn faces, the clerk continued “Guilty. For two counts of attempted murder in the second degree, guilty.” Tears of joy began to be shed behind him as William sat still. His mother-in-law collapsed into the arms of her husband, who instantly helped his wife sit back up. The judge intoned, “William Ledger, you are hereby sentenced to twenty-five years to life, which you will serve in the Bridgewater Psychiatric Facility of Massachusetts. You will receive treatment until a time you are seen as stable, at which point you are to be transferred to prison where you will finish the remainder of your sentence.” William’s parents-in-law stood and left, heads held high, not turning back for a moment… like two people who’d attended a funeral just to check that the individual in question was well and truly dead. In the back of the room, behind the defense was William’s sister-in-law. She must have just turned up today because William hadn’t seen her until now. She sat with her hand covering her mouth, masking her emotions as she looked at William in sorrow. As William watched his parents-in-law leave he noticed her and they caught each others’ eyes. “The jury is thanked and excused. Court is adjourned,” stated the judge as his gavel struck the block and William Ledger’s fate was sealed. William stood up, preparing to be escorted out. The DA leaned over and

mumbled something to the defense attorney’s ear, before he walked out, readying himself to speak to reporters. William’s attorney turned and reached out his hand. “Good luck, Bill. I mean it,” he said looking up at William, before he picked up his briefcase and William was taken back into custody.

Day 4


Stanley is sitting on a bench watching Haley enjoy her hotdog. He has an urge to take it from her as his stomach rumbles. Stanley is not exactly a shining citizen; he’s had his moment of glory. He knows people think he’s awesome, but deep down inside Mark is the one who really knows him. Together, Stanley feels they are the crime-preventing rebels, like De Niro and Pacino in Righteous Kill. Two bad asses who worked hard and played hard. Meanwhile, Mark is sitting elsewhere in the car, his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road. He’d driven a mile or so up the road, away from Dover. And now he is stuck, unable to move. The red has left his face, but inside he is still a tornado of emotions, and doesn’t know what he will feel next. Mark is thinking about his brother, and the colorful house he had. He wants to know more. What is Joseph doing? Who is the “we” the neighbor referred to? Is he happy? That’s an important question: he knew he had hurt his brother with what had happened, but when he saw that he had been cropped out of the photo he felt that Joseph must blame him, too. Why else would he not want to see Mark’s face? Mark looks in the rearview mirror. There is no one in front of him and no one behind. The river is so close: it would be so easy just to turn the wheel and drive. So easy just to stop thinking all together, stop wondering “why” and “who.” As he thinks about Lizzie the time es; the sun moves further west, but Mark doesn’t move at all. Mark wishes he could talk to his wife: no matter what he was doing, she just had this ability to calm him and make everything seem clear. He sighs, putting his right hand over his left on the steering wheel, as he gazes out of the window. He feels his fingers, and then, his eyes widen as he feels the bareness of his ring

finger. In that moment, he re that Stanley is wearing it. Stanley who has been left alone with Haley. Mark looks at the dashboard clock. It’s been over an hour. He starts the car and races back. This only takes a minute as he is only a mile away. Mark taps on the glass of the motel room sliding door, but there is no reaction. The curtains are closed and the lights are off, Mark begins to panic as he knocks harder on the glass saying, “Open up, Stanley.” There is no reaction. Mark panics and rushes to reception; he doesn’t care as he launches himself at the desk and the woman flies back in fear. He pulls his badge out of his pocket and drops it on the counter. “I am looking for my partner. It’s an emergency.” The woman’s expression alters, and she jumps to his aid. She asks when he checked in and Mark tells her it was early this morning, but under an alias. She looks in her book as she recalls Stanley and hunts on a board of keys for the spare. She sees it and grabs it and then rushes down the hall. Mark stops her at the door as she is about to put the key in, and says, “Ma’am, thank you. But I need to check myself.” “Of course, officer,” the motel owner says taking a step back, her heart beating with a mix of angst and excitement. Mark slowly opens the door, his heart in his throat with concern. The room is empty. He checks the bathroom, but no one is there. Walking back out he closes and locks the door behind him. The owner looks at him with curiosity, “So?” Mark shakes his head. “He’s not there.” The motel owner raises her forefinger, “Actually, come to think of it, I saw him leave. Like an hour ago.” “Do you know where he went?” Mark asks intensely.

“No,” the motel owner confirms. “But he did take a pamphlet from the selection,” she says, pointing down the hall to the reception. With heavy thuds, Mark runs down the hall and starts to rifle through the options. The motel owner comes close behind. “That one,” she says, pointing at a camping leaflet. Mark picks up the leaflet on Dyers Creek and flips through it frantically. “Where is this place, ma’am?” The motel owner gestures out the door and to the left. “It’s like five minutes from here, depends how far up the creek you go.” “Thank you for your assistance in this matter, ma’am,” Mark says as he pockets the spare key and pamphlet. Mark walks outside, jumps in the Nissan, and pulls out of the parking lot. The motel owner returns to her reception desk, realizing that Mark has taken her spare key. In the park Mark runs around. He sees the groups under the shelter and ignores them, knowing Stanley won’t be there. He quickly makes his way to the water and looks around. It’s beautiful, but that’s not what he is there for. It doesn’t take long before Mark sees Stanley on a bench, watching Haley. Mark storms up to Stanley. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” he snaps at Stanley, who becomes startled. Haley, unaware, continues to play. “Well, I thought I was playing in the park, but now I’m not too sure,” Stanley says, confused by the tone of Mark’s voice. Mark then takes a moment to physically and mentally step back and look at them both. Mark looks at Stanley’s soft hazel eyes and realizes he’s scared him, this twenty-nine-year-old guy.

“Francis’ social boundaries are skewed, but socially and sexually he is unable to process situations clearly.”

AJ

Mark slowly steps forward and takes a seat next to Stanley. Stanley keeps his eyes on Haley. “So… you good now?” Stanley asks calmly, ignoring Mark’s outburst. Mark breathes heavily. “Fine.” “Doesn’t sound like it,” Stanley says. “Well, I am,” Mark says reassuringly to Stanley as well as to himself. “Good. We’re fine too,” Stanley says, gesturing to Haley and the crumbs around her face. Mark feels confused: again Stanley was right and he wasn’t. Mark feels upset, unable to do anything correctly. He feels his brain surge, as he feels his natural instincts are being disrupted and confused—his logic is shot to pieces. Mark rubs his head with his hand, and looking at the water he thinks about the moment in the car. “Mark?” Stanley says, clearly with a question in mind. Mark, whose eyes are shut as he relaxes, replies, “What is it?” knowing that Stanley was after something. “I’m bored. Extremely bored. Do you want to do something?” Stanley moans. “Not really, partner. Why don’t you play with Lily?” Mark suggests. “I did and it was okay, but we have nothing in common,” Stanley explains.

“You played together?” Mark asks, eyes open. “Yeah, on the swings.” Stanley points to the swing set twenty or so yards away. Mark sighs and smiles. “And you don’t like the swings.” Stanley rocks side to side. “They’re okay, nothing special,” he says while taking off his left shoe and pouring out the sand that’d made its way inside. Then he repeats this with his right shoe. “But,” Stanley continues, “I’m starving like a child in Africa right now, so let’s get some food!” Stanley says, jumping up. “Grab the kid, will ya?” Mark chuckles as he feels his place again. He shuffles side to side as he goes to grab Haley, placing her on his shoulders. As he walks to the car and watches him walk in front, Mark wonders what goes on in Stanley’s head. Stanley’s thought process baffles Mark. Stanley is a guy who has sides to him like a Rubik’s Cube: as soon as you solved one side you had even less understanding of another. The three walk away from the creek, park, camping site, whatever you wanted to call it, and get in the car. Mark straps Haley into the back seat, “You okay, Lily?” he asks, giving her a thumbs-up. Haley signs, “Yes.” Stanley looks in the glove compartment and finds a candy bar shoved in the back behind some old maps. Triumphantly he presents it to Haley and Mark, grinning as he looks at them before opening and eating it. Mark rolls his eyes. “What? I’m hungry,” says Stanley.

Day 4

6:04 PM – Restaurant, Tennessee

After planning to stay out of the town, they find a place to eat further down the road, past the gas station from earlier. Stanley recognizes it straight away. “We ed this place when we went to dump the car,” Stanley says as they walk into Lance's Pizza & Subs. Mark shushes him, looking around. Inside, the three of them get a huge portion of breadsticks with cheese as a sharer to start. Haley digs straight in, her little hands getting in under Mark and Stanley’s. They laugh as she munches away, a smile growing on her face as she feels her belly fill with food. The place isn’t busy: delivery guys come and go but there are only seven other people, a guy by himself, a family of four, and a couple. Mark shows Haley the menu, pointing at the pictures. But Haley pointed straight away to the words, underlining with the little finger the dish “Baked Spaghetti and Meatballs” before she signs, “That’s my favorite.” “Okay, so it’s pretty clear what Lily wants,” Mark laughs, looking to Stanley. Stanley hasn’t heard him. His head is stuck in the menu, reading back and forth. “I can’t decide!” he says, frustrated. “I know I don’t want a sub, as I had a hotdog earlier,” Stanley says to himself. “I know I want a pizza, but the baked pasta options sound really good.” He pauses. “I could always take a bite of Lily’s. She won’t mind.” “Hey,” Mark interrupts. “She gets her own food!” A waiter comes over to the table. “Y’all ready, just going to start you off with some water,” he says, placing three tall ice waters down. “Are you ready to

order?” he continues, taking a pen and notepad from his apron, holding it poised. “Yes,” Mark says. Stanley frantically scans the menu thinking to himself, Four cheese, pepperoni, taco? No, Stanley, now is not the time to experiment! “She will have the Baked Spaghetti and Meatballs, and the Chicken Bacon Ranch sub for me,” Mark says. Both Mark and the waiter watch as Stanley looks up at them and then down, and then says, “What would you recommend, the Apple or Cherry Dessert pizza?” “You are ordering dessert for dinner?” Mark asks, incredulous. Stanley puts out his left hand to Mark to quiet him, looking intensely at the waiter, awaiting his response. “Apple, one-hundred percent,” the waiter says with a smile. Stanley pauses. “I’ll have the chicken wings to start, and the cherry pizza afterwards,” Stanley says handing the menu over. “Any fixin’s?” the waiter asks before he takes the menus and walks away. “Nope,” replies Stanley. A few minutes later a pizza es and Stanley asks their waiter what it is. “This is our special ‘Lance’s All Meat Pie,’” the waiter says. Stanley looks annoyed as the waiter leaves. “Excuse me,” says Mark, calling the waiter over. “Could we change the order of chicken wings for a medium ‘Lance’s All Meat Pie’?” Mark asks. “Sure we can,” says the waiter, “and you still want the medium Cherry Dessert Pizza?” Stanley nods. “Yes,” Mark confirms to the waiter, who is smiling as he returns to the kitchen.

“Happy?” he asks Stanley. “Yep. Besides, I already had that amazing chicken in Corbin,” Stanley says. When the food arrives, Stanley asked the waiter to take a photo of them. Mark grimaces, unable to stop the moment from happening. The meal reminds Stanley of when he and his stepdad would go out for dinner. His stepdad was not a great cook so they would go to this place in Springfield that made amazing corn mash and meatballs. This became their ritual when Stanley’s half-sister had a pageant: she and his mom would be away for a few days—leaving Stanley and his stepdad to fend for themselves. As Stanley, Mark, and Haley ate quietly, refueling from the day, you could hear the other tables: the couple splitting two pizzas, a four-cheese and pepperoni; the guy by himself digging into a large meatball sub; the family trying to keep the food in their kids’ mouths instead of on the table and floor. Mark looks around, the smell of meat in the air, the rock posters on the wall, the decorative blues flowing through the room. It was lively, but with a slow, warm vibe in the air. The moment is cut short by Stanley. “I really want to have a real southern experience,” Stanley says to Mark out of the blue, going to town on the cherry dessert pizza. When they get back to the motel they are all stuffed. Mark sets sleepy Haley in the crafted cot, checking she is okay before he sits down. Haley yawns deeply, shaking her head. Mark goes and sits on the chair behind the coffee table, resting his feet on the other chair. Stanley is the fullest of the three; he lies back on the bed, spread out like a star. Mark had never seen him eat that much; he is somewhat proud that Stanley has eaten more than him. Mark’s stomach isn’t feeling too good at the moment. Stanley moans and groans. “So full! I’m like a balloon that’s ready to pop.” He says this while pulling up his green top and exposing his stomach to Mark.

Mark says, “Put it away; no one wants to see that.” Stanley pulls his top down, looking over at Haley who isn’t paying attention. Stanley shrugs. “She isn’t even looking.” Mark raises his eyebrows while standing up and heading toward the bathroom. He sees Haley’s and Stanley’s clothes hanging and checks to see if they are dry. Mark decides to take off his new sweater and hang it up; then he removes the smelly jeans he is still wearing and puts them in the sink. “Right. I’m going to wash my jeans in the sink because they still stink like dead fish, okay? So leave them to soak,” Mark calls out as he puts on some fresh underwear and comes out with a towel around his waist. “Yeah, yeah, leave the jeans alone, I got it,” Stanley says, bursting into laughter as Mark comes out of the bathroom. “What?” says Mark, looking behind him. Stanley points to the towel carefully draped around Mark’s waist. “Well, I only have jeans and I’m full,” Mark explains to Stanley, who is still laughing. “Oh, grow up!” Mark says crossly as strolls into the room in his towel. Stanley’s laughing fit slows as he catches his breath. “Why don’t you just sit in your underwear then?” Mark frowns, looking over at Haley. “Because I’m not a pervert.” Stanley stops laughing. “Did you enjoy your pizza?” Mark asks Stanley, who is now flicking through the channels on the TV. “Yeah, it was really good. I can’t the last time I had a pizza that wasn’t just some canned tomatoes spread on stale bread and microwaved,” Stanley says, raising a small smile.

Mark beams: he likes seeing Stanley happy. “Good!” Half an hour later, Haley is napping while Mark and Stanley are watching a movie they ed partway through. They think it’s an action movie, but there’s been a lot of political talking so far. “Gum?” Stanley asks Mark, taking a stick from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. Mark gestures a “no” with his hand, seeing Haley stir in her cot. She gets up and climbs onto the bed next to Stanley, who is still spread out. Now feeling rested she is eager to play and looks closely at Stanley. He doesn’t react and keeps his eyes on the TV. Unable to get his attention Haley, jumps in front of Stanley and onto his stomach. His face spasms as he coughs out his gum, then pushes Haley off him and runs into the bathroom. Stanley returns slowly, holding his stomach in pain. Mark looks at him and grins. “It’s not funny,” Stanley says as he climbs back onto the bed. Haley sits shyly, pouting her lip. “It’s a little funny,” Mark says, watching Stanley’s irritated face as he tries to get the large pillow back from Haley. “Oops,” Stanley says, pulling Haley’s head towards him. “What?” Mark says standing up and walking over. “Looks like someone is getting a haircut after all.” Stanley with an evil crooked grin, as he turns Haley’s face to Mark. Haley has a large lump of pizza and gum mixed together in one of her braids. Mark tries to get it out but it just gets worse as more and more of her soft blonde locks tangle into the gum. Mark takes her to the bathroom and sits her on the side of the sink, removing her

braids to assess the damage. Luckily the gum only got stuck on one side in the front by her face. After Mark tries to remove it for ten minutes, there is a knock at the bathroom door. Stanley is standing there with the pair of scissors. “Snip snip,” he says, cutting the air. Mark takes the scissors from Stanley and places them on the counter. Mark looks at Haley and says, “I have to cut this out of your hair,” showing her the gum. Haley signs “Will it hurt?” and starts to cry. As she tries to pull the gum from her hair, her finger gets caught and it does hurt. She looks up at Mark with a frightened expression as Stanley smiles smugly in the doorway. Mark takes Haley’s hands away from her face. “Shush, Lily, please. It will all be over soon. It’s for the best,” Mark says smiling as he looks into the eyes of a girl who seems to be so overwhelmed by it all. Mark looks at her, ing when Helen hurt her knee on the curb and he took her to the hospital. Mark pulled silly faces to distract her, and the pain went away as she stopped crying and started laughing. Mark scrunches up his nose and mouth, sticking out his tongue. Haley doesn’t laugh, but she does stop crying, which was a win for Mark. He then thinks about what he can do to fix this, and he ties Haley’s hair into a bun, leaving out the part stuck with gum. He notices it is mainly in front of her eyes as he starts to cut away at her delicate hair. As it falls to the floor so does the gum. Stanley gets bored and hears action finally starting in the movie, so he leaves them and hops onto bed, taking the large cushion and placing it behind his back. Once it is completely out of her hair, Mark sees that he’s cut a strange half-bang, so he decides to even it out. He removes the bun and lets her natural parting fall into place, then delicately uses his fingers to comb through her hair. Ever so carefully, he separates the cut and uncut portions in front her eyes, then ties up the rest back into a bun. Slowly, he snips little by little away, stepping back to assess how it looks and

then cutting a little more. Eventually, he stands back and smiles, placing the scissor carefully out of harm’s way. He then gestures to Haley to close her eyes and blows away any remaining cut hairs. Mark looks at his work and feels quite proud. He actually doesn’t think he did too badly; he’d been worried that he would make her look like a boy. Haley turns around to look in the mirror and does a double-take as she doesn’t recognize herself. Mark, panicked, puts his hand over his mouth as he watches Haley examine the bangs in the mirror. Then Haley begins to smile. She bounces up and down happily and Mark is filled with relief as he picks her up and puts her on the clean side of the floor. Haley signs “Thank you,” and leaves the room with a bounce in her step. “Not bad, not bad,” calls Stanley to Mark from the bedroom. “You certainly managed to ‘make it work,’” he adds with a chuckle. Mark wrings out his jeans and hangs them on the shower rail before wiping the hair into a corner with a small washcloth and placing a trash can over it. He washes his hands and comes out of the bathroom, turning off the light. “Those are bangs,” Mark says. Stanley looks at Mark with narrowed eyes as he tries to decipher what Mark is saying. “? Your fall look…a cute bun with bangs?” Mark grins. Stanley quickly nods as he recalls that quiz. “Ah, yes, well, I would certainly rock this look. I mean, it’s not terrible on her… but it would look better on me.” Mark rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.” Stanley coughs, raising his eyebrows. “Language?” Mark huffs as he sits back down. Somehow he’s stuck fixing the mess, and

cleaning it up, and yet he still ends up in the wrong. A vein in his temple throbs with irritation as he tries to focus on the movie. Stanley bursts into laughter as an extra gets shot on screen, which makes Mark even more annoyed. The high “E” in Stanley’s laugh rings in Mark’s ears as his migraine returns. Unable to focus on the TV screen, Mark picks up his drawstring bag, takes a coaster and pen out and places them on the coffee table. He looks up to think for a moment and then starts to sketch. Feeling more relaxed by the second, Mark has no clue about that suspicious cop in Dyers Creek. So, with nothing to worry and a “Do Not Disturb” hanger on their doorknob, all three of them settle in for the night. As the film finishes and the credits begin to roll a little after nine p.m., Mark turns to Haley who has fallen asleep against Stanley’s arm, who had also drifted off. Mark smiled at how peaceful they look, Haley looking adorable with her new bangs—which makes Mark feel proud again.

“Francis’ sociable personality is lost within his current placement, I suggest he is moved to a different housing unit.”

AJ

Jaded, Mark needs a breath of fresh air, but first he goes through Stanley’s jacket and takes a few cigarettes. He opens the sliding glass door; heading outside he feels the fresh breeze fill his lungs, as he places a cigarette between his lips and lights it with matches he took from the restaurant earlier in the evening. Outside the stars shine through the clear sky as Mark walks. He paces, his feet as restless as his mind. He isn’t sure what he is feeling, but he doesn’t like it. It’s emotion that is, to some extent, faint and unrecognizable.

As the sky darkens over Dover, slowly the lights of houses go out as residents head to bed. One man who is not quite ready for bed is Officer Mathews, who is sitting in his kitchen drinking a beer. His wife comes in, in a nightgown, her stomach looking like it is about to pop. “I’ll be up soon,” Officer Mathews says to his wife and her stomach, giving both a kiss. She walks to the fridge and gets herself some ice chips, and as she looks past Mathews she kisses his forehead and places another beer on the table in front of him. “Goodnight, Shugga. Don’t make it too late, ya hear?” she says to him with a wink as she heads out of the room. Laid out on the kitchen table are cards of paper: a report from Jill about a man that was aggressive with Annie; comments from locals of a huge guy in his midthirties wandering around town trying to buy little girls’ underwear; Rod sold his ancient Nissan for four thousand in cash to a guy he’d never met; and the rumor going around about an undercover agent in town. Scratching his head, Officer Mathews is trying to put all the pieces of information he has heard together. He takes a moment and thinks back to the creek, taking out more note cards and writing down “the strange tall young male with blonde hair and a beard wearing a green sweater and six-year-old girl wearing jeans and a pink hoodie and braids.” They looked like they could be related, but there was something fishy about how the man interacted with the kid. The way he spoke about her with distance, and how she ran just as easily to Mathews as she did to the man. He isn’t sure what it was, but Officer Mathews suspects something and wants to know who these people are, and what they are doing in Dover. Mathews spends another thirty-minutes thinking before he calls it a night; without being able to inquire, he isn’t going to get any further tonight. Besides that, he has a morning shift starting at six, so that he can go to their two o’clock Lamaze class.

A month and a half ago


A rolled-up newspaper sits in the trash of the warden’s office, and outside the corridors are quiet. Patients are either in their rooms or preparing for lunch. Two guards are heading to the canteen and are checking in on a difficult patient. “Did you see the report?” the tall guard asks. “Massachusetts prison brutality,” the bald guard replies. “Yeah. It’s fucking ridiculous if you ask me. We’re expected to deal with these nut jobs everyday and not use a little extra influence to sort the problems out.” “Right!” huffs the tall guard as they Arnold’s office. Arnold sits behind his wooden desk with the newspaper laid out. He has his computer on but the wifi isn’t working. He feels sick as he reads the article in front of him, worriedly glancing at the door to ensure no one comes in. He hears the chatter of the guards as they , and each time he feels a little jumpy. Arnold has just finished with one of his more impressionable patients half an hour earlier, and had just reread his SOAP note before saving it into the system. “Date, July 23 rd 2018, patient, 390/213,” Arnold reads. This is a part of the week Arnold enjoys. The late Monday morning meetings he has with patient 390/213, otherwise known as Francis Madsen, are always interesting. Sometimes awkward, sometimes funny, but they were most certainly never dull. You could not predict what you were going to get with Francis, and Arnold liked this. To Arnold, Francis is one of his achievements, a reminder that what he does

matters. No matter what the papers say, Arnold has looked out for Francis for over a decade. Francis is also the only one to call him “AJ.” That started after their first session twelve years ago. Francis had been sitting in the chair with a grin as he watched rookie Arnold, who was trying to act like a pro as he sat in his brand-new dark leather chair. Arnold couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven years old. Francis was observant and could see the stiffness of the fabric and started to mess around with Arnold, having a mini meltdown on the floor in the fetal position and demanding Arnold pretend to be his mother. After five minutes, Arnold began to panic and got up to get the phone to call a guard for assistance, at which point eighteen-year-old Francis got up and said “Relax AJ, I was just messin’ with you.” Arnold breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his leather chair. “AJ?” he asked Francis. “Arnold Joseph.” Francis said it sarcastically, slowly. Arnold explained calmly, “Francis, I appreciate the nickname; however, I think it’s best that we stick to Arnold.” He kept his distance with his notepad on his lap. However, this did not work with Francis, who instead kept on calling Arnold AJ, and Arnold kept correcting him. It wasn’t until Francis came in with bruises that Arnold started to see the value of simple small informalities in the troublesome day-to-day existence of someone like Francis Madsen. Arnold quickly learned that Francis was going to be different: his quick wit and well-educated mind were stimulating. What Arnold came to find a challenge was the vast mix of behavioral moods from one session to the next. It was also a professional challenge for Arnold to keep his notes accurately in line. During the first few months he would turn to a list of descriptive to use when filling in SOAP notes, so that he would get specific observations written down as accurately as possible. Francis was a patient whose SOAP notes had included every single one of those descriptors at one point or another, from hot-blooded and venomous to civil and prudish. However, these were readable emotions for Arnold; it was the days that

Francis was lewd and indifferent that troubled Arnold, like the calm eye of a storm. Francis was clever: when his work days were coming up he was extra polite for he didn’t want to miss out, but when that ended anything could happen. Arnold quickly learned that Francis worked well under pressure; that he could handle stress by dissociating himself from a situation, but only when he felt it benefited him. Like everyone else, Francis was first placed on a lot of medications: a mix of anti-psychotics used to tackle his quirks as well as his issues. However, Francis was a long-term resident of Bridgewater, so over time he’d managed to reduce his medication with Arnold’s help. Francis wanted to be able to think clearly but he didn’t want to feel, claiming confused emotions were the cause of his outbursts—rather than a reaction to his feelings and surroundings. Nowadays, Francis was mainly on antidepressants that were ed with regular discussions with Arnold. Others, who came in for shorter periods were not so lucky. Patient 527/890 was one of those cases. Mr. Ledger’s heavy dose was transforming him, as had been required by the state, but whether or not this was good in the long-term was not a concern at Bridgewater. Arnold did not like this part of his job, but he felt dutybound to ensure the safety of the staff as well; especially after an incident when one the guards was stabbed in the face by an angry patient with a plastic knife. Luckily the guard was okay, but after a meeting with the warden, Arnold was told (ordered) to be more rigorous with his dosages. As time went on, it got easier for Arnold, and whether it was to help calm patients or make them easier for staff to deal with, he just did it. He justified this by thinking in the back of his mind that this way at least he was able to select a suitable pill for each individual, rather than leaving it open to someone who did not know the patient, or their circumstances. Someone who just saw them as another set of numbers. Arnold felt that although he might prefer less drastic techniques for his patients, most of the time the pills were effective. Except for Francis, the breath of fresh air in Arnold’s week. The guards did not like Francis: they thought he was arrogant, and he was. He was also vain and

blunt.

07/23/2018

Patient:390/213

S: The midnight incidents have stopped, but he is having nightmares. Though he reported also having dreams as well for a change. He still eats continuously, hiding food in his room. Once again he has requested a new type of anti-depressant medication as his usual one is making him very constipated even though he is stable. Francis has reported blood in his bowels, which will be noted in the request to switch medication. As reported in the past months, Francis has developed a friendship with another patient who he refers to as Mark. And, today Francis made a request to the guards to call him Stanley. There was concern of bipolar disorder and a demand for medication review—which will not be happening. Francis’ request was not much of a surprise. It reminds me of previous sessions from three years ago, when Francis decided to share a large chunk of his life story only for me to discover it was Francis as Holden Caulfield, in The Catcher in the Rye. After what had felt like a wasted session, I found that Francis felt

more comfortable being happy as someone else. So, it’s not strange that he is trying to rename/rebrand himself. What is interesting is the timing, why now and not three years ago? O: Francis’ adolescent side is coming forward as of late. (Dissociation is after twelve years in the system subsiding, previously noted as not possible) This is in turn showing the mixed attitudes that come with his age: twenty-nine. Francis has opened an emotional side of himself in his last session. In the past, I have been fooled by falseness, but I believe a real shift is taking place in Francis. I am not certain of the root but I think that there has been an influence on Francis from the unknown “Mark.” The way Francis is talking about Stanley and Mark comes across like a story of childhood companionship, again perhaps insight to his missing adolescence. Francis is still unable to anything before the age of fourteen, I still believe this is repression for a reason I am yet to discover in my twelve years with Francis—but I believe we are getting closer. A: The to describe him in this state are sobered, responsive and accessible. The question is if this is a new normal or a calm before the storm. Increased: Mood, behavior. Sustained: Nourishment, ability to care for himself. Decreased: Sense of reality is potential risk. (TBD) P: It is worthwhile to uncover who “Mark” is, as it could be useful in

developing more stability for Francis. I believe Francis is not willing to reveal the identity of “Mark” for fear that relationship will be broken. Serious potential progress could be made with real social developments. New medication will be reviewed and prescribed before the following sessions with Francis Madsen.

Arnold felt gratified as he finished the review of his report and filed it in the system. As Arnold did a quick scan he noticed a reduction in the size of some files. He opened a few to check and everything appeared fine at a first glance, but there was something strange he couldn’t explain. Thirsty, Arnold decided to leave it and take a coffee break he felt he deserved after what he would describe as a successful session. As he stood stirring the quick mix coffee into boiling water he began to think of how he would find out who “Mark” was. Arnold found seventy or so patients called Mark, none of whom he would liken to Francis, and many could be ruled out based on where they resided in the facility. He got so wrapped up in looking through his files his coffee went cold and so did his search. He knew he needed help, but didn’t want to include the guards, which meant he would have to think of someone else in the facility, but that thought was cut short by his noon appointment. He sat and listened to patient 444/808, taking one sip of his cold coffee and wanting to spit it out. Arnold sat detached from the words coming out of the patient, he couldn’t help but think about Francis and the mystery of Mark. As the time rounded off, he found himself essentially bullshitting the SOAP note with previous observations he reread in the system and rewrote slightly differently. At one o’clock, Arnold really needed a coffee so he was pleased that his next

session with William. William Ledger had been going to Arnold for a little over ten months now. His changes had finally plateaued, but Arnold was unsure if this was a good thing. William’s emotions were suppressed by his medication, which was a concern as Arnold felt professionally that William’s had been a relatively simple case from the start. It was clear to Arnold that William should be discharged from Bridgewater and moved into the general prison popular to serve the remainder of his sentence. The sessions they now had were part of a formality, so Arnold had moved them from Tuesdays at 1:30pm to Mondays at 1pm. His schedule was pretty tight as Bridgewater had cut their budget for psychiatrists, but this didn’t concern Arnold, who was part of the foundations at this point—the objective bridge between the guards and the patients. Arnold came into the room five minutes later with a cup of coffee for both William and himself. He didn’t do this with other patients, but he knew William had been clearly misplaced. He was one of the men who had fallen through the cracks in the system. Unlike other patients like Francis who needed routine, William found it infuriating and monotonous, so when Arnold had suggested they move their sessions William smiled with excitement. It was a small change that spiced up William’s week, making things a little easier. At this point, his sessions with William were just like shooting the breeze with a buddy. Arnold would update him on sports and William would start ranting and raving about coaches and plays—betting that the Patriots would be the ones to watch this season. Arnold was both happy and sad as he saw the inevitable end coming to William’s time in Bridgewater. To Arnold, William was like a benchmark for the normality they strived for here.

Day 5


Stanley is awake and loudly watching Good Morning, America by himself; he was on top of the covers as Mark had sweated profusely during the night. Mark must have gotten up and snuck out earlier that morning and Haley was in the bathroom. She had been in there for ten minutes now. Stanley considers getting Mark to check on her if she is still in there when he gets back. Stanley really enjoys the news. He always wondered what people were doing as he ed them: what their days included, the thoughts they had… the news provided a summary of this, a summary of people and their insights. A short while later, as usual, Stanley is bored. So, he checks on Haley. He knocks at the door, and of course there is no answer. He knocks again, three times, and no answers. “Hello?” Stanley says, forgetting the kid is deaf and waiting for an answer. Stanley leans against the wall opposite and waits, staring at the handle. Looking at the shiny gold door handle, its round smooth edges, he stares closely; he can see his own fish-eyed reflection. Eventually, the handle moves and Stanley steps back. The door opens slowly, and Haley walks out. “You could have answered,” Stanley says, rolling his eyes. Haley looks past him and goes to sit on the bed. “Well, now, that’s just rude,” Stanley says jokingly as he goes into the bathroom to take a piss. Meanwhile, having slept terribly, Mark is out for a morning walk, hoping the

fresh air alone will do him some good. He doesn’t know where he wants to go but knows that he isn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. As he heads towards the bridge he veers left and goes to Dyers Creek. It feels relaxing when he sees the lake. Reluctant to do anything, Mark walks up and along the pontoon bridge, taking a seat at the end. It’s lovely and quiet, for the campers are still asleep. After about ten minutes Mark gets up and walks back, the wooden planks clunking under his heavy footsteps. Each step grows harder, and he feels his knees wobble as he tries to take another step down onto the shore. He can’t: his legs become stiff and he feels suddenly trapped within his own body. He knows that moving his body forward will bring him safely onto the ground; he’s just not capable of it. Stumbling back along the planks he falls, barely missing the water. As he hits the pontoon there is a loud thud as the wood shudders. He throws his hands around his head and curls into a ball, writhing and calling out as a sharp pain rushes through his head. His eyes shut, the world becomes much darker. The sight of his wife fills the inside of his eyelids; his heart is confused and his mind grows angry—frustrated he reaches out to her with his right arm. He feels nothing but the cool breeze of the lake as it raises the hairs on his arm. Two early morning campers wake up from the noise and come out and look toward the pontoon. They see a large man lying helpless and uncomfortably close to the water’s edge. He looks like he is in serious need of medical help. One of the campers runs to get their phone while the other heads toward the man. “Hey, buddy, ya’ll okay?” asked the camper, a guy Mark recognized from Lance’s the evening before. Mark’s spasming muscles begin to stop throbbing and he relaxes. The camper bends over and tries to check for a heartbeat as Mark is as still as the planks beneath him, flat on his back. The guy is trying to feel his neck, repeating what he’s seen on TV, but doesn’t know where to place his fingers. Kneeling over Mark, the camper pushes back his eyelids, trying to look for something.

As Mark’s eyes catch the light his pupils retract, and his eyes snap shut. Mark shoots up, inadvertently head-butting the camper and knocking him onto his ass. Mark gets to his feet and helps the camper up, unaware of what just happened. “You okay?” Mark asks the camper, who looks bewildered at how the tables have turned. Mark looks around and sees another camper running over, so he jogs past him and points to the pontoon. “You should check on your friend; he seems to have hurt his head,” Mark says as he es. The other camper looks at the pontoon and back to Mark as he quietly walks away, oblivious of his own pale face and trembling hands. As Mark turns up the drive of the Sunrise Motor Inn he sees a police motorbike parked at the entrance and freezes. He takes a step back just out of sight and wonders what he should do, wonders what has happened… could this be just a casual call? “Fuck,” Mark says to himself as he thinks it might be because he told the motel owner that he and Stanley were undercover agents. At the reception’s desk was Officer Mathews, having a cheerful catch up with the owner. “Look, Nancy, place looks great, but I actually came here for a reason. I believe you have a traveler from out of town, a tall guy maybe six foot, blonde hair, scruffy beard with a young seven- or so- year-old blonde haired, green-eyed daughter?” The motel owner thinks for a moment and replies, “We have a tall guy who checked in yesterday that sounds like the guy you’re talking about, but he didn’t have a daughter.” “Does the Nissan outside belong to him?” Officer Mathews inquires. The motel owner shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know about that. But it only showed up yesterday and he was the only one to check in.” Officer Mathews smiles, relatively certain of his assumptions. “Can you give me

his room number?” Officer Mathews asks, resting his hand against the handgun on his hip. “I just want to ask some questions.” “Of course,” the motel owner says. “Would you like me to come with you?” “Oh, no, Nancy, that’s not necessary. Just a routine thing,” Officer Mathews says calmly. The motel owner points down the hall that Officer Mathews starts to walk towards, before leaving the reception desk to go and make herself a coffee in the kitchen. Recently, the other cops at the station had been making fun of Mathews; they told him he was freaking out because of his looming parenthood. He felt he was just being cautious, but after a couple backup calls for small incidents, he got the nickname “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” It was a name that Mathews did not want to stick, so against his better judgement he didn’t call it in as he wanted to show that he could unwind a little and still get his job done properly. Besides that, he was frustrated at how negligent some of his colleagues were; the best partner he had was his trusted Glock 23. Though he had practiced with it, and did so twice a week, he had never shot someone. As he makes his way down the corridor, Officer Mathews figures it would all make sense in the end. That Stanley would be just floating through and the town would, like always, return to normal. One thing was certain: somehow a kid is involved in whatever is going on, and that told his gut that he had an obligation to at least check it out. Checking his phone, he sees a text from his wife with a reminder, “Don’t be late it starts at 2 p.m. so be there at 1:45.” He texts her back, “Sure, I’ll be there,” before putting his phone in his back pocket. “Knock, knock,” Officer Mathews says as his knuckles hit the wood. Mark looks over at the Nissan, parked just outside; he checks his pockets and realizes he has the keys. He goes over and gets inside the car, and as he turns the key, he pauses. He wants to start the engine but then looks over at the glass sliding doors and feels a pull inside. A voice telling him to stop. Irritated with himself, he steps out of the car and walks to the glass sliding door. There are steps as someone walks towards the door. Officer Mathews takes his own step back, poised. The handle of the door turns, but the door doesn’t open.

“Oops,” says a man within the room. “Forgot to unlock the door. The key’s here somewhere; hang on.” As Stanley roots around for the key he wonders why Mark has decided to come through the front door, pausing as he hears another knock—this time on the glass sliding door. Stanley goes to unlock the door as the glass door slides open and Mark steps in. Stanley, whose left hand is already holding the side of the door ajar, looks back to see Mark standing there. He turns to the door and tries to slam it shut on Officer Mathews. Officer Mathews has put himself between the door and the frame to block. Stanley attempts to keep him out. “I just have a few questions, sir,” he says, not having seen Mark. Stanley lets the door swing open and Officer Mathews falls to the floor; Stanley quickly slams the door shut and locks it. The room freezes. Officer Mathews knows at this point that something is wrong and that there was no way that door was going to be opened. Trying to keep cool and in control of the situation, Officer Mathews gets to his feet and asks calmly, “What’s going on here?” But when he sees Mark by the glass door, he draws his handgun. His gun is unintentionally aimed at Haley, who is smiling at Mark. Mark, who already does not trust authorities, becomes infuriated, and marches toward the door, putting himself between Haley and Officer Mathews. Officer Mathews lets off a warning shot in a panic; it flies past Mark’s ear and into the glass door on the other side, which shatters. Haley stares at the falling glass. It sparkles in the morning sun, and it’s pretty. Mark forces the officer against the door with a thump, and the gun falls out of his right hand as it smacks against the door handle with a pop.

In this moment, Stanley takes the opportunity to grab the gun from the floor and takes a step back towards the bed. Officer Mathews is outnumbered and out of his depth; his hand throbs in pain, but right now he’s more concerned with the hands pinning him back and the glazed eyes in the face of the man towering over him. Mark calls back, his eyes fixed on Officer Mathews, “Get Lily and go.” Stanley tosses the gun into the side table, and picks up Haley with a great big smile. She hugs him happily and jumps up into his open arms. Stanley grabs the duffel with his free hand and rushes them out the former sliding glass door to the car. He pulls the car door and it opens; he tosses the duffel into the back and carefully clicks Haley into the seatbelt before running back inside. Haley is excited, wondering what was happening and where they would be going. She hopes it involves baked pasta. She really likes baked pasta. Stanley comes back into the room, calmly coming up behind Mark. “Take a step back,” demands Officer Mathews. “You okay?” Stanley directs this to Mark. Mark drops Officer Mathews, who hits the floor. “You guys need to be medicated,” Officer Mathews calls out from the floor. Mark turns, biting his lip, grabs the gun from the side table and aims it at Officer Mathews. Stanley places his hand on Mark’s chest. Stanley storms over and swings the Glock, launching the butt of the handgun into Officer Mathews’ face. Blood sprays onto the floor as Stanley repeatedly hits him over and over. “Get him,” Mark says with clenched fists, like a coach on the side lines. Mark’s head is in the game; it’s do or die in the last play; he feels the pressure as he

roots for his team. “Play to Win!” Mark instinctively shouts. The thuds stop when Stanley feels a sharp crack. Mark pats Stanley on the back and pushes him into the bathroom. “Good job, now go clean yourself up; we won’t get anywhere with you looking like a Scarface extra.” Stanley runs to the bathroom and sees a mess, his eyes widen as he sees his father in his own face. Stanley avoids looking at himself in the mirror. There is blood everywhere. He gets the blood off his hands but can’t get it off his clothes. “We have to get out of here now,” Mark says from the other side of the room. Stanley grabs Haley’s leggings and shiny top that are hanging on the shower rail and leaves, stepping over Officer Mathews’ body, whose phone is vibrating in his pocket. Mark is holding Stanley’s jacket, beckoning him over to the shattered door. Looking left and right, Mark doesn’t see anyone coming or going. Now is their moment. Mark leads the way to the car, with Stanley close behind him. He gets in and turns on the engine, with Haley smiling in the back seat. They buckle up and go, heading south over the bridge, through Dover. For the first few miles they are quiet, neither bothering to look behind them as it won’t help: if they are being chased, they are being chased. The car is clunky but it works; Mark is not in the mood to moan at Stanley for his poor choice in getaway vehicles, but in his mind he was thinking it. And at least this one isn’t stolen, Mark reassured himself. He’s hoping that by some miracle no one had heard them. Stanley sits in the enger’s seat and looks back at Haley, giving her a little smile and ruffling her hair. He doesn’t want her to feel scared, to feel like she isn’t safe. Still in thought, Mark asks Stanley, “Do you think we should have hidden the body?”

Stanley turns back in his seat, “Nah, there was no explaining away all that blood,” Stanley says, after taking a moment to analyze the time and effort it would have taken to move Officer Mathews against the additional time they now had to get away. Still in shock, Stanley cannot help but talk, fidgeting with his fingers. “Do you reckon AJ would be proud?” Stanley asked. “Of what, killing a cop?” Mark asks, starting to realize what had just happened. “No, of protecting Lily,” Stanley says, annoyed with Mark’s assumption. Stanley pauses and then adds, “That officer had it coming.” Mark looks in the rear view mirror at Haley’s innocent little face. Haley is casually looking at the bright blue sky through the window, leaning towards the glass to feel the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Mark turns to Stanley and says, “I think AJ would be very proud.”

Day 5

8:56 AM—Nearing Paris, Tennessee

Just over twenty minutes into their drive, Stanley sees a sign for Paris. He has read a lot about Paris, the poetic setting created by the cobbled streets, the smell of fresh pastries filling the air, and the Eiffel Tower: a building that marveled those around it with its engineering and symbolism. “Did you know,” Stanley began, “that the Eiffel Tower was meant to be temporary?” Stanley paused, waiting for Mark to show interest. Mark didn’t. Stanley continued talking. “It was part of an exhibition that was designed by Gustave Eiffel, which is where the name comes from. He also created other constructions. And, by the end of the exhibition, its unique shape had become so popular that they decided not to destroy it.” “It sounds like someone I know,” Mark said with an earnest smile. Mark legs are cramped. Having only driven a short distance the day before, he hadn’t noticed it then, but now he is becoming uncomfortable. Feeling around for the right lever, he pulls at one and his seat jerks back and brings the car to a sharp halt in the middle of the road. Stanley flicks on the hazard lights as Mark sits back up. Pulling the correct lever, Mark adjusts himself, trying to keep his cool. Stanley laughs at him as he looks around and brings the car back up to speed. “You know, if I didn’t check the back seat I wouldn’t even know that she was there,” Stanley says as he glances at Haley, who is sitting quietly. Mark looks at her in the mirror; she looks back and smiles, wrapping her new

hoodie around herself, which makes Mark smile. “That’s because you are oblivious too, and pretty self-obsessed,” Mark says. Stanley doesn’t hear him, he is preoccupied with another sign for “Paris.” “Exactly!” says Mark rolling his eyes. A minute or two later. . . “But seriously, I think I could be a deaf girl,” Stanley states with certainty. “You think you could be a deaf girl?” Mark asks questioningly, “Do you hear yourself? You’re barely able to breathe between sentences. Anyhow, have you even considered what’s going on in her head?” “You’re probably right…” Stanley says looking over his left shoulder at Haley. “It’s almost worse, her not speaking—like a creepy mute doll,” he adds, turning to Mark. Mark sighs and shakes his head, not willing to dignify that with a response, although he finds it pretty funny—probably one of Stanley’s few jokes that didn’t make Mark want to throttle him. Haley signs, “I need the bathroom,” but neither Mark or Stanley notice. Now that his adrenaline is starting to wear off, Mark feels the trembling return to his hands. He is always the one in the drivers’ seat, always the one in control, but right now it doesn’t feel like that. Once they get further along, Mark is ready to give Stanley the steering wheel again. All of a sudden Mark becomes very still, his hands firm on the steering wheel. Stanley looks out of his window and notices the cop cars at the side of the road. “Highway patrol?” Stanley asks. “I think so,” Mark answers, keeping an eye on the speedometer and not going a mile under or over the speed limit. Mark’s and Stanley’s hearts begin to beat a little faster, while Haley’s remains normal as she rocks her head from side to side in the back seat.

Stanley starts to worry about being caught, about the trouble he would get in for killing that Officer Mathews guy, the solitary confinement he would be stuck in for months as punishment. The darkness, the loneliness, the being stuck with his own thoughts day in and out. He knows he won’t be able to take it, and the panic is plastered on his face. Mark fears for Haley: they don’t know her, they don’t know what she’s been through. They might just send her to someone who would follow a protocol, another tick-the-box exercise, and he is irritated he won’t be at her side to protect her. As the patrol car es by they hold their breaths, except for Haley, and wait. The siren of one of the cop cars wails and soon enough that car is on their tail. “Go!” Stanley says, indicating for Mark to floor it. Mark thinks about it and then decides against doing that. His first thought is that they are outnumbered three-to-one; his second thought is that they just killed someone and aren’t being chased down by an entire squad so this cannot be related; and lastly Mark feels like he is about to puke. As they pull onto the hard shoulder, an officer steps out of his car and slowly walks over to the driver’s side. “Just keep your mouth shut, Dumbo, let me handle this,” Stanley says arrogantly. Stanley puts his best smile on. While Mark can barely manage a sneer as he turns to face the cop. “You have a broken tail light,” says the cop. Stanley smiles across at the cop from the enger’s seat, hoping to compensate for Mark’s awkward expression: it looks like he is about to fart. The cop peers into the car suspiciously; he looks at Mark and Stanley, both unwashed and awkward. He then looks to the back seat and sees little Haley, glowing and smelling as fresh as a daisy. “Cute kid,” the cop says.

Haley puts her hands together like a gun and aims them at the cop, letting out a “dof, dof” sound. “Thanks…” Mark says sharply, as he sees Haley’s hands together. Mark thinks to himself that within one day of finding this helpless little girl, they’d almost drowned her, frightened the life out of her, made her freezing cold, barely fed her, smoked in front of her, swore in front of her, overly fed her, cut her hair, made her cry, put her to sleep in a strange pillow fort, and then murdered someone. Mark feels so guilty, covering his mouth with one hand as he thinks about how he had grossly neglected his own personal morals. Where on earth those had gone over time, he didn’t know. “Oh no, you got me!” the cop shouts jokingly as he pretends to get hit by a bullet. Stanley laughs loudly, while Mark shuffles in his seat. Stanley can see Mark’s about to do his trusted three-steps routine, and knowing that the third step is leaving the scene, Stanley decides to intervene. Stanley leans over Mark, placing his hand on the dashboard, “It’s my niece. She loves playing cops and robbers. My sister’s really busy at the minute finishing the house, so we are taking Lily here off her hands for the day.” “Well, you two have a nice day, I’d recommend the Eiffel Tower. And don’t forget to get that tail light fixed,” says the cop as he walks away. Mark is in shock; he can’t believe how easily that worked and how good Stanley is at lying. Stanley sits back and points to the road ahead, “You heard him. To the Eiffel Tower!” Stanley demands pretentiously. As they head through into Paris they notice just how not like it is. The plain single-story buildings are comparatively different, and not in a good way. The city is bare. When they arrive they stop at a café; Mark is being more vigilant and could see Haley needed to go to the bathroom. Mark gets her a bottle of water and some toast for himself while he waits, hoping the bread will settle his restless stomach.

Stanley is walking around outside by himself, smoking a cigarette. Mark had asked him to wait, but he had declined by simply walking away. When Haley comes out of the bathroom, she drinks almost the whole bottle of water in one go and finishes off the corner of the toast Mark has in his hand. Mark strokes Haley’s hair and then places his hand on her back, guiding outside. Haley turns and waves at the woman behind the counter, who waves back at both of them with a smile. Mark looks around and can’t see Stanley. He thinks for a moment and sees the car is gone too. Great, he thinks to himself in annoyance. “Hey, buddy, could you direct me to the Eiffel Tower?” Mark asks a er-by, crossing his fingers that it’s not too far. “Oui, oui, ya’ll,” the er-by says with a chuckle, waiting for Mark to laugh. Mark doesn’t laugh. “It’s about a twenty-minute walk.” He points in the right direction. “Go straight down, then turn left onto Jim Adams Drive, and then make a right onto Volunteer Drive, you won’t miss it,” the er-by says while scratching his greasy face. Mark nods as thanks. Mark and Haley walk together along the road, the biggest contrast of little and large you could ever imagine. “Once again Stanley makes a decision for fucking Stanley,” Mark says laughing. “Oh, sorry, Lily,” Mark apologizes—for cursing. Mark feels inside his pocket, he only has around fifty dollars on him and in his string pull bag; the rest is in the duffel. Mark crosses his fingers in the hope that Stanley hasn’t spent more money: they really need every cent they have. Mark’s stomach begins to rumble; the toast may have been enough to tide Haley over for a while but it certainly wasn’t enough for Mark. With every step his hunger pains grow; in his mind he can taste last night’s pizza, that soft, sweet dough with the stringy cheese that pulled away as you took a slice, the slice saying don’t just eat me, eat us all.

After ten minutes Mark’s stomach is growling like an angry pup. But Mark gets distracted as he starts to worry about Stanley; after what had just happened, he didn’t think it was good to leave him alone. Knowing Stanley, anything could happen. Haley, excited to go for a walk, signs, “Where are we going now?” She has a spring in her step as she bounces along beside Mark, taking three steps for every one of his. Once they get there it’s quiet; there is a children’s park with a decent but small replica of the Eiffel Tower, looking a little subdued under the cloudy sky. As they walk up to the tower, Mark looks around, but he can’t see Stanley. He and Haley look up at the replica and without a comparison, up close it looks pretty cool. Haley then tugs on Mark’s arm: the kids’ park is just yards away. Mark stops her and then sees long legs dangling at the top of a bright-blue slide. As they get closer they see Stanley. Mark lets Haley run over, as he takes a seat in the grass, looking up at the tower. He wonders about the real Paris. . . his wife had talked about going there, although he had been more interested. He thinks about what people might be doing there now. It would be lunch time; perhaps they would be outside a nice café enjoying coffee and cake, or even better a cheese croissant. Mark could murder a croissant right now. And people would be talking, just talking, not about anything in particular, just about simple things like the weather. When Mark was younger, he had gone to Europe with his college football team because they’d played a couple games at colleges in England. Then, as the drinking age there was eighteen, Mark and a couple of his buddies extended the trip and went to Amsterdam and Paris before they flew back. It was one of his fondest memories and one thing that he tried to keep was the ion for life, not work, that he felt in the air in Paris. Mark’s trip there lasted about a week before the demands of life brought him home, but he endeavored to . Now Mark wonders where that thought had gone when he had kids; he didn’t want to stress but he felt that while that attitude was better, at least then he was able to provide the security of a heated, safe home.

Mark loved the freedom he had felt in Europe: it was peaceful and exciting all at once. ing, he reaches into his string pull bag and takes out a coaster and begins to draw. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Haley and Stanley go down the blue side together. Mark ires the shape of the Eiffel Tower, its ridged, yet smooth-looking structure, carefully crafted while looking effortless. It reminds him of people in that city, so carefree yet stylish. Mark wishes he could be that suave: he had tried to wear a beret, but that was quickly ridiculed. All the while Haley played in the park. Mark compares the view of the tower to other scenes, pulling out his coaster-art version of the New York skyline that he’d sketched in the One World tower. The edges were sharper, with sudden drops and peaks, like the city itself, one moment you’re up and the next you’re down—like a ride. Mark looks to the slide, but he can’t see Haley or Stanley. Proud of his sketch, Mark smiles as he adds some accent lines; they aren’t realistic, but they give the picture its own sense of character. Then Mark puts the coasters away and gets up. He walks toward the park. A small family is playing there, but that’s it. Mark starts to grow wary. He spins on the spot as he keeps his eyes open for a man of Stanley’s height, but nothing. “They left,” the mother in the park says. “Maybe ten minutes ago,” she adds and points to the parking lot. Mark’s face drops in anxiety. The woman can feel his sense of worry and picks up her own daughter as she watches Mark jog toward the parked cars. “Oh, come on!” Mark exclaims as he sees what looks like a white Nissan showroom.

Freaking out, Mark runs past them all, banging on the sides of the vehicles in hope of a reaction. “I’m such an idiot,” Mark yells at himself.

“Bill’s life experiences are vast; it becomes clear that he certainly hadn’t opened many books in his college years, but he had learned a lot.”

AJ

He sees a kid in the back of one white Nissan and storms over, yanking at the door handle. A little boy bursts into hysterical tears as Mark’s red raging face looms over him, the mother screaming from the parking meter as she runs over to her car. “Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Mark says, running away from the furious mother. Mark checks every car, twice. There is no sign of Stanley or Haley. Mark drops to his knees; he feels sick, coughing up the small amount of toast from earlier. Moving to a curb he sits down, smacking his knee with his fist. “AJ told you this could happen,” Mark says to himself through his clenched jaw. Hopeless, Mark begins to cry. He can’t help it, he’s broken. He misses his family; he misses his old life, the life he could have saved, the loved ones he should have protected. He feels like a failure again, like the fool who had assumed the best on the stand and gotten the worst. Tears trickle down Mark’s cheek as he lets himself go, wrapping his arms around his legs. Footsteps and Mark feels a tap on his knee. He looks up: it’s the mother from the park. She smiles at Mark with soft concern. She still has her daughter in her arms, the father holding their other daughter’ hand as they walk to their car. Mark closes his eyes, he doesn’t want to be seen, but he can’t move right now.

His cheeks are bright red and his eyes are burning from the salt of his tears. The engine of a car rumbles as it es Mark. Still sniffling, he shuffles his feet back towards the curb. The car stops, pauses and reverses. A window winds down and a voice says, “Sup y’all.” Mark raises his eyes and sees the smug grin of Stanley in the driver’s seat of a white Nissan. “What the hell are you doing? You look mental, and—believe me when I say—I know mental!” Stanley says, laughing. “Hop in.” Stanley continues pointing his head towards the enger’s seat. Mark wobbles, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as he slowly gets to his feet. Mark feels confused. As he makes his way around the back of the car he sees Haley in the back with a big smile on her face, surrounded by bags of fast food. Haley signs, “Can I eat now?” Mark gets in the seat and buckles himself in. Stanley turns up the radio and away they go. Quickly, Mark’s upset fades and is replaced with anger as his blood begins to boil. “Where the fuck where you!?” Stanley looks in the side mirror and then to Mark, “Language! Jeez!” Stanley says sternly, putting Mark in his place. “We weren’t as mesmerized by the tiny tower as you were, Mark. Lily was actually pretty hungry, in case you hadn’t noticed, so I made the unanimous decision to get some food,” Stanley says. “But, you left without saying anything,” Mark says, bumbling. “I said, ‘Mark we are going to get food, back soon,’” Stanley recites slowly. Mark thinks for a moment. He’d heard someone while he was drawing. Could that have been Stanley? he thinks.

“But still, we could have gone together!” says Mark, trying to make a point. “Oh, yes! Fantastic idea to spend as much time as possible mere miles away from a M-U-R-D-E-R we committed.” Stanley emphasizes the spelled word sarcastically. Mark feels sheepish, looking out the enger-side window and seeing his blotchy face in the reflection Stanley can tell what Mark had feared. The car is uncomfortably still as Stanley focuses on the road. Mark is feeling tremendously guilty. Stanley tries to hide his pain. But like the bruise on Haley’s arm, Stanley is just as precious to Mark. Fries land on Mark’s lap, then fries land on Stanley’s lap. Mark and Stanley look at each other and then back at Haley who is holding out a boxful as she munches away at the ones she has in her left hand. Mark takes the box and holds it in front of Stanley and then takes some fries for himself. “Mmm, French fries,” Mark says after taking a bite. “When in Paris… ” he jokes. “Actually,” Stanley chimes in after taking a breath. “They’re Belgian; have been since the 1600s. They are called French because of their name, ‘les frites’, but that’s because in Belgium they also speak French,” Stanley finishes. There is a silence. Stanley looks over at Mark with his crooked grin and full mouth of fries. Mark bursts into laughter. “I had you really going there for a minute,” Stanley says, part jokingly, part serious. Mark hesitates before he answers, “I’m sorry, buddy. You really did. I was freaking out,” he says truthfully, as he can’t lie to Stanley.

Stanley shrugs. “I hear ya.” They say nothing more. A short while after, Stanley and Mark switch seats and Stanley digs into a burger and shake. The ride becomes oddly quiet once they have all eaten. Stanley isn’t very chatty, and Mark knows this is his fault. He tries to rectify it. “Do you think we could have outran those cops?” Marks asks. Stanley’s eyes widen; he loves a good story. Stanley is like this funny awkward kid at times; he flips like a light switch. Cheekily, Stanley responds, “An epic tale requires some tobacco,” testing his luck. “In my sketch bag,” Mark says, pointing toward the enger’s footwell. Stanley pulls up the bag and finds a couple of loose cigarettes inside. Taking one for himself, Stanley offers one to Mark. Mark looks in the mirror at Haley and declines the offer with a hand gesture. Stanley uses the matches to light the cigarette, winds down his window, and adjusts his seat so that the ash doesn’t blow in his face. Stanley starts, “Well, first I would have ditched you two to lighten the load, then I would have dealt with the noise and attention on me.” Stanley stops to take a drag as he thinks. “Then I’d utilize this,” Stanley says pulling a cop radio from his jacket pocket with a grin. “Where did you…” Mark begins. “Our friend from the motel turned out to be more than just a pretty face,” he jokes. Mark can tell Stanley is back. “I’d use it to pick up the cops, and quickly take a side road,” Stanley continues,

motioning the movement with his hands. “The cops would , and if one was smart enough to spot me… I’d be ready,” Stanley says, bringing out his gun. “I’d pop a shell into his head, turn off his siren and drive off.” Stanley smacks his hands together to show the conclusion of his story—clearly proud of his imaginary car chase. “I’d pay to see that,” Mark says with a chuckle. “Pay?” Stanley laughs. “Okay, maybe not,” Mark responds, turning up the radio as another Elvis track comes on.

Back in Dover, police surround the Sunrise Motor Inn, and the shocked motel owner is standing outside as the body of Officer Mathews is removed through the broken sliding glass door. “This guy said they were undercover agents,” the motel owner explained to a detective as the stretcher went past. “But I have my doubts,” she adds. The detective thanks the motel owner and walks over to the ambulance, zipping down the body bag. Officer Mathews’ left eye has popped from the socket; his head is red and purple from the impact of the gun. “I have my doubts too,” the detective mumbles to himself.

Stanley looks through the string pull bag, flipping through the coasters like a deck of cards. He comes to Mark’s sketch of the Eiffel Tower: the way Mark has captured it is completely different than the way Stanley had seen it. Mark has given it the light and excitement that Stanley felt was missing. “Did you know,” Stanley begins, “that the Eiffel Tower took 10,000 hours to build? Also, there are apparently twenty-six other American cities called Paris, random… ” Mark smiles. “Actually, I did. Well, not about the American cities, but about the Eiffel Tower, yes. I went there when I was eighteen.” Stanley looked enviously at Mark. “Tell me more,” Stanley asks him. Mark starts his story, “It was amazing, the streets, the food, it was just indescribable.” And with that Mark had concluded his story; clearly he was not storyteller of the two.

12 years ago

10:48 PM—At a party

A thin patch of neatly-cut lawn outlined the porches of the houses, all tall and thin, and lined up close together. Light flashed in one of the houses as an underage party was taking place in this small suburban area of Boston. The house was filled with high school kids and some college guys—one of whom Francis knew. Francis was just seventeen at the time and dating a girl called Natalie, who had asked Francis if his college friend could supply a keg. Of course he could, at a price, he had joked. Outside on the porch were people smoking quietly, talking about college applications and discussing future plans as if they had the power to change the world. Inside, the main party was in the living room. The shelves were bare, clearly having been prepared ahead of time. The kitchen island was the bar, filled with snacks and drinks mixes, while a couple college guys stayed near the keg and hard liquor that was set up on the counter top. Natalie was drinking a beer inside while Francis was outside having a smoke. Francis didn’t care too much for the taste of alcohol, but he did enjoy the buzz every now and then. The girl who was hosting the party was Natalie’s best friend; her parents were out of town for a family funeral that Friday, but the high school exams were that afternoon so the kids stayed behind. Around thirty people had shown up, including Francis and his twenty-one-yearold college friend Paul, who was back for the weekend to visit his parents and get his laundry done. Paul had invited a couple friends so that he wouldn’t be bored wing-manning Francis.

Francis and Natalie had only been dating for two weeks. They had met in a bowling alley. Natalie was intrigued by Francis, who was hanging out with an older group of guys. Francis didn’t look seventeen, but you could tell he was the youngest in the group. Natalie had spoken to him at the bowling alley bar as she went to get a snack. She quickly found herself asking him out for a coffee. They only spent a few hours together before Francis had to leave suddenly, because his mom had to collect a pageant dress and someone needed to watch his little half-sister since his stepdad was working that Saturday. Natalie found it adorable that Francis was doing this for his sister and decided to mention the end-of-year-exams after-party she and her friend were planning. Natalie started flirting as the beer slowly went to her head. Francis found it funny, and laughed. Shortly afterward they were going upstairs. She felt his hand tug at her jeans, and the chill of the cool air in the room tingled her bare behind. She could see his face in the reflection of a photo frame. He cracked his knuckles and had a slight grin as he looked down and turned off the light.

Day 5

11:00 AM—Interstate 40 heading west

“Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t goin’ away,” Stanley says in an accent. “What?” Mark asks. “Elvis,” Stanley says, nodding to the music on the radio. “He said ‘Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't goin’ away.’ It’s a good line,” Stanley thinks aloud to himself. He feels his head is clear, and his emotions are awake. He’d spent years blocking them out with medication but now he is on his own. And, to his surprise, it didn’t frighten him like he thought it would: it actually felt good to feel something On the other hand, Mark is not feeling great, and he needs a distraction from his stomach. He focuses on the road ahead and sees a sign for Memphis. He wonders what Stanley could tell him about Memphis; probably everything. Even though Mark finds Stanley’s facts annoying at times, he respects Stanley’s thirst for knowledge and ion about the country. Mark thought he knew a lot about the United States, but since meeting Stanley he realizes he doesn’t know much at all. For some time, Mark had thought he was a car enthusiast, but realized that was more vanity than anything else. It was a competitive edge at work, but he didn’t know the mechanics of it all. He knew how to change the oil and windshieldwasher fluid, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Mark wishes he had the kind of ion inside him that Stanley has to really know something. He’d felt it once. Back in college, when Mark played football, he felt like he really mattered, and he still loves to watch sports all the time. However, it lacks the feeling he so badly misses: he wants to be the player,

challenging himself. But Mark didn’t play team sports anymore; he just tried to keep fit to keep up his strength for his wife, and once she was gone, he’d completely lost his will to train. It was only recently that he’d felt that ion again, because of the way being around Stanley made him feel. He now has a desire to refocus himself on what he truly cares about. Regardless of how hard it can be at times, Stanley at least makes the effort to learn, which impresses those around him. Stanley isn’t doing it to prove a point, he does it because he wants to—and that’s irable. Mark wonders if Stanley knows this about himself, or is oblivious to the intellect that radiates from him. “We need to keep going,” Stanley pipes up. Mark nods; he’d been just about to say the same thing. They know there will be a manhunt in Dover, and it’s only a matter of time before that spreads state-wide. Knowing this, Mark decides to go south, out of Tennessee through Mississippi and into Louisiana: he also feels this will be a shorter, easier, and probably safer drive. “I think we should head straight down to Louisiana before sundown,” Mark states, waiting for Stanley’s thoughts on the idea. Stanley is really excited; the idea of the southern experience he’s had in his head is becoming a reality. “Sounds good… but that’s another 400 miles, Mark,” Stanley says with concern. Mark realizes Stanley is right. “Maybe we could split the driving between us?” Mark asks, no longer concerned about cops—a fraudulent license was now the least of their worries. Stanley smiles and says, “Cool.” “Good, because I’m not doing this alone. That’s way too hard, like me playing both parts in a porno,” Mark jokes awkwardly. Stanley slowly shakes his head at Mark’s poor attempt to outwit him.

They are now twenty-five miles outside of Memphis. Mark, Stanley, and Haley (who is ing in the motions, but doesn’t quite know what’s going on) are swaying side to side as Mark and Stanley sing in unison to the radio. They turn back every now and then to see Haley clapping her hands. The windows are down and the music is up. Mark’s and Stanley’s eyes catch each other’s and they bellow out the chorus: “Life is a highway, I wanna ride it all night long. If you're going my way, I wanna drive it all night long!” Stanley lights up a cigarette. Mark leans over and takes it with a smile. Leaning back in the driver’s seat, he winds down the window and relaxes as the music flows. The weather outside is nice, the sun is shining high in the sky and the road ahead is clear as the afternoon approaches. “How are you feeling? No cramp?” Stanley asks. Mark raises his eyebrows. “Good; the short walk earlier helped. Thanks for checking.” Then Mark adds, “Did you notice how many Nissans there are in Tennessee?” Stanley nods. “Of course! Nissan is one of the most popular cars in Tennessee. So I assumed there would be many of them, which is why I bought one. And white is a color that doesn’t stand out; it’s just so… bland.” Mark can’t believe that Stanley put so much thought into his decision, that it hadn’t been impulsive. It was actually a smart move, the right move. Mark bursts into laughter, once again baffling Stanley. Stanley asks, “What? What’s so funny?” He looks around, looking for something humorous. “Nothing,” Mark says, his chuckle dying down. “Is there anything you don’t know?” Stanley takes a moment.

Mark wants to test him, to see if this is a one-trick-pony fact that Stanley pulled from his ass. “Tell me about other states and their car brand of choice. If you can.” Mark adds, daring him to fail. Stanley pauses. “Well, other than Nissans, right now in Tennessee, it’s the Ford F-150.” “What about in Mississippi?” Mark asks. Stanley says, “It’s the Ford F-150.” “What about in Louisiana?” Mark asks. “Again, it’s the Ford F-150,” Stanley answers. “What about in Texas?” Mark asks. “It’s Honda’s Civic,” Stanley says. “Really?” Mark says with a grin. “No, it’s the Ford F-150,” Stanley says, laughing. Mark hits the steering wheel with his fist, “What the F… ork,” Mark exclaims. “Fork?” Stanley questions him. “I’m trying to smoke and swear less,” Mark explains. “Doing great!” Stanley says, lighting up another cigarette as Mark finishes his off. Stanley looks back at Haley; she is falling asleep. He goes to crack his knuckles, stops and just smiles at her for a moment. “Is there no way we can keep her?” Stanley says to Mark, like Haley is a puppy he’s seen in a pet store. “Except for the stupid bangs, she is actually pretty cool.” He turns, hanging over the enger seat and resting his chin on the seat cushion to look at Haley. “She reminds me of someone,” Stanley adds thoughtfully.

“Who?” asks Mark, curiously. “I’m not sure. Certainly not my half-sister; she’s way too stuck up her own ass. And, definitely not my mom who was always second in line to kiss my sister’s ass. Never gave anyone else the time of day,” Stanley grumbles. They drive through Memphis, home of Graceland and Elvis. It would be fun to stop, but then again, not stopping meant saving money and Mark was happy about that. “You know what Memphis is famous for?” Stanley asks. Mark decides to give it a guess and says, “Ancient Indian burial grounds… named after a Sudanese king with a French wife.” “You’re not entirely wrong.” Stanley says. Mark looks pleasantly surprised. “An Indian tribe was there, and years later the French explored this area, too. The name, however, is after the old capital of Egypt on the Nile River, not Sudan.” Stanley explains. He’s quiet for a few seconds. “I was actually expecting you to say Elvis.” Mark rolls his eyes, feeing stupid, and realizing that would have made much more sense. The radio blares, “But don’t you step on my blue suede shoes…” Mark takes a sudden turn, veering off the interstate towards an exit. “When in Rome,” he says, smiling at Stanley and Haley.

In Graceland, they plan to just get out of the car, quickly look around, hop back in and go. But when they get there they decide to follow a little group, assuming they will be heading the same way. A few minutes later they are unintentionally part of an Elvis tour group. An hour later they have gotten the full experience, visiting Elvis’s house, the museum, and getting a free voucher for a snack. As they leave, a woman from the group stops them. Stanley and Mark freeze, instantly regretting their decision to say longer than necessary. Haley is completely unaware as she sits on Stanley’s shoulders, above the hustle and bustle. “Excuse me,” the woman starts. “Would you like a picture?” she asks, looking at the camera in Stanley’s hand. Snap! Stanley’s crooked grin is warmed by the little hands of Haley resting on his cheeks; Mark is leaning in with a goofy smile, doing a peace sign with his hand. After the tour they get back on the road, everyone in high spirits. Stanley is so happy, he feels like he has experienced a lifetime in just the past five days. Mark even loosened the purse strings and got them a CD for the drive. However, as the hours drag on, their cheer subsides, and discomfort begins to build. Around four o’clock, somewhere near Jackson, Mississippi, the realization that they still had over two hundred miles together seeps into the car like a bad smell. Stanley is getting more restless, evident from his fidgeting. The road just seems to get longer and longer. Mark knows the little girl is cranky even though she can’t voice it. So is twenty-nine-year-old Stanley, who does voice it, repeatedly.

Stanley’s energy is random: it peaks and dives, from jovial to whiny. And he acts out different characters. One Mark actually finds quite funny is Stanley’s Tour Guide. “And, on your right we see another tree. And, to your left we see a truck,” is the line Stanley says over and over. Mark is starting to understand the allure of drinking while driving: not to break the law, but just to keep things interesting. These kinds of daily treks could make anyone loopy. Which is why, when they hit a pothole, the loud bang from a wheel is almost welcome. “Jesus Christ, what was that?” asks Stanley. Mark slows the car and pulls it to the side of the road, saying calmly, “A flat tire.” Mark puts on the hazard lights and gets out of the car, gesturing for Stanley to him. “What?” Stanley asks, confused. Mark huffs and says, “We need to change the tire.” Stanley shrugs his shoulders and says, “But I don’t know how.” Mark grins and says, “Come on, Stanley; this is a teachable moment.” He heads for the trunk, hoping there’s a jack. There is. Stanley gets Haley out of the car for safety and sits down with her on the grass. It’s boiling outside, and within minutes Mark has to take off his sweater. But with the sun on his back he feels even hotter. Bending down, Mark works on loosening the old tire, growing more and more frustrated while Stanley sits with Haley. Stanley has gotten his Flat Stanley book out of his jacket pocket, now rather more damaged and bloodier than you’d expect from a children’s book. He is

reading from the book in his left hand, his right arm is around Haley’s shoulders. Stanley is enjoying himself. He knows she can’t hear him, but thinks she’ll appreciate the pictures. Haley points at the picture of Stanley because it reminds her of Stanley. And she signs, “Is this you?” She points at the book and to Stanley, who nods in understanding. “I wish I was him, Lily. I’ve wished it for many years,” Stanley says, taking a deep breath in and out. Stanley gives Haley a little squeeze. “Done,” Mark calls out, wiping his hands on his t-shirt and getting in the enger’s seat. Stanley hops up and races around the car to the driver’s seat, excited that it’s his turn, leaving Haley to run after him. As Stanley drives, Mark watches the road like a nervous parent whose son doesn’t have their learner’s permit—while it was evident he knew how to drive. And when they ed through Baton Rouge, in beautiful Louisiana, it is once again time for them to ditch a car. They haven’t discussed it, but it’s quite clear that neither Stanley nor Mark want to go near another river. Eventually, Mark turns to Stanley with an idea and says, “Why don’t we just leave it somewhere with the keys inside?” Stanley thinks about this idea, nods and says, “Smart, but simple. How did you come up with it?” Mark replies, “Just popped into my head.” “I like it,” Stanley says. As Mark looks for a place to leave the Nissan, he re when he had been in a rush to meet a buddy at a fish restaurant back in Boston, Legal Sea Foods. He and his buddy were coming out of the restaurant, absolutely satisfied from having enjoyed the best meal of their lives. After dinner, Mark had been looking for his keys in his pockets but couldn’t find them. And his car was gone.

Suddenly, it clicked. The solution just popped into Mark’s head

2 weeks ago


The warden—a still-faced balding man with a harelip and stocky stature—is talking with Arnold in Arnold’s office. “There seem to be some missing files. I’m still trying to pin-point which they are, but one was Kyle Daniels,” Arnold says, waiting for the warden to react. When he doesn’t, Arnold continues, “The suicide case from last year, the one we kept from the family.” The warden looks like he is about to comment when a guard enters the room without knocking. The guard tells the warden, and Arnold, that a patient has died in their room. Without flinching, the warden waves the guard away and gets back to his conversation with Arnold, not skipping a beat. “I think we just need to make sure everyone understands the value of medication, the patients are happy, the guards are happy, the state’s happy,” says the warden with a cold, stiff expression. Arnold nods in understanding as the warden opens the office door. The guard is waiting to escort the warden to the scene. As the warden takes a step out into the hall, the brown floor as poorly chosen as the who walks on it, he turns to Arnold and says, “You’re doing great,” forcing a barely convincing smile. “Could we pick this up later?” Arnold says. The warden gestures for Arnold to move back down the hall as he walks away. With the knowledge that he won’t be able to turn to the warden, Arnold decides to focus his efforts on things he can do. He realizes that with the help of security he can get footage of Francis and see who he interacts with on a daily basis.

After scanning hours of footage that make Arnold cringe, including Francis pretending to be a girl and flirting with one of the guards, Arnold finally sees something he didn’t expect. Francis is in the gym lying on a bench and being spotted by a much larger man. Arnold can only see the back of this man, but he is quite certain he knows who it is. Arnold turns on his computer and creates a file that he names “tax receipts,” something he expects will not be opened. And in this file he starts to build a comparative study between William Ledger and Francis Madsen. In Arnold’s next meet with William, he records the session to make dual notes, first SOAP notes for the official system, and second, his own more detailed s in the tax receipts file.

20/08/2018—1pm

“I never had any control over my wife, especially in the way they described. She chose all our children’s names, we have three, had three. She said I could name one, but I never got to. Our children were Helen, Laura, and Jack. I liked the name Jack, but really wanted one of the girls to be called Lily after my grandmother. At first she agreed, but when they were born she changed her mind. Lily became Helen’s middle name, which she never used. Helen was beautiful like a little delicate flower, she swayed around without a care in the world, lost in her own imagination. I know Lizzie wasn’t ever doing it to be mean, she just knew what she wanted and wouldn’t budge. She was stubborn, but I loved her so I let it go. That’s what I hate most about the things they said about me. I may look big and loud, but in our household I was not the loudest by a long shot. I wish I had been. I was raised by a single dad. He ed away seventeen years ago today, he was called Mark, and he was the most strong and capable man I’ve ever met.”

William Ledger

After his meeting with William, Arnold couldn’t believe the rawness of their discussion. William’s willingness to talk about his family, to express himself in a vulnerable way. Arnold adds side notes to William’s statement.

“Bill has shown a sufficient amount for me to confirm his release from Bridgewater, time and time again. I believe there should be a serious review of Bill’s sentence given his progress in the past eleven months. Additionally, Bill has shown true talent in his recent art work; the sketches have become very therapeutic and something I hope he is able to continue. However, I have noticed a difference in quality and clarity since his dosage increase. The effect Bill is having on Francis Madsen is profound—refer to Patient 390/213 session August 20 th, 2018.”

AJ

20/08/2018—11am

“I am clearly the superior intellect, but Mark has wisdom. I don’t know what it is, but I respect and ire him. “The other day in the gym he taught me how to throw a football. An imaginary one, but I think I got the hang of it.

It was really fun, learning something new.”

Francis Madsen

Arnold cannot express his amazement at Francis’ civility. It was becoming more standard than special. The breakthrough is more positive than Arnold could have hoped: the benefits of social engagement between patients was evident in this case. Increasing the quality of life patients could have within the system is what Arnold strived for, for imprisonment was not meant to be a permanent solution to a problem he saw as temporary if dealt with appropriately. There is a knock on the door; Arnold’s next patient was ready. Arnold quickly types out some comments.

“Francis does not enjoy changes. An example being last year’s spring meal supplier change that resulted in two months of solitary after Francis threw his tray at a guard. However, lately that has shifted: he still stays within comfortable confines, but his willingness to try new things with Bill is greatly encouraging. I would like to repeat a test I conducted with Francis two years ago on his level of rehabilitation; this should be scheduled in the weeks. My one concern is how much Francis’ improvements are linked directly to Bill. The question of whether Francis will relapse back into a previous state of unpredictable behavior is yet to be answered.”

AJ

He saves the file, then gets up to greet his next patient, opening the door with a smile and saying his default standard, “Hello, first name. How are you today, first name?”

5 days ago


Another mishap in the hospital meant that Arnold had to cancel all of his Monday appointments. Many patients complained or freaked out, but William doesn’t care, and—surprisingly—Francis is okay with it as well. That Wednesday, William went to Arnold’s office for his weekly session, which was more like chilling with a buddy in a bar. They drank coffee and laughed. As Arnold gets comfortable in his chair, William sips at his coffee, enjoying the moment of normality he feels. If he closes his eyes for a moment he feels like he’s somewhere else, like in a diner having breakfast or at home before work, not inside a psychiatric facility. Once he is comfortable Arnold says, “Good morning, Bill,” and reaches out to hand William his wedding ring. William opens his eyes, bringing his coffee down and resting it on his right knee which is crossed over his other leg. He leans over with his left hand and takes his wedding ring from Arnold. “Morning, AJ, I mean Arnold,” William says, quickly correcting himself. Arnold smiles, and his eyes widen as his suspicions are verified by one of the men involved. “So,” Arnold moves on, “are you looking forward to the end of summer?” William thinks to himself and then says, “I would be, Labor Day weekend’s coming up. I’d be planning a trip out to Cape Cod, meet some friends, do some fishing. It would be great,” William says, playing with his ring as he reminisces. Arnold changes the topic from something William can’t control to something he

can and says, “How are the sketches coming along? Have you been inspired yet to do one of me?” Arnold laughs jokingly. They are interrupted by a knock on the door as some files arrive. Arnold gets up and takes the files from the guard. He thanks him and closes the door. Arnold pauses and then decides to really change the subject. “What are your thoughts on Francis Madsen?” he asks William, as he glances down at the files in his hands. Arnold had decided to make a point of discussing his thoughts with the chief of the psychology ward. The chief was however more concerned with “calming” the patients in order to make them manageable for the staff (as he described the guards). Another recent case of excessive force was bad for the reputation of the facility and the chief of the psychology ward had deemed this the most appropriate form of action. As Arnold had listened to the chief (as he called himself), he became more and more uncertain how he had gotten his position as Chief of Psychology in the first place. The golf games with the warden certainly hadn’t harmed him. However, this didn’t bother Arnold. What did bother him was that the chief never spoke to the psychiatrists first; he made every decision at a high level and refused to think on a case-by-case basis. Once it was clear that the chief had no intention of really listening to Arnold, he’d decided to focus on his scheme privately— wanting to get to a stage of having double sessions with two patients together, using William and Francis as a test case. And it was this very Wednesday that Arnold had decided to overlap Williams and Francis’ sessions for ten minutes to see how it went when, unfortunately, these files arrived. As Arnold scans the files in front of him, he realizes that the chief of the psychology ward has used some of what Arnold had said and is issuing a number of Arnold’s patients early releases into the general prison population. Without consulting him. A form stamped and signed by the warden lay on top of the pile. Arnold is infuriated, feeling completely overshadowed and disregarded in his role as a professional psychiatrist. The new early releases are classed as “Honor Roll Residents,” a new term—

Arnold has no idea what it means. This list not only includes William, but also patients who are just making breakthroughs. Arnold becomes worried as he reads: Patient 527/890 William Ledger, family homicide; Patient 544/822 Mathew Hansen, dissociative identity disorder; Patient 532/213 Pat Adams, compulsive ab. As Arnold scrolls with his eyes down the list to the last number he sees 390/213—Francis Madsen. Arnold drops the files on his desk and jumps to his feet, shocking William who spills some of his coffee on his knee, causing him to jump up too. Arnold apologizes and places his hand on William’s chest. “Take a seat. I’ll be back soon.” After he leaves, William walks to Arnold’s desk, grabs the files, and he begins reading through them. He sees the early-release stamp and then flicks through the patients. He doesn’t know all of them, but when he sees Mathew Hansen (the man who had attacked him for his ring) he knows that this is a bullshit list. Footsteps grow louder as they approach the office door. William quickly puts down the files and sits back down; as he does so he sees Francis’ name. Moments earlier, darting out into the hall, Arnold had knocked into a guard who was bringing Francis. “Oh, yes,” said Arnold recalling his overlapped sessions. Arnold takes Francis’ arm and leads him into his office, closes the door. Sitting quietly, William is surprised when Francis enters the room instead of Arnold. There is the shadow of a guard outlined in the frosted glass of the office door. The guard stands back and looks at Arnold. “Keep an eye on this door,” Arnold instructs the guard before he rushes off back down the hall.

On his way down the hall Arnold thinks about what he wants to say. He has to explain the case carefully. To the warden (and the chief of his department) Francis was just a number, but Arnold had to outline how releasing Francis would be a PR nightmare. He was concerned about Francis’ safety. Knowing Francis’ behavior, Arnold does not think that Francis will ever make it in prison, let alone society. On top of that, Francis has not been violent for many years (aside from the tray incident, which Arnold believed was initiated by a guard to begin with).

Francis is leaning back in a chair beside the door, while William has gotten up to examine the files again, out of curiosity. Neither of them speaks, knowing a guard was just outside. As William begins reading, he looks up at Francis. He is disgusted by the first line, but he doesn’t see the person described in the notes in front of him; when he looks at Francis, he sees another person. Francis can feel the back of his ears burn from William’s gaze and gets up. “What are you reading?” asks Francis. “Nothing,” replies William quietly. Francis sees his name as he gets closer, and his eyes widen with anger. “Give that to me!” he demands. William shushes him. Francis looks over at the door; he can see the shadow of the guard shuffling from side to side. “Give it to me or I’ll cause a scene,” Francis threatens. “You know I’m good for it.” William drops the file in front of him and sits down in Arnold’s leather chair. Silence fills the office again as the two sit, expecting someone to enter the room at any moment. But it never happens. As the clock reaches noon, the guard’s shuffling becomes pronounced; he was clearly in need of a restroom as he left his post.

Eventually, Francis opens the door and walks out. After two minutes William pockets his ring and follows him. The hall is dead; no one is around. Slowly, the two of them make their way along the hall, past dull walls and doors that make everywhere look the same. The guards who were on duty had been called away to another incident, one involving a group of patients and contraband. Many guards had not shown up that day, or had called in sick that morning. As Francis went to turn down another hallway, the guard returned with a candy bar in hand; he had gotten a snack after his piss break. “Hey!” the guard called out. Francis freezes. The guard approaches Francis with his baton out, ready to strike. Francis’ hands fall as the baton hits his chest with a thump, knocking him to the floor. William, around the corner, waits. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” asks the guard raising his baton again. Now is William’s chance. He lunges at the guard, taking the baton and holding it under the guard’s neck. Slowly the man is rendered unconscious as William forcefully helps the guard to the floor. “You okay, Stanley?” William asks Francis. Francis nods, clutching his chest at his ribs as he stands up. They head in the opposite direction, leaving the guard on the floor as they make a left, and then a right, and then another right. At this point they are lost. William is beginning to worry because this isn’t a good position for either one of them to be in. He knows if they get caught this means solitary and a hell of a lot of beatings. Francis can see William’s fear and says, “Eyes on the prize, partner.” Leading the way, Francis looks like a headless chicken darting from side to side.

William quickly realizes Francis is doing this to avoid his face being caught by the surveillance cameras and follows Francis’ lead. Suddenly, an alarm is raised down a hallway to their left. Knowing this was not a good sign, the two of them freeze as what sounds like a thousand guards storm down the hallway. One by one they fly past from left to right in front of them. Geared up from head to toe, not one guard glances in their direction. The earlier incident escalated when the patients started to team up and defend themselves and their contraband snacks, realizing that they far outnumbered the guards. Frozen to the spot, William cannot believe what just happened. “You ready, Mark?” Francis says, raising his eyebrows. “For what, Stanley?” William asks. Francis smiles with a crooked grin. “Well, Mark, I think it’s time we put our mission into action. Let’s go out and stop the real criminals.” William’s eyes light up: the idea of escaping this place feels like his saving grace from prison. Stealthily, Mark and Stanley head down the hall toward where the guards had come from. They push open two double doors and keep walking. As they look around the doors all seem identical, save one. It is the exact same dull grey, except for some white writing on the front which has a danger symbol for electricity.

Inside the chief of the psychology ward’s office, Arnold is ranting and raving. “It will be detrimental to the facility and those within it! The ‘Honor Roll Residents’ early releases are great—in theory—and should remain such until we have fixed protocols internally. That is where our focus should be, on the facility itself, rather than on increasing ‘staff’ and reducing patient numbers. With proper training and use of the security systems available we can create a community where both patients and ‘staff’ feel they are not in danger.” Arnold says, taking a moment to catch his breath. While he waits for the chief to reply, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Stanley pushes the door, but it’s locked. Luckily, he has Mark. It takes Mark two thrusts to loosen the door and a third to crack the frame. Inside Stanley rushes around the room, Mark isn’t sure what his partner is looking for so he waits, keeping an eye on the door. “Over here,” Stanley calls to Mark as he is opening a vent. “I’ll be back in a bit,” Stanley says while climbing inside. Time ticks by slowly, a minute becomes ten minutes. Mark is beginning to worry when he hears the noise of the guards returning from what sounds like a football game. “Great hit back there,” says the tall guard. “Right! I was on fire,” says the bald guard. “Hey, is this door meant to be open?” asks the tall guard, going to the door. Mark bends down, hiding behind some electrical s, holding his breath. “Hey!” yells the bald guard. “Don’t get distracted; you owe me a coke.” The tall guy laughs and nods as he lets the door go and walks on. Mark breathes out as he hears them walk out of earshot. “Hey!” exclaims a muffled voice. Mark looks around but sees no one. “It’s Stanley. I’m in the vent,” Stanley says, his voice still muffled. Mark looks at the small gap of the vent and tries to climb inside; he pushes and pushes but his body won’t fit through. He feels disheartened. Once again his size is against him. “Head to east exit, the one used for catering,” Stanley says, scurrying away.

Before Mark can ask him anything Stanley is gone, clanging softly along the vents. So Mark opens the door and makes a right. He knows he has to walk toward where the guards’ canteen is. As he slowly moves he realizes he is just as loud going slowly as walking normally. So, confidently, Mark looks ahead and walks down the hall. As he approaches the canteen he makes a sharp right again. He es the tall guard and bald guard, who are in the middle of a group, re-enacting their self-proclaimed epicmoves. No one sees him . At the same time, in the vent, Stanley is retracing his steps. All of the vents are welded, but he had managed to find an old unused AC unit earlier. When he gets back to it, he is able to peel off the AC ducts made of cardboard and tinfoil that connected it. The space is dark so he has to slowly creep through the opening. Now there was cold, hard metal in front of him, and he has not expected this.

While Arnold waits for the chief to reply, his phone buzzes in his pocket again.

At the east exit there is just one guard, sitting beside a steel gate, in front of another double steel gate—gates which even Mark would not be able to put a dent into. Mark stops, maybe twenty yards away. Now what? he thinks to himself. Could Stanley have been messing with him? Could this all just be a trap? Was Mark just a distraction while Stanley escaped alone?’ Unable to move back down the hall or forward, Mark is trapped.

Unable to give up, Stanley pushes as hard as he can from within the small crawl space. ing times with Mark in the gym, where he was constantly pushing him to raise the bar and apply his body like his mind, Stanley decides to switch his focus to the sides where he can see the flicker of light. Moving from corner to corner, Stanley pushes as hard as he can, until… it comes off.

The guard at the east exit gets up, and looks at a screen. All of a suddenly he frantically clicks some buttons and locks the first gate. Mark quickly jogs toward the exit. Inside the space between the gates, the guard pulls a key attached to his hip and unlocks the first lock as he looks at Stanley smiling and waving from outside the gate. The guard knows Stanley, everyone does, so seeing him somewhere he shouldn’t be isn’t unusual. The guard goes to enter a code as he feels breathing on his neck. Slowly, he turns to see Mark is looming over him. “Continue,” Mark says calmly to the petrified guard. Who, with trembling fingers, finally manages to open the gate. “Thank you,” Mark says, as he knocks the guard out with a swift fist to the face. Now that they are outside, Mark and Stanley run around the back and see a food truck offloading. They dive into the back. It smells pretty funky, but to them that’s the smell of impending freedom.

After listening to the Chief explain “You’re not wrong Arnold, but the thing is, it’s more big-picture; think big-picture with me. You see, you see what I mean. Could we solve small issues? Sure! But, what about if we solved the big issues? We try our best and we need to present our best, Arnold…” Arnold zones out.

Loose labels lay on the floor of the truck, out of date by a month or more. Mark pinches his nose with his fingers; Stanley doesn’t mind. Bang, clang, click go the doors of the truck, as a man seals the back and clambers into the cab.

Arnold can’t understand a word of what the Chief has said, and leaves his office confused. Everything he’d said was vague and noncommittal, thinks Arnold as his phone buzzes again—and this time it doesn’t stop. Arnold finally takes the call; it’s his friend from security surveillance. “Where have you been?” yells the security guard, “I’ve been trying to message you for ages!” “What is it?” Arnold says, rushing down the hall toward his office. “Francis and Bill, the two guys you asked me to monitor, are escaping… well, have escaped,” says the security guard as he scrolls through the footage from minutes before. Arnold stops in his tracks and quietly says, “Could you repeat that?” “Sure. Well, during the incident led by Hansen, everyone was focused on west wing… including me. It was crazy, you really do have to watch it. But, anyhow, I noticed the east exit open and two guys leave, which seemed odd. So, I scrolled back through the footage and it’s Francis and Bill. They came out of your office and ran down the hall, hit a guard—” the security guard said. “What?” Arnold interrupted, even more concerned. “It’s fine, he’s a dick anyhow.” The security guard continues, “And, well, they basically escaped in the back of a catering van.” Arnold pauses and says quietly into his cell phone, “This is not good. I’ll be a minute. Wait for me.” He quickly heads toward the surveillance room.

After what feels like an hour, as they get further away from Bridgewater, Mark is starting to relax. Meanwhile, Stanley is thinking. They hear the sound of heavy traffic, which leads them to think they are now in Boston’s city center. At a stop light Mark gets up and goes for the door but it won’t move: they are trapped inside the truck. “What now?” says Mark aloud to himself. “I have an idea,” says Stanley, as if he were reading Mark’s thoughts. Not willing to give up yet, Stanley finds a pole and when the truck stops at another traffic light, they jam the pole into a gap between the doors. Together they try to buckle the door and to disable the lock, but nothing happens. Mark sits down, leaning against the door while Stanley paces from the back to the front of the truck. Suddenly, Stanley starts banging on the front of the truck by the cab, and he bangs repetitively, over and over. Mark watches Stanley hit the wall repeatedly. Eventually, to Mark’s surprise, the truck stops and parks. They hear the man get out and come around to the back of the truck. As he opens the door, Mark stays to one side, while Stanley stands in the back, in clear sight. “Hey,” calls the man into the truck. “You’re not supposed to be in there. I’m calling the cops,” he says angrily as he starts to slam the truck door shut. The door won’t shut. The man pulls the door back to reveal Mark with a large grin on his face. Moments later both Stanley and Mark are out of the truck on a small side street; they left the man “resting” inside. As they begin to run away from the truck toward the busy streets, they realize this is a bad idea, considering what they are wearing. So Mark takes off his clothes and turns them inside out. He then rolls up the pant legs, rips off the sleeves and pops his collar. Stanley bursts into laughter at how stupid Mark looks, and then copies him, because, while he looks ridiculous, at

least he doesn’t look like a prisoner.

The warden is not convinced it was Francis Madsen and William Ledger as their faces were not available on the footage during the escape, but after they double check both rooms and scan the facility it becomes obvious—they’re gone. An emergency meeting is held in the warden’s office, including the head of the guards, the chief, the warden, and Arnold. The chief is smiling quietly, almost smugly as he calmly says, “Processes are practical, but big-picture thinking is what works, not this.” The warden is less calm as he shouts, “Another PR nightmare!” The chief calms the warden, “Right, so let’s focus on damage control. It won’t help yelling about this. We need to focus on the story,” he said. “What about Francis and Bill?” Arnold asks. The warden and chief look lost. “The two patients in question, sir, Arnold here was pretty close to the both of them,” says the lead guard with a scowl. Arnold interrupts. “They have names: Francis Madsen and William Ledger.’” The chief’s eyes light up and he states, “Of course, they are our number one priority!” This surprises the entire room. “I’ll explain. We push through the ‘Honor Roll Residents’ early releases today, all the patients on the list. And, during the check and transportation, we say those two patients Arnold named were somehow lost.” The chief pauses to think, before concluding, “Then we release a statement to say that if only we’d had the appropriate amount of guards, then we would not have had this incident. We place the blame on the state and say that guards were just doing their jobs within a highly-pressured, highly violent environment. And, then we state that guards are people too… etc, etc.” The room is quiet as they all wait for the warden to speak first.

“I…love it!” The warden says. “Perfectly timed for the budget review. Good job!” the warden adds with a nod to the chief. Arnold cannot believe what’s happening. Has he really just heard the warden thank the chief for the escape of two mentally-unstable patients? “Draft the statement for the press,” says the warden to the chief, who then gets up and leaves. “Get the guards in on the plan and get those patients transferred into the general prison population ASAP,” says the warden to the lead guard, who leaves as well. Finally, the warden turns to Arnold and says, “I can trust you to do your role in this and remove both Mr. Madsen and Mr. Ledger from your files.” Arnold looks at the stone-cold expression of the warden, realizing who had been altering his files. Arnold nods in reluctant agreement. But, as Arnold gets up to leave the warden grabs his arm. “And, when this shit hits the fan, which it inevitably will, you, Mr. Joseph, are going to be our spokesman, our advocate in the public eye,” adds the warden in a low, stern voice, his jaw stiff. Arnold leaves and heads back to his office. Once inside he rubs his arm where the warden had grabbed it. Then Arnold sits down in his chair and turns on his computer. He opens the files for Francis Madsen and William Ledger, and pauses as his finger hovers over the delete button with his mouse. Can I really do this, he thinks, but it’s too late: he’d clicked, and one file is gone. A moment later, he clicks again, and both files are gone. He then opens the “tax receipts” file and rereads his last entry:

“The effect Bill is having on Francis Madsen is profound—refer to Patient 390/213 session August 20 th, 2018.”

AJ

Arnold hesitates, and then deletes it as well, knowing it would implicate him. With a hung head, Arnold gets up and makes himself some coffee, adding a little something extra he’d gotten from one of the guards on his birthday. As he sits, he raises his mug, and silently makes a toast, To Francis and Bill, Stanley and Mark, wherever you may be, prove them wrong for me, before he takes a big gulp.

Ill-prepared for the mission ahead, Mark and Stanley need supplies and a plan— fast. They split up and plan to meet in a parking lot a half an hour later; if one of them is late the other will go it alone. When Mark comes back late, with a pull string sports bag hung over one shoulder with two slightly scuffed police badges and guns inside it, his fears are quashed when he sees the double-flick of lights from a Subaru Forester. Mark knows that Stanley isn’t the ideal partner, but one thing is clear: Stanley wants to be. “Get in,” Stanley says out the open driver’s side window as Mark approaches the car. “I’m driving,” says Mark to Stanley. Stanley refuses as he sits in the driver’s seat wearing ridiculous sunglasses. Mark walks around and opens the driver’s side door, pulls Stanley out—his sunglasses break as they fall to the ground—and gets in. Stanley marches like a child around to the enger’s side and says, “Did you have to break those? I just got them when I went shopping.” Mark sits down, buckles up and looks at the back seat. There is a duffel bag filled with clothes and snacks laying to the side and a brand-new camera still in its packaging. “Shoplifting… ” Stanley corrects himself with a crooked grin. With no intention of hanging around, Mark starts the car. Once outside of Boston they change clothes. Mark takes his ring from the pocket of his prison overalls and puts it on before he throws the uniform-style clothing into a ditch. In the car, Mark watches as Stanley bites and pulls, struggling to open the plastic packaging around the camera. “Did you also get a phone?” Mark asks.

“Nope,” Stanley answers slowly, as he finds a weak corner in the packaging. Mark raises his right hand as if to ask why. “Who were you planning on calling?” Stanley says curiously. Snap goes the camera. Mark pauses, as in a moment he realizes he is alone. Alone aside from Stanley.

Day 5

7:50 PM—Family style diner in Lafayette, Louisiana

The place is bustling with jazzy music that makes you want to twist from side to side, hands out, boozed up, loving life—the waitresses skipping around as they serve people with great big smiles. Sitting on a turquoise fake leather seat is Haley, because after g “I’m hungry” five times Mark and Stanley had finally gotten the message. Starving and eager to get something in her tummy, she has her hands gripping the seat cushion to distract her and is swinging her legs above the black-and-white checkered floor. Mark is also feeling the same discomfort as Haley. Despite the massive amount they had eaten that morning, by evening they are all famished. Mark’s stomach is rumbling so loudly that when the waitress comes over she asks, “Would you like an appetizer?” directing the question at Mark’s stomach, which makes Stanley laugh and pound on the table. The duffel and string pull bag lay underneath. Stanley and Haley play a hand-slap game while Mark leans back and just takes in the diner. Stanley feels really happy. At first he’d thought that Haley would take away from his and Mark’s relationship. But that didn’t happen. Stanley is not sure why the kid prefers him, thinking it was accidental when at first she went to grab his hand instead of Mark’s. However, it wasn’t long until Stanley realized that it was him that she wanted to play with. And he wanted to play with her, too. They are like peas in a pod: even though they have known each other less than forty-eight hours, Stanley feels a real kin-like connection to Haley. He wonders if this was something he could have had with his sister, if she hadn’t been such a self-absorbed bitch. Mark, on the other hand, is jealous of the relationship between Stanley and

Haley. At first he had assumed his role—as a father. But watching them together is endearing, and is giving him a chance to relax. The long drive has really zapped Mark’s energy levels, and he needs a solid night’s sleep if he is going to do any driving the next day. He sits up and crosses his right leg so that he can use his hands to stretch his foot through his shoe. Mark starts to remove his shoe, but Stanley stops him. “Hey, um. We’re in a restaurant. No one wants to see those moss pits you call feet,” Stanley says with a frown, before turning back to Haley. The waitress has gotten some crayons, so Stanley is watching Haley color in a picture. Mark decides to do the same to distract himself. “Excuse me, could I get one of those?” Mark asks, pointing to the coloring sheet which Haley was butchering, unable to stay within the lines. The waitress comes back with a coloring sheet for Mark, handing it over with a hearty smile. A few seconds after Mark has selected the colors he wants to use, the food arrives. Haley and Stanley share a portion of fried shrimp, while Mark has his own. It’s simple and tasty; they are all licking their fingers to savor every morsel. After his last bite, Mark feels a wave of sleepiness crash over him, and starts yawning like there’s no tomorrow. Mark gets up from the table and says, “I’m going to find us a place for the night; you stay with Lily and get some dessert.” He leaves Stanley with more than enough for the meal and any dessert they might have. “Sure, should we get you some too?” Stanley answers, his left arm hung over the back of Haley’s chair. “No, thanks, I’m good,” Mark says, picking up the duffel bag and walking out. Outside, Mark looks through the glass window at Stanley and Haley; he has

never seen that side of him. A short while later Mark sees a sign for a bed-andbreakfast, so he walks inside and speaks to the overly-friendly owner. He books a room for the night with a noon check out. Luckily this time they’ll have twin beds and a trundle for Haley. He leaves the duffel bag in their room. Mark explained that they were brothers, and that Haley was Stanley’s daughter. He thinks this makes more sense, given their resemblance as well as the way they are with each other. Mark is just the tagalong who drives the car on the family adventure. Mark thinks about his brother. Did Joseph feel like that when he ed Mark and his family on their trips? Joseph was not the most talkative guy, so you never truly knew what he was thinking. On the odd occasion, Mark had seen Joseph standing away from the group, but his wife had always gone and spoken to him and fixed everything again. In fact, Mark’s wife had insisted they invite Joseph on their trips, telling Mark it was an opportunity for them to bond. Though by the end of their trips Mark and Joseph had never done much bonding.

Stanley is feeling great as he and Haley finish off a slice of apple pie together just as Mark returns. Mark sits down at the table, taking a load off. Mark feels his body crying out for sleep. Stanley and Haley hop up, ready to go. Stanley takes Haley’s hand and leaves a tip on the table as they walk out. Slowly Mark gets up, picks up his string pull bag and follows them out. “Come on, Grandpa,” says Stanley as he holds open the door for Mark. There’s a warm breeze in the air, making the night feel light and awake. Mark turns toward the bed-and-breakfast, but sees Stanley eyeing a bar across the road. “Stanley, I’m heading to the bed-and-breakfast, you coming?” Mark asks. “I might stay out for one…” Stanley says cautiously, waiting for Mark’s permission. “Sure, enjoy. I’ll take Lily.” Mark says, throwing the string pull bag over his shoulder so that he can take Haley’s hand. Stanley looks disappointed that Haley can’t him, but this fades when Mark reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hundred and hands it to Stanley. “Enjoy yourself; you deserve it,” Mark says sincerely. Stanley blushes. He is so excited seeing the dull luminous light from a bar fifty yards away, and this one looks relatively harmless, plus he doesn’t see another within walking distance. So he crosses the road, and goes to enter the bar, but is stopped by the doorman. Stanley tries to pull out his fake drivers license, but he can’t find it. He pulls out the police badge in his jacket pocket as he searches the license. Putting everything away, Stanley realizes that he must have lost it. Shrugging, Stanley says, “Afraid I lost it,” as he turns to leave.

The doorman grabs him and pulls him back, “I’ll let you get away with it this time. Nice to see that officers make mistakes too,” says the doorman with a chuckle. Stanley bursts out laughing, which looks a little sarcastic, but he had just completely forgotten about the whole cop thing. Opening the door, he sees the décor is rather standard, with signs and paintings hung on a dark-painted wall. There are a few wooden booths to the left, and some bar-height tables to the right. Inside Stanley goes up to the bar, as it draws less attention and provides easy access to the reason he was in a bar to begin with. He waits to order a beer, but the bar is quite busy and the bartender is distracted by a hottie at the other end of the bar. Slowly, Stanley becomes agitated. The noises around him get louder and louder. The pitches of people’s voices become annoying. Impatience builds up inside Stanley, more and more—he feels like he is about to burst. Stanley panics inside as he knows what’s coming but can’t stop. It’s like a tsunami: you can see it from afar, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. Stanley taps on the bar, trying to get some attention. The place is getting busier, and people start to push up against him. He feels a tug on his jacket as a pretty woman accidentally pins it against the bar with her arm. Stanley feels his head pound as he holds his breath: it’s coming, it was too late. And once it kicked in it was like a wash cycle—you had to let it run its course. “Could I get a damn beer!” he shouts at the bartender, who turns suddenly. A thirty-something-year-old guy next to Stanley nudges him in agreement and says, “Yeah, buddy, we’re waiting here.” The bartender strolls over to Stanley, wiping down the sticky bar top and placing down new drink napkins. “What I can I do for you?” he asks Stanley with very little interest in the answer. Stanley finally breathes out and says, “Two beers,” ordering for the guy next to

him as well, pointing with his finger at the Coors tap. Next, Stanley pushes back at the inconsiderate people jammed against him. “Excuse me, I’m trying to sit here,” he says, making himself more room. The group of people take a step back and the pretty woman beside him, pinning his jacket, turns and says, “Oops. Sorry about that, just having a birthday party… you’re more than welcome to us,” she says, looking Stanley up and down. Stanley smiles and shyly turns away, and the guy next to him nudges him again. This time to hold his glass up and say cheers, as their beers have arrived. “This round’s on me,” says the guy. They clinked their glasses and each took a big gulp: the cool beer feels heavenly in the hot bar, made even hotter from all the additional people inside. As Stanley sits there he leans back and looks around. This time he doesn’t turn to something to read; this time he just sits there exposed, just being himself. Just as he felt comfortable, like he was normal, the guy next to him started to comment on the New Orleans Saints game on the TV. “Did you see that , pfft, what the hell, right?” said the guy to Stanley, waiting for a response. The first thing that popped into Stanley’s head was to comment on women playing pro-sports but as he went to open his mouth, Stanley stopped himself. Taking a moment to think does this guy want to hear this? Stanley quickly came to an eighty percent conclusion that he probably didn’t and thought to himself, What Mark would say? “Got to quit fucking around, play to win,” Stanley says awkwardly, chasing it with a big gulp of his beer. “Exactly,” says the guy raising his free hand in frustration.

Back at the bed-and-breakfast, Mark is already fast asleep, having drifted off the second his head had hit the pillow. Haley is curled up on the trundle, she looks peaceful as she softly purrs in her sleep.

It’s pretty busy inside for a Sunday, but Stanley doesn’t mind. As Stanley raises his hand, about to order another round, the bartender shoots over in a second. He is already pouring before Stanley can get the words out of his mouth. Stanley tries to show his appreciation with a smile, but it comes off crooked and creepy as he exchanges the money with the bartender, who nods and walks away to get Stanley’s change. As Stanley and the guy beside him hang out, the guy comments on the game while Stanley says things he thinks Mark would say. The guy laughs a lot and pats Stanley on the back so he knows he is doing something right. The problem is that while they are having a good conversation, Stanley has no idea what it’s about. As it gets later, the bar gets busier. “Why is it so crowded?” Stanley asks the guy. The guy laughs and turns to Stanley and asks, “Contractor?” Stanley takes a sip and nods, not entirely sure what he means. “I hear ya. Well, buddy, you’re in luck. It’s Labor Day weekend. So, there’s going to be plenty of this,” the guy says with a wink as he scans the bar with his eyes. Stanley takes a look around the bar; it’s bustling with women in their twenties. A bit unsure, Stanley thinks about leaving, when the pretty woman from earlier who had taken the stool next to his turns around again. “Where are your manners?” she asks. Stanley looks confused. He glances around: he isn’t sure what he’s done wrong, but he knows that he, as usual, has done something incorrectly. “I’m sorry,” says Stanley, preempting an apology.

The pretty woman laughs, tossing her hair to the side and asks, “Are you ever going to offer to buy me a drink?” Stanley pauses, then raises his hand, the bartender already waiting. “Name it,” Stanley states smoothly. The pretty woman is taken by Stanley. “Vodka and seltzer,” she says, twisting her hair with her right hand. She swivels on her seat, crossing one leg over the other, positioning her body toward him. At ten o’clock a TV in the corner of the room behind Stanley switches to the news with subtitles which start to roll along the bottom of the screen. News: “On August 30 th, two patients escaped from Bridgewater State Hospital in Massachusetts during a prison transfer.” Mug shots of both Francis Madsen and William Ledger are shown on the screen with their names clearly written underneath. Stanley, who is facing the pretty woman, doesn’t see the TV and continues to talk casually, asking, “So, it’s your birthday?” The pretty woman looks from the screen to Stanley and then back at the TV screen. “Oh my god!” she screams to her friends. Pulling Stanley’s face by his chin, she points to his face and says, “Look at this guy, and look at the TV.” She points to the TV. The group of friends gasp. There is silence, for a second, before everyone laughs. “We’ve found your doppelganger!” says the pretty woman to Stanley as she laughs hysterically, ordering a round shot to celebrate the occasion. No one pays attention as the subtitles continue running on the news in the

background: “A statewide man-hunt is currently on the way. The men are believed to be dangerous and mentally unstable. Residents in the Greater Boston Area have been warned to keep their distance and authorities immediately.” A shudder rushes through Stanley’s body as he tosses his head back, letting the burning Sambuca flow through him and letting out a “Whoa,” which is quickly copied by the girls in the group. They order a couple more and some mixed drinks. Stanley is out of his element and loving it. After some time the excitement of the moment dies down and the group gets back to chatting between themselves. The pretty woman, rocking her crossed foot says, “Creepy. Just imagine them being around actual people,” she says, referring to the news report as she touches Stanley’s arm. Stanley frowns, focusing his eyes on the pretty woman and asks, “Actual people?” “You know what I mean,” says the now-not-looking-as-pretty woman to Stanley. She tries to explain. “That guy, he looks like you, but is just bat-shit crazy. Like, I can’t imagine what it would be like if I was talking to him instead of you.” Stanley nods along, not sure what to do, but he’s certain he no longer likes this woman and he turns away. At this moment he feels a pat on his shoulder. “Listen, lady,” Stanley says, turning to face Mark, who is standing behind him. Mark glares at the ugly woman, who awkwardly slides off her seat and s her friends. None of them recognize him from the earlier news report. Mark signals to the bartender for another two beers, which arrive within a second. “Fantastic service,” Mark says to the bartender, handing him a tip. Mark smiles to Stanley; Stanley smiles knowingly. After taking a sip, Mark very quietly says, “Stanley, I saw the news, and I think

it’s time to call it a night.” Prepared for the worst, Mark takes another sip, just in case Stanley intends to knock his beer over, upset. But Stanley doesn’t. Instead he nods in agreement, chugs his beer, and gets up. After wiping his upper lip with his sleeve, Mark gets up too. Before he leaves, Stanley pats the bar friend on the back and says, “Good luck tonight.” “Play to win,” calls out the guy to Stanley as he walks away. Mark raises his eyebrows as he looks at the guy, and turning to Stanley he asks, “What was that about?” “Oh, nothing. How’s Lily?” Stanley replies. “She’s fine, I left her watching TV. It was a good thing she put it on, but I’m glad she wasn’t looking at the screen when they aired the mug shots,” Mark says, widening his eyes. As they walk in the dark toward the bed-and-breakfast, they enjoy the night sky and the cozy feeling in the air. And Stanley has a question. “Mark?” Stanley says. “Yeah?” “Are we okay?” Stanley asks. Mark knows what’s on Stanley’s mind and says back, “We’ll be fine. They’ve just started looking in Massachusetts. And we’re in the glorious south!” Mark throws his arms up into the air joyfully.

Day 6

9:04 AM—House, Louisiana

The room is quaint and very neat, with dark smooth wooden floors and calm decorations all in shades of pastel. The harlequin-shaded green wood ed walls of the room are soothing as Stanley opens his eyes, but his head is thudding. Wrapped in a ball, Stanley cranes his neck to reach out to a glass of water on the table between his and Mark’s twin beds and chugs it down. The water tastes amazing as it rehydrates and soothes his throat. When the water is gone Stanley wants more, so he gets up and drags himself to the bathroom. As he drinks his bodyweight in water he notices that only Haley is in the room with him. The other bed is already made. Stanley can hear muffled noises through the door of the room, so he opens it an inch and peers out with squinting eyes. He sees that Mark is sitting reading a newspaper and drinking a coffee in the living room. It’s spacious with a bunch of different cozy places to sit. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast is standing talking to him as he nods along politely. Stanley listens to the conversation, amused as he can see how awkward Mark feels, just by how he is holding his shoulders. The bed-and-breakfast owner asks, “So, when does the trip end?” Mark doesn’t know how to answer the question, there was not really an end-date for him and Stanley, so he just made something up and said, “Another week. Have a couple more places to see and enjoy and then time to head back home.” Stanley smiles as he watches Mark tell a blatant lie and not run away afterwards.

The bed-and-breakfast owner comments, “There are plenty of places around here for you to see. I’ll make you up a list.” “No, really. That’s too kind,” Mark says. But it’s too late. The owner has already gone to get a pen and piece of paper from the reception desk, including a couple of leaflets she thinks could be interesting and some discount coupons. Stanley becomes bored of watching them and goes back to bed, feeling the throbbing pain in his head increase. The second he lies down, he curls back into a ball and nods back off to sleep, snoring softly. The owner now has Mark’s attention as she makes a note of her favorite place to get a sandwich. He then asks her where he can find a library: she writes directions on the piece of paper, explaining that it’s a rather long walk—half an hour each way. He thinks for a moment; Stanley didn’t look too great this morning and they had a late check-out. Mark nods and takes the directions. In the background, the radio is playing some light instrumental jazz. Eventually a young couple comes down the stairs and the owner courteously shifts her focus onto them. They ask for a cup of coffee and sit down on the other side of the room. Mark returns to his newspaper, something he used to enjoy doing on a Sunday morning—which today felt like. The husband turns to Mark and asks him if he could another section. Mark hands him everything but the sports section as he is enjoying reading the specifics. The husband flicks through the paper while his wife scrolls through her phone, looking at her photos from the night before and sharing them with her husband by turning her phone and shoving it in his face, saying. “Look, look,” when she found one she liked. The husband smiles at each of them, saying variations of “Oh, nice” and “That’s a good one,” but clearly not paying attention. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Honey, check this out,” says the husband, folding over the newspaper and showing it to his wife. She scans the article in front of her and says, “It’s awful the way they treat the staff in those facilities. They have to go to work every day in fear, and now the state is trying to blame them for just doing their job?” Mark leans over and asked “Can I read that?” just in case his photo is somewhere in the article—luckily only a small portion of the story has been picked up by papers in Louisiana. Mark looks at the article titled “Bridgewater Broken by the State,” which presents a detailed of the complex escape plotted by two highly intelligent and devious patients within the facility. The piece detailed how “the patients masterminded their escape using the facility’s Achilles heel, limited guards.” Mark sniggers quietly as he reads. The couple continue to talk, now in a debate. “I agree that they should increase the number of guards, but what about the state? Where’s the money going to come from?” asks the husband. “That’s beside the point,” says his wife. “How would you like to go to work every day and have to do the work of three people?” she asks. The husband laughs as he says, “Honey, that’s what I do!” His wife crosses her arms. “That’s beside the point.” “What about the patients?” asks Mark, entering the conversation. The couple turns and looks blankly at Mark. Mark continues, “If the state can’t even provide enough guards, what does that say about the condition of the rest of the facility and the wellness of the patients?” The wife unfolds her arms and leans towards Mark. “They’re criminals, people who did terrible things to innocent people.”

Mark sniggers loudly this time. He puts the newspaper down and sits up. “You’re just making an assumption. You don’t know who they are, or what they’ve been through.” “And I don’t want to know. They were locked up for a reason,” says the wife, looking to her husband for . He nods and looks down at his phone, not wanting to get into the conversation. “That’s exactly the problem; people don’t want to know, but they want to judge. It’s pathetic,” Mark says, feeling frustrated. “You’re calling me pathetic! What gives you the right to judge me?” says the woman angrily. This is her husband’s cue to react. “Hey, buddy, don’t call my wife names, that’s not cool.” “I didn’t call her anything,” Mark says truthfully. But, it’s too late: the wife is pissed off and starts to rant in Mark’s face. Mark gets up and leaves the room. As he walks away he can hear the wife bitching, saying, “Honey, it’s not okay. Do something.” The husband huffs and gives her a kiss on the forehead, pulling her in for a cuddle. It reminds Mark of all the times he had had to do this for his wife. Mark’s wife was lovely, but particular, and when things weren’t right, it wasn’t fun. Mark was always having to go up to people and say something—usually something she had prepared which he repeated; she said that they would listen to him because of his size. It made him feel like a bodyguard more than a husband. He didn’t like it, but knew it was easier to comply than say no, because that just led to hours of debate which ended in him doing it anyhow. The news of the escape is spreading across the country, driven by social media. The story has created two sides, thousands in of the state and thousands in favor of the guards, with only a small group of people on Instagram discussing the patients.

During the trial of William Ledger a similar occurrence had taken place. The trial was huge in the Boston area as William was heavily linked to the New England Patriots; he had even tried out while he was playing at UMass. His story became big in the media and drew opinions from around the country. This time the mainstream newspapers had similar headings around the “opportunity” William had based on his size and the alleged affair his wife was having that was the real backbone of the case—a story that the public was eating up. A few smaller Boston reporters had other theories, but most of these were even worse. One magazine claimed that his children weren’t his, but were in fact his brother’s, despite resounding evidence that this wasn’t true. Another conspiracy grew that this was the result of a new Boston strangler, claiming that Albert DeSalvo had a partner whom he had shaped to become his successor. The final theory, and the weirdest one of all, was that William’s family were aliens and he should be checked for signs of extraterrestrial activity. William really struggled with being in the limelight during his trial. He didn’t know who to talk to as he didn’t have any family—despite calling his brother many times—and his friends had all abandoned him (on orders from their wives). So William suffered alone. His attorney told him to just ignore social media and focus on the case, but it was hard not to Google his own name. The unfortunate result of which was that he began to feel he had done it, as the opinion of the public was so intensively definitive. As William had read the reports he kept repeating the night he’d found them over and over in his head. ing the gruesome sights he had seen. He never understood it, the strange nature of the attacks: was his wife the intended victim, or was it his four-year-old who lay with a knife in his chest? He had to force himself to stop reading the theories, because every time he did it just made him so mad. But one thing he couldn’t stop was the nightmares. Sure, with the help of AJ they had gotten better, but they didn’t go away. Sometimes William just wanted to scream, and it was like this that Francis had seen in him the first time they’d met at Bridgewater. William stood silently with gritted teeth, and like a loyal dog Francis felt his distress and understood his yearning for someone to be there. Standing outside his bedroom, the husband comes up to Mark and whispers, “Hey, don’t worry about it. My wife can be a little crazy at times, maybe she

should be locked up. Anyhow, sorry about all this.” The husband then raises his finger and points it in Mark’s face and loudly says, “Don’t talk to my wife like that!” The husband then winks at Mark, taps him on the shoulder and walks back into the living room. Mark shakes his head and sets off on his walk to the library. The streets are quiet since everyone was nursing their hangovers at home. The library is open, but it also wasn’t busy. The space was welcoming, in a mix between brick and colorfully painted walls. As Mark wanders around he thinks to himself about what Stanley enjoys so much about books. He doesn’t get it, but he wants to. After twenty minutes Mark is still there, which he feels pretty impressed by. He has found a section on ASL and is flicking through the pages of a book directed at children around Haley’s age. Mark walks over with the ASL book and asks, “Can I buy this from you?” The librarian shrugs and answers, “Unfortunately, we can’t sell our books. We do have a selection you can purchase from—but those are from the Best Sellers list.” She adds kindly, “Are you from around here? Maybe we can set you up with a library card.” “No, I’m from Boston.” Mark says. The librarian pauses, looking more closely at Mark before she says, “There is Alexander Books on West Congress Street. They may have your book.” Mark takes a moment to think. “Can I borrow a pen or pencil and have some paper?” Mark asks, thinking that he is already there, and is not wanting to waste any more time. The librarian watches from a different desk as Mark does a variety of hand gestures. Mark looks up as he feels the stare of the librarian, and she looks confused. He smiles and waves. It was like when Mark had been comfortable making a fool of himself when it came to his girls. Unlike standing up for his wife, doing

something creative and silly for his daughters made him feel like he was on cloud nine. Whether that was dres as the tooth fairy or crying through Frozen at the movies, Mark did it with glee. During last night, Mark’s stomach had settled a little and he was feeling fresh for the first time in a week. Finally, he felt a bit like himself again, perhaps not the identical man who he was before—that man had died along with his family—but a new man, a capable man. Mark was worried about coming off too strongly everywhere he went, but his fears weren’t coming to light, and as he thought about it he realized that the bitchy wife from the bed-and-breakfast had not even hesitated; even when he stood up and towered over her. He was communicating just fine. Mark was really loving life right now, able to eat on his own command, able to make general chit-chat, to laugh, to feel. And, now that the headaches were beginning to subside he felt like things were going to be “okay.” Within Bridgewater the message had been clear: without the staff, without medication, without routine, you would die or struggle to survive. This was the message that William got from his attorney after his sentencing. His attorney sat William down and explained that while this was better for his case, going to Bridgewater was going to be harder in many ways. William’s attorney’s hysteria defense was what led to him being sent to a hospital instead of a prison. A late call that was made, and his attorney believed led to the second degree convictions instead of the first degree. But despite this effort, things had not worked out as well as they hoped with a scheduled date of him reing society at sixty. On top of that, when Mark got to Bridgewater he began to worry that he would have a mental breakdown just by being there, being around the chaos and medication that tormented the place. It wasn’t a question of who you were, but rather a question of how long you could hold on to who you were, as this place would inevitably make you feel mad.

Stanley is in a ball in bed; he feels sad. He’s tired, uncomfortable, and his stomach hurts, but the sadness inside him is the worst of it all. He feels like he needs a cuddle, some soup, a happy movie, a sad song, and someone to tell him it’s all going to be okay. Looking over at Haley, who looks much more comfortable on the trundle than she was in the cot, he wonders what she is thinking. Was Haley feeling sad, did she miss her family, was she having a good time with them or was it all an act? The more Stanley thinks, the more upset he gets, covering his head with the bedding and hiding beneath.

After making a bunch of drawings to communicate with Haley, Mark is ready to go. He gets up, folds his drawings and puts them in his pocket, then returns the book to the librarian so that she knows he hasn’t pocketed it. Mark looks at the clock on the wall and notices it is already half past eleven. He rushes out and begins to jog; as he runs down the street, he slowly catches the rhythm of his breathing. He isn’t as fast as he used to be, but loves the feel of the tarmac street beneath his feet. In the past, if Mark had some time after work, he would go for a run. It was something his dad had taught him as a way to clear his head from the events of the day. Not being able to do this during the past year had been frustrating, for while he liked strength training, nothing felt as good to Mark as that feeling after some endurance training. The way his body relaxed after being drained of every last morsel of energy was addictive. The town was waking up around Mark; the streets were beginning to fill with people searching for nourishment and plenty of liquids. Mark looked over at the bar from the night before and laughed as he crossed the street. The night before, when they had gotten back to the bed-and-breakfast, the alcohol had clearly hit Stanley harder than he’d thought. Stanley started with singing Elvis songs from the CD, before sneaking into the kitchen and taking the cookie jar, and finally declaring that Mark was his best-friend-ever. Stumbling over his feet, Mark almost hits a pole. And it’s a darn good thing he did, as he dodges it by turning, and spots a familiar face. Thinking he’s daydreaming, he started jogging again, before stopping and turning back. In the same diner from last night Stanley and Haley are sitting in a booth. Mark jogs up to the window and taps on the glass, feeling sweaty and confused. Coffee hits the glass as Stanley spits it out, startled by Mark. He waves him inside. Stanley moves the duffel next to him onto the floor to make room. But Mark comes in and sits down beside Haley. A waitress walks over and places down a glass of water and takes a coffee order while she hands Mark a menu. “What are you doing here?” Mark asks.

Stanley looks around the room, then back to Mark and says slowly, “Having breakfast?” Like he’s expecting this to be a trick question. Mark uses the menu as a fan to cool himself down as he asks, “What about the bed-and-breakfast?” Stanley looks up at Mark and says, “What about it? Check-out was at noon and the owner said you went to the library. So, I got up, showered, dressed, got Haley up, she showered, she dressed, then I packed, paid. We started walking to the library, saw the diner, felt hungry and now we’re here for breakfast,” Stanley explained. Mark looks surprised. “What?” asks Stanley. “Oh, the name?” Stanley says, taking a bite from a piece of toast in front of him before he continues, “It’s on the label inside of her top and leggings,” he explains with his mouth full. Mark looks at the tag on the back of Haley’s top and indeed Stanley is right: sewn in right there in clear writing is “Haley Fischer.” His heart drops; he knew she wasn’t his, and this confirms it. Mark feels awful. He wonders about her parents and thinks about how worried they would be, how worried he would be if he was her dad. He looks over at Stanley, who has the same expression of disappointment on his face and says, “Great! We can find a police station and drop her off, then.” Stanley nods in reluctant agreement as he replies, “Yep, that makes sense.” The waitress comes over to the table as no one is speaking, and asks, “Would you like anything to eat?” Mark shakes his head and hands back the menu. “No, thanks, I just don’t have an appetite today.” As a man who never misses a proper meal, Mark is obviously upset. Eating his toast across the table, Stanley is feeling his hangover slowly go away but he still feels sad. He looked up at Mark and says, “Mark, I feel sad and I don’t know why. It’s strange.”

Mark thinks and then smiles. “I have a feeling I know what you are feeling.” “What?” Stanley asks, eager to have an answer. “It’s something people get when they drink too much. It’s like this strange sense of fear. Even if you did nothing wrong the night before, you still get that weird feeling that something is wrong. It’s really annoying, but it goes away,” Mark explains, taking a sip of his coffee. Stanley relaxes back into the booth, feeling at ease now that he knows what it is. Mark decides that they need to head toward San Antonio, roughly six hours away, considering that their best option. With the knowledge that things are just about to get harder, Mark changes the topic and places his ASL drawings on the table. Stanley tries some signs and Haley smiles with the widest smile they have seen so far. Haley starts to sign back, “When can I go home?” Mark doesn’t understand much, but he does understand the sign for home, so he gives Haley a thumbs up and mouths slowly back, “Soon!” She too leans back in her seat and relaxes. Sipping his coffee slowly, Mark thinks about the journey ahead, as he realizes that this little adventure has an ending and it isn’t far away. Across the table, Stanley is studying Mark’s drawing and repeating the signs to Haley. She claps her hands, bouncing up and down with excitement at finally being understood. Paying the bill, Mark leaves a tip as they head out. He turns to see Stanley g to Haley, who signs back. Mark is in awe as he asks, “What did you say?” Casually, Stanley states, “Just, ‘Do you need to go to the bathroom?’ and she said no.” Mark laughs at just how easy that had been for Stanley to pick up. He is like a

sponge—everything he hears and sees he re. As they look for their next car, Stanley stops and stares. Mark looks in the same direction. Mouth open, Stanley is pointing at their car. Stanley walks over as Mark waits with Haley. From a distance Mark can see Stanley open the door and put his head inside, Stanley then closes the door and walks back to Mark, his arms raised in the air. And, like a miracle from the Almighty, Stanley is holding a CD that Mark recognizes instantly. “Elvis is back!” Stanley says with a big grin on his face.

Day 6

1:10 PM—On the road to San Antonio, Texas

The weather shifts as they drive down the highway in their new car, a Ford F150 pickup truck, so Mark winds up the windows and puts the cigarettes in the glove box. Rain falls on the windows, makes a nice pitter patter noise lost on Haley. She is stretched out across the back seat: ers-by won’t even be able to see her. Their goal is to reach San Antonio, as this will put them just over two hours from the Mexican border. Mark finds it hard to see as the windshield wipers aren’t working properly. Eventually, he gives in and stops at a gas station to try and fix them. It takes him ten minutes but he manages to make them work somewhat better. While Mark is outside fixing the truck Stanley goes inside the station to get some supplies, for the stolen car had nothing but some very, very old M&Ms that Stanley had already eaten. Back in the car Mark feels strangely bitter towards Stanley for having discovered Haley’s name in her clothing. He knows it isn’t possible to keep her, but he had been getting used to having her around, and it somehow made him feel hopeful. As he gazes out of the slightly clearer window to the road ahead, Mark lets out a deep sigh. “What was your favorite subject at school?” “What?” says Mark, confused. “History, you probably loved wondering how life was. Or, sports, since you

always got picked first… I’m going to guess sports,” Stanley says as he reads the new teen magazine in front of him. Mark realizes what’s going on. “Too easy.” He says it with a smile; he doesn’t know how Stanley does it, but the guy always manages to lighten the mood. The time is flying by as they drive, laughing along the way. It’s great but it’s too fast. “You know what we need? …something fun,” Mark says, hoping Stanley will have an answer. Stanley points at a Ferris wheel in the distance. “Now, that looks like fun.” Mark looks over and watches the wheel slowly turn. He thinks of the happy families sitting inside it. They’ll be taking a few extra minutes to enjoy the views and take some great photos while they have a break from the busy fair below. He understands the way they feel, just living in the moment the way Mark and Stanley have been these past days. He would have never expected it, but Mark can’t the last time he had laughed so much on a trip. Being with Stanley is mental, frustrating at times and definitely risky, but it’s fun. Tough times just aren’t as tough, and since they had Haley their feelings of joy have increased tenfold. “Or…” Stanley starts, “we could spin in circles and try to punch each other? Whichever you prefer. I mean I’m against hitting kids, but again, it’s your call.” Mark chuckles, agreeing with a smile and completely ignoring the fact that with every ing hour things are getting riskier. But right now facts seem irrelevant and feelings seem right. Stanley signs to Haley, “Taking a nice break, okay?” Haley replies, “Sure. Can I see my mom now?” Mark looks to Stanley, “And, what did she say.” “She said okay, and then something about her mom or wanting to eat turkey. I’m not sure. I’d guess the latter, given that we are in the BBQ state,” Stanley says licking his lips in anticipation

As the sign for Beaumont appears, Mark changes lanes. “What are you doing? It’s another four hours of I-10,” Stanley says, his hand resting on Haley’s knee. “I know. It’s just four hours, so why not enjoy ourselves?” Mark says, as he changes lanes and turns in the direction of the Ferris wheel. Mark continues, “We’ll stay a couple hours and still be in San Antonio by early evening.” Stanley doesn’t need any convincing, and he can’t wait for what Mark has in store—he has everything he wants right there. Stanley nods. “Something fun.” He pauses. “A last memory before the new stage we go into.”

22 years ago

9:34 PM—Francis’ Family Home, Massachusetts

It was a regular Thursday night in this suburban neighborhood near Springfield, Massachusetts. Francis’ mom and stepdad were meant to have date night, but for the seventh time in a row Francis’ mom had canceled it—this time to focus on sewing Francis’ little sister’s pageant dress. She was sitting at a large round kitchen table that was covered in fabric, carefully hand-sewing additional beading into the bodice of an eveningwear outfit. Francis’ stepdad was sitting in the living room. A living room that would look great if it was cleaned up a bit, but instead it was cluttered with accessories and fabrics that suffocated the furniture. After watching another movie with a few beers by himself on their brown leather couch in the living room, Francis’ stepdad called it a night. His wife didn’t notice as she continued working. Francis had been a happy kid. He was raised by just his mom, and he had never met his biological dad—his mom planned to keep things this way. She loathed him for leaving them. Then, when he was little his mom decided to dress him as the girl she’d always wanted. He didn’t mind at first, as he thought it was all fun and games. But when Francis turned seven his mom’s dream of having a real daughter became possible with the welcomed entry of his stepdad. Things were nice to start: the three of them went on picnics and played in the park. Francis had never felt so happy, and his mom had never been so loving. The way his parents loved each other made it happier than he thought was possible. Only, a year after her remarriage, his mom gave birth to the baby girl she always wanted. She was deliriously happy with little Lisa. Francis’ stepdad started to be

forgotten—he felt like a sperm donor. Francis watched as his mom showered his baby half-sister with love, while he was just second best. Things grew worse as his stepdad began taking his frustrations out on Francis, who got smacked for the smallest of mistakes—once he was locked in a closet for the day. With nothing to do he reached around in the small confined dark space and found a book, Flat Stanley. He picked it up and read it by the light of the crack at the bottom of the door. It was the only thing he had in that closet, and he learned to read with Flat Stanley. Every time he was put in the closet he would find the book and practice over and over, letting himself fall into the world of books in his mind, escaping from his own reality, from the thirst and hunger—and from the smell in the corner when he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Francis wished many times to be Stanley, to slide under the door, and he imagined finding his biological dad. His hunger pains would start to hurt so much that sometimes he ed out and would be allowed to rest on the couch next to his sister, the adorable princess his mom loved. He began to accept that she was more important, but he didn’t understand it, and neither did his stepdad. His little sister was his mom’s first love (if not only love) and they used to cuddle in bed every night, kicking his stepdad onto the sofa. One night Francis’ mom needed a glass of water. ing the living room she saw that the sofa was empty so went to check in Francis’ room. She turned on the light to see her husband standing beside the bed in his underwear. Francis was sobbing on his little bed with his legs apart. Francis looked at his mom, but she avoided his eye, stepped back, turned off the lights, and closed the door. Going back to bed she cuddled his sister. And while she went back to bed and put her arm around little Lisa, Francis felt his shorts slide down his hairless thighs.

Day 6

1:45 PM—Fairground near Beaumont, Texas

The bright colors and shining lights stand out against the cloudy sky, and the rain has stopped, leaving a cool breeze in the air. The fairground is packed with people who wear large smiles on their faces as they mill around, unsure what to do first. The food looks fun: the huge hot dogs, the candied nuts, the smell of barbecue in the air. It’s heavenly, but since they aren’t hungry yet Mark leads them through the games. Mark beats Stanley at Skee-Ball, dominates in basketball, and hits a hat trick with the final win in the milk bottle toss. Unable to hide his frustration, Stanley marches up to the water-gun game and puts five dollars on the counter. “Bring it,” Stanley says, positioning himself. As the game starts up, Stanley is ready, adjusting his feet and sticking out his tongue as he aims with one eye semi-closed. Stanley drops the gun on the counter in a dramatic gesture to show how easy it had been for him to win. Mark is a little irritated that he lost, but he loves Stanley’s winning grin. Mark laughs as the man behind the counter offers a prize to Stanley for blowing up the clown’s balloon. Stanley picks the softest monkey he can see and kneels to give it to Haley. A monkey. When Stanley was fourteen his stepdad unexpectedly took him to the fair. It was

the first time they had done something fun together. This was right after Stanley had been joyriding in his stepdad’s car in Springfield, when he was stopped by the cops. He expected he would get into a lot of trouble and was ready for the consequences. But they never came. It was like a cloud that lifted when Stanley and his stepdad walked onto the fairground. The bright lights and colors were shining all around. Stanley enjoyed sugary snacks, as many as he wanted, and his stepdad played every game he saw. His stepdad particularly enjoyed the shooting games, and decided to teach Stanley how to do it. It cost them twenty dollars, but eventually they managed to win a large stuffed monkey. And at the end of the evening when they got onto the Ferris wheel, Stanley’s stepdad put his arm around him and they sat there quietly enjoying the view. Haley pulls at Stanley’s arm as the three of them walk around, sometimes playing games, sometimes stopping to watch others. Stanley skips over to a line for the swing merry-go-round. Mark waves his hand to say “not going on that one” so Stanley runs over and hands Mark the monkey and his jacket, before picking up Haley and jumping back into the queue. Watching the swings go around and around is magical, and Stanley gets really excited, but Haley looks a little nervous and squeezes Stanley’s hand tightly. He makes sure to not let go. Holding the monkey under one arm, Mark gets out the camera from Stanley’s jacket and takes a photo as Stanley and Haley fly by, both laughing and screaming as it raises them into the air. “Did you enjoy that, Lily?” Mark asks Haley as he hands her the monkey once she and Stanley are off the ride. Then he realizes he is still calling her Lily when they now know her name is Haley. Although she couldn’t hear, it made him feel wrong. “Do you want a snack, Haley?” he asks, correcting himself and making sign for “food.” Stanley races into another line, for a ride that’s too scary for Haley, so Stanley turns back, but Mark insists he go on it while smiling and nudging him along. As Stanley stands in line for the fair’s one big roller coaster, his heart is pounding as he slowly edges his way to the front. He is slightly freaking out

from the excitement and looks around for Mark—but he’s nowhere in sight. All Stanley can see are the large number of teenagers around him talking as they move up the line. If he were to guess their ages, the eldest of them is perhaps seventeen. This makes him look at himself. Stanley lights up a cigarette, and one girl from the line turns and asks him for one. Stanley refuses as he only has two left, so the girl complains to her group. They also harass Stanley until he drops his cig onto the ground and stomps it out with his shoe. The girl smirks. Stanley turns to the girl and says, “Did you just fart?” as he pushes one out. The boys in the group smell it instantly and start to look at the girl with disgust. The girl turns to Stanley, who is sticking out his tongue at her; she feels so embarrassed that she runs out of the line. He isn’t even acting like them; he’s acting even younger than them. Nevertheless, he feels smugly satisfied as the gate is moved to allow him and fifteen spotty adolescents to get on. During the entire ride Stanley screams his lungs out, laughing as his tummy tickles going up and down, sitting with his arms flailing in the air as the ride goes past a camera. When Stanley gets up from the ride he rushes to the photo booth, where Mark is standing close by with Haley. As Stanley waits for the photos to , his excitement fades; he sees the big smile on his almost thirty-year-old face, where he’s surrounded by people half his age, the braces of the kid next to him sparkling from the flash. He looks so much older and he doesn’t like it. They are on the Ferris wheel. Mark checks the time on a large Disney-style clock; a couple of hours have ed and it’s about time they get back on the road. Mark looks at Stanley who is so quietly looking out at the fairground, enjoying things as they go around and around: it was like he never wanted the ride to end. Haley sits holding onto the large monkey Stanley won for her. Mark pulls her close and carefully holds her as she peers over the edge and pulls back, scared of how high up they are. Mark reassures her that they are okay by wrapping his big protective arms around her.

As the ride begins stopping, Stanley’s face becomes serious. He steps out onto the metal stairs and walks down the ramp of the exit. Once on the grass Stanley turns to Mark to speak, opening his mouth, but nothing comes out. They walk over to some picnic tables and sit down. Stanley watches Haley as Mark goes to get them some drinks. Mark manages to maneuver easily to the front of the line; he gets them three cokes and a giant-sized bag of nuts. As he is returning to the table, Mark can see Stanley looking at him from a distance. “I need to tell you something,” Stanley says as Mark approaches the table and places down the drinks. Haley drops her monkey and digs her little hands into the nuts; they are honeyroasted with sea salt and they are delicious. Her eyes widen as the salt melts and the sugar coats her tongue; she is instantly hooked. Stanley grabs a handful for himself and eats them one by one as he thinks of what he wants to say. Mark patiently waits for Stanley to speak. “I did some really bad things when I was younger, things I’m ashamed of,” Stanley starts, his face drooping as he falls into thought and his emotions come out. The life of the fair is around them as Stanley explains how upset he feels, having never taken the chance—when he had it—to say that he was sorry. That each day he regretted his actions more than the day before and that it was killing him inside. Mark listens as Stanley speaks, nodding along to what Stanley is saying, trying his best not to show his disdain. Once Stanley is finished, Mark takes a moment before he responds. He thinks about his own situation, the judgment he had faced; the way he’d felt then was plastered on Stanley’s face now. Weirdly, Mark feels fine about Stanley’s confession. He isn’t angry with him; he’s glad Stanley finally opened up to him. Mark has seen that Stanley has two sides:, one an awkward and angry persona who is sexually confused, the other a smart and quick-witted charmer who can

make the room laugh with his energy. Stanley also has a range of emotions like a rainbow, and when he is with Mark he feels he can express them without being judged. Stanley could try and fail with Mark and things wouldn’t change between them. So Stanley was upset he’d never taken the chance when he had it to tell his victims that he was sorry, to tell them he didn’t mean to be the monster that he had been. Mark could see the struggles inside Stanley every day since they’d met nine months ago and only now is the picture clear. For the most part Mark does not want to say a thing in response. He sees that Stanley needs to confess it rather than discuss it, but there is still something Mark wants to say. Mark stands up, putting out his hand to Stanley and pulling him up too. “You took your responsibility that day in court; regardless of how you acted and felt; you pled guilty and you accepted your fate—and that means something.” Mark pats Stanley on the back, picks up his coke and the humongous bag of nuts, and walks away. Stanley feels a tear fall down his cheek and quickly wipes it away when Mark isn't looking. Stanley has always feared his own emotions because he didn’t understand what they meant or what to do about them, but he had started to realize as he spoke that it feels really good to share. Then Stanley takes one coke and hands it to Haley, taking the other for himself. They walk hand in hand from the fairground, following behind Mark. “You know,” says Mark. “Since you found out her name was Haley, I’ve felt a little different.” He says this as he eats more nuts. “Why do you think that is?” Stanley asks him. Mark tries to explain. “I’m not sure; she just looks like a different kid to me.” Stanley looked down at Haley, who is tightly squeezing the stuffed monkey with her free arm, its fur soft against her rosy sugar-filled cheeks. “Strange, she seems like the same kid to me,” Stanley says with a heart-warming smile. Mark looks over at Stanley, and seeing the sweet and caring demeanor he has with the little girl, Mark wishes he felt that way. But Haley wasn’t Helen, she wasn’t Laura, and nothing would bring them back.

“You looking forward to the driving?” Stanley jokes to Mark, trying to get on his nerves. Mark smacks Stanley’s shoulder, knocking his coke to the ground with a thud, laughing as it splatters on the ground. Stanley is not amused.

2 years ago

9:34 PM—Bill’s Family Home, Massachusetts

A fire roars in a pit outside, as Fall has come early to Massachusetts, and the Ledger family is celebrating the end of the summer with one final barbecue in the back yard. Behind the grill with an apron on and comic-style chef hat is little Jack, standing proudly next to his dad. Bill is teaching him how to cook, manstyle. But with the drop in the temperature most of the family, except for William, goes to sit indoors to enjoy snacks as the grill heats up. Outside, beside the grill is a side table with a few trays: one tray of raw meat covered with foil, one tray with kebabs, and a tray of corn. Under the table is a small ice chest filled with beers. The house is very neat; the sofas are cream with navy display cushions, which match the dining chairs and window seat. The carpet has tones of yellow which match the color of the closed curtains that hang from the ceiling to the floor in front of glass sliding doors to the deck in the back yard. Even the art on the wall, which is colorful, is themed per room. Outside, William is drinking a beer. His neighbor has come to him, having just gotten into an argument with his own wife. William, wrapped in a Patriots sweater, listens and nods along as he watches the coals to see if they are ready yet. “I just don’t get it: she complains that I don’t try hard enough,” says the neighbor as he takes a swig of his beer. “And then when I come home wearing a new shirt and cologne, she is convinced I’m having an affair. Like, what the fuck do you want, woman?” he says raising his hands in the air. William enjoys listening to his neighbor; it’s a breath of fresh air to hear that someone else is in the same situation as he was. William doesn't know what he is

doing wrong, but he feels like he can never do anything right. He thinks his wife is perfect, but he never seems to be good enough for her. Finishing his beer, William opens two more, and hands one to his neighbor. The curtain opens and the door slides open. William’s wife stands barefoot; just inside, she pops on some sandals and walks out onto the deck. “Here you guys go,” she says, carrying a bowl of chips. She holds them out to their neighbor first, flashing him a smile before walking up to William and offering him some. Then she places them on the side table. “All good?” she asks as she puts her arm around William’s waist and looks at the grill. “Yeah, fine,” William says, giving her a kiss on the top of her head. She pulls away and heads back to the sliding glass door. “Try not to burn them,” she adds with a grin as she closes the door. Jack follows his mom inside as he wasn’t getting a chance to in the conversation. William takes a handful of chips and chases them down with his beer. “These are great,” says William’s neighbor as he munches away. “You are living the life, Bill—she’s great.” William nods as he checks the grill; it’s finally ready so he peels off the foil from the meat tray and starts putting chicken drumsticks on the hot grating. The meat sizzles as it begins to drip onto the coals. William’s wife has invited his brother Joseph, who came alone as usual but he didn’t seem to mind, plus a few of their married friends and their kids. Lizzie also invited her friend from William’s work who brought her new boyfriend, Greg, and their neighbors were a last addition on William’s side. Indoors Laura and Helen are playing with the other kids, while Jack now sits on his mother’s lap. She looked effortlessly impeccable in a knit jumper over a black tank top with some high-waisted jeans. She is sipping a glass of red wine

as she speaks with her work friend. “I know, it’s great, but sometimes a change would be nice,” says Lizzie. The work friend takes a chip and leans towards her to whisper, “I know, right, he is so hot I could just weep.” The two women look over at Greg as he stands with the husbands, drinking a beer over by a piano—an instrument that no one played but looked nice in the room. Greg is semi-smart but his looks balance him out nicely. He has this hair that always looks good: messy, neat, it doesn’t matter. Joseph, on the other hand, just looks neat, wearing a button-down shirt tucked into smart pants with his hair carefully parted and styled. “So, you’re William’s brother?” Greg asks. Joseph nods, and takes a sip of his Coke. “Half-brother from our mother.” “That’s cool,” Greg says, not sure what else to say. As the evening goes on and booze flows the men all end up outside on the porch around the fire, eating leftover chunks of hotdog, drinking beers and smoking cigars. “I’d get a divorce,” the neighbor says, pretty drunk at this point. His wife had left an hour earlier. Joseph watches and listens. “Yeah, but what about the hassle of starting again?” says one of the husbands. “With half of what you have now,” adds another husband. The first husband shows agreement by clinking the second husband’s bottle with his own. As they all add to the list laughing and opening beer after beer, Joseph decides to in. He interrupts the group and says seriously, “It’s till death do you part, so

someone has to die first.” The group goes quiet as the atmosphere in the air gets a little cooler. Greg jumps in by laughing to lighten the mood, “Well, depends on if she is any good at giving blow jobs. Then she can stay.” The group grins, the first husband tapping Greg’s shoulder saying, “I like this guy!” Joseph takes a step back and walks inside. “What’s up with him?” the first husband asks William on behalf of the group. “My brother doesn’t really like these kind of jokes. Our mom was a strict Jehovah’s Witness and… well… blowjobs are banned.” Two of the guys in the group spit out their beer. “What? Even if you’re married?” asks Greg, incredulous. William nods. “Well, that’s fucking uncool,” states Greg. The group all responds quickly in agreement. William goes into the house to check on Joseph, taking some empty beer bottles with him. He knew his brother was a little different, but he didn’t really know anyone there and William didn’t want him to feel excluded. In the living room the youngest kids were asleep on or near their mothers’ laps while the older kids including Helen and Laura had formed a group in the corner, gossiping away about school. William was curious, as he knew the kind of drama his girls could get up to—like a group of mini-women. In the kitchen, William’s wife and Joseph were chatting. “Get a room, you two!” joked William as he put down the empties and grabbed some fresh beers from the fridge.

Day 6

7:32 PM—San Antonio, Texas

The sun is beginning to set over the horizon, glowing red like a fire guiding the way along the road. As they get closer to the city the roads get busier and traffic starts to build. Mark’s foot is cramped; it had been sore for the past hour and he is ready to be there now. Stanley sits in the back with Haley, her head resting in his lap. She is looking very pale and ill. Suddenly, Stanley has to get Mark to pull over to the side of the road. Stanley carries Haley outside as she retches. As she kneels, Haley dry heaves, then falls backwards onto the tarmac. Stanley panics. Mark hops out of the car and puts Haley in the recovery position. He rubs her back until she eventually vomits again. Mark looks at her and just feels guilty, stroking her hair and checking if she is feeling better. Stanley is pacing, worried. When color returns to her face, Mark lifts Haley up, cradling her in his arms and placing her carefully in the back seat so that they can get back on the road. Stanley takes some of the spare clothes they have to make a pillow. Pouring bottled water over a clean sock he holds it to her forehead. Stanley then feels a pain in his gut which overwhelms him. “Is she going to be okay?” Stanley asks as he softly squeezes Haley’s arm. Mark looks in the rearview mirror at Haley. She looks better, but not well. “I’m

sure she’ll be fine,” he says to reassure Stanley who is becoming as white as Haley was. Mark’s headache is returning so he turns off the radio and they all sit in silence. The drive is quiet; all you can hear are the purr of the engine and the wheels moving beneath the car as they roll against the asphalt, occasionally making a noise as the texture of the road changes. Mark thinks about Haley as she lies in Stanley’s lap. He imagines her family. He thinks about what her dad might be like, guessing that he was probably a funloving and creative guy—maybe a part-time art class teacher, who had dedicated the rest of his time to learning ASL. A man that would have not slept a wink this past week he fought to find his daughter. Her mom was probably a smart woman who had struggled at first with the idea of her daughter’s disability. Though with time she probably let the stigma fall by the wayside. The thought of this great community of Haley’s friends and family missing her is all he needs. Mark looks at Stanley: they know they are taking her to the authorities. They have to return Haley to her family and friends, to make sure she gets back to her life. Mark feels a mixture of sadness and happiness, as if because he feels he can rectify a small piece of his past with this act. Although he feels helpless about his own life, this brings him joy. But if he could he would sacrifice his life for Haley’s in a heartbeat, as terrible as that might sound. The San Antonio Police Department looks huge in the streetlights as they by in the pickup truck. The building has an authoritative vibe and there are many cops wandering around outside. Mark continues along the road to a stop light; his throat is blocked with tension as he grips the steering wheel—two cops are facing him as they wait to cross the street. The light goes green for Mark but he doesn’t move, and one of the cops waves for him to . Mark slowly releases the brake, letting the truck roll forward at snail’s pace. He avoids their eyes as they watch in confusion while Mark takes the corner. Mark speeds up when out of their sight. With no destination in mind he drives

straight ahead, his eyes focused on just moving forward. Stanley points at a shadowed parking lot to their right. Mark turns sharply, just missing the curb as he races inside and jolts to a stop between two cars. He turns off the F-150’s motor. It is a quarter to eight. Neither speaks as tension builds in a truck cab that feels like it is being squeezed by the cars on either side, given their proximity. They are away from the SAPD, but Mark worries, for he feels like he is being watched from every angle. It is five minutes to eight. They are only one hundred and fifty miles from freedom. Haley has to go now, for she is now a liability. But Mark can’t do it. He is apprehensive; the fun road trip is coming to an end. Things are about to change and Mark isn’t sure if he is ready for the serious decision ahead of him. It is eight o’clock.

A female police officer is saying goodbye to her colleagues as she is leaving the building and heading toward her car when she walks straight into a kid on her own. She looks down at a little girl holding a monkey and a duffel bag. “Where are your parents, sweetie?” asks the officer as she takes a knee, glancing around. Haley hands the officer the drink coaster that she pulls from her pocket, which the woman takes with a smile and reads. Her face changes to a serious expression, and standing up she takes Haley into the station, glancing around one last time.

The clock turns half-past eight somewhere in the south of Texas. Sitting in a pickup that now feels very empty are Mark and Stanley, parked outside a Walmart. Fortunately for them Walmart has pretty much everything they think they will need for when they get to Mexico. Aside from the usual impulse crap that Stanley adds because he was concerned he wouldn’t be able to find anything in Mexico, Stanley buys medication, more clothes, two sleeping bags, some blankets and pillows, and backpacks. The cashier does not flinch at the purchases, even though Stanley uses some mangled-up cash to pay for the lot—grabbing a last-minute addition of beef jerky and Reese's peanut butter cups and adding them to the bill. Back on the road it is almost 9 PM. Mark considers filling up the F-150’s tank, but without a valid driver’s license and registration he realizes they will have to walk across the border from Laredo to Nuevo Laredo. So, his focus has shifted to getting some real food. Neither of them is sure on how to best get across the border. Mark knows of the midnight runs that Mexican citizens attempt to get into the United States, but what about the other way around? They assume that American border control will be more into rounding up immigrants than they will be concerned about people who want to sneak into Mexico. At this point Mark is mentally drained. He doesn't have energy any longer, and feels like he is falling just before the last hurdle. On the other hand, Stanley is excited. He feels like he already has one foot across that border, and is just an hour and a half away from his new life. The current question is, “Now what?” With their descriptions on the radio, the stories in the papers and their faces covering the news their window of opportunity to leave is getting smaller by the minute.

Day 6

10:45 PM—Laredo, Texas

The sky is bright from the moon and sparkling from the stars above the city. Laredo, a city that lies deep in the south on the border with Mexico, is a city that mixes Mexican with Texan. It is the last location where you can get real Texas BBQ, which is what they do: their last supper in the United States. They go inside a restaurant and order barbecue-glazed barbacoa and a packer-cut brisket to go, then get some cheap bread and a six pack from a 7-Eleven. Next, Mark drives to a secluded part of Los Dos Laredos Park, turning the truck around so that it faces the way they came from. Then Mark folds back the hard truck bed cover and lowers the tailgate while Stanley gets the blankets and lays them out on the bed of the truck, using the lowered gate as a table for their supplies. Mark opens a beer and hands it to Stanley. Stanley plates up the bread, barbacoa, and brisket onto a paper plate and es it across to Mark with some plastic utensils. They clink their beers and take a drink at the same time, leaning back against opposite sides of the truck bed. As they take the first bite of the brisket their eyes widen with pleasure. Stanley looks up at Mark, as he eats another forkful of the mouth-watering brisket, coated in a special garlic, salt, and pepper rub and smoked over a wood fire, every bite as succulent at the last. “This is incredible!” he exclaims, never having tasted meat this good in his entire life. With full stomachs they lie in the bed of the truck and look up at the stars. The sky is peaceful. As they lie there silently Mark brings up the subject of Haley: they hadn’t spoken about her since Stanley had dropped her off at the police station.

“How did she look when you dropped her off?” Mark asks with curiosity. He is wondering if she will miss them, wondering what she is doing now and who she is with. “She seemed okay,” Stanley says, unsure of how she was meant to act in that situation. “Good. She was a sweet kid, and she’s safe now—that’s what matters,” Mark says hesitantly as he thinks about where she is now. He wonders if she is actually better off without them or if they have abandoned her to the system. “I think so. I think someone that sweet must have been brought up in a great household with amazing parents,” Stanley says, slightly enviously as he imagines the life she would be returning to. “Sure,” Mark replies, not wanting to burst Stanley’s bubble, but thinking that being tied up in the trunk of a car was not the “amazing” life he’d wanted for his kids. Then again at least Haley is healthy and safe, and that’s more than he can say for his own children. “She never really cried either, she was just cool and small. Nothing like my sister,” Stanley says thinking about how his sister would have been on their trip. “If she had been my sister, maybe things would have been different,” Stanley added, thinking about all the adventures he and Haley could have gone on together. Stanley is flicking through his digital camera, looking at the photos of himself and Haley from the past couple days. His favorite one of them is at Elvis’s house in Graceland, with Haley on Stanley’s shoulders. “That was a great day,” Stanley says, showing the photo to Mark, then showing him another from Lance’s in Dover. He hopes that Haley is well-fed and happy. That the sick feeling that she’d had earlier has ed. Mark smiles as he looks at the picture of the happy trio, all with big grins on their faces, and no sign of the terrible events that had occurred. He can't help but feel bad for wishing he could replace Haley for one of his daughters, and he feels ashamed of his thoughts as they whirl around in his head. This makes him sad, and he becomes upset in an emotional way Stanley hasn’t yet seen. Stanley wonders aloud, “Do you think there is any way I can keep in touch with

her?” Adding, “Haley, I mean.” As if Mark would think he is talking about someone else. Stanley wishes he had given some information, like a phone number: finally he has someone he wants to on the phone, he thinks. And he is annoyed that he hadn’t realized this earlier. Stanley gulps down his beer and picks up another. Mark reaches out for one as well. They toast, “To Haley!” conflicted with feelings of happiness and sadness. Stanley looks over at Mark, and asks a serious question. “Am I evil?” Mark lifts his head to catch Stanley’s eye. “What? Of course not,” Mark states sincerely. Stanley waits patiently for more details. “You’re one of a kind, Stanley, a little weird, funny, and also incredibly smart. You’ve made mistakes, but everyone does, and you’re not evil,” Mark explains. “And,” Mark continues, “You’re a great partner.” Recalling their escape from Bridgewater, Stanley could have left by himself but he didn’t. He never let Mark down. “Thanks, Mark, but I am,” Stanley says, feeling upset. Mark shakes his head, “No. People can change.” He says this itting what he genuinely thinks. “You’ve proven that this week.” “A week doesn’t fix a lifetime,” Stanley says, forcing a smile as he feels like a lost cause. Mark interrupts the awkward silence that follows with agitation, “Oh, fuck that! I’m sick of people setting things in stone. Life isn’t black and white. I never thought I would be in a mental institution at the age of thirty-five after being convicted of murdering my family. But shit happens, and all you can do is get up each day.” He takes a breath and calmly adds, “You might not change overnight, but you can over time.” Francis ponders, “I still don’t understand how you were convicted.” “Opportunity and assumptions,” Mark replies with a shrug as he takes another portion of brisket and washes it down with more beer. Then he changes the

subject. “You know what, Stanley?” “What, Mark?” Stanley asks while looking up at the stars. “I like you as Francis, more than as Stanley,” Mark answers. Francis shifts himself and leans on his elbow as he looks across at William, “I like you as Bill,” Francis says back. “Besides, you were a terrible fake cop and the name Mark doesn’t suit you!” Francis laughs. William frowns, “Hey, that was my dad’s name.” “Oh,” Francis says, hearing this for the first time. William nods slowly. He gets an emotional lump in his throat thinking about his dad, the anniversary of his death having just ed. “I get that we have to let go of things, but it’s easier said than done.” “You know what I’ve been wondering on the drive here? If we looked like a convincing couple.” Francis says this out of the blue. William shifts from potential tears into laughter and gives Francis a little punch on the arm. Francis rocks back and has a silent fit of laughter, before taking a deep breath and drinking some more beer. “Just wondering.” He grins. As the night gets later, the sky grows even blacker than they thought it could be. It is like they are alone in the universe as they lie head-to-toe and stare up at the darkness of sky above, undisrupted by the city lights. William wonders if his family is up there, if they can see him now. See what he has been through and where he is going. The food is all gone, and they’ve run out of beer, so it’s time to go. No time to sleep yet. “Are you one-hundred percent certain about this, Bill? I heard Mexico is really poor; do they even have technology?” Francis asks in a last-minute wobble. “Really?” William chuckles at Francis. “I thought you were the smart-ass on everything, surely you know about Mexico?” he inquires.

Francis shakes his head. “Well, then, you’ll just have to wait till we get there,” William says.

Day 6

10:45 PM—San Antonio Police Department

Inside the station the female officer, Officer Madison, is talking with the chief of police about the girl she found outside the station. She points over to Haley, who is sitting on a chair by the police officer’s desk. The chief looks over at her with concern. “We haven’t been able to find any reports of missing children that match her description in Texas,” states the female officer. “What do you mean? No one?” the chief asks, confused for he knows the rates of missing children. Madison shakes her head no. “She’s deaf,” she adds, showing the chief the drink coaster. The coaster has a note: “I am Haley, I was kidnapped by someone around the state of Kentucky. Help me find my parents, I am deaf.” This is written neatly in Mark’s handwriting. With “I love baked pasta” added onto the end of the message in Stanley’s sloppy handwriting The chief has to check on another case, “Send this information across to our friends in New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Louisiana,” he instructs as he leaves. “What about Kentucky? It’s written on the coaster,” suggests the officer. “I doubt she’s come that far, but that’s up to you,” says the chief as he enters his office and closes the door. The female officer, back on the clock, decides to look through footage from the security cameras in front of the station. She watches closely as a tall lean man in

a green sweater walks Haley to the station, but his face is concealed from the cameras. Haley is sitting with all the possessions she had on her at the time she was dropped off. Aside from the monkey she has the duffel; inside the duffel are some jeans with pink stitching, a pink hoodie, plain top, some other clothes, and a children’s book titled Flat Stanley. By this point four police officers are on the case, all of them intrigued by the kid and how she might have gotten there. The female police officer s the Kentucky police first thing, while her colleagues take New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Louisiana. With not much to go on she waits, trying to keep Haley occupied. Half an hour later there is a call back from the Cincinnati Police Department. “This is Officer Thomas from Cincinnati Police Department calling for Officer Madison,” says the officer on the line. “Hi, yes, is this Madison from SAPD,” she says. “Do you have any news on my missing child inquiry?” she asks hopefully. “Yes. Yes, we do!” says the male voice on the phone with optimism. “A week ago a small deaf child called Haley Fischer was kidnapped in a supermarket during a robbery.” Officer Thomas calms down before adding, “Her mother died at the scene of the crime. Her father has been worried sick for a week, calling constantly. If you could send us a photo of the kid we might be able to make a very worried father very happy.” As Officer Madison waits for Officer Thomas from the Cincinnati police department to get in touch with Haley’s dad, she looks up their police report. “Haley Fischer, from Cincinnati, Ohio was reported kidnapped from a supermarket on August 31 st, 2018. She has long blonde hair, big brown eyes, she is five years old, and deaf.” Aside from the new hair cut, Officer Madison quickly compares the photos to Haley and knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s her. Working with Cincinnati PD they manage to get in with Haley’s dad.

Unable to put her on the phone, they set up a Skype call; her father has already booked a flight to San Antonio for the next morning. As the signal buffers and her dad is coming into focus Haley wonders what’s going on. The second her dad’s face comes up on the screen she screams, jumping towards the screen, bouncing up and down uncontrollably. Madison has to put Haley in her lap. Once she has calmed Haley down, she watches as Haley’s dad signs to her through the screen. The silent reunion is hard to watch because Haley’s dad starts to cry. “That’s her, that’s my little Haley,” he says to the officer. “Is she okay? Has she been hurt?” he continues, fearing the worst. The officer ively says, “The first thing I did was get her checked, and Mr. Fischer, your daughter is perfectly fine.” Mr. Fischer smiles through his tears. “Good, that’s good,” he says as the tightness in his chest lifts with the realization that his little girl is still alive. Haley is grinning from ear to ear, g to her dad. He nods and signs back before asking the officer, “She says two men helped her; do you know who they are?” “I’m afraid I do not,” said the officer. Mr. Fischer shakes his head, laughing. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters: she’s safe and well and that’s all that matters.” Haley’s bright, sparkling eyes cannot look away from the screen as she keeps trying to reach out to her dad on the other side. Her dad signs back “I’ll be there soon! I love you sweetie.” Haley stares at her dad’s face, his stubbled chin, his messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, wearing a pajama top. Haley’s lip begins to quiver as she starts to cry, putting her face in her small hands—but they were happy tears. The Skype call is ended and the officer goes to find an appropriate place for Haley to stay for the night. She leaves Haley with some newspaper and some

pencils. When she returns, that morning’s newspaper is now covered in silly squiggles and lines on one of the pages. The heading reads ”Nationwide Manhunt of Bridgewater Butchers” and details incidents linked to Francis Madsen and William Ledger: from locking a catering driver in a van in Boston, to a fight in New York, to grand theft auto in Charleston, to a slaughter in a bar in Kentucky, and to the murder of a police officer in Dover, Tennessee. The report describes the men as dangerous psychopaths, showcasing their mug shots. The officer laughs as she inspects the smiles that Haley is drawing over the two men’s stiff faces more closely. Raising her head to look at Haley, the officer’s eyebrows raise in curiosity, wondering where Haley has been this past week.

Day 6

11:25 PM—The Mexican Border

It is late. William and Francis are exhausted and exhilarated, pumped up with adrenaline as they ready themselves for the border crossing. They walk with backpacks stuffed to the brim, having left the Ford in the park with the keys inside. As they walk in the dark down a street full of single-story buildings they start to feel the border getting closer. Francis fishes the last two cigarettes from his pocket and hands one to William. They light them up before they head through to get their tickets, trying to relax a little. A small standalone sign under a streetlight marks the direction of the border, with an arrow point left with “Mexico” written on it. The border is “open 24 hours a day” per another sign at the ticket booth, and there’s a small cash machine for a gateway that costs just seventy cents. After buying the simple tickets, something that’s less complicated to get than a New York City subway Metrocard, they walk up the yellow concrete path and through the ticket booth. The gate opens, and they continue down and around a fenced-off street, ing a lone security guard sitting on a chair, looking at his phone. The fence looks as permanent as the fences you’d see at a traveling carnival. As they head over a bridge, with cars ing underneath, William takes a brief look back toward the United States, realizing this is the last time he will ever be this close. Feeling the freedom rush inside himself William cannot believe what they have achieved, when he was so worried every step of the way. Francis on the other hand, always had faith.

In an attempt to relax William takes some deep breaths and slows down, wanting to look casual. Once they reach the middle of the bridge William turns to Francis. “Why are we going to Mexico?” he asks. “We’re just two friends going on an adventure, looking to have a good time,” Francis answers, clearly and directly. “Why do we have sleeping bags and pillows?” William asks Francis. “To be ready for whatever the night may bring, like I learned in scouts: Always be prepared,” Francis answers. “Good,” William says, holding his fake ID in one hand and his cop badge in the other. William’s shoulders are hunched in a vain attempt to seem smaller and he watches the ground as he walks. He still has his string pull bag over his shoulder with a gun inside that he’s forgotten about. Francis is strolling confidently along with a smile on his face. “Are you ready for a fresh start?” Francis asks. “Yeah, sure,” William replies, struggling to focus, his pulse beating in his head, his body sore. Nervously, William starts to chow down on some jerky as they slowly make their way across to the other side of the bridge. William feels his panic build as he starts to worry that they have made a mistake by traveling at night. The fear grows and he has to clench his hands to suppress the urge to turn around. Francis places his left hand firmly on William’s right shoulder and leads them on. Francis says nothing; he just smiles confidently to show William that there is nothing to worry about. The border control building is getting closer and closer, and two men are standing outside as they approach it. It looks very simply like a waiting room with some booths and benches, the only difference being the armed personnel. Luckily, they aren’t the only ones crossing at this hour. William lets out a sigh of

relief as he sees a group ahead of them. In line behind three people is Francis, with William behind him. They watch as the first two enter without a problem and the third is taken aside to be searched. It doesn’t look difficult, just random, like something for the border control to do. Francis looks back and grins his crooked grin toward William when it’s his turn. “International traveler,” Francis says back as he walks up to the border patrol officer. The man looks Francis up and down, asks him a question and Francis is taken aside by the officer, another takes his place in front of William. The new officer puts a hand out to William to tell him not to move, as he watches his colleague head off with Francis. William’s palms start to sweat as he waits, not knowing what’s going. Francis is taken into a building. In a few moments he returns from it. The new officer says something in Spanish to the officer with Francis and then turns to William. “You with him?” asks the officer pointing to Francis. William nods slowly, hoping that is the right thing to do. Five minutes , which feels like a lifetime to William—who is mentally pacing back and forth as he hides his concerns from the officer in front of him. While William waits another man walks around him and es through with ease. He starts to wonder if Francis is being searched: he also has a gun and badge. Maybe he was bribing that officer or—worse—killing him. His eyebrows raise at the thought. Finally, as William watches in confusion, he sees Francis in the distance coming out of another building and walking back with the first officer. Francis is walking casually and laughing with the officer. When he turns, the officer in front of William has left and the first officer has taken the position again. “Here’s the rest of your border ,” Francis says, handing William five hundred pesos and giving him a wink. “The bank,” Francis adds, pointing at the

building he had just come from. William smiles widely at this. The officer asks, “What is the purpose of your visit?” “Just two friends going on an adventure, looking to have a good time,” Francis says assertively. The officer waves him through with a chuckle. He then turns and looks at William with a stern expression. “Next,” he says. William steps a single step forward, a grin plastered on his face. The officer does not respond to this, looking William up and down twice, before looking at his backpack and string pull bag. Ahead, Francis walks through with ease. They hear his accent and ask where he is from and he goes through. No port check. William watches as he disappears out of sight. Now in Mexico. “What’s in the bag?” asks the officer, pointing to the string pull bag. William, who is distracted by Francis, repeats automatically, “Just two friends going on adventure, looking to have a good time.” The officer’s eyes jump to William. Staring at him, he asks, “Sir, what is in the bag?” this time like an order instead of a question. William shakes as he takes the bag of his shoulder. Suddenly the string breaks and the bag opens. The coasters fall to the ground along with the gun, the badge wrapped in the bag on the ground to his side. William bends down in a panic to pick up his coasters from the damp ground. The officer sees William turn back and reach towards the handgun and places his hand on his holster. “Step back!” the officer orders, waving over his colleagues. Francis, who is now in Mexico, looks around in excitement with his thumbs hooked into his backpack and ready to go. He watches as a dozen or so heavily armed military men wearing helmets and carrying machine guns run into the

border control office he just came from, their hands resting on the triggers. Francis spins on one foot to see what’s happening. On his knees, William faces away from the officer and continues to gather his coasters. “Step back!” repeats the officer. Footsteps loudly approach from behind him. Francis hears the noise of police flying down the roads in Nuevo Laredo, and as he looks out a block in each direction his excitement fades fast and is replaced with uncertainty. He starts to shuffle from foot to foot, unable to stand still, wondering what’s taking so long. “No, you don’t get it,” William says standing up, his body growing larger like a tsunami until he is towering over the officer. William turns to show his hands. The officer panics. Bang!—he pulls the trigger. As he slowly falls backward, the coasters fly out of William’s hands into the air between him and the officer Francis turns back to the border control office, running toward the gunshot he heard. At the door he sees a vast number of armed guards and soldiers in his way. But all of the officers are distracted by the commotion. Now is his chance! The flood wall Francis has built inside himself collapses as his feet lift off the ground. William is his comrade, his partner through and through, his best friend —and nothing else matters. Maneuvering around armed military like they are an obstacle course as he darts in William’s direction, Francis catches a glimpse of the soles of William’s shoes in the frenzy. A warmth rushes over William as his head hits the ground, his eyes open and mouth open as if he is about to speak. One of the soldiers Francis pushed aside reaches out and grabs Francis’ backpack to pull him away, but Francis wriggles free, letting go over the pack as the soldier falls backward into the others. Francis forces himself through the last line of soldiers and toward William, dropping down at sight of the officer whose arms are still extended, his gun

firmly gripped between his hands in shock. The officer is startled, he turns and shoots. Francis feels a sharp clip on his ear as a bullet whizzes past. In the distance, sirens grow louder and louder, but out-of-breath Francis can’t hear a thing, not even the screaming from the officer just above his head. All he can see right now is William, who is twitching. Francis musters up enough strength to reach out and grab William’s still shaking hand in his and put pressure on the bullet wound in William’s chest. Blood sputters up through their fingers. William’s legs go numb and senseless, and the feeling spreads throughout his entire body. The officer yells, “Get up!” Francis feels the shaking stop as William’s eyes slowly close in front of him. A lump builds up in Francis’ throat. One of the heavily armed soldiers takes charge and steps forward, pushing aside the shaken officer. He instructs another soldier to put down his machine gun and pull Francis off William. Stuck to William like glue, in the end it takes three soldiers to pry Francis off him. They pull Francis back and place him in a corner, checking if he too is armed— fortunately his gun is tucked away inside his backpack. Francis sits on the floor and pulls his knees to his chest, his face as white as William’s has turned, but Francis is still shaking, and regressing into himself. Francis looks like a small, helpless boy; his lean body curls up to make him look much smaller than he really is. He covers his ears with his hands as the siren noise gets louder and closer. He can’t sit still, but he has to keep calm: the cold

stares of the two soldiers ensure that. Francis rocks slowly, back and forth. He feels a pain in his chest; it’s tight and makes it hard to breathe. The noise of the siren stops and Francis takes his hands off his ears, which are now covered in blood. He watches as two paramedics run in speaking Spanish. Francis worries: he has no idea what’s going on and he starts to cry, his tears mixing with the blood as it rushes down his cheeks. He tries to wipe it away but that just makes it worse. One of the paramedics yells at the two soldiers watching Francis to step aside so that he can be examined. The blood on Francis’ face is concerning. The other soldiers move out of the way for the paramedic to get to the door of the bridge, all of them watching for the outcome. The officer who shot William sits on a chair in the office, eyes wide from what has just happened. He’s unable to speak from shock. The second paramedic asks a soldier to put pressure on the wound, but William has stopped breathing. He needs to be resuscitated. Preparing the pads he waves away the soldiers’ hands so that he can ister the first shock, but blood sprays out of the open wound and into the air, showering the two men. The paramedic rips a piece of cloth and gauze, placing one over the other and taping it down. As he initiates a second shock blood seeps into the cloth, turning it red. A silence fills the air as William lies by the open door to the bridge; Francis lies just ten yards away, staring up at the ceiling as the first paramedic looks him over, disinfecting and bandaging the scrape on his ear. Francis doesn’t care about his ear: they can cut off his ear if William needs it, if it will help. The paramedic goes to get a gurney but is stopped by the soldier who’d taken charge who asks in Spanish, “Is he dead?” The paramedic replies, “We could rush him to a hospital now; the chances are

very slim though.” The soldier kneels to look at William, and then waves the paramedic over. “This is a situation: they are Americans, so we need to treat this like a crime scene,” says the soldier decisively. The paramedic nods in understanding. Minutes later William is completely still, his life drained out of him through the cloth and gauze and onto his white t-shirt. The soldier looks down at William and then up to the thud of heavy feet on the bridge. U.S officials rush to see what’s happened. The area is cordoned off and photos are taken. A US border patrol officer sits with Mexican border patrol officers to understand what happened. As William is officially in the US, his body is to be taken back as well. It takes another half an hour for a stretcher to arrive down the bridge with a body bag. Confused citizens looking to cross are being held back by additional police and redirected to other crossing points. Francis had entered Mexico, but, after a discussion with the officer who shot William, the Mexican border official quickly agrees to let the US officials take Francis too, if they’ll accept the responsibility for the shooting instead of Mexico detaining a US citizen. A US border patrol officer walks over to Francis, who is now sitting up in a chair, his face cleaned up. He is taken by the wrist and pulled to his feet, then handcuffed as a precaution as they proceed to walk him out of the doors to the bridge. Another officer gathers the backpacks, including the broken string bag and bloodied coasters. Francis steps over the puddle of blood, his chest cramping again. As they walk over the bridge, the US official quietly asks Francis, “What the fuck happened? Francis says nothing, at first. But, then his emotions come out. “A small army wanted to massacre two men, who were simply fleeing from the country that incarcerated them with an indifference to the misdiagnosis and mistreatment of

patients.” The US border patrol officer halts on the spot, looking surprised, “What? Could you repeat that?” he asks in disbelief. “They murdered my best friend just because they didn’t understand him!” Francis says loudly, feeling agitated as he tries to dumb it down. “No,” said the US border patrol officer who pushes Francis to keep on walking, shaking his head. “I meant the incarcerated men fleeing the country part.” Francis is put in the back of a van and taken to a detention center for the evening, during which the US officials run his and William’s prints. “Holy fuck,” says one US border patrol officer to the other.

Day 7

7:00 AM—ABC: Good Morning, America

It’s bright and early in New York City. People are on their way to work, others are having a shower, and some are drinking a coffee and enjoying ABC’s Good Morning America. The crowd warmer waves his hand in the air as the introduction starts and applause erupts from the audience. The presenters on today’s show are ready and on point with smiling faces. Host Kelly Peters is ready with freshly-done makeup and perfectly-curled blonde hair. She waits as the highlight footage is shown and a voice starts, “Good Morning, America, Breakdown: now the update on the Bridgewater Breakout as escaped criminals are finally caught, William Ledger who was sentenced to life in prison last year for the murder of his family was shot and killed during their capture. The other man—Francis Madsen, convicted rapist and murder— survived and will now be spending the rest of his life in prison without parole. New this morning, girl who went missing in Ohio is found in Texas, the little girl was kidnapped by a group of armed-men in a grocery store robbery. “Falling in Fall”: why getting together in the fall is seventy-eight percent more likely than in any other season.” The camera goes red as the show goes live. “Good morning, everyone,” begins Kelly Peters in her distinctively peppy voice. “We have a lot coming up this morning, but first. The search for the missing criminals from Bridgewater State Hospital in Massachusetts ends today as US border patrol officers apprehended the two when fleeing into Mexico. Authorities suspicious of the men stopped them, at which point the criminals initiated a shootout with the US border patrol. This led to the injury of one of the border patrol officers and the death of one of the criminals; the second criminal was taken into custody and is set to return to Bridgewater, transferring to a

maximum-security prison later this week. Now we turn to our representative who s us remotely from Bridgewater. Dr. Arnold Joseph, welcome to the show.” “Thanks for having me,” replies Arnold from his office in Bridgewater, as he sits in his leather chair behind his desk looking into a camera attached to the top of his computer. “Could you tell us about the two criminals, William Ledger and Francis Madsen? It’s my understanding that you were the psychiatrist for both of them?” Arnold nods. “Yes, Kelly, that is correct. Both Bill and Francis were my patients,” he emphasizes before he continues uncertainly, “Neither one of them were problematic within the facility, which is why what happened is a tragedy. On medication both men were stable, but off medication… well you heard what happened.” “William Ledger—Bill, as you described him so kindly,” Kelly says with a smirk, “was convicted of murdering his family. And, Francis Madsen, is a convicted rapist. The danger these two men present would surely mean that additional precautions should have been taken during any type of transportation?” The camera blurs as the signal fades, for Bridgewater did not want to spend the money to send Arnold to New York so instead they’d gotten him a ten-dollar webcam to plug into his computer. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” asks Arnold as his face clears up on the screen. “Surely, Bridgewater should have done more to prevent this from happening. These men together have been convicted of both rape and murder, and for seven terrifying days, were on the loose across the country,” Kelly says as a map is displayed next to Arnold’s face, showing the route reports suggest that Francis and William took. Arnold coughs before reciting his prepared statement, not even sure if it’s true. “You’re right, the people of America and Mexico in this matter, should not have had to fear the huge ‘What if’ that follows an escape like this. These men are well-educated and deceptive, and they planned a cunning escape that

incorporated a carefully-orchestrated diversion. Bridgewater is run by hardworking Americans, guards who sacrifice themselves to protect those around them. But let’s look at the facts: when we move from one guard per ten patients in 2014 to one guard per thirty, it’s only a matter of time before something like this happens.” “So, in short, the guards were outnumbered? And who’s responsible for that?” Kelly asks the screen in the studio. “Correct, and that would be the State of Massachusetts,” Arnold says. “These men were also victims…” The camera glitches again and the signal is lost as Arnold’s face disappears from the studio’s live feed. “Looks like we lost Dr. Arnold,” Kelly says. One Kelly’s co-hosts Mike jumps in to respond. “You know, I followed this on the news, and it was a truly crazy story. These men traveled all the way from Massachusetts to Mexico, through around ten states—reports say so far including New York,” says Mike. Meanwhile Arnold speaks to the camera in his office. “I personally do not believe that William Ledger—Bill, as I have grown to know him—was a threat at all. I think that he was a man who slipped through the cracks of the mismanaged system and paid the ultimate price. As for Francis Madsen, he was a troubled child who dealt with many issues, but as the father of American psychology William James said, ‘If you can change your mind, you can change your life.’ And I believe that is what Francis did.” Arnold finishes, unaware that the Wi-Fi is off and his camera is no longer transmitting. Kelly turns to her co-host. “You could have been sitting next to them last week, you never know.” She laughs. Mike jokingly looks behind himself, pretending to have casually ed by Francis and William at a bar, “Hey, guys, good night?” The audience laughs on cue. Kelly asks seriously, “Some people are saying on social media that Francis

Madsen should be returned to Bridgewater instead of put into a mainstream prison. What are your thoughts?” Kelly directs the question to another co-host, Beth. Beth looks up as she thinks before talking just off camera but speaking to Kelly. “Well, we have to look at the risk: if he can escape and almost make it to freedom like that then I would say prison. Should the American public have to fear this happening again? I don’t think so.” “Now, finally something we can agree on” says Mike as he looks to another camera. Kelly gets a message in her ear and says, “Now this is a story that makes my day: little Haley Fischer was reunited with her father this morning.” The screen shows a picture of Haley, her mom and her dad in a park. “This five-year-old girl somehow managed to escape her captors and spent four days on her own before walking into a police station in San Antonio, Texas.” “Incredible story,” emphasizes Mike as he shakes his head in disbelief. Kelly adds, “The chief of police at the San Antonio Police Department has stated this morning that they believe the girl was helped by strangers along the way. Haley Fischer’s mom died in the grocery robbery, but we managed to speak with Mr. Fischer and he is just happy to have his little girl back. The audience awes on cue. “As an increasing number of children end up in facilities after losing their parents or their parents losing them. I’m glad to hear a story like this,” Beth says emotionally. Kelly turns to the camera and says, “Up next is It’s Always Sunny in Suburbia— a new fictional thriller written by C.M. Petersen in collaboration with relationship psychologist Gene Patricks. She states, ‘If you want to fall in love, wait for the leaves to turn red.’” “Now that’s a sign not even I can miss!” Mike jokes to the audience who again laugh on cue. “Ms. Petersen will be up next to give us the scoop on her new book and when

it’s out, but first we have the weather with George Showman,” Kelly announces with a smile plastered onto her face. The camera turns to the green screen which is displaying wind, rain, and a few heart shaped leaves. “Who knows, Mike, you may see those red love-sign leaves tomorrow as the weather brings us into an early fall.” George moves his hand around the green screen. “Expect low fifties to high forties toward the end of this week. And, get your umbrellas ready, as heavy rainfall is coming this afternoon that will last well into the weekend and through most of next week.” The window behind Kelly darkens as clouds move over New York. The sky rumbles as it opens up and rain begins to pound down relentlessly.

On the morning of the fifteenth day, within a maximum-security prison thirty miles from Bridgewater, Francis Madsen is found dead in his cell. This did not make the news.

What did you think of the book? Leave a review online. Authors need readers and that means we need to know what you think, be honest but fair.

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Book Club Group Questions

How did you feel about the journey? What are the key themes of the book? The relationship between Mark (William) and Stanley (Francis) is complex; how did you feel about this relationship? Did you guess that Mark and Stanley were under pseudonyms? Do you feel that Mark and Stanley deserved what happened to them? Discuss the role that Haley plays in bringing out the past in both of the men? Did you feel the ending was in line with the story or that freedom should have been achievable? What would you say about the book when handing it to someone else?

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