Hail - Chapter Two

         Tiny blossoms of red bloom across my ivory and blue sheets.

         Wrinkling my nose at the acrid scent of drying blood, I force my feet to approach the bed until I stand above the blood splotches. The stranger is gone.

         My first reaction: crap, I am so dead. Then, this isn’t my fault. And finally, awesome, nothing stands between me and fabulous Sakamoto.

         Then my phone rings.

         “Olivija…” my grandfather begins. “He’s in the basement. And, he’s stable, but probably still unconscious. If he wakes up, he’ll be hungry. Make sure you leave the basement door locked and keep watch at all times. At all times.”

         Slumped against the door, I scowl into the phone. “What do I do with these sheets?” I pull at the sheets with my thumb and index finger. Gross. “And where are you?”

         “Boil wash them,” he says. “Or throw them away.”

         I think I’ll throw them away as I heave a sigh of relief that the blood hasn’t soaked into the mattress beneath.

         Downstairs, the backdoor slams. “Mom’s back. Speaking of which, when are you going to tell her you’re not dead?”

         “Not yet. It’s much too…complicated, Olivija. When it’s quiet, please check on our guest? Remember, you must not tell anyone about this. No one. Do you understand?”

         “But…”

         “Do you understand?”

         “Yes…”

         “I’ll be in touch.”

         “Wait!” But it’s too late; he’s hung up.

         The phone rings. Not my phone; the house cell. Ami picks it up and says, “Oh. It’s you… What do you want? Right now? Fine. I’ll tell her. Bye. I’m busy. Watching TV. Bye.”

         From my new perch half way down the banister I can see Ami swinging her feet in the air on the couch as she shouts, “Moooooom, Toni needs a ride. Track practice is cancelled!”

         I wait till the backdoor slam before slipping down the rest of the stairs. “Hi Ami.”

         My ten-year-old sister doesn’t so much as blink as she waves absently in my general direction. Cartoons. Very important. It’s just fine by me. Maybe I’ll escape without…

         “Li. What movie are we going to watch tonight?” Ami cranks her head to stare me straight in the eye. “You promised we’re gonna watch a movie tonight.”

         Right. I did promise that. How many things have I promised to do tonight? “Uh. Ami, I’m kind of busy tonight. Can we maybe watch a movie tomorrow?”

         “But you promised!”

         “Yes.”

         “And it’s bad to be a breaker of promises.”

         “Yes. Well, unless you can sweeten the deal. If you let me off the hook…ur, um, take a rain check, we can watch not one, but two movies tomorrow.”

         Ami’s sits up. A shallow crease runs between her furrowed brows. “What’s a rain check?”

         “An agreement to do something at a later date.” Wiggling two fingers, I say, “Not one. Two movies. Two. Sounds good, eh?”

         Ami pats her lips with one, teeny, finger. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Three movies.”

         I swear it’s her destiny to become a mob boss. “Fine. Three movies.”

         “Yay!” She swoons into the couch as I make my exit. “We’re going to watch Tangled, Despicable Me and Toy Story 3.”

         All oldies, I muse as I wrap up my nerves and carry them down the dark basement steps.

         Cozy, tangerine light chases back the woolen darkness. Shadows huddle between and behind the piles of boxes and lab equipment. Robed in decades of dust, the boxes climb up to the pipes running along the unfinished ceiling. The newer stuff is all housed in the lab further into the basement. No one’s been in there since my grandmother passed a year and a half ago.

         Canvasses recline between lounging tubes of acrylics and oil paints, pens and pencils. Sketchpads and magazines liter the table, and there’s a TV in the corner next to the mat where I practice Capoeira and Krav Maga. These days, no one comes down here but me. Mom gave up cleaning it after grandma Fifi died. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be anywhere close to Fifi’s lab.

         There, in the center of it all, on my slightly ragged leather couch lies Sleeping Wreck. Actually, I come to realize, edging a little closer, he doesn’t look quite as bad as when I last saw him. Now only a sickly yellow, his bruises have healed a bit. The cuts have reduced to thin, angry lines. If his fever is gone too, maybe I won’t need to watch him tonight.

         As my skin brushes against his, he begins to stir. I have just enough time to spring back before he blinks.

         Jade green. Unfathomably deep. For the first time his eyes open and concentrate on me. Or attempt to. Everything else seems to go black and white.

         He begins to murmur, and I have to bring my ear just millimeters from his mouth.

         “I’m sorry if…thank…you. Don’t…wish…to be…trouble.” He swallows and closes his eyes again. Surprised at how sweet and spicy his breath smells, I wait.

         “I won’t…” he presses on, “hurt you.”

         That’s the least of my worries. “Thanks for the consideration. What happened to you?”

         His face contorts into a grimace, but I think I catch what could be the slightest hint of a grin in there somewhere. “A…tussle,” he coughs. “Did…you…administer?”

         Not sure of what he’s talking about, I shake my head.

         “Someone…else…then? Is this…a safe house?”

         I remember what my grandfather said about telling him nothing, and I shake my head again. “Administered what?”

         “So you aren’t…” he prompts.

         “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

         His eyes dive into mine until he faints back into the couch. His body convulses under another fit of coughing. My hands ring involuntarily. I glance to the stares, wondering if I should call somebody. As his breathing steadies, he shakes his head.

         “I’m…okay…”

         “You…must be hungry,” I volunteer.

         He stares up at the ceiling, but I think I see him nod his head.

         “Okay. I’m going to bring you something,” I can’t turn away quickly enough.

         But then I hear his voice break just over the threshold of a whisper. The loudest it’s been. “No…cinnamon.”

         It’s an odd request, but I shrug it off and take the stairs two at a time in my haste to get somewhere where I can breathe and think.

         Through the kitchen window, I see Mom’s benz rolling down the street, so I’ll have to wait a little while before bringing the stranger something to eat. Which is fine by me. I need time to collect my thoughts.

         I deposit yesterday’s rice and stew on the counter. Cinnamon. I don’t think we have any in the house anyway. My mother never cooks with it, and yesterday was her turn to make dinner. Crap. Which means that tonight is my turn. Maybe I can wrangle Toni into doing it. Or who cares since now that the guest’s awake, I’d better stick around tonight.

         Perhaps my grandfather will make it back in time. My thoughts turn to how thunderstruck my mother is going to be when she sees him. I’ll have to position myself behind her, just in case she faints. No. That’s just silly. My mother isn’t the fainting type. She might fly into a frenzy, though. After the shock settles down. After she’s finished demanding why and how.

         “What are you smiling about?” asks Toni, blowing through the backdoor.

         “Huh?” I hadn’t noticed the pressure in my cheeks.

         My sister peeks past the refrigerator door. “Like you’ve got a secret.”

         “Oh, nothing…” I lie even though I’m bursting to spill. “Nothing.”

         She whistles, eyeing me with a raised eyebrow. “Right.”

         “Hi Li, baby. How was school?” Mom asks coming up behind. She gives me a hug and buries her nose in my thick, curly hair like she always does. “Wow.” She stumbles back for a second. “You smell…just like your grandfather.”

         “I do? Um, weird. Uh. Today school was good.” My reply sounds more like a question than an answer, but if she notices, Mom doesn't comment. She just holds me at arms length for a moment, this lopsided, wistful frown in her nearly black eyes.

         “Good. There’s a lot of transcriptioning to be done at the clinic,” she reminds me on her way through the kitchen.

         Wholly expecting to find him flat on his back, the hot plate nearly slides from my hands when I enter the basement to find him sitting upright. His eyes never leave my face as I force my feet to approach him.

         “No cinnamon?” he asks.

         “No,” I clear some of the magazines and sketchpads to the side and set the plate down on the table in front of the couch. “What, are you allergic?”

         He’s silent for a minute. “A complication.” His tone is hard to decipher. Quizzical kind of, like I should understand what he means.

         I shrug. “Would…do you need help?” I motion to the plate.

         “No.”

         Skeptical, I watch him struggle to stretch his hand to reach the plate only a few feet away. It’s painful to watch. Then he pitches forward, and I narrowly manage to catch him and set him back. His body feels falsely firm and steady in my grasp. Athletic. A shudder runs down my spine as I wonder just who did he “tussle” with?

         “Let me help you,” I insist, perching on the edge of the table.

         Although his lips seem to turn down, he doesn’t resist. I would’ve loved to take the opportunity to gawk, I mean observe, but, trying to avoid his unshakeable gaze means limiting my line of vision to plate, fork, mouth, plate.

         “What’s…your name?” he asks between forkfuls. His voice has grown steadier.

         Surely, it couldn’t hurt to tell him my name. Just my first name. “Olivija. But, my friends call me Li for short. You?”

         After swallowing hard, he attempts a smile pierced through with discomfort he can’t quite conceal. Then he answers fluidly, “Doryen Altieri. Where…am I?”

         “The backside of nowhere,” I laugh dryly. I wait for his fit of coughing to subside before I continue. “AKA Macen. Population 16,000 but that includes 12,000 college students. How’d you get here? Why’d you come here? ”

         “Unintentionally.” Doryen gulps down another mouthful. “Sounds like…you really…love it.” This time I’m absolutely certain he’s smiling at me, a congenial smile tinged with mischief, maybe? Smiling makes him appear younger, less tired.

         “Yeah, well, there’s not much to love. There’s nothing to do. We have one two-room theater, showing last year’s films. 80% of the population is over 70, and 60% of the population that’s under 18 belongs to the FFA. No one wants to get out,” I fume.

         “That’s a lot of statistics. How old are you?”

         “Almost eighteen. Eighteen in January. You?”

         “Older than you,” he replies.

         “Older is not an age.”

         For a moment it looks like he’s about to ask something. Instead, he rubs the tattoo on his wrist slowly with a thumb.

         “That’s an interesting tattoo,” I say. While the old pipes around us crack the silence with the sound of rushing water, he just looks at me with his hard, frosted crystals. “Does it mean anything?”

         “I think…I’d like to sleep.”

         “Oh! Sorry, I guess I’m probably disturbing you.” My phone vibrates against my leg. “Sorry,” I slide it from my pocket, turning to the side to read the text.

         Are u gonna leave us hangin again?!? It’s from Abbey. U need 2 come. We’ve been waiting to see this forever!

         “You should go,” Doryen says. My head snaps up. “You look like you want to go…somewhere. You can go. I’m fine here on my own.”

         “I…well…”

         “Go,” he says, and I’m starting to see this might be less altruistic and more him saying give me some space, so I don’t argue.

         “Um…I’ll be back…later tonight. Nobody knows you’re here, so please don’t make any noise or anything. Try not to move around too much. Sound carries. And, as often as possible try to keep the lights out.” Before I say it, I realize it’s a silly request. As if he could get up anyway. “Is there anything I can get you right now?”

         “No.”

         I cross to the refrigerator by the TV to retrieve some water. Cracking the seal a little bit, I leave it on the table close enough for him to reach with minimal effort. “I’ll be back.”

         His eyes are closed already, but I don’t think he’s asleep. I turn and take the stairs two at a time, locking the basement door behind me.

         On my way up to my room I ask Toni if she’ll make dinner tonight.

         “Fine, but you owe me. What are you doing tonight, anyway?” Toni asks.

         “She’s not doing anything,” Mom answers for me, “until the transcription’s done.”

         Does she ever forget? “Exactly. I’m going to the clinic. Then I’m going to a concert with my friends.”

         “When?”

         “Nine.”

         “And you’ll be back?”

         “Before midnight.”

         “Make sure you’re back here before curfew. It’s the middle of the month. The fine collectors will be checking…”

         By fine collectors, she means the friendly Macen police force. “This is Macen, Mom. No one cares about the stupid curfew. Besides, I said I’d be back before midnight. I’ll be back.”

         “You had better check that attitude,” my mother’s tone is low and calm.

         “Sorry,” I say. Then I trip up the stairs to grab my jacket, wallet and keys, asking myself the same question. What is with the attitude?

         Reversing into the street, I can’t wait for everyone to find out my grandfather’s alive. I’m hoping it’ll be tonight. After the concert, of course.

         I arrive at the clinic just a little past four pm. After cringing at the list of digital files I’ve got to type up, I get to work. Mom arrives around 6 to review patient charts, the billing, make sure things are sterilized. There are nurses and orderlies to do these things, but I guess this is my mother’s…sanctuary.

         By the time I’m ambling out into the chilly, mid-November night air, it’s nearly nine. Vacancy, the old club next to the coffee house on the square, is walking distance from my house. So rather than fight for parking, I drop my car off at home and walk the rest of the way.

         There’s nowhere to park anywhere on or even close to the square as far as I can see. I guess Reliance The Spirit has more fans in Macen than I thought. Or maybe since real entertainment is so rare in these parts, everyone from miles around has turned out for the show.

         Dmitry spots me first. I can tell by the way he perks up. Robbie looks bored as he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket. Kate’s texting, and Abbey’s nowhere to be seen. I begin to make my way over, but nestled between the rows of cars, a shiny, brown sedan catches my attention. It’s domestic, of course. Still, there’s something about it I can’t put my finger on. But, it’s quickly forgotten as I skip up to the doors to meet everyone.

         “Where’s Abbey?” I snatch Robbie’s freshly lit cigarette from between his lips. “You’re quitting, remember?”
Robbie scowls as I squish his cig under my foot. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that healing is a gradual process? Abbey’s, late,” he says like I should know better. I should know better. Late is Abbey’s on time.

         “Hi, Li,” smiles Dmitry, pushing back blonde locks with long fingers. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but just shrugs his shoulders and jams his hands back into his pockets.

         I catch Robbie rolling his eyes and elbow him in the side. “Hi, Dmitry,” I smile.

         “Joy,” says Robbie, “Abigail Chen has decided to grace us with her magnificent presence.”

         Across the street, Abbey stumbles out of her mom’s silver SUV. “I’m sorry!” she yells the second her feet hit the pavement. Her blue and sliver sequined purse clatters to the ground as she trips over her super wide-leg, charcoal pants. All in one breath, she scoops up the purse—her birthday present from Robbie—rights herself and skip-runs over, blue spiked hair flying in the wind. “Yikes, this is a freaking long line!” she pants as she comes to a stop.

          “Is this the line?” I gasp, as I realize we’re in the second row of a line that’s already wrapped its way around the block and back again. “Can all these people even fit in this place?”

         “We don’t have to wait in line,” says Dmitry, turning to lead us to the front of the line.

         “Are you sure about this?” I ask, trying to ignore the hard stares and the not so subtle random elbow in my side.

         “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” Kate sounds like a broken record as we press our way through to the front of the line.

         “Yeah, I got us VIP seating,” replies Dmitry.

         “See, Robbie,” I hear Kate whisper behind me. “Check that. Super hero in disguise.”

         Robbie snorts, tinkering with his mod tie, while Dmitry says something to the bouncers at the door. They seem to be talking for a little while, and I’m starting to get nervous. Then they laugh a little bit, and let us through. “Enjoy the show,” they say.

         Dmitry wasn’t lying about the VIP seating. We’re sitting in an area roped off in the center of the floor just in front of the stage. People are still trying to get in, but the opening band’s already playing.

         RTS doesn’t get on stage until around 10:30, by which time Vacancy is absolutely packed. I don’t think even half of the folks waiting outside got in. We were so far back in line, I don't think we’d have made it in either. “Thanks, Dmitry,” I say. “This is amazing.”

         Dmitry shrugs like it’s nothing.

         Lights overhead pulse blue, white and green. Sakamoto let’s his guitar rip. I’m so close I can practically taste the muted sheen of his leather pants. Charon’s divine vocals flood the room as she tosses back the long bell-sleeves of her trademark wispy, olive green gown. A shower of violet and silver petals materializes from the ether, shimmering in the lights as they drift down towards us. That’s it. This is going to be the most perfect night ever.

         Kate dances over and throws her arm around my shoulder. She’s talking into my ear, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

         “What?”

         “I said,” she screams, “you should so totally date him!” My ears ring, but just in case I didn’t get the message, she points at Dmitry, who’s sitting on the blue crescent moon shaped sofa with his feet kicked up on the railing. I swat her arm down, but I’m pretty sure he sees and knows we’re talking about him.

         “Geez, Kate…” At first, I think it’s just the bass from the subwoofers, but a nasty, tickle in my gut says it isn’t the bass.

         My phone buzzes in my pocket. At first I think about just ignoring it, but I know I shouldn’t. I can’t. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

         “What?”

         “Bathroom,” I holler, leaping over the railing and plowing through the hot mess of sweaty, gyrating bodies.

         “Hello?” I scream. It’s so loud I don’t know if there’s any answer. “Just hold on a minute!”

         Behind me, my friends have all but disappeared into the smoke and crowd. I take one last look at the stage, the band just a speck from where I’m standing at the back of the club. I seriously cannot believe this is happening. Then again, I can. I couldn’t script today better if I tried. This had to happen.

         Out in the lobby it’s quiet, but I can still hear the muffled vocals, still feel the bass rhythm pulsing beneath my feet.

         “Hello?” I say into the phone, failing to mask the irritation in my voice.

         “Where are you?” my grandfather asks.

         I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’m not at home. “On the square. At Vacancy.”

         If he’s disappointed that I left Doryen alone, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he says, “The club on the East end of town?”

         “The only one in town.”

         “Good, that’s not far.”

         Is anything in Macen far? “You’re close by?”

         “Sort of. My associate is coming to get you now. He’s driving a black sedan. He will bring you to me.”

         “What’s going on?”

         “Wait for my associate outside,” he says. “Make sure no one follows you.” He hangs up before I can argue.

         “Where are you going?” I nearly jump, but it’s only Dmitry. I roll through my half of the conversation, to see if I’d said anything I shouldn’t have.

         “Nothing. I mean, I just have to head home. My mom’s been called in for an emergency. She needs me to watch my sisters for a little bit.” This is a bad lie, but I’m hoping he doesn’t remember that Toni’s 14, and really can stay home by herself.

         Dmitry’s face falls a little bit. “You’ll miss the show.”

         “I know, and it sucks.”

         “You didn’t drive here. Can I give you a ride?”

         “No. I can walk. I want to walk,” I shake my head, tossing in a smile for extra persuasive power. “Besides, you’re missing the show,” I add when he just stands there, staring at me with his polar blue eyes. “Tell me how it goes.”

         “Are you sure?”

         “Yeah…yeah… Totally! Let me know Monday!”

         Just before he disappears passed the wooden doors, Dmitry turns to give me one last, reluctant look.

         The door barely closes behind him before a black sedan lurches to a halt in front of the glass doors. In half a second, I’m outside and a towering man in a leather trench holds an umbrella over my head. That’s when I realize it’s begun to rain.
He doesn’t bother to volunteer his name as he turns and gets back in the driver’s seat. Emblazoned on the leather, a whispering flame stretches down his back. Everything about him is charcoal black. His lips pressed together, turning down at the sides. His jaw set like stone.

         A few turns, a long stretch of road and then we bank a left down the drive leading up to Paisley Forest Park and Wildlife Preserve. Halos of light, perforate the thick of pine needles and dark umber, but only for a little while. Then there’s nothing but the harsh white of the headlights to beat back the shadows.

         When the tires grind to a halt, I’m still in motion. I feel we should still be in motion. A shadow falls across the hood of the car, just a darker mass in the darkness. “He’s here,” says the driver, opening his door. As the sly wind whips up the associate’s jacket, I can’t be sure, but I think I see the same flame embellishment and two intersecting infinity loops on the front of his vest. His door closes before I can get a better look.

         Then he’s opening the rear door, and my grandfather slides in.

         I can’t help it. “We need to get out of here!” The words just burst through my mouth, my hands, and my eyes too. If he could see them. But it’s so dark I can barely make out the features of my grandfather’s face except for two obsidian stones, gleaming when the light happens to catch them.

         Weathered hands engulf my own. In their frosty grasp, my own hands cease shivering. “I am sorry. Very sorry,” my grandfather says.

         If this apology’s about to lead into an explanation, then just for a minute, I’m willing to quell the siren in my head screaming that we need to run. “Why did you do it?”

         “Sometimes,” he says in suede tones, in the same voice he once used to read me stories so many years ago. “Sometimes we sacrifice our own happiness for the preservation of others.”

         “And what about everyone else’s happiness? What about trust?”

         “There are things more important than happiness.”

         “And trust?”

         “And trust.”

         “Like…”

         “Like life. Your life. Your mother’s and sisters’. Your brother’s. Your grandmother’s.”

         “She died last year,” my anger’s cooling quickly, but this is a dagger. “Alone. She had us, but…she should have had you!”

         “I know,” he whispers. “I know. But believe me, I did it for you. I didn’t want this for you.” Somewhere in the distance something like hail punctuates his sentence.

         “I don’t know what this is,” I say, but he isn’t paying attention to me. He’s straining to see into the woods, which is impossible from where we sit. Suddenly, I am cognizant again of that rat gnawing through my belly. “Grandpa?”

         “I want you to take this.”

         A thin, mulberry leather bound journal finds it way into my hands. “What is it?”

         “Who we are,” he says as I reach to unbutton the clasp. “Don’t open it now. Hopefully you’ll never need to. But when you do…no, if you do, you’ll know.”

         Outside the hail’s getting louder, and I’m starting to doubt this is any inclement weather at all. Beside me, my grandfather gathers himself, his thoughts, his will.

         “Grandpa? Wait! Is someone out there? What is that?”

         Before he can reply the hail has broken into full on thunder. I lunge to entwine him in my grasp, feeling something hard beneath his coat.

         For a fleeting moment, he holds me. “You’re a good girl,” he says. “A really sharp kid. I want you to take care of yourself. And your mom and sisters.” Patting my unruly curls, he disentangles himself from my grip.

         I don’t like this. It rings of finality. I hate it. “Wait! They never got to see you! Mom, she, she misses you, and… What do I tell them?”

         “Just remember,” he opens his door just a sliver, “I was already dead.”

         My grandfather gives orders I can’t hear while gesturing at the car. When his associate gets in, I hear my grandfather say, “Make sure they don’t see her.” Then the associate throws the car into reverse, skidding away from my grandfather’s silhouette quickly dwindling in the rain.

         “What are you doing?” I shout. “We can’t leave him here!”

         “I have to get you out of here,” is his only reply.

         “No! Don’t be stupid!” I pound on the back of his chair, diving for the steering wheel, but he pushes me firmly back into my seat.

         Yellow, streetlights sneer down on the speeding car. The windshield wipers lash back and forth, keeping half-time with the pulse in my ears. Still, they can’t quite clear the sheets of rain. I swear I see something—some things—weaving through the trees to either side of the road.

         Oily shadows scuttle out into the road ahead of us.

         The associate mutters something, but he doesn't slow down. Instead, he guns it faster.

         “We can’t leave him! He’ll…”

         Before us a hundred, tiny sparks of fire ignite the night. I choke on the scream rumbling up my throat. Iron rain pelts the windshield. Paralytic, I wait for the windshield to shatter into a thousand pieces as we careen into the line of fire.

         Somehow, the glass holds.

         The associate charges ahead until we’re just a scant few feet away from the gunmen. I can see them clear as day now. They’re clad entirely in black leather with a cruel 7-pointed star carved into their chests. We are scant inches away now. I brace myself for the crunch of splintering bone.

         The line of gunmen rips apart to let us through.

         We burst out into the deserted street. The associate banks a hard right as I gasp for air, clutching at the leather seats. Will they follow us? I wait for the sound of thunder and hail to resume again. I wait for more specters to leap out of the night, but as we drive, the streets remain quiet, like nothing foul wreaks in sleepy, little Macen.

         I don’t know where we are, but we’re stopping. I think I’m just recovering the ability to breathe without reminding myself to suck in breath and expel it again. The associate gets out and peers into the night, circling the car slowly. Then he comes to my door, and I barely register the icy wind stinging against my cheeks. He pulls me out, stands me against the side of the car, and reaches in again. He’s holding my purse and something else. The mulberry journal.

         Now he tugs me through a row of bushes, telling me to climb over a fence. We move in this way, stealing through yards, avoiding streets, until finally I recognize my neighbor’s back steps. Their dogs shy away from us. One more fence and we’re in my backyard.

         The associate hands me my purse and the journal, and points for me to go into the house. Suddenly I have stumps in the place of hands, and it takes me four tries to even get the key in the lock.

         The associate waits for me to enter. “Lock it,” he whispers. I’ve barely slid the bolt in place before he’s turned and vaulting over the fence. Racing back to his car, I think. But, I have no faith he’ll make it back to my grandfather in time.

         For minutes that seem to drip and run like hours, I lie against the cool tile of the kitchen floor. If I dare close my eyes, I’m back in the park. Back in the rain of fire. So I lie there, eyes glazed like a fish with no air, starring at the space beneath the cooker.

         Eventually, when I realize I’m no longer panting and my heart isn’t beating like it just got injected with speed, I get to my feet.

         A glance through the kitchen window tells me Mom’s still pouring over her patients’ charts or sterilizing something or reorganizing her pharmaceutical cupboard or whatever. My sisters lounge carelessly on the couch, lulled to sleep by Star Wars episode II. They run into each other like drunkards, but once nudged in the right direction, they stumble up the stairs to bed.

         I double back into the breakfast nook, grab a flashlight from the windowsill, and take the stairs down into my basement studio. Doryen lies across the couch exactly as I left him. Appearing to sleep, he doesn't so much as stir in the halo of light. It’s good enough for me. I’m careful to lock the door behind me and test the handle too. Deciding what to do with him will have to wait till tomorrow.

         This false, brief glimmer of hope. Just like my grandfather said, all this while, he was already dead. And, Doryen Altieri just might be the only person who can tell me who killed him and why.