The first thirty seconds in a person’s presence are the most important. This is the time when you can ascertain all you need to know about a person, if you’re clever enough. The first time I met Daisy, she told me this. It was the autumn of 1954, the start of our senior year, and here was a new girl who seemed to know a shocking amount of information about me. When we first met, she looked me up and down, gracefully said a hello, and politely shook my hand. When I asked her what she was doing, she calmly explained that she was learning all about me. She told me that I was 5’7”, not 5’8” as I had taken to telling people. She told me that I weighed 140 pounds, although again I lied about this frequently so as to make it seem that my slight appearance was just that. She told me that I was meek, and had a crush on her. She told me a lot more, all equally spectacular for their truth. For nearly the entirety of our friendship, she refused to tell me just how she had known any of this. But it became a game that we would play; she was new at school, I had known everyone there since before I could walk, and she would tell me stories about them. She told me that Billy O’Reilly had a crush on Alex Owens, his best friend, although honestly this was something we had all suspected for years. She told me that Shirley Macdonald was cheating on her boyfriend with Alex Owens, and that she was pregnant. She actually told me this numerous times; apparently Shirley got pregnant a lot. She would never tell me how she knew these things, or why she deigned to share them.

Even more curious was the idea that she had chosen me to be her friend. Shy, nerdy James. She could have been anyone she wanted to for that year she lived in Dexter. She could have been the popular girl, on the cheer squad, winning homecoming queen and dating the quarterback. She could have been a rebel, getting around to every guy in school. She could have been anyone. And people wanted her to be. Her first week of school, she was irresistible. Not just for being a new person in a town where everyone knew everyone and everyone’s great-grandparents had played poker together. She drew people in. She didn’t share a thing about herself; in the entire year that I knew her, I don’t think I ever knew as much as she knew about me. She was an enigma. While this could have made her the town oddity and a source of contention for the town otherwise, after barely a month she just became a part of the scenery. Mr. Gregory down at the grocery knew exactly what she would buy every single time, not because he found her interesting, but just because that was his way. Old Mrs. Lee would yell at her as she passed her front porch, claiming that Daisy was stepping on her petunias, just as she yelled at everyone else. But Daisy never tried to separate herself from the crowd. She went to all the town dances as we all did (that being one of the few sources of entertainment available to us). She was perfectly average in her classes, never raising her hand too much or too little. After a while, everyone forgot that she was new at all. She just fit in. She would sit with people at lunch, but she hadn’t cemented herself within a group. She had become perfectly ordinary.

I found this life of hers ridiculously enthralling. I spent my days trying to find something, anything, weird or different about her. But, from a distance, nothing would show. So, on that November day that we met formally, something overtook me, and I approached her calmly and without regret, going against my nature. That meeting, when she told me all the things she knew about myself, was the start of our friendship. The basis of our relationship was truly how especially extraordinary she was, once I got to know her. Her genius and observation skills meant that we had a secret, something that bonded us together. In the early days, that was all we would talk about. The day after I acquainted myself with her, she walked right past her regular lunch table and sat down across from me. Usually during lunch I would sit by myself and read; sometimes someone would take my table and I would eat in the bathroom. But that day, someone joined me and I didn’t move. Daisy set down her tray with intent and leaned forward. “I think that we would make wonderful friends,” she said. Dumbfounded, I didn’t reply. “I do hope you’re smart, because you certainly seemed smart when we met yesterday, and I’m seldom wrong. I like smart people. Everyone else is rather boring, don’t you think?” She looked at me, waiting for an answer. I was so flabbergasted that someone wanted to be my friend that I couldn’t find it in myself to  construct a singular word. Some part of her must have been able to sense this, as she seemed to sense everything else, so she leaned back and began eating. In between bites, she gazed around the room at the people surrounding us. These were people I had known for years, but never really known. Then, she began talking. This was when she told me all about Billy O’Reilly, and his life and what he was like and who he was. This became our tradition. Every day she would tell me about one of our classmates. This happened for the rest of the year. We never talked about ourselves. I never learned any more about her, and I never told her anything about me. Yet, somehow, we were best friends.

We continued in this fashion of only talking about others for months. Then, one day in May, things changed. She flounced over to our table, somehow more energetic than usual. I expected to be regaled with the story of yet another one of my classmates, but not that day. She sat down and started talking at breakneck speed, not even waiting for a response. “Now, James,” she said, decisively, “something has recently come to my attention. You’re going to college.” She then lowered herself onto her elbows so that she was looking up at me, something that seldom happened.

I was rather perplexed. My father was an academic, so yes, I was going to college. This was a fact that had been well-known around my town for as long as I could remember. It was just a fact of my existence. My eyes were green, the Soviets were coming for us, and I was going to college. While Daisy hadn’t been in town for very long, it was still hardly understandable for her not to know this vital part of my life. Tentatively, I said that yes, I was going to college, and asked what she made of that.

She then sprang up out of her chair and pulled herself up into a sitting position atop the table. She usually would have been given dirty looks by teachers for doing this, but it was the end of our senior year, and few teachers cared enough to enforce rules for us anymore. As she began swinging her legs, she said, “Well, apparently I’m not. Grandmum doesn’t think it proper for a woman to go to college. She wants me to stay home and marry a nice, rich man.” At this, she gazed at me thoughtfully. “Will you marry me, James?” This caused me to choke on my milk, which made her laugh. She leaned close to me, as she had on the day when we first became friends, and glanced around as if what she was about to tell me was some earth-shattering secret, “James, I think I’ll run away. I’ve heard there are jobs for pretty young things in the city. I’d make a wondrous telephone operator, don’t you think?”

She would. She might spend more time talking the ear off of whomever was trying to make a call than actually making the call, but she’d be wonderful at the job anyways. I was a bit reluctant to say this. While we had only known each other for six months, some part of me couldn’t bear to let go of the best friendship I had ever had. But, knowing Daisy, by no means did she need my affirmation. She was going to do what she wanted to do, and that was that. While I was mulling this over, she continued jabbering. She had all the necessary credits to graduate, she said, so all she had left was the diploma. And that was really just a piece of paper, wasn’t it? She kept talking like this, not seeming to notice my silence. Or, knowing her, perhaps she did notice, and just chose to allow me my quiet reflection.

She decided to take a train two weeks later. She used the rest of her savings to book a ticket. When I asked her what she would do when she got to the city, she nonchalantly said that she would start looking for a job. When I inquired as to where she would stay, she smirked and said that she can always find a place. As she was running away, she decided not to tell anyone, except for me, of course. She left a note for her parents, telling them that someday she would marry a rich man and send back barrels of money and show them all. I’ve always wondered if she realized the irony in that.

So, on the Thursday that her train was leaving, I drove her to the train station. I had borrowed my father’s clunky old station wagon for the day; when he had inquired as to why I needed it, I told him the truth: a friend needed a ride to the train station. I was a tad embarrassed about the car, as it was noisy and had a rather pungent odor. But Daisy didn’t seem to mind. She far too excited to care about how she was getting to the city, she just cared that she was getting there.

I parked on the side of the street. I hurried around to open her door as soon as I shut the car off; we might have been riding in a dump, but I was determined to make her remember me as a gentleman. I didn’t want to be just that odd person with whom she ate lunch during her senior year. I also carried her bag, which was suspiciously light. If a person is running away, you would expect them to carry much more than she did.

We arrived at the train station early, so we placed ourselves on a bench on the platform. We didn’t talk for a while, which we were both perfectly content with. Then, about five minutes before her train was scheduled to depart, it pulled into the station. As soon as it came to a stop, Daisy spun around and looked at me intently in a way that I had never seen her look at me before. She smiled wryly, and said, “James, I like you. You’re naive and sweet and you believe every word out of my mouth.” I bristled at being called naive. But I didn’t speak up. This was our last time together, and I didn’t want to ruin it. She kept talking. “You believed every single word that I ever said without question because that is just who you are. You trust people. That’s either going to get you very far in life or it means you’re never going to be able to enter the real world.” She furrowed her brow. “I can’t decide if I envy you for that, or if I feel sorry for you.” She pulled herself to her feet, and picked up her bag. She walked a few steps towards the train. But, I couldn’t just let her go like that. I jumped to my feet.

“Daisy, wait!” I said, albeit higher-pitched and more desperate than I meant to. She turned and looked at me expectantly. I took a deep breath, and finally asked the question I had been dying to ask. “How do you do it? How did you know all those things about all those people who you had only barely known for days?”

She burst into the radiant smile that I had so come to love about her. She giggled, and said, “I could tell you I’m a modern day Sherlock Holmes, or that I’m a genius, or that I broke into all of their houses and figured everything out that way. Because James, you would believe me. You would believe anything I told you. So I’m going to tell you that I made it all up. I’m going to tell you that Shirley is exactly the pious person she appears to be, and that Billy doesn’t have a crush on Alex, and that everything I told you was false. That’s what I’m going to tell you. I’m going to tell you that I said all of that because I wanted you to like me, and I thought that making you think I was a genius was the way to that. Because really, James? I’m an idiot.” She turned and began to climb the steps up onto the train as I stood on the platform, slightly less shocked than I should have been. She disappeared into the train car, and then appeared at the window. She smiled at me, and, as the train began to pull away, yelled something. I couldn’t hear her, and obviously that confusion registered on my face. She yelled again, but she was already too far gone. As the train pulled out of the station and she pulled her head back into the car, I stood on the platform, confused. What was it that she had wanted to tell me?

Suddenly, I felt someone tug my jacket cautiously. Twisting around, expecting to have to fend off a pickpocket, I was surprised to discover a young girl, maybe six or seven, wearing a pink dress. One hand was holding onto my jacket, while the other was clutching the hand of a man who must have been her father as if it was a lifeline. The little girl smiled shyly and mumbled something. I knelt down to her level, curious just what she wanted to say to me. “What was that?” I said, softly.

The little girl leaned close, and whispered in my ear, “She said that she lies a lot.”

Paper Paradise

I went through life being perfect at everything- perfect friends, a perfect boyfriend, and a perfect reputation.  My family was the only part of my life that lacked perfection, but I always assumed that all the other perfect things in my life would cover up the one flaw. How wrong I was.

“Janine, I need to talk to you,” my mother’s voice traveled up the stairs and penetrated the sanctuary of my room. I groaned; this was not going to be enjoyable. I trudged downstairs and received a sight that was quite out of the ordinary-my dad was home, in the same room as my mom with a tense silence that seemed to fill up the air.

“Sweetheart how was your day today?” asked my dad, as if this wasn’t the first time in weeks he had graced us with his presence.

“It was fine,” came out my cold response. He didn’t just get to walk back in my life and pretend everything was fine. I cut to the point, no reason to spend more painful moments together than necessary.  “What is all of this about?” I asked.

“Well Janine, we need to tell you something. Your father and I…”

“We’re getting a divorce,” cut in my father, not even giving my mom the chance to present whatever carefully phrased speech I knew she had to break the news to me.

“WHAT?” came my hoarse response.

“There’s more” stammered my mother reluctantly. She gave a meaningful glare to my dad, but he just shook his head. She sighed as if she wasn’t surprised that the man who was supposed to be her devoted husband was too much of a coward to tell his daughter what he had done.   

I take it back; I’d rather spend more moments with them, painful or not. This was more than pain. This was a seemingly perfect clear blue sky shattering into thousands of glass spears, each raining down on me and stabbing me, each taking a part of me away with them. Learning that my father had been having an affair for months, years even…How am I supposed to deal with that? People say they can see a divorce coming, and part of me had felt this coming, but I didn’t want to see the inevitable.  I convinced myself so thoroughly that it could never happen that when it actually did, I had prepared nothing to help myself carry on.

The days and weeks following the divorce passed in a blur. I stayed with my mom; the thought of moving in with my dad was comical. At school, everybody knew and the perfect reputation I had tried so hard to build was crashing around me. Even so, I could have dealt with it, plastered on a smile, if it wasn’t for the news I received from my mother one day after school.

“Honey, I’m proud of how strong you’re staying,” she started sweetly

How did she know anything about how I was doing? She had no idea that my best friends now didn’t want to talk to me or that my boyfriend since freshman year, Brian, who I thought would stick with me through anything had completely left me. She had no way of knowing that every day after school, I drove down the most desolate back roads I could find and let myself cry until there was nothing left inside me.

“I guess it’s been hard for all of us,” I said, pulling together the most unattached response possible. I know I should be there for her more, but the distance that had been so strongly established between us was not a trek I was willing to cover.

“Janine, you’re not going to like me for this,” she continued, with all pretext of gentleness and concern lost.  She was using the businesslike voice I had grown accustomed to hearing from my mother. I always thought she struggled to know the difference between her job and her only daughter. “Your father and I have decided you need some space from all of this. So, like it or not, you’re moving in with Aunt Kelly and Uncle Finn for as long as needed.”

I managed to get out a shocked croak. “What?? You have got to be kidding me right now!  Mom, seriously, you can’t do this to me!” This could actually rival the shock of the divorce. It was not just that my mom was sending me away, like some unwanted child, but she was sending me to Aunt Kelly and Uncle Finn of all people! It’s not that they weren’t nice people, they were…as well as being one hundred percent off their rockers and living in an isolated corner of Kansas that had no other neighbors in a 80 mile radius. The few times we had ventured out to visit them, it took hours of driving past depressing cornfield after depressing cornfield just to get close.  Going to live with them would ruin whatever particles of my pre-divorce life I had clung onto.

“It’s decided Janine. Pack up your things; you’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”

The silence in the car was painful and the cornfields weren’t doing much to distract me from the fact my life was basically over. Rising out of the plains came the slumping white farmhouse that seemed considerably more dilapidated since the last time I saw it. As we neared the house, two figures on the ramshackle front porch became visible- an old man with a round belly dressed in disheveled overalls, his face covered in an unkempt white beard and next to him a plump old lady, long grey hair hanging past her hips, wearing a flowing, plaid dress. I can’t even begin to fathom what fun the next months and possibly years would hold.

“Thanks so much for taking her,” said my mother as I stayed back to unloaded my bags and listened to myself being likened to an unwanted dog that needed a home. “I’ve really got to get going, wonderful to see you two”. She was already on her way back to the car after a quick hug for her sister, who couldn’t be more different from her.

“Be good Janine. Be nice to your aunt and uncle. I won’t be able to call you since there is no service out here but if something comes up I’ll let you know.” To the last second, she was businesslike. She started getting in the car and stopped as if she had forgotten something. “You know I love you, honey, right?” She gave a tired smile and before I knew it the little black speck that was her car had disappeared off the horizon.

I turned to face the two people I was going to have to start liking really soon or else life here would be miserable. Except, I didn’t find two people-I found three.  A boy, not that much younger than me, had found his way to the porch, and he stood there staring at me quite intently from behind his hideously large glasses resting upon an acne filled face with buck teeth peeking out of a gaping mouth. A scruffy mess of frizzy red hair, very similar to a bush that needed pruning, sat upon his head.  

“Janine, my dear, it’s so lovely to see you again,” came out the gypsy like voice of my aunt. “I know you’re surprised to see somebody other than us, but this is Arnold, our foster child for awhile. I think you two will be fabulous friends.”

I extended my hand to Arnold, trying to look past the appearance that screamed weirdo, and hoped dearly that he had a good personality. However he just stared at me, eyes goggling as if he were observing some rare species of insect.

“Oh Arnold dear. You’ll have to excuse him Janine, he has a few social problems...but he’s getting better. Soon he might be able to talk to you!”

So much for that good personality.   

            Life on the farm could be summed up in one word- dull. Beyond dull. Death itself would die here because it’s so dull. A typical day included homeschooled lessons from Aunt Kelly with her own adjustments to teach what she thought necessary, avoiding Arnold and his extreme awkwardness at all costs, and generally doing nothing. Sometimes I would help Uncle Finn do yard work, but as it turned out the farm wasn’t really functioning anymore, so there was truly nothing to do.

            As the days slowly crawled into weeks and the weeks painfully changing to months, I was so lonely, I was forced to do something I had vowed to never do-spend time with Arnold. Most of our conversation went something like this.

            “So Arnold, Aunt Kelly tells me you collect bugs. That’s cool.”

Silence.

“What kind of bugs do you like to collect?”

Silence.

            “Do you collect them near the house or in the fields?”

“Fields” came out his weak, high pitched voice. At least I had squeezed a syllable out of him, which was better than usual.

“The fields? Those are pretty big, how do you find bugs in them?”

Silence.

However, as surprising as it might seem, Arnold and I became…acquaintances. Slowly he opened up, one syllable at a time. I learned he was incredibly smart and that underneath his inability to be normal, he was a nice kid, though I think part of his social awkwardness made it impossible for him to have any form of empathy. Nevertheless, I persevered until we could have semi-normal conversations and life wasn’t so lonesome anymore.

One day while sitting on the porch after we had finished our studies, Arnold did something quite unusual-he started a conversation.

“Tell me about your life before you came here,” He blurted out, failing to make it sound natural in the least.

I laughed. Sure I’ll entertain Arnold, there was really nothing else to do. “Well, before the divorce, I had it all- popular, good at school, lots of friends. Great boyfriend.” The very thought of Brian was painful.

“You had a boyfriend?” inquired Arnold, surprise and curiosity carrying his nasally voice an octave higher. Poor kid probably didn’t even know what dating was, but no way was I telling Arnold about my past relationship.

“Come on Janine,” pleaded Arnold. “Please tell me about it.” Now thinking about it, he probably really didn’t know what dating was. Perhaps I could take pity on him.

“Well, his name was Brian. We met the first day of freshman year in high school and even though I don’t think he knew it at the time, I knew we were meant to be together. We started going out spring of that year.” I can’t help but smiling remembering how Brian had gotten up the courage to ask me out. “Brian was the perfect guy, and in high school those are pretty much impossible to find. He wasn’t too full of himself and a little awkward at times, but he was kind and considerate and made me laugh so much my stomach hurt. I know it was so naïve for me to think, but I thought he was the one. I thought he would always be there for me.”  I stopped because this is where the perfect bubble popped.

“After he found out about the divorce and my dad’s affair, Brian suddenly became really distant. Most of my friends stopped talking to me, but with Brian it was different. He shut me out entirely. I had relied on him and I thought that when I needed him most he would be there. If not as a boyfriend, then as somebody who understands my position because his parents had a pretty rough relationship too and his mom was never home. I did nothing wrong and he just left me. He never returned any of my calls or texts and before I came here, I went to his house to try to talk to him one last time, but he wasn’t there or wasn’t answering the door. I haven’t really said this out loud yet, but I guess this means... we’ve broken up.” I finished quietly, taking it in. Saying that out loud it made it all more real.

“Janine, you’re crying,” observed Arnold with an unusual tone of concern.

Without realizing it, wet tears had begun to slide down my face and I couldn’t stop them now. The unfairness of the whole thing was hitting me, my parents abandoning me, my friends leaving me, and the last straw had been my boyfriend who I had counted on shutting me out. Everybody in my life had left me.

“Hey Janine, it’s okay,” said Arnold still sounding strangely sympathetic. He handed me a tissue for the fountain of tears coming from my eyes that did not seem to want to stop. “You know, if this helps, I wouldn’t have left you. I would have stuck with you.”

I looked up through puffy eyes at Arnold. He just said the first normal words and with them I had to look at him as not just some weird kid; he was my friend.

More weeks and months flew by. I hadn’t heard anything from my parents in a long time, but part of me was glad about that. I didn’t want to think about that life and the farm wasn’t quite as miserable now that I had Arnold.

Spending time with Arnold made my day brighter. Sure he was still incapable of any social skills, but I had grown to love that part of him. He was hilarious and kind and always had the best ideas.  Thinking back to when I thought he was just some awkward kid I would have to deal with, it’s hard to imagine.

We were sitting in the kitchen one day, passing the idle hours when the old doorbell rang. It was probably Uncle Finn who sometimes rang the doorbell just to make us think we had actual people other than the four of us in our lonely corner of Kansas.

“I got it!” I called jokingly as I got up, ready to grandly welcome my uncle in as if he was a long awaited guest.

But when I open the rickety door, it wasn’t Uncle Finn standing there. It was Brian.

He looked different, his hair had grown out and his face didn’t carry the natural glow it used to. He stood there with a sad wilted bouquet of flowers in his hands, staring at me for what felt like centuries. Finally he spoke.

“They were once fresh you know. Journey here didn’t do them much good,” he said with a weak smirk.

Hearing his voice snapped me out of my daze and I quickly shut the door behind me so Arnold wouldn’t get suspicious.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Not just why he was here after he left me but how did he find me in the middle of nowhere in Kansas?

“Well it did take a while to find this place,” he started, with another weak attempt at humor. Seeing it was having no result, he wiped the struggling smirk off his face and got serious. “Janine, I had to see you because I need to explain what happened, why I left you. What I did was completely unfair and I owe an explanation and apology.” He took a deep breath and continued.

“This is a lot to take in, but did your parents tell you anything about the affair?” he asked cautiously

I wasn’t expecting this at all. “No. Truthfully, I didn’t want to know the details, but they wouldn’t tell me anything anyways.”

He took another deep breath to stable himself. “Janine, the reason why I cut myself off from you wasn’t anything you did wrong. You see, the women your father had an affair with...” he stuttered, “It was my mother.”

There is was again, the shock. The sky was breaking into a thousand spears, everything was crumbling around me. I couldn’t do it again; I didn’t have the strength for this. I felt my lungs fight for air, my legs felt weak.  Without realizing how it had happened, Brian held me until I could breathe again.

“I should have never left you, Janine. I was just so confused and being around you reminded me of the pain all over again so I thought leaving you would fix it, but I was so wrong. I screwed up Janine, but I still love you. Please all I ask is that you forgive me and I don’t want us to be over.” He ended with a defeated plea.

I looked into the brown eyes of the boy I had once been in love with and I tried, not just to forgive him, but to love him again. But something inside of me had changed. The love of my perfect life was gone, just like the life itself.

“Brian,” I started, using all my strength to steady my voice. “I get it, you screwed up, and I forgive you.” A flicker of hope entered his eyes. “But, I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the answer you came here to get, but whatever love we had is gone.”

To see the defeat in his eyes crash into pure despair killed me, but I knew this was the right thing to do.

 I had learned something about myself at this farm that I thought would be the death of me. I was so sure my life was over moving here, but really it gave it a new beginning. My “perfect life” had just been a paper paradise that I had so carefully crafted and wrapped myself into but could crumple at the slightest breath. My parents getting the divorce woke me from this fool’s paradise and I realized how fake my life was. I found peace within myself on this lonely farm and I wasn’t about to lose it.

Dear Ma,

            Your first grandchild’s name is Cassidy Elizabeth Dane. She was born this April, close to your birthday. She has those wide blue eyes and tiny hands and feet. I remember the first time her fingers found their way to mine, and she could wrap her entire hand around my thumb. Ben is overjoyed in his daughter. When he naps, he naps with her. She lays on his chest with her head resting on his shoulder, and there they sleep. She pulls this family closer together, and I realize why I have so many siblings. I’ll bring the family by on Sunday.

            Love, Alice           

Dear Ma,

            Cassidy insists that she dress herself everyday. She has this headstrong independence that I would never expect from a little girl. On her first day of preschool, she didn’t shed a single tear. I don’t know if she is just excited to learn, or if she is bored by me. I must admit she is so full of life and talent, I sometimes feel as if I can’t keep up. Already she loves to sing, and I hope that she will keep up with it. I know it is too early to tell what her future will be, but I can’t help but anticipate a musician in the family. Well, there’s always the second child… yes, you read correctly. I’m expecting again in the summer, and this time it’s a boy. Ben has already bought a basketball hoop. I think he gets a little bit ahead of himself sometimes. Who knows, maybe this baby will give him a shock and become a musician with his sister.

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            Seth Benjamin Dane was born this August. Ben was thrilled to have a son. He wanted to pass on Benjamin as the first name, but I told him what I honestly thought; that it was tacky to name his son after himself. So we compromised. I wasn’t sure how Cassidy would react after being the only child for so long, but she loves him. She kisses his forehead and sings him a lullaby every night before bed. It reminds me of how Dad loved to sing. She runs around the house, with the hairbrush in her hand acting as a makeshift microphone during the day. It takes me back to those winter nights around the fireplace, Dad’s rich voice filling the entire house.  I suggested to her that she join her elementary choir and she liked the idea. She had her first class last week and is already looking forward to their performance in a Christmas program. I spoke with her teacher and she says that from what she has seen so far, Cassidy has potential.

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            Things have been happening so quickly, it’s hard to visit. Cassidy is excelling in her classes, and there is even talk of her skipping a grade. I asked her how she felt about this, and she said that the sooner she could skip third grade the better. She’s excited to roll with the big kids.  Seth has started to play soccer. Imagine him and the other kindergarteners on those green fields fighting over the soccer ball. It’s all so endearing. To my surprise, he ended up with dad’s red wavy hair. Let’s just say I never lose sight of him because he is so easy to find in a crowd.

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            Cassidy came home from school quite upset. She had quit choir. I asked her why, and she said it was because her friends didn’t want to do it anymore. I said if she loved to sing, she should continue, but she said it was no fun without her friends. I let it go, but what I really wanted to say was that these girls barely acted like her friends. But what was I supposed to say to her? She had a hard enough time fitting into the new class after she skipped third grade. The only thing that could make it worse was to be alone. I didn’t want her to feel any more insecure, so we had a family game night. She felt much better after beating all of us at Monopoly. I’m worried this isn’t the end of the drama. I need to tell her that if she doesn’t feel like she’s in the right group of friends, then it is better to be alone than to be with people who will not use their time getting to know you. That’s what you taught me, but maybe Cassidy isn’t ready to hear it yet.

            Love, Alice.

Dear Ma,

            I was called into the school today after an incident between Cassidy and the other girls. They had been taunting her, saying that they had convinced her to quit choir because she had a horrible voice. Even Cassidy should know that wasn’t true, but she lost control of her anger and punched one of the girls. Not hard of course, she’s only in seventh grade. The principal had not been pleased about the situation, and neither had I. First, I was angry with Cassidy. She should know not to lose her temper like that. Second, the school let this bullying go on long enough. What had they done except preach uneffective seminars? I lost my own temper, and to be able to make an acceptable agreement Ben had to come in and speak on our family’s behalf. I hugged Cassidy and reminded her that she only had one more year of middle school left. It reminds me of the time in sixth grade when Martha was tripped on the playground by another girl, and I saw her from a classroom window. I was so angry that I walked out of class, onto the playground, and pushed that mean girl right back. I was suspended for a week, but we were the closest of sisters afterward.

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            High school is a much better fit for Cassidy. Her classes are more challenging and thus interesting, and she has learned to play the guitar. She doesn’t have a large group of friends, but they make a big enough impact. They took the school talent show by storm when Cassidy and one of her friends performed a duet. It won them first place. This didn’t instantly win them popularity, but they found their confidence. I admitted to Cassidy that I loved seeing her this way, and she agreed. She even said that she was taking choir back up again. Everything is perfect, Ma. It reminds me of that day that dad came home, announcing that he had been promoted, and that he would have a proper raise. You took us all out for ice cream cones, but Martha dropped hers. All dad said was, “No worries, we have money now,” while buying her a new one.  

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            They found it in me. It was just a checkup, and I expected to be grocery shopping the rest of the afternoon. Instead, I was called back for more tests. They came back positive. I was afraid to tell Ben. How was he going to act around me? But how could I keep this from him? When he got home from work, I sat the kids down in front of the TV and pulled him aside. After I told him, he kissed my cheek and told me he loved me, as if I ever doubted. I have cancer.  The words still taste odd in my mouth. Cancer. That word, it seems like it should not belong to me. It is not a word to describe me, or something that would be a part of me.

            What did you say when they told you? Did you stare blankly into the eyes of the doctor, wondering if he was speaking to someone behind you instead of you? Did it feel unreal, like you were part of a soap opera? I remember when you told us about the disease, you were calm, and so we were calm too. Teach me to be the same way for my children.

            Love, Alice

Dear Ma,

            I’m having surgery, chemo, and radiation. The works, ma. You would be amazed at what they can do now. Their machines are bigger than life. They whirl and scream, waging war against what’s inside me. The medication is a stunning red, and I don’t think I’ll be able to look at that color the same way anymore. They say we will put up a good fight. Every year, we fight harder. One of these days cancer will discover it is the one fighting the losing battle. But for now, I’m tired.

            Love, Alice

Dear Grandma,

            Mom is too sick to write. She asked me to write this to you and tell you that she will see you soon.  I wish it weren’t true, but the doctors have confirmed that she has maybe a week left.

You were dead before I was born, but my dad says you and my mom are alike. I wanted to tell you how proud you should be of her. She has been incredibly brave through this entire cancer  journey, and she has done so much for me.

I remember those days when she would take us to the graveyard, and we would stand by your tombstone. She brought you roses, and told us it was your favorite flower. While she ruminated about her memories of you, Seth would inevitably wander off, which I found rude. I never considered that maybe he was afraid that one day he would have to speak of our mom like a memory, like she did about you. I never understood that until this week, but now I get it.

 I’ve never read these letters, and I don’t know what she has said about me, but at one point in my life I was insecure. I let my so called friends push me around, I let them make decisions I would have never made otherwise. They talked me out of singing. Did you know, grandma, that next fall, I’m going to music school? What if I had listened to those vicious girls? My identity would have died there. But mom, she kept me alive. She’s the reason I’m going to sing for the rest of my life, and I wanted someone...anyone- everyone to know that. Her life has saved mine, and to think that hers will end before her time just seems unfair. Did cancer chose her? Can it do that? Of all of the people in the world, it choses my mom. Mom said she will give you these when she meets you in the next life. Is it selfish of me to say I hope you don’t read this for a very long time?

            Love, Cassidy

“Why do I even have to go to school?”, Anisha belted out. 

“It’s so boring and everyone makes fun of me!”, she complained for the fifth time that morning, which was an improvement from yesterday’s twenty times. But, every day she was overruled by her mother, no matter how much she pleaded.

Anisha, her father, mother, siblings, and her only grandparent living, her grandma, were all born and raised in Michigan. She had an older sister who her parents were so nice to. Anisha was extremely jealous. Why did Jessica get to wear cool clothes and go to high school, when she had to get stuck in stinking middle school? Her Grandmother and Grandfather used to let her Mom do whatever she wanted to do. So, if she did not want to go to school, no school it is. Anisha wished her parents were like that, but they were the complete opposite. She thought her parents were the strictest people ever because they made her go to school, do her homework, do her best, and every other thing good parent does. Her parents loved her, and they wanted to protect her from the dangers of the world. They wanted her to be herself, no matter what other people think. They always told her that they didn't want Meagan, Anna, or Reese as their children, they only wanted Anisha. So, she did not have to act like them, she needed to act like the true Anisha.

“ You have to go! You have a great opportunity, why aren't you taking it? I wish I could start all over again and listen to the frantic pleas of my parents and go to school. I made a bad choice, Anisha, and my parents let me. I am not letting you go through the same trouble.”, Anisha’s confident Mom explained.

“But Mom,” Anisha blurted out, trying to maintain self control.

“No buts, you are going to school no matter what you say, and I am in charge of you!”, Mom yelled.

“The complete opposite of my parents,” Mom muttered.

“Fine, I’ll go!”, Anisha yelled.

“Much better, but don't leave until you eat your breakfast, and don't take forever doing it, because the bus is almost here.” Mom bossily said.

The Curtain family ate mostly cereal and bread for their breakfast. Anisha was mad that they only got juice on special occasions. She wanted to be like her friends who had juice and cake every morning. 

Everyone made fun of Anisha at school because of her clothing, the way she talked, how she acted, her hair, and how not smart she was.

As she walked to school that morning she was thinking about how she could avoid the teasing that day. She always did this on a regular basis, but today an idea shot into her head. She would act like the cool girls, then everyone would like her the same as that like them. She was extremely proud of herself.                                 

She had decided that she would wear tank tops, belly shirts, and really tight shorts. She would definitely need a belly ring, nose ring, tongue ring and a toe ring. She was going to be the coolest person at her school! Anisha was pumped!

After school her mother and father were busy so she begged her grandmother, who lived with them, to go shopping. After being persuaded, she finally said yes. So off to the mall they went. 

Her Mother had told gran to only shop at places that she approved of. 

No “teen girl hip-hop modern” shops, only Victorian style vintage adult shops. They cannot have any children clothes or it doesn’t make Mom’s list! I don’t know why, but her Mom did not like children. She thought they spoiled everything! So to her, the kids clothes ruin the whole shop. Her Mother said that she will have to wear big women’s clothes, cause she's not wearing “filthy pieces of trash”.

At the mall, gran started walking towards a Victorian style shop, their usual hot spot. This is where Anisha’s plan sprang to action. 

Anisha yelled just as Gran was walking into the dreaded shop. “Gran, can we switch it up a bit today and go in there?” Anisha pointed to Justice, exactly the opposite shop of her Mother’s wishes. 

“I was hoping you would say that!” Gran replied, with a great level of excitement. 

“When I was your age, I would always wear cool clothes like that, not that Victorian junk! I would be glad to take you there.” Gran started trotting, to Anisha’s suprise, making it hard for her to keep up.

After spending an obscene amount of money, all from Gran’s bank account, they hopped in the car with ten tank tops, three pairs of skin tight jeans, and other “cool girl” accessories.

On the car ride home, Anisha was so proud of herself, the plan had worked! Tomorrow at school she would be a new girl. She would have to change her name, and last name. Anisha thought that choosing a last name would be the hardest. Also, she might have to change her backpack. Oh! She suddenly remembered that her older sister had one she could use!

Just in the middle of her daydream, Gran’s blurry voice interrupted her sweet dreaming. “Anisha, I don’t think you know why your Mom didn’t go to school that much. Your Mom has a strong personality. It is not that she didn't want to go to school, she was kicked out. Anisha, Your mother carried a knife to school. She was made fun of like you are at your school, and thought that if she could protect herself, she wouldn't be teased that much. She made a bad choice, and if she doesn’t protect you, she’s afraid you’ll make a mistake like her. We were not very strict parents at all. She loved the work given to her, but hated the environment. That is why she is so protective to you. We were not protective to her and now you see what happened.” Tears sprang into Gran’s eyes, which caused Anisha to start to feel bad. She had not known all along, and she felt awful. She had given her Mother a hard time for what she thought was “babysitting” her, but her Mom was trying to protect her. She wished she had known this all along. 

By now Anisha was crying, truly crying. “Let’s take these things back,” Anisha said in a teary voice. “Mom was just trying to protect me, not trying to be mean. I’m sorry Gran, I really am. I’m sorry for all the money you spent on your foolish granddaughter who can’t see past the end of her own nose. I’m going to go home and tell Mom what I did, and make everything right. Tomorrow, I’m going to school as the true Anisha, not the new sassy  one.”

Gran smiled, “That’s my girl, but I did kind of like these clothes for a change.” Gran chuckled. 

As they giggled together, Anisha was glad she had done the right thing.

At school the next day, she ignored all the teasing, taunting, and threatening that was aimed at her. She knew in her heart that she was a person made in God’s image, and that was all that she cared about now. She didn’t yell back at the people who were taunting her, but spoke kindly to them. They were so shocked at how changed she was that they stopped teasing her and apologized. She made lots of new friends that day. She thought they were her enemies! But they took her example and had a change of heart. Everyone is made perfectly, no matter what you wear, what you look like, how you talk, how you do your hair, or who you are friends with. Anisha never made fun of someone again. She knew how it hurt, and she didn’t want to hurt anyone else anymore. Anisha’s new motto is: Just be yourself and understand your true identity. You are perfect just the way you are!

I’m not a savior.

But, I save people. There's a difference. Saviors are people who stand by you through all the dark and light times. Maybe your best friend or your significant other.

I just save people. Once, then I'm done. Unless you get yourself in even more trouble. But that doesn't usually happen.

Saving people is in my DNA.

It's almost a physical need to save people. I don't have to save you, but it's like some invisible force pulls me towards you, to save you.

It's not just me though. My whole family feels this need to save. As a child, the pull isn't that intense, but by the time I was thirteen it was hard to ignore. The pull tugs on me from the time I wake up, until the time I save someone. Then it starts all over again the next day.

The good thing is though, that the older you get, the easier it is to resist the pull. My grandparents said that by the time they were fifty, the pull was almost gone. But I'm not fifty. I'm eighteen. And I've got a long way to go.

 I started saving when the pull eventually became too hard to resist. So, I started small.

My first save was a dog. It had run out onto the street. I chased it, grabbing it before it got hit by the coming car.

  In total, I’ve saved 1,825 people. One for everyday in the last five years. I count every one.

I always keep something of theirs after I save them. Sometimes it’s a hairband, or a pencil. But I never forget them.

    As the years go by, I have found it harder and harder to go out and save people. Most people who I save don’t even thank me. Why should I save somebody who doesn’t want to be saved?  But still, I have never missed chance to save anyone. Until now. . .

                                                                     ~  

The chiming of the bell wakes me as always, insisting that I get up. I follow it’s order. I get up and feel around for the clothing that someone has been kind enough to lay out for me. I pull my nightgown over my head and put them on, taking care that they aren't inside out. Around me I hear the sounds of the other girls getting ready, they hurry around,  twittering like birds. I feel my way to the washbin, where a few other girls have already gathered. It's exactly three steps to the end of my bed, five steps to the corner and another seven to the bin itself. I dip my hands in the cool water and clean my face. The water isn't frozen in the mornings yet, but it soon will be. Another year will have passed since my arrival at the orphanage and the death of my parents. It's getting harder and harder to remember their voices, their smell.

Another bell rings, signalling that it's time to go down to breakfast. The bells are the puppet masters of daily life, dictating every minute. As always, Rose appears by my side to lead me downstairs. I could make it by myself, unless there are unexpected obstacles. I enjoy Rose’s company though and I'm glad for the chance to spend time with her. Our schedules don't allow us any more time together and even if it did, I'm sure she wouldn't choose to spend it with me. Sure enough, as soon as she's sure I'm situated at the table, she drifts away to talk to her friends.

           Sister Lucille stands up and clears her throat. Inwardly, I groan. She always says the longest prayers. Today is no exception; she drones on and on. Finally we all say Amen and we can eat. I dig in, famished. The sisters give us enough food, but it never tastes good. We always have porridge for breakfast, soup for dinner and potatoes for supper. No one cares though; it's better than nothing. Everyone eats quickly and soon the dining room is filled with the scraping of spoons on the wooden bowls. Another bell rings, sending us of to our lessons.

The room where we have our lessons is small and crowded. My desk is in the very back. Rose sits a row in front of me, but by the window. My desk mate's name is Annalise. She is neither kind nor cruel,  she simply ignores me like so many others. Sister Catherine begins the lessons of the youngest children. She gives us, the elder ones, an arithmetic assignment to do. Sister Catherine is my favorite. She was the one who insisted that I could learn, who welcomed me into her classroom. I feel the raised dots. We're working on multiplication tables, so it's essential that I get every letter right.

All too soon, class is over and it's time for chores. This week my job is helping in the kitchen, one of the few jobs I am cable of. Other girls do the washing and cleaning, some work on mending clothes and others tend to the younger children. Cook is one of the nicest women at the orphanage and she tells the most wonderful stories to the girls that help her. Today it's about dragons.

“Dragons are the most wonderful creatures alive,” she tells us, “I had the good fortune to see one when I was a girl and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Its scales glittered in the sunlight and it claws were pure gold. It is said that dragons form bonds with some people but it's rarer than dragons themselves. King Juan the good was fortunate enough to have a dragon bond with him. He... ” She continues to tell her story as I stir the potatoes for dinner. Nice as she is, cook doesn't trust me with a knife. Cook’s stories make the time fly by, and soon it’s time for dinner. At this point, I’m told to stand in the corner, out of the way.

As I’m walking back to the dormitory with the other girls after dinner, Sister Catherine tells me, “The headmistress wants to see you. Follow me please.” Her voice is nervous and my stomach curls up in knots. Sister Catherine is never nervous. My thoughts whirl as she leads me to the office. The headmistress’s office is at the opposite side of the school so I have plenty of time to mull over what she could possibly want to see me about. “Wait here,” Sister Catherine tells me. She opens the door and walks in, but when she closes it behind her, it doesn't shut all the way. I know eavesdropping is wrong but I can't help myself.

“Are you certain you're willing to take her?” the headmistress asks.

“I’m sure,” an unfamiliar voice answers, “I need the help and the girl certainly cannot get an apprenticeship. It matters not to me that she is blind, I’m sure she'll work just as hard.”

“It's settled then,” the headmistress replies. Footsteps come towards me and I'm led into the room.

“Anna, say hello to Mrs. Johnson,” the headmistress commands. I curtsy towards the direction where I approximate the visitor is sitting.

“Hello, Mrs. Johnson, pleased to make your acquaintance,” I say.

“It’s settled then,” the headmistress announces, “Anna, you shall work for Mrs. Johnson. She has most generously offered you a position. Good day, Mrs. Johnson.” Without another word, a hand, that I’m guessing must belong to Mrs. Johnson, leads me from the room. I try to be grateful for getting a position, but my heart is filled with anger. No one bothered to ask me what I wanted to do. If I were allowed to choose, I would become a teacher for other blind students. Of course, it's nice to have a job, but I had hoped for something of a higher rank than servant. I ought not to complain though.

Mrs. Johnson’s grip on my arm is uncomfortably tight as she drags me along behind her. I hear the creak of a door opening and suddenly we are in the courtyard. Mrs. Johnson is moving far too quickly and I stumble over a tree root. She only waits a second for me to regain my balance before pulling me forward again.

“Watch it, girl,” she scolds. We pause briefly as she opens the gate, then continue walking even more quickly than before. A horse whinnies near by, causing me to jump.

“Up here,” Mrs. Johnson directs. I stumble up the steps into a carriage. Mrs. Johnson pushes me into a seat and sits down across from me. She knocks on something wooden, which must be a signal to the coach man because we start moving. This carriage is the finest I've ever been in, not that I've been in many. The seats are smooth leather, devoid of any cracks or bumps. They must be stuffed with goose down, otherwise they couldn’t be so soft. We ride in silence for what seems like an eternity, but can't be more than an hour or two. I wonder if I should attempt to start a conversation, but I decide against it. It would be improper for me, a servant, to speak to my mistress without being spoken to first. Eventually I hear snoring. It would appear that Mrs. Johnson has fallen asleep. I suppose that we will not be stopping for the night. The swaying of the carriage soon takes its effect on me as well, and I drift off to sleep.

The next morning I'm awakened by the sun shining through a window. Mrs. Johnson is still snoring away. My legs are stiff from staying in the same position all night. I'd like to stretch them, but I'm unable to do so without waking my mistress. Though comfortable, the carriage is small enough that if I stood in the middle, I would be able to touch both walls. I entertain myself by picturing what my new household will be like. I decide that Mrs. Johnson lives in gigantic manor with dozens of servants. She has a large ballroom that is the location of a ball every first Friday of the month. She has three young children and after their tutor quits will let me teach them instead. Mrs. Johnson stirs, pulling me back into reality. I don't understand how she can sleep so late; the sun has traveled far across the sky.

“Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” I say. She makes no reply. We travel a few minutes longer before the carriage comes to a halt.

“We're here,” Mrs. Johnson announces. She leads me down the stairs. I follow her down what I assume is the drive. All around me, I hear noise- horses neighing, people talking, dogs barking, wood being chopped and water being hauled. We walk up five more steps before arriving at the door, which is immediately opened.

“Good day, Mrs. Johnson,” a deep voice says, “I'm glad to see that you have returned safely from your journey. The servants will bring in your trucks and deliver tea to your room if you wish. I'm sure that you'll want to rest after such a tiring trip. Would you like for me to have a bath drawn for you?”

“No thank you, Alfred,” she replies, “All I need of you at the moment is for you to take this girl to the cook. She can stir the pot and do other tasks of the sort. Make sure she doesn’t bump into anything.” The man, who I'm guessing is the butler, grasps my arm and leads me away. I hear Mrs. Johnson’s footsteps fading away as she walks upstairs. I am lead down a long hallway. The wooden floors make our footsteps echo through the house. I walk on my toes to reduce the amount of sound I make. We stop, and the butler opens a door. Immediately, the most tantalizing aromas imaginable waft out, only a few of which I can name. In the orphanage kitchen, food never smelled this good, at no fault of cook’s.

“What do you want?” a shrill voice snaps. The sound of the cook’s voice is enough to make me dislike her. Usually it's wrong to judge people by the sound of their voice, but sometimes it's all you need to know what their personality is like. The new cook is one of the latter types of people.

After working for cook that entire day, my first opinion about the cook hasn't changed. She treats her helpers terribly and hasn't said a kind word to anyone that I've noticed. I've been in the kitchen with her for hours and she still hasn't bothered to ask my name. There definitely aren't any stories being told in her kitchen. When she finally dismisses us for the night and leads me to a pallet by the fire, I collapse, exhausted.  My arms ache from scrubbing pots all day and my feet hurt from standing.

As soon as the butler left, cook assigned me the job of dishwasher. Since then, I've been working nonstop,  with only a short break to scarf down the lunch that someone shoved into my hands. It must be long past nightfall now. Someone lit the lantern ages ago. Although I'm exhausted, for some reason I can't fall asleep. Maybe it's the unfamiliar pallet, or the fact that the room is filled with snores. Just as I'm finally drifting off to sleep, I hear a noise that instantly jars me awake. A lamb is bleating loudly, clearly panicked. I vigorously shake the person next to me. Even as I do so, the bleating is joined by that of other lambs. Apparently the person sleeping next to me is in charge of tending to the sheep, for as soon as I manage to wake him up, he runs outside to find the source of the disturbance. Soon after he leaves though, the noise stops suddenly, making me wonder if it were all a dream. Once the noise stops though, I'm able to fall asleep. I don't hear the shepherd come back in.

The next morning, we learn what happened to the lambs. Three of them and an ewe were gone by the time the shepherd reached the pasture. They still haven't been able to discover what took them. Cook won't let this event disturb her though, and the day proceeds as normal. The other servants still don't talk to me, but sometimes I overhear snippets of their conversations. None of them seems happy here, most are planning to leave as soon as a better position opens up. Apparently Mrs. Johnson pays low wages and dismisses her workers, without a reference, for the smallest of infractions. She's gotten so desperate for help that she's been looking in the orphanages, which explains why she was willing to take me. My dislike for everyone in the house grows with every minute I spend here and I don't know how long it will be until it explodes and gets me dismissed. It grows even more when I'm told that I will be sleeping in the pasture until the thief is caught, so I can hear if anyone comes. It is for that reason, that while everyone else is preparing for bed, I am led outside to the pasture, with only a blanket for company. Having gotten little sleep the night before, I almost immediately fall into a deep slumber

In the middle of the night, I awaken.  At first I can't think of why, but then I realize that the lambs are bleating again.

“Who's there?” I call out, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

“It is not who, but what, little one,” a voice booms. I barely manage to keep myself from screaming. The voice is the scariest thing I've ever heard, resonating through the ground in a way no human voice could. The vibrations send involuntary shivers up and down my arm and cause goose bumps to appear on my skin. The voice drips with malice and I don't doubt for a second that if the sheep weren't here, I would be devoured.

“What’s there?” I stammer, this time unable to keep my voice from shaking.

“A dragon, of course,” the voice replies, taunting, “What did you think I was, a pixie? I'm aware that you aren’t able to see, but still, you ought to know what a dragon's voice sounds like.” By now, I was shaking to hard to reply. Unfazed by my silence, the dragon continued, “I'll leave you here today, but I know you're unhappy here. My job is to find unhappy children and give them a new family. If you are here again tomorrow, I shall take you with me.” I hear a rustling sound and feel the breeze as the dragon flies off, leaving me standing in the middle of the pasture, alone again.

All the next day, I consider whether or not I should trust the dragon. In all the stories I've heard, in all the books I've read, dragons are portrayed as vicious beasts, that care about no one but themselves. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if that's true. Though the dragon I met last night was scary at first, it hardly seemed cruel. If it wanted to eat me, it easily could have done so while I slept. Even if there's only the smallest chance that the dragon is telling the truth about finding me another family, it's worth the risk. My other option, staying here, is safer, but will mean years of back breaking labor. However it doesn't involve risking death. Instead of making a decision, I contemplate what the dragon could look like. I know dragons have talons, sharp teeth and wings, but what color could it be? Only a few people have tried to explain color to me, but none of them did a very good job. I know the grass is green; the sky is blue; the sun is yellow; stars are gold; some flowers are purple, others are red; sunsets are orange; mud is brown; nighttime is black and Rose likes pink. No one ever bothered to tell me what color a dragon is. The only color that I know exists, and haven't mentioned yet, is silver. A silver dragon. I smile to myself; it's perfect.

That night, I'm taken to the pasture again. I don't even attempt to protest. The night is cold and soon I'm shivering. I pinch myself to stay awake; I don't want to be surprised by the dragon’s arrival. It feels like years, but finally I hear the sound of wings. I get to my feet. There's a slight thud as the dragon lands in front of me.

“I suspected that you would be coming back,” it says, “If you reach out, you’ll find that I’m standing about a foot in front of you.” I reach out. Sure enough, my hand touches something hard, which I'm assuming is one of the dragon's scales. They are as hard as armor. With some difficulty, and more instructions from the dragon, I climb onto it’s back. As soon as the dragon insures I’m settled, it takes off into the unknown. I don't look back.

I nervously paced across the room, my long tangled hair shadowing my face. I dropped my bag on the floor, and threw off the covers to duck under. Homework didn’t matter right now. I didn’t care about that five page essay due Thursday, or the algebra worksheets lurking deep in the mess I call a bag. I could handle a few B’s. What mattered was hiding. Hiding from them was more important.

I leaned back a bit, hoping to calm my aching muscles. Instead, it was worse. My shoulder hit the wall, an eruption of pain coming through. More pain on top of the scars that already existed on me. But these weren’t the falling of bike kind of scars. These were the scars that hurt the most. caused by the ones who are suppose to love you.

It was going to be all the same, as usual. Mom and Kate come home, and it was time for Cassidy’s torture, as usual. They’d storm into my room, mad about something I didn’t know about. They’d conform in front of me how much I deserve pain. How much everything wrong was my fault. How I didn’t deserve anything. Then it would start- the kicking, insults, terror. Then after a while, they’d stop and leave. Ignore me during dinner, and repeat for another day. Too bad it felt so much like a week.

They were not like this in public. We were the perfect family. Mom was the winning mom, able to cook a storm of food. Kate was the beauty- black hair, tan, blue eyes, the works. Then there was the child everyone forgot existed. That’s me, in case you couldn’t tell. But once we get inside, the demons come out.

If only it were five years ago. When Dad was with us. We were the happy family. Until Dad decided hanging out with some ladies would be fun. He went to hang out with some friends, whisking me along with him. That night, after some rumors were said and some proposals made, he came back with a stroller and a new girl. he then packed up and left us, leaving the only reminder of him left. it didn’t help we shared the same blond hair, same amber eyes, same small figure. and same wicked smile. Who was the easiest to blame for this? Yours truly.

I’d always wondered what he was doing with his life. Mom and Kate never let me touch the phone, saying that it wasn’t healthy for me. They tried to shut him out as much as possible. If only for me. The copy of him.

I deeply sighed and climbed shakily out of bed, a flash of pain streaming through my body with pain. The latest bruises weren’t looking great. I slouched over to my computer, where I checked my email. You have 0 emails. Not that I really expected anything. People at school never liked the ugly, shy outcast girl with no friends. It wasn’t that people never approached me. Once in awhile, the newbie of the school would be drawn in, but immediately chased out by me. I didn’t want to ruin others lives with the burden of Cassidy. I was too pessimistic, too gloomy, too sad. People just assumed it was because I was being an idiot. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t. My self esteem didn’t have any fans, so I had to decide my choices. They weren’t positive ones.

Tap, tap. I hear a crack of a sound ache on my floor beds. My heart skips a beat in fright. They’re here. Mom is here. Kate is here. My pain is here.

I dive under my bed, ignoring the suitcase already wedged under my bed. I closed my eyes and squeezed them tight. Kate and Mom chat away, complaining about everything possible. School, money, drinks, a new car, and me. Angry footsteps stomp up, heading towards my room.

“Cassidy Michelle Williams, come out now. We know you are in here,” Mom screeched, starting to tear apart my room. I hear a crash as my headphones are stepped on. $150 of chores, babysitting, and birthday money from Grandma gone to waste. I see a wave of black hair lean over. I shriek as Kate grabbed me by the hair and pulled me out with a tug. I kicked and screamed, begging for her to let go. It was no use. Soon I was full in view, for everyone to see. Mom looked down and scowls.

“You think it’s funny to hide, eh? Think it’s a game?” Mom screamed, hauling me up by my shoulders. I shook in fear, petrified. She wasn’t usually this angry. My eyes glanced at the clock. It 3:15. It usually took to 3:30 for her to get started. Kate smiled at me and kicked my in the shins.

“I heard you got a C+ in History. Now you can finally feel what us normal people feel,” Kate said, growling at me. I ducked my head in shame. All the talk about how the Mesopotamians would sell their children made me sick, so I’d ran out and in return flunked that test. It reminded me so much of my life now. I felt like a slave, forced to live in a place called “Home”. Yeah right.

Mom started slapping me in the face, as I cried out and shook my head in fear. It felt like a whip of pain thrown at me from side to side, as blood poured out of open wounds. They laughed and chuckled, for somehow my pain was joy. It was like they’d opened a present that could move, or gotten a puppy.

Kate strolled over to my computer, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “No emails? Why am I not surprised?” she snapped, giving me a look. “Then again, you are a freak. I shouldn’t be surprised at all. Nobody would want to talk to someone like you. An ugly, talentless, weird, stupid, ungrateful little piece of crap,” Kate said, as she and Mom laughed in joy. My ears felt like they were bleeding- I couldn’t handle it. But I had to. I couldn’t face the guilt of hurting them, or turning them into the police. They were my family. Bad family, yes, but family nonetheless.

Minutes went by as they hit and abused me. My body was contorting in pain, as if I was being lit on fire alive. It hurt to much- I was ready to give up. My eyes flashed to the corner of my room. Maybe I could do that soon.

Soon, the pain was unbearable. The insults, beating, smiles on their faces- it was too much. “Stop!” I screeched, then slapped a hand on my mouth. Uh oh.

Kate and Mom stared at me. Mom picked me up by the neck, choking me as I coughed and panted like a runaway dog. She gave me a look no mother should give her daughter- the look of death.

“You want me to stop? Little Karina wants me to stop?” Mom said, deadly quiet. “You think you have the audacity to tell your own mother to stop? I am your parent. Kate is your sister. You shall obey us, or else. You think you have so many problems,” Mom ended her speech, and with all her strength, chucked me at the wall, my skull slammed into the green doom, giving me a monster headache that ached my entire body to its core. A small trickle of blood leaked out of my ear that was destroyed from the impact. I started crying, as final insults were hurled. “Well why don’t you just deal with them?” Mom said with sarcasm oozing out, stalking out with Kate at her tail.

Slowly, I got up, wobbly. My eyes surveyed the wreckage done. It was like a hurricane had blown it to pieces. Everything was broken. But my room wasn’t the only thing- my soul was broken too.

Again, my eyes flashed to the corner, where some pills were hidden. I’d snuck them by my family, just in case. Every week I’d consider using them to end it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave them like that. I frowned at my sense of care for them. Shouldn’t I be hating them? How I could love monsters?

I walked past my closet, where an open green book was on the floor. I leaned over to pick it up, and brushed off the dust. On the front was written William's Memory. I sighed and flipped through. It was a photo album of the Williams Family. Kate, Mom, and me. I sat down on the broken down bed at flipped through. From the fight, it must have fallen out.

I could not believe it. These were pictures of a happy family I didn’t recognize. Mom wa smiling. Little Kate was smiling. The baby was giggling- no, I was gigging. But there was someone I’d missed- Father.

Dad’s beautiful smile looked at me, slicing through me, filling me with memories I didn’t knew were there. Him picking up Kate and I, spinning us around. Him and Mom sharing a sip at the local bar. Him with Kate’s carriage, Mom with mine, standing in front of the house. Happy. Like a great family.

Tears leaked out as I sobbed, missing my real home. the place I was born in. Not the place I’d grown up in. A smile slowly grew on my face, looking at some people I once knew. Mom and Kate were not the people I saw in the photos. They were demons in the dark, always waiting, never stopping. No, these photographs showed real people who cared. Who were my family.

I kept flipping through, until I reached the end. This was the moment I parted with fantasy and met reality.

Stupid reality. I’d take fantasy any second.

My eyes caught a reciept smooshed in the glossy paper of the album. I tugged at it and pulled it out. 6:47 PM- CVS Pharmacy. Signed with a name I’d almost forgotten. David Williams, my father. For some reason, he’d scribbled down 10 numbers I’d never known. 10 numbers I’d always wished for, forever. 617, 234, 3339. Could it be? I hesitated to get up. Was it worth it? Did I need to interact with a guy who destroyed my life?

But was it him who killed my life goals? Or was it the people who changed? Dad did not force them to change. They chose to.

Slowly, I got up, my legs shaking in bruises. I hobbled down the stairs, quiet. Mom and Kate had gone to a party with the Summers Family next door. I was not surprised that I was not invited. Checking the coast was clear, I grabbed the home phone. I then snuck back upstairs, and held the phone like a prize. Carefully, I dialed his number. Which each button, my pace thickened, until I was thumping a beat worth a million drums. I placed the phone to my ear, pleading I’d hear his beautiful voice. Instead the moniter greeted me. I’m sorry, David is not here. Call me back or leave a message. A beep came after. I gulped, then started to speak. “Dad…. it’s Cassidy. Your daughter. I know this is weird and all, but I need you. I’m lost, and I need someone to care. Please,” my voice cracked as a few tears came back out. “I need you. I’m worried I won’t be able to coope with this any longer,” I said this while my eyes looked back at the corner. “Just…. please. I’m sorry if I’m a burden, and I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done, because I’m ruined others lives too. I send my love, if you are willing to accept it.”

I slammed the phone down, as I kept sobbing. That was so stupid. It sounded so wrong. He would not want to help me, a broken soul.

I sat there for a few minutes, cradling the phone in my hand. All of a sudden, it buzzed. I jumped. My fingers rushed to click the right buttons. A single text was pictured. Three words.

I can help Cass.

I didn’t need to be magician to figure out the number. For the first time in a while, I smiled. He was there. He could help me battle the people who needed help the most. Kate and Mom. Maybe we could get them to change. For the better.

But I wasn’t going to be able to do this alone. Was it worth the heartbreak? The guilt? The words?

Maybe. I clicked out of the text, and dialed three numbers. I was ready. They needed help, and so did I. We were going to get it.

    911.

Dear Pablo,

July 18th, 2061

I remember that day so vividly I swear it had to have happened yesterday. The intense heat of the sun beat down across the blank, green hills, all while a silent, gentle wind blew through the air. It seemed like everything was just, but this was the day I would go to war. When I gazed through the peephole to see several men on my doorstep with rifles over their shoulders wearing dark blue jumpsuits, I knew what my life would become. Aversily, I slowly opened the mahogany door ofmy small cottage. Before the leader of the small group could utter a word, I knew this was a matter of the 2nd American Civil War. Days later, I left my small cabin in the Northernmost part of Michigan to become a soldier of the Alliance.

Since you have probably not heard of this since Spain has gone under extreme media censorship, I hope to explain in great detail the tragedy that has brought the U.S. to its knees. Although you may never get this letter, I hope by some miracle, you will eventually read this.

Ever since the Great American Oil Panic in 2053, nothing has been the same. This panic drove the current president to pass a bill making every state increase the amount of fracking facilities by almost double in hopes of replenishing our depleted oil reserves. Most states followed through with this legislation, but not all. Michigan, Ohio, Wisconsin, and Illinois rejected it, fearing that the mass fracking could pollute the Great Lakes. The government, in a distasteful response, cut all imports of consumable goods to these four states, alienating us from America. For a year these states struggled to feed the populus and balanced on the threshold of starvation. On April 5th, though, these states annexed from the U.S. and joined Canada to create what is now called the Alliance. This decision formed even greater tensions between the U.S. government and the Alliance. In later years, the tables turned and the Alliance had the upper hand with resources, food, and people from coherence with Canada, while the U.S. only had low morale and decreasing amounts of oil. The low oil levels continued to decrease as times went on, forcing the production of even more oil refineries and fracking facilities, putting the nation into a large deficit. As the U.S. kept building more and more of these, spills and contaminated groundwater became more common. By the year 2059, more than 80% of the United States’ water was contaminated and deemed no longer consumable. America, plagued with self-pride and a paucity of money, refused to trade or receive any imports from certain countries or simply couldn’t afford to buy it from allies to help with the crisis.

One year later, the economy and environment of the once great nation fell exponentially. Desperately, the government ordered the Alliance to hand over its land, and most of all, the Great Lakes. Sour from the mistreatment by the U.S., the Alliance refused to comply. For another year the U.S. stood at the brink of anarchy. Then, on May 8, 2060, the U.S. declared war on us, and then it felt like anarchy. It soon turned into a treacherous story of betrayal. Families were split apart and trust slowly dissolved into something more of a myth then what it once was. The U.S. was swarmed by volunteers to fight for they had nothing to lose, but on the receiving side, it was the complete opposite. Citizens of the Alliance protested for governmental leaders to seek a diplomatic resolution, but it was already too late to resort to peace. Because of the political unpopularity, their weren't as many volunteers, forcing the alliance to draft citizens. Through total misfortune, I was one of those unlucky souls.

Now, father, I hope that by some miracle this letter makes it past the heavily censored Spanish government so you can learn about the tragedy that has brought the once mighty America to its knees.

Yours Truly,

David Sergio

David awoke to the deafening noise of blaring alarms. The hanging bunks of the confining submarine swayed back and forth like a child’s cradle. Suddenly, the captain of the vessel ran through the hallway shouting:

“Get to your battle stations! We’re under attack!”

The crew members quickly stumbled out of their beds, sleep still heavy in their eyes. He, as well, quickly ran to his station: Auxiliary. During his first several weeks after being drafted, the generals of the Alliance looked through each of the new recruit’s papers. As they looked through his files, they were impressed by his experience with mechanics and engineering. So impressed, in fact, they promoted him to officer of the M-Aux Dept., meaning he held the imperative duty of controlling the ship’s steering, depth, and hydraulic systems. As he ran through the overcrowded hallways, he caught a glimpse of the three-dimensional sonar hologram depicting the submarine and deep sea around it. David stopped and stared at the screen in horror as he saw three U.S.-manned ships slowly flanking the Alliance sub. He snapped out of his gaze and continued walking to the control room. As he reached his destination, his palms were clammy and his mouth was dry. He slowly lowered himself into his cold, worn out chair. He stared at the intimidating array of buttons, screens, and gauges. A man burst from the room behind him. It was Seth, David’s second in command and one of his first friends when he joined.

“We got three enemy vessels coming from the port, starboard, and back of the ship!”

“Yeah,” David distantly answered.

“Hey, you got this. No different than any drill we’ve done before. Hell, you’re the best a-ganger* on this whole ship! Now get on those controls!”

David quietly chuckled, still staring at the controls. That moment, Another alarm began sounding, indicating an enemy missile was heading toward the ship. David, with small drops of sweat rolling down his face, quickly pushed knobs and levers across the control panel. The large steel tube lurched forward, gaining speed by the minute. David stared intently at the screen, maneuvering the monstrous ship to avoid missiles. He suddenly tensed as one missile came a centimeter away from the ship on the radar screen. After what felt like an eternity, the Weapons dept. fired a missile at the back-end of the submarine. The torpedo shot threw the Arctic water, finding its target and obliterating completely. The last two subs persisted in their efforts and fired two more missiles. To avoid total destruction, David quickly dropped the depth of the vessel as the two torpedos flew over. The game of cat and mouse continued for another three minutes until, with no apparent reason, they fell back. There was a moment of silence as the vessels slowly went out of sight. Seth leapt out of his seat and cheered, patting David on the back.

“Man, that was great! I knew you could do it!”

David shook off the reassurance and looked closely at the radar screen. It didn’t seem right. Why would two ships leave if the odds were stacked against them? Then he understood it all as the two ships came back into view, along with five more. Reinforcements. He desperately scrambled at the controls, wondering if he’d ever see the light of day again. As the ships closed in, he heard the gruff voice of the captain over the intercom:

“Initiate operation LaWS.”

Seth and David slowly exchanged shocked looks as they heard what the captain said. LaWS was a Laser Weapon System that shot lasers over 10,000 degrees fahrenheit that could instantly take out a single target, as well as leaving adjacent vessels’ machines fried from the heat wave. This is only used at dire times because the power drain it has the potential of shutting down the entire submarine, leaving it and its crew to slowly waste away. The officer in charge of LaWS gave an unsure “Yessir” before the intercom went silent again. Moments later, there was the sound of loud rippling as LaWS heated the water around it. Then, before another word could be uttered, the laser fired with tremendous force, instantaneously destroying the target as well as disabling the ships around it. Seth and David stared hesitantly at their screens, waiting for the dreaded moment for them to lose power and turn off. They sat there waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, with only the oddly relaxing sound of the creaking hull. The silence was broken by the crackling sound of the intercom.

“We’re clear,” exclaimed the captain with relief.

Everyone leapt from their seats cheering and embracing one another with the knowledge they had won the battle. But in the back of David’s mind, underneath the mask of glee, he knew this battle was the beginning of the ruin to come.

My head hasn’t stopped pounding since the day I quit. And when I say the day I quit, I mean the day it was forcibly taken from me. Every breath tears a new hole in my lungs. The sight of the track marks on my arms makes my skin crawl and a surge of bile rises in my throat. My eyes are dry with lack of sleep and my head pounds. It feels as if a band is winding itself tighter and tighter around my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

            And then it goes back to normal. All of a sudden I feel fine. I fall asleep for two hours. Then I wake up with a skull-splitting headache, my heart racing faster than ever. Shaking all over, I try to rub some warmth into my goose-bump covered arms, but cold isn’t what’s causing the tremors. I begin to sweat profusely. The temperature in my room is perfectly mild.

I feel like I might die.

            I pace back and forth on the hardwood floor. I should really invest in a carpet. My bare legs tremble as I walk. My oversized t-shirt swallows my tiny frame. I reach to throw my auburn hair into a messy bun and feel that it’s knotted and unmanageable. I can’t remember the last time I took a shower. I’m still shaking uncontrollably. Maybe a shower would make it stop.

            My skin shivers as it’s doused with scalding water. The sensation of water cleansing every inch of my body is comforting. But suddenly I’m overwhelmed with a sadness. I slide my back down the grimy shower tiles and sink to the floor. I never know why I begin to feel this way. I sit on the shower floor until the water runs cold. Even then I sit for a few more minutes. There’s something satisfying about being in control of my own discomfort for once. I let the freezing droplets assault my skin until I can’t take it anymore. As I reach to stop the flow, another wave of nausea overtakes me. I fall on my side, clutching my stomach and holding back more tears, and let the frigid cascade numb me.

            I only eventually get up because the phone is ringing incessantly. I don’t know who would be calling me. By the time I wrap myself in a worn out towel and shuffle over to the phone, the ringing stops. No more than two minutes later it starts up again.

            “What.” It comes out as an angry statement rather than an inquiry. Somewhere subconsciously I think it would be appropriate to apologize and offer a friendlier greeting, but I am utterly indifferent about doing so.

            “Hi, Lena.” I struggle to recognize the voice or to care who it is. Letting my towel drop to the floor, I make my way towards my bed and wrap myself in a bathrobe. It’s a man. He knows my name, so either I know him too or he’s a stalker. I haven’t decided which yet.

            “And?” Once again a tiny voice in my head pipes up, rude, but I ignore it. I take a sip of the water on my bedside table but recoil when I realize it’s actually vodka. I shrug, and take another sip. In all this time, the mystery man on the other line still hasn’t answered. I can almost see him mulling over his answer.

            “I uh, I think I can help you.” By the tone of his voice I’ve figured out that I do know him, or should. He sounds sheepish like I should be embarrassed that I need his help, and his ego is slightly hurt because I so blatantly want nothing to do with him.

            “Help me what?” I ask, my voice dripping with tedium. Before I know it, my cup is empty. Another glass can’t hurt.

            “With your, uh, problem. I have something that you might want.” Now I really don’t know who this guy is. Does he actually know about my problem, or is he talking about something completely different. He can’t be able to help. There’s no more left. I can’t be helped anymore.

            “Oxytocin. Your addiction. I can help you, cure you.” My eyes widen. I head to the tiny, grungy kitchen in search of more vodka. The bottle is nearly empty so I don’t bother to pour it into a glass before taking a swig.

He can’t have it. There is no way that he has it. The Cuddle Hormone, that’s what people used to call it. I like to call it the Life Ruiner. It’s the reason I’m like this.

            I wasn’t always like this. I loved people. There were people that loved me. Now I can’t. Love people, that is. Or trust people. Or form human connection. Not without it. But when I take it, it ruins my life too because I become dependent upon it. Now people just call it OT.

            My mom started me on it. It was some paid clinical trial and we were struggling to pay the bills. I had terrible anxiety as a teenager. Fifteen was when it got really bad. Then doctors started producing this concentrated dose of OT that was supposed to only target the anxiety. Mom and I didn’t see any problem with it. The doctors assured us there was no risk. The worst that could happen was that my anxiety just wouldn’t get better. 

            They lied.

For the first few months, Mom and I thought it was a miracle. It was as if my anxiety had been cured. I had zero panic attacks in all the time I was taking it. Only when I forgot my dose one night did we realize the problem. OT doesn’t just reduce stress and anxiety, it significantly impacts relaxation, trust, psychological stability, love. The dose that I was taking was only supposed to reduce my stress and anxiety, but the doctors didn’t know it would strengthen my trust, psychological stability, and ability to love. The past five months, my emotions had been depending on the drug to keep me going.

When I forgot that night, I woke up the next morning in an uncharacteristic rage. I was overly paranoid, and I had my first panic attack in five months, except it was worse than any I had ever had before. When my mom tried to comfort me I told her I hated her. The words didn’t just carelessly fall from my lips, I meant them, I felt them. But I didn’t know why. I didn’t know how to interact with people. After missing one pill, I went off the rails. Mom and I went to the doctor that day and demanded reimbursement for their errors and that they wean me off the drug. The doctor had a guilty, shameful look on his face. Something was wrong.

I wasn’t the only one who had been given the medicine as a trial. The clinic had distributed the drug to so many people that it had become an epidemic. A boy had come in with the same problem earlier that week. They tried to slowly lower his dosage, but he only got worse. His brain had become dependent on the drug to produce oxytocin. Without it, he could barely function as an emotional, compassionate human being.

Approximately thirty thousand patients had been given the drug across the country. The doctors thought it would be best to discontinue the production of the concentrated dose and just let all thirty thousand of us suffer rather than risk anyone else getting ahold of the drug. I could feel bile rising in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. My mother’s mouth dropped open in shock. They couldn’t just ruin thirty thousand people’s lives. We couldn’t function without OT now that the concentrated dose had been in our systems.

But that’s exactly what they did. And now here I am five years later in a dingy apartment, looking out over a nearly vacant city, on the phone with a man I am supposed to know but don’t.

“Lena? Are you there? I can help you. I promise.”

 I roll my eyes. Promise. The doctors promised my treatment wouldn’t hurt me. People promised I would get better. When someone figured out how to copy the same concentrated dose that was in the trial, the strange man I met on the street when I was seventeen promised that I wouldn’t get addicted if I injected one dose of OT. Injectable OT causes the same symptoms if missed as the pills, while also being even more addictive, not only mentally, but physically. I still have that first needle, as a reminder.

“Who is this?” I finally ask.

“It’s Jack,” he answers quickly, abashedly. Then I remember: Jack. He went to my high school. We had been friends, best friends, before my condition spiraled out of control. He was an actual genius, but very quiet so we became each other’s only friend. We haven’t spoken since that first day I missed my medication.

There is no way he can help me.

I’m startled out of my thoughts by a loud knock on my door. I set my phone on the table and cautiously approach the door. A glance in the peephole reveals a mop of dark curls and strikingly blue eyes. The man holds a cell phone almost apologetically in his left hand.

“Come in, Jack,” I whisper, unlocking the door and allowing him to let himself in. “Have you been outside my apartment this whole time?” Maybe I know him and he’s a stalker. His eyes are sadder than I remember, although he did always have a grim air about him.

“Lena, I… I’m sorry about what happened,” he mutters, icy eyes facing the uncarpeted floor. His voice shakes slightly and I can tell he means the words. The statement startles me somewhat. I wasn’t expecting any apologies to be exchanged between us, much less for Jack to apologize to me. None of this is his fault.

A flicker of a pang of empathy, no, regret almost pulses through me but without the OT it doesn’t get very far before fizzling out. The part of my brain that’s been dormant for two years since injectable oxytocin was eradicated, wrecking my human connection, almost awakens at the sight of him. Jack’s eyes soften as he recognizes this near-emotion lighten up my face. After five years I don’t know what to say to him, but fortunately he does most of the talking.

“So, about helping you. I have a way to help your brain start making its own oxytocin again. You have to trust me, I know that’s hard for you now, but you have to try,” he says sympathetically. I roll my eyes with a scoffing noise and surprisingly, Jack bursts into a husky laugh. “I’ve missed you Lena,” he breathes into my hair as he pulls me into a hug. My arms stay flattened against my sides, and I have no intention of moving them, but they seem to act on their own. I suddenly find my arms encircling my old friend.

A word, trust, flashes in my mind. I trust him. I have no reason not to. He’s familiar, he’s never hurt me. He can help me. I trust him. Almost.

“I want to trust you,” I mumble, muffled by his t-shirt. He looks down at me with a wide smile. But I can’t trust him. My brain won’t let me, but wanting to trust him is a start.

“Good. Now I can help you. Get dressed, then come with me.” He goes to wait outside while I throw on a gray t-shirt and jeans. I hurry outside, feeling a glint of something. Hope? Happiness? After all these years, maybe now I’ve found an answer. Just in case, I grab the bottle of vodka on the way out. Jack raises an eyebrow at me.

I shrug, “It helps with the tremors.” My head is still pounding, but for now my walk is steady and my mouth has turned slightly up at the corners, the shadow of a smile. Before we leave I remember something. I dart back inside and grab my first syringe and stow it in my pocket before Jack can see. We drive for about twenty minutes to a medical facility that I don’t recognize. My skin begins to itch at the thought of natural OT pulsing through my body once again. My heart races at the prospect of my withdrawal being over. Jack can help my brain start making its own oxytocin again. I can be a real human again.

The letters OTTC are plastered on the front of the building and seem vaguely familiar. I assume OT stands for oxytocin but I’m not sure about the last two letters. Jack leads me into the facility. As soon as we step in the door, my walls go back up. The white tiled floors and suffocating disinfectant smell remind me of the doctor’s office where I got my first “treatment.” The fluorescent lights shine too brightly, causing the ghost of my headache to haunt me again. I come to a dead stop, and Jack gives me an encouraging look.

“Come on, Lena. This is a good thing. You’re the first step in fixing this problem for people,” he assures me. I reach for his outstretched hand, then hesitate.

You’re the first step. Jack said he already had a cure, but what if this is only some sort of test? Another clinical trial? The realization floods my expression before I can make a break for the door, and by that time Jack’s grabbed me by the arm and I hear the click of an automatic locking of doors.

Jack’s grip is tight, too tight. I raise my eyes to meet his and see grim guilt residing there. He looks away. The tremors and headache that had subsided when I saw Jack again start up violently and I can feel myself falling into a panic attack. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

Out of the corner of my eye, three burly men appear and try to keep me from struggling. A fourth person, a woman in a white lab coat, appears, holding a syringe. She comes close enough so I can read the words on her jacket: Oxytocin Testing Center.

OTTC. Suddenly it makes sense. My syringe, given to me by the stranger, has those letters down the side. I can almost feel it growing heavier in my pocket. As I thrash around trying the escape the three men’s hold, I recognize one of them. He is the man who somehow found me and started me on injectable OT three years ago. Another wave of realization hits me so hard I almost feel it physically: Jack did this to me.

The panic and anguish dissipate from my eyes. I stop struggling. My expression hardens, hazel eyes stone cold. I look Jack straight in those calm blue eyes, “You did this.”

He winces visibly at the words. The brightly lit hallway only intensifies his icy eyes. He looks apologetic, almost regretful.

“I had to Lena. I just… this whole thing, it was my fault. I tried to fix it by making injectable OT and that failed. And now I’m really going to fix it. I’m going to fix you. I promise,” he speaks frantically, as if he’s reassuring himself. His eyes are crazed with guilt.

My eyes widen in shock. “What do you mean this whole thing is your fault?” I ask, although I’m afraid I already know the answer.

“The concentrated dose of OT…I developed it. It was supposed to help people,” he stammers. I still don’t break my gaze. My numbness is gone. His betrayal is a brand new, more painful symptom of my withdrawal. He did this to me. He ruined my life. He was my friend.

And now I’m his test subject.

With my hands held against my back it’s easy to subtly inch the syringe out of my back pocket. The guards’ grip on me has loosened slightly. Jack is just close enough to me that when I break my right arm free and lunge, I catch him in the shoulder with the edge of the needle and push the plunger with a shriek.

Within the millisecond that it all takes place, the guards contain me again. Jack stands up looking shaken. The woman with the other syringe comes forward again and hands it to Jack.

I realize it will only be worse if I struggle. I maintain glowering eye contact with Jack as he adds a star to the constellation of track marks on my arm with his own traitorous needle. Pure bliss runs through my veins again, but my body jerks from the shock of receiving what it’s been craving for so long.

I feel like I might die.

I let out a whimper and my body relaxes. Air forces its way into my lungs, but it feels as if it’s hardly reaching my brain. This is more than just oxytocin. Incapacitated, I lay slumped on the frigid floor and the guards back away.

Jack stands over me, “I already told you Lena, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you,” I whisper through a haze of tears and darkness. The words startle me, but feel strangely natural in my mouth. They hang between us, me and Jack, joined by a thousand other regretful words we haven’t spoken. And I hope, as the last wisps of my consciousness ebb away, that I am the first step, that Jack finds a cure, and that this epidemic will finally be over. Jack’s sad, salient blue eyes are all I see before everything goes black.

Sometimes, I look up at a rock face and wonder if it’s the last thing I’ll ever see. Other times I’m too blind with adrenaline to see what could happen. I just want to go.

This was one of those times. I had been thinking about climbing this route for a long time, but it’s the type of route with such extreme consequences that everyone tries to turn you away. “Don’t do it, Sam,” they said. My parents brought up the rate of free soloing deaths per year. It’s insane. You’d be crazy to try that was something I heard many times, in many different forms. But they didn’t understand: I needed to do this. If that made me crazy in the minds of people who didn’t understand, I could live with it. But the mountains were calling, and I had to go.

Only my best friend supported me fully. “I’m not saying it won’t be hard,” Dakota said. “But my God, if you send this... It’ll be fucking legendary.”

‘Send’ is climber slang for finish. To send is to climb the route without falling, the ultimate goal for a climber. It’s what I’m aiming to do today.

She’s been saying that from the beginning right to the end. The end is now. It's the actual act of climbing it, something I am so filled to the brim with excitement for that I’ve made myself forget the risk that comes with it. I’m not going to say it isn’t dangerous. The desire to climb and the risk that comes with it are tied together with a pretty little bow.

Free soloing is the most deadly type of climbing. In other types of climbing, ropes and harnesses are used keep you from shattering against the ground. In free soloing, you climb with nothing. You climb high enough to tell your parents you love them every time you go out.

But I want this, and I know it, the pull to climb coursing through me as I glance up at the wall. I’ve free soloed easier climbs before, but sometimes it feels like they were all done in preparation for this one. Like I’ve been waiting for something, waiting for this. This route is fabled: climbers who send this aren’t people, they’re legends. I have always wanted to be one of them.

I don’t consider this route extremely difficult. It isn’t very long, and there while there are hard moves, they aren’t sustained throughout the whole route. The mental part is the challenging aspect. The crux, or hardest part of the route, is on a steep overhang, one that forces you to look down. It’s high. When I talked to the two people who had climbed it before me, that was the part they warned me to watch out for. The mental strength to push back the fear is the most imperative thing to have going into the climb.

I look away from the wall, glancing up at the sky. It’s a great day for it. The sky is clear and bright blue, not too hot, with a breeze blowing through the trees surrounding the rock. It’s just early enough into fall that the first leaves are changing, creating a faint orange canopy above my head. The branches, high above me, rustle in the wind. Soon, I’ll be above those trees. I push that thought from my head, quickly running a hand through my hair.

I’m not scared, I say to myself. I frown for a second. I’m lying already.

Fear of falling looms on the horizon like the rising sun, always in your line of sight. I’ve never fallen before, but there’s a part of me that’s always wondered. There’s a part of me that has always asked the what if.

And with the fear of falling comes the fear of death, because this is free soloing and everything is fatal. That fear is inevitable and certain and in a way it’s rational because death is always a constant, always there. Everytime I free solo I look it straight in the face. I hold my own mortality as I climb and to me that pressure is almost too much, too heavy. I could die at any minute when I climb and that is utterly terrifying.

Despite my fear, I only feel truly at home on the wall. The rock calms me down and clears my mind, solid in nature and in the fact that it has been here for thousands of years and it will continue to be here years after I’m gone. In terms of the lifetime of this huge rock face, my climb takes only seconds. It is insignificant. Something about this takes the pressure off, for me. It has been here for thousands of years and it will continue to exist even if I don’t finish this. Rocks were not made for climbing. It was the boredom of man that drove us to desire the sky.

I look over at Dakota, whose face is shaded by the pines. It’s a little too cool in the shade, but on the wall I’ll be warmed by the sun and the ache in my muscles. Dakota is only one with me today, which is something I wanted. Her presence calms me. She smiles, pushing back her long braided hair, and I’m reassured temporarily. It’ll be ok. It’ll go well, just like every other time.

I’ve climbed this before, over and over. Every Saturday leading up to today, Dakota and I have blown off our homework, grabbed the keys to my older sister’s Jeep, and driven out to the rock. It’s a half hour hike in, on a small muddy trail surrounded by sequoias and pines, trees so tall you can’t help but feel miniscule. It’s become a ritual now, something that bonds Dakota and I together: we’ve spent every Saturday for the past 6 months doing the same thing, whatever the weather or circumstances or what our parents say we can or can’t do (“Sam, come on, you’ve climbed it every week. You have an essay due!”). Of course Dakota would be here on the day I finally climb it. Honestly, I don’t think I could do it without her.

I’m smiling too now, thinking of our trips. It’s been a great 6 months; I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I’m nostalgic for those times but filled with anticipation to climb, to finally do it. I am almost floating. Something I have looked forward to for so long is finally here.

I am so excited I can almost forget about what happens if I fall.

Something about this moment tinged us with a seriousness, as if we’ve just realized the gravity of what I’m doing. Our eyes meet and I can tell she is feeling the same way I am. We’re silent as I go over the route with my eyes. Too soon, my gaze reaches at the top.

“I’m going,” I say to Dakota, and she looks over at me. In the silence of the moment, with our only soundtrack being the wind in the trees, the words sound strange, foreign. She nods. Her ok is said almost as a whisper.

“Good luck,” Dakota says, and turns away. But just as soon, she’s back, hugging me tightly. “Don’t fall, you idiot,” she mutters into my chest, and then backs away. I try to smile at her. I don’t know how it comes out; hopefully it’s reassuring. I walk up to the wall, place my hands on the start holds. They’re all chalked up (to dry up the sweat and achieve better friction on the wall) and my climbing shoes are on tightly. The moment is here and oh God it feels so good. But it is also tinged with fear.

I turn around. Possibly the last time I talk to Dakota, if I don’t make it. I physically shake my head to get that thought out. We make eye contact, and her blue-grey eyes are solemn, expectant. I can’t imagine how my eyes look. Terrified? I feel they are, but Dakota said later that they looked calm. Ready for anything.

“See you at the top.”

It’s a sudden motion when I start climbing, but once I begin I can’t imagine that I was ever doing anything else. The day is beautiful, the rock solid beneath my fingers, and it’s almost like it sets me free. I feel so alive. My terror is in the background now, and I am left with exhilaration. But even if I was scared to death, I would still climb. You can’t give up something like this.

It’s exactly like it was before. It’s comforting: I’ve done this before. I can do it again.

I go fast, ascending quickly through the moves. Climbing executed with skill has a very precise design, but each move is connected with the fluid movement. It’s an experience to watch a successful climber. It’s as if they have wings, moving up to the sky.

I love free soloing because it allows you to be totally alone. You’re climbing with only your thoughts and the intense desire to get to top. There’s something about being so high up, above it all, alone, that really strips everything from you. You’re rubbed raw of all the things that don’t matter until you are made up of only two emotions: the fear of falling and the utter joy of doing what you can’t live without. And I am sure, totally and utterly, that I couldn’t live without this.

I’m about half up the climb when my foot slips. I’m on two good holds, so I don’t fall. But that one move pulls me out of my relaxed mental space, shatters the walls and lets the fear in. The adrenaline is flowing now. I can’t help but look down.

Shit. I am no longer filled with the confidence I had just moments before. I’m thinking about how high I am. What would happen if I fall. Dakota… I imagine her watching me, 50 feet below, wondering why I’m not moving. I imagine letting go. I see the horror on her face as she watches me fall from the sky.

For the first time, I wish I had a rope. Usually when I climb with a rope, I crave the rush of free soloing. I don’t want to be restricted. But I want a rope now. I don’t want that freedom, the freedom of holding your mortality. Because falling with a rope isn’t fatal. Falling now is, and some part of me wants to try it.

I know that it’s irrational, and I know I’ll die if I let go, but there is something tempting about the pure adrenaline of free fall. I scream in exasperation. The goal is to make it up there in one piece, so why does letting go seem so tempting? I have to snap out of this. I clench and unclench my fingers on the hold and force the thoughts of falling out of my head. I’m sweating and flushed, and it’s ruining my concentration. I need to focus. I need to climb.

I work on my breathing, making sure each breath is even and calm. After a while - it seems like a millenia - my heart rate slows down, though I can still hear it pounding in my ears. I do it - I snap out of it, and start climbing again. It’s hesitant, but I think I can do it. I can get through this.

I’m on the roof now. It’s terrifying, but I push that back. I’m in some outlying mental space now: I don’t feel fear. I feel on top of the world, powerful, not insignificant at all. I feel invincible.

I am out of my comfort zone, no longer held back by my fear, and it feels like freedom.

The wind is in my hair and the rock is cool under my fingers and I would not want to be anywhere else. You just know when you are exactly where you should be; you feel it. In this moment, I can feel it. It’s the sweet pine smell of the trees and the huge rock before me and the cloudless sky and the utter infatuation I have with climbing. This is what I was born to do, I am sure of it. I can’t understand why I wanted to fall only moments earlier. Life is so much more.

I remember a quote I read somewhere, something that really resonated with me: ‘When it feels scary to jump, that is exactly when you jump. Otherwise you end up staying in the same place your whole life and that I can’t do.’ This is why I free-solo, why I climb. I keep moving when I am filled with fear because to move even a little bit is better than never moving at all. I climb because when I am on the wall, I am alive. I am experiencing life in full color.

I have one more move before I am at the top. It’s an easy move, described as a crowd-pleaser because to complete it, I have to totally jump, my feet coming off the wall. If there were people watching, this would be the move that makes the people cheer.

I prepare, tense up… and jump. For one short second, I am out from the wall, weightless, flying. It is spectacular.

And then I hit the last hold. I quickly move both hands to it: when both hands are on the finish hold, you have officially sent. No crowd of people start cheering, but below, I hear Dakota.

“YES! Yes Sam! You did it!” I glance down and she’s jumping around screaming, smiling, and I smile too as I climb up over the edge and to the flat part on the top of the rock. I have to hike down to get back to the ground, but I allow myself one moment to reflect. I did it.

I look up at the bright blue sky, down at the solid rock, and I am filled with something that I can only describe as elation. I did it. I climbed the route, and I am on top of the world. Life is filled with small moments like this. That’s what makes it great.

So do it. Climb the route. Kiss the girl. Shout into the void. Just get out there; do something that makes you feel the intense joy that comes with life. I have found that if you love life, it will return the favor. Life will love you back.

I feel that love now, and I feel so, so alive.