Austin, Texas. 1885. A killer is dragging women from their beds in the middle of the night — and shoving something thin and sharp through their skulls while they sleep beside people who never wake up in time. He strikes almost always on moonlit nights. He leaves no fingerprints, no footprints, nothing but bodies posed in the yard like a warning. Police arrest suspect after suspect. Every single one walks free. Three years before Jack the Ripper ever picked up a knife in London, this man was already killing eight people in a single city — and some historians still ask if he simply moved.

This is the story of America's first serial killer. And he was never caught.

It's December 30th, 1884, and Austin, Texas is a boomtown. The state capitol is under construction — still just foundation walls and timber scaffolding at this point — and the university is new. It's a city proud of itself, gas lamps lighting Congress Avenue every evening as it grows into something bigger. It is supposed to be safe. That illusion dies two nights before the new year.

Mollie Smith is a young Black cook working for insurance salesman Walter K. Hall on West Pecan Street. She's about twenty-five, and she lives in a small room in the back of the house with her partner, Walter Spencer. In the dead of night, someone breaks in and attacks them both while they sleep. Spencer survives with severe head wounds, badly enough that he can barely get to the main house to raise the alarm. Mollie is dragged out into the yard, sexually assaulted, and killed with what appears to be an axe. When she's found the next morning, investigators note something strange — her body has been moved, positioned, almost deliberately arranged. This is not a robbery gone wrong. This is something else.

Austin police treat it as an isolated tragedy. They are wrong. Over the next twelve months, the killer returns again and again, and each time, the pattern sharpens.

In early May 1885, Eliza Shelley, another Black domestic worker, is killed at the home where she cooks, her skull split open. Days later, on May 22nd, Irene Cross is attacked and stabbed to death with a knife across town. In March, two Swedish servant girls, Clara Strand and Christine Martenson, had already survived a separate attack — a detail that made it clear early on this wasn't only targeting one group. By August, another woman, Clara Dick, is badly wounded and survives. Then, on the night of August 30th, the killer attacks eleven-year-old Mary Ramey and her mother, Rebecca, a fifty-year-old laundress. Mary is raped and killed — reports from the time describe a thin iron rod driven through her ear. Rebecca is knocked unconscious but survives, unable to say who did it, because whoever it was worked in near-total silence, in the dark, and vanished before anyone could see him clearly.

By this point, Austin is not just afraid — it's specific about what it's afraid of. The killer seems to strike almost exclusively on moonlit nights, giving him just enough light to work by without needing a lantern that could give him away. He targets people who sleep in outbuildings and servants' quarters — structures with weaker locks, thinner walls, positioned apart from the main houses they serve. And more than once, his weapon becomes something almost unbearably intimate: not just an axe, but a long, thin, sharp implement driven into a victim's ear or skull while they sleep, as if he wants them silenced instantly, without a sound.

Austin's response is chaos. The police, under enormous public pressure, arrest suspect after suspect — nearly a dozen men over the following months — and every single one is eventually released or acquitted. Multiple Black men are taken into custody and, in some cases, openly abused by investigators desperate for a confession. It's one of the darker undercurrents of the case: a city willing to sacrifice innocent men to the appearance of justice while the actual killer keeps operating, undisturbed, in the same neighborhoods.

On September 28th, 1885, he strikes again — this time a young couple, Gracie Vance and Orange Washington, are attacked in their sleep. Both are killed. Two friends staying with them that night, Lucinda Boddy and Patsey Gibson, are badly wounded but survive. By now the death toll stands at six, and the entire city is living in a state of nightly dread — armed citizen patrols walking the streets, saloons closing at midnight, families barricading their doors before sundown.

Then, on Christmas Eve, 1885, the killer crosses a line that changes everything about how Austin sees this case. Up to this point, nearly all of his victims have been Black — the city's white elite has been able to tell itself, consciously or not, that this horror belongs to someone else's neighborhood. That comfort ends in one night.

Susan Hancock, the wife of a well-known Austin resident, is attacked in her own home while her husband sleeps in another room. She's struck with an axe and dragged into the backyard; her husband wakes, finds her dying, and even throws a brick at a fleeing figure he glimpses in the dark. Hours later, on the same night, seventeen-year-old Eula Phillips — young, married, from one of Austin's prominent pioneer families — is attacked in her in-laws' home just blocks away and dragged into their backyard. Her husband, James, is also badly wounded in the attack. Both women die from their injuries within days.

Two prominent white women murdered on the same night, using the same signature seen all year — and suddenly the entire machinery of the city turns on this case with a force it never gave the earlier victims. Newspapers scream for answers, and years later the case would become widely known by a name commonly credited to a young journalist living in Austin at the time — William Sydney Porter, who would go on to become world-famous under the pen name O. Henry — as "the Servant Girl Annihilator." Exactly when and how the phrase was first used is debated by historians, but the name has stuck for well over a century.

And then, as quickly as it started, it stops. No more attacks. No arrest that holds up. No confession. No trial results in a conviction for the murders themselves. The killer who terrorized an entire city for a year simply disappears from the historical record, as completely and silently as he entered it.

Here's where the case becomes something more than a Texas cold case — it becomes one of the great open questions of criminal history. Roughly three years after the last Austin murder, a killer begins stalking Whitechapel, London, murdering and mutilating women in the dark with methodical, almost surgical brutality. The world would come to know him as Jack the Ripper.

The similarities didn't go unnoticed even at the time — the targeting of vulnerable women, the nighttime attacks, the mutilation, the total absence of physical evidence. Some historians and true crime researchers have floated a theory that's equal parts fascinating and unprovable: that the same man responsible for the Austin murders later resurfaced in London. There's no DNA, no confession, and no hard documentary evidence connecting the two — the theory rests entirely on circumstantial pattern-matching, and most serious historians treat it as intriguing speculation rather than established fact. But the timeline is real. The gap is real. And to this day, nobody has offered a more convincing alternative for where this man went.

Modern researchers have gone back through the Austin case with fresh eyes, and a few threads stand out. The moonlit-night pattern is striking enough that it's been treated seriously by some investigators as a genuine behavioral signature rather than coincidence — a killer who needed just enough ambient light to move through unfamiliar yards and rooms without being seen. The repeated use of a thin, sharp implement against at least two victims, alongside the axe, is the kind of specific, repeated detail that modern criminal profilers associate with a single offender rather than copycats or unrelated crimes. And the arc of the case — starting with victims society was inclined to overlook, then escalating to targets that finally forced a real investigation — is a pattern that shows up again and again in serial murder cases across the following century, long before anyone had the language of "serial killer" to describe it.

Eight people were killed in Austin over that single year — Mollie Smith, Eliza Shelley, Irene Cross, Mary Ramey, Orange Washington, Gracie Vance, Susan Hancock, and Eula Phillips — and several more survived attacks that left them permanently changed. No one was ever convicted of the murders themselves. The case was never solved. It remains one of the oldest unsolved serial murder cases in American history, predating the term "serial killer" by nearly a century — not an active investigation today, but a cold case that has simply never been closed by anyone finding an answer.

What makes the Servant Girl Annihilator different from most cold cases isn't just the brutality, though that's part of it. It's the erasure. For decades, the case was barely remembered outside of Austin itself, partly because so many of the early victims were Black domestic workers whose deaths simply weren't considered newsworthy by the standards of the time. Their names survive in police reports and newspaper columns, but not in the cultural memory the way infamous killers usually are. It took Hancock and Phillips' deaths — women the city considered worth grieving publicly — for Austin to treat this as the citywide emergency it had already been for a full year.

That imbalance is its own kind of unsolved mystery. Not just who did this — but why it took so long for anyone to admit how bad it already was.

The man who did this walked free. He may have vanished into obscurity in Texas. He may have crossed an ocean and become the most famous killer in history under a different name entirely. Nobody alive today can say for certain. All that's left is a pattern, a city that never fully recovered its sense of safety, and a case file more than a century old that no one has ever been able to close.

Hey, you.

How much can you handle doing alone?

Eating ramen alone. Going to yakiniku alone. Traveling alone.

Those are all pretty normal these days.

But how about this?

Friday night.

An izakaya packed with students celebrating the end of the week and office workers already several drinks deep after five days on the job.

You walk straight into the middle of all that noise.

Alone.

You order alone. Eat alone. Drink alone.

You don't exchange a single word with anyone except what's absolutely necessary to order and pay.

Then you settle the bill and walk back out into the night.

I've done it.

And the moment I stepped outside, I thought:

I won.

Clang-clink.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a small, hard clink.

"So."

Taka reached for his glass.

"What exactly did you win against?"

"What?"

"That solo izakaya thing you were just talking about."

"...Oh."

"You said you felt like you'd won."

"I did."

"Against what?"

I picked up my glass and watched the amber whiskey move inside it.

"...Beats me."

"You said you won, but you don't even know who your opponent was?"

"All I know is that I felt like I'd won."

"Against who?"

"Don't know. But I won."

Tom gave a small snort beside us.

"Yourself."

"What?"

"You beat that stupid little bit of pride that made you hesitate to walk in alone."

"Don't turn this into some inspirational life lesson."

"It's not inspirational. It's what happened."

"No. I crossed some kind of... invisible barrier."

"What barrier?"

Taka grinned.

"So basically, Kenichi-san, your solo power level is pretty high."

"What the hell is a solo power level?"

"Your resistance to doing things alone. Or maybe your independence level."

"...How high am I?"

Tom looked thoroughly uninterested.

"How high is what?"

"My level."

Taka folded his arms and stared at the ceiling.

"Friday-night solo izakaya... maybe 3,000?"

"Is that high?"

"We don't have a scale."

"Then make one."

"Why do I have to make it?"

"You started this."

Behind the counter, Mama let out a quiet sigh.

She had probably realized another pointless argument was underway.

"Alright," Taka said. "Eating ramen alone."

"Fifty," Tom answered immediately.

"That's low."

"If it's mostly counter seating, make it ten."

"Solo beef bowl."

"Five."

"Solo café."

"Three."

"Solo movie."

"One hundred."

"You don't talk to anyone during a movie anyway."

"Fine. Thirty."

"Stop changing the numbers that easily."

"Solo karaoke."

"Five hundred."

"Solo karaoke is normal now."

"Then three hundred."

I frowned.

"So the numbers change depending on the era?"

"Of course. There are restaurants specifically designed for solo yakiniku now."

"Fair point."

"Years ago, maybe eight hundred. Today, three hundred."

"Now we're applying historical adjustments?"

This was ridiculous.

Which was probably why I was starting to care about the accuracy of the numbers.

"Solo travel."

"Depends where you're going," Taka said. "Sightseeing and staying at a business hotel? Two hundred."

"What about a hot-spring inn?"

Taka stopped for a moment.

"...Two thousand five hundred."

I put down my glass.

A hot-spring inn.

Alone.

You sign the guest register at the front desk.

Someone shows you to your room.

You soak in the bath alone.

You change into your yukata alone.

So far, no problem.

The real challenge is dinner.

At the next table, a married couple chats over a hot pot.

Across the room, a family takes pictures of their children.

And there I am, sitting right in the middle of all that concentrated togetherness, silently lifting a slice of sashimi to my mouth.

Alone, I watch the little blue flame beneath the tabletop burner slowly go out.

...

Strong.

That definitely requires a high level of solo resistance.

But I have my Friday-night solo izakaya.

Groups of students.

Office drinking parties.

Laughter loud enough to qualify as shouting.

Glasses slamming together in endless toasts.

And right in the middle of all that noise, I drank quietly, paid my bill, and walked away alone.

"Two thousand," I said.

"What is?"

"Solo hot-spring inn."

"You just said twenty-five hundred."

"I'm lowering it to two thousand. It's below my solo izakaya."

"Why do you get to set the market value?"

"Comparative analysis."

"Of what?"

"Solo tolerance."

Tom laughed.

"He's using his own life as the baseline."

"Shut up."

I took another sip.

"Alright. What about going to an amusement park alone?"

Taka thought about it.

An amusement park.

Alone.

A strange dimension populated entirely by families and couples.

You stand in line for a ride.

The couple in front of you leans happily against each other.

Behind you, a parent asks their kid what they want to ride next.

And between them stands me.

Alone.

Facing straight ahead.

Eventually, it's my turn.

A cheerful employee smiles.

"Just one?"

"Uh... yeah."

Strong.

Overwhelmingly strong.

Then I ride the roller coaster alone.

At the drop, the automatic camera takes a picture.

A screaming family.

A terrified couple.

And at the edge of the photo, me, expressionless, taking the wind directly in the face.

"Would you like to purchase your photo?"

...

This is...

"Three thousand eight hundred," I muttered.

"That's high."

"So it beat the izakaya?"

"There's evidence."

"Evidence?"

"Photographic evidence that I rode a roller coaster alone."

"Who are you planning to show it to?"

I went silent.

"...Beats me."

Tom snorted.

"You lost."

"I did not."

"What lost?"

"The value of my solo izakaya."

"So you were making them fight!"

Ridiculous.

But now I needed to know what stood at the top of this completely imaginary ranking.

"Standing alone on a seaside cliff," Tom said.

"Why would I go there?"

"To look at the ocean."

"Why does it have to be a cliff?"

"Because it looks dramatic."

A terrible reason.

Still, I ran the simulation in my head.

One man standing alone on a desolate cliff.

Salt wind blowing against him.

Waves crashing below.

Seabirds calling somewhere in the distance.

Nothing but the horizon filling his view.

And there I stand.

Alone.

...

Wait.

"Wouldn't being alone actually look more natural there?"

Taka stopped.

"...Actually, yeah."

"If two people are standing on a seaside cliff together, it starts looking like the climax of an old Japanese murder mystery."

"You'd start wondering what happened between them."

"But one person?"

"Deep in contemplation. Maybe a poet."

"Exactly. He fits the scenery."

"Then the score should be low. One hundred fifty."

Tom frowned.

"It's still a cliff."

"Being alone fits the scenery too well."

"But it's a cliff. The words alone are intimidating."

"Fine," I said. "Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Why did it suddenly jump that high?!"

"Because it's a cliff."

"That has nothing to do with being alone anymore!"

Mama's shoulders were shaking.

Apparently, this had finally gotten to her.

"Anything else?" I asked.

Taka folded his arms.

Tom played with his glass.

A few seconds passed.

Then I said it.

"...Solo hot pot."

Both of them stopped moving.

"At home?"

"At a restaurant."

Silence.

I closed my eyes.

A table for four.

In the center sits a clay pot.

Facing it:

Me.

Alone.

The server brings over plates of ingredients.

"Once the broth starts boiling, you can add everything in."

"Ah. Thanks."

I sit there alone, watching the steam rise.

The broth begins to bubble.

At the next table, four young people are noisily sharing their own pot.

"Think the meat's ready?"

"The cabbage isn't done yet!"

"Hey, that's my tofu!"

They're having fun.

But I am alone.

I don't have to negotiate with anyone.

The meat.

The cabbage.

The tofu.

The entire ecosystem inside that pot is under my absolute control.

...

Strong.

This is overwhelming.

Inside my head, my Friday-night Solo Izakaya rises to its feet.

The warrior that once drank alone in the middle of roaring crowds.

Facing it:

Solo Hot Pot.

Occupying a four-person table alone, silently lifting cooked cabbage from the broth.

Absolute solitude.

Solo Izakaya steps forward.

Solo Hot Pot doesn't move.

Solo Izakaya unleashes its ultimate argument.

No effect.

Solo Hot Pot quietly raises its ladle.

And my Solo Izakaya drops to its knees.

"...Five thousand," I whispered.

"What the hell just happened in your head?" Taka asked.

"I lost."

"What lost?"

"My solo izakaya."

"So you were making them fight!"

"Solo hot pot is too strong. It's in another league."

"What about the cliff?" Tom asked.

"Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Hot pot wins?!"

"By twenty points."

"What are those twenty points?"

I thought about it.

"The conceptual weight of the word 'sharing.'"

"What does that even mean?"

"You don't just say you 'eat' hot pot. You say people 'gather around' a hot pot, right?"

"Sure."

"And I'm alone."

"Yes."

"Yet I'm still gathering around it."

"By yourself?"

"I'm gathering around the concept."

"What does that even mean?!"

"That's why it's five thousand."

"That explains absolutely nothing!"

"But it's stronger than the cliff."

"The cliff being 4,980 doesn't make any sense either!"

Tom burst out laughing.

Mama dropped fresh ice into the ice bucket.

Clang.

"Hey."

Mama finally spoke.

"What exactly are those numbers measuring?"

The three of us went silent.

"...The psychological barrier to doing something alone?" Taka offered.

"But you said being alone on a cliff was perfectly natural."

"That one was a hundred fifty."

"Four thousand nine hundred eighty."

"Tom-san, please stay out of this."

"Then maybe it's about other people's eyes?" Mama said.

We looked at her.

"Other people's eyes?"

"If you go to a ramen shop alone, there are lots of other customers eating alone too, right?"

"Yeah."

"What about an amusement park?"

"Mostly families and couples."

"Solo hot pot?"

"Those places usually assume people are sharing the pot."

I nodded.

"Okay."

Taka nodded too.

"So the more you stand out from the people around you, the higher the number."

"That makes sense."

Tom snorted.

"But did any of those people actually care about you?"

I thought about it.

That izakaya years ago.

The students were too busy making noise with their friends.

The office workers were too busy complaining about their bosses.

What I ate.

What I drank.

The fact that I was sitting there alone in the first place.

Not one of them had probably cared for even a second.

"...No."

"Then whose eyes were you worried about?"

"...Your own, I guess," Taka said.

I lifted my glass.

"Don't turn this into some inspirational life lesson."

"That's what we've been saying from the beginning."

"I won."

"Against who?"

"Don't know. But I won."

"We're right back where we started."

Mama laughed.

"Then what about Aoi?"

"What about it?"

"What's the power level for coming here alone?"

We looked at each other.

I come alone.

Taka comes alone.

Tom comes alone.

"...One," I said.

"That's way too low."

"I feel absolutely nothing."

"Same."

"Then one."

Mama smiled.

"But all three of you come through that door alone, and then you always end up talking together."

We went quiet.

"...Does that still count as solo?"

"You came alone, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I'm not spending the night alone."

"So it doesn't count?"

"Beats me."

Tom tilted his glass.

"Actually..."

"What?"

"We've been talking about levels and numbers this whole time."

"Yeah."

"But if you're doing something solo..."

He looked at us.

"...there was never anyone to fight in the first place, was there?"

Taka and I froze.

Even Mama stopped polishing her glass.

Inside my head, Solo Izakaya had defeated Solo Hot-Spring Inn.

It had been overwhelmed by Solo Amusement Park.

The Seaside Cliff had somehow evolved all the way to 4,980.

And finally, Solo Hot Pot had taken the throne as absolute champion.

But in reality...

Every one of those people was simply eating alone.

Traveling alone.

Going to an amusement park alone.

Standing on a cliff alone.

There had never been a fight at all.

"...He's right."

Taka burst out laughing.

Tom followed.

Mama laughed out loud.

And eventually, so did I.

Seriously.

We'd spent nearly an hour running an imaginary tournament where none of the competitors even had opponents.

Hey, you.

What's your solo power level?

Solo yakiniku.

Solo travel.

Solo amusement park.

For the record, tonight's provisional champion is Solo Hot Pot.

Power Level: 5,000.

Seaside Cliff: 4,980.

Disagreements are welcome.

Actually, disagreement is probably the only reasonable response.

But there's one thing I think we can say for sure.

If you're doing something solo...

there was never anyone to fight in the first place.

So who the hell did I think I'd beaten that night?

I'll see you at Aoi again.

You’d think I’d be less surprised. I mean the whole world is ashen now. But still, the 20 peaks buried is crazy even for this world. The multiple valleys. The mountain peaks all the way to equal with the 20. This world is exhausting. I can almost hear the city of Half Peak. Of course, this is probably delusion. Of course, I guess it could be ghosts. I haven’t disproven them, but I haven’t seen them in a while. The 20 peaks used to be so beautiful to see. I remember when Half Peak came to be. The 20 is just a name for the region. 20 of the peaks all stand perfectly at the same height. It’s said in the valleys of these mountains lived many tribes, and on the outside of the ranges were many nations. They all sent forces with many woven treaties and alliances, betrayals, marriages, and all sorts of court intrigue. Well, all these groups climb to the tops of these 20 peaks. Now, of course, between them are other mountains, some taller, some shorter, but these 20 stand at the same height, so they used them for equality, I guess. It’s a little hazy why. All kinds fought alongside and against one another. Orcs, dwarfs, elves, the snake peoples, the dragon people, humans, and all other kinds. They fought until the sky rained all hell down and drowned the mountains up to the camps on the peaks. It was said the god Orrick was upset that his beloved ranges were being used for slaughter. This was his garden for peace. Those who survived in the camp were all that was left of the valley peoples, and the ones from beyond the ranges were too ashamed of angering a god to return. Upon the great mountain, that being the tallest, they gathered and asked Orrick for forgiveness and guidance. He showed them a cave halfway down the peak. His one rule was no fighting unless they were attacked. So came the mighty forges and great trade empire of Half Peak. They named themselves the 20 Peak Empire. Lived only within the range, and their border stopped at the edge of the ranges. They had two villages that grew into almost rival cities in the ranges. Black Fire and the aptly named Brown Creek. Black Fire was named that for how the light shone there through the peaks; the light and fire looked black and the dark looked light. The people who grow there have to wear special headgear to leave to protect their eyes. Brown Creek, well, it’s the most fertile valley ever, and it’s kept that the valley is used as a giant farm. And they keep a healthy amount of water backed up into the area, but this water is very rich for growth with minerals from up the mountain and some waste from the people. Of course, all the drinking water is grabbed from the top edges of the valley. The rest no one touches, but the plants drink from it richly. The ranches with the different spices are carved into the side of the mountain to keep even them from the brown water. The people here are called swampies. Of course, with a great interspecies mingling inside the nation, there’s no set type who take care of it. The people from Brown Creek have a natural immunity to dirty water, which is strange because they refuse to drink unclean waters. It was suspected the great book of 20 peaks this came from the farm work they people did in the brown water.

Alas, all I see is the ash-filled valleys. Hell, I can see all the peaks barely poking out of the ground. It seems even Orrick couldn’t stop the end. Oh, I wished to the great hall and walls dug by Dorrick, the first great lord. He was a leader of dwarfs and dug the walls and cave of Half Peak to make the city. I guess even the end had to take the architecture it couldn’t destroy. Depressingly, I guess I must hope to stumble upon more uncovered buildings in the great wasteland I travel. I do think I’m delusional, though. I swear I hear the banging of anvils and the bartering of trade. Maybe the stone remembers and recalls. My only friends seem to be the rock.

“Players only!” they barked.  “Everyone’s gotta go except the players!” several

San Francisco Giants ordered. Loudly. Angrily. Their faces were hot and red. They

were pointing at the door. 

“Out!”

Their gray, black, and orange road uniforms were a post-game mix of double-

knit polyester drenched in sweat, dirt, blood, and pine tar. Gloves and cleats were

being shoved violently into lockers. Curse words filled the room. Someone threw a

chair. 

“Everyone!” 

“Out!” 

“Now!”

The players were kicking everyone out of the locker room, including manager

Dusty Baker, the coaching staff, the trainers, and the press. It was a sight to see. A

bewildered herd of a few dozen mostly 35-to-55-year-old men with creaky knees

and bulging waistlines headed for the door slowly but at once. The players kicked

out everyone. 

Everyone, that is, except for us. They forgot to kick out the clubbies.

It was June 10, 2001 and the Giants had just lost 2-6 in Oakland to my

employer, the Oakland Athletics. The loss put the Giants winning percentage

below .500 for the season, at 30-31. 1  They were a talented team supported by a

gorgeous modern stadium—a waterfront spectacle of brick and mortar

painstakingly engineered at every turn to extract money from fans’ pockets. And

despite having a correspondingly large payroll (nearly double Oakland’s) they had

been underperforming for weeks.

Things had reached the point where the veterans on the club called a players-

only meeting—something professional sports teams usually reserve only for the

gravest and most important circumstances.

So here I was along with three other visiting-side clubhouse attendants (Mikey

Thalblum 3 (the boss), Adam Rhoden, and Beau Pahl) sitting in Mikey's office just

off the main locker room while the San Francisco Giants full team—players

only!—were circling up at their lockers, poised for a top-secret meeting about their

unraveling season. 

We were in the usual formation: Mikey in a swivel chair, turned so his left

elbow and left foot rested atop the edge of a long gray desk (on which lay a mix of

papers, autographed baseballs, and a phone that rang incessantly on game day);

Adam sitting on the edge of the desk a few inches away from Mikey’s propped-up

foot; and Beau and I on the brown leather couch on the other side of the modest-

sized room, closest to the door. We were stone-cold quiet, facing out through the

half-closed door into the long rectangular locker room. 

Awaiting the show. 

Major League Baseball clubhouse attendants, known universally in baseball as

“clubbies,” consistently have access like this. The players, coaches and staff rely

on clubbies to keep the trains moving on game day—to do everything from setting

up each player's locker, to running errands at nearby stores, to providing pre- and

post-game food, to doing laundry and cleaning up after the game. The first

principle of being a clubby is simple: be there—in the clubhouse—at all times. If

the players are the clubhouse's engine, the clubbies are its oil. An innocuous but

outright necessity. Clubbies thus often blend into the locker room quietly, barely

distinguishable from inanimate objects like couches, chairs, and steel baseball-bat

cases. 

The door to the clubhouse slammed shut as the last of the herd exited into the

hallway. The angry rustle of cleats and gloves being thrown and shoved into

lockers continued but at a slower pace. The chorus of curse words was getting

quieter and had slowed to a soft pitter patter of motherfuckers and bullshits. Jerseys

and pants flew through the air onto the gray carpet or, occasionally, actually into

the steel laundry baskets scattered throughout the room. 

The Giants were pissed.

The first to speak was Sean Dunston, in year 17 of an 18-year career. The 38-

year old was 6’1” and in remarkably good shape, with chiseled muscles and a

springy gait. His thick mustache was well-manicured. Dunston was a classy

veteran with a cool Brooklyn accent, an infectious laugh, and an explosive

personality. He was talkative, hugely likable, and had a biting, sharp wit. 

He also had cannon for an arm at shortstop. He started his career with the

Chicago Cubs in 1985 and played there for a decade, making the all-star game in

1988 and 1990. 4 After bouncing around on various teams for the next five years, he

landed in San Francisco in 2001 and played for the Giants for two seasons before

retiring. While not good enough to make MLB’s Hall of Fame, in 2023 he was

selected as a member of the Chicago Cubs Hall of Fame. 5 Former Cubs first

baseman Mark Grace was inducted into the Cubs Hall of Fame on the same day.

Grace said about going in with Dunston: “Honestly, calling it an honor doesn’t do

it justice. But to go in with him,” Grace continued, fighting back tears, “to go in

with him, it couldn’t get any better.”

Dunston stood alone in the middle of the locker room clenching his fists and

glaring at his Giants teammates. He slowly and methodically rotated 360-degrees

as he spoke, his eyes landing on each player. His speech was a traditional rallying

cry about working harder and having more commitment. Stepping up. Being tough.

Staying focused. It was strong and inspiring. Players nodded and pumped their

fists. “Yes. Yes,” someone said from the crowd. “That's right.” Dunstan finished

his performance with a few intense nods and took a seat before his locker. 

Then the room went quiet. 

I looked around at Mikey, Adam, and Beau. We were all thinking the same

thing but not saying it. The players were too. What about You Know Who? Will he

speak? What about Barry? Is Barry Bonds going to speak to the team? Is the

greatest player in the history of the game—right in the middle of the most prolific

stretch of performance in organized-sports’ history—going to speak during this

high-drama players-only meeting? 

The players were sitting in front of their lockers in various stages of sweaty

undress, looking at each other and, mostly, at the floor. No one stood. 

Tick … tock …. Tick … tock. 

You don’t call a players-only meeting to merely have a single speech by a

single player. The silence was awkward and anxious. 

Tick … tock …. Tick ... tock. 

Then, up stood … everyone looked up from the clubhouse floor. Up … stood

… the one … the only … Jeff Kent, the second baseman. At the time Kent was

baseball’s he best-hitting second basemen. Tall, muscular, and athletic, Kent had

short blonde hair and light blue eyes. Central casting indeed: An all-American boy

from Southern California who made the bigs and became a star. Kent was quiet

and to himself, but could be fiery at times. He was, for example, kicked off his

high-school baseball team for clashing with his coach. 7 And in 2002 he brawled

with Bonds in the dugout during a game.

In 1999, Kent was traded to the Giants from the Cleveland Indians for San

Francisco fan-favorite Matt Williams. While the trade ignited fierce criticism of

then-Giants general manager Brian Sabean, Kent vastly outperformed Williams

thereafter. The reigning MVP in 2001, Kent went on to amass 2,461 hits and 377

home runs in his career—prolific numbers for a second baseman. In 2023 he

missed getting into MLB’s Hall of Fame in his tenth and final try. He was

bummed: “The voting over the years has been too much of a head-scratching

embarrassment,” he said on January 25, 2023. “Baseball is losing a couple

generations of great players that were the best in their era because a couple non-

voting stat folks keep comparing those players to players already voted in from

generations past and are influencing the votes.”

There was a collective sigh of relief in the locker room when Kent rose and the

silence stopped. His speech was similar to Dunston's, emphasizing all the right

things: commitment, effort, focus. 

He sat down and another long pause commenced. More silence. More

awkwardness. The players were mostly looking at the floor again. No one spoke.

You could hear tape being unwrapped from ankles and braces being removed from

ankles and elbows.

What about You Know Who? What about Barry? Is he going to speak? 

More silence. More awkwardness. 

Then … it … happened: Barry Bonds started to stand up. Slowly. All 240ish

pounds of him began rising. Bonds was big, way bigger than he was just a few

years earlier. As his teammate Charlie Hayes said to the press when Bonds arrived

in spring training in 1999: “Did you see my man. He's huge.” 10

His head—his head—was enormous, having grown several sizes in recent

years. 11 Michael Murphy (“Murph”), who by his 2023 retirement had spent sixty-

five years as the Giants head clubby, 12 had to get Bonds ever-bigger batting

helmets to accommodate all the muscle that had developed and grown around his

skull. 

Bonds’ giant triceps hardened and bulged as he pushed himself up off his

ricketing, teetering chair (a chair in front of the three lockers he got to himself

while everyone else got one). His behemoth upper body seemed to fill the entire

room as he stood. 

A few years earlier Bonds returned to his childhood home in the San Francisco

Bay Area to play for the Giants. His father Bobby Bonds played right field for the

Giants from 1968 to 1974 and had an impressive career that was cut short by

injuries. His godfather is none other than Willie Mays, who played center field for

the Giants for two decades and is, of course, one of the greatest baseball players of

all time. “Every time I step on that field,” Bonds said after joining the Giants, “I

know my godfather’s in center field and my dad’s in right field.” 13  

Bonds was crushing it as a Giant. In 2001 he won his fourth MVP (the first of

four in a row). His numbers were startling. 14 In addition to breaking the all-time

home run record with 73 dingers (in only 476 at bats), Bonds drove in 137 runs and

had a record-breaking .863 slugging percentage. His on-base percentage was .515,

defying one of the iron laws of the game: that batters get out more than they don't. 

Indeed, baseball is a game where failing to get a hit 7 out of 10 at bats can make

you an all-star. And each at bat affords batters two strikes plus unlimited foul balls.

Yet there were times in 2001 when it seemed like every single pitch Bonds could

physically reach with his gargantuan black-and-gold Canadian maple bat 15 (2K1

model 16 ) became not just a home run but a moon shot that sailed over the crowd

and splashed into the San Francisco Bay.

Bonds stood from his chair and took a few steps towards the middle of the

locker room. Every eyeball in the room—sixty plus—was fixed on him, awaiting a

speech from the guy who had been making Hank Aaron look like Mike Gallego

(the diminutive but lovable second-baseman for the A’s in the eighties). Barry

Bonds was, at long last, going to speak.

And it ended a few seconds after it began. Slouching before his teammates,

Barry mumbled a few soft, low-energy words about “having each other’s backs”

and then retook his seat in the crowd. The speech was odd and out of context. He

was uncomfortable. So was everyone else. You couldn't tell if he was nervous, or

just didn't care, or both. There was a collective cringe from the audience. The

speech was as inspiring as the post-game spread of aging burgers and pizza in the

middle of the clubhouse, rapidly descending to room temperature.

And that was it.

A few seconds later the door opened and someone told

Bruce—the tall, muscular, motorcycle-driving security guard with long 80s-rock-

star hair, a kind demeanor, and a fierce commitment to keeping the visiting

clubhouse secure—that folks could come back in. The herd came romping back

into the locker room, slowly and awkwardly retaking their rightful place in the

cosmos, most of them bee lining straight for the food. 

Dusty Baker, however, stood out from the crowd: The Giants tall,

confident, shades-totting manager strode back into the locker room with his calm,

cool walk, his famous toothpick twirling in and out of his mouth. Baker was a two-

time all-star during his nineteen-year career with the Braves, Dodgers, Giants, and

A’s. 18 While the media often misjudged baseball’s personalities—sometimes

dramatically—Baker was just as smart and cool and talented as the press portrayed

him. More so even. It was great to see him finally get a ring in 2022—after twenty-

five years 19 as a manager—with the Houston Astros. 20  

Baker was the right man at the helm for the Astros in the aftermath of their

2017 cheating scandal. 21  While reprehensible, two thoughts came to mind when I

first learned about Houston's scheme. One: they weren't the only team that cheated.

And two: their manager AJ Hinch, who was a catcher on the A's from 1998 to

2000, was a talented guy who deserved another shot. The Tigers give him one in

2021.

Barry Bonds’ underwhelming locker-room speech to his teammates was a stark

example of one of the many lessons I learned working in the Oakland A’s visiting

clubhouse from 1998 to 2003, getting to know the baseball players of that era: Just

because you’re good at baseball doesn’t mean you’re good at anything else. Now I

don’t mean that Bonds isn’t good at anything else other than baseball. He surely is.

I just mean that being a great baseball player doesn’t necessarily correspond with

any other attribute. It doesn't mean you’re a nice guy. It doesn't mean you’re a

smart person. It doesn’t mean you're a good dresser. And it doesn’t mean you’re a

strong leader of men. 

Being good at baseball just means, well, that you’re good at baseball. It

corresponds with only a few human attributes: superior genetics and (usually)

athletic ability; exceptional hand-eye coordination; a strong ability to concentrate;

and sufficient physical durability to avoid big injuries in the minor leagues. 

That’s about it. MLB players are thus an unbelievably diverse and

heterogeneous group of people—as you would expect in any pool of about a

thousand folks plucked from numerous countries around the world. 

Barry Bonds in the batter’s box was Picasso with a paintbrush. Standing before

his teammates desperately in need of a leader, he could barely put two words

together. 

And that’s okay. Picasso probably couldn't hit the ball out of the infield. 

It was, indeed, well known that Barry was not a leader in the clubhouse. Or a

particularly nice guy. As Sports Illustrated reporter Richard Hoffer put it in 1993,

Bonds first year in San Francisco: “Although Bonds was often a hot quote, he was

also combative and moody. Or unavailable. Or just rude.”

Even long after his playing career ended the criticism of Bonds continued.

Former Miami Marlins president David Samson blasted Bonds when describing his

2021 stint as Miami’s hitting coach. “He had fun as a hitting coach because he

would hang out with [Giancarlo] Stanton and give Stanton some pointers. But he

was ineffective, completely,” Samson said. “He would sleep in the clubhouse. He

would not pay attention during games. He did not work hard. It was a complete

disaster.”

To be fair here: sleeping in the clubhouse is very common for players and

coaches alike. Every locker room in the bigs has sprawling couches for this very

purpose. And to Bonds’ credit, moreover, he didn’t waste energy during his career

pretending to be something he was not. He was privileged, entitled, difficult,

introverted, grumpy, and—above all—really, really, really good at baseball. While

lots of players catered to the press and pretended to be a better person than they

really were, Barry was authentic and focused exclusively on what he did better

than anyone: playing baseball. 

Expecting him to be as good a teammate off the field as he was a player on it

was asking too much. It’s rare when any person is a true outlier—99th

percentile—in two distinct categories at once. There are exceptions: Cal Ripken

Jr., Tori Hunter, Jim Thome, Harold Baines, Jeff Bagwell, Jason Giambi, and

Pedro Martinez were examples of all-star players and great people. But the best

players on the field are often kind of duds off it. They revert to the mean, as you

would expect, when their uniforms come off.  

Put another way: The biggest legends of the game are just as flawed, just as

fallible, just as weird, just as annoying—just as human—as the guys selling hot

dogs and beer in the bleachers. 

I learned a lot of other things about baseball and its players absorbing

America’s pastime from in front of the front row. It was a dream come true for a

lifelong fan.

William Cooper

will-cooper.com

"A provision in this year’s NDAA will require the Selective Service System (SSS) to find a way to make registering for the draft automatic instead of letting 18-year-old males sign up themselves, which is current practice."

He didn't hunt in his own city. He didn't have a "type." He didn't even kill on a schedule.

For over a decade, a quiet Alaska contractor flew to random American cities on his days off, rented a car under someone else's name, and drove for hours to bury a container in the woods. Inside it: a gun. A knife. Zip ties. Cash. Sometimes a body bag.

Then he'd fly home. Go back to work. Wait months — sometimes years — before he ever touched it again.

When he finally got caught, it wasn't because police found a pattern. There was no pattern. He built his kills so no two of them could ever be connected — no shared victim type, no shared location, no shared method. The FBI believes he killed at least eleven people. To this day, they can only name three.

This is the story of Israel Keyes — and the case that terrified the FBI more than almost any serial killer in modern history, because of the one thing he refused to give them: the truth.

On February 1st, 2012, eighteen-year-old Samantha Koenig was working an evening shift alone at the Common Grounds coffee stand on Tudor Road in Anchorage, Alaska. Surveillance footage would later show a man in a hooded jacket and sunglasses approaching the window. Minutes later, Samantha was gone — abducted at gunpoint and taken to a truck parked across the street.

For weeks, her disappearance played out like any other missing-person case. A reward climbed to seventy thousand dollars. Search parties combed the area. Then her family received something no one expected: a ransom text, sent from her own phone, along with a photo — Samantha, alive, holding a newspaper to prove the date.

It was staged. Samantha Koenig had already been murdered inside her abductor's home, within hours of being taken. The photo, the texts, the illusion that she might still be alive — all of it was constructed by the man who killed her, to buy himself time.

That man was Israel Keyes, a thirty-four-year-old handyman and contractor who ran his own local business, Keyes Construction. He was, by every outward measure, unremarkable. He had a young daughter he clearly cared for. Neighbors and clients described him as reliable, quiet, hardworking. Nothing about him matched the profile of the person investigators were looking for.

Keyes was finally caught in Texas, nearly three thousand miles from Alaska, after agents tracked a withdrawal made on Samantha's stolen debit card to an ATM in Humble, Texas. Three days later, he was arrested in Lufkin.

What happened next is what makes this case so different from almost any other serial killer investigation on record.

Israel Keyes talked. Not out of guilt, and not out of any wish for redemption. Investigators who interviewed him described a man who seemed almost proud of what he'd built — a killer who wanted credit for his method, even as he refused to give up the details that mattered most.

He told them there were others. Many others. He said he had been killing since at least 2001, and that his victims were strangers — men and women, different ages, different states, selected essentially at random. He said he avoided children and avoided targeting parents, but beyond that, there was no pattern for police to search for, because he had deliberately built none.

Then he described his method, and it's the reason this case unsettled career FBI agents.

Keyes would fly, on his own money, to a city he had no personal connection to — sometimes picked almost arbitrarily off a map. He would rent a car using a fake name, drive out to a remote, forested area, and bury a cache of supplies: a firearm, a knife, restraints, sometimes cash, sometimes a shovel. He called these his "kill kits." Then he'd fly home, resume his ordinary life as a contractor and a father, and wait — months, sometimes years — before returning to the same buried kit to commit a murder in a place investigators would never think to connect to a man living quietly in Anchorage, Alaska.

The FBI later mapped his movements and found he had taken as many as thirty-five trips across the country between 2004 and his arrest in 2012, crossing state lines with no obvious reason tied to work or family. Any one of those trips could have ended in a murder. Investigators still don't know how many did.

During interrogations, Keyes described the compulsion in his own words. Asked about the moment he crossed the line the first time, he told investigators, "Once I started, you know, there was nothing else like it."

He confessed by name to killing Bill and Lorraine Currier, a married couple in Essex, Vermont, taken from their home in June 2011 — a case that, before his confession, had no suspect and no leads. He confessed to Samantha Koenig. And he told investigators the FBI's own count — eleven murders in total — was accurate, dating back to at least 2001, though he claimed it might have started even earlier, in the late 1990s.

But he wouldn't give them more than that.

Keyes seemed to treat the investigation itself as a kind of game — offering just enough truth to prove he wasn't lying about the scope of what he'd done, while withholding the one thing that would let families bury their dead: names, dates, locations. Agents who worked the case have said he appeared to take satisfaction in controlling exactly how much pain he caused, even from inside a jail cell, even facing certain life imprisonment.

On December 2nd, 2012 — before he ever stood trial, before he was forced to answer for a single other death — Israel Keyes killed himself in his cell at the Anchorage jail. He left behind a note. Investigators who reviewed it said it was largely incoherent, full of rambling and grievance, and contained no new information about his victims.

What he did leave behind were the drawings. Found under his bed in that same cell: eleven small skulls, drawn in his own blood. Eleven — matching the number of murders he claimed, silently confirming what words never fully would.

In the years since, the FBI has released an interactive timeline of Keyes's known travel dating back to 1997, hoping the public might recognize a city, a date, a missing loved one who never came home. They've connected him to a small number of additional victims — including Debra Feldman, last seen in April 2009 in Hackensack, New Jersey — but seven of the eleven lives Keyes claimed remain, to this day, complete unknowns. No names. No confirmed locations. No closure for whatever families are still out there wondering.

Investigators have said plainly that Keyes's death made the case harder, not easier — the only man who knew where the rest of his kits, and his victims, were buried took that knowledge with him on purpose.

What makes Israel Keyes different from almost every other serial killer isn't the number of victims, and it isn't even the brutality. It's the architecture of the crimes themselves — years of planning collapsed into single, isolated moments of violence, spread across a country, built specifically so that no detective, no database, no algorithm could ever connect the dots. He wasn't caught because agents were clever enough to see his pattern. He was caught because, for the first time, he made a mistake close to home.

Somewhere in America, there may still be a buried kit no one has ever found. And somewhere, there may still be a family who has spent over a decade wondering what happened to someone who simply never came home — never knowing the answer was written, in blood, under a dead man's bed in an Alaska jail cell.

So i just started my first year of college, which also means this is my first time really being on my own. I didn’t party much before college and was honestly pretty introverted, so I kinda came into this wanting a fresh start and a whole new social life. Like, reinvent myself a little yk?

Well… I definitely started going to more parties, and omg, it is CRAZY. People are drinking, doing drugs, hooking up, and just doing things like it’s completely normal. I’ve even gotten involved with some of the guys at parties and ended up doing things I genuinely never thought I would do.

And that’s kinda where I’m conflicted. Part of me is excited that I’m finally being more social and trying things outside of my comfort zone, but another part of me feels like an imposter syndrome. Everyone around me seems so comfortable with partying and hooking up and doesn’t seem to feel guilty about it, while I definitely still do especially because I’m in a LTR.

I guess I’m just posting and trying to figure out where the line is between “reinventing yourself and getting out of your shell” and doing things that genuinely aren’t you and does it still make it you or are you cross the lines of betraying who you are.

I came across:

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/249080986-the-burning-desire.

It covers a psychopathic serial arsonist who killed a heap of backpackers in Aussie. A United States serial arson expert rated him the 4th most dangerous ever and does a couple of chapters on their motives and how you catch them. As for cure, he says no, lock them up.

The real twist in the story is that the author, while writing the book, and the original (long retired) arson squad team from 1989 (that put the guy in jail for 19 years for the fatal backpacker fire), spotted the serial arsonist getting let off for a sex crime against a young girl. Recognizing he had lied his way out of a jail term they convinced a Supreme Court to reverse the decision and put the mass killer back behind bars in 2025.

Serial arsonists apparently don't just do arson, they do all sorts of crime. David Richard 'Son of Sam' is given as an example. I didn't know he lit around 2,500 fires, including on the night he was caught.

I used to stay in a C block apartment before shifting to E block. For my birthday, my family mistakenly parceled my gift to my previous C block room. However, they weren't aware of their mistake.
For over 10 days, my family and I wondered what had happened to the parcel… Did the delivery service not send it? Did they deliver it to the wrong address? Who would have accepted the parcel and not informed me about it?
These answers were revealed when I received a call from a woman who moved in after I vacated the C block room. She told me that she lives with a roommate named Shannon. However, that Shannon had left for her hometown and the woman had collected my parcel thinking it was for her roommate, Shannon.
When her roommate Shannon returned, the woman realized that she had collected the parcel for the wrong Shannon. When she read my number on the parcel, she called me and told me that my parcel was with her all along!
I was finally able to collect my birthday gift.
The delivery people did do their job; the parcel was delivered to the given address and to a Shannon. To another Shannon who lives in the same room that I vacated.
Shannon and I laughed.

I've been working on a western anthology series. I've just completed a story I'm particularly proud of and I'm curious if people actually enjoy it. The anthology takes place in a fictional town in the southwest in the late 1800's with overlapping characters, similar to pulp fiction. Let me know what you think and don't hold back on negative opinions, I'm trying to improve or make this more entertaining.

\---

DAWN

Patrick heard about it before he was even awake, Daniel shaking his shoulder in the dark, breathless, the word duel said like it was Christmas morning.

"Cantina, last night," Daniel said. "Some fella called another fella out. Sunrise, Main Street. Everybody's saying it."

Patrick sat up on his elbows. Around them the cottage held the sound of James still asleep, snoring faintly through his nose. "Says who."

"Everybody." Daniel was already pulling his boots on, one hand still on Patrick's shoulder like he might vanish if he let go. "C'mon. C'mon, Patrick."

He didn't put much stock in it. Cantina talk ran to duels the way it ran to buried silver and Comanche raids and missing horses, a story got told, got better in the telling, and by the time it reached the Kelly home it was usually not much more than talk. But he pulled his boots on anyway. He was seventeen, and the sky outside the cottage door was still the color of ash. He decided there was no better place to be than where the excitement was.

He left James sleeping. Found Daniel again, since the boy had wandered off toward the horses. By the time Patrick had them both moving toward town, walking fast, not quite running, the anticipation had gotten into him despite himself, a tightness behind his sternum, something that felt almost like the hour before a hunt, when the light's still bad and you don't know what the day is going to bring.

Main Street was already thick with people when they came around the blacksmith's corner. More than Patrick expected. He saw Karl Wagner standing outside his shop with his arms crossed, saying something to a man Patrick didn't recognize. He saw two of the Cruz siblings, and a knot of ranch hands he didn't know by name, and Titus Jackson in his doorway, not out on the street but watching from it, arms folded, saying nothing to anybody.

Nobody was cheering. That surprised him a little. He'd pictured it (without meaning to) as something almost festive, and instead the street had the hushed, close quality of a church before the service starts. People talking in low voices. People not quite looking at each other.

He'd made it maybe halfway down the row, Daniel still grabbing onto the back of his shirt, when a hand landed on Daniel's shoulder instead.

Clayton Parker. Patrick hadn't even seen him come up alongside them. "Daniel," he said, easy, like there was nothing else going on in the street at all. "Come on in the post with me a minute. Got something in from some soldiers passed through yesterday you'll want to see."

Daniel's grip loosened on Patrick's shirt. 

"What is it?"

"Come see."

Daniel went, the way kids went with Clayton, no argument, no second thought, already asking what kind of candy it was before they'd gone three steps. Patrick watched them go a moment, Clayton's hand resting light on the boy's shoulder, steering him toward the trading post door and away from the street, and then he turned back around, and that was when he saw him.

The vaquero stood near the middle of the street, boots planted in the dust, a good twenty feet from the other man. Patrick had seen him around town before, never knew his name, never spoken two words to him, but he knew the face. He rode through every month or six weeks, sold horses or traded them, always seemed to be laughing about something, usually at his own expense. Patrick had watched him once outside the livery, doing an impression of a spooked colt for a crowd of children, rearing back with his hands up like hooves, and the children had shrieked and loved it. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three.

He wasn't laughing now. He stood very still, hands loose at his sides, watching the other man the way Patrick watched a deer trail, total attention, nothing wasted.

Patrick never got a clear look at the other man's face. Never would remember, later, what he was wearing, or how old he was, or what he looked like at all. He would remember the vaquero's face with total clarity for the rest of his life, and he would never once learn what any of it had been about.

The street held its breath. Somewhere behind Patrick a horse shifted and blew air through its nose, and the sound seemed enormous.

Then the shot came, and there was no ceremony to it at all.

Patrick didn't see a signal. Didn't see hands move toward guns, didn't see the draw, didn't see any of the things twenty feet of tense silence should have telegraphed. There was just the shot. Flat and short, swallowed almost instantly by the open air. The vaquero's body twisted sideways as if someone had shoved him hard from the left.

He didn't go down right away. That was the thing Patrick hadn't expected, hadn't known to expect. He staggered two steps sideways, one hand coming up toward his chest, and for a second, one absurd, terrible second, Patrick thought he might simply keep standing there, the way a gut-shot buck sometimes stood for longer than seemed possible before its legs finally understood what had happened to it.

Then his knees folded and he sat down hard in the street dust, not falling so much as collapsing into a sitting position, like a puppet with its strings cut halfway.

Nobody moved for a moment. Patrick didn't either.

He would understand, later, replaying it, that the whole thing, the draw, the shot, the fall, had taken perhaps two seconds. At the time it did not feel like two seconds. It felt like time didn't have a length at all.

The vaquero made a sound. Not a scream, not words. A wet, effortful sound, like a man trying to clear his throat of something that would not clear. Patrick found he had come forward without deciding to, was standing near the front of the crowd now, close enough to see.

The blood didn't come the way he'd have guessed. He'd gutted deer, dressed hogs, seen his father's ventures go bad enough that violence of one kind or another had crossed his path more than once. He knew what blood looked like when it left a body. This was… different, a dark stain spreading fast across the front of the man's shirt, high on the chest, and with every one of those wet, clotted breaths a fresh welling at the corner of his mouth, thin and bright, running down over his chin.

He was still upright, sitting in the dirt, one hand pressed flat over the wound as if he could hold something in that had already gotten out. His eyes were open. They moved, found Patrick's, for just a moment, out of the whole crowd, and there was no fear in them yet, only a kind of confusion, like a man trying to work out a math problem.

Then the confusion went somewhere else. His breathing turned to a thick, bubbling rattle, worse with each attempted breath, his chest working harder and harder to move air through what Patrick understood was no longer only air. The hand at his chest slid down. He tipped sideways, slow, almost gentle, until his shoulder met the dust, and his legs drew up once, an animal reflex, and went still.

It took perhaps a minute. Patrick would think, many times afterward, about how long a minute actually was, when a man was using every second of it to die.

Nobody in the crowd spoke for a while after the sound of him finally stopped. Then the ordinary noise of a street came back in pieces, a gasp, someone's horse, someone's low voice asking someone else if that was it. 

The men who'd stood across from each other were both gone from where they'd stood, the vaquero there in the dirt, on his side, one hand still curled loosely against his own chest, his eyes half open and fixed on nothing, the other disappeared into the crowd.

Patrick didn't remember deciding to walk closer. He stood over the body for a while. He kept expecting to feel the thing he felt after a clean kill in the woods. Some resolved feeling, an ending. It didn't come. The man on the ground looked like he might sit up and finish the joke he'd been telling the last time Patrick saw him laughing outside the livery. He looked like sleep. He did not look like anything Patrick had a word for yet.

Otto Wagner's dead wagon came up the street maybe twenty minutes later, unhurried, the way Otto did everything. He climbed down without a word to anyone, looked at the body for a moment with an expression Patrick couldn't read at all, not surprise, not grief, just a kind of professional appraisal, the way Titus might look at a busted axle before deciding how to fix it. Then he glanced up, found Patrick still standing there, and said, "Give me a hand."

Patrick didn't ask why him. He just did it.

They lifted the body between them, Otto at the shoulders, Patrick at the legs, and it was heavier than Patrick expected, and looser, the way nothing alive is ever loose. Otto handled it without flinching, arranged the arms with a kind of care that struck Patrick as strange and then didn't. The same care he used when he and his brother Karl worked together at the wheelwright before their falling out.

They laid him in the bed of the wagon on a length of canvas. Otto pulled the edges over him without ceremony, tucking the corners the way a man might fold a tarp over lumber before the rain came.

"You knew him?" Otto asked, not looking up.

"No," Patrick said. "Not really."

Otto nodded, like that was an answer he'd heard plenty of times before, and maybe it was. He climbed back up onto the seat, took the reins, and looked down at Patrick for a moment before he said anything else.

"Go home," he said. Not unkind. Just practical, the way he said everything. "Nothing left here for you to do."

Patrick stood in the street and watched the wagon roll off toward Otto's shop, the wheels leaving two shallow lines in the dust that would be gone by noon. Behind him, Main Street was already returning to itself. Karl Wagner's voice somewhere, ordinary again, a dog barking near the trading post, the particular clatter of the blacksmith's morning starting up like any other day.

He was still standing over the dark patch in the dirt, already starting to dull and dry at the edges in the growing heat, when Daniel came out of the trading post with a fistful of peppermint sticks and a look on his face like he'd been handed the deed to the territory.

"Patrick. Patrick, look." He held one out, already talking before Patrick could answer. "Clayton says the soldiers traded a whole crate of these for two nights' feed on their horses, and there's a red kind he says tastes like cinnamon, only I think this one's better, you want to try it?"

Patrick took the candy. He didn't say anything.

Daniel kept talking the whole walk back home, about the candy, about the soldiers, about nothing at all. Patrick just listened.

The rock. I’ve been staring at this rock for a few hours. I still can’t seem to put my thought on why it’s so strange. It’s blackened, ashen, just like the rest of this planet. Nothing abnormal about it. Maybe I’ve finally done it. I’ve lost it. After hundreds of years wandering the wastes, I’ve lost it all. Oddly enough, you’d think the mind would go much sooner. Of course, I’ve got the few surviving manuals to thank for that. A few books, histories, novels, light amount of smut, plenty of half-torn notes and journals, and of course massive lexicons and the like. The manuals have been keeping me though, trying to work out a few spells I still can’t seem to master. I’ve poured over ages of pages trying to understand if it’s a movement or a certain type of channeling. Most of the time they just blow up in my face. One time in a cave I found it almost dropped a mountain on me. But alas, I guess I’ve finally done it. I’ve lost it. All because this rock looks different than those rocks. I guess I should go set my camp. Not there is much reason to anymore. I know nothing will change. The slow breeze will continue, and the weather is as still as everything but the fluttery, ballerina of dust slowly frolicking in the breeze. Of course, there’s the occasional gust, and oh boy does this excite. The humor of old still carries through with me. Maybe I’ll spoil myself and snap mead barrels and full steaks into existence again. Of course, this is a lot of work, and I still don’t know where exactly I’m pulling the stuff from. I wish to find a book on the deeper annotations of our magic. Aha, I see it now. The burnt ash moss. The rock is covered in moss, of course, ash and un-alive as the rest of the plants everywhere, but that is why it is so different. He looks as if he has hair. Oh joy, I have not lost it completely yet. Of course, I did call the rock I he. Maybe I should spend more time practicing again. It’s been a few years since last, and it does keep me busy and sharp.

Read Part I here.

“Might’ve been something outside. But if there had been, it’s gone now.”

“You think it could be a mermaid?” she asked. It was hard to believe she was serious. Chrissy was one of the sharpest ten-year-olds I had ever met. Well, she had been the sharpest seven-year-old I had ever met three years ago and was that much smarter now.

She didn’t believe in any of the traditional fairytale creatures. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Wolfman, and no Flying Spaghetti Monster. But she absolutely believed mermaids were real.

There had to be a story behind it, but I had never been able to get her to explain it to me. How a child so ruled by logic still was able to make room for not only a magical creature, but that particular magical creature. She had already “debunked” the narwhal as being the source of the mermaid mythos. I had gotten bits and pieces over the last three years, but never in a cohesive enough story that I could process. But she hadn’t stopped trying to convince me or the rest of the family.

I didn’t have to believe it, though. It was enough to believe that she believed it.

“Maybe this is it!” She turned around and charged back to the bedroom where her mother was sleeping.

“Chrissy!” I saved my breath. She already had the door open and either her mother was going to wake up or she wasn’t. That was out of my hands. She came back a moment later with a Ziploc bag of “mermaid feed.” As far as I could tell, it was a mix of trail mix and seaweed. She carried a flashlight in her other hand.

According to Chrissy, mermaids only came out at night, so she had come prepared.

Again, I was calling after her when she’d already begun to do what she was doing, namely, dashing outside with her items.

I was about to follow her when I spotted the toy soldiers she’d dropped on her way out. I thought it would be just her luck for Mary to wake up and step on one of them.

“Watch your sister,” I said to Luke, turning to pick up the toys.

Right as I got on one knee, the bedroom door opened. It didn’t immediately occur to me that it was Mary even though I had just thought about this very thing happening. I sort of... paused as she passed me. She was halfway to the door when I realized she must have been sleepwalking.

“Mary!” I chased behind her, my steps in sync with hers—left, right, left—catching her before she got to the door.

“Mom, are you okay?” Luke said.

“Where am I?” She sounded terrified. Mary turned her head and looked at him. For a second, I thought she was awake. Instead of answering him, she bare-foot kicked him in the shin.

It couldn’t have hurt, but he stepped back and looked at me, confused. I wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in close.

“She’s fine,” I said, lacing Mary’s hand with mine. I looked into her glassy eyes. “She’s sleepwalking.” I turned her around and ushered her back to the bedroom. Of the five toy soldiers Chrissy had left at the threshold, only two were left, but only one was standing. I looked over my shoulder and spotted one against the wall and the two others weren’t in sight.

“She can’t fly,” Mary said in a dreamy voice. “Please help her swim.”

“Okay, honey.” I cooed to her as I slid back the covers. She didn’t fight, Mary had sleepwalked a few times with me present. She never resisted being escorted back to bed. Before I covered her legs I spotted another soldier on her foot. I plucked it off and put it on the dresser.

Mary mumbled. I unlaced my fingers from hers and paused before I left her.

“I wanna get in the water.” She said it sounding sort of like air being let out of a balloon. And then she was all the way gone again. “It’s spook.”

It had been like she had been fighting her way to the surface, but something had dragged her back down.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and followed Chrissy outside. Not because I was worried she was going to get gobbled up by the lake monster I hadn’t spotted, but because it was dark out and I had the same parental reaction to miscellaneous danger any parent would.

Hell, I could admit it, I loved these kids. Liked them most times, too. I didn’t want to leave them.

Chrissy was in the process of sweeping her flashlight back and forth along the beach face. I hung back, letting her conduct her investigation. It was harmless enough and I had an eye on her.

“What’s going on?” We both turned to see Mark stepping out onto the sand.

“Luke said a mermaid’s out here!” Chrissy said.

“Mermaid?” Mark said it like he didn’t know what one was. I didn’t bother correcting her. His little sister’s obsession was well known by all of us. “Did he really see something?” Mark chuffed and thumbed over his shoulder at the cabin. “He’s so white.”

I stifled my laugh and shrugged.

“Luke thought he saw something and Chrissy overheard.”

“Hey, neighbor!”

Mark and I jumped. We saw the bud of a lit cigarette in the shadows of the adjacent cabin. Someone with a cigarette sauntered down. I glanced my stepdaughter’s way to make sure she hadn’t waded too far into the water. She could swim, but again, that nascent parental instinct found in anyone who has walked into an already existing family reared its concerned head. Chrissy was only ankle deep.

“Hey,” I said to the woman as she approached. She halted and took a final, long drag off her cigarette before flicking it in a surprisingly high arc toward the water. She slid the drawer of her jaw forward and blew a column of smoke straight up.

“She’s a cutie,” she said, smiling. She was an older woman who gave too much gum when she smiled. “I saw her come chargin’ out for the water. Oo, that smell.”

We both nodded in that new-to-each-other manner between strangers.

“I’m Rick.” Old and new cigarette smell peeled off her skin and I turned my head to half cough, that familiar asthmatic itch in my lungs.

“Mary,” she said.

I laughed. “My wife’s name is Mary.”

“Mine’s Cindy-Lou Ombrageaux.”

I felt the weight of her eyes on me, examining for judgment. I cast my eyes to the stretch of water and sand where Chrissy was.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cindy-Lou.” I didn’t think I could manage that last name.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mary. Apart from the smell of cow-butt.”

“First time up here?” I asked. She shook my offered hand, her skin papery and dry. There was an extreme lack of moisture in the air despite the cool summer, and I’d already had a nosebleed in the brief time we’d been here.

“Mine. Not hers. My wife’s family is from Up North.” I thought her face dropped a little. “She’s out to dinner with some cousins.” There was a little something there that I had a feeling would come to light if we talked long enough. “Had to have a little heart-to-heart.”

“We came up two summers ago,” I said. “Just a little family getaway.”

Luke had barely joined us outside, not more than a few feet from the door. He looked like he would take umbrage with the sky.

“This is Mark, the one up there with get-off-my-lawn face is Luke, and Chrissy’s our little fisher.” I gestured to each of the kids in turn.

“Well, tell her to save some for everybody else.” She and Mark shook hands before she looked around. “Where’s your missus?”

“Migraine. She laid down pretty much as soon as we got here.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She put the can of beer she’d been holding in her other hand to her lips and pitched her head back for a long swallow. She stumbled like she’d confused her left foot for her right but kept them both under her.

If I had to guess, Mary was working on her third or fourth of the night.

Luke had waved his brother over and was saying something to him. They both had an eye on their sister. I looked at Mary. She was a stranger and I figured there couldn’t be any harm in telling her what had just happened. We weren’t going to see her after this weekend for at least a year, if ever again. I didn’t think the story would be memorable after tonight. It was a single-serve memory. Recall once, then discard.

“Luke said he saw something in the water,” I said. “Something big.” Mary turned her head to the shore and nodded appreciably.

“Maybe it’s the Great Lakes Whale Migration,” she said.

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and was on the verge of taking her seriously. The smile hanging on her face dropped when she realized I really didn’t understand.

“Kidding.” She mock-punched me in the arm. Mary had a rich baritone and could have easily been a DJ on the radio.

Mark trudged past me, an annoyed look on his face.

“He’s crazy,” he said, heading toward his sister. I appreciated that he didn’t believe his brother but could still look after his sister. Mark was the middle child and was the ever-constant bridge between siblings.

“The waves do seem a little... bigger than the norm, don’t you think?” Mary asked.

“I guess,” I said, not really knowing how to tell the difference. Then I wondered how she’d know, considering she said she’d never been up here before. “Can you tell?”

“I had a few cigs over yonder before y’all came out. Boy, you get used to the smell the longer you’re out here.” She seemed to be reading my mind and answering questions I hadn’t had a chance to ask. “I must have missed your boy, though.”

I looked at the water again. Mark was standing just outside of the water’s reach, one hand in the pocket of his hoody, the other holding his phone. To his credit, he did glance up at her every ten seconds or so.

Come to think of it, those waves did look big. But it could have been because of the moon for all I knew.

“How long are the two of you here for?” I asked Mary.

“‘Til Wednesday. I’m going to be meeting my in-laws for the first time tomorrow.”

I didn’t know whether I should have felt sympathy for her. It was strange she wasn’t out to dinner with her wife now, but I didn’t know their situation. Maybe it was completely normal. But I couldn’t help but think I would’ve been more than a little bothered if it had been me.

Mary fell down. Not hard. She just spontaneously lost her balance and sat on her butt. In true alcoholic fashion, though, she protected her beer.

She looked at me, embarrassed. I smirked, hopefully communicating I wasn’t just laughing at her, but with her.

“We all fall down.” I’m not sure why I said that, but it seemed to help. She took my hand and I helped her up.

“How about you guys?”

“Just until Sunday afternoon.”

“Where are you from?”

A sandwich had been the hinge on the closing door of our marriage.

I don’t remember what the argument was about or how it had started, only that I had made a sandwich for her that led to me sleeping on the couch.

Of course, it hadn’t really been about the sandwich, it had only been the start. It had been like a match that led to a forest fire razing a town. I can’t honestly remember a word I’d shouted at the woman I’d pledged to love for the rest of my life.

I was about to answer Mary when Chrissy screamed.

Hey, you.

What kind of habits do you have?

...Well, if you're already aware of them yourself, can you really even call them "habits"?

Clang-clink.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet, small clink.

Unusually, neither Taka nor Tom was messing with their phones tonight.

Instead, both of them were staring right at me.

"What?"

"Nothing," Taka grinned. "Kenichi-san, you just did it again."

"Did what?"

"Your glass."

I looked down at my hand. "What about my glass?"

"Whenever you're thinking, you spin it like this, right?" Taka slowly swirled his own glass with his fingertips to demonstrate.

"I don't do that."

"You definitely do."

"Yeah, you do," Tom jumped in. "You've been doing that for years."

"Liar."

"Why the hell would I lie about that?"

I looked at the two of them, then turned to Mama.

Mama was quietly polishing a glass.

"Mama."

"Hmm?"

"Do I spin my glass?"

"You do," she replied.

Three against one.

"...I had no idea."

"That's what makes it a habit, isn't it?" Taka looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

"Alright then, what about you?"

"Me?"

"Your habit."

"I don't have any."

"Of course you do."

"Like what?"

Tom and I exchanged a quick look.

"Prying into other people's business."

"Is that a habit?"

"Hell yeah it is."

"That's my job."

"Are you on duty right now?"

Taka went quiet.

Tom let out a dry laugh.

"What about you then, Tom?"

"I don't have any either."

"An instant answer from you too, huh?"

"I don't have what I don't have."

"You question everything people say."

"I'm a former cop."

"That's a job thing too!"

"You're one to talk!"

Ridiculous.

I took a sip of my Harper.

Watching us bicker, Mama let out a soft chuckle.

"So, want to try a game?"

"What kind of game?"

We all looked at Mama.

"I'll give you a topic, and on three, everyone points at the person who fits it best."

"What are we, elementary schoolers?"

"If you don't want to, you don't have to."

When she put it like that, backing out felt like admitting defeat.

"...Fine. Let me in."

"Look who's playing," Tom laughed.

Mama thought for a second.

"Alright, an easy one to start. Who is the biggest worrywart?"

"One, two, three!"

Both Taka and Tom pointed straight at me.

I was pointing at Taka.

"Why me?!"

"It's obviously you, Kenichi-san."

"It's you! You make a serious face every single time something happens!"

"I'm just thinking."

"Kenichi worries before he even thinks," Tom said.

"What's the difference?!"

"The order."

"The order of what?!"

Mama was smiling quietly.

"Next one. Who is the most suspicious of people?"

"One, two, three!"

Tom and I pointed at Taka. Taka pointed at Tom.

"Why me?!"

"Because you're a detective."

"Tom-san's a former cop!"

"That's why I suspect you."

"That logic makes no sense!"

"Next. Who is the most stubborn?"

"One, two, three!"

Three fingers pointed straight at Tom. Only Tom was pointing at me.

"Hold on."

"Unanimous," Taka said.

"I still think it's Kenichi."

"That's a single vote!"

"Don't decide my personality by majority vote!"

"It's two against one, though."

"Did it ever cross your mind that you two might just be wrong?"

Taka and I looked at each other.

"...Man, he's stubborn."

"Shut up!"

Mama actually laughed out loud this time.

We went through a few more questions.

Who's the cheapest?

Who's the worst at lying?

Who's the most annoying when drunk?

Who can never say no when asked for a favor?

Every time the prompt changed, the fingers shifted. Naturally, nobody accepted their designated title without a fight.

"Am I really that bad at lying?"

"Terrible," Taka said.

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"That question itself sounds suspicious."

"See? You're doubting me again! Proof that you're the most suspicious!"

"That's a completely separate issue!"

Before we knew it, arguing over the results took up way more time than the actual game.

Mama dropped fresh ice into the bucket with a quiet clang.

"Alright, next one," Mama said. "Who has the most noticeable quirks?"

"One, two, three!"

I pointed at Taka. Taka pointed at Tom. Tom pointed at me.

A complete three-way deadlock.

"...Why me?" I asked.

"You've been spinning your glass this whole time," Tom said.

I looked down at my hand.

Without realizing it, my fingers were swirling the glass again. I quickly pulled my hand away.

Taka smirked. "See?"

"I'm only doing it because you guys brought it up and made me self-conscious!"

"And that makes you do it more?"

"I don't know!"

"Then what about me?" Taka turned to Tom.

"You ask questions immediately."

"That's a personality trait, isn't it?"

"Is it not a habit?"

"I don't think so... or is it?"

I paused to think, almost reached for my glass again, and stopped myself just in time.

"Wait, what's the actual difference between a habit and a personality trait anyway?"

Taka tilted his head. "Isn't doing something unconsciously a habit?"

"Then what about unconsciously doubting people?" Tom asked.

"Isn't that just your personality?"

"What if you picked that up from work?"

"An occupational hazard?"

"Is that a habit too?"

The three of us fell silent. We were sinking into annoying logic again.

"Can a habit be something you pick up later in life?" Taka asked.

"Are there habits you're born with?"

"Even babies have their own way of sleeping, right?"

"Does that count as a habit?"

"How should I know?"

"Then what about an impatient kid?"

"Isn't that personality?"

"Why is that one personality?"

"...Just feels like it?"

Tom snorted. "So in the end, nobody knows."

"Still, some things are shaped by your environment," Taka said. "I feel like my habit of questioning what people say definitely grew after I started this job."

"And for me, looking for the root cause whenever a problem pops up might be a work habit too," I said.

"Because you're an SE?"

"Probably."

"If you quit your job, does it go away?"

I thought about it. "...Probably not."

"Then isn't it just your personality at this point?"

"When did it get promoted?"

"From habit to personality?"

"Yeah."

Taka chuckled. "Maybe it's based on years of service."

"After twenty years, a habit becomes your personality."

"What a terrible system."

Tom tilted his glass back. "But hey. What if you fixed all of that?"

"Fixed what?"

"Your habits. The bad ones, the ones from work, the way you think... What if you cleaned all of them up completely?"

Taka considered it. "Wouldn't you just become a better person?"

"You think so?"

"At least the annoying parts would be gone."

I looked down at the ice in my Harper.

"But... would that still be me?"

The two of them turned to look at me.

"If you strip away everything you've done for decades—your mental habits, your speaking habits, the way you move..."

"...Your whole personality would probably change," Taka admitted.

"Right?"

"So... are habits just part of what makes you you?"

"Even the bad ones?"

"That's the tricky part, isn't it?"

Silence returned to the counter.

Mama let out a quiet sigh. "You guys can turn literally anything into a complicated mess, can't you?"

"Blame Taka."

"Why me?!"

"Because you brought up my glass in the first place."

"Because you were spinning it!"

"That's because—"

Clang-clink.

The door chime rang.

"Evening!"

A familiar voice called out as Risa walked into the bar.

"Hey."

"That's rare. What are you three huddled up doing?"

"A game."

"A game?" Risa's eyes lit up instantly. "What kind of game?"

Tom, Taka, and I exchanged looks.

Mama smiled. "Great timing. Want to join, Risa-chan?"

"I'm in!"

"We haven't even told you what it is yet," I said.

"Sounds fun though, doesn't it?"

Tom burst out laughing.

"Alright, last question then," Mama said, scanning the room. "Who in this bar is the most curious?"

"Well, that's an easy one," Taka laughed.

"On three," Mama raised her hand. "One, two, three!"

I pointed at Taka.

Taka pointed at Risa.

Tom pointed at Risa.

And Risa... was pointing straight at herself.

For a second, nobody said a word.

I stared at Risa. "...Yourself?"

"Yep."

"Didn't even hesitate, huh?"

"Well, yeah! I'm pretty sure I'm the most curious person here."

The three of us looked at each other.

She wasn't wrong.

She had walked into the bar without knowing what was going on, heard the word "game," her eyes sparkled, and she signed up before even hearing the rules.

I cracked a laugh. "...Can't argue with that."

Taka laughed too, and Tom chimed in right after.

Only Risa stood there with a puzzled look on her face, wondering what was so funny.

Hey, you.

What kind of habits do you have?

The "you" inside your own head... and the "you" the people around you actually see.

They might be surprisingly different.

So why not ask someone next time?

"Hey, what kind of habits do I have?"

...Just remember: if you don't like the answer you get, don't blame me.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

WAYNE MANOR

THE CAVE

Alfred stepped out of the lift with a tray of sandwiches and tea laid out for the two people he was there to check on. Since Lucius had arrived at the manor a few hours prior, he had worked side by side with Bruce tirelessly into the night as they continued to make adjustments and augmentations to the out-of-commission jumpsuit from Wayne Enterprises R&D archives. The two of them took turns circling the design they had come up with after long hours of creativity, now on full display. 

Alfred set the tray near Bruce’s computer, which was the area he spent most of his time at when beneath the manor. He wandered over curiously, hoping to see how much progress their project had made since its inception. They both noticed he had arrived as they stepped away from the initial prototype they had been tinkering with and turned in his direction. They watched as Alfred took in the redesigned suit, his mouth slightly agape. He wandered around behind the mannequin wearing the suit, taking in the cape attached to the neckline.

“You two have certainly taken some grand liberties,” Alfred remarked. 

His eyes fell on the large, black, bat-shaped symbol that was in the middle of the jumpsuit’s chest. They then lingered upward to the helmet, where two slender bat ears stuck straight upward on each side, having been molded to the helmet. Alfred looked around the cave momentarily, listening to the creatures that seemed to have influenced Bruce and Lucius' work fluttering in the distance around their habitat. 

“I think you may be spending a little bit too much time down here, with all due respect, Master Wayne.”

Bruce couldn’t hold back the soft chuckle he elicited from his oldest friend’s remark. “I think recent events helped awaken an old memory in me, to be frank. Spending the time I got to with Rachel was the final push I needed to get a clear vision on how I need to fight this battle. And I’ve been going about it the wrong way from the jump.”

Alfred looked over at Bruce, surprised by his admission.  “What exactly did young Ms. Dawes and you end up doing?”

Bruce almost smiled as he recalled the morning into the afternoon he’d spent with his long-lost friend. “Something I hadn’t done in far too long, Alfred. She took me to the movies.” Alfred was practically flabbergasted by the second admission from Bruce. “It helped me to realize that all of my enemies, the Falcone family, the Maronis, Rupert Thorne and his partner, even Cobblepot and this new crime syndicate, the Red Hood gang, all have an element I’m completely missing,” Bruce continued to explain. “I have the means, the intelligence, the skill. But what I don’t have is a symbol. What I don’t have is fear. I have been utilizing my assets all wrong, but that ends starting tonight.”

“Should we pick this back up at the tower?” Lucius suggested once he’d finished inspecting his changes to the suit. “I have the different materials you wanted to go over regarding where you will keep your on-hand weaponry stored.”

“I’ll follow you over. I want to finish testing the two-way radio antennas we installed in each cowl's ears. I need them to have maximum range capabilities, depending on where I am in the city,” Bruce replied.

Lucius nodded and walked over to the tray laden with finger foods, assorted by Alfred. “Alright, I’ll be waiting for you.” He said, picking up one of the club sandwiches and taking a bite. He continued towards the elevator and rode back up to the mansion, leaving Bruce and Alfred alone.

Alfred walked over to Bruce, who stood working on the cowled helmet with an automatic screwdriver. He watched the young man for a handful of moments as he tinkered tirelessly on the hardware that had been wired throughout the headpiece, the handiwork of Lucius and himself.

“Why this, Master Bruce?” Alfred finally found himself asking. “The cape, and the ears? Bollocks, why bats at all?”

Bruce stopped what he was doing for a moment and set his tools down on the bench behind him. He sighed and folded his arms, looking at the suit in front of him and remarking on the effort and care that had been put into what he and Lucius had managed to craft thus far.

 “Every entity draining this city has a reputation that strikes fear, or at least apprehension, into any party that opposes them,” Bruce explained as he turned to face his friend and continued. “When I fell down here years ago, I remember how much the bats terrified me. I couldn’t sleep for weeks afterward. And I want the criminals of this city to feel that very same fear when they cross paths with me on the streets.”

The words sent a chill down Alfred’s spine as he looked straight into the cold eyes of Bruce.

In the middle of downtown Gotham City, Sebastian Hady entered his favorite lunch bistro in a checkered overcoat and matching winter gloves. The hostess greeted him with a quaint smile and told him where the guests in his party were already sitting. Hady walked to the back of the restaurant, renowned for its two Michelin-starred kitchen, until he found the private area where most of their VIP patrons dined. 

Only one man sat in the area, in a window booth in the back right of the section. Hady waltzed confidently across the room and slid into the booth on the opposite side of Carmine Falcone. Falcone put down the fork he was using to pick through his pork chops and sunnyside-up eggs to give Hady his full attention. Hady waited rather impatiently for their waitress to set his mimosa on the table and head back into the main dining area.

“I saw the menu your caterer sent over. The wife couldn’t be more thrilled.” Hady began after taking a sip of his drink.

“Have you started going over your talking points for the first debate?” Falcone asked, cutting straight to business. He didn’t have the stomach for Hady’s chitchat today.

“Not much more of a pre-victory lap on my part, isn’t it?” Hady replied dismissively. “If Dent learned his lesson, then he won’t even show up to the damn thing.”

“And if he does? There’s a lot of heat right now; we don’t need you taking anything to chance just because the Maronis decided to do us a couple of favors.” The Roman warned him.

“If he shows his face at the debate, then I will remind everyone he’s just a blustering little boy who's a whole lot of idealistic talk. He couldn’t stop himself from getting his ass kicked. How’s he supposed to protect their city?” Hady continued with his usual pompous air. Falcone observed him for a moment, assessing his demeanor.

“You heard anything about his campaign yet? Since he got discharged?” Falcone asked next.

Hady looked almost uninterested in the conversation, yet still had information to relay. “Not sure where he’s gonna be working out of since I booted him from City Hall, but the scuttle is that he picked some assistant D.A. to run with him. A hometown girl, really full of ideas like his snotty ass. I guess she was working in Boston for the last few years, out of their D.A.’s office.”

Falcone nodded while he listened to the information Hady passed along about Harvey Dent. As he processed, he saw Milos enter the private section and approach their table. “Mr. Falcone, I’m sorry to interrupt.” He leaned in close and whispered the reason for his intrusion.

Falcone looked across the table at Hady as Milos straightened up once more and took a step. 

“We’ll have to pick this up at your party.” Falcone slid out of his side of the booth and dropped two hundred-dollar bills on the table, meant for their meal and the waitress's hefty tip. They walked out of the private section without another word to him, leaving the district attorney to enjoy his early lunch alone and smugly.

Harvey set one of his boxes on the desk that Montoya had prepared for him before he arrived. He started unpacking a few of his things, already hankering for another cup of coffee as his jaw ached. A soft rap on the glass pane of his open door, on which someone had already listed his name, brought his attention up from the box. He saw Montoya leading Rachel into the room, the latter having an almost embarrassed look on her face. “This one got a bit turned around and almost ended up in the morgue,” Montoya explained. “I found her downstairs and figured I’d show her where she would be working. There’s another desk right over there for you, sweetie. Sorry, the place is a bit dusty.”

Rachel hung up her jacket on the stand near the door before waving off Montoya’s courteous apology. “I promise you this is more than fine. I don’t need a whole lot to get some work done.”

“I second that motion, counselor.” Harvey joked. “She’s right, Renee. You guys have done more than enough; you don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

This time, Montoya humbly dismissed the praise being tossed her way, waving off their words and shaking her head. “If things are going to start changing around here, we’ve got to give you a fighting chance. Because I believe change in this city starts and ends with you, Harvey.”

“I couldn’t agree more, detective, am I right?” She turned around and stepped aside as, to everyone’s surprise, Bruce Wayne strode into the office.

“Bruce? What are you doing here?” Rachel asked him before coming over to give him a quick hug.

“Sorry to just drop in like this; I was on my way to the tower to finish up some business and figured you might be here.” After they broke apart, he walked over to Harvey, who was as flabbergasted as ever to see that his new hire was on quite friendly terms with Bruce Wayne. “I’m actually here to see you, if you have a moment, Harvey.”

Harvey snatched the box off his desk and reached across it to shake Bruce’s hand. “Not sure what kind of guy I would be if I couldn’t spare some time for the prince of the city, as the gazette likes to dub you.” He looked back and forth curiously between Bruce and Rachel, with Montoya doing the same. “How do you two know each other, exactly?”

“My mom was the gardener on the Wayne estate for four years. So we sort of grew up together.” Rachel explained, slightly red from the attention she was getting after her childhood friend stopped by.

“Well, there’s something to leave off your CV, Dawes.” Harvey joked, then turned his focus back to Bruce. “What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?”

“Actually, Harvey, I just came by to tell you I appreciate what you’re doing. Campaigning against Hady takes some real courage. And I wanted to personally drop this off as well.” Bruce reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, then passed it across the desk to Harvey.

Rachel watched curiously from behind Bruce as Harvey unfolded the piece of paper and realized it was a check. His eyes looked as if they were about to pop fully out of his skull when he read the amount that Bruce had scribbled on it. He looked back up at Bruce, the surprise coursing through him evident in his expression. “This is…wow. I don’t even know what to say. I’m not sure I can take this.” Harvey admitted, setting the check down on his desk.

Bruce chuckled. “You can and you will, I insist. You’ve got enough of an uphill battle against Hady and the people backing his campaign. The very least I can do is give you the chance to fight on even terms.”

“What is it?” Rachel chimed in before leaving her desk and walking over to Harvey’s. He passed her the check, allowing her to inspect it herself. She looked up at Bruce, equally as surprised when she saw the amount.

“I trust you and Mrs. Dent will be able to help him spread that around and get his message out there. Every vote is going to count.” Bruce replied, then checked his watch and realized he was running late, as usual. “I’m already behind the ball today as it is, guys, so I’ve got to run. Harvey, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

They shook hands again. “Likewise, Mr. Wayne. And again, thank you for this.”

Bruce shook his head dismissively. “No need to thank me. I’m just doing what I can for Gotham. I believe in what you stand for. Rachel, stop by the manor again sometime.”

They watched him walk out of the office. Harvey and Rachel turned their attention to the check and the amount of $500,000 scribbled on it. Montoya walked over to the desk and let out a low whistle when she saw the amount for herself.

“I tell you one thing: Hady’s dirty revenue stream can’t compete with that,” Montoya said, pointing at the check.

Harvey smiled, then walked around his desk over to Rachel’s. He handed it over to her, much to her confusion. “I trust you and Gilda to put this to better use than I would know how.”

Rachel took the check from him slowly, staring down at Bruce’s handwriting. She nodded enthusiastically at her boss, welcoming the challenge. “Is she at home? Maybe I can stop by at lunch, and we can cobble together some ideas.”

Harvey smiled at her, supportive of the suggestion. “I think she would love that. I’ll shoot her a text to let her know you’ll be over.”

In the R&D department of Wayne Enterprises, Lucius watched as Bruce inspected the different belt harness prototypes that he had laid out on a conveyor belt in front of him. He picked up one on the far left and turned it over in his hands while inspecting each of the compartments. “This one seems a bit on the heavier side, considering the material,” Bruce observed carefully before setting it back down. He moved on to the next belt, running his hands along it and testing out its weight and balance.

“I’m personally partial to the one made out of the reinforced rubber polymer that we made one of the backup suits out of,” Lucius told him, watching Bruce nod as he took in the information. “All of them are pretty resistant to being cut by most blades, but I figured you’d only want to produce a couple dozen of two variations.”

“Let’s go with the flex steel and the reinforced rubber versions, then.” Bruce finally decided. He placed it back down amongst the others before turning to face Lucius. “I can figure out which one I want produced as a backup design later. Now, about what’s going inside these cartridges…”

Lucius rubbed his hands together excitedly as he walked over to Bruce. “I’ve got a few gadgets I had put together based on your list of specifications. Which was quite the tall order, but I would expect no less from you.”

“I saw some of the cape prototypes were finished. I’ll get started attaching them to the suit and cowl. Run down what you’ve got so far while I grab what I need.”

“For starters, I was sure to get the lockpicking kit you requested. It won’t fit in the belt, but it should be able to slide into your boots or the compartment on the forearm of your gauntlets.” Lucius explained. Then, of course, we have your plethora of smoke bombs and miniaturized flashbangs.”

“The unique boomerangs we talked about, I found a polymer I’d like to coat those in that will make them a little more resilient,” Bruce replied as he wheeled over a cart with some of the capes he’d designed.

“I saw your latest notes, and I took the liberty of making a few different ones of various weights for you to try out for yourself.” Bruce couldn’t help but smirk at Lucius's efficient answer. His vision was finally coming together. It would soon just be a matter of execution.

That evening at the busy Iceberg Lounge, Bob sat at one of the slot machines with a giddy expression. He had been hot since the moment he set foot in the gentlemen’s club that was also the hottest gambling spot in the county. After going up big on the blackjack and roulette tables, he had decided to wade around the club looking for a warm slot machine to heat up further. He had seemingly found what he was looking for as he pressed the five-dollar bet key on the machine and watched the digital screen eagerly.

A tap on the shoulder drew him away from his good fortune. “There’s plenty of other machines, Mack. Go find one.” Bob barked without looking behind him. It was only after the second, more aggressive tap to get his attention that he finally spun around on his stool. “Hey buddy, what the hell–”

Bob paused his tirade when he saw the beautiful woman who helped Cobblepot run his business standing behind him with a couple of armed goons. He looked at the group sheepishly before letting his attention fall squarely on her. 

“Tracy! What’s all this about?” Bob tried to keep his tone casual, though truth be told, his nerves were starting to get the better of him.

Tracy cocked her head to the side, chewing on her spirit mint gum aggressively as she sized up the man in front of her. “Cobblepott wants to have a word. Why don’t you follow me?”

Realizing, though she framed it as one, it was far from a question, Bob eyed the goons around her and slowly rose from the stool. She led him and the small group of armed men surrounding them toward the elevators at the far end of the room, which led to the offices of her and her employer. Bob could feel every eye on the gaming floor locked on him, but he tried to keep a stoic, business-like demeanor and pretended not to notice the attention he was receiving.

The elevator ride was brief, and Tracy led the group off and halfway down the hallway towards the lone door at the end. She turned to face the rest of her goons, holding up a hand to stop them. “I think I can handle it from here, boys. Why don’t you go back to working the floor?” A couple of the meatheads nodded, and they trudged back in the opposite direction before loading onto the elevator once more. Tracy motioned with her finger for Bob to continue following her until they reached the door at the end of the hallway. She didn’t bother knocking, instead walking straight into the office where Bob saw the always pompous Oswald Cobblepot sitting with his feet kicked up behind a desk that was far too big for him.

Bob held back a grimace as he walked into the office behind Tracy, where she gestured for him to walk over to the desk as she stepped aside and took a seat on one of the plush, comfortable chairs around the room. Cobblepot blew a cloud of smoke from the Santa Priscan cigar. Bob noticed he was smoking. He knew it was child’s play for the man known around Gotham as ‘The Penguin,’ given his penchant for black-and-white suits and his shape and stature, to procure goods often seized at border checkpoints by U.S. Customs. There was even some scuttle on the streets not too long ago that he’d done business with Intergang when they needed a little assistance moving some of their more illicit items.

Cobblepot swung his legs off his desk and gave Bob his attention. He stared at him from behind the monocle over his left eye, his beady black eye sizing him up. Of course, it was a quaint rumor that the short man had no actual need of his monocle. In fact, it was said he had some of the best eyes on the streets; it's why he had such a fine attention to detail when it came to business. Apparently, he just liked wearing it to complete his usual snooty public ensembles. If there were a class that needed to be taught in arrogance, Bob was sure he’d nominate Cobblepot to be the professor.

“Bob, my boy. I’ve never seen you in here so flushed. And here I thought you were down on your luck since Grissom’s operation folded.” Cobblepot said, watching for a reaction from his guest.

Bob stared at Cobblepot for a moment, trying to hide his dislike for the Iceberg Lounge’s proprietor. He especially didn’t want to do anything to draw his ire once he realized who the thin, muscular man in a black tuxedo with a razor-lined mustache standing behind The Penguin was. He held back a shudder and reminded himself to show respect since he was in a precarious situation, even if it wasn’t quite being presented as one.

“I keep my own scores. Nothing too loud. But I do alright.” Bob could see the cynical smile spreading across Cobblepot’s face as he listened to his answer. “Just happens to be my night for once in this joint.”

Cobblepot only smirked wider as he listened to the feeble lie he knew Bob was feeding him. 

“Hmph. And here I thought since people spotted you getting cozy with dear Candice, that she was feeding you info to pass to that new, hot crew working The Falcone’s over.” Cobblepot watched as Bob’s expression shifted and the color drained from his face. “With the scores they have been taking down, a cut of those would give any man a nice base to come in here and swing their weight around. Wouldn’t you say so, Trace?”

“I sure would, Ozzie,” Tracy replied from her seat, not even looking up from the newspaper she had her head in.

“What do you want from me, Cobblepot?” Bob finally muttered, dropping the pretense in their conversation with the question. 

Cobblepot cackled in his usual squawking manner, tossing his head back with a belly laugh. He finally looked back over at Bob, shaking his head and waving his finger in front of him as if he were a misbehaving toddler or puppy.

“You got it all wrong, Bob. It’s what I’m trying to do for you.” Cobblepot explained with a grin before lighting another cigar.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bob demanded. He was on edge and had had enough of the games that this carousel of a meeting had been.

“Sofia knows what I know. And she’s on her way here. Whether you have something to do with the Red Hoods or not, nobody can really prove it. But do you want to play 20 questions with her and Milos? Or do you want to cut me in for fifteen percent of what your boys are getting?”

TO BE CONTINUED

I remember the excitement I felt, believing I’d become a Facebook sensation in 2014; I was in Liverpool, completing a theatre internship. That month was one of the happiest times of my life—filled with learning, adventure, and gratitude. I photographed nearly a thousand moments, creating 4 albums to share my memories. After the albums were uploaded, my exhaustion from the day made me nap.
On average, my FB account received 2 notifications a day, often invitations to play Farmville. So, when I woke up an hour later, I was astounded to see that I had suddenly received over 1,500 notifications! I congratulated myself, “You cracked the code to go viral! You’re popular! You’re loved by thousands! People notice what you post!”
However, once I clicked on the notification button to view the thousands who had engaged with me, my brief belief of being an Facebook sensation shattered. I discovered that it was my mother who had liked every picture and commented on almost all. She was responsible for the enormous surge in notifications!
I viewed my mom’s likes as “pity likes,” because it was her duty to like them on the account that she gave birth to me. I consoled myself, “You haven’t cracked the code to become viral. You’re not popular. You’re only loved by one. People don’t notice what you post.”
A decade later, the desire for validation isn’t a priority. As I’ve grown older, I find myself having fewer than 5 friends, even though I know more than 1,500 people. Likes on posts can be bought and feel transactional, engagement means hits, and making connections means networking for work opportunities; it's part of the adult experience.
I’ve realized that validation and engagement are more meaningful when they come from those we care for and who care about us. My mom still likes all my posts and engages in whatever I do in life, and that's special. I feel heard and seen. Her “pity likes” are now seen as “real likes,” and I appreciate and look forward to them. If you’re fortunate to have people who like you for you, even if you receive over 1,500 notifications from only them, remind yourself that you’re truly loved. It's a wonderful thing!

I remember the excitement I felt, believing I’d become a Facebook sensation in 2014; I was in Liverpool, completing a theatre internship. That month was one of the happiest times of my life—filled with learning, adventure, and gratitude. I photographed nearly a thousand moments, creating 4 albums to share my memories. After the albums were uploaded, my exhaustion from the day made me nap.
On average, my FB account received 2 notifications a day, often invitations to play Farmville. So, when I woke up an hour later, I was astounded to see that I had suddenly received over 1,500 notifications! I congratulated myself, “You cracked the code to go viral! You’re popular! You’re loved by thousands! People notice what you post!”
However, once I clicked on the notification button to view the thousands who had engaged with me, my brief belief of being an Facebook sensation shattered. I discovered that it was my mother who had liked every picture and commented on almost all. She was responsible for the enormous surge in notifications!
I viewed my mom’s likes as “pity likes,” because it was her duty to like them on the account that she gave birth to me. I consoled myself, “You haven’t cracked the code to become viral. You’re not popular. You’re only loved by one. People don’t notice what you post.”
A decade later, the desire for validation isn’t a priority. As I’ve grown older, I find myself having fewer than 5 friends, even though I know more than 1,500 people. Likes on posts can be bought and feel transactional, engagement means hits, and making connections means networking for work opportunities; it's part of the adult experience.
I’ve realized that validation and engagement are more meaningful when they come from those we care for and who care about us. My mom still likes all my posts and engages in whatever I do in life, and that's special. I feel heard and seen. Her “pity likes” are now seen as “real likes,” and I appreciate and look forward to them. If you’re fortunate to have people who like you for you, even if you receive over 1,500 notifications from only them, remind yourself that you’re truly loved. It's a wonderful thing!

Hey, you.

If you could ride a time machine just once...

Which would you choose: the past, or the future?

Clang-clink.

Hearing the sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet, small clink.

Over at the end of the counter, Taka was staring at his phone with a dead serious look on his face.

This guy's thoughts always show on his face immediately. For someone who works as a detective, he's surprisingly easy to read when it comes to his own stuff.

"Kenichi-san."

"What is it today?"

"If you had a time machine, which would you go to—the past or the future?"

He brought up a grand topic for a completely pointless conversation.

"The future."

"Instant answer, huh?"

"I'd check tomorrow's horse racing results and come right back."

"You're the absolute worst."

"How about you, then?"

"I'd check stock prices."

"We're the exact same kind of trash."

Next to us, Tom let out a snort.

"If you're going, go ten years ahead. Memorize all the stocks that went up."

"How am I supposed to memorize ten years' worth of stock data?"

"Take photos with your phone."

"Can you bring a phone to the future?"

"If you can go with your clothes on, a phone should be fine."

"What if it's the type where you get sent completely naked?"

"What kind of movie is that?"

Mama was quietly polishing a glass.

She was probably pretending not to hear a word.

"Let's set the rules," Taka said, laying his phone face down.

"One round trip only. You can go to any time you like, past or future."

"And I can come back?"

"It's a round trip, so yes."

"Back to today—the original today?"

Taka paused.

"...Is that important?"

"Of course it's important. What if I go ten years into the future and come back to eleven years in the past?"

"Then you just wait a year."

"I'd be waiting ten years!"

"Oh, right."

"Don't you ever get in a time machine."

Tom laughed.

"Alright, so you can come back. But there's no guarantee you'll return to the exact 'today' you left from. How's that?"

"Why are you making the time machine worse on purpose?"

"It's more interesting that way."

"Don't make me gamble my life for your entertainment."

Taka thought about it for a moment.

"Still... wouldn't going to the future be kind of terrifying then?"

"Why?"

"If you go ten years into the future and come back, you might end up ten years in the past, right?"

"Seems so."

"Ten years ago... there's already a me ten years ago, right?"

I set my glass down.

"...Yeah, there is."

"What do you do then?"

"Beats me."

"Wouldn't you want to meet him?"

"Hell no."

"Why not?"

"It'd be a hassle. From his perspective, a guy who's aged ten years suddenly shows up out of nowhere."

Tom laughed.

"If it were me, I'd think it was a scam."

"But if you tell him stuff only the real you would know, wouldn't he believe you?"

"Like what?"

"Embarrassing stories from the past."

"If he believes you because of that, then he knows the future now."

Taka froze.

"...Ah."

"What happens if the 'you' from ten years ago knows the future and starts doing things differently?"

"He'd live a different life from the current me."

"Then what happens to the 'you' sitting right here?"

"...I vanish?"

"Beats me."

"Don't say scary stuff like that!"

"You're the one who started this."

Tom spun his glass with his fingertips.

"Doesn't the world just split?"

"A parallel world?"

"There are stories like that, right?"

"Then we're good!"

"How so?"

"Whatever I tell my ten-years-younger self, it just creates a world where he walks a different path. The world I came from stays exactly as it was."

I thought about it for a second.

"So which world do you return to?"

Taka froze again.

"...Which one?"

"Beats me."

"What if I can't get back to my original world?"

"Then one world is left behind where you just vanished."

"From my family's perspective, I'm just a missing person!"

"A detective who evaporated into a time machine, huh?"

"This isn't funny!"

"That's one case I wouldn't touch."

"I'm the one who searches for people!"

"Search for yourself, then."

"Where?"

"In time?"

"Don't say that like a question!"

What on earth were we talking about?

I took a sip of my Harper.

"Alright, let me cross 'going to the past' off the list."

"Weren't you going to the future anyway?"

"What if it dumps me in the past on the way back?"

"What a high-maintenance time machine."

"Tom's the one who set those rules!"

"Blaming me now?"

Taka pondered for a while before opening his mouth again.

"Still... in the future, the future-you is there, right?"

"If I'm still alive, yeah."

"Ten years ahead? You'd probably be around."

"Who knows."

"Wouldn't you want to meet him?"

I gave it a thought.

"...Not really."

"Why?"

"If the ten-years-later me says, 'You're still worrying about that crap?', I'd get pissed off."

Tom burst out laughing.

"Could be the opposite. Maybe he'll advise you, 'Do it while you still can.'"

"Do you really think the ten-years-later me would be that nice of a guy?"

"He's literally you."

"That's exactly why I can't trust him."

Taka laughed.

"But if you can meet your future self, that means that future already exists, right?"

I looked at Taka.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can't go somewhere that doesn't exist yet, right?"

Tom made a grimace.

"You're stepping into annoying territory again."

"No, but think about it! If you can go ten years ahead, that means ten years from now is already somewhere out there."

"Where's 'somewhere'?"

"In the future."

"So where is the future?"

"...In the future?"

"Don't ask me."

All three of us fell silent.

Mama dropped fresh ice into the ice bucket.

Clang.

"If the future already exists..." Taka said.

"Does that mean what we'll be doing ten years from now is already set in stone, too?"

"Beats me."

"So even us talking like this right now?"

"Beats me."

"Even what I'm gonna say next?"

"Beats me."

"Then—"

"The only thing set in stone is that I'm gonna say 'Beats me' next."

Tom laughed.

Taka shut his mouth, looking unsatisfied.

"What even is time in the first place?" Tom chimed in this time.

"Don't add extra fuel to the fire."

"You guys started it."

"Isn't it what clocks measure?"

"Clocks measure seconds and minutes, right?"

"Then what is time itself?"

Nobody answered.

"There's that theory that time started when the universe began, right?" Taka reached for his phone.

"Don't look it up."

"Why not?"

"That's not what tonight's talk is about."

"Then what is it about?"

"Beats me."

Tom laughed.

"So what was there before the universe began?" I said, and immediately regretted it.

Sure enough, Taka bit right onto it.

"Before time began?"

"Yeah."

"...But there's no time, right?"

"Probably."

"Then what does 'before' mean?"

"Beats me."

"If there's no 'before,' how does time even begin?"

"Beats me."

"Doesn't the concept of 'beginning' itself require time to exist first?"

I raised my glass.

"Mama, another one."

"You ran away!"

"Don't ask me to solve a problem humanity hasn't cracked in thousands of years over a single glass of Harper."

"How about two glasses?"

"If I drink three, I won't care about time anymore."

"You didn't solve the problem of time, you just broke Kenichi-san!"

Mama finally let out a genuine laugh.

After a while, Mama set a fresh glass in front of me.

"So?"

"About what?"

"The time machine."

The three of us looked at Mama.

"Are you riding it or not?"

All three of us went silent.

If you go to the future, you might get rich.

If you go to the past, you might meet your younger self.

You can see someone you've wanted to see again.

However... there's no guarantee that the place you return to is the same "today" you walked away from.

I stared at the ice spinning inside my glass.

"...Guess I wouldn't ride it."

Taka looked surprised.

"What about the horse racing?"

"Go to a place I might not return from, just for horse racing?"

"But you might win a hundred million yen!"

"What if I bring back a hundred million yen and end up in a world where the yen doesn't exist anymore?"

"...Ah."

"Would things change that much?"

"Beats me."

"That phrase sure is convenient."

"It's been the most useful thing all night."

Tom raised his glass with a laugh.

Mama gave an exasperated smile and started polishing glasses again.

In the end, after talking for nearly an hour, the only thing we figured out was that even if we had a time machine, none of us would be able to handle it.

Hey, you.

There's a time machine that can make just one round trip.

You can go to any time you like, past or future.

You can see someone you've wanted to see again.

You can peek at your future self.

However...

There's no guarantee the place you come back to will be the exact same "today" you left.

Even so... would you ride it?

Me?

...I'm not willing to gamble that much just for horse racing.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

Not for people looking for a complicated plot.

Not for people who need constant twists, battles, romance, or some grand mystery to keep them turning pages.

I wrote The Decayed Good for people who have ever stared at their ceiling at 3 AM and started questioning everything.

Whether you're a good person.

Whether goodness actually matters.

Why people hurt each other.

Why we forgive some things and never forgive others.

Whether God is really good.

Whether suffering has a purpose.

Whether becoming numb is sometimes easier than continuing to care.

It's a philosophical novel about a person slowly coming apart while trying to understand the world around him.

And yes, I've seen people say, "There's no plot."

They're not entirely wrong.

Because the plot isn't really the point.

The point is what happens inside your head while you're reading it.

It's the kind of book where you might underline a sentence, close the book, and just sit there for a minute.

It's dark, uncomfortable, sometimes bitter, sometimes strangely comforting. It doesn't try to tell you that everything happens for a reason or that you'll eventually find peace.

Sometimes it just asks:

What if there is no answer, and you have to decide what to do with that?

I don't expect everyone to like it. Honestly, I don't think everyone should.

But if you've ever felt like your thoughts were too dark, too complicated, or too strange to explain to anyone else, maybe this is the kind of book you were looking for without knowing it.

The Decayed Good The Decayed Good on Amazon currently on sale 20% off

Not a story about what happens.

A book about what happens inside you.

I attended a few weddings recently; lavish, glittering affairs where love seemed almost secondary to choreography. Later, over a quiet cup of coffee with my mother, we found ourselves replaying them; who wore what, who cried when, who might last…
I asked her, “What made you want to marry dad?” She didn’t hesitate.
“Your father and I couldn’t afford having a wedding. But that became our goal, because we wanted to share our lives together. He was in his first teaching job and was barely earning enough, so he took on personal tuitions in the evening, and at night, he would work as a server at other people’s weddings, earning Rs. 70.”
There was something disarming about that number, how small it sounded, how large it must have felt. She continued: “That’s why I wanted to be married to him. He had no pride, only goals to work towards. No job was beneath him and that’s why he was able to afford us a beautiful wedding.”
I sighed as I listened, with the steam in my cup dissipating. The coffee cost more than what my father used to earn in an entire night.

A Novel About Obsession, Evidence, and the Cost of Knowing

Chapter Three

The Station

By Michael P.S. Rogers

This manuscript is being released as a serialized novel.

Each chapter is presented exactly as it appears in the manuscript.

Catch Up on The Returned Component

If you are new to the serialized novel, or want to catch up before Chapter Three, the previous chapters are available here:

• Chapter Two: West
• Chapter One: East Houston

The first work I performed in Colorado had very little to do with electricity. Tesla wanted dimensions checked, timber examined, connections relocated, supports strengthened and several pieces of equipment placed where the men doing the work could not yet understand why they mattered. The station existed first as a collection of intentions distributed among lumber, wire, tools, drawings and the memory of the man directing them. Anyone arriving after the apparatus had been completed might reasonably have believed that it had emerged from a coherent plan. I arrived early enough to learn that coherence is often the final appearance of a process that, while underway, consists mostly of corrections.

Tesla did possess plans; he was not improvising a laboratory from nothing, and the notion that his inventions simply appeared complete in his imagination has always seemed to me an exaggeration of something more interesting. He often saw the principle of an apparatus with remarkable clarity before the apparatus itself deserved equal confidence. Between those two states lay all the ordinary difficulties that principles do not encounter: resistance in conductors, imperfect insulation, inconvenient dimensions, wood that moved with weather, parts that arrived late, equipment built to a specification that no longer suited the experiment, and men who required instructions in a sequence compatible with the fact that they could perform only one task at a time. Tesla could move mentally through all of those stages at once, while the rest of us had to inhabit them in order.

The station itself impressed me less on the second morning than it had upon arrival, which I took as a good sign. Once one begins measuring a structure, scale loses some of its theatrical power. The great pieces become lengths, heights and clearances; the remarkable coil becomes turns of conductor separated by materials whose dielectric properties are not improved by admiration; the ground becomes a problem of contact rather than a symbol of the Earth. This reduction did not make Tesla's intentions smaller, it merely translated them into a form in which an engineer could be useful. He had already marked several dimensions he wanted verified independently; so I began with those, partly because he had asked and partly because I wished to know how closely the station that existed corresponded to the station in his head. I found one discrepancy almost immediately, though it was small enough that I would not have mentioned it under ordinary circumstances. When I gave Tesla the measurement, he asked whether I had repeated it.

“Twice.”

“With the same instrument?”

“Yes.”

“Then that is one measurement repeated.”

I understood the criticism and repeated it with another rule, but the difference remained. Tesla took the second instrument himself and measured once more before accepting the figure. There was no argument and no irritation toward the men who had taken the original dimension. He simply corrected the number and altered the work that depended upon it. I remember thinking that there was something almost severe in the speed with which a written value ceased to exist for him once a better measurement replaced it. Engineers are taught to respect records, but Tesla respected the thing recorded more than the record itself.

Much of the following week proceeded in that manner. We checked the physical arrangements before the principal electrical work could begin, and every correction revealed several dependent decisions that also required attention. A support moved a few inches altered a conductor's path, conductor's paths altered clearances, and changed clearances might alter insulation or the accessibility of a connection that someone would later have to reach without climbing through an energized apparatus. It was the sort of work that teaches humility because no single correction is especially difficult, yet enough small errors assembled together can defeat an idea whose mathematics are perfectly sound. But not every correction improved the station. One morning I became convinced that a lateral support was carrying enough movement into an adjacent conductor to compromise a later comparison, and I had the men shift it before Tesla returned from another part of the building. The change consumed most of the morning and improved nothing. When we restored the original position and checked the reference again, I found that the movement I had blamed on the support came from the temporary mark against which I had been judging it. Tesla did not rescue me from the embarrassment by pretending the mistake had been useful; he told me to restore the work and make a better reference. I did both, and for several days afterward I was slower to turn a suspicious relation into an instruction for other men.

Tesla moved through the station continuously; he might spend twenty minutes discussing a grounding system with me, disappear to inspect work on another part of the structure, return carrying a completely different question, and then resume the first subject at the precise point where he had left it. At first I found this disorienting, as I was accustomed to organizing technical work by task because a task created its own boundaries, but Tesla organized by relationship. Everything belonged to the same experiment, so interruption existed only from the perspective of the man who had not yet learned the whole system. This difference became apparent when I tried to keep my own notes. I arranged them initially by date and apparatus, recording dimensions, changes and observations in separate sections. Within three days the system became inconvenient because Tesla would alter one part for reasons arising from another, then refer to the earlier change as though both had always belonged together. I began adding cross-references, then marginal marks, then separate sheets showing which decisions depended upon which other decisions. The result was more orderly than Tesla's method and less efficient: he could remember the relationships without writing them down, but I could not, and therefore the burden of preserving them became part of my work.

That's not to say that Tesla kept no records, he wrote constantly and with great technical detail when the subject required it. What distinguished him was not an aversion to documentation but an unusual confidence in deciding when the documentation had served its purpose. I had been trained to preserve the path by which a conclusion had been reached because another engineer might need to reconstruct it. Tesla was more inclined to preserve the conclusion and move forward, especially when the discarded path had already become irrelevant to his next question. At twenty-five I found this exhilarating because it seemed to remove bureaucracy from thought; I would later understand more clearly what could be lost when one man's memory became the bridge between one experiment and the next.

The ground connections occupied more of my attention than I had expected. Tesla's ambitions for Colorado depended upon treating the Earth not merely as the convenient reference point it often became in ordinary electrical practice, but as something active in the system he intended to study. This altered the importance of every connection made to it. A poor contact would not simply reduce performance in an obvious way; it could distort whatever relation he hoped to observe between the apparatus and the larger conducting medium. Tesla therefore treated work below our feet with as much seriousness as the machinery that would eventually rise above us. He asked repeatedly for resistance readings under changing conditions, and when two results differed more than he liked, he refused to let either number become the preferred one merely because it suited the theory better. We checked the contacts, the instruments and the surrounding conditions; the difference narrowed but did not vanish. Tesla then asked whether moisture had changed in the ground since the previous measurement.

“It rained last night.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“No, but it is an explanation.”

“An explanation is what we use after the measurement.”

I told him that if he wanted the moisture content of Colorado included in every electrical record, Scherff should have sent us a chemist along with the wire. Tesla answered that he had sent an engineer and expected him to be adaptable. By then I had learned that this was his preferred response whenever a practical objection could be converted into additional work.

The weather became part of the laboratory before the laboratory was ready to make scientific use of it. Storms formed at distances that gave us time to watch their approach, and the changing atmosphere affected our work even when no deliberate observation was underway. Dry conditions favored one problem, moisture another, while wind complicated anything temporarily elevated or insufficiently secured, and thunder would interrupt conversation while men continued hammering timber as though both sounds belonged to the same construction. I began keeping weather notes because Tesla asked for them and continued because I found them useful. Temperature, cloud condition, wind, rainfall and the timing of distant electrical activity gradually entered the daily record. At first these entries seemed secondary to the apparatus, but by the end of the Colorado period I no longer believed the distinction was so simple. Tesla had chosen the location partly because nature supplied effects we could not economically reproduce, and that meant the laboratory extended beyond its walls whether I found the arrangement convenient or not.

One afternoon a storm developed west of us while we were examining a conductor intended for later high frequency work. Tesla watched the sky for several minutes before asking whether I could estimate its distance. I gave him a rough answer based on the interval between visible discharges and the arrival of thunder, and he immediately asked how much confidence I placed in the estimate.

“Enough to know it is not here.”

“That is geographical confidence, not numerical confidence.”

“It is the only kind relevant while we are standing outside with unfinished equipment.”

He laughed, though not enough to abandon the question. We eventually made several crude observations simply because the storm offered itself, and none proved useful beyond reminding us how little control we yet possessed over the conditions Tesla hoped to study. Rather than frustrating him, the incompleteness seemed to sharpen his impatience with construction. I could see that he already regarded the station as late despite the fact that much of it had existed only in drawings several weeks earlier.

Scherff's letters arrived frequently enough that New York never felt entirely absent. His correspondence concerned shipments, payments, shop work, questions requiring Tesla's decisions, and requests from people who apparently continued to believe Tesla's physical presence in Colorado had not altered his availability in New York. Tesla answered some matters immediately, postponed others and occasionally dictated responses while walking from one part of the station to another. I came to appreciate Scherff's position more with every letter; he was maintaining the continuity of a life Tesla had temporarily divided between two cities while Tesla himself seemed interested only in whichever technical problem was directly in front of him.

The backing that made the expedition possible did not make its expenses theoretical. John Jacob Astor had supplied much of the money that allowed Tesla to come west, while Curtis had helped secure the site and electric power, but freight, shop work in New York, replacement parts and every alteration in Colorado still appeared in Scherff's accounts. Tesla could ignore an invoice while thinking about a circuit, but the invoice remained to be answered, and more than once a technical preference became a question of whether a part should be rebuilt in Colorado or modified in New York and shipped west. Our electrical supply also belonged to a city larger than our experiment. Tesla planned the more demanding work with some regard for the local load, which was another reason the station's hours increasingly drifted later. The prairie gave him physical space, but the current still arrived through arrangements made with other people.

One letter produced a dispute over equipment that had not yet arrived. Tesla had expected it sooner, Scherff's record showed that it had been dispatched when promised, and the railway had its own schedule, which neither man's expectations could accelerate. Tesla complained that progress was being delayed by transportation, and I suggested that this was a predictable consequence of building part of a laboratory two thousand miles from the shop modifying its equipment.

“Then we modify more here.”

“With what machines?”

“We acquire them.”

“With what money?”

He looked at me.

“That,” I said, “is Scherff's experiment.”

Tesla smiled in spite of himself. I had begun using the phrase often enough that he understood it, and I suspect Scherff would not have appreciated the joke nearly as much as we did.

The practical division between Tesla, Scherff and me became clearer as the station took shape. Tesla determined what the apparatus needed to become, Scherff, mostly from New York, helped make materials and money appear where they were required, and I increasingly occupied the space between intention and claim. Tesla might say that a configuration should produce a particular result, and I found myself asking how we would know whether the result belonged to the configuration rather than to something we had failed to control. This was not yet a formal role, and I doubt any of us would have described it that way, but the habit established itself quickly.

There was pleasure in the arrangement because Tesla rarely treated a serious objection as disloyalty. He could be impatient with objections offered merely to avoid work, and he had little tolerance for men who used caution as a substitute for understanding, but an objection attached to a measurement interested him. If I told him a proposed connection was unsafe, he wanted to know at what voltage and under what conditions. When I said a receiving circuit could not distinguish the effect he wanted from ordinary disturbance, he asked what alteration would allow the distinction. The fastest way to lose his attention was to say that something was impractical without being able to identify where the impracticality entered; this made disagreement expensive because one had to earn it.

I began to understand that some of Tesla's reputation for ignoring criticism may have arisen because much of the criticism directed toward him was of a kind he considered intellectually empty. Men told him that an idea was impossible because it had not been done, or uneconomical because the existing apparatus could not perform it, or unnecessary because accepted practice already served another purpose. None of those objections established what Tesla wanted established, and the fact that he sometimes carried this habit too far should not obscure how often the habit exposed weak reasoning in the men opposing him.

Still, his standards could exhaust the people required to satisfy them. One evening we spent nearly two hours checking the alignment of an arrangement that would not be used for several more days. The error was small, and I argued that it could be corrected later when the surrounding work was complete. Tesla asked how I knew the surrounding work would not make correction more difficult.

“I don't.”

“Then now is easier.”

I looked at the clock, it was already midnight, but we corrected the alignment before leaving. I slept badly that night and arrived later than usual the next morning, though still early by any reasonable standard. Tesla was already working; I had begun to suspect that he considered sleep a private weakness in other men and a scheduling inconvenience in himself. Yet I never saw him openly praise exhaustion as a virtue, he simply behaved as if the existence of an unfinished problem altered the normal claims of the body until the problem had been sufficiently reduced.

At first I admired this almost without reservation. His endurance appeared to me as evidence of seriousness, especially compared with men who described themselves as ambitious until ambition interfered with dinner. I had not yet learned that a man's willingness to sacrifice comfort tells us very little about whether the thing receiving the sacrifice deserves it. In Colorado the questions were good questions, the work was enlarging our understanding, and those of us who became tired were free to leave the laboratory, and I rarely left as early as I intended. The station changed rapidly during those first two weeks. Open framework became enclosed working space, conductors took their intended routes, equipment arrived and was placed, altered, rejected or absorbed into larger assemblies, and areas that had been construction sites became places where one could begin taking meaningful measurements. The visual confusion diminished enough that the relationships among the principal systems became evident even to men who had not been carrying the design in their heads.

By the third week of June, Colorado Springs had begun looking back at us. The local newspaper sent a reporter to the station, and men from town sometimes stopped at a distance to inspect the building before continuing along the road. From outside, with its timber shell, wires, machines and rising framework, the place must have looked more hazardous than scientific. The reporter watched Tesla move through equipment the rest of us handled cautiously, and I remember noticing him because it was the first time I saw the station as it must have appeared to someone who did not know which wire was harmless and which one could kill him.

When the main coil and associated apparatus began assuming their proper proportions, the scale of Tesla's intention became more difficult to ignore. I had worked with large electrical machinery before, but this was not industrial equipment enlarged for production. It was experimental equipment enlarged because Tesla believed scale itself might reveal a property hidden from smaller apparatus. That distinction was important, a factory enlarges machinery because it wants more of a known result, and Tesla was enlarging machinery because he did not yet know whether the result would remain the same. The enlargement created a different experimental problem; if the apparatus failed, one could blame the construction. But when it succeeded, one still had to determine whether success proved the underlying idea or merely some narrower effect that happened to resemble it. I found myself thinking increasingly about how we would distinguish those possibilities once the station was energized.

I asked Tesla this directly while we were reviewing the planned sequence of early tests.

“If the receiver responds as you expect, what does that prove?”

“That depends upon the response.”

“But what do you intend to claim from the first experiment?”

“Nothing.”

I thought I had misunderstood him.

“You built this station intending to claim nothing?”

“I built the station intending to measure something.”

“And then?”

“Then we decide what it means.”

This answer pleased me because it sounded almost conventional, which was not what I had expected from a man building an unconventional laboratory in Colorado. I asked whether he had already decided which observation would satisfy him that the larger terrestrial idea was correct.

Tesla became quiet for a moment before telling me that one does not design a useful experiment by specifying in advance the only result one is willing to accept. We could specify predicted behavior, define conditions, determine what would count as error and establish which observations would require another test, but the apparatus retained the right to answer a question we had formulated badly; I wrote that principle into my notes in less elegant language. The days immediately before the first complete experiments were spent removing reasons for later doubt. Connections were checked again, instruments were compared, and mechanical conditions that might affect electrical measurements were inspected. We established what could be established before current entered the principal system because Tesla understood that once something spectacular happened, there would be a powerful temptation to treat spectacle as evidence.

This was another feature of the working Tesla that his public reputation concealed. He enjoyed dramatic effects and understood their value, but he also knew that a large discharge could impress an observer while proving almost nothing beyond the fact that a large discharge had occurred. In the station we were less interested in whether an effect looked extraordinary than in whether it changed when some controlled condition changed. A beautiful electrical display might be useful, but an ugly repeatable measurement was usually better.

By then the laboratory had reached the point where unfinished no longer meant unready. There would always be more to build, alter or improve, but the principal arrangements were sufficient for the first serious series of experiments. I spent much of the evening checking the recording equipment and reviewing the sequence Tesla intended to use. Several points remained unsettled, and we argued about the order in which certain conditions should be varied. Tesla wanted information quickly, and I wanted the baseline made sufficiently tedious that we would later know what had changed. He accused me of designing an experiment to protect ourselves from discovering anything. I told him I was designing one to protect us from discovering what we expected, and he finally accepted the distinction after objecting to the amount of time it would require.

The station became unusually quiet after the workmen left. For nearly two weeks I had known it chiefly through construction sounds: hammering, cutting, footsteps, men calling measurements across the room and the constant movement of materials whose final positions had not yet been decided. That evening the absence of those sounds made the structure seem larger, and the apparatus occupied the space with an authority it had not possessed while surrounded by men building it.

Tesla walked through the station one final time, inspecting connections and asking questions to which he already knew most of the answers. I followed with my notes, correcting one figure and adding another. There was no ceremony, no one announced that construction had ended because it had not, and no one declared that the Colorado experiments had begun because in some sense they had begun the moment Tesla chose the place. The distinction was simply that on the following day we would stop asking primarily whether the station had been built correctly and begin asking what the station could tell us.

Before leaving, Tesla stood beside the receiving circuit and asked whether I trusted it.

“I trust that it will produce a reading.”

“That is cautious.”

“It is accurate.”

“And the reading?”

“I'll decide when I see it.”

He nodded with enough satisfaction that I understood I had given the answer he wanted, although by then I also understood that pleasing Tesla with an answer was not necessarily evidence that the answer was good. I checked the clock once more, covered the instruments that needed protection overnight and closed my notebook on the last blank page before the experimental record would begin.

For the first time since arriving in Colorado, there was nothing useful left for me to improve before morning. The station remained imperfect, as every apparatus does, but its imperfections had at least been named well enough that we could begin learning which of them mattered. I returned to my room thinking less about the scale of the machinery than about the discipline required not to let its scale determine our conclusions in advance. Tesla had built a laboratory large enough to ask questions he believed smaller apparatus could not answer, but the answer would still have to enter through a receiver, the clock, marks on paper and the judgment of men capable of admitting that the mark did not mean what they wanted it to mean. The first full test would begin the following morning.

The Returned Component

A Novel About Obsession, Evidence, and the Cost of Knowing

Next: Chapter Four — First Current

© Michael P.S. Rogers. All rights reserved.

Mine was the topmost berth of a sleeper train. I sat hunched like a question mark, my head grazing the ceiling of the coach. With my neck aching, I lay down to sleep.
Rajasthan’s heat was roasting me alive & the fans tortured me with hot breeze. Crying babies, gossiping aunties, burping uncles, & tea sellers yelling, “Chai! Chai!” (“Tea! Tea!”) in their annoying-charming tune kept sleep at bay.
Still, I fought for it & nearly had it when my eyes began watering. I thought I was having a sad dream in which I was crying. I wasn’t.
I grew furious when I realised my tears were a consequence of a man seated below me who spread a newspaper on his berth & was cutting onions for bhel puri (savory puffed-rice snack). At the next station, a group of his farmer friends joined. They spread out even more newspapers, chopping onions together, turning the compartment into a bhel puri workshop.
I peered down at the ruckus. The group looked up at me. One of them announced, “Bhaiya ko bhi plate do!” (“Give brother a plate too!”) I declined, but they placed it in my hands anyway & called me down. I was sandwiched between them, crying & munching on their tasty bhel puri.
Though language was a barrier, I felt included. We improvised with gestures & mime. They were lifelong friends heading to their village to celebrate one of their own’s wedding. I couldn’t help but notice how they warmly shared everything they had, joked & laughed with abandon, comfortable sitting on the uncomfortable floor.
When they asked what I did for a living, I told them I wrote stories on a laptop. They looked at me as though I were the most intelligent person in the world, fascinated I could operate such a machine. When I appreciated their work as farmers, they folded their hands & smiled at me.
The man who’d already served me 2 plates asked what I thought of his bhel puri. My review: “It was delicious!” He replied, “I knew you’d enjoy it,” & ordered his friend, “Bhaiya ko ek aur plate do” (“Give brother another plate.”). A few stops later, the group got off. Each of them shook my hand like they were certain to meet me again on another train. So did I.
I chose to give up on sleeping to pay attention to the organised chaos inside Indian trains. Eating my third plate made the journey unforgettable.

For the past few weeks, I noticed my family's househelp frequently ask me the time. Curious, I finally inquired, "Why do you always ask me? There's a clock on the wall." She replied, "I've never been to school. I don't know how to read time." She went on to explain that her routine has honed her ability to anticipate the time needed to visit different homes she works for, as well as gauging how swiftly she must complete her tasks in each household.
She added, "Time is crucial in my work. If I'm late to a home, I risk being scolded or my employers assume I'm taking leave without informing them. Days with overcast skies or rain make it particularly difficult to discern time. Mornings look like evenings, and evenings resemble mornings."
Feeling for her, I decided to teach her how to read time. She was puzzled and grateful that something she wanted to learn all her life took her 10 minutes to understand.
When I asked her to show me her favorite time of the day on the clock, she pointed to 6 PM. She said, "No matter how good or bad a day turns out, whether the sky is blue or grey, 6 PM is my favorite because I finish work and go home to my children. Time feels valuable when we spend it with those we love."

Hey, you.

Is there anyone you hate?

Sounds like a pretty dangerous question, doesn't it?

You shouldn't hate people. Holding a grudge only hurts you. Forgiveness is how you set yourself free.

We've all heard things like that, and I don't exactly disagree. I'd rather spend my life laughing than spend it hating someone.

But that leaves me with one strange question.

If hatred is really such a bad thing for us, why did we end up with it in the first place?

Clang-clink.

The sound of the door chime always makes me feel like my day is finally over.

Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink. At the far end of the counter, Taka was staring into his glass for once, his phone nowhere in sight.

"Kenichi-san."

"No phone tonight?"

"Hey, I think about things besides my phone sometimes."

"My apologies."

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

"Not at all."

Taka gave me a suspicious look.

"About what we talked about yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"About how it's okay not to forgive someone."

"Ah."

"I kept thinking about it after I got home."

"Look at you, being serious for once."

"The 'for once' was unnecessary."

Taka poked at the ice in his glass with his straw.

"You said not forgiving someone and continuing to hate them aren't the same thing, right?"

"Tom said that."

"Right. And I still don't really understand the difference."

"Ask him."

"He'll just say, 'Beats me. I'm not a monk.'"

Beside us, Tom frowned over his drink.

"What exactly do you think I am?"

"An ex-cop."

"Annoying when you're actually right."

I couldn't help laughing.

"So what don't you understand?"

"Well, if you don't forgive someone, that means you still dislike them, right?"

"Sometimes, I suppose."

"Then aren't you still hating them?"

I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped. He had a point.

Yesterday I'd acted as though I understood it perfectly. Asked directly, though, it wasn't so simple. Not forgiving, disliking, hating—the words seemed to live awfully close together.

"...Tom."

"Don't drag me into this."

"You started it yesterday."

"Beats me. I was talking on instinct."

"A cop shouldn't talk on instinct."

"I'm retired."

Convenient status to have.

I took a sip of my Harper.

"All right, Taka. Anyone you dislike?"

"Of course."

"Do you think about them every day?"

Taka considered it.

"...No."

"When you woke up this morning?"

"Nope."

"At lunch?"

"No."

"Right now?"

"Honestly, I'd forgotten about them until you asked."

"Exactly."

Taka fell silent.

"Disliking someone doesn't mean you spend all day thinking about them."

"True."

"Maybe someone you haven't forgiven can be the same."

"But what about someone you hate?"

That stopped me. Tom spoke before I could answer.

"You keep remembering them."

"Remembering what?"

"The person."

Tom slowly rolled his glass between his fingers.

"Something happens and there they are again. What's that bastard doing now? Living happily, maybe? Have they already forgotten what they did to me?"

Taka nodded.

"Yeah. I can see that."

"Get deep enough into it and you start hoping they're miserable."

"Okay. That's definitely hatred."

"Yeah."

I turned Tom's words over in my head.

Strange thing, hatred. When you dislike someone, you put distance between you. You don't want to see them, talk to them, or have anything to do with them, so you walk away.

But someone you hate? You never want to see them again, yet somehow you keep meeting them inside your own head.

"...Maybe hatred means the relationship never really ends."

Taka tilted his head.

"Relationship?"

"Yeah. You can cut every tie in the real world and still keep living with them up here."

"Ah..."

What are they doing now? Are they happy? Are they suffering? Do they remember me?

Just saying it left a bad taste in my mouth. Why the hell should I spend my days worrying about the life of someone I can't stand?

"Pretty damn conscientious, when you think about it."

"What is?"

"Spending your own time on someone you hate."

Taka blinked.

"Wait. That's a terrible return on investment."

"You really do turn everything into cost-benefit analysis."

"I'm a private investigator."

"Convenient profession."

Still, something bothered me.

It's a waste, so stop.

If it were that easy, nobody would struggle with hatred in the first place. Let it go. Forget about them. Move on. The person carrying the hatred probably knows all of that already and still can't put it down.

So why do we hate people at all?

"Because they did something awful to us?" Taka said.

"Well, sure, but..."

I looked at the ice in my glass.

"If hatred is such a useless emotion, why are humans capable of feeling it?"

Taka blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do we get hungry?"

"To tell us to eat."

"Pain?"

"To tell us we're hurt."

"Fear?"

"To tell us to run?"

"Then what's hatred telling us to do?"

Taka stopped.

"...What is it telling us?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not a philosopher."

Tom snorted.

"You're one to talk."

"Shut up."

The three of us laughed.

But when I thought about it, a creature that easily forgot whatever had nearly destroyed it probably wouldn't survive very long. Get hurt by someone yesterday, forget it completely today, then turn your back on the same person again. Hard to imagine a creature like that lasting long.

Stay away from that person. Don't trust them. If it happens again, run.

Taka leaned forward slightly.

"So hatred makes sure we remember?"

"Maybe."

"By making us hate them?"

"I don't know. But if you forget, you might end up in the same place again."

Tom set down his glass.

"Then maybe it's like pain."

"Pain?" Taka asked.

"Yeah. Pain sucks, right?"

"Obviously."

"So would you want to get rid of it completely?"

"No... that'd be dangerous."

"Touch something burning hot without pain and you don't pull your hand away. Break your leg without pain and you might keep walking on it. Pain is miserable, but without it, you might not even notice you're destroying yourself."

I looked at Tom.

"So hatred works the same way?"

"Beats me."

"You can't come that far and quit."

"I told you. I'm neither a monk nor a philosopher."

Taka laughed.

Still, it made a strange kind of sense. Just because an emotion hurts doesn't necessarily mean the emotion itself is wrong. Fear makes you run. Pain makes you pull your hand away.

Maybe hatred, too, has some job to do.

"So it's okay to hate someone?" Taka asked.

I thought about it.

"At first? Maybe."

"At first?"

"Yeah. Someone hurt you. You're furious. You hate them. You never want it to happen again. Maybe hatred is an alarm going off inside you."

"An alarm?"

"Fire breaks out, the alarm rings."

"Right."

"You don't stand there while the building burns and say, 'That alarm is annoying. Somebody shut it off.'"

"Well, no."

"First you get out. Put out the fire. Find where it started. Then make sure it can't happen again."

I stopped. As I said it, I could suddenly see where the thought was going.

"But..."

Taka waited.

"What happens if the alarm keeps ringing after the fire is gone?"

Neither Taka nor Tom answered.

"All day. The next day. A year later, it's still ringing."

"That'd wear you down."

"Yeah."

"Then why not turn it off?"

"Could you?"

Taka thought for a while.

"...Maybe not."

"Why?"

"Because if you turned it off..."

He went quiet again.

"...it might feel like the fire never happened?"

I looked at him.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe people don't hold on to hatred only because they refuse to forgive. Maybe they're afraid that letting go of the hatred means forgetting what that person did, how badly it hurt, and the fact that it was wrong. If the alarm stops, perhaps it feels as though the fire itself has been erased.

So you let it keep ringing.

"...That brings us back to yesterday."

"The part about not forgiving?"

"Yeah."

I put my glass down.

"You can remember the fire without keeping the alarm on."

"Right."

"Where it started. What burned. How you got out. What you'll do if it ever happens again. You remember all of that."

"But you turn off the alarm."

"Yeah."

Taka slowly nodded.

"So that's what it means to not forgive someone, but stop hating them?"

"...Maybe."

He thought about it for a while, then gave another small nod.

"I think I kind of get it."

"Only kind of?"

"You're always telling me there aren't any absolute answers to this stuff, Kenichi-san."

"You only remember my advice when it's useful to you."

"I'm your apprentice."

"When the hell did I take you on as an apprentice?"

Tom snorted beside us.

"He's starting to sound like you."

"Don't say that. I'm not taking responsibility for him."

"That's cold."

Taka laughed.

That was when Mama, who had been quietly polishing a glass the entire time, finally spoke.

"Then maybe hatred..."

We looked toward her.

"...is an alarm saying, Don't forget."

Nobody said anything.

Mama held the glass up to the light.

"The pain. The fear. The fact that what happened was wrong."

The cloth moved slowly around the rim. Then she returned the polished glass to the shelf.

Click.

"If you've truly remembered what it needed to teach you, maybe it doesn't have to keep ringing."

I stared at the ice in my Harper.

If you've truly remembered.

Not forget it. Not forgive them.

Remember.

Maybe the alarm can stop without erasing what happened.

If that's true, perhaps throw away your hatred is the wrong way to put it. You don't throw it away. You let it finish its job, and you keep what it taught you.

That hurt. That scared me. That was wrong.

I won't go back there. If it happens again, I'll protect myself.

Once you've learned that much, maybe the alarm doesn't have to keep ringing. You haven't forgiven them, and you haven't forgotten.

You just don't have to keep hating them.

I tilted my glass. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Hey, you.

Is there an alarm still ringing inside you?

If you've already learned what it was trying to tell you, maybe it's all right for it to finally fall silent.

I tilted my glass again.

If it's that kind of alarm.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

If you'd like to come back to Aoi for another night, there's an open stool waiting.
Bar Aoi Stories: Human Nature, Vol. 1 is linked in my profile.