Desiree clutched the ticket in her hand. Twenty-four. The LED lights shone sixteen. Not eager to guess her upcoming fate, her mind drifted to the events of the past two months.

***

“Fuck! Trish, that was awesome” he said as he pulled out and laid beside her.

Desiree liked her pseudonym. It sounded fun, not trashy like her given name.

“You know what?” he continued. She lit a cigarette, ignoring him. “You’re not like the other girls. I really like you.”

Desiree had two kinds of repeat customers. There were the men who had a particular kink that she was willing to oblige. And then there was this type, the lonely ones who genuinely thought they could fall in love with a few thrusts and a hundred bucks. There was really only one way to deal with them, and that was to pretend not to know them the next night.

“I need to shower,” Desiree said without inflection, avoiding the inevitable attempt at cuddling. Kicking off her heels, she got out of bed.

“I gotta leave, hun” he said, jumping up and putting on his slacks. “Conference downstairs, but I’m here all week. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she lied, grabbing her purse off the bathroom door and then closing it behind her. She enjoyed her shower more than usual, knowing he wasn’t going to be there when she was done.

The night still young, she reapplied her makeup before slipping on her dress and heels. On her way out, she saw a hand-written note on the bed:

I COULD LOVE YOU. ASK FOR ANYTHING YOU WANT.

There was a blank line underneath. Desiree smirked. Grabbing the pen, she wrote “a fucking tip”.

***

The LED display now said eighteen.

The next day, Desiree had received a shock when a tobacco shop clerk outside her usual corner delivered an envelope. “AS YOU WISH” was on the outside. On the inside, a thousand dollars.

Her tempered excitement didn’t last long, however, as later that night her pimp had found out about the extra money. He took it, of course, but not after taking it out on her.

***

“I’m sorry,” she told him, shivering. “I’m just too sore. I can go down. With a discount, of course.”

Shaking his head, he sat up beside her. “What’s wrong, Trish?” he asked, not out of annoyance but with genuine concern. Desiree did not know what came over her, but she told him everything. Not just about the night before, but troubles and
feelings she hadn’t shared with anyone. By midnight, she found herself next to him, her head on his chest.

“You know I can’t have sex with you anymore.” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “This is better, anyway.”

“Maybe. If only I could charge you for talking.”

“Look. I have plenty of money. I can make sure you always bring home the right amount.”

She squeezed his hand. A tear fell.

***

“Twenty-one!” a voice called in the distance.

Their arrangement had worked really well for a while. Even on nights when he was not around, he gave her enough money to make it looked like she was doing business. And she felt like she was slowly developing a friend. The following month had been one of the best of her life.

But eventually word got back to her pimp that she was noticeably absent on the streets at night. She cracked under interrogation and spent a night in the hospital for “falling down the stairs.”

***

“Now why did I have to pick you up at the corner tonight?” he asked. She told him.

“We can’t continue like this,” she said. “You’ve been amazing, but it’s just too risky. This has to be the last time.”

He was visibly frustrated, but held her closer. “Dez, do you think we could be more?”

She looked into his eyes. “Than friends?” She paused, then couldn’t finish her thought. Averting his eyes, she choked up. “I wish he was dead.”

“I’m better for having known you,” he said through his tears. Turning her chin, he kissed her. There was no hesitation. And for the first time, they made love.

***

It hit the front page two days later. Double-homicide. Two men, their connection unknown to everyone except Desiree. Both dead from gunshot wounds.

And now, a week later, Desiree was broke and homeless waiting to speak with a welfare worker. She felt a tug at her sleeve, breaking her thoughts of self-pity.

“Mom, when is Daddy coming back?” His brown eyes looked up at her.

“Daddy’s not coming back, hun. Not ever again.”

Her boy hugged her leg. “Are we going to be okay?”

She found the strength to hug him back. “I hope so, sweetie. I hope so.”

The counter changed to twenty-four.

Graham Michaels was a dead man.

Not in the figurative sense, though he had also been that since last Thursday.  At this moment he was genuinely dead.  And in sixty seconds he would realize this fact.

Graham’s net worth was 1.9 billion.  He did not live lavishly.  He did not care about status.  He made money because he was good at it.  Really good at it.  Being a hedge fund manager was sheer joy.

While he would publicly bemoan every new regulation placed upon his work by the government, Graham secretly relished each new change to the game.  While he had the talent and the stamina to make money within the system, finding ways to game it was his primary hobby.  And for nineteen years, he had never been caught.

Last Thursday he was caught.

No charges had yet been pressed, but a close friend tipped him off that the SEC had proof of insider trading.  Graham did not fear death.  Death was just the end of the game.  But he feared prison, where the game continued without him.

Five minutes ago he met his friend at a villa outside Riga.  Sipping on some wine, his friend extended his hand out, inviting Graham to have a seat.  He obliged, resting his attaché case on the wicker table. Perhaps it was a bit conspicuous, but Graham had to carry as much cash as possible with his bank accounts soon to be worthless.

“You know,” his friend greeted him.  “Lugging that thing around could get you killed.”

Graham raised his brow.  “By you, perhaps?”

His friend grinned, pulling out a pistol.  “Perhaps.”  Graham let go of the case.  “You see ol’ friend.  What I didn’t tell you was that the SEC found a little Ponzi scheme you ran in ninety-nine.  I lost half a mil that year.”

“I’ve made you back twice that,” said Graham, ignoring the weapon.

“So you did,” he replied, opening up the case.  “And now, it appears, twice that again.”

Not only did Graham not fear death, he did not fear living.  Sewn into the lining of his suit was enough money to keep him comfortable for a long time.  He took a sip of the Sauvignon and considered opening a winery.

“Guess I no longer need this,” his former friend said, putting away his gun.  “Hope your soul is prepared.”

Graham put down his glass.  “The wine?”   He laughed.  “Classic.”

Sixty seconds later, Graham opened his eyes.  A red mist clouded most of his view.  He did not know what to expect from the afterlife, but he was surprised to find all of his senses still in working order.   The smell of sulfur nearly knocked him back.

Never one to hesitate, Graham strode through the mist.  As it cleared, Graham was aghast to see dozens of grayish souls wandering, sulking.  He expected spirits, yes.  But the sight of people resigned to their fate was abhorrent.  He didn’t pity them.  He hated them.  And he had no time for them.

Ahead, he saw what looked like a river, black and uninviting.  As he approached, a ferry came into view.  Its operator stood erect, but otherwise appeared calloused, bereft of life.

Graham accosted the spirit.  “Do you take me across the river?  Is my soul to be judged?”

The spirit lifted his arm, pointing to a sign.  On it, a picture of a coin.

Graham felt around inside his suit.  Bingo.  “I have cash.  Will a hundred thousand do?  After all, I can’t take it with me, right?”  The spirit nodded, and beckoned him to the ferry.  The trip was long, especially since Graham’s companion was not conversational.  However, before eternity passed, they reached the other side.  The spirit extended his hand.

“Oh, right.  Your payment.”  Graham removed everything stitch of clothing that held money, leaving him in his briefs.  He handed his clothes to the spirit, who donned them and stepped off the boat.  He handed Graham his oar.

“What’s this for?”

The spirit finally spoke.  “I finally have enough to pay my dues.  I sincerely thank you.  Now I must be going.  I am through with this world.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” sputtered Graham.

“You are Charon,” the spirit replied.  “You pay your dues.”

Dr. Eugene Westphal  sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.  He started to speak, paused, and then made sure he was looking the Chief of Staff directly in the eyes.   “So you’re firing me.”

“Of course not,” said Dr. Marcus Jansen, leaning back.  “I was hoping you’d consider taking a spot on the board.”

Dr. Westphal’s left eye twitched, the usual sign he was holding back.  “You know I don’t belong there.   I’m a surgeon, dammit, not a paper pusher.  Besides, those bastards are the reason why we’re sitting here, right?”

Dr. Jansen sighed.  “It’s not just the board.  You’ve been making mistakes, Gene.  The sponge you almost left inside Mrs. Hansen.  The cut on Mr. Cartwright you started in the wrong spot.  The…”

“I’m quite aware of my performance.  If we’re going to sit here and count surgical errors I’m sure I’m still miles ahead of most of my residents.”

“Gene.”  Dr. Jansen sat forward again, clasping his hands on the desk.  “We’ve known each other for almost forty years.  I consider you a friend.  And as your friend, I have to be honest with you.  I think your memory is slipping.  And I don’t mean dementia, Christ no.  But these past few months I’ve…”

“Fuck you, Marcus.  And fuck the board, too. ”  Dr. Westphal rose from his chair and headed towards the door.  “I’ve got a little girl’s life to save.”

Dr. Jansen hung his head, hands still clasped.

********

Clara Carthon was eight years old.  She was bright, eager, and had the jump-rope record at Edgerton Elementary.  She also had a mitral valve that was leaking blood into her lungs.

“Needle driver,” called Dr. Westphal.  The surgery was progressing smoothly.  Clara’s heart had reacted to the bypass machine with ease.  The mechanical replacement tested perfectly.  All that was left were the sutures and her transition off the machine.

“Doctor, her heartbeat is increasing.  Blood pressure dropping.”

“Shit!” He handed the driver back to the nurse.  “There’s massive clotting in the CBP circuit.  Increase Heparin to two-hundred!”

“You sure?” said the nurse.  “All the way up from ten?”

“It was at ten?  What the hell?  No, it should have been one-hundred.”

“So, you…”

“One-hundred!  Now heads-up people.  This could be touch-and-go.”

Though appearing calm to the lay observer, the surgical team worked desperately for an hour and a half.  The clot dissolved and the patient’s vitals slowly returned to normal.  Transition off the bypass machine went without a hitch, and after closure, the patient was transferred to recovery.

Furious at his team, Dr. Westphal washed up in silence.  Ready to lay into the next person who opened their mouth, he glanced at Clara’s chart and noticed the pre-op orders he had written this morning:

HEPARIN:  10 units/mL

His heart sank.

********

The nurse entered Dr. Westphal’s office, appearing guarded.

“I apologize if I was harsh with you in the OR,” he told her.  “It was entirely my fault, the Heparin.  I missed a zero.”

“Doctor Westphal” the nurse choked.  “I’m sorry.  Clara isn’t waking from the anesthesia.  Her vitals are fine.  We think it’s a coma.”

He sat motionless, afraid to breathe.

“I thought you should know before we tell the family.”

“No.”  He couldn’t look at her.  “I’ll tell them.”

It only took a minute to reach Clara Carthon’s family in recovery, but it was the longest walk of Dr. Westphal’s career.  He’d delivered worse news than this, many times.  But this time was different.  As he approached, he could sense the family’s apprehension, as if he were holding a scythe at his side.

“Your daughter’s new valve is working, as is her heart.  Unfortunately, she is not waking as soon as we expected.”

Dr. Westphal could feel his chest tighten.

“We’re afraid she may have slipped into a coma.”

The words hung in the air like a fog, growing more dense the longer no one spoke.  His left eye twitched.

Clara’s father was the first to break the family’s stunned silence.  “What do you mean, coma?  It’s just temporary, right?  She’ll wake up?  How did this happen?”

Dr. Westphal usually offered generalities and platitudes in response to this question.  Today was not usual.

“Your daughter’s blood clotted during the surgery.  While this is always a risk during this type of surgery, it could have been attributed due to an order I…”

“Mr. Carthon?  Mrs. Carthon?” Dr. Xiong interrupted.   “Your daughter is waking up now.  You can see her if you like.  She can’t talk just yet, but she appears to be alert and oriented.”

“Oh thank God!” screamed Mrs. Carthon, hugging Dr. Xiong.

Dr. Westphal watched as Clara’s family hurriedly followed the surgical resident.  He should have felt relief.  He wanted to feel relief.  He felt nothing.

“Dodge a bullet?” he heard behind him.  It was a kid in scrubs.  He didn’t recognize him.

“Here,” said Dr. Westphal, placing his name badge in the intern’s hand.  “Give this to Dr. Jansen.”

“Sir?”

Dr. Westphal walked towards the exit, his head bowed to the floor.  His eye stopped twitching.

…and not only did he grow up here, he now lives on an avocado ranch.

I did not know that about Tom Selleck! Well thank you for that, John. Up next is a story that is sure to interest some of you. And to break it is our own weather girl, Bri. Hi, Bri! I see you have your Pasotti umbrella with you.

Thanks, Christina. And I’m afraid I may have to buy a new one after today.

Why is that, Bri?

Well, as you can probably see, it is indeed raining Milk-Bones.

That is interesting. Have you spoken with anyone regarding this development?

Yes, just a minute ago I spoke with Dick Wolf. He said he was in New York and didn’t know about the weather here, but he assured me that he and his family had nothing to do with it.

Thanks, Bri. And have you tried Michael J. Fox?

I did talk to his agent, who was with him. He said Michael couldn’t come to the phone, but that he was just shaking at hearing the news. I told him to ask Michael if the bones came from Canada, and I was hung up on.

That does sound suspicious. Is there anyone there you can talk to?

Most humans have decided to remain indoors during this event, but I do have a bull terrier with me. He’s being pelted by a deluge of Milk-Bones, but does appear to be enjoying one as well.

Is that Spuds McKenzie?

I don’t know, Christina. Should I put my Ray-Bans on him?

I say go for it!

Okay! Here. We. Go. Can we have a word from you little Spudsie?

Rrrff…au-au!

I think that says it all. Back to you, Christina.

Thanks, Bri! So John, how ‘bout them Lakers?

“We’re gonna need to intubate!”

Morgan was floating just above consciousness.

“What happened to her?”

“Looks like a cocktail.  Valium, Klonopin, and Ativan.  Okay, let’s do this!”

Morgan fell under.

************

“Are you awake, dear?” The voice was upbeat but twitchy, as if the speaker was in a hurry.

“Mmm?” said Morgan.  She opened her eyes.  The room, or whatever it was, awoke her senses.  Bright white flooded the area.  Besides the man before her, she was the only perceivable…thing in the room.

“Wonderful!”  The man, wearing a suit and tie, smiled warmly.    “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Are…?” Morgan squinted at the man before her.  “Is this?  Are you?”

The look on his face beamed with anticipation.

“God?”

“Oh, lordy lordy, no!” he replied.  “But don’t worry, I’m not upset.  Nobody ever gets it right on the first guess.”

“Then are you…”

“Or the second guess for that matter.  Tell you what, since today is your lucky day, I’ll just come right out and tell you.”

Morgan raised her brow.

“I’m Ray Combs!”

Morgan raised her brow further.

“And it’s time to play…The Feud!”

From out of nowhere, a platform with a red buzzer appeared before her.

“Okay Morgan, now get ready for round one!  Buzz in when you have an answer.  We asked one-hundred people who recently committed suicide; would you like to go to Heaven?”

“Uhhh…” Morgan stared at him, wondering if he was serious.  “Yes?”

“Ah ah!” he said.  “Gotta hit your buzzer.”

Morgan pressed the buzzer.  It beeped at her.  “Yes?”

Ray turned around, looking up at the white nothingness.  “Show me…yes!”

As the sound of an electronic bell filled the area, her answer appeared in bright yellow letters.  Next to it, the number 100.

“Yes!” shouted Ray.  “Now don’t go away, round two is coming up next.”

“But…” Morgan started.

“We asked the same one-hundred no-longer living people; what was your most grievous sin?”

Morgan continued to eye Ray Combs with caution, but hit the buzzer anyway.  “I once cheated on my husband with his best friend.”

“Good answer!  That certainly was sinful.”  Ray turned around once more.  “Show me adultery!”  A loud buzz filled the air, as well as a giant red X.

“I’m sorry, but it appears to be not as grievous as you thought.  You still have two strikes left.  Do you have another answer?”

“Um, well that year I taught English in the inner city school?  I slept with one of my students to get some cocaine.”

“All right, that’s good!” Ray said reassuringly.  “Show me getting in the sack with a black for some crack!”

The giant red X appeared again.  The buzzer seemed louder this time.

“Okay,” Ray said.  “I don’t want you to be nervous, but you now have two strikes.  One more strike and you know what that means.”  He looked at her, his brow furled with great concern.

“I’m going to hell?” Morgan asked.

“With a brand new copy of our home game!  But don’t worry, I’m confident you’ll get it right this time.  Now Morgan, think really hard.  What was your most grievous sin?”

Morgan bit her lip.  “Would it be my severe depression and anxiety that led me to taking too many pills this morning in hopes of falling asleep?”

“It might be,” Ray said.  “Show me suicide!”  The bell dinged, with the number 100 appearing before her guess.

“You’re going good Morgan.  This is the third and final round.  If you get this right, I am authorized to grant you passage into Heaven.  Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“One-hundred sinful people just like you were asked this final question.  Who do you ask for salvation from and accept as your personal savior?”

Morgan laughed and hit the buzzer.  “You.”

“Why, thank you.  Let’s see if anybody else did.  Show me Ray Combs!”  The bell dinged.  Ray’s name appeared in the air, with the number 2 beside it.

“And those two people have a copy of our home game!  But you have another chance.  Do you have an answer?”

“I think I do Ray!”

Morgan knew the answer all along.  It was the hardest thing she ever had to do.  And Ray Combs helped her do it.

“My answer is Jes…”  Before she could finish, Morgan felt a tingling sensation.

“Damn it, not another one!” shouted Ray.  He watched as Morgan phased out of and back into the area.

“What’s happening?” Morgan’s look of peace had changed to fear.

“The doctors are bringing you back to life.  Now listen very carefully.”  Ray placed his fingers on Morgan’s temples and looked directly into your eyes.  “You will forget everything that’s happened here.  When you wake up, all you will remember is that you moved up through a tunnel that was filled with a radiant white light.”

And with that, Morgan disappeared.

Ray Combs sighed.  “Morgan,” he said to no one, adjusting his tie.  “I hope I never see you again.”

A smile spread across McKenzie’s face.  Finally!  She practically had to beg him to ask her out.  They had been e-mailing for three months now.  He said he liked to take things slow and get to know her.  She was all for that, but now she was worried he was painfully shy or something.  At least he was sweet.  And he made her laugh in every letter he sent.

“Hey Kenz!” called her Mom as she entered the bedroom without knocking.  McKenzie minimized the window and hoped the butterflies wouldn’t betray her.  ”We’re leaving in a few minutes!”

“Okay,” McKenzie said, heading to the closet to get a pullover.  It was royal blue, her favorite color, and one she usually saved for special occasions.  “Are we going out to eat afterwards?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.  Did you want to?”

“Whatever, just wondering.”

As her mom left the room, McKenzie smiled to herself.  Jake had wanted to go to Biaggi’s and she didn’t want to tell her she had a date.  Mom wasn’t against her dating, but she was afraid Mom would say no if she found out where she met him.

As she was putting on foundation (not too much), she felt herself shaking a bit.  She wasn’t that nervous about meeting a stranger (and after all, three months of e-mails and she felt she knew him more than anyone), but she was going to meet his parents!  Apparently, they needed to approve of her!  He told her not to worry, that they’d probably just say hi and shake her hand.  Still…

Securing the last earring, McKenzie noticed her Chloe Moretz poster was beginning to fall.  Checking the scotch tape, she flattened out the corner again.  Stepping back to check out her handy work, she nearly tripped over her stuffed walrus.  She picked up Nigel and went to set him back on the bed.  She paused, gave Nigel a once-over, and put him in her closet.

“Gussied up for a trip to CostCo?” her mom said as she put on her pea coat.

“I might run into someone from school!”  McKenzie shuddered.  She didn’t want to protest too much.  “Besides, what’s wrong with looking nice?”

“Just giving you a hard time, kiddo.”

“Hey Mom, can I spend the night at Hannah’s?”  Mom never said no, but McKenzie was nervous as hell.

“Just tell me one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Help me clean the basement tomorrow?”

McKenzie smiled.  “Sure, Mom.”

“And we start at ten sharp!” She winked.  “I can drop you off after we’re done.”

“Thanks!” said McKenzie, exhaling as she turned around.  “Just let me get my toothbrush.”

*******************************

Jake had a date.  He looked sharp, no doubt.  Jake shifted his tie until it was straight.  Then he patted down his cowlick one more time.  It popped back up.  He told himself he was too much a perfectionist.  But he was still nervous.  She’d be here in twenty minutes.  Waiting was the worst part.  Once she got here, he was confident his nerves would settle.

Ripping himself from the mirror, Jake entered the living room and stood by the bay window.  The sun was setting, casting glorious shades of ochre and crimson across the sky.  The serenity did nothing to relieve the tension.  His lifted his right hand, trying to hold it still.  It rattled like a mechanical mouse.

Even though Jake had hated his parents, he was still lonely. Dad was always in some other country on business, but he’d call every so often and call him “Sport.”  Mom cared more about impressing her high-society friends, but she’d hug him.  If she wasn’t always trashed, and if her hugs didn’t occasionally get a bit weird, he might miss her more. If nothing else, they left him the house.

Jake headed towards the basement.  It seemed disrespectful to do so before a date, but the last thing he wanted was to appear flustered and clumsy.  Even descending the steps lessened his anxiety.  Reaching the bottom step, he took off his shoes and socks, placing them neatly together.  Taking the final step, he felt cool dirt embrace his toes.

He saw what he was looking for on the workbench.  As he crossed the room, he gazed at the east wall where he had erected a trophy case.  All of his prizes were there, except the most recent.  He was proud of the accomplishments he had worked so hard for since his parents were killed.  He wondered if they’d be proud of him.

Reaching the workbench, Jake took the shovel and propped it up against the wall.  The Ziploc bag was right where he left it.  As he opened it an erection formed in his slacks.  Carefully, Jake removed the cotton material and rested it against his cheek.  Glancing at the trophy case, he noticed there wasn’t a trace of royal blue to be found.  This was perfect.

Jake inhaled the scent of the material.  Expecting another rush, what he felt instead hit him like a truck.  She was perfect.  Not a bitch like the others.  While he hated her innocence, she had a spirit about her he had never seen.  She seemed to approach life as if she could just brush away its inherent cruelty.  She had even told him she cared about him.  His sorrow spiraled into a crushing bout of self-loathing.  He had let go his only chance to be happy.

After placing the material inside the bag, Jake opened the only drawer of the work bench and found the revolver. He kept it there in case the police ever paid him a visit.  He never thought he’d want to use it before then.  Almost unconsciously, he felt himself grabbing the gun and bringing it to his mouth.  Cocking the hammer, Jake felt a tear running down his cheek.

The doorbell rang.

That beautiful sound jolted Jake out his self-pity.  Placing the gun back in the drawer, a renewed sense of confidence practically burst out of him.  He sealed the Ziploc bag, then scurried to the foot of the stairs, putting on his socks and shoes.  As he looked up at the foyer, Jake straightened his tie once more.   Tonight was a good night.  Jake had a date.

Sitting up in the hospital bed, he first noticed the IV protruding from this left arm.  He then noticed a baseball resting on the tray beside his bed.  An instinctual impulse to grab it led to an unfortunate series of shockwaves, knocking what little wind he had out his lungs.  Unsure why he was here, but sure he needed to see that baseball, he took more a measured approach on his next attempt.  Slow and steady won the race this time, as the tip of his middle finger was able to roll the ball off the tray and onto his lap.  There was writing on the ball, the first letter barely smudged.

YOU LUCKY GUY, JACK!

Jack?  Was that his name?  It didn’t ring a bell, but neither did anything else.  In fact, he had no idea why he was here, or why he was in so much pain.

Below the compliment was a signature.  It took him a bit, but the name came to form.  He heard a stranger’s voice—his own—sound it out.

“Can-dy Mal-do-na-do.”

He remembered.

***************

“Fucking ay!  I managed to score you a ticket and you don’t show up until the 4^th inning?”

“Sorry, man,” he said, annoyed.  “I was with an important client.  And you know how traffic is this time of night.”

“Pfffttthh.  You’re missing a good one, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Reuschel’s retired nine straight, and Uribe scored last inning to tie the game.”

“Awesome.”

He disengaged from his friend and surveyed the field.  There was a runner on first.  He couldn’t tell who.  He heard the crowd react.  It was a wild pitch.

“Go go Mitchell you shithead go!”

So it was Mitchell on first.  Now on second.  He turned to his friend.

“You know, I don’t think he heard you.”

“Lighten up, dude.  It’s just a…oh shit, look out!”

He turned around in time to see a foul ball hurtling towards him.  He raised his hands up in defense.

****************

He looked at his hands.  They appeared fine, quite unlike his right leg, which was in traction.

He looked at the ball again.

“Nice catch!”  He looked up to see a doctor approaching.  “So, how are we doing?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“Who’s the current President?”

He racked his brain.  “Reagan?”

“No, but you’re closer now.  Last time I asked you said Ford.  Okay, well, your vitals look good.  Nurse tells me your pain has subsided.  Lookin’ good.”

“Doc, do I have amnesia?”

The doctor sighed.  “Too soon to tell.  It could be the anesthesia from the surgeries, but it’s unusual for a patient to not remember their name.  Still don’t?

He shook his head.

“I’m not too worried yet.  And hey, if you don’t get your memory back, maybe you can play center field next week.”

He hated funny doctors.

“So how’d you get that autograph, anyway?”

He remembered.

*******************

Flying down the road, his mind wandered.  He wished he could go straight home.  But he had to fly out to Seattle in an hour for another client and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday.  Even worse, he was out of gas.  The next exit had a Shell station.

As he squeezed the pump, his mind raced.  He’d need to double-time it to the airport if he didn’t want to hurry inside the terminal.  And then there was presentation he didn’t know how to finish.  The gas pump was unbearably slow.   He looked at the man at the next pump over, who also seemed a bit impatient.  The man caught him staring.  Oh, shit!  He recognized him.

“Um, hi.  I don’t mean to intrude, but is your name…Candy?”

The man flashed his white teeth in a broad smile.  “It might be.”

“Wow.  Well, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  He extended his hand.  Candy shook it.  “Hey, I caught a foul ball you hit tonight.”

“Really, man?”

“Yeah!  Would you autograph it for me?”

“Heh.  Sure thing, man.”

He practically threw open his passenger door and found the ball.  He couldn’t believe his luck.

*********************

“Hey you, wake up!”

His eyes fluttered several times before he opened them.  The voice appeared to come from a pretty woman standing over him.

“Nurse?”

“No, silly.  It’s me.  The doctor said we could finally see you.”

“Oh…”  He looked her up and down.  Nice body, too.

“So! Just look at the mess you got yourself into.  You’ll do anything to get attention, won’t you?”

He said nothing.  Turning his head, he saw someone else on the other side of the bed.  A young man, maybe ten or eleven.  He squinted his eyes.  Nope.

“Oh,” the woman said.  “The doctor said you might…”

“I don’t remember.  Who are you?”

“I’m your wife, Denise.”  She choked back tears.  “And this is your son, Jack.  Oh Michael…”

He looked at his son, hoping beyond hope he’d remember.  He picked up the ball.  “I guess this is for you.”

***********************

The trip was a success.  Michael had secured another client, and he had an autographed ball for his son.  As he cruised down the Nimitz Freeway, he turned on the radio.  The legendary voice of Jack Buck greeted him.  He grinned.  Sure, the Giants were down two to nothing, but they were at home now.  And Garrelts was pitching.

A loud thunk jolted Michael.  He wondered if he hit something. Turning his focus back to the road, he looked ahead.  The southbound lane of I-880 was above him.  And now it was falling.

“So. Martin.” The cold, direct voice of The Administrator filled his office. “You know why I called you in here?”

Martin remained erect, but frozen, in the steel guest chair.

“Of course you do,” he lamented. “You know, they told me that you weren’t cut out for this. That your psychological profile was…unsatisfactory. But I saw something in you. Perhaps I was blinded by your striking resemblance to me. Perhaps my instincts have softened in my old age. Regardless, it turns out they were right.”

The Administrator approached from the shadows, his jet black shoes clapping against the limestone floor. His chiseled face revealed less emotion than his tailored suit. Towering over him, his thumb and index finger cupped Martin’s chin. He let go.

“I thought I could prove your worth to us. You know, start you off slow.”

Martin stared blankly at him, watching him place a cigarette between his lips.

“After all, we couldn’t give you the ability to start the world on fire until we were sure of you.” On cue, the cigarette lit itself.

“The ability to make someone else sneeze seemed pretty innocuous. Easy to keep hidden. And a quite effective tool at extending someone’s life. Have to admit, you impressed us when you saved the Senator, delaying his first step into the crosswalk.” The Administrator turned his back to Martin, resting his hands on his desk.

“But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to play with your new toy. Showing it off at parties, placing bets on who would sneeze first. Making the President embarrass himself at his own inauguration. All fun and games, I know. But telling your wife was the last straw. This organization has the power to make this world a better place, but only if our secret is kept.” The Administrator paused, then turned around. “We’re now half way to keeping that secret.”

Martin’s eyes darted at his boss, rage masking the pain behind them. He kept quiet.

“It’s a shame, really.” He put the cigarette out. “I don’t like killing anyone, even for the greater good. Even though I’ll gain your power when you die.” The Administrator laughed. “Now, do you have any last words before you spontaneously combust?”

Martin did not.

“Alright, then. I admit this will take a few seconds longer than my cigarette. You seem to like parlor tricks. How about we end this with a magic word? Shazam? Presto-chango?”

Martin’s expression remained unchanged.

“Oh, I got it. Here we go.” His splayed his hands out in front of him as if it were necessary. “Abracada…ah! Ah! Ah-CHOO! Abracachoo!”

Martin rose from the chair, watching The Administrator clumsily stumble with an endless sneezing fit. Walking behind his former boss, he waited for him to rise from his latest attack. In one motion, he cradled his head and snapped his neck. The lifeless body slumped to the floor.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” called Martin, finishing the last button on his new suit.

“Sir!” barked the young man as he entered. “Are you done in here?”

Martin nodded.

“Good. We may not have much time. Talks are breaking down between the U.S. and China. And both sides have their bombs aimed and ready.”

“Well then,” Martin replied, looking down at the body. “It looks like we’ve got a fire to put out.”

“Sir?”

Martin looked up. “So to speak, son.” He approached the young man, putting his arm around him as they exited his office. “So to speak.”

Edward King’s father hadn’t beaten him in eight days. He wasn’t entirely sure why he counted. He did know that twenty-one more days and it would be a record. And maybe hope.

Sometimes Eddie wished he went to school in a bad neighborhood, where some kids were lucky if their parents chose to buy food instead of heroin. He could then fantasize his life as better than that of his friends. But every minute he spent away from home was a cold reminder that he didn’t have one.

What kept Eddie from deliberately working on an escape plan was Mom. She couldn’t protect him from his father’s “corrections” any more than she could protect herself. But he knew she cared, and that was enough. Eddie couldn’t wait until he was old enough to protect her. In nineteen days was his eleventh birthday. Almost an adult.

His birthday was one reason Eddie was sure he wouldn’t break his record. But his report card was another. It came today and his father knew it. And Eddie knew the only thing his father would care about was the B-minus in pre-algebra.

The harsh clanging of the garage door jolted Eddie out of his self-pity. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Eddie stared at the report card, hoping to get this out of the way.

His father came through the door and set his briefcase on the table. Eddie sensed his father looking at him, then the report card, then back. He tensed as his father’s hand came to his forehead. But his father simply ruffled his hair before silently walking towards the stairs.

Eddie couldn’t tell whether to be relieved or frightened, but goose bumps shot up his arms. Unfortunately, this debate would have to wait as a scream from upstairs broke his paralysis.

Normally, he would go outside so he wouldn’t have to listen. But this time something compelled him to walk up the stairs. As he did, Mom’s protests became softer but more desperate. Reaching his parent’s bedroom, he looked carefully around the door jamb. Then he took a step back.

Mom’s blouse was torn. Half-naked, she looked helpless on the bed as his father towered over her with his dick out, stroking it. Not knowing exactly what his father planned to do, but knowing it was bad, Eddie reacted. “Mom!” he shouted from the doorway.

His father’s glare darted from his mother to him. He expected shouting, but his father calmly pulled up his slacks. “Edward. Get the hose.”

Shaking, Eddie made his way to the garage. This task normally was humiliating, but right now he only felt fear, and rage. Pulling the hose off the far wall, Eddie considered destroying it, realizing that doing so would only make things worse. But then he noticed the adjacent cabinet was slightly ajar. His father’s .45 was lying on the shelf.

“Edward, you shithead!” he heard in the distance. “Get up here!”

Eddie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Coming!”