The Face of God

 

The Face of God, is the first book of the series called The Chronicles of Milyi Dom.  It was written in 2018 (and copyrighted).  Initially, I thought that it would be a stand-alone book.  However, there are now eight books in this series.  The following is a two chapter excerpt from the beginning.

JFK Blvd, looking SE toward 19th Ave overcrossing.
Calvin crashed down the embankment to the left of the bridge.

Chapter One

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco

“You okay, mister?”

I looked around then slowly took stock of where I was. I lay on my back in the midst of a bramble of leaves, vines and other botanical detritus. My bike was somewhere further afield.

“You okay?”

I refocused on the voice and the face as well as the fact that this person was talking to me. I looked up into the eyes of a young teenager, a lad of barely thirteen, a youth who wore an oversized football jersey of a local school and a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. That seemed strange, but I could not put my finger on why.

“Yeah, maybe,” I eventually answered, finally remembering that I had tumbled down from the street above, sailing over my handlebars and sliding down a twenty foot embankment.

“That was some trip. You were flying!” The lad spoke excitedly. “Can I help you up?”

I finally stirred and began to right myself. “Do you know where my bike is?”

“Yeah, it went all the way down the hill onto JFK Boulevard where a car smacked it.” He was rather animated in his description, flailing his arms around for emphasis. Watching him almost made me dizzy again. “Car doesn't look too good either.”

I lay back down.

This wasn't good. That bike was my set of wheels, my ticket to earning money—in fact in the pouch lashed to the frame were the latest set of documents that I was delivering.

I was a courier.

It was the mid 1980s and I lived and worked in San Francisco, the prized gem by the Bay along the Pacific Ocean. I was almost thirty and making a fair amount of money delivering important documents between businesses during the workweek. That my bike had been run over by a car meant that my livelihood was threatened.

“You feel okay, man?”

The lad was touching my arm.

“No. My bike is gone,” I replied. “That sucks—big time!”

“Lemme go call my dad. Stay right there.”

Suddenly the youth was gone and I was left to contemplate what I was to do. I figured that maybe a police report would be in order since a car had run over a bike. Of course, there was the car on the road above that swerved in the first place, clipping me and sending me down the embankment to the street below. I had been hauling hard north on 19^th Avenue through the Golden Gate Park just before the John F. Kennedy overpass. The car to my left swerved into me, clipping my front wheel sending me over the sidewalk, just missing the cement railing, through the undergrowth, then down the embankment to where I lay, befuddled and bereft of my bike.

I partially sat up as I heard the distant wail of sirens; I wondered if that would be for me. Being in a large city, there were always sirens sounding somewhere; it was a high level of hubris to assume that the attention was coming for you. And that proved true: The siren was not for me, but it went whizzing by a couple blocks north of where I lay. Below me the traffic snaked around the car that probably ran over my bicycle. Above me the north bound traffic continued on unabated in its pre-rush hour frenzy. I was surprised that the only person that had noticed me was this young teenager—but now he had disappeared. The rush of traffic continued unabated on the street above me, as well as below me in spite of the problems my bike had caused.

By then I had become aware of feeling tired and thirsty. If I had my bike, I could have had access to my water bottle. But now? I had nothing. I lay back down against the embankment and closed my eyes.

“Right here!”

The voice interrupted a deep state of quietness and perhaps sleep.

“Are you okay?”

I looked up into the face of the youth who had addressed me earlier. He still had the Pirates baseball cap on—that's it, most folks around here would have had a Giants hat or some team closer to home. But he sported something from back east? Odd. Next to him was a man, perhaps in his late forties or fifties—I immediately assumed that this was the youth's father that he went off to find, although I don't know how he found him so quickly.

“Don't worry, we have the police coming to report this and there's an ambulance to take you to check you out. How are you feeling?”

The man's face seemed rather close to mine; I began to feel a sense of claustrophobia wash over me. I turned and tried to sit up then felt his arms behind me, steadying me into position.

“Thanks,” I said.

“What happened?”

“Got clipped and ended up here.”

“Jeremy saw most of it. I'd say you're lucky that nothing's broken.”

I thought about that for a few moments. It really was a spectacular tumble—vivid in my mind's eye, that's for sure.

“Yeah, you're right,” I finally said.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Calvin.”

We made small talk over the next ten or twenty minutes in which I found out that his name was Martin Lombardi and he was a doctor with a small practice a few blocks over. That was why his son was able scurry off to find him so quickly. Although quickly may have been relative. It was now after five and I know that I started my trip north before two. Time wasn't adding up correctly for me yet.

Jeremy found my Walkman a few feet from where I sat and I was surprised that it was still in working condition. The earphones were a little worse for the wear, but still usable. If only my bike had weathered the accident as well.

“You know, I don't see the ambulance yet,” Martin finally said. “And I see that the disabled car has limped away. Are you good to go?”

“I have no transportation,” I answered. “Can't get home.”

“Can I help you tonight?” he asked. “I mean, it's the least that I could do.”

When I hesitated, he added, “And it would be cheaper than going to the hospital to be checked out. Plus, I am a doctor.”

A view of Golden Gate Park along JFK Blvd

Chapter Two

A Walk in the Park

I awoke the next morning with a stiff neck, a sore back, and an awful bruise on my thigh—spectacular colors were already forming under the skin. I also realized upon showering that I had scrapes and abrasions in places that I didn't think had been touched. I ached.

Yet I was quite thankful for Dr. Martin Lombardi and his son Jeremy as well as Mrs. Lombardi who took care of me and fed me as good of a meal as I had eaten in several years. Maybe even since I had left home.

Yeah, there was that. I usually didn't go thinking about home on a regular basis, but something about the home-cooked meals and the hovering, brooding attention from Mrs. Lombardi reminded me of my early childhood before things went sideways.

Something else that reminded my of my childhood was the extensive collection of science fiction that Dr. Martin had in the spare bedroom. I saw many classics and old favorites: Kurt Vonnegut, H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury as well as authors I had never heard of before. I picked up Asimov's Pebble in the Sky and thumbed through the pages, recalling with pleasure the hours spent discovering new worlds, hidden futures, and lurking dangers.

I finally remembered the pager in my pants pocket and saw that I had several numbers that had been trying to get my attention over the previous fifteen hours. I borrowed their phone and contacted my employer but instead of concern or compassion I received an ear full of berating since I had lost the documents and had contacted neither the client nor my boss. I was fired on the spot.

Life sucked.

It was mildly ironic that Jeremy was listening to his stereo in the other room and I hear the singer belting it out, “Shout! Shout! Let it all out!” Yeah, I wanted to shout.

After breakfast Dr. Martin said he had an old bike that I could use till I got things back to normal. He also had found my bike—my very mangled bike—and the pouch with the documents was still attached. I knew that I should finish the delivery regardless of its tardiness so I thanked the family once again then left.

Pedaling through the Outer Sunset District, the air was cool and thick with fog. I loved the feel of the moisture kissing my face but I was still a little off my game that morning. I reached the Golden Gate Park and decided to walk a long, slow stroll through the Park, under old trees, past joggers, and curiously dressed morning strollers. One man in a brightly colored rainbow tee-shirt passed me with his large, personal stereo hoisted up on his shoulder, blaring out Prince who was singing about a Raspberry Beret.

I reached the address in the North Panhandle District mid morning as the fog parted. There was little to say: I was late, but the documents were delivered. I retained a signature as a bit of insurance in the event that my now, former employer would come back to haunt me.

However, as I left, I recalled a slip I had received in the mail several days before: A slip that said I had a package being held for me. Being free from work duties now, I decided to drop my borrowed bike off in my flat then walk over to pick up this mysterious package. I was hoping that walking slowly would help ease the discomfort from my bruises and stiff muscles. So many times in high school I heard coaches tell their players, “Walk it off; walk it off!” I really hoped there was something to that.

It was then that I began spiraling down into a bit of morose introspection. I had a love-hate relation with my name ever since Junior High when we briefly studied European history. There was some religious chap named Calvin several hundred years before and suddenly I was mentioned by everyone but for all the wrong reasons. I hated the faux attention thrown my way.

It became worse as the years progressed. A fashion designer stuck his name—Calvin—onto everything and suddenly I was associated with jeans and underwear. I hated that. I hated anything that pointed toward me that wasn't me. It was a false notoriety and a spotlight of attention that I severely disliked. I was happy when the novelty of the name diminished.

I had a small room in the Western Addition really close to Japantown, just a block or so away from the Post Office. I brought my knapsack with an apple, some crackers, and a can of soda since I thought to have a quiet afternoon in the Park. I also changed out the batteries in my Walkman.

The package, however, surprised me. It forcibly reminded me of home for the third time in just a few hours. Grandma Hazel, according to the writing on the package, still lived in the same house back east where she had lived in for at least the previous fifty years. There in the package I found a handwritten letter in elegant cursive along with a very old family Bible.

Calvin,

I want you to know that it took some effort to find your address, but I hope that you are doing well. I was going through some stuff in the office bookshelf and ran across this old Bible. It belonged your Grandpa Cal and before that, his father. I know that you and Grandpa Cal were close once and he considered you to be a very special grandson. This has his family history back four or five generations. I think as his namesake, you should have it to have an idea of where you came from. I also hope that you might read it because reading the Bible has given me great comfort during many dark nights. I figure that you don't want to hear a lot of preachy stuff, but facts are facts, and you know that I faced a lot of dark nights.

Anyway, I would love to hear from you sometime. With much love and prayers,

Grandma Hazel.

And suddenly everything that I was trying to ignore was thrust back on me. I didn't want to think about it right then—I had my own troubles to sort through now being unemployed. I folded the letter, slipped it into the pages of the old Bible them stuffed it all into my knapsack. I would decide later what to do with it.

The sun was shining brightly where earlier it lay hidden by the famous fogs of San Francisco. Yes, the sun was bright, but my mood was more suited to a dark, morose, taciturn atmosphere of swirling fog. I sat down at a picnic bench under a large tree and tried to focus on a newspaper that someone had left there. The article on page three caught my eye briefly: “Shuttle Passes Laser Test With Flying Colors.”

I read a little then put the paper down. The “Laser” test had to do with the so-called “Strategic Defense Initiative” which would protect against enemy nations sending bombs our way. I wasn't too sure about that and most of the people that I talked with thought it was a stupid idea.

I folded the paper up and began eating my apple. It gave me a chance to stare across the grassy area under the late June sun. I purposely left my Walkman in my knapsack and just watched life unfold around me. Several joggers were on the trails and sidewalks. A particularly lovely young woman with long brown hair caught my attention. Being 1985, most people—especially women—had hair that was puffy, extending outward in all directions—ranging from lion's manes to fluffy cotton candy. This young woman's hair, however, hung stick straight from a pony tail. I knew that I should break out of my isolation and start dating again, but the reality of being freshly unemployed put an immediate kibosh on any such ideas. Instead I knew I would remain just as a roommate in college laughed about me: “You're a library dictionary, Paine—looked at when necessary, but never checked out.”

Unfortunately, it was true and even more unfortunate that many at the small gathering laughed at that joke too. I withdrew from college before the end of that semester. I moved nearly as far west as practically possible a short time after that.

I finished up the apple and tossed the core into a can, stuffed the newspaper in my pocket, then started walking along the main street in the Park. There were a number of visitors and tourists around but nearby there were very few. I smiled at a couple pushing a baby stroller, then waved at a young boy showing off on his bike. For some reason I recalled a bitter moment in my early childhood when I had waved at an older teen, but he purposely snubbed me and laughed with his friends at how immature and young I was. I didn't want to do that this young boy.

I reached the spot where I had flipped over my handlebars and skidded down the long embankment. For some reason it didn't seem as steep as it did the day before as I lay trying to collect my wits. I could still see the marks where I slid as well as skid marks in the street where, I assume, my bike was destroyed. But there was nothing else to see and nothing else to be done.

I sprinted across to the north side of the street and turned back toward my place. Walking slowly, I was deep in thought. However, I was pushing the pressing thoughts of my Grandma and needing to find a new job from my mind. Instead I brooded over being nearly thirty, without work, and without a girlfriend. It suddenly came crashing in on me at that moment that I didn't even really have any real friends of any depth: None that I could turn too if things got really bad.

In the distance the young female jogger I saw earlier returned on her run toward me. The thought went through my mind that perhaps I could be at this same spot every day to smile at her. I wondered what she'd look like in a raspberry beret. She passed by, however, with the barest of recognition.

I walked on and tried to keep from spinning downward into a cycle of despair. I had done that before; in fact, despair had swirled all around me during the time that I had moved west. Breathing deeply, I looked up and saw the sunlight streaming in through the trees. It was mid afternoon and a sea breeze began pushing the air gently from behind me. I knew the fog would be returning soon.

I was feeling worn and tired and a little bit light headed so I stopped and pulled out my crackers and soda. It was exactly what I needed. I sat on the grass just off the sidewalk eating my snack and watching the procession of humanity parade past. Three men walked by with a degree of aplomb. Two women jogged past with an air of indifference. A pair of older women shuffled by, uncaring and unconcerned with anything else around them. The guy with his stereo came by blasting out “Dancing in the Streets.” I thought if any place could pull that off for real, it would be here in San Francisco—right here in the Park.

I finally felt strong enough to attempt traversing the distance back to my abode. However, my steps were much slower, as though I were still under the influence of the accident. Perhaps I tried too much activity too soon after the incident. But I had always been active—I was in shape and I didn't like sitting idly with nothing to do.

In the distance I heard a song playing over someone's stereo system; I could just make out the tune and a hint of the words to recognize "The Power of Love." I felt a wave of sadness that I had no such power working for me.

Slowly I plodded back to my flat. Step by step each footfall grew harder and more labored. As I reached the “Panhandle” of the Park, I grew tired again and had to stop; I sat down on the curb and tried to catch my breath.

At that moment a car, a bright red Lamborghini, drove by west on Fell. Its license plate, a vanity plate, struck me as nonsensical: OKCAHA. I tried saying it out loud: “O-Kay Ca-ha!”

I sat on the sidewalk for several minutes trying to look alive and not too vulnerable. Thus I was surprised to hear someone call out to me and even more surprise that it was the car with the odd vanity plate that I had seen several minutes before.

“Are you okay?”

I shook my head.

“Need a ride?”

That seemed like a wonderful thing so I nodded.

Shortly after I was in the front seat of a Lamborghini, traveling east on Oak Street toward my flat. “It used to be my Daddy's car,” she explained almost as an apology. “He didn't use it much so he gave it to me a couple of years ago.” That would explain why someone so young would have such an expensive car.

The license plate? Yes, I asked her about that. Turns out she was Russian and her name was Oksana. The license plate held the letters that looked very much like the Cyrillic letters that spelled her name in Russian. My mind glazed over a little at the explanation, but she was very nice and friendly—something that had been missing from my life over the previous few years. Ever since the event.... yeah, well, I still didn't want to face that. She mentioned something about religion but I ignored it. That was something else I didn't want to face.

“Calvin,” she said, “give me your number; I'll call you later to see how you're doing.”

It was more of a command, but I appreciated someone taking an interest in me. I also appreciated that she was very nice and quite nice to look at too. Her hair was golden, professionally styled: More like a princess than the party flounce and bounce.

“Get some rest now, okay?”

I nodded and thanked her again.

“I'll be praying for you, Calvin.” She waved and smiled; I was left with a happy sort of excitement that pushed all the other negativity out of my day. No one had ever asked me for my number before! And she had a Lamborghini! She had a beautiful smile. Her comment about praying for me seemed so home-like and friendly—vastly unusual within the big city. It did remind me briefly of home before I quashed those memories again.

Oksana had let me off on the corner of Fillmore and Eddy just a little ways from my place. I slung my knapsack over my shoulder and, with a little more of a spring in my step, I walked a short block to my dwelling. Some neighbor was playing their radio extra loud. I knew who; she always played the music loud in the afternoon—but this time it was okay. I thought that REO Speedwagon's “Can't Fight This Feeling” was a nice touch even if I didn't know what feelings they were supposed to be.

I was surprised then to see a toy truck—something like I played with in my childhood—on the sidewalk a few hundred feet before my front door. It was odd since I didn't know of any children that lived in our building nor in the immediate area. But leaving it in the middle of the sidewalk where someone could trip over it was not a good idea. I stooped to pick it up as a bright flash rocked my sight. I was momentarily disoriented and staggered a step or two forward. The toy truck remained in my field of view although the rest of the street disappeared. My world reeled and my mind exploded at the new sights before me. I was certain that my earlier accident had played tricks with my mind and there was a logical explanation to this. There had to be! However, the noise of the city and the sound of the neighbor's radio had vanished.

Instantly.

Along Fell St, looking SE into the Panhandle Park

The Watchers, Chapter 2

Click for Chapter One

Chapter Two

First Love

copyright 2017, David Benning

I had earned my big college degree in general science with a practical helping of computers on the side. It was little surprise that I got a job in a big tech firm helping keep their computers running and fixing all the standard user issues that came along. Soon, management saw that I was able (and willing) to delve deeper into problems and fix the big ticket items such as a compromised computer.

A compromised computer was a euphemism for one of several problems. There were the standard bad programs that had been around since the beginning of inter-computer-connectedness of the late twentieth century. These programs, written by individuals or groups or even foreign governments, took over control of the computer to some extent and potentially allowed sensitive data to be trapped then transmitted back to some collecting computer. Always annoying, usually urgent, sometimes critical.

It was during one of these digital cleansing sessions that Paul, my co-worker, probably fifteen years older than I, told me that all computers were compromised.

I looked at him and waited for the explanation.

He just glanced my way and smiled cryptically. I remember hearing the whirl of the fans in the servers and the tick of the old-fashion battery operated clock on the otherwise bare wall behind him.

“What do you mean?” I finally asked.

“The Watchers have to have a way in to monitor everybody,” he said casually. “No computer can be made without it. That's a law. Been that way for, umm, two or three decades, or so.”

He studied my face as I absorbed his words and then the deeper meaning.

“Every computer?” I finally asked.

“Yep. And let me show you what to look for in case someone has taken it upon their-silly-selves to disable that feature.” He caught my eye then winked. “I mean it's important that the computer technician knows how to spot if a machine's been tampered with. Right?”

Over the next half hour or so he then showed me how to disable the Watcher's backdoor program. He also showed me the tell-tale signs of tampering as well as how to disable the program so that there were no signs at all—other than it wasn't there.

I really think he wanted me to be able to evade the Watchers although I did not act on his information. At least not immediately. Yet he always couched his terms in how to watch for those who were trying to subvert the system.

I didn't get a chance to ask him about that since he suddenly turned the conversation to my love life and who I was seeing and all that sort of stuff. I was immediately defensive and off-puttish since that was an area of my life that was a major sore point for as long as I could remember. I tried putting him off but he saw through my fake bravado and said, “You need to get a girl. Don't go for anyone in this company—always keep business and pleasure separate. But do try out a few night club scenes. There are some fine people there—some that would make a fine partner even.”

We finished up our work and he slipped me an address to a night club then we went our separate ways. I did nothing with the paper he gave me except stick it on a shelf in my room once I got home that night. I did explore the “behind the scenes programs” that he told me about and even practiced turning the Watcher logger on and off a couple of times while using my “bit-sniffer” to watch what information was coming out of my machine. After satisfying myself that the program was indeed truly turned off, I decided to leave it off for a while. After fixing a bowl of soup from a can, I settled into my comfortable chair to read a favorite hard copy book about space flight and escaping from the alien overlords. I fell asleep there long after midnight—something that I did several times a month.

I didn't act on his night club suggestion for at least two or three weeks. I noticed the slip of paper on my shelf but ignored it. Yet I didn't throw it away either. Finally, I picked the slip up and thought about throwing it away. It hovered above the garbage can for several moments before I decided that I should at least give it a try.

The address was for a place on the far side of town in what some might call a seedy section; the event was a raucous music gathering known as a slammin' rock house. The “rock” in the name was short for “rockin'”—as in something that was very hip and happening in the music world; it had little to do with old fashion music form of rock and roll. The term “slammin'” was used as an intensifier, implying that the music was loud, vibrant, fast and often accompanied with drugs and drinks.

That alone should have made me decide against entering the building—I could plainly hear the music from almost a block away. I grew up liking quiet because that was another way that I maintained my near invisibility. Quiet also wore well in the realm of reading books; noise would far too easily drown out the voice of the characters in the stories.

Yet I stood outside the old, four story warehouse. In the industrial areas of large cities, warehouses were commonly re-appropriated into avant garde usages such as cheaper living alternatives or party spaces for independent musicians—the so-called indie musies. I could appreciate indie musies because much (if not most) of what the pop music scene turned out was “sameness.” Listening to the music feeds in public spaces dulled the mind and wore down the intellect with homogeneous, ordinary, nearly uniform pâté of songs. I would retreat to the quietude of my room and my headphones to listen to classical music for hours if I were not reading.

That perhaps is why I stayed outside that old warehouse, staring up at the boarded up windows, rickety fire escape ladders, and ugly gray-brown paint that was covered in years of filth and grime. The setting sun provided a yellow-gold patina to color the otherwise drab building. I realized that it would be something novel—already I could hear that the music was more complex than anything on the public music streams. Plus the old programmer promised that I could meet people here and “meeting” came with a strong promise of meeting some young woman. Yet the level of noise within the warehouse was startling and off-puttish to an avowed introvert like myself.

“Hey! You going in?”

The voice caught me unawares. I usually tried to keep track of things like who was coming up the street toward me, but I was lost in contemplation and the energy of the music from within.

The voice was a young man about my age with three young women hanging onto his arms. “Lucky sucker,” I thought to myself before answering, “Yeah, maybe.”

“Then com'on, bruh!” he laughed. “We show ya'! I'm Ty.”

One of the young women unfolded her arms from his neck and came to my side. “First time?”

I nodded.

“You'll absolutely love it.” She then wrapped her arm about mine and led me inside.

The feeling of a young woman close and showing attention is a very powerful drug. It should not be dispensed idly nor doled out without careful thought. I willingly went with her, following the other three, in through the old doors, up a flight of stairs then to a lavishly decorated door that was wrapped in red velvet and decorated with many jewel-colored bangles. Across the top were the words: “Welcome to Phat Man Ginseng Jungle!” There were also many Chinese characters on the door.

“You're gonna love it,” the young woman holding my arm said to me.

She had to speak very loudly because the thumping of the music was intense. The young man opened the door; the wall of sound struck—hard. He looked around at me, laughed, then handed me something.

“Earplugs,” he shouted to me.

The woman on his left arm laughed and said, “Noob!”

Yeah, that I was. I was the Noob, the new-bie, the innocent initiate. But I was grateful for the plugs. I wiped them off on my shirt then stuck them in my ears. The young woman smiled at me again then pulled me into the room.

The volume after the earplugs were seated was bearable and was actually entertaining. And the company was very fun too. The earplugs were rather clever. They occluded most of the din of the room and the driving throb of the music, but the close conversations of friends were transmitted in readily. I don't know how exactly, but I was able to hear what my new friends were saying without the background noise of the music masking their words.

I also found that the indie musies really had a complex structure and an enjoyable chord progression. Over the course of the evening, I found out that her name was Winnie. Winnie Tudosa. She was the granddaughter of Romanian immigrants. She told me that her grandparents had left Romania at the end of communism after the fall of Nicolae Ceaușescu near the end of the twentieth century. That was something that I remembered from history classes.

“So what's your name, stranger?”

I went silent. I wasn't prepared to say. I really hadn't thought that I had ever had a chance to make it this far on the very first night. I didn't want to say my name. I didn't want to utter it because I absolutely hated my real name. I loathed the name of Leonard. It was usually pronounced “Linnard” and all throughout elementary my classmates laughed and rhymed it with the old twentieth century rock legend “Lynyrd Skynyrd.” As young children they would love that “Skynyrd” sounded like “skinny” or “skinner” and than brought up all sorts of other related imagery. And I never, ever let anyone find out what my middle name was.

“You have a name?”

I quickly pulled back from my introspection. I had always imagined that maybe I was named Leon or maybe Leo. But that sounded too close to my actual name; instead I gave my name as “Reynard. But you can call me 'Ray'.” I knew that Reynard was French for “fox”—I thought I was being so clever.

“Ray. I like that,” she gushed.

“I'm glad,” I replied, not really knowing how to respond to positive female attention, having never experienced anything like it before.

She smiled and looked down.

I took that time to really take in who she was—or at least what she looked like: Blonde hair with darker brown at the roots, hazel eyes with fake eye lashes and painted eyebrows, and her face was angular and a chiseled chin embedded with a small dimple. I liked how she laughed easily and slipped in so complementary into my arms during the course of the night. Again, in hindsight, I warn you to be careful against the intoxicating influence of a young woman's attention.

“Ray, I've gotta say, I've never met anyone like you before,” she finally said.

I almost blushed. “Why's that?”

“Most guys would have already had their paws all over me and been hitting me up in a hundred ways. But you've just been a nice chap, sitting there, talking and then dancing. What's your angle on this?”

I shrugged. “No angle. Just never seen this scene before. I wanted to experience it.”

She smiled sweetly then leaned in close to me. “Can I give you my number?”

So we traded numbers that night and soon I was involved with Winnie. I'd have to say that it changed everything, I was thinking of Winnie as I woke up and as I went to sleep. Throughout the day at work, I would recall things that she said to me and smile in random, unexpected times. Paul, the old programmer, finally asked me in a knowing tone if I had been to that club.

I was a changed man, I tell you. I was eating, sleeping, thinking and breathing all things Winnie. Winnie was my muse and my goal. She was my reason for my next heartbeat as well as the cause of my last. I was back at Phat Man Ginseng Jungle many times over the next few weeks and each time was with Winnie Tudosa.

“Ray, I'm so glad that you showed up in my life!”

Her voice was like music to my heart; her speech was like the whisper of an angel. Of course, I'd do anything that she'd ask of me. Almost.

She introduced me to the party life and adult beverages became a common commodity when we were together. Oh, I had grown to like beer while in college, but the stuff that Winnie ordered was far stronger, more sparkly, and probably more troublesome in the long run. Sometimes she wanted to try her hand at “Lady Luck,” as she called gambling. I never saw the sense of throwing money away like that since I completely understood the odds and the mathematics behind “random.”

She kept pressing me but I'd politely deflect her push. One night she grew downright angry with me. I met a surly side of Winnie that I didn't know existed. She screamed at me then slapped my face. I jumped back, completely unprepared for such a display.

I think she saw the combination of fear and hurt in my eyes; she broke down and began crying. I hate crying. I especially hate it when others cry since I feel so helpless and unable to do anything for them.

I think I stared at Winnie for several long moments. She slouched down onto a chair, leaned on the padded arms of the chair and bawled. I finally moved closer to her and knelt down next to her, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her hair was soft under my touch; I could feel her sobs shake her body.

“So sorry, Ray,” she whispered, her voice muffled by her arms and the chair.

I didn't know what to say yet—I was still trying to process what had happened.

“I didn't mean to do that,” she continued between sobs and sniffles. “It's the stuff I take.”

“The stuff?” I seriously didn't know what she meant.

“Uh-huh. I'm sorry. I'll be better tomorrow.”

“What stuff?” I asked.

“I'll have Trudie take me home.” She looked up at me and I saw her hazel eyes blood shot and smeared with tears. “Good night, Ray. You're so sweet.”

A short while later, Trudie helped Winnie out into the night and I was left in the club still trying to figure things out. I decided that staying would be stupid so I found my coat and left.

At the door a man spoke to me, “It's the reds. Some peeps can't handle them at all.”

I looked at him, not understanding his meaning.

He nodded toward where I had been then added, “Your girl? Emotional? It's the reds. Some peeps react badly; some go fruit-loopy.”

I suddenly clued in that he was talking about recreational drugs. I had no idea what “the reds” were. I knew that drugs were all around the club—that was basic knowledge. It surprised me that Winnie was trying them. It bothered me deeply that she was being messed up by them.

I went home angry: angry at anyone that gave the drugs to Winnie, angry that Winnie tried them, angry that I wasn't there to help Winnie and keep her from harm.

She didn't answered my phone calls or texts for over thirty-six hours, which added to my concern, anger, and angst. I finally met up again with Winnie a couple of days later and everything seemed as it was before. Except I was wondering if there would be an outburst like that again. I decided to play it safe and not bring it up directly, but just express that I was concerned for her and happy that she looked to be feeling better.

“You are such a dear,” she whispered and hugged my arm tightly.

Yet things were not the same. She wanted to spend more time in the club and more time in the club rooms where drugs were overtly used. I refused.

“Ray, you gotta understand: this is who I am. I love the rush; I love the sights and feelings.”

“Do you love hitting and yelling at your close friends then breaking down in tears?” I fired back. “And then having to have someone take you back home cause you're to ill to walk yourself?”

She stared at me hard and pursed her lips tightly. Finally she said, “You will probably never understand; you're just a simple chap. Very likeable, as far as that goes, but simple. You'll never be sophisticated unless you can open your mind to trying other things.”

“If you're the advertisement for trying drugs, I think the ad campaign failed.”

She swung to slap my face, but I stepped back. “I'm erasing your number from my phone,” she finally said. “And I'm erasing your memories from my life.”

I was angry. She spun on her heels and left, retreating into another room. I left the club in a huff with my mind spinning. It was only later that I realized that I was hurt—deeply hurt.

I never went back to Phat Man Ginseng Jungle nor did I ever see Winnie again. There was a raid on that club a week or two after our breakup; all the druggies were arrested and from what I heard Winnie was so strung out that she died in police custody waiting to be processed.

My life changed again. I put a wall up around my heart and my emotions and retreated to the fantasy world of online gaming. There, I could make up my own story of who I was and where I was from. I developed several personae: an ex-patriot Frenchman named Reynard, an middle-aged Slavic man named Ruslan living in the Bronx, a late teenager still in high school who went by the name Chevy, but no one named Leonard.

The problem with online gaming was that it usually got really good late at night. That meant that I was sleeping fewer hours and coming into work more tired and often quite ineffectual. The morning that I deleted the director's presentation was the last straw for my boss. I was unemployed and without a friend in a far away city.

The Watchers, Chapter 1

Chapter One

Invisibility

copyright 2017, David Benning

I grew up in a variety of houses. The one common thread among each was my love for hiding. From my earliest memories, I was hiding under the bed, behind the sofa, then exploring nooks and crannies in various rooms. One house we lived in had an attic that was relatively easy to enter. I believe I was about nine years old when I followed my dad up those old, narrow steps and found the dark and dusty space above our ceiling. I was enthralled! I immediately began planning how to turn a corner of this magical space into my own private kingdom where I could pursue the other love of my young life: reading.

We stayed in that house about four years; during that time I nurtured my imagination by reading all sorts of comic books then SciFi adventure stories and finally some of the books that my dad had in his collection. That bookshelf was a very pretty bookshelf. Dad commented on the beauty of the oak grain and the precision of the workmanship. Mom agreed which is why she let him keep it in the living room as nearly the first thing seen when walking in the front door.

I don't think that Dad had read those books in a very long time. When I actually became curious and pulled out a copy of H. G. Wells' The Invisible Man, I was surprised at how much dust had collected on the top of the book and on the shelf behind it. I quickly blew off the layers that time had deposited then retreated with the book up to my well-furnished reading alcove, high above the ceiling and far out of sight from anyone else.

A couple of days later Dad asked me about the missing book and I told him I had almost finished it. He surprised me by asking key questions about the plot and the characters, proving that he really had read the book at some point in his life. I often was surprised by what information he kept in his mind.

Unfortunately we moved soon after that—moved several times, actually—but those early events provided a counter theme to the reality that pressed itself in on nearly every waking moment of the modern, civilized human. Watchers. Our society had grown to desire safety and protection so much that those in control fostered the belief that the only way to have complete, or nearly complete, safety would be to have surveillance at nearly ever point in the public space. Thus we had video cameras recording activity; but because that became labor-intensive to have a human watch all of it, they figured out how to have a computer scan the feed of hundreds of video inputs: scanning for certain behaviors, scanning for faces then logging where everyone was and what direction they were going and with whom they traveled and what packages were with the person. The next step in monitoring the populace was to install radio chip detectors to sense what RFIDs were going by. People weren't “tagged,” per se, but most everybody had a driver's license or a bank card to access their funds or an identification card for their school or place of employment. It was very easy to quietly add this monitoring capability to the suite of our benevolent government's Watcher programs.

Of course, the government had special sounding names to point out the good side to their intrusive watching: names like “Crime Prevention Algorithms” or “Early Warning Heuristics” or even “Neighborhood Protection Plan.” It was the folks on the street that called them “The Watchers” but never too loudly. I heard an old man at the corner market—the type of man who liked to throw around big words to impress and to bolster his opinion. He muttered something about the “stupid Watchers” then added loudly, “They're ubiquitous, I tell ya'! They're spying on my coffee now!”

I went home and looked that word up.

I also remember that I never saw that man again. It was just another reminder to play the government's game the way they wanted you to play. Don't rock the boat, just blend in or hide.

I chose hiding.

Not that I could really hide, but by laying low and not attracting attention to myself, I tried to stay off the radar and just live my life my own way. It was far easier than truly being invisible.

Of course, fantasies about developing an invisibility cloak still colored my imagination. I replayed the H. G. Wells story a thousand times in my head and thought how the main character, Griffin, might have pulled off his plan if he had merely made a suit to wear that was invisible instead of turning himself into a one-man freak show.

In my last year of high school we had to read another story about an invisible man: Ralph Ellison's “Invisible Man.” But this book was social commentary on the plight of the minority. Not that he was really invisible, but people chose not to see him, rendering him practically invisible. Exactly the opposite problem that we had in our society. I brought that point up in the class discussion and the teacher looked a little alarmed at my connection. She quickly gave the assignment and suddenly we weren't discussing that book anymore. I wondered if I was going to be made “invisible” like that old man in the corner market some years before. I watched my back as well as my “Ps and Qs” but it seemed that nothing came of it.

There was, however, one image from that book that I liked. At the end, the narrator talked about decorating his room with hundreds of lights; I thought, “How cool would that be!” The closest that I was able to get to that was a number of years later when I had a small room of my own and I decorated it with almost fifteen hundred miniature holiday lights—about half white, with other colors that I could control to have my very own form of mood lighting.

Anyway, I went off to college in a neighboring state so I didn't come back home except for the big holidays. During my time at college, there came a subtle shift in my parent's attitude toward each other. No, Dad didn't desert or anything, but there was what I've heard described as the trauma of empty-nesters. In the midst of their trying to come to grips with how to relate to each other without their only child, Dad died in a traffic accident. I didn't find out till over a day later since I was in the midst of finals and had turned my phone off, forgot to check it and then it ran out of battery.

I mention my parent's problem only to partly explain why Mom became more bitter and much harder to please. I was now torn between the filial duty to help Mom and the strong desire to leave and do my own thing without her bitterness haunting everything I did. Little Janie Raincloud would have been a good moniker for her if I had thought about it and didn't mind stirring up trouble. But I stirred up enough trouble by moving out entirely. She gave me the withering glare of disapproval and the silent treatment of guilt peppered with random slights of annoyance here and there. All it did was make me ever the more happy to be out from under her glare.

Yet the Watchers continued their surveillance, monitoring my coming and going, charting my progress in becoming a functional and productive adult. I spoke to Mom on occasions and sent her a greeting on her birthday, yet I never told her how things were going with me. At least nothing deep or personal. But she seemed to know. I wondered how much of it was because she was connected to the Watchers programs or people who had an inside track into that data set. I didn't want to give any thought to the reality of a mother's insight into her child. No, for me, at that point in my life, it was far easier to believe that the Watchers somehow fed her direct information on what I was doing—even though she never had specifics, just generalities which were far too close to the truth for my comfort.

Click for Chapter Two

Light of the Overmark, Chap. 1 & 2

A Sample Reading from the First Book of The Star Tenders  

The first chapter of 

Light of the Overmark

copyright 2016, David Benning

Llant-thallia paused in her rushing to look around. The rich, deep colors of the star fields lay in front of her. Each color vibrated and shimmered in the ethereal glow of the Overmark. It was such a lovely season. New stars would be birthed and new worlds ushered into their dizzying orbits. The joy of such expectations caused her to spin around in three complete circles again.

“You are so full of life today.”

Llant-thallia didn't have to turn to hear the voice. She heard it with her mind and immediately recognized who was speaking to her.

“Of course, I am, Dyadya,” she replied. “Everything here is so wonderful and beauteous and joyful and hasn't HE done all things well?”

“Indeed, my dear Little One, HE has.”

Llant-thallia reflected for a few moments. It was true that she was among the youngest of their clan, but she had already watched the galaxy turn more than once in its graceful pirouette across the great dance floor of space and time.

“Tyetya be back soon?”

“She will arrive in due season. What have you to do at this time?”

“I have been asked to check on the stellar nurseries and watch for the little planets.”

“Do exercise great caution, Little One. Grave things have happened on little planets before.”

“I shall, Dyadya.”

He gently slipped up to her and placed his love and seal of affection in her mind. She smiled and watched as he left. Her Dyadya was a great counselor and was often called upon by the Chron to provide understanding and direction. She smiled. It was a very carefully ordered life—a life filled with purpose and clarity and peace.

That thought again filled her with joy and she had to run. Run! So away she raced to the far star fields where little proto-stars lay tucked in their nebulae awaiting the birth pains that would strip the overlying fog away.

“So close,” she thought.

Then in exultation of delight, she bounded across to another nearby nursery.

She didn't feel a presence come close but she was suddenly aware of an emptiness around her. Joy was sucked from her mind and fear flooded into her heart. The darkness deepened quickly around her and she could no longer see her footing. She tripped on Something that should not have been there. At the same time, Something shoved her hard away from the galactic center. She was now spinning and falling, careening wildly out of control. She felt a pain where that Something had touched her.

“Help!” she screamed with her mind again and again, but she felt the Darkness reflect her thoughts away from where her clan was.

Just then a blinding flash struck at the Darkness and light poured in around her. She was still tumbling out of control, but joy sprung anew as colors bathed her mind with refreshment. She was trying to right herself and stop the gyring and turning. She reached out to find something to stabilize herself upon.

“Watch out, Llant-thalia!”

The voice seemed further away, but she recognized Trey-thaltos. She would have recognized his voice anywhere. He was always so kind and alert—it was small wonder that he had seen her plight. 

“But what am I to watch out for?” she asked herself as she looked around.

At that moment something struck her hard and dimensions crashed in around her. She had experienced dimensions once before when their Preceptor had taken them on an excursion to the surface of a young planet under a newly born star. Dimensions were so limiting, so oppressive. She much rather run free among the star fields.

She opened her eyes but found she could see little. All around her she sensed the clamoring and intrusive thoughts of a hundred miserable beings. She moved and realized that she could transport herself with some difficulty. The Preceptor had shown them how to traverse the dimensions. She chafed at that time when she was limited to only three directions of motion. And now, not even knowing where she was, the limitations proved positively debilitating and horrifying. The pain in her side added a throbbing to the dull ache of the crash. Darkness had suck vitality from her.

But more importantly, she had to collect herself and arrange her parts within the dimensions, limiting as they were. “What form? What form?” she asked herself then gingerly reached out amongst the baffling array of thoughts that shouted at her from every direction.

She was greatly distressed by all that she overheard from their thoughts: angry commotions and nearly unbridled revenge; awkward longings and unrequited love. But the thing that disturbed her the greatest was the emptiness and the great loneliness that she felt in all those thoughts. Not one in a hundred had any tenderness pushing forward that she could sense.

She refocused her mind to find out what these Dimension Dwellers were like and what planet she has crashed into. She was growing tired and faint. The attack and the crash had taken a lot out of her. If she were still out among the star fields she could have gathered the light and been replenished; but here, here in the darkness of this forgotten world—“No!” The new thought imposed itself on her like the weight of a thousand suns. “Is this Thanadora?” Thanadora was a small planet in a small system in a forgotten and neglected corner of the galaxy. She had been out racing in the vicinity but still many parsecs away, yet the attack had sent her spinning and tumbling who knows where. No wonder Trey-thaltos had tried to warn her.

“Oh, what am I to do?” The realization pressed down on her with grave concern and added worry to her throbbing pain. Of course, Trey-thaltos would have seen where she went and he would be organizing help right now. But the important thing now was to stay out of sight and undetected by the Krahlthaus and the evil Overlord. She shuddered at remembrance of stories she had learned from her Preceptor, stories of unthinkable evil and malice.

“I must find a form and blend in,” she resolved. “Then find replenishment.”

The Preceptor had shown them on their visit to the new planet how to take replenishment from the Dimensions. It was adequate but hardly enjoyable—“It will have to do, though.”

A new presence approached where she lay sprawled on the cold, wet ground. Slowly she reached out to explore the new mind gently and take in what images it had seen. She encountered sadness and regret, but she also found sweet tenderness.

“Yes, that's what I can be,” she decided and focused her remaining energies on collecting herself into three dimensions.

----------------------------

The second chapter of 

Light of the Overmark

copyright 2016, David Benning

It was a typical fall day and I was typically stoic and boarder-line complaining as I finished my shift. The evening was partly clear with the hint of a cool snap ready to descend as night deepened. Leaves had already been showing hints of turning in the wondrous display of autumnal colors and the ground was still damp from an earlier rain shower. The clearing of the sky would definitely help the temperatures drop quickly.

I pulled my jacket tighter around and zipped it up a little tighter. Being all day in a climate controlled workplace made the transition to fall and winter temperatures that much harder. I didn't have too much further to go. The bus dropped me off five blocks from my house. It provided me a chance to have a little exercise and the cool air always helped clear my mind from work. Now for preparing some dinner and the quiet of my home.

Work was a noisy place. There were instruments and motors and fans and people talking and against it all was the insipid radio playing whatever station was least offensive. And that meant that it played drivel. Musical drivel that was written to control the masses and keep them from thinking by merely giving them replacement emotions and memories for all those that they didn't have.

Yeah, I was in my early sixties, but was as big of a curmudgeon as someone in their eighties. “Eh? Kids, get off my grass!”

That's why I was looking forward to being in my home where I played my music if I wanted to play any at all. I talked to co-workers occasionally and I saw their eyes glaze over as I explained how classical music was infinitely better and more complex than anything that pop music offered—especially the stuff that was played on the top-ten commercial stations.

But as I walked from work a certain melancholy reverie washed over me. I was not one usually given to reflecting on the past. No, for me, the past was a toxic mix of pleasantness and painful memories; thus I lived in the present and stayed day-to-day.

But the memories pushed at my mind and triggered long-repressed thoughts. Memories that recalled back to my teenaged years. I recalled walking this very same street as a sophomore coming home from high school.

High school! Oh, now there was a memory that I hadn't actively thought of in years. I had even purposely avoided going to my fortieth year reunion to skirt around the bad memories associated with that time in my life. I couldn't believe that I was recalling the memories of Kelly and James and Joey! What was this!?

I suddenly thought of my wife. My eyes misted up. I felt her hand squeeze mine. And I heard her voice whisper in my ear, “My love, I pray you will find peace in God.”

I stopped walking—the memory was so overpowering. My wife had passed away not even eight years before. After her death I became a recluse of sorts. My two grown children didn't know what to do with me and as I became increasingly unresponsive, they slowly communicated less and less. Oh, they sent greetings at Christmas and on my birthday, but it had been years since I had heard their voices. And even longer since I interacted with my grandchildren.

At that point I saw Clarissa, my oldest grandchild. There she was at age nine or ten. Sweet and trusting with long brown hair cascading down over her shoulders in a tumble of curls and motion. Her face was upturned toward mine and she said, “Please? Please, Grandpa?”

Of course, I would. I loved my family so much. My grandchildren were so adorable and precious. My heart actually ached at that point. What was I thinking? What was happening to me?

This was so out of character. I shook my head and reset my thoughts.

“No, I have to get dinner ready,” I spoke resolutely to myself.

That's when I heard a noise, a rustling in the nearby bushes that sounded like a small animal but with a moan that was almost human.

I stepped close to the bush and tried to peer under it in the gathered darkening of twilight and a street lamp a half block away. I saw little.

“Anyone there?” I asked tenuously.

There was no response so I slowly unbent.

“Please, mister?”

The voice was plaintive, weak and small. I was so surprised that I said nothing.

“Please? So cold!”

“I can't see you,” I finally answered. “Where are you?”

The young voice didn't answer, but my eyes adjusted to the gloom under the bushes. There was a form under there—a young child!

“Oh, my gracious!” I suddenly exclaimed. “Are you okay, child?”

“So cold.”

I noticed that the voice seemed girl-like and very young. Perhaps it was because I was just remembering Clarissa when she was about that age, but a paternal instinct took over. “I'll help you. Let me lift you up out of here.”

The sudden memories of picking up Clarissa washed over my mind as I drew the young child toward me then cradled her in my arms. “What happened?” I whispered.

“Umm. Don't know.”

“Let's get you home. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

I picked this child up and carried her the remaining three blocks to my home. She was so light and waft-like. I was worried about malnutrition and abuse. Images of deformed children flashed through my mind before a profound sense of “stop” entered. After that I was able to function. I held this child in my left hand while I fished in my pocket for my house key.

“You okay?” her voice whispered. Her head rested on my shoulder.

“Yes. I have my keys now.”

Suddenly I thought of all the places that I used keys. Keys for home, for my car and for work. Keys for passwords to access secure places within work or the computer. Keys to tests that I graded when I was a student assistant in college some forty years before.

Inside my home, I clicked the light on, closed the door and locked it, then walked up the half flight of steps to the living room and gently placed this young girl on the couch.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I reached for the blanket that rested next to the couch—the blanket that I hadn't used since my wife had passed away—the blanket that probably had years of dust hanging on it, and spread it out over this child. At that point, in the light of the entryway, I examined her face. She looked like a ten year old. Long, dark brown hair and fair features with a summery dress. “Oh, my Lord, she looks just like Clarissa!”

I stepped back in shock of memories that flooded my mind.

“You okay?” the girl asked.

“Um, yeah, maybe,” I finally answered. “How 'bout you?”

She shook her head and shivered. I could tell that she was nearly suffering hypothermia or shock or some such medical condition as that.

“Very cold,” she whispered. “Need replen...um, food.”

“I was going to make dinner. You'd like some?”

“Um, yes?”

“Okay, you wait here and I'll start fixing it.” I tucked the blanket in around her and added, “Go ahead and sleep if you'd like.”

Now, perhaps that was the thing about my generation. If someone needed help, you just helped them the best you could. You didn't go involving the government unless it was something huge like a land invasion from another continent or something. It never crossed my mind that I would need to call the police or protective services because there was a child who was lost. The child needed food and shelter—that was something I could provide, so there was no question that I would help. That's just the way I was raised. Of course, I knew that I would eventually have to contact the police, but lands sakes, the child needed to warm up and have a good hot meal first.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Sure thing. By the way, I'm Seth. Seth McClure.”

“Seth.” She nodded and closed her eyes.

“And what's your name?”

She opened her eyes again and said, “Too long to tell you the whole thing.”

“So how 'bout a nickname or something.”

“Lannie. Call me Lannie.”

“Okay, Lannie. I'm gonna get you some hot soup and a nice toasted cheese sandwich.”

I left her on the couch then went and opened up a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup. As I smelled the soup, wave after wave of memories washed over me. I sat down at the kitchen table and remembered warming up a couple of cans right after we had first been married—my wife had taken ill and was just feeling better so I did the best I could to make her feel right. Her smile as I handed her the warm cup still warmed my heart forty-two years later. But the soup smell brought back images of feeding our two children around the very same table. And then, some years later, watching as my granddaughter, Clarissa, ate crackers and soup.

“What is wrong with me tonight?” I whispered. “Get a grip!”

A few minutes later, the soup was in two separate mugs and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches were cooking on the range.

“It smells nice.”

I jumped at the sound of her soft voice. I thought she would have gone to sleep.

“I did not mean to scare you,” she added and she sat down on the chair I had just occupied and drew the blanket around her shoulders.

“I thought you'd be asleep.”

“I'm getting warmer. Thank you.”

I flipped the sandwiches over. “So where are ya' from and what're ya' doing out tonight?”

She sighed and looked off into the distance. “Elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” I almost laughed. That reply was totally unexpected. “What sort of answer is that? Aren't your parents worried 'bout where you are now?”

“They're looking.”

“So what happened?”

“I tripped and fell.”

“So should I drive you back to your folks place?”

“Can't. Too far.”

This conversation was going much differently than I had imaged. “So, I should call the police and let them help you.”

She stood up suddenly with fear in her eyes and said, “No. Please, don't, Mr. Seth.”

That response surprised me very much. “Okay, I won't call right now. Here's a sandwich and I'll just get our mugs of soup.”

She sat back down and looked at the plate with the sandwich on it. She waited till I placed the soup mugs on the table and sat down.

“Aren't ya' hungry?” I asked taking a bite.

She nodded and picked hers up and started eating.

“Do you miss her?” she suddenly asked.

I snapped out of my reverie. “Who?”

Lannie pointed at the refrigerator where I had an old picture of my wife holding Clarissa. I had grown so accustomed to it being there on the side near the flour canister that I had basically forgotten that it was there at all.

“Yes,” I finally answered and slurped another spoonful of soup.

“Both?”

I looked intently at this child. She looked ten, but she was now acting much older with far more experience.

“Yes. But that was a long time ago.”

She nodded and ate more of her food. “Thank you. I should sleep now.”

“What are we going to do about your parents?”

“They will come for me.” She picked up the blanket and walked back to the living room, leaving me alone in the kitchen with a world of thoughts swirling around my head.