“I saw you.”

Hero jumped.

“I saw you,” a small girl beside her repeated. “In the woods last night.”

Hero’s eyes grew wide as Relle leaned over toward the interloper, a petite blonde in black leggings and a black sweatshirt. “We do not know you,” Relle smiled, “and you did not see us. You might be thinking of someone else.”

“Fine. I didn’t see you.” The blonde pulled a pair of large, buggy sunglasses over her eyes and sat back, crossing her arms.

“Great. Good luck with whoever you’re looking for.” Relle leaned back and pulled Hero toward her end of the bench.

Hero felt the bench shift this time as the body neared her. “But if I did? If I did see you in the woods last night?”

Relle peered over her own sunglasses and narrowed her eyes. “What did I just say? I don’t know what you were talking about. We weren’t in the woods last night.”

A few people had begun to gather and the girl raised her voice. “Okay, Relle Blake and Hero Creekmore. I didn’t see you in the woods last night tearing into some boy with your ghoulish little teeth and claws." She bent her fingers and laughed. "That was someone else. My. Mistake.”

Relle whipped off her sunglasses and leaned over Hero once again. The latter winced as the former shoved her back against the bench to get closer to her antagonist.

“Hey! Shh, shh! Shut the fuck up! What do you want, Blondie?”

“Nah. I don’t want anything. I don’t need anything from you.” As she got up Hero noticed her the dirt under her nails and the length to her ears.

Her hand flew to Relle’s shoulder, but Relle had already seen. She grabbed Hero’s hand and pulled her up.

“No, no. You come here, little girl.”

The blonde turned to Hero and Relle and smiled. She had the same lupine grin as the girls. She turned and took off sprinting, across the park and through into the woods.

“Bitch!” Relle spat. “It’s gonna be like that? Let’s go, Ro.”

The two sprinted after the third, and as they chased through the morning mist Hero laughed with exhilaration and anger. And the thrill of the chase. The girl was fast, but they were faster.

They backed her against a tree, and her body thudded against it as she slowed herself to a halt. The girl broke into manic laughter as she slid to the base of the tree. Relle growled. Hero observed, and placed an arm on Relle to quiet her. Only once the laughter stopped and the shuttering tears began did Hero let the taller girl question the small figure shaking beneath them.

“Alva,” the girl offered her name to Relle. “I know both of you. Hero, Relle. I’ve seen you at the bars. I’ve done a little digging. A little stalking. If you sit down, I’ll tell you my story.”

They had no choice but to drop, and to listen.

Linda Hughes-Reed owed me big time, and I was about to collect. My wide-bottomed, rear end lodged deep in the leather passenger seat of a triple-black ’86 Corvette convertible; top down, music blaring; heater cooking my deck-shoed, sockless feet; cool, misty midnight October air waving wildly through what was left of my thinning brown hair. Flying low on I-4, eyeballing the Bee Line Expressway. Heading to a near-mystical place called Eckler’s in Titusville on Florida’s East Coast. Going to the 1992 version of “The Reunion,” a gathering that this year would celebrate “America’s Sports Car” reaching a milestone: the one-million mark. Thinking to myself, “Life is good” . . . and it was.

My pilot for this ground-level flight was Martin (pronounced Mar-teen) Gonzales, a Tampa native who’d parlayed his late father’s failing Spanish AM radio station into an all-talk, all-English, powerhouse that featured (among others) a controversial syndicated host named Rush Limbaugh. Ybor City’s Cuban community hated that Marti had dropped the money-losing, Spanish-language programming that had railed against Castro and Communism. Tampa’s media elite hated that he broadcast Limbaugh’s fiery brand of conservatism. He casually dismissed the criticism.

Cada cabeza es un mundo," Marti said, translating (for me) this Cuban proverb as, “Every head is a world of its own.”

I’d met Marti as a result of an article I’d done for Florida! magazine—an article Linda nearly spiked. I wondered how things would have turned out if she hadn’t listened when I told her to push off her annual hurricane edition until the September issue. She thought I was crazy and said so—in that earthy, slice-and-dice way that only a former cop-shop reporter can convey. But I pushed back (I’d shoveled through a few miles of police logs myself.) Sold her. Cajoled her. Won her over to a cover story called “When the Big One Hits,” convinced it would sell issues of her magazine, and, after all, I asked, “Isn’t that why you became a publisher in the first place?”

In the end, she agreed, but not before threatening to throw me off the St. Petersburg Pier if the idea flopped. I ended being right—and lucky. It wasn’t the first time I’d been either.

When Linda’s September issue hit newsstands in mid-August, nature had yet to produce its first named storm of the hurricane season, which runs from June 1 to Nov. 30. The magazine cover featured a stunning, computer-generated illustration of a massive storm bearing down on South Florida. The graphic, done by a student at the Ringling School of Art in Sarasota, had a wonderful trompe l'oeil quality: It seemed to float above the page.

The day after Florida! hit shelves, Tropical Storm Andrew hit radars, following the same path as the magazine’s faux storm, which I had christened “Zoey.” Issues of Florida! were tossed into shopping carts along with shrink-wrapped batteries, bottled water, and duct tape. For the first time in the publication’s history, it sold out.

People dubbed Ms. Hughes-Reed a journalistic genius. Shrewd. Crafty. Prescient. Fans of Florida! (her hip, breezy state rag) wined-and-cheesed her. Critics, who had smirked at the idea of publishing a hurricane edition halfway through the season, just whined. It didn’t matter. She’d made the right call. Gutsy. Now she basked like the Florida Gator she was, even though her success had come about because she’d listened to an FSU drop-out like me.

All I asked in return was for Linda to accept from me (her favorite freelancer) a trinket of a story titled “Fantastic Plastic, Florida’s Corvette Connection.” It was a serendipitous by-product of my meeting Marti. He’d read my hurricane article and hired me as a commentator during his around-the-clock Andrew coverage. (When I noticed framed photos of his beloved six-speed “Belleza Negra” plastered around the studio, I sensed a story.)

“If you like Belleza, you should join me for a little party I’ve planned,” he said.

I did not know, at the time, the party was for a car.

CHAPTER TWO

A crowded donut stand, a country block from the Eckler warehouse entrance, would have been an ideal place to stop, had there been parking, but Marti, who I’d long since learned to trust regarding planning ahead, was prepared: He stopped behind a beat-up trailer that appeared abandoned beside the unadorned, whitewashed building—then hopped out of the Vette, flipped down the fold-up ramp, and drove aboard, wisely letting me disembark first, for he knew that coordination was not one of my gifts-on-loan from God.

We headed inside.

A thin, golf course-tanned, hyper-manicured man who’d been saving a table for us stood up and waved. He wore a pastel creamy-green Polo shirt, perfectly ironed white Bermuda shorts, a toasty-brown, intricately knotted belt with a wrought-iron buckle, and fancy air-friendly shoes that look like they’ve been wicker-woven by fussy elves.

“Here’s Jack Sanders,” Marti said. “They call him Smilin’ Jack. He used to do PR for GM. He’ll answer all your questions.”

“At least some of them,” Jack said, “And you must be Sam, Marti’s writing friend.”

“The very same . . .”

“What’ll you have?” Marti asked as he headed to the counter, where a long line corkscrewed through the aisle.

“Plain cake donut. Black coffee,” I said

I pulled out two pens, a small notebook, and my portable tape recorder.

“Do you mind?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Jack said. “Marti prepared me for your interrogation tactics. Plus, I spent time in a German prison camp, so I can endure just about anything.”

I understood why they called him “Smilin’ Jack.” He bore an uncanny resemblance to Zack Mosley’s World War Two cartoon strip aviator, right down to the square jaw, pencil-thin mustache, and slick-combed hair, neatly parted in the near-middle. The only difference: Jack’s turf had long since turned Dover white. And he was more on the wiry side than his pen-drawn counterpart, but even at age 71, he looked formidable.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

I flipped on my recorder.

“Wherever you like.”

* * *

On September 30, 1938, Neville Chamberlain talked of “Peace with honor” and “Peace in our time.” The Sanders family pondered those words as they crackled through the cloth-covered speakers of the large, majestic, wood-encased, Silvertone radio that dominated the living room’s north wall of his Indiana home.

While the broadcast commentators droned on about what the Prime Minister’s Munich agreement with the German Führer might mean, Jack’s eyes shifted from his father’s tense expression to the radio’s ornate, softly lit, golden dial, with its stylized numbers grandly surrounding an Art Deco sun and stars. Three elegantly scripted words on the Silverstone’s face jumbled inside his head: “American,” “Foreign,” “Aviation.” It seemed a cryptic puzzler. What apocalyptic vision might this trinity foreshadow?

“The commentators all sound hopeful,” Jack said.

“Means war,” his father growled, puffing on his well-worn, hand-crafted, walnut root Castleford pipe. “You can’t surrender to a bloody lunatic like Hitler.”

Then he puffed, deeply.

“Means war,” he repeated.

Jack knew better than to disagree with his father, a veteran of The Great War, and a successful businessman whose Buick dealership had survived the Great Depression.

Though Jack was American by birth, the family had deep roots in England. His paternal grandfather was born in Cardiff, but his ancestors were all Devonians. Jack’s father left Great Britain just after the First World War for reasons unstated, but it had something to do with his having no desire to undertake a career in civil service. (He was the only Sanders with a keen entrepreneurial spirit.)

John worked his way to the States as a cook on a decrepit freighter, saved enough money to buy a fine suit, then trudged around trying to find a job before walking into a Buick showroom just as the Roaring ’20s unfurled. The Englishman’s handsome looks and dignified manner belied a slim purse, but he had determined that the streets of America were paved with gold, and he would mine the former colonies to their depth. The Buick would be his shovel—and an able tool it proved.

By the time Alfred P. Sloan, Jr., took over as GM president and writer/traveler Lowell Thomas was traversing Afghanistan’s tough terrain in a Buick circa 1923, the popular marquee’s top salesperson was a Brit. Within five years, he opened the doors of Sanders Buick, bankrolled by shrewd business maneuvers, not the least of which was marrying the daughter of a banker, one of his customers.

Jack saw in his father the foundational strength he knew England would need if war came. He felt he had an obligation to defend a homeland he never knew. But how?

The following year produced answers.

* * *

Harley J. Earl, GM’s first design chief, created a concept car called the Y-Job. Thanks to his father’s friendship with Earl, Jack feasted on it firsthand.

Y-job was like nothing he’d ever seen: It was long and low—20 feet from stern to bow, yet less than five feet tall. While other cars were square and boxy, Y was curved, black and beautiful. The crisp chrome grill was horizontal with thin, vertical bars. Headlights were hidden and power-driven, as was the convertible top, cleverly covered by a wide, smooth lid that slipped into a space behind the passenger compartment. It had electric doors and windows. Recessed taillights. Power steering. No running boards. An advanced braking system. Plus, it boasted just two seats.

“How do you like my baby?” an obviously proud Earl asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, exhaling the word in a way typically reserved for Hollywood starlets.

“Would you like to take it for a drive?”

Jack nodded.

“Jump in.”

Jack could not remember where they drove, only that he felt like a character in a Jules Verne novel who'd slipped into the future.

“Can I tell my father he’ll be selling these, soon?”

“No,” Earl smiled. “But tell him he’ll being seeing details from the Y here and there.”

Earl asked Jack about his future—and if he’d considered a career at General Motors.

“After the war, perhaps,” Jack said.

Earl’s face tightened.

“Years away, if at all,” he said.

“Not for me,” Jack said. “I’m trying to find a way to go to England. Fight the good fight.”

Earl’s smile returned.

“When you come back, see me.”

“I will,” Jack said.

On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Jack’s father was right. War came and, by May 10, 1940, Chamberlain was gone, a victim of his appeasement policy. As Sophocles wrote, “The greatest griefs are those we cause ourselves.” Meanwhile, Jack was encouraged by the reassuring words of  Winston Churchill, the new Prime Minister:

"Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valor, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our nation and our altar."

Jack vowed that day to become a “man of valor.” It took awhile to make good on that promise.

By Thanksgiving, through his father’s contacts, Jack learned that Americans were covertly being recruited for the Royal Air Force at the Grand Central Aerodrome in Glendale, California. With his father’s support, but against his mother’s wishes, he headed West. (She would die before his return, a passing whose pain never fully healed.) RAF pilot testing was collegial, sprinkled with nods, winks, and humor. No mention of the mission was made. (America was, after all, neutral.)

There were British instructors as well as Americans; Jack scored well with both.

“You’ll do fine,” quipped Clyde Becker from Sutton Bridge, an Operational Training Unit on England’s east coast. “At least you shouldn't have much trouble with the language.”

My poems are not real

     just pen marks on my palms

     glistening lips searching for another

     deep pools of turquoise eyes

     crescents of my soul

My poems are not real

     floating imperfections in halos

     tinges of colors mixed with lightning

     carved thoughts and trembling hands

     love within heartstrings

My poems are not real

     stairs of tumbling rapids

     racing without destination

     brutal partings and warm embraces

     forced tears and black tunnels

My poems are not real

     endless roads paved in water

     whirlpools of striking pain

     grains of sand on beaches

     skipped stones without weight.

My poems are not real

     swimming in wide motions

     empty train tracks

     poetry unveils my darkness

     hiding behind walls

My poems are not real

     dangling thoughts on paper

     doorway to my existence

     beckoning for you to enter

     to my world of unreality.

‘We need you to get some Leprechaun gold George,’ Molly stated, as a matter of fact.

George sat there open mouthed.

‘Some what?’ he replied.

‘Leprechaun gold – that’s why you have the Myths and Legends survival guide,’ said Molly.

‘But why? Do you think we’ll need some kind of ransom for my parents?’

George was now finding it hard to take all this in.

‘No,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘Let me explain. When you go back to see the Captain and Lady Jane they won’t know who you are, right’

‘Yes, you explained that, but where does the Leprechaun gold come into it?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Molly protested.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said George.

‘Well, the first owner of Arrington hall, the man who had the house built and hid the scroll, realised the potential of the library, in being able to come back in time and visit past ancestors, like him for instance.’

‘Okay.’ George wasn’t convinced.

Molly rolled her eyes into the back of her head.

‘He also realised the importance of the three scrolls and that one day it was bound to happen, but he couldn’t risk just anybody hearing about it and then turning up and claiming to be a long lost relative or a future one for that matter. He figured he would have to come up with a secret code or something so they could be sure who it was.’

‘So when I go back into their history,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘they will know who I am and help me if I give them some of the Leprechaun gold.’

‘Yes, by George, he’s got it, if you’ll pardon the expression.’ She exclaimed. ‘A simple piece of normal gold was not enough. He had to make it something rare and very hard to get hold of.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ George said, nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Molly, ‘the survival guide you have there was compiled by the same man, after extensive research. It’s the only one to have ever been published. Your parents must have taken it from the library to hide it in your trunk.’

‘But wouldn’t you have noticed them doing this?’ George asked.

‘Look, just because I’m a member of the undead, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to have a rest or a snooze now and again,’ She protested. ‘ It can get boring in here sometimes, especially when no-one visits for years on end, and as for that lot, well, they never stop sleeping – and snoring, loudly,’ she added, with consternation, glancing at the old paintings on the wall, with the ink figures fidgeting restlessly within their frames..

‘It all sounds a bit long winded,’ George moaned, ‘Couldn’t he have just invented a secret handshake or something?’

‘No, that would have been too easily tortured out of someone. This way was safer.’

George gulped.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he said. ‘If it’s so hard to do, why isn’t Uncle Felix doing it, instead of me?’

Molly could see the point George was making, but she also understood what his Uncle’s reasoning might have been.

‘Maybe your Uncle thought it was time for you to know about the family’s legacy,’ she suggested, ‘or that you had come of age, what with everything that’s happened recently in your life.’

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then decided that George needed to know the full story.

‘Also,’ she said, ‘your uncle hasn’t been in the library since before you were born.’

George was taken aback. His Uncle had been only too eager to point him in the direction of the library that morning. What could have possibly happened to make him not want to go back in? George shrugged his shoulders. Maybe instead of explaining everything to him, and have George believe he was a mad old fool, his Uncle had reckoned it would be better for him to discover the library for himself.

‘So why won’t he come back in here then?’ George said.

‘Well,’ Molly hesitated, ’it’s because of something that happened in a book he was visiting.

She sat, or rather hovered, into the chair opposite George and bowed her head.

‘He fell in love,’ she murmured.

‘Really,’ George shouted, smiling. ‘Good for him – but I don’t understand, why is that such a bad thing?’

‘Because it could never last, it was doomed from the start,’ Molly cried. 'The story cannot continue beyond a certain point and characters cannot be taken out of the books, only the odd prop that is not central to the main storyline, like some of the things you see in this house, or the silver keys for example.’

‘Oh,’ George said, simply.

It was obvious from the forlorn look on everyone’s faces, and of Molly’s especially, that this had been a very upsetting time when it had happened, all those years ago. His Uncle had obviously been much loved and was now severely missed.

‘So….what happened,’ he stammered, ‘I mean what book did it happen in?’

Molly looked up, her ghostly eyes red around the edges.

‘Have you heard of a book called 1001 Arabian nights,’ she said.

‘Er….vaguely.’

’Well, basically, the story is based around the tale of a princess who is due to be executed the following day by her husband the King, but each night she tells him a story, leaving it at a crucial moment to be continued the following evening.

‘Eager to know how the story continues he gives her a stay of execution, so that he can find out what happened next. Well she managed to continue this for 1001 nights.’

George listened intently, while Molly continued.

‘Well, your Uncle Felix went into the book and fell in love with the princess. Believing that her time was running out and that she really would be executed he came up with a daring plan to rescue her. But, it all went wrong I’m afraid…he headed back to the portal hand in hand with the princess, chased by axe wielding guards. Except the only problem was’, Molly sobbed, ‘is that upon reaching this side he was on his own, she couldn’t come through. It was only a fictional book so it also meant he couldn’t go back into it either.’

‘Blimey, he must’ve been devastated,’ George said.

‘Yes he was. You see even though she was only a made up character George,’ Molly added, ’to him it was all very real. He swore never to come back into the library, and since that day, he never has.’

*

George stood, staring at the closed up doorway, in anticipation. The patterned paper on the wall started to come together and swirl around into a whirlpool of colours, like a dancing rainbow. It was as if the library knew what George’s intentions were. The colours then began to stretch out into the distance and it was almost as if he could see what was on the other side, but rippled, like looking into a pool of water, gently wafted by the wind. He felt every nerve ending in his body jangling within him, and on the tips of his fingers, as he gripped the Myths and Legends book tightly in his right hand. He had never felt so nervous in all of his life. He had also never felt so alive.

‘So you know what to do,’ Molly repeated.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he shouted back, ‘you’ve told me enough times and I’ve got the book as well if I need to check anything.’

He took several deep breaths and counted to three in his head before declaring;

‘Okay, here goes,’ he yelled.

He ran as hard and fast as he could across the room and, with a loud whumph, disappeared into the portal.

He heard it the moment both his feet landed on the tile floor, the music that drifted through the darkness. Aaron crouched there, letting his eyes adjust and watching the dust swirl through the threads of light that poured their way through rents in thick concrete and brick walls wrought by time’s neglect. He had found an opening in the building through a window outside covered by thin plywood that gave with little effort. There were dozens of hard plastic tables layered with soot, their colors alternating between faded shades of the primary colors and lined up in symmetrical aisles that centered themselves in front of a wide stage set two feet off the ground. This was the school’s cafeteria. He caught the name of the piece that was playing-- Debussy, and horribly out of tune. The felt hammers of the piano fell upon the steel strings in a lazy, uneven, way, ringing along the walls and through the halls of the old Oleander Elementary. The new school had been built five miles south to replace this one years ago after a fire devoured an entire wing of the building, reducing the U shape to an L. Aaron tried not to concern himself with the number of school children and staff. Numbers meant a great deal to the living but not to the dead, and the dead is who he had his business with.

He reached into the cargo net of his backpack and pulled out a flashlight, moving it in slow arcs throughout the room. Aaron knew he was seen already, he could always feel them stare. Not here, he thought, and then began to walk down the center aisle toward the stage. The fire had taken place between breakfast and lunch, there was to be an assembly that day, wood props of trees and homes were set, the crimson colored curtains drawn back. The dust patterns on the stage told him that the curtains had just been pulled. The piano continued to play, verse by verse in that clumsy way; here, Aaron knew, something strong would be laid to rest today. No echoes. Any sound Aaron made was suffocated the moment it escaped by a weight pressing against him in the school, a gravity.

“I’m here to help.” His voice was calm, but still audible. Aaron tried again, “I’m here to help.” This time, only ‘I’m’ and ‘to’ were heard.

I want to help, he said. This time it worked. The curtains and rod fell and landed with a sharp crack that was smothered at once.

Show me where, Aaron said, his voice stolen before it could know the air.

Show me. The school bell began to ring, muted, but still audible.

Thank you, I’ll be quick. Aaron followed the bell out of the cafeteria and into the hall. He crossed the entire length of the first floor, pushing open doors that had been shut for decades and running the tips of his fingers across the rusted desks. Climbing up the steps to the second floor the bell became louder. He took the ascent with care, over the years he had seen much and his recklessness was often punished. Aaron had to be more careful, he was a father now, and over-confidence was no longer on the table. Reaching the top step, the bell became clear. If you were to stand outside, you would never know it was happening. Every step Aaron took was like lens finding focus in the distance. He walked down the second floor hall toward the severed end of the school. A patchwork of tarps had been placed over the exposed roof eaten by flame with the intention of preserving whatever it was inside for history. No one could agree that museum and memorial may as well mean the same thing. 

A storm had blown in the previous night and unbound half the clasps that held the tarp to the roof, leaving the furthest end of the hall exposed to the open air. The bell stopped ringing once Aaron was beneath the rotten and scared roof, but the piano was as loud as ever. No use for the flashlight now, its bulb now a dim flicker.

I want to help, Aaron repeated, each word spilling to another time. There was an anger here and he knew he wouldn’t be breathing soon. No matter how many times he did this, in all the years, he was intoxicated by the cocktail of panic, adrenaline, and excitement that blooms just before let it seize him. The sky was bare but the light seemed to spiral, casting shadows that swirled around him. Colors dulled not by dust or time but by unseen gears that turn silent clocks. It’s a strong one, Aaron thought, and it’s about to get a whole lot stronger. He could hear in the empty rooms the sound of tables sliding across the wooden floor and calm voices that urged everyone to line up in a by the door. The small hammers of the school bell swelled to a fever pitch.

Aaron stood at the building's jagged edge, looking out into the field where what remained of the school rested like charred bones of a great beast. Aaron could no longer breathe. His hands remained still beside his sides while he blinked hard into the open air. The music ceased and with it, Aaron’s heart. He fell forward, one arm spilling over the edge, while his eyes adjusted. The crisp mountain air that rushed in his open mouth soon tasted of smoke and ash. His eyes refocused and saw the heavy billows of smoke traveling through the corridor. He stayed low and began to crawl across the floor, his limbs too weak to do any more. Children hurried passed him with staff members as shepherds. Many of them met his gaze, some even stopped long enough to look upon him with wide curious eyes before being shoved from behind to keep moving. His legs felt stronger. Aaron crawled to the edge of the hallway and used the wall to help him stand. Closer, just a little closer. Fire crawled along the ceiling in small rolling waves and Aaron knew that his time was short.

Where are you? He asked, before turning around and walking back. The only door he found closed was marked 212. Here. The knob was hot to the touch. He pulled one of his sleeves over his hand and quickly gave it a twist. Inside he saw a ring of children, twelve in number and none over the age of seven, gathered in the center of the room with joined hands. At the middle of the circle was a woman slumped on the floor. As Aaron walked into the classroom every pair of round eyes turned look to him.

--You don’t belong here the door is too hot to open we don’t know what happened to her you don’t belong here neither does he it hurts to breathe why did they leave us you don’t belong here help us help us help us is she hurt help you don’t belong here—

It will be over soon, Aaron said. He could feel a heavy breath wash over him as the flame began to eat through the walls and ceiling. The children broke their circle and spread a little wider so that Aaron could join them. He sat crossing his legs before holding up his hands to join them, his large palms engulfing their tiny fists like stones. From here Aaron recognized the woman and saw her leg and hands twitching. Looking at them he said-- Stay with me. Each of you will see a stream and when you do, step into its water. There, you will find your release. Keep your eyes on me. Don’t let go. There they waited while the fire spread across the walls and then, in a violent burst, the air was sucked out of their small mouths and fed the flame that swirled around the room setting all to cinder. They could not scream, but they felt the searing. Neither of them let the other go and the world would never know their courage.

I’m so sorry. Aaron felt the grip on his hands tighten; tiny finger nails digging deep into his flesh, while the fire swept them up off the ground for a moment. This would be what he would remember the most: suspended in the air with joined hands, all eyes on him searching for the river he promised as the fire blackened them to ash. What fell back onto the floor was him and nothing else. Aaron blinked hard again and saw himself rolling on the ground, again on the edge of the severed school. The colors looked a little brighter and the light from beyond the building’s ruin poured over his cold body. 

His heart returned to life with sharp raps against the bone of his chest, stumbling before catching rhythm. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. Aaron swatted at his body while rolling around the floor, half-believing he was still on fire. Looking at his palms he could see the small crescent shaped marks of fingernails that did indeed draw blood.

From the edge of the building he spotted his station wagon and the toddler’s car seat strapped into the back. Aaron leaned forward, pressing his head against the cold floor and began to weep. He saw himself in the air, looking into their eyes and wide mouths.

He felt himself being pulled down the hall, away from the building's edge, slow at first and then lifting from the floor altogether. Arrested by grief and disbelief while spinning backwards at a speed gaining in momentum. This isn’t supposed to be happening, Aaron said to himself while sailing across the darkening hall. He spun his floating body around and saw the wall at the hall’s end fast approaching. Closing his eyes he put both hands forward and tried to press against the gravity pulling him. The tiles on the wall fell around him while landing with a thump. Aaron rolled onto his stomach, trying to pick himself up before he was pulled into the air again and hurled down the hall toward the opposite end where there was nothing to stop him.

“Shit.”

The hall grew darker the closer he came to the exposed end of the building. The heavy breath he felt wash over him in the class room now made a sublime kind of sense. Five feet from being flung out into the open air to his death his feet began to drag along the floor. He dug the rubber bottom of his heels and leaned back. Three feet away he slowed further and just before spilling over the edge he stopped, falling backward with his sweat-drenched clothes sticking to his skin. The world around him went black in the way a room appears as you fall into sleep. The building groaned and buckled, as if it would collapse upon itself, then nothing more.

He stood up, his muscles and limbs in knots. He found his backpack halfway down the stairs-- its contents exposed-- which he gathered together while trying to slow his heart down. He fell out of the window he came in, covering his arms and jeans in mud, then carried himself across the tall grass to his car waiting in the old parking lot.

After fishing around his pockets for the car keys he remembered that he had kept them in the bag. Reaching into the backseat he felt the car rock side to side though none of the trees around him swayed. He plucked his keys out of the small zippered pocket at the top of the bag and started the car. The engine stuttered and a white smoke crept out from beneath the hood. Switching the radio off, Aaron drove in silence through the winding country roads that led back to the highway.

Eyes locked on the girl, Josh struggled to balance the rifle on his shoulder as the slippery neuroskin under his sweatshirt pulled it off-center. I never should’ve sold the skin on my arms, he thought. The girl was propped up against a maple thirty yards out, guzzling a Coke and eating a Poptart, crumbs landing on the crest of her rounded stomach.

__

I see you Goldie, she thought, yawning. Damn boys are no different than monkeys in Thailand trained to rip wristwatches off tourists for their masters. Except his master wants my skin...

___

Through the scope, slowly blinking grey-green eyes and sunken cheeks splattered with large spots appeared close enough to touch. The zipper on her windbreaker had burst open revealing irregular shaped spots on her stomach and as he watched, golden leaves spun down onto her red curls. She’s been on the road as long as me, he thought.

___

I’m exhausted. If it wasn’t for you, my love, I’d let them skin me. Breeding programs like the one that impregnated her had created larger, darker, more leopard-like freckles in the MC1R carrier population, yet the demand was always outpacing the supply.

___

Josh trained the laser on her forearm. Already tagged. The Trac-B read her bounty at 100,000Q, but the burn rate on Spotties was so high that the baby was worth ten times that. Josh loaded a dart and was easing forward on the trigger when he felt a wire snake around his neck and squeeze.

______________

Sadie sprinted to where the boy was clawing at the slowly constricting garrote. When she tapped thumb to forefinger, the snare ceased tightening. She tossed his rifle then squatted over him.

He’s at the end of his run, she thought, taking inventory. Face crisscrossed with scars. Nose broken multiple times. She fished into his mouth, finding better quality teeth than expected and no wisdom teeth. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. He’d had some success as a tracker too. Nickel-sized bonus stamps crawled up both forearms covered with the revolting liquid plastic skin replacement.

“Look, Trackie,” she whispered, “I’ll be long gone by the time the signal wanes and this necklace…” she flicked the metal rope and his eyes popped an inch wider “drops off. You’ll be dead by then. Do you understand?”

His lips were turning blue, but he quit pulling at the snare and flashed a thumbs up sign.

“Or…I’ll give you 10,000 quid to take me over the Divide unseen.” She gestured to the zoomers above, just visible through the trees. “And my guess is you’ve run these hills before.” She looked at her watch. “You’ve got about thirty seconds left.”

He stared up at her, calculating his options, then nodded. She gave the split signal and the snare dropped off, snaked through the leaves and coiled around her ankle.

“What’s your name, Goldie?”

“Josh.” He sounded hoarse, but not angry.

“Sadie,” she responded. “Let me know when you’ve got your wind.”

He bent over one knee, coughing and lacing up his skimmers. A thick line of bruising cut across his neck and his right eye was blood red. He was twice her height, lanky and unintimidating. Though they were roughly the same age, he seemed younger.

After a few seconds, he circled his forefinger.

“Nope. Call your Wheat first. And make it good.”

“Yeah. Ok.” He coughed again then hit the comm on his Trac-B.

“Markin”

“Wha?”

“She’s gone,” Josh said, adding, “Wasn’t a Spottie anyway.”

“Whaddyou mean gone? You lose her or drop her?”

“Markin, she was a Teaser! I dropped her, okay? On my way in.”

“Josh! You lazy piece of shit. Find me something or your old ass is on carving from now on!” Markin disconnected.

Josh looked down at Sadie, one eyebrow raised.

“How long before he comes looking?”

“Won’t probably. He’ll think I’ve been poached, not that you’re a…uh...” Josh trailed off.

“Spottie. You can say it.”

He had the good manners to look down.

She sighed. “Alright, you’re in the lead. Let’s go.”

He kicked off headed north, his long strides quickly outpacing hers. Without his cough, she would never have heard him -- he knew just where to place his feet.

____

Josh slowed to a trot.

“Sadie, we’ve got a drop coming up.”

Oh, thank God, she thought. She dropped her head, pulling in lungfuls of cool air.

“You’re as loud as a boar,” Josh complained.

“Shut it, Goldie! I’m not paying you to talk.” She gasped between each word, which took the venom out of it.

The break in the forest revealed what used to be an overpass and was now a maw of rusting street cars. Josh straddled a metal girder, legs dangling. Sadie flipped up her hood.

“Where are we?”

He took a swig of water, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Pretty sure we’re just east of Advance. Should be signage below.”

Josh suddenly reached over her head, grabbing for the rifle.

Shit!

She rolled away, reaching under her arm and scrambling to her feet, a curved knife thrust towards his chest.

The rifle raised between his hands, he shouted, “Woah, Sadie, relax! I just need the scope, okay?

Sadie held her ground as he stripped it off, dropping the rifle at her feet with a roll of his eyes. He climbed down as far as he could, then tucked and dropped onto the hood of a wrecked BMW. Scanning under the collapsed bridge, the signage was gone. Must have been attached to the overpass.

A billboard for Harry Winston still stood. A blonde in her thirties, elbows balanced on a white tablecloth, flashed a broad smile. She wore emerald earrings and matching twisted skin bangles. Each an inch wide, the skin was a striped mix of mocha, Spottie and pale. The uneven surface of the bracelets were the only indication that underneath the skin was not wood or plastic, but bone.

___

“Anything?”

“No. But we can’t be that far from Buck Creek and the Sierras are just on the other side.”

He paused to pull long strips of rubber out of his shirt, “Let’s try for the creek by nightfall. You good?”

She nodded and smiled, stifling a sharp pain in her side.

___

“Where’d you learn how to make these?” she asked.

He sat in the dirt, straddling her bare foot, muttering under his breath.

“What?”

“Your feet are swollen,” he said, dark eyes squinting up at her.

“So….?”

“If the swelling gets worse...”

“Listen, I didn’t…”

He cut her off. “Yeah, I know. But you’re scaring the game away. I can’t make you quality skimmers, but these will help.”

“Fine.” she said, reddening. “Make it quick.”

“Of course, your highness.” He responded, the corners of his lips curling up.

She didn’t appreciate the gesture until she ran again. He’d jammed cross-sections of rubber into cuts in the soles. It not only made the boots quiet, but also wider and therefore infinitely more comfortable.

They made it to the valley well before mid-day and for once, she didn’t immediately kick her boots off, but walked along the ridge scouting for a smooth rock. He was laying back among the late-blooming wildflowers eating jerky and squinting up at the sun when she plopped down beside him.

“You’re going to choke and go blind,” she said.

He laughed, nearly choking, and re-crossed his long legs at the ankles, snapping off another bite.

She leaned forward as far as she could, coming up shy of her toes. Hello there, my love, she thought. Then she pulled up the back of her shirt and circled the clean side of the rock on her lower back, grunting with pleasure.

_____

“Sadie?”

“Unh?” she responded, eyes closed.

“Do you know how it happened?”

“What?”

“The… you know… the skin trade.” He turned towards her, shaggy hair falling over his eyes and tucked his knees into his chest.

Hmm… makes sense I guess, she thought. Wheat take kids as payment for Rock-addicted parents. Goldens are raised like dogs – given food and shelter, taught to track, but not much more.

“Yeah.” She answered finally. “I know some.”

“Tell me?” His earnest face reminded her of Noah. It had been weeks since she thought about her brother. His chubby fists tied down, screaming her name. The skin peeling off his tiny fingertips. And all the blood...

“Um…first there were piercings, where needles would pass through.” Sadie revealed her popped bellybutton and mimed piercing it. “And towards the end, the holes got bigger. My uncle Rami showed me vid of a man in India passing an entire snake through a hole in his ear.”

Josh rolled an earlobe between his fingers, bewildered.

“Then tattooing,” she continued. “No area was sacred. People inked their eyelids and inside their ears. They…”

“Have you seen Malenas?” Josh interrupted, sitting up.

“No?”

“They run Skittle across the border. Malenas have a tattoo…” Josh pointed to the center of his tongue, “…of a purple eye. I’ve seen the farms...”

“Does anyone still buy farmed skin?”

“Some, yeah. For orange Skittle, they force-feed the kids pumpkin puree. For green, they strap copper plates on. And for XP, they’re kept in the dark for years.”

Sadie shivered. At least I can run…

She continued, “When 3-D tattooing began, my mom was little. They built a pyramid on my grandfather’s back between his shoulder blades. When he fell asleep on the couch watching television, she curled up in its shade. The needle injected ink and GDF5, a cartilage-producing protein. People made horns, tails and of course, parts of their anatomy bigger too.”

Josh laughed. For all the trauma to his face, was good-looking in a goofy, coltish way.

“Some of the old-timers still have them. I once saw a man with an octopus on his head. The blue and grey tentacles climbing down the sides of his face formed aquatic sideburns. The irises were made of jade, sewn into eyes eight inches above his own.”

“3-D removal creates a bloody mess. Grafted skin was the solution…”

“Why not just use the pink?” Josh pointed to the slick arm propping up his head. The shiny plastic resembled the underside of a frisbee.

“Josh, you know why. Neuroskin is nasty. You’ve seen a Pigpen, right?”

People who sold all of their skin -- Pinkies -- were universally hooked on K-rock. Cops called their hangouts “pigpens” from the look of their tangled pink limbs on filthy mattresses, eyes rolled back, telltale white haze hanging in the air.

He changed the subject. “Do you need to cross the Divide?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Kaweah Gap is steep. It’s the lowest point in the range, but...”

She winced and nodded.

“What if we go southwest into Three Rivers?”

“How am I walking into town?”

He tugged on her hood. “Your uh…” He struggled for the right word. Freckles. They’re called freckles… “freckles will be tougher, but a clay paste...”

She stood up. “Clay paste? For these?” She pulled her curls back so he got a good look.

“Okay, okay.” He put his palms up. “I’ll skim into Three Rivers, hit an R-X and grab proper coverup and dye.”

“You don’t think I've thought of that?” She struggled to speak calmly. “They scan you, Trackie. You probably have a freeze or two on your tag, right? And they scan you on the way in, so you can’t lift it either.”

“Fine. I’ll claim your tag and walk you in. Put the snare on.”

“Josh! You know what I’m worth, which is nothing compared to the baby. The Wheat will have me on a carving board in under an hour. We’re wasting time. I’m paying you to get me over that.”

She stabbed her finger at the snow-cap behind him marking the Divide, her arm shaking on the way down.

“And you know damn well you can’t make the climb,” he said softly.

I’ll make it, she thought, rubbing her belly, but will you, my love?

____

Another dud droid

Arrives on the transporter

And sits on brown cloth

Keeping my short legs

Tautly in line as I sell

Protocol and beeps

"Utinni!"

“Don’t touch me!” I shriek. But the words can’t get past my tightly pursed lips. They stay inside my head, reverberating round and round, making me wish I had the courage to speak up and voice how I really feel.

Blatant disrespect of teenage girls has reached the point of harassment in many public school systems today. I believe this cultural norm of looking down on women needs to change.

Recently, one of my teachers asked me to hand out graded papers to the class while she took attendance. I readily agreed; it was a simple task and I enjoy helping my teachers out. But as I walked down the lengthy rows of desks handing back the papers, the dateable, popular guys kept pestering me.

“Hey baby,” they’d murmur as I passed them back a test.

“Thanks girl,” one would proclaim loudly with a wink and a grin, while reaching out and placing a large meaty hand on my thigh.

“Don’t touch me!” I shriek, but the words cannot seem to leave my mouth. My lips are a barrier that remind me to keep quiet, don’t let them get to you; it’ll all be okay in a moment. So I plead silently for them to leave me alone. I feel violated and hurt, and I have the urge to curl up in a ball on the cold, unforgiving floor and cry.

When I continue to ignore the guys’ catcalling, they start to take it personally. I hear them mutter “What’s her problem?” amongst themselves, as if what they’re doing is my fault. I’m sure most of them are wondering why I’m not throwing myself at them with open arms. Some call it arrogance; I call it standards.

The worst part of this entire ordeal is that my teacher (a female!) has turned a blind eye to what’s happening. Why is it that teachers ignoring harassment has become commonplace in high schools? How is it that disrespect and degradation of girls is practically normal behavior?

I wish I could say I know the answer, but I don’t. I do however believe that faculty and staff have become far too accepting of degradation. In addition, girls are often too afraid to speak up for themselves, and this needs to change.

The very root of the problem though is of course, the boys. They don’t seem to understand (or care) about how humiliating their actions can be for girls. With an increased awareness on their part, this longstanding issue can begin to be resolved.