I don't know who put him in charge of this story, but whoever it is, they need a demotion ASAP.

What sucker looked at this guy's shining hairless head, heavily worn cowboy hat, and hooked nose, and thought, "Yeah, this one ought'a be a bestseller."

I mean, he wears jeans.

JEANS.

Only psychopaths wear jeans. That's my philosophy. The types that don't care if you shove your buttcrack in their faces or that all they can do is waddle around like they're on their way to the nearest bathroom.

Seriously. Who wear jeans?

But because appearances can be deceiving, let's talk personality. A middle-aged bald man with an enthusiasm for everything hoedown, who's a victim of man-jean-culture can be forgiven if he's an engaging individual who's inner compassionate soul and belly-jiggling humor appeals to the masses.

But no.

This guy's as dry as my mouth when I'm forced to speak publicly. He's as arrogant as an eleven-year old prodigy who's realized they're light-years ahead of their peers, and that even their future selves probably won't have the same mental capacity they do. This guy's as funny as my dad was when he scolded me for stealing his high-end cigarettes.

Like, who hired this guy?

You know what? Fuck it. I'm filing a complaint.

[Chapter 1]

The 7-11 was desolate from the outside.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Dave said, circling the scene. The four of them were on a backroad, somewhere remote enough that no one bothered to re-blacktop the roads, rendering it something of a "dustbowl". Nine out of twelve pumps were restrained with yellow tape. "It feels criminal to pump gas here."

"Where?" Dania demanded. "The next one isn't for, like, another 30 minutes."

"Better than being skimmed." Kennedy hugged her purse as though someone was going to jump her from within the Honda civic. "I mean, we have enough gas to get there."

"Yeah, well, I still have to pee."

"Yeah, okay," Kennedy conceded, as her brother Lucas parked right in front. Upon pulling around, it was apparent someone was indeed in the vicinity—a lone rust-colored pickup truck with peeling paint sat around the side. Dania immediately began rattling the door handle. "Hold on," Lucas said.

Dania's eyes rose to the heavens. "What do you have to child-lock the doors for?"

"As long as I decide to keep my kidnapper side-gig. College ain't cheap, you know."

Dania laughed, popping the door open. "It is if you're smart enough to get Bright Futures." The door slammed.

"We could drive away without her," Lucas observed.

"When can we get back on 95?" Dave asked. "I'm tired of looking at cows and falling in potholes."

"You'd rather be sitting in traffic?" The highway had been jammed, likely with another one of those spectacular four-car pile-ups. Better yet, Lucas mused, one of those sedans pulling a speed-up-and-cut-in-front-of-a-semi maneuvers Floridians enjoyed toying with, to their own fatal expense.

"Yeah, maybe."

Kennedy opened the rear door. "You know what, I'm gonna go too. Who knows when we'll get another chance."

"Knock yourself out," Lucas muttered, knocking back a box of tic-tacs.

"Wha'ddya in such a hurry for, anyway?"

"I dunno. I just don't like gas stations."

Dave snorted. "Uh-huh. You mean abandoned ones with trucks tucked away like you're about to be robbed blind..."

A tapping at the window makes Lucas start. Dave laughed. "You chicken."

A woman's flat face, medium-long black strands crowding her face, peered into the window. She appeared to be older, in her late 30s or early 40s. Her fretful expression reminded Lucas of his mother.

Lucas swore under his breath and rolled the window down a notch.

"Excuse me," she said, pushing her face even further into the space. Noticing Lucas draw his own backward, she pulled back, slightly. "I'm in a bit of a situation and I could use some help."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. What can we do?" Dave said, his voice raising slightly. Lucas shoots him a glance, then defaults back to the woman.

"My name is Sylvia Richardson." She pauses, as though this was important. "I need help...with my kids. My husband is abusive. I need help getting away from him."

"Um..."

"I know this is weird to ask, but could you call him? Pretend your my lawyer. I don't have enough money to pay for one, but I think he'll back off if he thinks I have representation."

Lucas hears a slight rumbling behind them, but Dave is fixated on Sylvia. A roughed up black SUV makes its way toward the back of the store.

"Yeah, yeah, y'know it's funny, I'm actually training to be a lawyer. I mean, I'm in undergraduate still, but that's my major."

Lucas smirks. "You don't know anything about law. You're a sophomore."

"I've taken a few courses."

"Like what, Intro to Law, 101B?"

"No..."

Lucas turns to Sylvia. "All he knows how to do is con his way through courses with chat GPT and Chegg."

Sylvia's stressed face becomes even more distressed. "That's okay..."

"It's a simple request, Lucas."

"Yes," Sylvia agrees, "It will only take a moment. I'll pay you for the time."

"How much?" Dave asked.

"Fifty bucks."

Dave's hand shoots across Lucas. "Give me the phone. I'll do it."

"We have to use your phone. It's more realistic," Sylvia insisted.

Lucas attempted to swat away his hand, but Dave was already passing off the phone. She passed it back to him after a moment.

For all his bravato, Dave hesitated. "So, I'm your lawyer...this is your husband...soon to be ex-husband. Anything else I should know?

"Two kids, Donald and Rhonda. And I'm suing for custody."

"Okay, okay." He looked a bit more worried now. Lucas shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The sound of ringing was amplified by the silence.

"Hello?" A gruff voice asked. "Sylvia?"

Dave glanced at Sylvia's eager face and she waved him on. "Um, yeah, hey there."

"Who is this?"

"Hey, yeah, this is Sylvia's lawyer. She's suing you for kid custody. I mean, the custody of her kids."

"What the..." Some incoherent mumbling ensued. Then, "What is this, a kid?"

"Yeah, um no, I'm an adult. I'm your wife's lawyer. She wants the kids. And a divorce. She wants—" Dave looks at Sylvia, who looked more concerned than ever, "Donald and Rhonda."

The voice muffled a curse like a badly stifled sneeze. "Yeah, okay. Can you put Sylvia on the phone?"

"No, she's not speaking with you right now. She has representation and she's going to use it. Against you."

There was silence on the end of the line.

"Yeah. So you better leave her alone, buddy, or the law is going to come onto you big time."

Some less concealed swearing penetrated the line.

"You better be scared. You're not going to get away with this. You're done for—"

"Is Sylvia with you?"

Dave looked over to Sylvia again, who nodded slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, she's with me."

"Give her the phone. I need to speak with her. Privately."

"Nah, buddy, you're done playing these—"

"HAND OVER THE PHONE, DAMMIT."

Dave quickly passed off the phone. Sylvia took it off speaker and pressed it to her ear.

"Hi...Frank. I—" A flash of irritation swept across her face. "Yeah, I did the best I could. Given the circumstances."

Lucas and Dave strained their ears to make words out of the yelling, unsuccessfully. "I think I made it worse," Dave whispered.

"You think?" Lucas shot back.

Sylvia's gaze turned back in their direction, suddenly remembering their presence. "Yeah, I'm sorry Frank, but I can't go on like this. Donnie and Ronnie deserve better. And so do I." She hung up before Frank could ramp up again. "Thanks, guys, you were wonderful. I really appreciate it."

Dave beamed. "Yeah, well, it was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all."

"No shit," Lucas muttered.

Dave glared at him.

Sylvia waved dismissively. "No, really, you don't even know how helpful that was. I have to get going, pick up Rhonda and Donald, but thank you. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"Nope, don't worry about it."

Suddenly, a noise reminiscent of a shot firing sounded.

"What was that?!" Lucas cried.

Sylvia frowned and looked pointedly to her car. "I think that was my car."

Dave nodded, but Lucas looked dubious. "That didn't sound like a car."

"No, no," Sylvia said dismissively, "My car's been making some strange noises. I've got to get it checked out."

"Yeah, um, okay," Lucas said, still frowning.

"Thank you again, boys," Sylvia said. She gave a tight wave and a tighter wave as she backed away, and then disappeared. As she gassed up in a red Chevy Lucas rolled the window up, as Dave was uncharacteristically contemplative.

After a moment, Lucas said, "Is it just me or are those some old ass names for some kids?"

"Yeah," Dave agreed, "Maybe that's why she wants a divorce."

Lucas and Dave turned to see a red Chevy pull away with Sylvia at the wheel.

"I didn't notice her pull in. Did you?"

Dave ignored the question, swearing under his breath.

"That old bat never gave me my fifty bucks," he said.

————————————————————————

For a car full of undergraduates, the ride became strangely quiet after leaving the 7-11. Kennedy and Dania rotated between glancing at each other, the boys, and then back out the grubby windows. Lucas stared ahead, while Dave tapped vigorously at his phone, prompting it to chirp incessantly.

"What's your score?" Kennedy asked.

"Almost 700."

"Almost beating my low," she remarked.

"Yeah, well, you started playing before me. I'll catch up."

"By like a week," Lucas said, putting his two cents in.

"Shut up," Dave muttered. "At least I help people."

"What?" Dania said, her head snapping toward them.

"We saw someone at the car, talking to you guys,"Kennedy said slowly. "What was that about?"

Lucas and Dave swapped a look. Before Dave could concoct some cockamamie story, Lucas said, "She had a favor to ask."

"A favor?"

"Directions. She wanted directions."

Kennedy raised an eyebrow, but didn't question this. "Well, you could've just said that."

A short sad "womp, womp" sounded. "Shit," Dave muttered, putting his phone away.

Kennedy blurted out. "You aren't going to ask what took us so long?" Dania scowled in her direction.

Lucas frowned thoughtfully. "Yeah it was kind of long. Really long. Was there a line or something?"

"N—"

"Probably saw some hottie," Dave smirked.

"There was a line," Dania said.

Lucas thought for a moment. "But nobody was in the parking lot."

"It was the guy behind the desk," Dania explained. "One bathroom. Sounded like he was vomiting or something."

"Wow," Dave said, scrunching up his face in disgust. "That's gross." Neither Dave or Lucas asked for further details.

————————————————————————

"What they don't know won't kill them," Dania assures me, inspecting a freshly manicured fingernail. "Guys don't overthink like we do."

"That's so sexist," I complain. "Guys think all the time."

Dania drags her eyeballs up dramatically, like they're weighted. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks I "don't think". "Yeah, right. Name one instance."

I did struggle a bit with that one. The only guys I really know are Dave and Lucas.

"I thought so," she says, reverting her attention back to painting. "Anyways, I said overthink, not think."

"OK," I concede, still thinking her unfair.

In truth, I hadn't felt the same since that morning at the 7-11. But Dania didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want to pry. It had freaked both of us, but I suspect it bothered Dania even more than me.

"To be fair," I venture, unable to completely abandon ship, "Lucas did deduce that our story was implausible. That takes some thought."

Dania drops her hand, purses her lips. "That's called paying attention, Kennedy, not 'thinking'. It's a basic human function. Anyways, my point was that Lucas, nevermind Dave, aren't going to ask us about what happened. So why would we mention it to them?"

"I dunno," I say, feeling dumber than usual.

"Exactly."

"But don't you think it's weird that they haven't brought it up?"

Dania's lips became even tighter, her eyes rolling upwards again.

"What about that woman? Don't you think that was strange?"

"I didn't see any woman, so no."

"I did," I insist. "And don't say I imagined it because I absolutely did not. You can't argue that it's strange that Dave and Lucas didn't want to tell us what they were talking about."

Dania looks a little worried by that. I can tell because she tried to look concentrated on her nails, but they were in the dry stage, not the paint stage. "The woman wanted directions. There's nothing odd about that."

"Dave wanted to say something else before Lucas cut him off. You know Dave can't keep a secret. He is such a blabbermouth They're hiding something, Dania. They did something and I don't know what, but whatever it is, they don't want to tell us."

Dania continues inspecting her nails, her brows pinched.

"Dania. We can't hide from this. We should confront them," I persist.

She looks up shyly, her hard mask falling away. "Yeah, okay," she said. "But not now."

"Okay, fine." I sigh. "Let's wait a bit."

————————————————————————

As Dania shut herself in the restroom, Kennedy pushed through the door. It was one of those resistant ones you had to bulldoze, full weight into, to open.

Gas stations aren't known for being hubs of activity, especially not at six-going-on-seven in the morning, but there was a certain stillness that was unsettling. After a moment, Kennedy realized why that was.

There didn't seem to be a cashier anywhere in the store.

A tour around the shelves proved this to be true. Kennedy wondered if they were in the back somewhere taking a smoke. They didn't plan on making any purchases, yet it made her feel like she was trespassing. What if someone came in later, destroyed the cameras, stole a bunch of stuff, then pinned it on them? Kennedy stopped herself before her thoughts barrelled down that dark alley.

This was the kind of thinking her therapist always deemed "excessive and unnecessary". But if it was up to her therapist, she would spend the bulk of her day meditating, journaling, going on walks, and spending "quality time" with family, despite the fact that her family was even more anxious than she herself was. Her therapist severely underestimated her ability to infuse stress into every situation.

Instead of perusing the shelves as she wanted to, Kennedy positioned herself against the wall by the bathroom door. You couldn't be accused of shoplifting if you didn't go near the merchandise, could you?

Dania came out a moment later, saying, "I don't think they've cleaned that toilet since 1982."

Kennedy grabbed her arm. "Wait for me, will you? This place gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Dania shrugged. "Yeah, alright. You or the boys want anything?"

"No!"

Dania raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, okay. I might get some m&m's." She looked around, a confused look dawning on her face. "If I can find the cashier that is."

"It's 6am, you don't need m&m's," Kennedy snapped. "Just wait for me right there."

Dania snorted. Once Kennedy had disappeared into the closet-like bathroom, Dania began wandering around the store. She found some peanut butter m&m's, and a granola bar to balance it out. There was still plenty of time in the day to fit in some protein, fruits and veggies. As an athlete, Dania sometimes felt overwhelmed by the need for good nutrition, but right now she just wanted some chocolatey goodness.

She threw her goodies onto the counter, tapped her seasonally winter-blue nails against the peeling countertop. She pulled her phone out to text Lucas if they wanted any snacks, or more specifically, to ask Dave if he wanted snacks. Dave lived on snacks.

Just as she hit send and began stuffing it back into her pocket, something closed around her wrist. Dania let out a little shriek.

"What the—"

Something cold pressed against her temple. Instinctively, Dania attempted to jump sideways, but the hand around her wrist jerked her back into place. "Don't move and don't raise your voice or I shoot" the unknown but felt presence rumbled.

"Where's the cashier 'round here?!" the man—Dania had a hard time imagining the rumbler as a woman, with the voice and large hand—bellowed, presumably to a comrade. Dania suddenly wondered if Kennedy was still in the bathroom. She hoped the sound of voices would keep her from reappearing. Then, another part of her wished she would appear and provide some kind of distraction.

"I think he's 'round back," another masculine voice replied.

As if summoned from the dead, a bedraggled cashier emerged from a rusting and squeaking door from behind the counter. Instead of ditching the cigarette out back, he twiddled it around his fingers and permitted the smoke to trail behind him like a cape. "Wha's the meanin' of this?"

The robber knocked on Dania's head a few times. "All the money or I shoot."

The cashier nodded, unwilling to commit to a dramatic performance.

"Hurry on, now, what're you waitin' for?"

He knocked on Dania's head again. "If you're checking for brains, I've got plenty," Dania snapped.

"Next word oughta your mouth and—"

"Yeah, alright. I'll be quiet."

The cashier pushed a few dollars and coins towards the robber with the gun. "Sonny, you'll grab that?"

'Sonny' sauntered over into Dania's frame of vision. Short and stocky, she noted. Probably only a few inches over her, and Dania was not a tall woman. Everything else from head to toe was wrapped in black.

"What's this, a joke?" Sonny asked, slamming his fist onto the countertop, causing the plywood to splinter a little.

"What," the cashier growled. "You wanted cash, her's yer cash."

"He asked for all of it," Sonny sneared. "Not a donation to charity, dammit."

The cashier leaned his elbow on the counter and sneared back. "What and you think we got business goin' 'ere? I rarely show up 'xcept for some of the better parts of the week."

"You can't tell me that's all you've got!" The gun-wielding robber yelled, gesturing angrily towards the sad lump of cash. "That's pathetic!"

The cashier laughed. "Y'er tellin' me!"

The gun-wielder gripped Dania harder. "Whadd'ya think, Sonny? Maybe we should take a different approach."

Sonny frowned. "Yeah?"

"Whadd'ya bet," he drawled, "This chick's got some rich parents?"

Suddenly, a young female voice piped up from near the doorway, shouting, "I've got 911! You guys better leave!"

"Fucking Kennedy," Dania muttered.

The gun-wielder whips around, pointing the gun towards Kennedy. He takes a shot, but it hits the snack wall instead.

The phone says, "Is everything alright there? What's going on?"

Dania swore again. Trust Kennedy to have the wits to call 911, but not enough to actually give them essential information before thrusting herself into danger.

The gun-wielder returns the gun to Dania's head instead. "End the call and toss the phone or I shoot."

Kennedy tossed the phone.

"END the call," he demanded. Kennedy scrambled to hit the red button. It took a few attempts.

"Alright," the gun-wielder exhaled. "Here's what we're going to do here."

Everyone watched him silently, as he composed himself.

"I'm letting your friend and you go. We're taking the, almost worthless frankly, bit of cash here—Sonny grab the cash, will you?—and no one is going to speak a word of this or I will kill everyone you know. Sonny, grab the phone, please?"

"No problem," Sonny replied graciously. He sauntered around Dania and snatched Kennedy's phone from the floor.

He pushed Dania roughly towards the door, causing her to stumble forward. "Now leave and don't come back here," he growled.

Dania and Kennedy grabbed each other and hurried out the heavy door.

————————————————————————

TITLE: "We don't have money"

GENRE: mystery/thriller/drama/humor

AGE RANGE: Young Adult or Adult

WORD COUNT: (86,270 words, 2,946 of those in this excerpt)

I will be adding more in another writing space and will send these additions/updates if you are interested. My goal is about 80,000+ words (completed) by mid to early July. I aim to finish (80-90,000 goal) sometime by early-mid July.

AUTHOR NAME: Alexandra "Lexi" Kearns (would use pseudonym)

EDUCATION: Graduated with bachelors in psychology Spring, 2024; beginning Master's in Clinical MH Counseling in Fall 2024

INTERESTS/HOBBIES: Reading and writing, figure skating, baking

ABOUT ME: I am 22 years old and an athlete, having figure skated competitively for a little over a decade now. Because I aspire to be a therapist, I also plan to attend graduate school at next year (master's).

As for writing, I have always been a writer, since I can remember. I have been writing stories of one kind or another (mostly some kind of "mystery") since I realized you could make stories with just a pen and paper (or keyboard). I enjoy trying different characters and writing styles, although I always like to inject a little bit of wry humor and I prefer to write characters I can identify with in some way. I am one of those writers who is strongly influenced by the people I know and the random events around me (though I believe this is a universal writing "thing"?).

WRITING STYLE: usually comedic and dramatic. Things tend to make more sense as I go along, so some things (e.g., either adding other "suspects" to divert suspicion and muddle things OR focusing more on the "thriller" aspect than a bona fide mystery) will be sorted out as I get further in and see what direction makes most sense.

PITCH: I think this could be a good fit because Trident has a wide range of books and genres (including thrillers), but also because the idea is a bit unique in a few ways. As a college student, I don't find a lot of books featuring college students, even if the main character is "college age". I.e., I don't find many books that use college as a prominent background/setting, despite this being an interesting moment in many people's lives. This plot is something of a mix between a traditional thriller-mystery style book (one of the "crazier ones", perhaps, in terms of "Would this actually happen in real life?") and a bizarre episode of true crime stories. E.g., I remember seeing one (true crime story) recently about a gang of women who drugged and blackmailed men in bars, making them think they were cheating on their girlfriends (they were actually being drugged, raped, and then blackmailed—it was a crime ring). So, there is comfortable familiarity along with some satisfying originality (I hope!).

PROJECT SYNOPSIS (No Spoilers, "back-of-the-book" summary): Four college students are headed back to their university after winter break when a pit-stop at an abandoned gas station sets forth a chain of strange, unexplained events.

It all starts with a foiled robbery and the badly-done impersonation of a lawyer. Soon, alarming texts and threats plague the four students as they struggle to blend back into campus life. Is Sylvia and her abusive husband at the heart of it all, as Lucas and Dave suspect? Or is it an aftereffect of the failed robbery that traumatized Kennedy and Dania? Lucas, Dave, Kennedy, and Dania can't help but wonder if the only way this ends is in tragedy, possibly even for one of them.

PROJECT SUMMARY (including spoilers): Four college students are headed back to their university after winter break when a pit-stop at an abandoned gas station sets forth a chain of strange, unexplained events.

Dave and Lucas are approached by a middle-aged woman requesting aid in finalizing a divorce. At the same time, Kennedy and Dania experience their own drama inside the store while waiting for the bathroom (a mostly-failed robbery). Both set of friends are reluctant to discuss what happened to the other two, for different reasons. Dave and Lucas are embarrassed and uneasy. Kennedy and Dania are scared for their life, after they are threatened and Kennedy's phone is stolen.

Mysteriously, Kennedy's phone is returned after having gone missing in the robbery attempt. Over the course of the next few days, Kennedy and Dania suspect they are being stalked. They do not reveal their suspicions to their friends Dave and Lucas, until the guys inform them about texts they are receiving claiming that Sylvia, the woman whom they "helped", is in danger. Texts from Sylvia plead for help, while texts from another number (presumably the abuser/kidnapper) demand money for Sylvia's safety and use threats to discourage them from contacting the police. When Dave and Lucas decide to notify the authorities of the exchanges, pictures from Dania's and Kennedy's stalker change their minds.

The name of the book "We don't have money" is because, contrary to the perpetrators' imaginations, the four students fit more into the "broke college students" trope (they work minimum wage jobs, mostly cut off from family finances, etc.). After obtaining some of their information at the gas station (Dave's phone number, Kennedy's phone), they find Dave has very well-off relatives (generations of doctors) whom they confuse for his parents (it is actually his aunt and uncle). So, they assume Dave can easily convince his relatives to pay off their demands with the right pressure. However, Dave's parents, while comfortably middle-class, do not have excess money, are stingy, and cut him off from financial support after he started working part-time at a law firm.

Kennedy also has wealthy connections, but these are even further down the pipeline. Kennedy's grandmother was a famous billionaire novelist who hated her children so much that she cut them off from her will before her recent death, donating all of her money to charity. Her only reconciliation was to give each of her family members one of her many cats. Therefore, Kennedy's family is also unwilling to give into their demands.

However, the perpetrators do not know this and firmly believe they will obtain the money if they push hard enough.

***as mentioned, plot needs more development, of course, but this is just what I have come up with so far.

The night was shaded black and white.

Black sky against balls of white light studded against Dunn Avenue. Patches of shadowed greys intermittently punctuated the trail, until the trees snuffed out any trace of luminescence.

A steady beat fills the eardrums, quickening just a bit in those pools of grey. The world tilts and my vision becomes a tidal wave with the changes of light. Human vision is, mostly, diurnal.

It is not really the darkness, or the light, that pumps my blood and feet as a roaring tidal wave; no, it is the sound of Nike Air Force smacking the leaves behind me.

Darkness opens its mouth further and further, swallowing me whole.

I stop and turn. The whiteness is just a pinpoint in the distance, the size of my fist.

The figure plugs the hole, removing the remaining source of light. My husband pulls the knife.

“I pity you,” I say.

The plunge elicits a final dazzling of stars before my eyes, and he is consumed by the blackness as he runs back towards Dunn Avenue.

It’s difficult being in this work, when everyone is so fearful. Why do they give me those dreadful eyes? I am no different than your average, well-meaning person…It is blasphemous, prejudiced the way you all treat me.

It only makes it worse that I am armed with the best weapons: the drill, the anesthetics, forceps…my personal favorite being the wondrous rongeurs. Or perhaps it is the scalpel….? Anesthetics are quite satisfying themselves, but the newly hired anesthesiologist does most of that these days…

I come to the side door of the front desk, where a spectacled, olive-skinned woman of 40ish sat behind a desktop, folders, and clipboards.

"Who is next on the schedule, Armina?"

She scanned a sheet, clicks her long nails across the keyboard. "Jennie, Gol-erm, Jennie Golinksin...aya..vil..."

When no one stepped forward, she raised her voice. “Jennie Golinksinayavil."

A small grey-haired woman in a crisp navy blouse and blinding white capris rose timidly, took faltering steps toward the desk. "T-t-that's me."

Armina looked down her nose and directed, "To your left, please."

Hesitant shuffling approached the doorway, so I took my leave. I take the doctor-patient relationship quite seriously. They must wait until the professional deigns to see the patient—what would they think, if we awaited them like school children for our mothers…? It simply would not do.

I find a dark corner when Armina comes rushing around the bend. "Dr. Misha. Dr. Misha..."

"Yes, yes, Armina?"

"We have a problem..."

"Yes?"

"It is, it's a problem, Dr. Misha, I don't know what to do..."

"Armina, what is this problem?"

"It is with Dr. Jussiack..."

"Yes, the anesthesiologist? What is with Dr. Jussiack?"

"He cannot come, he is sick with the flu. I called Dr. Kim, the backup anesthesiologist, but he is at the other branch all day, he can't come, and we have two surgeries today..."

"Ah, yes, I see, Armina, I see. But this is not a problem, Armina. A problem is when you have no anesthesiologist on staff with surgeries on the agenda, this, no this is not a problem at all, Armina..."

"But...But, who is going to do the anesthetizing?"

"I will, do them Armina. It is no problem."

"But Dr. Misha...The Incident...We hired Dr. Jussiak because of The Incident, and Dr. Kim also, just in case, we don't...Well, no offense and all, but I just thought..."

"No worries, Armina, I am capable of using anesthetics. Go back to your desk, please, I need to prepare now for surgery."

"Erm...Of course...You know where they are? The anesthetics, I mean?"

"You're not my mother, Armina...I am quite capable."

"Oh--we could always call Dr. Issnar, I think it may be her day off, but she has done anesthetics...I know it's not her job, but..."

"Armina, everything is under control. I will let you know when Mrs. ....Golinokasolalavil is finished."

"Erm..." Armina shifted feet. "Okay, then."

***

I visited Jennie shortly thereafter.

“Hello, Ms…Ms Jennie, I am going to be performing your surgery today.“

Jennie, for her part, attempted to smile. “I’m a little nervous, Dr. Misha.”

“And why are you nervous, Ms. Jennie?”

”Well, um…to be perfectly honest…your reviews, Dr. Misha. They’re not very good.”

I frowned. “Really?”

”No, and I know you must be asking yourself, ‘Well, then, Jennie, why did you come to me if I have such bad reviews?’“

”I was not, actually, thinking that…”

Jennie barreled onward, ”And, well, Dr. Misha, you see, yours is the only that will take my insurance, you see. The only dentist, or oral surgeon, I mean.”

”Mmhmm…mmhmm, well…”

“I would have liked to go across the street, you know, to Dr. Hiram’s. He has wonderful reviews! Some of yours in particular, were concerning, and I just wondered if we could discuss them, just real quick, to ease my mind…“

”Jennie, would you like your orthognathic surgery done today, or would you prefer to reschedule?”

”My…I’m sorry, what was that? Orthonath…? Oh, I would be like to seen today, yes. But I’m just not quite sure I caught that, that part about the ortho-something-surgery…”

”Very well, then. You didn’t eat or drink anything today?”

“No, no, that’s all good, Dr. Misha…”

”Wonderful, just wonderful, Jennie.” A thrill as I gathered my tools, prepared the anesthetics…An electric thrill tingled through my body, my digestive system rumbling in agreement…Indeed, indeed…It was turning out to be a lovely day.

***

The next morning, Armina the desk clerk comes hurdling towards me, as she tends to do.

“Dr. Misha? Dr. Misha! I need to speak to you, we have a problem…”

”You and your problems, Armina,” I note with a sigh.

“Jennie is suing you for the surgery you did, the orthognathic that was supposed to be a dental extraction…”

“Oh my, dental extraction. I had no idea. Perhaps we should reschedule for this.“

”Well, technically, I don’t think that would be advisable for the moment…”

“Of course, of course. She must recover first. Did she mention how she was feeling after the orthognathic procedure?”

”Quite numb, apparently.“

”Good, good, that is quite a normal reaction. No problem here, no problem at all, Armina. Schedule her for a few weeks, and we can see how she is progressing...”

“You know, you don’t really know me at all.”

“I’m sorry—What’s that?”

“I could be anyone right now. Literally, anyone.”

“Oh. OK. Actually, who are you?”

“You really want to know?”

“Um, sure. Yeah, I guess I wanna know.”

“I’m a banker, I live on Wall Street and thumb out checks to the big guns in Washington.”

“Oh. OK.”

”No, no, wait, I haven’t finished yet…”

”Okay, what‘s your name?”

“How do you know any of that is true?”

”I don’t know, is it? Actually, I’m not sure that I—”

”My name is Nick, I give to the homeless and I take care of children…”

”What is this, are you trying to tell me your Santa Claus or something?”

”No, no, but which do you believe? Am I Nick? Or the banker?”

”I don’t know, Nick? Because you gave yourself a name? Hey hey—Where’s Sara? John, have you seen Sara?”

”No, not in the past couple minutes.”

”Oh—“

”I mean, if I’m the banker, I can still be Nick, that’s not the point...”

”Oh, there’s Sara! Sara!”

”Like, I could be Bryan too, I could be anybody! That’s the point, I can just tell you something and—“

”O-M-G, Mei! It’s so good to see you! And, Georgie, get the hell out of here, why are you bothering my friends? Actually, why are you even here, who invited you?”

****

https://www.theprose.com/post/719969/it-could-be-real @Ferryman “It could be real”

My apologies Ferryman, I believe I took your character and ran with them down the deep end…But I enjoyed the witty dialogue and imaginative description of your writing!

Blurred vision stymied my awareness as I arose from consciousness. As my mind and eyes adjusted, I attempted to comprehend the predicament I found myself in.

Darkness—it wasn’t just bleariness; my surroundings were black as well. So, this is my first need: To find a light switch.

Just as my fingers grazed a lamp, then the string, I came to my senses. What had I been thinking…? To turn on the light, raise the alarm, it was not safe…

I shuffled, stalking towards the door…I turn the knob ever so slowly, sensitive to the creak of the door. I only open it enough to slip through its opening. They sleep lightly in this house, those who own it.

The narrow hallway lends way to a room illuminated by the moon. I spot my target, my sweet, sweet escape…I approach, wary of the potential pitfall of every step.

But my footsteps quickened with confidence and urgency, and it is then, despite such caution, I make the fatal mistake.

My foot lands on something rubbery, my weight crushing the air inside of it, releasing a dreadful squeak. Before I could prevent it, the momentum catapulted my leg into the glass table, and it took every ounce of strength to restrain a primitive shriek…A rattling triggered the horrid image of a Chinese vase of painted pink chrysanthemums and abstract figures wobbling, fighting for its life flashes in my mind…Only once it settles, undisturbed, do I dare to let my breath go.

A rustling sound emerges from behind the cracked door…I hastily snatch my objective from the table and scamper on the balls of my feet, back to my cave…

“THAT YOU, LUCAS, CREEPING AROUND THE HOUSE?”

I held the door only slightly ajar—I couldn’t risk closing it now…

“I SWEAR, CHILD, IF YOU DON‘T FIX THIS WARPED LIFESTYLE YOU’RE ON, UP ALL NIGHT, SLEEPING HALF THE DAY, I WILL SEND YOU SOMEWHERE, I CAN‘T DEAL WITH THIS…”

An interlude of profane language ensued.

“LUCAS, GET YOUR A** INTO BED RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL TAKE YOU SOMEWHERE WHERE THEY WILL DO IT FOR YOU!”

A slam punctuated this statement, then silence fell after it. I quietly shut the door and snuck across the space.

An owl hooted, his mocking laugh penetrating the night. Like him, I was wide, wide awake.

I stopped short of my bed with a sigh, turned instead 45 degrees to my right. I fumbled through the Red Sea of dirty laundry, arms outstretched…felt the outline of a headrest, gently spun the chair. I sat myself softly, then spun it and myself 180 degrees. My right claw clutched the mouse, gave a careful shake of my prey, stimulating the glow of the screen as it came to life…I entered the realm of Fortnite.

I would face the consequences of the sleep-deprived son when morning came, but for now, the predator had arrived.

I stare at the wall, simply so I am not looking at the body. I don’t want to see his figure, lying like he’s dead.

My hand reaches for my phone, so I can tell you the news. It’s become a twitch, this urge to relay the crucial developments of my existence. In this case, the urge is magnetic.

But the poles flip. My hand is repelled.

Time extends itself, so I can’t say how long it has been until the nurse walks in. Her lips contort themselves into a smile. Blandly, I think, “it must be hard to keep smiling like that”.

I watch as she checks the vitals, wipes the board and writes over it in marker. As she finishes, she glances at me, the last object on her checklist. “You need to go home,” she says. “Visitors hours are over.”

I nod because the words are a bit too heavy. But part of me feels guilt when I reach my car and realize I hadn’t uttered a simple “Thank you”.

My headlights illuminate the endless stream of black tar and muddled pines and cypress, and this is when I think again of you. A part of me thinks you would want to know. But I don’t know if I really know you anymore.

I remember a time when I would pester you about my anxieties, exaggerating my social ineptitude in class or the trivial “slights” that whisked my sensitive soul into a tearful frenzy. I could ask you things I wouldn’t trust my psychiatrist with, and we would collaborate on imagined schemes that undeniably would land us in someone’s authoritative custody. We dreamt together, we thought together, we wept together…It was a good decade we spent.

The hard part about friendship is there is no lower ground to fall to. You can’t “just be friends” because you are friends, until you are nothing. You are everything or you are nothing.

I could go on forever, reminiscing all I’ve lost. But the truth is, intimate friendships are just as much about life and love as they are about death and loss.

If you’ve ever pondered over a cat’s intelligence, I must break it to you: they are like people. Every one is different. I don’t care how many times you tell me they are not, I stand by this proposition.

I have many cats. I won’t say how many, but I will just say that it constitutes enough for a small scale scientific experiment. So I will present the evidence…Draw your own conclusions.

Lulu was an sharp old woman, approximately 65 in her own years, who violently detested her own kind. She was maybe even a bit like Hitler, if Hitler hated the Germans rather than everyone else, even though he himself was German. But, then, she had rough beginnings, being homeless in her adolescent years and bullied ruthlessly by the street gangs. So, she did not tolerate anyone trespassing on her turf; such trespassers would be dealt with intimidation tactics, verbal abuses, and physical assault.

Now, Muffboi was a young fellow approaching college age—a bit stupid, but quite handsome. Blue eyes, luscious white hair, steaks of gold…Whether it is low intelligence or arrogance that dominates his behavior, I cannot say. Like anyone, he is complex, and who is to say what truly goes on in his mind? I have conflicting opinions on Muffboi.

Now, I introduce these simultaneously because my first example is of continued conflict between the two. It all started when Muffboi had difficulty understanding boundaries. Rather, he became highly distraught at barriers to entry. At times, he would rush in through the door, invading Lulu‘s territory. Lulu did not take kindly to such interruptions. After prompt action, Muffboi realized this rash (and quite rude) behavior would have consequences. Muffboi, however, would not be deterred. He began a practice of swiftly rushing into the room, then promptly rushing out of the room when his nemesis made her appearance. Lulu, for her part, resorted to minimalist intimidation, making her presence known without resorting to extremes unless necessary. Lulu, despite her prejudices, demonstrates intellect.

On one of such occasions, I tired of Muffboi’s antics. I did not keep the door open, available to escape. “Muffboi must learn”, I decided. Muffboi understood his dilemma quite quickly, to his credit. As Lulu approached, prepared for attack, he kept to the door, optimistic (or perhaps just praying) it would open for him. I began to rise, ready to intervene if necessary.

But then, something strange happened. Lulu stopped in her tracks. In fact, her whole demeanor transformed; her shoulders relaxed, back un-stiffened…She turned on her heel, with her back now to Muffboi and she began trotting over to me with her tail rising amiably like the American flag.

I was befuddled, utterly befuddled. Here, I was hoping to break Muffboi’s reign of terrorism, but it seemed Muffboi had broken Lulu. I smiled, believing Lulu had finally learned acceptance and love, that she had overcome her nightmarish past.

But then, she stopped again. All at once, she charged toward poor Muffboi, who had not anticipated such a development. His face was of utter terror as he realized his fate was sealed; he was done for. I sprang into action, opening the door a crevice to let him escape as Lulu chased him in a circle, then out the door.

I will tell you though Lulu‘s surprise plan worked more effectively than mine ever could. It was a few feline years before Muffboi mustered the courage to pick up his old habit.