They sat me in a room with a computer, at least six dozen cameras, and seven different suits to choose from. I had five minutes to prepare, and rather than use those five minutes to suit up, primp and preen myself for my appearance in front of the American people, I instead chose to sit and stare at the computer, slack jawed.

How in God's name did I get into this? I'm a fresh graduate of high school, barely old enough to vote. Whose wise-ass idea was it to put me in charge?

Then the cameras whirr and turn on. I'm live, in my t-shirt and jeans. Some of the staff gasp. I don't care.

I'm president for thirty-six hours. No potty breaks. No sleeping. No nothing. So you know what? I'm not going to play by the rules. I don't even want to be here. So I'm not going to be their Barbie doll. I'm not going to dress like them and talk like them with big promises, lofty goals, and silk suits.

I'm going to be me.

"Cameras are rolling, sir," says an old man in a navy blue suit, his pallid skin glistening with sweat. I can't see his eyes behind his thick black shades, but it doesn't matter. I can easily visualize how hard it is for this golden-years gentleman to call an eighteen-year-old child "sir."

"I can see that..." I read his name tag. "... Francis."

I wiggle my eyebrows at his stupidly old-fashioned name and turn back to my computer.

"Hello, great and not-so-great citizens of America! It is I, Kaz Miller, the teenager who is, for the next 36 hours, in charge of your lives!"

Behind me, one of the secret service dudes winces.

"This is bad," he says.

"Hey," another guy says. "Anything is better than the last bastard."

"If any of you think this is a terrible idea," I continue. "You're absolutely right! I had no say in this. A bunch of dudes in fancy-ass suits showed up at my house and flew me here on a helicopter. So, people of the U.S., brace yourselves. Because I won't sugarcoat. I won't fuck around. I'm here to tell you that We The People are failing. We are failing our brothers and siste— Hold up, gotta check my Twitter."

I imagine crappy edited-in laughter like in a sitcom.

"Well," I say. "Louzer666 wants to know... 'wut iz ur opinion on china???"

"Gotta say, man. Don't know who your English teacher was, but she is rolling in her grave. As for China... never been, so I'm not at liberty to say."

Cue more imagined sitcom laughter.

"Liza Greene wants to know— no irony here— about what I plan to do about the environmental impact. Well, Liza, I'm only going to be in here 36 hours, but if I could, I would definitely put some more restrictions in place. I like animals more than people, know what I'm saying?"

"And... Younisse_uh_the_Unicxrn wants to know... 'This is Younisse Unicorn in Connecticut, what the hell is going on, man?' Well, Mr. Unicorn, I have no fucking clue."

"Wyatt_Wrong says 'your tie is lame buddy.' Jokes on you, Mr. Wrong, because I'm not wearing a tie.

And so the first day went.

After the first 24 hours of no sleep, Secret Service Francis brought me a plate full of steak, which I refused.

"I'm a vegetarian," I say. "No meat." Am I a vegetarian? No way. I'm just being a dick.

"Alrighty folks," I say, shoveling in mouthfuls of quinoa salad. "I'm going to check my messages again, and— oh wow! People got lots o' shit to talk about.

Mary_Sue_Ellen_Hill wants to know if I'm single and ready to mingle, becaus ethere are sexy European— um... yeah, that's a spam message. Hmm, how about Traitor_Joes. He wants to know what my opinion is on gays.

So now we get to the juicy stuff. Well, Traitor, I think gay people are human just like everyone else. And since I'm a cis white guy, I don't really know about all the other sexualities and genders and stuff, but I'm cool with them too.

Gentle_In_Me says 'Kaz, I'm trying to be a writer, could you give me a shoutout? Well, I guess I just did! Re-Hymen-Ated (now that's a weird name) wants to know—" I shove another bite of quinoa into my mouth. A guy's gotta eat.

"She says, and I quote 'Are you single and ready to—' ah, another spam. Pity. Hey guys, if you're watching out there, send me in your comments! I've got nothing better to do!

25 hours and counting left.

"Well," I say. "I've got a little more than a day left here in the White House, and I want to say, if I were actually president, I'm going to ban spammers who say 'Are you single and ready to mingle?' Have some originality! Anyway, Xx.yung.xX wants to know "Do you believe in god?'

"Well, in short, no. But in long... maybe. We'll just have to see."

"Kandy_Kayne: 'Do you believe in religious tolerance?' Well, I believe in tolerance. If you're tolerant, I don't care what else you do. That's your business, not mine or the government's."

"Well folks, we're coming up on the last few minutes of my presidency. I want everyone to know that if I didn't get to your comment, it's my bad. Ooh! One last one before we close off. Hungry_Hungry_Heckos wants to know, 'What's 2 + 2?' Oh honey, two plus two is just one of those questions we might never get a straight answer to."

"And that's a wrap, folks! If you hear from me again, it will be as a regular commoner!"

The cameras power down, the rows of unused suits are packed away. I finish my quinoa salad in blessed silence, and then I fall asleep. When I wake up, to my surprise, I'm face to face with Francis the Secret Service Old Guy.

"Well, sir, congratulations."

"Ug... whug?" I groan, still convinced I'm dreaming.

"You were a big hit."

"Doesn't matter," I say, standing up and stretching. "I'm done with that now."

"Well that's just the thing, sir..."

"What?"

"Well, if we can call the last three days your first term... You've been elected for a second term."

When the President of the United States of America got himself assonated by an illegal immigrant, the last thing the public expected was a Muslim-American woman in the oval office. I suppose this is what I signed up for as the Secretary of State. Still, with the first three in line conveniently dead after the coordinated attack, the eyes around me spark like the sun’s rays on a magnifying glass. Slowly wishing to destruct but unable to find the right angle.

In thirty-six hours I will be replaced or dead. At least, that’s what the Chief Justice muttered as he shoved my hand on a Bible and proclaimed my new position as the most powerful woman in the world.

I wipe the sweat off my palms as they start to stick to the stacks of papers. I spot the first camera poked through a bookshelf and my chest throbs. I feel more like the suspect in interrogation than the leader amidst a crisis. A woman is swiping my face with blush. My hair is framed around my face. The woman has drawn lines to age my cheeks, to sharpen my eyes. To make it look as if I have more than two days of experience in the government system.

Yesterday I celebrated my new position as Secretary of State. Today I am governing a nation.

A balding man pokes his eyes between his phone’s Twitter accounts and the nearby television news reports. I don’t remember his name. He curses between breaths, and I imagine the social media manhandling this event, each attention-snatching news anchor, each conspiracist who itches to glimpse the face of their new president. Those who see my eyes and conjure “suspect” instead of “leader.”

At last, a light narrows to focus.

“President al-Guler,” the cameraman says. I think he wants to make sure he is pronouncing my name right. He isn’t. “You are live in five, four, three, two...” He points at me. I feel the world at my fingertips, and the earthquake of chatters gnashing my teeth transforms. My lips curl slightly, and I open my mouth hoping I don’t sound like a mutant bullfrog.

I read the words off the screen. “Good Evening. I am Zumruda al-Guler. Terrible atrocities bring me here today in front of you, the nation that stands for freedom and justice. For, your president and many of his cabinet...are now dead.” I grip my hand beneath the table. “However, one remains. Your Speaker of the House, Greg Spinder, is set to recover in thirty-six hours. Having had been proclaimed dead until moments ago...and only recently brought to a live state...”

My words catch. Letters swim off every screen, and something snatches my tongue and pins it down. The large man who had been checking Twitter accounts stares at me.

“We urge our beloved citizens to remain calm under this crisis,” I say. “For, until Mr. Spinder is recovered, I will serve as President al-Gular.”

My voice cracks and the cameraman cuts to a sponsor ad before my tears can smudge my eyeliner.

The man beside him drops his phone and faces me. “Average Job, Cupcake.” He grabs my hand and shakes it. “I'm Al Couper. Head of Security. Come with me, President al-Gular.”

He is the first person today to pronounce my name right on the first go. I suppose “Miss President” doesn’t have the same authoritative ring to it. Al Couper nudges his head for the door. We are followed by each cameraman as they reign in every detail. The terms were settled as soon as they saw my face: everything would be livestreamed. They said it had to do with my security. I think they want to assure I am not the one to be afraid of.

“I am afraid you put me in an awkward situation,” Al Couper says. The cameras capture the angles of my reaction.

Our conversation relays these facts: I know I shouldn’t be here. Two murderous sprees put me in this position today. First, the death of the first Secretary of State and all of his potential predecessors. Then, of course, the series of assassins that put me from grad school to the White House in the course of three days.

“Your position will be short-lived.”

Al Couper is the second person to say this to me today. Except, this time, the whole nation hears it.

He shows me the phone he had been swiping through. A meme has morphed me with a badger and won international fame. Tweets have nearly broken the system, most laughing at the poor performance of their badger president, a few others terrified of the preditor ahead. I wish I could have told them the truth.

I wish I could tell them that our nation is under complete captivity.

For no one knows the identity of the latest assassin.

"Take five," he tells the cameramen. They cut to another commercial.

Al throws a white towel at me and stops in front of the bathroom. With a shiver, I sprint inside and lock myself in the stall. I relay faces, names, and I know I'm in danger. The earpiece, the tan skin, the buzzed hair. I have a bodyguard. Al Couper is serving as my bodyguard. How did I get here?

Security means nothing anymore. Dead or replaced. Dead or replaced. Replaced or...

My past swallows my emotions. Training settles over my senses and sharpens them. Adrenaline courses through me. I am not safe here. I am not safe anywhere. I feel the target weighing down my spine, feel the assassins distorted fingers over mine.

No. I am still in the bathroom stall.

I step out and linger in front of the mirror. The sink water runs over my hands and threatens to melt them.

I watch Al Couper's shadow linger at the door. Those of the cameramen have dissolved.

Cool water evaporates off my face as I splash sink water into my eyes. I kept them shut tight. Shapes overpass my irises. Perhaps this way I will wake up.

When I open them, the shadow of my security guard is gone. Before I can celebrate this fact, my senses kick back in. My past disciplines me.

I notice the vent in the bathroom’s corner. It’s been impounded, and the lock along its lining is destroyed. Judging the damage I know it is recent. A splintered drum has settled in my forehead, but I push myself up the stall, flash my phone’s light through the vent, and catch glimpses. I stare long enough to catch an odorless green smoke enveloping the rounded corner the vent.

I don’t scream. I run.

My past. My training. My few years in service, armed, defending our nation before finishing my education. Military work when interactions are limited and questions are nonexistent. I know buildings, I know vents, and I know what room would be so close to a bathroom.

There’s a target, and it’s not myself. There’s someone strong enough to show a threat, someone who knows how to talk in front of a camera.

There’s a man being transported here. Perhaps he already has. He is recovering. Thirty-six hours from now he is supposed to kick me off my pedestal and assure the nation of my innocence and the public's safety.

The next target.

Greg Spinder.

***

Alarms have sounded. Security is looking for me.

But I know which life is more important.

I have just enough time to sweep Greg Spinder's hospital bed from the floors. I know the code that no one else does. The safe house. I swing the bed into encased floor. I ready myself to slide beneath the closing doors, counting back the seconds, knowing there has to be room for me and me alone. It inches down, Greg Spinder is moaning, and I drop to my stomach.

Al Couper grabs me from behind. There is ringing. A gun in his hand. A bullet in my chest.

Before my eyes close, I see a tweet. My assassination has already been announced.

By Al Couper.

But I see I’ve acted quickly enough. Greg Spinder has been sprawled to the saferoom. No corrupted security sits with him. These are assassins. Not bombers. I see the blood soak my clothes. Irrefutable evidence of the criminal mastermind.

If Greg Spinder has a chance, so does our country.

I smile at the enraged face of Al Couper one last time.

Dead or replaced. Dead or replaced. Replaced or...

When I was a wee lass, about eleven, my entire sixth grade class went on a field trip to this theme park called Fun World. I know, I know. Such an original name. And generic as the name was, you’d expect the rides to match. They...did for the most part, the only exception being the focal point—a behemoth rollercoaster known as Crow’s Landing. Crow’s Landing was a rickety contraption that ascended seemingly thousands of feet into the sky. Then would come the drop, a 90+ mile an hour experience. Twists, turns, loops. It was so fast you’d feel the skin on your face threatening to peel off the bone. I went on with a couple of classmates, not my closest friends. The staple ‘mean girls’ found their way aboard. The shy geeky kid. Well, I was there, so the second shy geeky kid. We loaded into the cars, nothing in common, silently keeping to ourselves. Let’s just say by the time we unloaded, we were all best friends. The illusion of impending, agonizing doom has a way of spurring folks to set their initial differences aside. One ‘mean girl’ was even hugging the geeky boy next to her. At the time, it was probably the best day of his life.

You’d be amazed how close the political arena is to a middle school hierarchy. You have the cliques, the populars, the underdogs, the geeks, et cetera. I’d know this, as I am now the president of this here United States. My PR people have me constantly livestreaming to show the citizens how down to earth I am. Because of this, a recent poll found me ‘hashtag relatable’. It may sound like I’m riffing on this, and—well—but overall I’m cool with it. It doesn’t offend me that the American folks are so engaged. If they want to watch my political affairs unfold, who am I to say they can’t. They elected me.

My PR peeps have been livestreaming meetings lately, with diplomats from far and wide. But diplomacy is on the wane, so rather than one-on-one, I’ve arranged for a meeting with about twenty big names. Time is running out to negotiate peace. Still. I have a plan.

My wonderful VP has somehow managed to convince them to meet me at Fun World. When we get there, Crow’s Landing will be waiting. Hehehe...

I remember how as an eleven-year-old my parents would have the news on all our TVs seemingly 24/7. It was noise, if nothing else. A sound machine to kill the silence. Somewhere along the way I started listening. My brain picked up on more than I expected. After my brush with mortality on the coaster, I recall thinking “Woah, if all those world leaders would just ride on one of these things, there would be world peace in a day.” Differences would dissolve right quick. And yeah, it’s a weird means to put things in perspective. But whatever works, right?

The morning of the meetup, I advised the diplomats not to eat before they came. I wanted to disarm them of their pride, but us barfing all over each other would be a little too disarming, if you catch my drift. Strange thing about pride, a lot of these people kinda’ snubbed the Crow’s Landing idea at first; but when apprehension about the coaster spread, all it took was one piping up. “I’m braver than you.” Not to be outdone, the next diplomat stepped forward, then the next. Cowardice was not an option, lest they risk bringing shame to their nations. The livestreams were set up at every turnpoint. It became a test of endurance.

The coaster car began its crawl, creeping forward in leisurely stride. It’s not gonna’ be so bad, was their general consensus. But I knew. As a veteran coaster frequenter, I was well aware what we were in for.

First second over the hill, the plummet began. We caught air, and a cacophony of screams went up. All these suited and gowned individuals now shrieked for their lives. My inner eleven-year-old howled with joy. Wow, this thing was even funner than I remembered.

We braved the twists, the turns, the loops. And by the time it was all over, I was pleased to find a deja vu of sixth grade. A few diplomats hugged each other for dear life—the same few that had previously held contention. What I saw was no longer a room full of uncooperative, stiff-expressioned individuals, rather a collection of opposing nationalities, embracing, gasping, recovering, laughing, and setting everything aside to bask in a shared humanity. Some even wept with relief that it was over and they were still in one piece.

The meeting ended a relative success. A few possibilities for treaties floated around. And everyone was a bit warmer towards each other. Though they’d probably never admit it, I think the majority—if not all—had fun.

...

I was impeached shortly after.

Worth it.

#fiction

If I could fly

I'd traverse the Pacific

Bundle up against the cold

Hungry winds

So not an inch of warm

Seeps through

If I could fly

I'd never land

Not for food or rest

Well

Maybe for a bathroom break

Or two

But no

If I could fly

I'd move so fast

With a trail of supersonic boom

Slammed behind

I'd pack in all my joy

My laughs and hope

And I'd bring them all

To you

I landed violently on my stomach. The impact made me retch up and vomited violently. I nosedived into the murky pool of my vomit and my body shook violently.” It is a fever” I heard myself shout. I lurched to my knees with my hands clenching the wet earth as if the world would be snatched right under me. My whole body sang with pain. My grey sweatpants were in tatters and covered in grey mucus. I had lost my shirt and my upper body was slimy with the disagreeable fluid. My phone was on the ground blinking away like a broken Christmas tree. That is when I heard the roar.

The roar threatened to burn out my eardrums. I was on a muddy beach with a bleached prison wall or what remained of it. The dull metal sea waters lashed at the wall threatening to bring it down. I turned giant porcupine wiped its wiping in disguised and roared again. Its spikes trembled as the wind pummeled my back.

You must run for the waters. A voice slipped into my head. This is insanity, I worried myself. You must run, that thing spat you, but it will tear you into pieces. The voice came in static. I stood then ran weakly into the dull sea. The thud of approaching danger seared my back as the waves threw me into the deep like polythene.

The sea boiled and suddenly a thousand worms started to converge towards me. They crawled up my back. My back stung as if I had landed into a beehive. Now jump and fly. The voice advised I was losing it now. Then I jumped and black wings sprouted out of my back and I flew away into the dark sky.

The End.

I've always wanted to be a ghost; ever since a young age, the mere prospect of going unnoticed and unseen from people has always sparked a speck of curiosity in me.

Not because I particularly want to go sneak into movie theatres, or play pranks on my friends and then laugh at them.

No, that's not what really drives my desire to be hidden.

Not being able to talk to people, cause they can't see you?

Golden.

Standing up for class presentations, ordering something from a till, speaking on the phone. It's all nerve-wracking, and I would rather not have to partake in that sort of stuff.

So, granted, when I finally do get invisibilty powers, it's an overall happy day for me. I spend the first hour lounging around without a care in the world, listening to music and writing notes for school.

The next hours are dedicated to going to school, which means I have to at least show my face — turns out my powers enable em to switch it on or off whenever I desire — but after that? It's complete ghost time for me.

I don't know when the gift of invisibility will wear off, it might last for only a day.

I'm not too disturbed about when it'll go away, and I only want to focus on staging my absence today. Maybe I'll go for a nice walk in the park, without having to meet others eyes.

Maybe I'll buy something without fretting over people watching me blunder like a fool.

Maybe I'll just go sit in a library and read for hours on end.

I don't really mind, since I usually am sort of a ghost. Nobody really notices me, anyway, even though a small part of my mind niggles at the thought.

If I can't see them, they can't see me.

Tele sat, relaxed, on the back of his seat at the restaurant. He had been named after a guitar. His father, a musician, was said to have placed the notes inside the heads of his audiences. He was locally famous in Cleveland, where Tele sat now, awaiting a woman for tonight, a blind date.

Earlier that day, after escorting a disappointed and anxious date from last night to his front door, he went to his bedroom and prepared for tonight's date. He closed his eyes. "Wear a red dress," he said, "and white heels. You'll look amazing. The date will be fabulous: you'll have one drink and I'll have the best table, and then we'll go to my place and I'll play you a song." He turned around. "Sir, MaitreD', you will let me have the finest table in the house."

Tele smiled remembering this as he lounged at the table, sipping a margarita, and waiting for Carol, the woman he was meeting. Tele loved blind dates. People were so susceptible to his influence when there was no history between him and them. He twiddled his thumbs. "I told her 9:00."

At 9:01 exactly, Carol entered the place, and Tele saw the most beautiful woman that he could imagine: a woman with straight sheening dark hair wearing a red, silk, fitted dress and white heels.

"Carol..." he said in an astounded straight tone. "Tele," he pointed at himself.

"I'm Carol, hi. Nice to meet you. Do we have a seat?"

"Yes, he said, "up front," and he escorted her to the table in the back. "Would you like a drink?" he asked. "She'll have a margarita," he said softly.

The waiter arrived at the table. "Hello madam, sir. Would you like a drink, madam?"

Carol looked at Tele. "What do you think?" she said. "A margarita?" she asked. "A margarita," she said to the waiter. "Actually no... a bourbon, please. Thanks." She winked at Tele.

"Something wrong?" she asked. "No, absolutely not," he replied.

They talked for a half hour. At 10 the restaurant would close. Tele had counted on this. He suggested that they go back to his place for a drink, and she said, "Yes." They arrived at the condo, he went to the wet bar, and she to the sofa.

"I love the place, wow," Carol said. You must be doing well."

"The key to business is getting your point across, by any means," he said smugly. He smiled and walked to Carol and gave her a drink, and then, suddenly, he had the strongest notion to go to his bedroom alone. He excused himself, shaking his head, and went there.

Tele immediately--inexplicably--took off his jeans. He pulled his acoustic guitar from the wall. He then said, "I need to turn on The Weather Channel on the TV in the living room." Tele seemed in a daze. He flung the bedroom door open and burst into the room, wearing only his boxers, and strummed the guitar and began to sing. "Well, Yankee Doodle Dandy went riding on a pony..." he sang. Carol smiled deviously from the sofa. Still playing and singing, he went to the TV remote at the edge of the sofa and turned on the TV and put in the channel number... "and called it macaroni." He stopped, a big smile on his face. "What do you think?" he said.

Carol burst into laughter. "Holy Shit Tele, really? Tele Slade, wow!"

He shook his head, snapping out of some daze, and, feeling mortified, laid the guitar on the floor.

"Wait, how'd you know my last name?" he said.

"Earlier today, Tele, I had some words of inspiration that I decided to send your way. I closed my eyes and I said, 'he'll want a red dress, with white heels. I'll have a drink at the restaurant and he'll have the best table. He'll desire me, and will play guitar naked in his living room while the television plays something ridiculous. Then he'll finish, proudly.' What I didn't say was what I'd do next: I'd laugh, and then say...

Remember me?" she said. Carol closed her eyes and Tele caught an image in his mind of a pretty girl with straight hair sitting on the couch next to him and...

"KRISTY! Holy Shit!" he said. He looked down at the floor, bashful and alarmed. He looked up. "You're Kristi's roommate! I mean we met but that was months ago. Is this, this whole thing...and why am I watching the fucking Weather Channel right now?" He turned to Carol. "So this, this was all a setup. How?"

"You dumped her, right? Well, you cheated on her," she said plainly. "Ever wanted a girl you couldn't have, or couldn't trick?"

The television was showing a red banner with "Storm Warning" written in white across it.

"There will be a thunderstorm tonight and..." the weatherman on the television began.

"Oh, Tele. You didn't want me to wear a red dress, I did. And 'she'll be beautiful and dressed amazingly...' Well I do look good in just about anything, but take a closer look."

Tele looked down at her dress. Now, once a gorgeous silk dress could be seen for what it was, a baggy, second-hand pick-up from the used store that Carol had intentionally ripped, making it "probably my ugliest suggestion," she said proudly.

"You," Tele said.

"And you! Carol said. "Some might say that you put thoughts into Kristi's head every time she sobbed and inquired about Trish, Claudia, and whoever else. And the girls you have probably tricked with your mind since then? Some would call that being smooth, but you and I, we share something."

The weatherman on the TV had more to say: "There will be a thunderstorm tonight and..."

"STOP SAYING THAT!" they yelled in unison, looking at the TV.

The weatherman changed course. "No, actually tonight will be clear, sorry."

Tele looked at Carol.

"Telepathy," he said.

"You're not the only one. Just go forward knowing that others might be like us. Don't be an asshole," she said, and left.

Tele locked the front door and sat on the sofa. He turned the television off. He straightened his back and got serious. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and said, "she'll have a really shitty day tomorrow."

She didn't.

“Al and I are going up to the Catskills for the night, okay?”

“That’s great!” Gabby, my wife of nearly 30 years replied. “You need to relax,” she continued. “When do you leave?”

“4:00 am.”

“Oh…okay. Did you tell your parents?”(My parents live with us. They don’t speak much English and although my wife is conversational in Turkish, it just makes life easier if I mediate.)

“Yes, they know.”

“Good. Well, have a great time, my love. Relax!” She said, kissing me goodnight before turning out the light.

I felt a little guilty. I wasn’t really going camping. I was taking part in an experiment. Our son, Denny, a material science engineer, had been working on some kind of nano cell-displacing ray that diffuses human cells in such a way that one becomes invisible to the human eye (and inaudible to the human ear) for a limited period of time. Over the last year, he had tested it on various frat buddies with varying degrees of success: floating hands, noses, eyes were not quite marketable. On the upside, everyone reappeared in one piece. After a lot of tweaking, last month he tested it on himself and, accidentally, on his dog, Max. Max chose the moment Denny nano-rayed himself to jump up and lick his face. Overall, it wasn’t a bad thing except that even though they were both invisible, they were not invisible together. When they reappeared, Max was clearly a little traumatized by the whole experience.

Yesterday, Denny asked if I would try it out for him. He has a huge presentation for the NSA next Monday and he wants to be sure his claim that complete invisibility will last for twenty-four hours - no more, no less - is true. We didn’t tell his mom because, well, she would find a reason to say it wasn’t a good idea. That’s just how she is. Smart lady and the sweetest, kindest woman you will ever meet, but she worries about everything. Capital E. Case in point: She won’t move to California even though she loves it because, well, it might fall off in an earthquake. No joke. That’s how she thinks. So, if she knew I was about to be nano-rayed, she would immediately start listing every single thing that could possibly go wrong. We love her dearly, but she is the president-elect of the worrywart-piss-on-my-parade-party-pooper club.

In the middle of the night, I slipped out of the bed, got dressed, packed a little bag and left. I had packed my car with the camping gear – in case she checked the garage – so I was ready for my adventure. I drove to my son’s house. The lights were on even though it was barely 4:30 am. The door was open before I got out of the car.

“Baba, what’s up, man!” Denny said, when I got to the door.

“Me,” I said, laughing.

“Haha, pops, funny, not funny. You ready to do this?”

“Sure, I’m excited. But how will I communicate with you after you make me invisible? I want you to take me home so I can be home while I’m invisible.”

He looked at me. “Spying on mom?”

“No, nothing like that,” I denied. “I just don’t want to be wandering around or sitting in your house with Max while you are at work. I can’t open doors or anything, right?”

“No. And you won’t feel hunger or have to use the bathroom. I peed a lake when I reappeared though. It was almost funny. Especially when it appears Max had to and did poop.” He laughed a little, but clearly distracted by his own thoughts. “The nano-ray cell diffuser must react differently somehow on animals, because by the way he was sitting right next to me when we reappeared, he clearly knew where I was even though I didn’t know where he was. Interesting.”

I interrupted his tangent before he could veer way off into science-speak. “So, if you shoot me at 6am, I should reappear tomorrow at 6am, right?”

“Right. Here’s what we can do: I’ll shoot you in the car on the way home. I’ll open the door as if I’m looking for something in the passenger seat and you get out and do your thing. You’ll have follow me into the house. Then…good luck! I had to wait on Matt [his housemate] to come in and go out when I was invisible which was really annoying. I’m really not sure how useful this will be for NSA, but they are VERY interested.”

“Six figures interested?”

“I patented it already, and I will be leasing not selling. I’m offering five years, with first dibs on the second and third generation versions. Seven figures.”

“Shhhhhhiiiiiiitt? What? That’s my boy!!” I said, whacking him on the back.

“If they like what I’m selling. We’ll see. They will have me use it on their test subjects before they make a final decision. I should know by next Friday.”

“Unreal. I’m so proud of you, Denny!” I pulled him in for a hug. He let me before he pulled away.

“Thanks, Baba. Okay, let’s do this. How about we grab some breakfast at Dunkin and get you home?”

“Let’s gooooo!”

******

“Denny! What a great surprise!” Gabby said, hugging our son.

“Hey, Mom. Whatssuuuuuup?” he said, briefly hugging her before stepping back and walking into the kitchen. He used the half bath to pee. I will never understand his lack of need for privacy. He left the door open as he talked to his mother.

“What brings you here so early in the morning? I was about to run, but I can make you breakfast. What would you like? An omelet, pancakes, muffins?”

“Nah, I just wanted to surprise you. I knew Baba was going camping with Uncle Al, so…” He washed his hands at the kitchen sink then opened the fridge, grabbed a jar of strawberry preserves and a spoon. He ate a few spoonfuls then put it away, and grabbed a bottle of water.

“You knew? I’m always the last to know everything,” she said, looking a little annoyed. I do always seem to forget to tell her things…or I assume I’ve told her because I’ve told my parents at dinner…which is usually in Turkish.

“Haha, yeah, well, I’m going biking at Bear Mountain before work, so, just wanted to say hi. Catch ya later, Mom!”

“Oh, okay, sweetie, but, you should go say hi to your grandparents. I’m sure they’re awake despite the early hour. They always love to see you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.” The eye rolling surprised me. Slamming the door to the basement open in frustration? What? I followed him downstairs.

“Yakışıklım! Nasilsin? İyi misin? Aisha, gel! Denny burada!” My father said, all smiles, as he smacked my son on the arm and called for my mother to come to their living room.

“Dedooooo!” My son said. ‘Dede,’ means grandfather. He made it his own with ‘Dedo.’ He was all cheer, no sass, thank goodness. My parents are 80. They deserve better than rolling eyes and slamming doors. “What’s up, man?”

“Good, good.”

“Denny! Çok özledim! Gel! Yakışıklım! Maşallah!” My mother said, wobbling into the room as quickly as she could after four back surgeries, knee surgery and more than a little overweight. She pulled Denny into a tight hug kissing him all over his face.

“Babaannnoooo!” ‘Babaanne means grandmother (literally father’s mother). Once again, he’d made it his own with ‘Babaanno.’ “How you doing? How’s your back?”

“Gut.”

“Good. Good to see you guys. Take care. Gotta go. Have a great day!” he said hurrying back up the stairs as they watched him, smiling. I watched the smiles fade. Without a word, my mother went back to her room. My dad went to his room and closed the door.

Huh.

Upstairs, Denny was already pulling out of the driveway by the time I got there. I was surprised he didn’t stay longer with Gabby. Then again, he knew I was there so… I watched Gabby standing on the porch, waving goodbye and blowing kisses. She always does that whenever anyone is leaving the house. It’s her way of making sure that if something horrible happens (she is always thinking the worst) the last memory we have of each other will be a pleasant one. Sweet and macabre at the same time.

When the car was out of sight, she stopped waving. When she came in the house, I saw that she was crying. What?

“What a sillyit I am,” she said to herself. “He’s a man. Of course he doesn’t want to hang out with his mom. That’s what you want as a parent. To raise, happy, healthy independent humans. At least he stopped by.” She wiped her eyes. “And he calls.” She blew her nose. “And he lets me edit his writing.” She laughed, put on her sneakers and headed to the garage to run on our treadmill. I followed her.

I watched as she set up her iPad to read, put her towel on the side and started up the machine. I peeked – 10-minute-mile pace. Nice. I used to be faster than her. Not so much anymore. I looked to see what she was reading. I read a few lines and my eyes started bulging for sure because my sweet little conservative wife was reading smut. What? I looked at her and she was clearly caught up in it. I started laughing and then read some more. Maybe I could get some ideas…

After her run, she stretched and did some physical therapy exercises for her back, made a pot of coffee then showered. She sings in the shower. She has a beautiful voice. Suddenly she stopped and I could hear wracking sobs from behind the shower curtain.

“I have to stop this,” she said to herself. “Life is good. I have no right to feel sad.”

Sad? She’s the happiest person I know.

She got out of the shower and her eyes were puffy from crying. She dried off and looked in the mirror. “Now see what you’ve done? Ugly, ugly, ugly!” She started crying again. “Old and ugly!” she started crying more. Ugly? Old? I felt like I was in the twilight zone. People think my son and my wife are a couple, that’s how young she looks. I keep wanting her to let her hair go gray just so she looks more like me. Not a wrinkle on her. She is beautiful – inside and out! What is wrong with her?

She sobbed some more then washed her face in cold water, weighed herself, grimaced, did her hair, put on some make-up and smiled a thousand different ways at herself in the mirror. I smiled back at her, shaking my head. Then she started taking pictures of herself. Full body nude pictures of herself. I stopped smiling. My wife does not believe in taking nude pictures. I’ve tried. She sat on the toilet and I stood behind her. She was sending the pictures in an email. I am very interested in your film. As long as it is very brief nudity, I would welcome the opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you.

I’m choking on spit. My wife left a 25-year career three years ago when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She had a milestone birthday that year as well, so was probably also in the throes of a mid-life crisis. With a great deal of encouragement from me and my son, she started pursuing her passions – painting, singing, writing and acting. Acting is the only paying one albeit very sporadically. She’s still working on getting the big break. Our agreement is no kissing. I didn’t think I had to specify no nudity. I wondered if this was the first time. I wondered what else she wasn’t telling me.

She got dressed and went downstairs. She growled a bit as she wiped bread crumbs off the table and counter and cleaned the panini machine she never uses since she doesn’t eat bread. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “I don’t get it. Every single goddam morning they leave shit on the table, shit on the counters, shit in the sink. They don’t have to fucking do anything else. Can’t they at least clean the fuck up after themselves? Fuck!”

My mouth fell to the floor. My wife doesn’t curse.

I stood in the corner by the window listening, watching as she cleaned up the crumbs, swept the floor, emptied the dishwasher (slamming the cabinet doors as she did so). Then she poured a cup of coffee and went to the breezeway to drink it while she painted. She put on Rachmaninoff. Aha. Definitely a bad mood day.

After a couple of hours, and another cup of coffee, she washed her brushes and grabbed her pocketbook and some shopping bags. I couldn’t figure out how to get in the car with her so I just waited for her to get back. I didn’t need to watch her food shopping although I was pretty sure it would be different than I expected. The whole day had been so far.

While she was gone I sat in the living room until I heard my parents come upstairs.

“O gitti. Gel, duş yapıyoruz şimdi.”

Huh? They waited for my wife to leave to use the shower. We only have one full bath in the house, so I get it, but I thought it was kind of weird that they waited for her to leave. I didn’t follow them. No desire to see my parents naked. As they walked up the stairs, I heard my father tell my mom to be careful. He worries that, with her back, she’ll hurt herself on the stairs. She has two more months of healing and therapy before they can visit Turkey. He is dying to go. The only reason they are not there is because of her health issues. He has drowned his sorrows more than one night in whiskey. That, I know.

“Kapa çeneni, Cemal.”

Shut up, Cemal. My mom has grown increasingly cantankerous since the last surgery. She is only nice to my wife. Which makes sense. My wife is the hand that feeds us…and she is always smiling and happy. I think about the day so far and think, at least, in front of us she is.

I sit in the living room for at least two hours before my wife gets back. She makes various trips from the car to the kitchen with all her groceries. She puts on Eminem (another sign she is not in the best mood, perhaps – his music is so angry) while she unpacks and puts away the food. She brings a couple of treats downstairs to my parents and I hear them exclaiming and thanking her. She comes back upstairs and starts making dinner.

And I realize she never ate breakfast. It’s way past lunch time at this point. She’s just drinking water.

She spends hours in the kitchen cooking, periodically checking her phone for casting notices and texts that will not come from me. Denny calls and chats with her, telling her some jokes he made up (or found on the internet) that make her laugh. After they hang up, she calls her mom to tell her about me and Denny and listen to whatever stories her mom has for her today. They talk every day.

While she talks, she makes chicken soup (my mother requested it at dinner last night), köfte (little flavorful hamburgers) in tomato sauce with fried potatoes, tomato pilaf (because my parents like rice and bread with every meal even if there is pasta or potatoes on the menu), and shepherd’s salad. Then she makes a tuna salad which I know is what she will eat for her dinner since she does that often when she’s made a meat main dish. She sends a text and I look and see she is texting me to take my medicine.

And I wonder what I will be like when I reappear. Twenty-four hours. No meds. I don’t feel anything and haven’t since Denny zapped me. And I start to wonder if the zap might have a positive effect on me. And I start to hope. It’s a bad habit I’ve gotten into since I got sick. Hoping for miracles.

At 5:00 she makes herself a (very strong) gin and tonic and reads for a little while (I still can’t believe my wife reads smut). At 5:30, she makes herself another (very strong) gin and tonic. She practically gulps it down and makes a third.

I remember she still has not eaten today.

At 6:00 she calls down to my parents to tell them dinner is ready.

Dinner is interesting? Excruciating? My dad tries to make conversation and my wife does, too. A mixture of Turkish and English. He asks if she’s heard from me. No. It was nice to see Denny. Yes. How’s your back? She asks my mother. My mother goes into a long explanation in Turkish and clearly has lost my wife whose eyes are a little glassy and whose smile is a little too bright.

I’m wondering if she drinks like this every day or if it’s just because I’ve left her alone with my parents.

After dinner, they say goodnight and go back downstairs. My wife clears the dishes, washes pots, puts food in containers for my lunch the next day, cleans the table, the stove, the sink and then turns out the light.

She sits in her chair in the living room and reads for a while. Then she pulls out her computer and starts writing. I look over her shoulder and see it’s a poem. And I see that she is crying as she writes. And then I am crying invisible tears (as nonexistent as her tears and sadness have been to me till today) because her poem is to me. To us. It is a celebration of love. It isn’t a sad poem. And yet it is.

I’m tired of this day. I go upstairs and lay on our bed. I can’t wait till this is over.

She comes to bed early. She is asleep almost instantly. The gin, I suspect. And I think, she always falls asleep quickly lately.

And I think, we need to talk.

And I wonder what she will say when she finds out about my day as her invisible shadow.

On a positive note, the nano-ray worked. Twenty-four hour invisibility is a real thing. Denny has a shot at a lucrative contract with the NSA.

As I lay there, tremor-less, I cannot help but hope that his invention has an unexpected side effect.

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...huh? ...wha...?'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...can't I open my eyes...?'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...whassat noise...?'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

...

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Lindstrom, I'm afraid I need you to step out of the room for a moment.. We're going to do the EEG right now. It'll take about twenty minutes. I'll come get you when we're done and you can come back in and sit with your son.”

“Alright, Doctor, thank you. You be good for the doctor, Bobby.”

'...mom...?'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...my head hurts...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

...

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“...a transverse fracture of cee one. Hypertonic reflexes in all extremities indicate severe spinal cord damage. CT scans show massive damage to the parietal and temporal lobes, with inclusion of skull splinters and fragments in the occipital lobe. EEG shows acutely abnormal brain activity, as would be expected in a case with such massive trauma. There is massive cerebral swelling with vascular strangulation despite attempts at surgical relief and a decadron drip. The patient remains intubated and on complete life support. The overall prognosis is grim. The patient is currently listed in extremely critical con....”

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

...

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“...obby? Bobby? It's me, son. Can you hear me?”

'...mom..?'

“Can you hear me, Bobby?”

“You might ask him to squeeze your fingers if he can hear you, Mrs. Linsdstrom. He won't be able to make any sound with the breathing tube in.”

“Bobby? Honey, squeeze my fingers if you can hear me. Squeeze my fingers”

'...can't feel m'hands...'

“Squeeze my fingers, dear. Come on sweetie, I know you can do it.”

'...what happened? ...where am I? ...why can't I move? ...hurts... so much pain... ...so sleepy...'

“Is he awake?”

“It's really hard to tell in cases like this. He might be. But we have no way of knowing.”

“He's not squeezing my fingers.”

“The x-rays said it was possible he won't be able to, but he's young and sometimes the swelling makes x-rays hard to read. He could be asleep or...”

'...not 'sleep... ...not yet... ...wanna sleep... ...hurts...'

“... he's not able to move. Paralyzed, you mean.”

“That's a possibility. We'll know more in the morning...”

“If he makes it that long, you mean.”

'...don't get testy mom...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

...

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...why do I always wake up to that beep...?'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...hate that fucking sound...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...wish it would go away...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

'...leave me in peace...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

…

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“After three months, with out improvement, there's very little chance of any significant change in cases like this.”

'...yeah, kinda what I though...'

“Do you know if Bobby can even hear us? If he's aware at all?”

'...wish I wasn't...'

“The EEG's indicate some brain functions that could mean he's conscious. Our latest PET scan shows that the hearing centers light up with sound. The language centers also light up. But with as much brain damage as he's suffered, we just don't know if he's aware, or if he can actually understand us. He's had so much damage, he's completely paralyzed. He can't breathe on his own. He can't see, even if he could open his eyes. We, literally, have no way to communicate with him, assuming he's capable of understanding us.”

'...tell me about it...'

“I want you to do everything you can, Doctor.”

“We have done everything we can, Mrs. Lindstrom. Bobby is essentially stable. What healing he needed to survive has been done. He doesn't require hospitalization, although he does require round-the-clock care. He needs to be suctioned, tube fed, turned, cleaned - all of the things needed to ”

'...oh great... ...I'm gonna be a burden to someone...'

“It's time for you to think about finding an extended care facility.”

'...wish dad was here... ...he'd tell them to pull the plug... ...this is no way to live... ...can't even call it life...'

“I'll find a place. I've already called around some.”

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

…

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“Rise and shine, Bobby! Bath time!”

'...like I need to sleep... ...like I rise... ...like I shine...'

“This might be cold.”

'...water the garden... ...make the vegetable grow...'

“Is the water too chilly?”

'...does a vegetable care how cold the rain is...? ...if I could feel anything, and move, and communicate and do something besides be a vegetable, I might be able to answer that question...'

“Drying time!”

'...just do it and get it over with... ...cheerfulness isn't my thing...'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

…

Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...

“Oh my god, what the hell?”

'...DAD...?'

“Steven, what are you doing here?”

“I'm the father, Linda. Remember?”

'...boo rah, dad...! ...you tell her...'

“I thought you were in Afghanistan.”

“What, you didn't think I'd find out?”

'...yeah, what about that...? ...how long...?'

“I didn't tell the Red Cross because I knew what you'd try to do.”

“You think keeping our son like a potted plant is what HE wanted?”

'...hey, the plant can hear you... ...besides, I'm a vegetable... ...not a house plant... ...but I like what you're saying...'

“I did what I thought was best for him.”

“You call THIS, 'best'? As usual, Linda, you didn't think of anyone but yourself.”

'...ouch... ...harsh... ...not that I disagree... ...no wonder you guys divorced...'

“He's alive. That's what counts. He's aware. I can feel it.”

'...yeah, but you can't hear shit, mom... ...told you a lot to let me die... ...and yet, here I am...'

“Then feel this, Linda.”

“What is this, Steven? A letter?”

“Bobby wrote me six months ago when I was in the field - read it.”

“Oh, this is really convenient. He told you he didn't want to be kept alive? Really, Steven? Is that how low you'll stoop?”

“It's what he wanted. I told him about some of the guys who got hurt. How they end up mangled or brain damaged by IED's. He wrote that letter back. He did not want to be kept alive in this state.”

'...wow, you got that letter..!'

“He could get better.”

“After five months with no signs of improvement? Even if he's aware, he can't communicate at all. There's too much damage. I can talk to doctors, too, you know. What the hell kind of life do you call THIS?”

“I'll fight you on this.”

'...shut up, mom... ...dad knows what he's doing... ...he always listened to me...'

"Bobby?"

'Just shut the fuck up and let me die...'

"Bobby! I can hear you!"

“Linda, I can hear him, too. But he's not talking. It's like telepathy.”

"I can see that."

'Mom, just let me die.'

"But, Bobby, you're alive, alert, you can talk, you..."

'Are never going to get better. Don't leave me like this. It's horrible."

"Doctor, our boy is talking to us!"

'Did mom go running off to try to save me?'

"Yes, son, she did."

'You know what to do, right, Dad?'

"I do, son, and I will."

'Thanks, Dad.'

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

…

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“You can't DO this! He TALKED! We both heard him!”

"But I was the only one who listended to him. I have the court order. The appeals have been denied. You're out of legal maneuvers.”

'...finally...'

“You're going to kill him! Your own son!”

“I'm setting him free, Linda. He knows this. He's trapped in there. He said he'd never want to be kept alive like that. The courts saw it his way. This isn't about me. It's about Bobby and his wishes.”

'...just shut up, mom... ...let me go... ...I want to be free... ...I've been fighting for that inside for three years... ...just let me be free...'

“Doctor? Do what you have to do.”

"Yes, sir."

“Beep... Beep... Beep... Beep...”

“Beep.......... Beep........... Beep................... Beep...”

'...thanks, dad... ...love you both...'

“Beep................ Beep............. Beep.................... Beep......................................................Beep”

“Goodby, son. I... WE love you.”

'...free at last...'

“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”