My grandfather had an amazing life: 39 years in the Army, retiring as a Brigadier General; Academic Dean of West Point Military Academy; President of a university. Throughout all the incredible things he did, he stayed humble. When asked, he would simply credit the Lion King print he hung in every office he ever had, which said that quote.

I was always very close with him, and he passed away last year. We shared a love of The Lion King, a passion for books, and a military life (I'm now in the Navy). It was rough when he died; it happened the night before I left to go on a submarine for a week. The funeral at Arlington was even tougher.

After, my grandmother gave me her old "work" engagement ring (the one she wore in place of her real one when at work; it's a solid gold band my grandfather gave her). I got it engraved with the quote "Remember who you are," and I wear it every day. It reminds me to be humble too, and it makes me feel like he's with me always.

“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. Red roses are too cliché, he’d say. Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?

I’d smile and kiss him. Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend, I’d reply.

Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese.

It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan.

I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college.

It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours.

Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did not want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction.

And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-”

“Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.”

At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk – he barely fit – and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of He’s right here, officers.

I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.”

He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.”

“You – what?”

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: Campus Drive. It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?”

It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. Cute? Harvey, what? You have a girlfriend.

“I – yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “Why are you staring at me?”

He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”

Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I – I’m straight.”

He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.”

I considered. It was getting late, and I was hungry. “Sure,” I finally said.

When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.”

He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.”

He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.”

“Oh, I’m Har-”

“Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though – wow. They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?”

I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.”

He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.”

He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart and cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.”

I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re…pretty good-looking yourself.” Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?

He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.”

He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages.

Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name Logan and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?”

I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care.

Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says.

I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer.

His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past.

I hope so too.

I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged.

Tonight, though, it’s beautiful.

I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I could feel in a relationship until Logan.

It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken – preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available – and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus, he’d said.

We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan.

A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before.

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face.

I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the I’m envious way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.”

“I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, ‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”

I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-”

I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it.

When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.”

I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.”

He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.”

And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed.

He laughed again and pulled me back in.

I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching Suits episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show.

And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since.

And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride.

I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there.

My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has.

Just a few more steps. Almost there.

“Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little.

Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply.

The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses.

“I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.”

I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set.

I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves.

“Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?”

The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice.

As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against.

I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart and cute and mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.”

Jack, do you remember when

I used to tell you long, wild stories that I made up on the spot?

you’d beg for me to tell you a story

and I’d pretend I didn’t want to

but it actually thrilled me that you liked them

Jack, do you remember when

we played with stuffed animals and imagined entire worlds of characters and

adventures for them to undertake?

they all had backstories and magical powers

and cats were siblings of horses

Jack, do you remember how

I’d sleep on your floor when visitors came, so they could use my bed?

you loved it because I’d sing you to sleep

with a questionable rendition of “Run for the Roses”

and I secretly liked it too

and Jack, you know how now

you’re in college and I’m about to graduate and commission into the Navy?

when did we get so old?

our days of make believe and stories

and bikes in the cul-de-sac seem so far away

but Jack, you know how

we’re just as close as ever, if not closer?

how now we watch horror movies and stay up late playing video games

when we’re both home on break

and when we’re not

we text and call and visit each other and get excited for the next season

of the TV shows we watch together

all this to say, Jack, that

even as we grow up

I’m so grateful to have you in my corner

and even in the years to come

you’ll always be one of my best friends

and even though you’re half a foot taller than me

you’ll always be my little brother

If I’m truly being honest, my life didn’t really begin until I died.

That might sound contradictory. That’s because it is. But just because something is contradictory doesn’t mean it’s a lie.

I’m living – excuse me, dead – proof.

In my twenty-three years of living, I didn’t do anything spectacular. I wasn’t particularly gifted at anything; I wasn’t particularly loved. My parents had raised me, but never given much of a shit about how I turned out. Though to be fair, neither did I.

I barely made it through high school. College was out of the question. At twenty-three, I was working a minimum wage job at a fast food chain, living in an old three-bedroom house with two roommates I’d never had a conversation with for more than ten minutes. I could call them acquaintances, but friends would have been stretching it. One worked the night shift and one had a serious girlfriend whose place he often stayed over at, so I didn’t see either of them much.

I remember January 11th perfectly. It started off like any other Thursday. I worked a double shift at work, came home exhausted, made myself dinner, watched some Netflix before bed. At midnight, I brushed my teeth and headed back to my bedroom, planning to get to sleep at a reasonable hour since I had a morning shift the next day.

Halfway back to my room, I saw flashes of light downstairs. Leaning over the railing, I could just barely see that the television in the living room had been left on. Ryan must have been watching it and neglected to turn it off before leaving for his graveyard shift an hour ago. I could hear it from here, too; some obnoxious laugh track from a sitcom rerun. I almost left it on, but decided it was worth the trip downstairs to turn it off: I’d be able to hear the laughter from my room, and besides, none of us wanted to pay any more than necessary for the electric bills.

Cursing, I turned around and made a beeline for the stairs. It was dark; the lights upstairs were all off, and the only light downstairs was the dim glow of the television. I should have turned a light on, but I didn’t.

Because I didn’t, I didn’t see the books stacked by the top step, probably Evan’s. He was a part-time student, after all. He’d left while I’d been in my room too, to go see his girlfriend, and must have left them there. I didn’t know that then.

One second I was hurrying to the stairs, telling Ryan heatedly that he was a piece of shit under my breath, and the next, I was tumbling down, having tripped over the books. It happened so fast, I barely felt the pain. A few pangs as my limbs and back collided with the sharp corners of the wooden stairs, but there wasn’t enough time to register much.

At the bottom, I was able to gather my thoughts. I ached all over, especially my head. I was laying at the lower landing, and could already feel emerging bruises everywhere. What a fall. It hurt like hell. All because Ryan didn’t turn off the damn television and Evan didn’t put away his damn books.

Groaning, I slowly sat up, then stood. I held my hand to my head. While I was down here, I’d better get an icepack.

Suddenly, the pain was gone, all of it. My back, my knees, my head. I felt lighter, somehow, too. It was an odd feeling. Was this what it felt like if I was about to pass out?

The answer was no. Some sixth sense told me to turn around, and I slowly did. I was greeted with the sight of me. Me, my body, still laying on the bottom landing. My arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and a dark pool of blood was gathered around my head like a halo. My heart sank, but some part of me had expected to see it. I wasn’t entirely surprised.

I sat down on the stair, still staring at my body. When I tried to touch my own arm, I couldn’t; I went right through. I’d never believed in ghosts, but here I was, staring at my own corpse. A ghost, or spirit, or whatever – I supposed it didn’t matter now. Whatever I believed in or didn’t, I was clearly dead, and yet still here.

I laughed harshly. Imagine when Ryan or Evan came home and found me. Would they miss me? Would they realize they had played a role in this? Probably not. Would my parents even care? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t spoken to them in months.

What a stupid way to die, I thought. You heard stories of people falling down stairs, sure, but who actually dies from hitting their head after a fall down some stairs in their own house? I couldn’t even die right.

I sat there for hours, waiting, unsure what to do. I didn’t really expect to see some glowing light or holy force come to collect me, and I didn’t. No grim reapers or anything of the sort either.

Just me, suspended, waiting.

Ryan and Evan moved out soon after. I watched them go. Evan was first, leaving just days later to move in with his girlfriend. I was hardly surprised; they basically lived together already, except in formality. Ryan left not long after, unable to bear the stain on the stairs that wouldn’t quite leave the wood no matter how it was treated. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking around the house but not at the stairs, and whispered that he was sorry. I stood beside him and told him it was okay, I didn’t really blame him anymore, but he didn’t hear me.

Once they left, I was alone. I wandered through the house, but I couldn’t leave it. Which was unfortunate, since the house wasn’t any more interesting than it had ever been, and now it was empty: no television, no books, no pool table. Not that I would have been able to use them anyway.

I was stuck.

After a few months, once the novelty of the event had worn off, the landlord finally decided to rent it again. I saw her put up the FOR RENT sign out front. I watched, too, and waited some more, wondering if anyone would move in, and if they did, if it would even matter. I’d never been noticed or loved when I was alive; why would that change now that I was dead?

The new group moved in at the end of June. I remember because they were all excited, talking about various summer plans and their schedules for the next months. There were three of them; Leslie and Noah were students at the local college, both taking summer classes, and Kyle was working two part-time jobs. I felt like I was prying by listening in to all their conversations as they carried in their new furniture, but I couldn’t help it; how else was I supposed to amuse myself? And if I was stuck here with them, I may as well get to know them.

They brought in a new television, a foosball table, a dartboard, bookshelves, beds. They moved in themselves, using a U-Haul, Kyle declaring loudly that moving companies were a waste of money.

Noah had my old room. I was glad about that. He was soft-spoken, but when he said something, it was always the right thing to say. I’d taken a liking to him immediately. The more I saw of him, the more I knew he was my favorite of the three, and the more I wished to be friends with him. I’d never thought much of friends, but I found myself wishing I was alive, so that maybe I could have made my first friend in Noah.

Not that I tried to approach him; I mostly watched from the dark corners of rooms. I knew they couldn’t see me, had no idea I was there, but it felt wrong somehow to just stand among them, or to have them walk through me and shiver at the “cold spot.”

That lasted for a while. Another few months passed that way, with me watching and learning about my new roommates but never doing much more.

A few months, but not forever.

The new school year started in August. By the first week of September, Leslie and Noah were inordinately more stressed than they’d ever been during the summer. They were spending more and more time in their respective bedroom, studying and writing essays and doing problem sets.

Most often, I was in Noah’s room. It was nice to watch him; he was so focused, his concentration displayed all over his face. He tapped his pencil when he was thinking. He played instrumental movie soundtracks while he worked, which I liked. I only knew some of them, but it was fun to guess. I was enjoying myself more than I had since dying, and probably more than I had for most of my life too.

One of those nights, I was into the music: it was a piece he’d played often, a track from Aladdin. Noah was tapping his pencil vaguely in accordance with the beat, sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading from his psychology textbook.

Hardly noticing I was doing it, I stepped out of the corner and strode across the room, swaying my head to the music. I sat cross-legged, mimicking him, on the floor next to his bed, only a few feet from him. Smiling for the first time in ages, I closed my eyes, continuing to move my head in rhythm.

When I opened them, Noah was looking directly at me, eyes wide.

I stared back at him. Surely he couldn’t see me. Was it something behind me? I turned my head to look; nope, nothing new there. I turned back, and he was still staring at me. He rubbed his eyes, looked again, found me still there.

“You…you’re the guy who died here,” he whispered. “I recognize you from your picture. We looked up the story before we moved in.”

I knew they had; they’d talked about it. Still, it pleased me that he recognized me. It also shocked me that he saw me at all. “Yeah, I am,” I said.

“But you’re…still here?” he said. His voice was impressively even, calm.

“Yeah, I am,” I said again.

He nodded like he wasn’t surprised. “I thought this house had an odd feeling about it,” he said. “I thought I’d seen glimpses of you around, in corners of rooms. I assumed I was imagining it, but maybe not. Or maybe I’m just going crazy after staring at this textbook for too long.” He shook his head. “Must be lonely. Why didn’t you show yourself before?” He looked thoughtful.

He had no idea how much his words meant. No one had shown me this much care before, even when I was alive. “I’ve been around the whole time,” I finally answered, after a long hesitation. “I didn’t think anyone could see me.”

He paused, considering. “I don’t think they can,” he said. “They’ve never seen you when I have.”

“But you can.”

He nodded. “I can.” Then he gave me a tentative grin. “I’m Noah, but you probably know that.”

I smiled back. It felt weird, to smile. I hadn’t done it much in my twenty-three years, and not much after they ended either. “Yeah, I do. I’m Oliver, but if you read about me, you probably know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

I was so drawn to him; I couldn’t explain it. The first person who’d ever been nice to me, the first person I’d ever wanted to befriend – maybe more than befriend, if I was honest with myself – and I couldn’t even touch him. At least I could talk to him. At least he could see me. One step at a time.

Suddenly he reached out and touched my arm. I stared, open-mouthed. His hand didn’t go through me, like everything else did. His hand touched me like I was corporal, like my arm was every bit as flesh and bone as his was. “Oh my God,” I said softly.

He grinned. “Must be a first.”

“It is,” I breathed. And then, overcome with a desire like I’d never felt before, I grabbed his hand in mine, intertwining our fingers. His skin was warm, alive; I could tell mine felt like ice. I wished it didn’t. I wished I was alive again. But maybe this was enough. If Noah could see me, could touch me, maybe it was all I needed.

He blushed. “Oh, uh, you’re very forward.”

Seeing his cheeks redden made me feel giddy. It would have made my heart pound, filled my stomach with butterflies, if I’d physically had either of those things anymore. I didn’t, and yet somehow I felt more alive than I ever had when I did have them.

I tentatively smiled. “But you don’t mind it?”

He met my eyes, then firmly shook his head. “No, I don’t. I…don’t mind it at all,” he said.

“Good,” I said. Keeping his hand in mine, I pulled gently, until he got the hint and came to sit beside me on the floor, bringing his textbook with him. I waited until he was settled, the instrumental version of A Whole New World playing on in the background, before I rested my head on his shoulder. He shivered but smiled. “Now,” I said. “Tell me all about psychology.”

The days only got better from there. Noah was the one who made me happy, the one who made me want to exist. For the first time ever, I felt loved.

Someone finally gave a shit about me, and it was the best feeling in the world.

It had taken me dying to find a life. I supposed that was ironic, but I didn’t much care. I had Noah, and Noah turned out to be all I needed.

I had been dead for months, but really, my life had finally just begun.

I've changed. I'm not just somebody's slave anymore, obeying every order they give, every command. I've taken control of my life.

That's the first thing I would tell you, if I ever see you again.

Not that you'd recognize me after all this time. I can imagine the meeting: I would stand there awkwardly, remembering those eight months where I tried to do everything right for you, even changed myself for you, and then, in the end, it didn't matter. You still left me for someone else. You would plaster a smile on your face, searching my eyes, looking for something you knew, but you wouldn't see it. You would walk away wondering who that man was.

I sigh and close my eyes. This is always when the memories come flooding back, on our anniversary. It seems like it was only yesterday when we were in high school and I was madly in love with you. I can see everything so crystal clear in my mind, especially the day you finally noticed me.

I was just one of those people who blends in with the crowd. There was nothing special about me. I was shy, quiet, only spoke when I had to. But I had the biggest crush on you. You, the most popular girl in school. The one who could have gotten any boy she wanted, and usually did. You captivated me with your wavy hair the color of chocolate and your eyes the color of leaves in summer. I fell in love the first day I saw you, but you never even knew I existed.

That is, until the day when we were paired up for a biology project. I remember how you looked at me as if seeing me for the first time and how I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. I heard your friends laughing, making jokes about us, but I didn't care. I was so in love.

And then there were those nights, those nights in my room and in yours, where we stayed up late doing more talking than working. You were apprehensive at first, tentative of getting to know me, but it didn't take long before we were the best of friends. They were the happiest nights of my life, and even now, knowing what came afterwards, I still look back on them fondly.

I get up and go over to my closet. It takes a few minutes of searching before I find what I'm looking for: the old scrapbook. I don't know why I've kept it all this time, but I have. It sits in the back corner of my closet gathering dust all year except for this one day, our anniversary.

I shuffle back over to my bed and lay back against the tear-stained pillows with a sigh. I've been laying here for hours, lost in my memories, trying to get you out of my head - but it's impossible.

I slowly open the book and feel my eyes getting wet as I read the message you wrote for me ten years ago: I love you, forever and always. Katherine. It wasn't forever and always. You were wrong. It was all an act on your part. You never loved me like I did you.

I flip the page and see the pictures, the moments in time we've captured. In every one, I look ecstatic, smiling down at you or kissing you or just holding you close. And in every one, you don't look as happy as I am. You look slightly sad, or maybe annoyed. It's not very noticeable; I only see it because I know the truth.

One picture in particular catches my eye. It's us standing in front of the lake. My arm is around you and I look like I just won the lottery, which I guess I had, in a way. You are looking at the camera, a little smile on your face, sunglasses hiding your eyes. I remember when we went there for the first time, and announced that we were a couple. Your friends were so shocked. I laugh a little at the memory.

We'd turned in the project only a week before, but had been dating before that. You said you wanted to wait to tell them, for it to be a surprise, but now I know that you wanted to mold me into your image of a perfect boyfriend before I met them. You'd already started to change me, although it was only little things then. I was so in awe that you were finally mine that I barely even noticed at first.

Your friends couldn't understand why you, the most wanted girl in school, would be with me. I didn't really understand either, but I wasn't about to question my luck. If only I had seen it coming. The lake was only the beginning.

As time went on, I tried so hard to make you happy. I did everything I could because I didn't want to lose you. I listened to everything you told me to do. During those eight months, my control over my actions was taken away. You controlled everything I did.

It seemed to work for a while, but you kept growing more and more distant, more and more demanding. People had warned me it would happen, but I had been so stupid. I brushed them off, thinking that maybe we could last forever, that maybe you were the one. I couldn't have been more wrong.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks. It's been ten years, and you wouldn't even know me now, but I can't get over you. I've gone through college, I've made new friends, but I've never found another girl who even comes close to you. I can't forget you. I wish I could, but I can't.

I can still see in perfect detail when you started to ignore me. We'd been together for a few months, and you kept changing me whenever you felt I didn't measure up to your standards. You'd say things like, "You know, you should fix your hair. That went out of style in the 80s," and "You're too shy. I think you'd better try out for the drama club to try to become more outgoing." So, even though I liked my hair and hated acting, I did what you said. You were the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I did whatever I could so I wouldn't lose you.

I tried so hard. I ended up being a different person because of you, but in the end, it didn't matter. You still broke up with me and left me behind without a second glance, ditching me for Andy Susa. Andy Susa. He was the most popular guy in school, the one everybody said was the perfect match for you. You went to prom with him while I stood in the corner, watching and wishing that I was still the one holding you close. You treated me terribly, but my love never ceased.

I flip the page again, and a new wave of tears starts as I see another picture, one that I took myself. I kept it in my locker until we broke up. In it, you're asleep on my couch, curled up in a ball, covered by a blue blanket. We had been watching a movie, and I took it when I got up to get a drink. Your beautiful hair is spread perfectly around your beautiful face, and you're smiling. I laugh a little when I remember how I imagined that you were dreaming about me. In slumber you look so peaceful, so innocent, so unguarded. If only you had been that way in real life.

It was that night, about five months into our relationship, that we had our first major fight. You'd already been shaping me to fit your tastes, but we hadn't had a huge argument yet - I always listened to you, and so there was nothing to fight over. But that night, after you woke up, we fought.

I can see it in my mind. You were yelling, saying that I never did anything you said and that I should at least try to be a good boyfriend. I was yelling back, trying to make you see all the sacrifices I had made for you, but you didn't listen. The whole time we were screaming at each other, I kept thinking how ironic the words you chose were. You claimed I didn't pay attention to you when all I did was think about and try to satisfy you. You said I didn't care about "us," even though everything I did was in an attempt to keep our relationship going.

You stormed out of my house at three in the morning, leaving me crying and panicked that you wouldn't come around, and that we were over. It was one of the worst nights of my life.

The next morning, I swore that I would have the strength to break it off with you. I could tell that you only saw what you wanted to see, and that I didn't really mean anything to you. I was going to end things, but then when you came back, I just couldn't. I could only stare at your gorgeous green eyes and listen to your lovely voice and think how much I loved you.

A few hours later, we were back together, and I regretted nothing; I was so grateful to have you in my arms again. And I continued to feel that way throughout the months we dated, though you put me through hell. All the pain you caused and all the torture I endured vanished the moment you smiled at me.

I was so weak, Katherine. You made my heart race and my worries melt. You made me miserable, yet you simultaneously made me happy. Eight months I spent trying to be enough for you, hoping that if I obeyed every order, you would fall in love with me as deeply as I had with you.

You never did, and when you broke up with me it felt like my life had ended. I don't know how I continued on. I remember how I had to see a therapist, and was forced to sit through hours of "What are you feeling right now?" I could barely function. All I could think was that you had meant the world to me, and that I had become an entirely different person for you, but it hadn't changed your mind.

I throw the book to the side and curl up on my bed, silent tears finding their way down my already wet face. It's so hard. Every year I go through this because of you and everything you did.

If I ever see you again, I may break down, or maybe I'll start babbling, trying to make the silence less awkward. All I know is that I would make a fool of myself, just like I did in high school. The one thing I would be proud to tell you is that I have fixed everything you changed. I am my own person now, and not so submissive. I've learned how to stand up for myself so that no one else will ever make me feel like their slave. Once was enough.

More and more memories begin to find their way back to me, slowly at first but then coming in a flood. I've been lying here all day, and it looks like I'm not going to be getting up for a while. Sure enough, it's not very long before I've cried myself to sleep.

I wake up to sunlight streaming in through my apartment window. Dried tears still cover my cheeks, but I feel relieved. I made it.

The memories are still there, but now I can push them to the back of my mind for another year. I can be free for another three hundred and sixty five days before you come back to haunt me. Most people would say that's a long time, but to me it seems too short. My days are a countdown to our anniversary, which always gets here too quickly.

I throw on a sweatshirt and jeans and head to the park, the one place I can calm down. It's a short walk, and five minutes later I'm there. I take a deep breath and revel at the lush green trees towering above my head. They’re so thick I couldn't wrap my arms around them if I tried, and they’re beautiful.

I feel a pang of sadness looking at the one gnarled tree. It reminds me of the place I had picked out to propose to you, had we made it that far. I planned to kneel in the twisted roots and....no. I shake my head. I can't think of you now, or else I'll start sobbing again, in the middle of the park.

I turn onto a small rocky path mostly hidden behind bushes. As far as I know, I'm the only one who knows that it's here. I've never seen anyone else using it, and it's became a sacred place to me. It's blocked by the outside world, a private piece of the universe just for me, a haven. As soon as I step onto it, I feel freer, lighter than before. It's as if all the sadness and anger of my past just melts away, and I can think clearly.

I wander down the path, loving the sound of pebbles crunching beneath my shoes. I'm so focused on it that it takes a minute to register the woman standing near a rosebush with her back to me. When I do, I stumble backward and almost fall over in shock. Although I can only see her back, this girl has hair identical to yours, chocolate-colored and long and wavy. She even has the same body type, and my breath comes faster when I realize that you may be no longer just a memory, but right in front of me.

I make a noise like a cat being strangled. I've imagined the meeting countless times, how you wouldn't remember me, how I would avoid your eyes like a coward, but I never thought it would actually happen. The only way I've even survived the past ten years is by knowing that you were out of my life forever. Now, I'm not so sure.

I try to escape quietly, but the girl, who may be you, hears me and turns around. I squeeze my eyes shut and back up, and before I know what's happened I'm on the ground, my left knee wet and sticky. Suddenly there's a warm hand on my arm, comforting me.

"Are you okay?" I gingerly open my eyes, ready to close them again, but the face that greets me is not yours. This girl's eyes are blue, the shade of a sky at midnight, and they sparkle like stars. I almost feel disloyal when I think she is more gorgeous than you, if it's possible.

"Are you okay?" she repeats. "You're bleeding."

"I-I'm fine," I stutter, caught up in her gaze.

She smiles at me and sits down on the leaf-covered ground. "I'm Miranda. I'm so sorry about you getting hurt. Want to go out for coffee?"

"Sounds like just what I need," I say, and stand up, pulling her hand into mine. "Let's go."

She looks down at our entwined hands and grins. "Do you believe in love at first sight? Because I think I do."

I think back to the first time I saw you, when you glided into our biology class as if walking on water. It was love at first sight, for me at least. You looked like an angel, and I knew right then that I wanted to be your boyfriend. I fell under your spell, and until just a few minutes ago, thought I would never be released. But now, after ten years of remembering and wishing, maybe I can finally move on with the help of this girl.

"Yes, I do," I say sincerely, and we walk off still holding hands, leaving the trees and all my memories of you behind us.

** inspired by/based off the song 'In the End' by Linkin Park **

I wasn’t in school the day Hunter Walkman rushed into the cafeteria and shot twenty-nine people, but my best friend Sarah Lee Douglas was. She saw the whole thing unfold through the glass lens of her ancient Nikon camera, as she hid under the water fountain in the corner.

Apparently, Hunter – an almost eighteen-year-old senior at the high school – came trotting into the school cafeteria at about 11:30, wearing a heavy black overcoat that hung down to his ankles like a cape. Sarah Lee remembers thinking that was odd, because although it was only April, the day was surprisingly sunny and warm.

But before she or anyone else really had time to think about his wardrobe choice, Hunter pulled out an enormous machine gun and started firing. Sarah Lee managed to dive off her seat and tuck herself out of sight beneath the leaky water fountain, but most of the other kids weren’t so lucky. Bullets flashed through the air, spinning like graceful ballerinas, almost invisible to the naked eye. All around the cafeteria, students tried to flee. Some screamed; some cried; some only made a quiet thud as they hit the linoleum, the life already gone from their bodies.

Sarah Lee recorded it all. I’ve seen the video. It’s shaky because her hands were trembling the whole time, but she still got it on tape, and in the end that was the main evidence proving Hunter Walkman’s guilt.

He was locked up three months ago, and since he killed twenty-one people and wounded another eight, he’ll be locked up for the rest of his life. That means every second Tuesday of the month for the rest of my life I’ll be sitting in a chair across from him, wishing that he wasn’t my older brother.

“Oh, Hunter, you wouldn’t believe how beautiful the azaleas in our front garden are! Such a gorgeous shade of blue…”

I cross my arms and shift my gaze to the wall. Like all the other walls in this prison, it’s made of two-inch thick concrete. Up at the top, near the ceiling, there’s a spider web of cracks that looks kind of like the Eiffel Tower if you squint your eyes really tight and stare at it for a while, like I do every time we visit.

This is the third time we’ve come to see Hunter in jail, and each time only gets worse. He talks to us about the weather, about animals, about sports – but as soon as the topic of the shooting comes up, he turns to stone. He refuses to say anything about it, and it drives my parents crazy. They want to know why. Everyone does. None of the investigators could figure out his motive: he was going to graduate in two months with a 3.7 GPA, he played lacrosse, he had a long-term girlfriend named Kelly…he seemed like a successful high school senior. So no one understands, and Hunter himself isn’t telling anytime soon.

“Jake, don’t you have anything to say to your older brother? It’s been a month since you’ve seen him. Surely you want to tell him about your lifeguard job, or the beach, or - ”

I silence my mother with a glare and turn back to the Eiffel Tower cracks. I begged her and my father to let me stay home today, but they insisted on my presence, so here I am with my criminal brother.

My mother sighs, a shaky sigh that means she’s gotten to the point of thinking about it too much, and now she’s going to ask Hunter about the shooting.

“Hunter, I can’t stand it anymore! Why, sweetheart, why on earth did you do it? That’s all I want to know! Why won’t you tell us?” She slams her hands on the table as she finishes her outburst, and tears sparkle in the corners of her eyes like tiny diamonds.

As I expected, Hunter’s gaze immediately turns cold, and his whole face tightens. My dad clutches my mom’s hand under the table, and they both watch him intently, hoping for the explanation they’ll never get.

I snort and almost turn away again, but something stops me. I keep staring at Hunter, and suddenly his eyes meet mine. I see a new emotion in them, something deep, dark, and sad, that wasn’t there before, and the sight of it stirs a long-forgotten memory inside me.

Last December, we’d stayed in a hotel while our roof was being replaced. Hunter and I had been forced to sleep in the same bed, and around two o’clock in the morning, when I was only half-awake, he had abruptly whispered in the dark.

“Jake, I know you’re probably fast asleep right now and can’t hear me, but I need to say it out loud anyway. My life is falling apart, even though it doesn’t look like it. Kelly cheated on me, the new lacrosse coach hates me, and the only way I can escape is through drugs and alcohol. I know they’re bad for you, but oh God, Jake, I can’t stop. They bring me relief.” Then he was silent for a moment. I said nothing. I thought I was dreaming. “Oh, Jake, I don’t think I can handle much more. Things keep getting worse. Soon I’ll have nothing to lose.”

Groggy and muddled with sleep, my mind struggled to make sense of what he was saying. Something about life falling apart, wasn’t it? Why was I possibly dreaming about my brother telling me that? Everyone knew his life was perfect. I myself wished mine was more like Hunter’s. Still, I supposed dreams could be nonsensical; I’d had a recurring one about a pineapple piloting a plane full of unicorns when I was nine. Now thinking of aircraft flown by animated fruit, I smiled and quickly drifted back into slumber as the exhaustion of junior year all-nighters returned.

Maybe only a minute later, maybe an hour, I was reawakened by a continuous, muffled noise nearby. In my half-sleep, I couldn’t register what it was – a cat? Someone hiccupping? No, it’s Hunter, the only alert part of my mind insisted, sounding exasperated with me despite only being a voice in my head. He’s crying.

I still thought I was dreaming, but even in a dream I would have been worried if my brother was crying. Hunter never cried. Maybe this was a continuation of my earlier dream. He’d been depressed about something in that one too, hadn’t he? I couldn’t grasp what the problem he’d been worried about was, but I would try to help. I slowly rolled onto my back, still struggling to organize my thoughts. “Hunter?” I whispered into the dark. “Hunter, what’s wrong?”

He sniffled and laughed shakily. “Oh, Jake, I thought you were asleep.”

I attempted to keep my fatigue from overwhelming me again. I knew it was a dream, but it seemed important that I talk to him. “I was. You woke me up. What’s wrong, Hunter?”

He was silent for a moment and then drew a long, raggedy breath. “My life is falling apart, Jake. Like I said earlier. Only – that’s not all of it. There’s something even worse.” He paused, and I could tell he was trying not to cry again. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt as heavy as bricks, so instead I lifted my arm and began to feel around beside me, hoping to locate him. A second later his hand, damp with tears, seized mine, squeezing tightly. He hadn’t held my hand since we were in elementary school and I needed guidance crossing the street.

“I’m in huge trouble, Jake. I mean it. The new coach doesn’t just hate me because of my style of playing. He hates me most for what happened last week.” He stopped and took another deep breath. “A few guys on the team found a girl behind the bleachers after practice. She was drunk I think, or out of it for one reason or another. They brought her back to the locker room – and, oh God, Jake, they started raping her. She was barely conscious and couldn’t stop them, so I tried to. I swear to God I did. I told them to stop, and then I went up and tried to shove them off her – and that’s when Coach came in.”

His voice was raspy as he struggled to stay in control. Still groggy, still laying there with my eyes closed, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was awful, even for a dream. I squeezed his hand, prompting him to continue.

He sniffled. “Coach assumed I was raping her too. I tried to tell him the truth, but he wouldn’t listen. And the other boys blamed me for getting them caught, so they said I was involved too. Do you know what that means, Jake? It means I’m going to be expelled. The only reason no one knows yet is because the coach wanted to talk to the girl and her parents first. He wanted to write an official report. He’s going to report it on Monday.” His hand was shaking now just as his voice was. “And then I’ll be expelled. Don’t you see, Jake? That means I can’t go to college. It doesn’t matter that I’m good at lacrosse, or smart, or anything. No university will accept me anymore. And that’s not all. I’m probably going to jail, Jake. My life is ruined.”

I was still half-asleep, but I finally managed to wrest my eyes open, blinking a few times to reduce the heavy, gluey feeling of my eyelids. It was almost completely dark, but I could see the outline of my brother’s head to my left; he was sitting up. Something about his silhouette was unsettling, sending a chill down my spine. “Maybe you won’t go to jail,” I murmured.

“Maybe not, but even so, I’ll be a registered felon for the rest of my life. A registered sex offender. And no one will employ me once they see that.” He pulled his hand out of mine, and his breathing became faster, angrier. When he next spoke, his voice was hard, bitter, a vicious tone I’d never before heard come out of my brother’s mouth.

“My life is ruined. It’s ruined because of something I never even did. I tried to tell the truth, but coach didn’t listen. No one listened. I was trying to help. I was trying to save that girl. But that doesn’t matter now. Of course it doesn’t. I can’t go to college, I might go to jail, but the truth doesn’t even matter. I’ll never be able to get a decent job, my classmates will never talk to me again, but it doesn’t even matter that I didn’t do anything. I’m earning the same punishment as they are. My life is completely falling apart because of something I didn’t do.”

He stopped, his breathing ragged and fast, and I was sure he was exhausted just from telling me everything. Silence, except for his sharp inhales, fell for what seemed like forever, and before I knew it I was starting to drift off. Somewhere deep down I knew I shouldn’t go back to sleep, knew I should do something about what Hunter had revealed, because even for a dream what he’d said was terrifying. But I hadn’t slept well in months, and I couldn’t help it; my eyes sank shut, and my mind began to shut down, slowing down my whirlwind of thoughts to a mere breeze.

I was almost fully asleep again when Hunter spoke. “Jake? Please don’t tell anyone what I said to you. In fact, forget everything I said.” His voice was quiet now, fragile and delicate, like it might break at any second. “It doesn’t concern you, alright? I’ll take care of it myself. If I’m going to jail, I’ll make it worth it. At this point, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

My groggy brain didn’t completely process the meaning of his words; something about what he was saying stirred concern and fear within me, made my blood run cold, but I couldn’t determine why, or even the significance of his decision. “I won’t tell anyone,” I murmured, my voice blurred and thick with sleep. “Why would I tell anyone about a dream?”

I felt him shift his weight, knew he was lying down beside me again. He patted my shoulder as if to comfort me. “You’re right; this is just a bad dream.” His voice was low, soothing, lulled me closer to slumber. “Why would real me ever say anything like what I just told you? Of course this is a dream. Now go back to sleep, Jake.”

After that he rolled over and was quiet. I felt slightly confused, but now I had permission to give in to the waves of exhaustion that had been lapping at my mind, and I needed no other excuse. It was a matter of seconds before I drifted off into a deep sleep. In the morning, I remembered nothing of my supposed dream the night before, or if I did it was only fragments: the sound of crying, whispers in the dark, someone murmuring about a ruined life. It’s only now, seeing that dangerous, terrible look in Hunter’s gaze, that the memory has surfaced.

And so I finally speak. Sitting here in the prison, recalling the truth about my brother’s life, I speak. “I know why he did it,” I say, talking to my parents but keeping my eyes locked on Hunter.

I register their shock, feel them staring at me, but all I see is the dark, swirling pain in my brother’s eyes, the pain he hid for so long. “He did it because he had nothing to lose.”

When the call came through, I didn’t answer, because I was driving. I was tempted to reach for my phone as it buzzed angrily from the cup holder, but the words of my driving instructor from a year earlier echoed in my head: If you use your phone while behind the wheel, you will die. And so it was not for another eighteen minutes that I checked my voicemail.

I was safely parked in the lot of a grocery store, next to an immense strawberry-red pickup truck. The glowing screen of my phone blared to me that I had a missed call from my mother; as soon as I saw who had called, an unshakable sense of dread spread through my body. My mother never called me unless something was wrong, especially at this time on a Saturday morning – she routinely went for a run every weekend at this hour. The fact that not only was she breaking her routine – which my efficient, business-like mother never did – but that she was also calling me made my hands shake as I hit play to listen to the voicemail.

The entire message was only nine words long. I know because I replayed it eleven times, sitting there in numbness, with the enormous red truck looming beside me and early-morning shoppers passing my car, back and forth on their trips into the grocery store. All around me peoples’ lives moved on: they hurried into the store, came out a few minutes later with armfuls of plastic bags weighed down with milk or bread or whatever groceries they’d run out of on Saturday morning, climbed into their waiting cars and drove away; yet I felt frozen in time, enveloped in a cocoon of nothingness. My radio played in the background, blaring out some old rock ballad, but I didn’t even hear it. All I heard was the nine words of my mother’s voicemail, over and over: “Come to the police station. Now. It’s your brother.”

I walked into the station half an hour later to find my parents already waiting, my mother dressed in jogging clothes – she must have been about to leave for her run when the call from the police came. I shuffled over to them, and without a word the three of us took seats in the lobby together. Officers strode past us, most not even glancing our way; other people, maybe as tense as we were, sat clustered in small groups. Some held hands or whispered quietly, but like our family, most remained quiet and distant, lost in their own thoughts. One woman in her fifties simply stared at the coffee table in front of her, her gaze so focused that she seemed to be attempting to drill through the table itself with her eyes. It was unnerving. I turned away and looked instead towards the wall to the left of the couch on which I was sitting. There was a smudge on the wall that looked exactly like a cat if you squinted hard and really tried to see it – which I did, trying to keep my mind off what was happening.

It was no use; the thoughts crept in anyway. All I knew of the situation so far was what I’d heard two officers discussing as I’d entered: my brother had been arrested for shooting someone, and he was currently being interrogated with very little success. We’d be allowed to see him shortly.

It wasn’t a lot of information to go on, and my head spun with countless unanswered questions. Of course, deep down I supposed I’d known something like this was inevitable. I sighed deeply and closed my eyes, sinking back into the couch as my thoughts weighed heavily on my conscience. I’d known that my older brother would end up here eventually because I knew what he was really like. My poor parents had no clue. They didn’t share a bedroom with him; they didn’t see the countless times he snuck out late at night, or the countless times he snuck back in during the early predawn hours of morning, reeking of smoke or alcohol or both. They didn’t know that he talked in his sleep, that his drowsy murmurings were completely intelligible and had revealed things about Christian to me that even he wasn’t aware I knew – like that he was only passing calculus because he cheated off some kid named Trey Walden for every test, that his coach was threatening to kick him off the swim team because of how many times he’d shown up for early morning practices still intoxicated, that he was starting to try out drugs with his friends. All of these aspects of my brother’s life I knew, and yet all of these things my parents were oblivious to.

In my parents’ eyes, Christian was still the wonderful older son, a great role model for me, his younger brother, as he had been his whole life. They only saw the good grades, not the cheating that earned them; they only knew that he was an all-state swimmer, not that he was in danger of losing his place on the team and his scholarship for college next year; and, of course, they had no clue about the side of Christian that involved drinking, sneaking out, and sampling drugs. I knew that I should have told them earlier – hell, I knew that I should have told them months ago when it started. But I was afraid: afraid of their reaction, afraid of what my brother might do to me if I ratted him out, afraid most of all to admit to myself that my brother had become someone new and unrecognizable to me. And so I never told them, and now here we were.

A block of guilt settled in my chest, sitting stoutly on my heart so that I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Maybe it was my fault that this had happened. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a coward, if I’d told my parents about Christian’s downslide, it might not have gone this far. Self-loathing and guilt weighed me down, felt like a massive pile of bricks on my mind. My poor parents, so in shock that anything like this had occurred. They didn’t know the history leading to this. Would they hate me when they found out that I’d known all along?

I didn’t have any time to ponder the question; right at that moment, I opened my eyes to see an officer standing over me. His uniform was rumpled and dirty, and he had bags under his eyes bigger than any piece of luggage I owned – my guess was he’d been out all night, looking for Friday night troublemakers like my brother. His rusty nametag read WHITCOMB in small capital letters, and as I raised my eyes to meet his, Officer Whitcomb spoke.

“You can go in to see him now,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m afraid he hasn’t said much to us, but maybe he’ll tell you what happened.” My mother nodded, her eyes still dry – I’d never seen my mother cry in all my seventeen years – and started to stand, my father rising with her. I reached out and grabbed her arm.

“Can I speak to him alone for a minute first?” I murmured. She gave me a long, scrutinizing look, still half-standing and half-sitting, and must have seen something important in my eyes, because after a pause she nodded and lowered herself back down to the couch. I knew that ordinarily she would have refused, been desperate to see Christian and learn the truth; perhaps a mother’s intuition, or some deep emotion in my gaze, had shown her that I needed to talk to my brother in private, talk to him about things that he wouldn’t dare mention with anyone else listening. Giving her a grateful smile, I squeezed her hand briefly and stood up alone.

Whitcomb looked surprised that it was only me coming, but he made no comment on it, leading me down a narrow hallway to Interrogation Room 7. “He’s in there,” he said, jerking his thumb at the door. “There’s an intercom if you need anything.” He started to walk away, but then paused a moment and looked back at me. “Be careful, son.”

I stood there outside the room for a minute, gathering my thoughts, and then quickly pulled the door open and entered before my courage could fail me. I shouldn’t be so scared, I told myself. It’s just Christian; but things were different now, had been for a while, and I was afraid, as I had been for months. Was he even still the brother I knew anymore?

He certainly didn’t look like my brother right then. The boy handcuffed to the metal table was haggard, defeated, broken. He didn’t even raise his head as I walked over and took the seat across from him, although I could tell that he knew who was visiting. Christian’s dark hair, so much like mine, was a rumpled mess, even though he’d always been so careful to keep it short, neat, and perfectly styled. Adults often thought we were twins, not a year apart in age, because of how alike we looked, but right now I prayed that I looked better than he did.

“Hi, Chris,” I started quietly. “It’s me, Benjamin. You okay?”

There was a long silence, and for a moment I worried that I’d been wrong, that he wouldn’t talk to even me. But then he shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, “I guess.”

I struggled with how to continue, discarding several approaches before deciding simply to address the situation directly. “What happened, Christian? You sneak out all the time. What was different about this time? What changed?”

He still didn’t look at me, but I could sense that he was glad I hadn’t danced around the subject. He was aware that I knew more about his life than anyone, and he was grateful that I acknowledged it too. Shifting in his seat again, his dark eyes still cast down at the table, he started to talk.

“I was out with a few of my friends. Nothing unusual. We drank, we smoked, we dropped in on Jackson Briar’s party for an hour or two. We left a little after midnight. I wasn’t even drunk, I swear. None of us were. We actually drank less than usual.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Which is why we decided to do meth.”

A sense of dread settled over me. I knew from his sleep talking that whenever he and his friends experimented with the drugs they’d been trying – meth, heroin, cocaine – it never ended well. Of course, it had never ended in the police station before either.

“I knew it was a bad idea, obviously I did, but I think I’m getting addicted, Ben. We’ve been taking drugs more and more frequently, and I think I’m hooked.” His voice was sad, lost. “And tonight I had more than I ever have before.” I felt like I should comfort him, but I didn’t know how; instead, I stayed silent and let him continue. “So did they. Then we were driving around on the back roads for a while, feeling giddy and happy and high. And oh, Ben, it was the best feeling.” He sighed. “Until we came across Caleb Hawke.”

Caleb Hawke. I knew Caleb Hawke. He was a junior, same as me. We were in the same history class; he played trumpet in the marching band and was vice president of Key Club. I wasn’t close with him, but I liked him. I was afraid I knew what was coming next in my brother’s story, and I felt very sorry for Caleb then.

“He was just walking home from a late night shift at Wendy’s. He hadn’t been at the party; he hadn’t done anything to bother us either. He was just on his way home, tired and ready to sleep. We pulled alongside him and began to tease him. We thought it was all in fun, but he was annoyed, and he kept trying to get us to stop. At some point whoever was driving turned off the engine, and a few us climbed down out of the car and started to shove him around a little. He kept resisting, and then he grew so fed up that he shoved me back. That was a mistake.” His tone was strange, some mix of hard and bitter and, I realized with fear, even a bit of pleasure. Who was this person in front of me? “I was coming down off my high at that point, so I was losing interest in harassing Caleb, but the others weren’t. When he shoved me, they insisted that I punish him for it. Before I knew it, Brett had thrust his dad’s gun – the one he keeps in the trunk – into my hand. There was so much laughter. They all encouraged me to shoot him. Caleb looked so scared.”

The dread I’d felt earlier was growing with each word. I could picture the scene: poor Caleb in his Wendy’s uniform, his eyes tearing up behind his glasses as my brother took hold of the pistol with the rest of the gang egging him on, laughing hysterically while ensnared in the grip of meth.

“So I did it. I couldn’t say no, couldn’t back down with all of them there. And I got caught up in the excitement of the moment; I even felt a thrill when I pulled the trigger. I shot him right in the forehead, Ben. Right in the forehead.” His voice was still unrecognizable, empty and void of emotion. “He fell straight back, dead before he even hit the pavement. And oh, how they cheered. Someone must have heard the gunshot, though, because it was only moments that we heard the police sirens on the way. Brett and the others panicked; they jumped in the car and drove away, leaving me there with the pistol and Caleb’s body. I didn’t bother trying to run. I knew the cops would find me.” He paused for a moment, shifted in his seat. “And that’s what happened.”

I sat silently for a long minute, mulling over his story and considering how to respond. Poor, poor Caleb had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. What scared me most wasn’t the fact that my brother had shot someone; that could be explained by the peer pressure and the drugs. What scared me most was his apparent lack of emotion for it. How could he speak in such a monotone about ending a life? I’d known that he’d been changing for months, known that he was becoming less my brother and more a monster, but I hadn’t realized just how frightening he’d become. My fault, I thought. I should have told my parents.

“But it was mostly the drugs and peer pressure, right?” I asked carefully, praying that he would answer yes and assuage my fears that he was a monster, that he didn’t feel bad about his murder. “You realize the severity of what you did, don’t you? Maybe you even regretted pulling the trigger as soon as it happened? I mean, it was the meth, right?”

He was shaking his head before I’d finished. “I don’t think so, Ben. I was hoping so at first, but after the past few hours I don’t think so anymore. I think I may be sick, Ben. In the mind. I’m afraid of myself, Ben.” I noticed for the first time that his hands were trembling slightly, even as he tried to clasp them.

My gut clenched up, tied itself in knots; my blood turned to ice at his words. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. “What are you saying, Chris?” I asked quietly, terrified of the answer.

“I’m saying that’s what scares me the most,” he said, finally raising his eyes to meet mine. I saw immediately that they were not the eyes of the brother I knew, the older brother I’d admired for years; they were deep, dark, and empty, missing something essential, void of feeling. “What scares me the most is that I have no regret. I feel no remorse at all.”

“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. Red roses are too cliché, he’d say. Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?

I’d smile and kiss him. Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend, I’d reply.

Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese.

It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan.

I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college.

It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours.

Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did not want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction.

And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-”

“Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.”

At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk – he barely fit – and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of He’s right here, officers.

I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.”

He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.”

“You – what?”

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: Campus Drive. It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?”

It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. Cute? Harvey, what? You have a girlfriend.

“I – yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “Why are you staring at me?”

He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”

Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I – I’m straight.”

He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.”

I considered. It was getting late, and I was hungry. “Sure,” I finally said.

When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.”

He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.”

He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.”

“Oh, I’m Har-”

“Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though – wow. They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?”

I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.”

He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.”

He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart and cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.”

I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re…pretty good-looking yourself.” Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?

He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.”

He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages.

Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name Logan and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?”

I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care.

Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says.

I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer.

His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past.

I hope so too.

I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged.

Tonight, though, it’s beautiful.

I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I could feel in a relationship until Logan.

It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken – preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available – and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus, he’d said.

We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan.

A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before.

“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face.

I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the I’m envious way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.”

“I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, ‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”

I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-”

I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it.

When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.”

I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.”

He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.”

And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed.

He laughed again and pulled me back in.

I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching Suits episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show.

And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since.

And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride.

I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there.

My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has.

Just a few more steps. Almost there.

“Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little.

Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply.

The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses.

“I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.”

I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set.

I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves.

“Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?”

The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice.

As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against.

I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart and cute and mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.”

A shriek came from Maddie’s room, loud and panicked. Immediately, I bolted off the couch and up the stairs, leaving the television on. Icy fear shot through my chest; logically I knew there was no way a rapist or murderer or the like could have gotten past me or in her locked second-floor window, but she’d sounded so frightened, what if –

I burst into her room, terrified I might be greeted with my daughter bleeding out or perhaps not there, the only trace of her an open window leading into the night. But Maddie was in her bed, sitting up, eyes wide and staring at her closet.

I let my breath out, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal as relief flooded my body. I turned on the light and did a quick scan of the room: nothing stood out. The window was still locked, thank God. “Maddie! Why did you scream like that, honey? I thought something had happened to you! We only scream in emergencies, remember?”

She slowly turned her eyes, wide and shimmering with tears, to me. “It was an emergency, Daddy,” she whispered.

I crossed the room and knelt by her bed, smoothing with one hand the purple comforter, adorned with crowns. This comforter was new; we’d just bought it when we moved into this house. I remembered going on the daddy-daughter shopping trip to let her pick out her new bedroom decorations. She’d been so excited. The bedding was her favorite part. She’d debated between this set and a similar pink-with-castles set for twenty minutes before ultimately choosing the purple crowns, because, in her words, “Our new house is already our castle, all I need to be a full princess is the crown.”

Now, I reached my other hand to brush her hair from her face. “What’s the emergency, then?” I said gently. “Are you okay?”

She looked at me in fear, still struggling not to cry. “I am for now,” she whispered. “But barely.”

I sighed. “Okay, sweetheart, you have to tell me more than that. What happened? Was it a nightmare? Did you hear something that scared you?”

She shook her head. “No, Daddy. It was in the closet. But it’s real.”

“What’s real, honey?”

Now the tears came in earnest, and she began to cry. I turned and sat on the bed, lifting her from under the covers and pulling her onto my lap. She buried her face in my shoulder, still sobbing, soaking my shirt with her tears. “Shh, shh, it’s alright. I’m here, it’s okay,” I murmured, brushing her hair with my fingers. “But you have to calm down to let me know what’s wrong. Can you do that for me?”

She slowly pulled away from my shoulder and looked at me, still sniffling. Her big brown eyes glistened, but she nodded.

“Okay, Maddie, now tell me what happened, sweetie.”

She glanced back at the closet, frightened. I followed her gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Through the open door I could see her clothes hanging, her shoes lined up. Nothing out of place. Although, come to think of it, I could have sworn the closet door had been closed when I tucked her in forty minutes ago.

“There was something in the closet, Daddy. It whispered at me, and growled, and said it wanted to take me away. I couldn’t see it at first, in the dark. I squeezed my eyes shut real tight and pulled the covers over my head and I thought I was dreaming. But then I heard it turn the door handle, and I pushed the covers off, and when I looked over the closet door was opening, and, and -”

She was panicking, speaking faster and faster. I stroked her hair. “Shh, Maddie, calmer, honey.”

She took a deep breath and glanced back at the closet again, nervously. “Something came out,” she whispered. “It was big and dark and mostly I could just see its red eyes. It made it so cold. It felt like ice everywhere. And then it started to slither out and it was saying it was coming to take me and I screamed, I was so scared, Daddy. It’s trying to take me away!”

She buried her head in my shoulder again. I stroked her back thoughtfully and looked to the closet again. Certainly I saw no monster there. I assumed she must have imagined it, must have dreamt it, but this was nonetheless the most terrified I’d ever seen Maddie. It made my heart ache for my little girl. Could it be the new move, the stress from all the change? It hadn’t been easy on me either. Since her mother had died, I’d been having vivid dreams of her, of the woman I’d loved and lost. I knew Maddie missed her too. We all did – me, Maddie, even my younger son Sam, only two, was having a hard time adjusting to a life without Mommy. I’d thought a new house, a new town, would be good for us; fewer memories to be reminded of. And this house was closer to my parents’ home, a big plus for a newly single father. But maybe it was too much at once. I cursed myself. It was my fault Maddie was having such horrible nightmares.

“That sounds so scary,” I said now. “But don’t worry, honey, I’m sure you only imagined it. Maybe you’re just not used to the shadows in your new room yet. Do you think that could be it?”

She sat up in my lap and looked at me. “No, Daddy.”

“Well, sweetheart, I promise there’s nothing in the closet. I know it seems scary in the dark, but I promise there’s no monster or anything. Okay?”

She stared into my eyes long and hard with more intensity than I’d ever seen from a seven-year-old. Finally, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You promise?” she said, still sounding worried.

I glanced back over at the closet. Everything looked orderly. I was proud, in fact, of the freshly-organized closet. It hadn’t been easy; Maddie was opinionated and Kate had always been the organizational mastermind of the family. The only thing that continued to gnaw at me, just slightly, was the open door. I was certain it had been closed, and it was now wide open, as if flung by some force. I made a mental note to check its hinges in the morning.

“I promise,” I said, returning my gaze to Maddie and smiling. Hesitantly, she returned the smile, and I lifted her off my lap back onto the bed. As I stood up, she climbed back under the purple comforter and pulled it up to her chin.

I knelt down by the bed again. “You think you’re okay now?” I said.

She nodded. “I’m okay, Daddy. I trust you. If you promise, then it’s okay.”

“I do promise,” I confirmed. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll close the closet door, okay? Tomorrow I’ll look at it and see if I can fix it so it stays shut from now on.”

Her eyes flicked over to the open door, and I could see the fear still shimmering in her brown eyes – so much like her mother’s – but she looked back at me and smiled once more. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Of course, honey,” I said. I got up and went over to the closet. As I grasped the door handle and closed the door, I shivered. Maddie was right – it was cold over here. Freezing, actually. But wasn’t there a vent behind the dresser? That would be it.

After closing the door and double-checking that it was firmly shut – nothing seemed to be wrong with the hinges, I noted with curiosity – I went back to the hallway entrance. I stood there a moment and turned back to Maddie, who was looking back and forth between me and the closet.

“Good night, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy,” she whispered.

I smiled and blew her a kiss, then turned off the light. I pulled the door closed as I went back into the hallway. Downstairs, the television was still playing; I could hear the laugh track of a show rerun. But I felt uneasy, now. I’d never seen Maddie so scared, and something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on why exactly I felt so off. Maybe just the closet door? Maybe just feeling inadequate, yet again, as a single father? I sighed and rubbed my right thumb against my wedding ring. “I wish you were still here, Kate,” I said to myself.

It seemed only right to check on Sam while I was upstairs. His room was down the hall, next to mine. I walked over and cautiously, quietly, opened his door. It was dark, but the crack of light from the hallway shone on his crib. Sam was in it, one leg kicked up against the rails, his face snuggled up to Night-Night, his favorite little blue blanket. I chuckled. It was almost time to switch him from a crib to a bed. Sometimes he hated the crib and tried for hours to climb out of it. Tonight, thankfully, was not one of those. I was sure he’d be up and fussy before I knew it, but for now, at least, he was peaceful.

Suddenly I frowned as my gaze moved to the closet. In Sam’s room, too, the closet door was wide open. I knew I’d closed that one. It hadn’t been open since this morning, and I remembered closing it then, after putting a pair of shoes away. It had definitely been closed all day; we’d come in several times since to grab various toys. And it had definitely been closed when I put Sam to bed.

I didn’t like that. It was strange. But maybe I hadn’t closed it all the way, or maybe its hinges were bad. Could be a number of things. No one was in the house who could hurt my son, and that was the important thing; the window was still locked, and I triple-checked the alarm system and doors every night. It was annoying, sure, but not harmful. And it didn’t seem to bother Sam.

I almost crossed the room to close it, but thought better of it. I might wake Sam, and that would result in a cranky kid and a father cursing his own stupidity. I decided I’d let it be; I could look at that in the morning too.

I blew a kiss to Sam and softly closed the door. Smiling to myself, I began the descent back down the stairs. I still felt a bit uneasy, but nothing I could pinpoint. It worried me. The kids are fine, it’s a safe neighborhood, you’ve got the day off tomorrow to fix anything – especially those damn closet doors. They really should have mentioned something like that when we looked at the house, I thought. Not a deal-breaker, of course, but if it upsets Maddie like this, I would’ve liked to have known.

I’d just reached the landing, still convincing myself I was getting anxious about nothing, when Maddie screamed again. This time it was even worse than the first: pure terror, so much so that ice filled every vein in my body. And it wasn’t long and drawn-out; it was shrill, panicked, and then – it simply cut off, as if the screamer’s throat had been cut.

“Maddie!” I yelled, spinning and taking the stairs by two. My heart was exploding out of my chest; my hands felt frozen; my mind was whirling, barely able to connect two thoughts together. I couldn’t even register what might have happened.

I was at her door. I shoved it open and looked around frantically, the light from the hallway flooding into the dark bedroom. Maddie was nowhere to be seen. Window still locked. No blood. Nothing strewn out of place. Just a blank spot in the bed where Maddie should be.

“No no no no no no no no,” I was repeating, barely consciously. Suddenly something caught my eye. I turned to look, the fear in me expanding tenfold: the closet door was wide open.

Even though there was nothing in the closet besides clothes that I could see, I still started towards it, hoping, maybe, somehow, that this open door that had so scared her before was now linked to where she was. But before I got there, I heard Sam scream from his room down the hall.

It was no ordinary two-year-old cry; it was like Maddie’s, full of terror and pain and then – nothing. Cut off, like he’d been stopped. Like he’d been taken away, I thought in horror, remembering Maddie’s words.

I sprinted down the hallway. Oh God, not him too, not both, oh God –

I threw open his door, somehow knowing already what I would see and dreading it. Sam was gone, the crib I had checked just minutes before empty except for his Night-Night. The closet door was hanging open, swinging slightly, as if someone had just hurried through it.

I let out a strangled cry. My thoughts were scrambled, jumbled, as my brain tried to make any sense of what happened, of what I could do to fix it. Sam, Maddie, oh God, my children, the closet doors, oh God, what do I do –

Stumbling, frantic, I ran back down the hallway to Maddie’s room. She’d mentioned it first. Maybe there was a clue here. Maybe this was simply a nightmare. I hoped this was simply a nightmare. But the fear and helplessness enveloping me were real, I knew they were.

I skidded into Maddie’s dark room, the light from the hallway still allowing me to see the furniture. I made a beeline for the closet and stood in the open door, looking straight into it. Still nothing but Maddie’s little clothes hanging there neatly. I shivered. It was frigid in this doorway, like it was a gateway to the Arctic. Must be the vent, I thought absentmindedly.

I could see nothing, but my heart began to beat even faster than before. I could feel each thump against my chest. Blood pounded in my ears. My entire body felt frozen, not just my hands. “Maddie?” I called out, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Sam?” I tried to step forward and found that I couldn’t move. Not out of fear or shock, although I was overcome with both of those things. No, something was blocking me from moving, keeping me locked in place in the closet doorway, holding me hostage.

And then, suddenly, though I wasn’t able to turn my head, I could see in my peripheral vision that the door to the hall was closing. Slowly, then quicker, and quicker. The light was diminishing. Ice flowed through every vessel in my body. I felt a terror I had never felt before, even upon losing my children.

I couldn’t form words anymore; my lips were frozen shut. I had time to think Maddie, Sam, Kate, I love you, and then the door shut with a firm click, and the entire room was plunged into complete darkness.

Except for the two blood-red eyes emerging from the closet.

“Just leave me here to die,” he groaned. “Save yourself! It’s too late for me, but you can still make it! Go! I’ll always love you!”

And with that, Jonas collapsed on the couch, sprawling out with his feet – still wearing muddy boots – on the pillows, and his head and shoulders on my lap. He winked at me and started to laugh, but it quickly turned into a hacking cough that made my reluctant grin turn into a wince.

“That’s the germs telling you to stop being a drama queen,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “The germs don’t get a say. They’re the ones killing me. Killing me all the way to death.”

His nose was running terribly. I leaned over and grabbed the box of tissues, nestling it between my hip and the couch cushion, in easy reach for my overdramatic patient. “You know, for a man who’s gotten shot, what is it, five, six times - ”

“Seven,” he corrected.

“ – Seven times, you’d think you’d be able to handle being sick.”

“Sickness is different,” he argued, his voice gravelly like sandpaper from all the coughing. “I can’t take out germs with a gun.” He sounded like he was pouting. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, why I put up with him. Oh, right, because you’re married to the idiot, I reminded myself, glancing at the gold band on my finger – a new addition only of the last two months.

Suddenly my cellphone, still in my back pocket, buzzed angrily. Someone was calling me. Sighing, I maneuvered so that I could get my hand around Jonas and to the phone. He groaned as I jostled him. “Shut up,” I said, lightly slapping him with my other hand. As I did so, I realized he was burning up, and felt a touch of guilt; maybe I should take him a little more seriously.

“This is how I die,” he moaned now, still staring at me with his big, dark eyes. “All those bullets, all the sketchy neighborhoods, all the dangerous clients, but noooo, this is how I go out! Not with a bang, but with a fever.”

“Shh,” I scolded him as I pulled out the phone. “It’s my mother.”

“That’s even worse. She thinks I’m an accountant,” he said grumpily. “I’m not an accountant.”

“I know you’re not. No accountant gets shot seven times and only goes to the hospital for three of those incidents. For that matter, no one sane does that,” I said, and then answered the call with a cheery, “Hi Mom! What’s up?”

“Hi, honey! I was just calling to see if you’re still coming tonight?”

Oh shit. I’d completely forgotten that Jonas and I were supposed to go out to dinner with my parents tonight. My dad had just gotten promoted, and it was a big deal. This dinner was for us and several of their closest friends. It meant the world to him. But in all the chaos of Jonas stumbling in an hour earlier from his last assignment coughing and sniffling, and promptly playing the role of world’s biggest drama queen, I’d completely forgotten.

I looked down at Jonas. This close to the phone, he could hear what my mom had said. Coughing violently again, he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Mom, I don’t think we can make it,” I said. “We feel terrible about bailing, but Jonas is sick - ”

“Dying,” he interrupted.

“ – pretty sick, actually, so we’d better miss out tonight,” I finished, glaring at Jonas. “Think he might’ve picked it up at work.”

“At work? He’s an accountant, for Christ’s sake, how sick can they be in the office? Can’t he just take some meds and suck it up?”

Jonas raised his eyebrows. “Still not an accountant, and I deal with more than she ever knows,” he said, his rough voice managing to sound bitter. “Seven bullet wounds! Not to mention the - ”

I ignored his protests but all the same, looked him over. He really did look bad. He’d be fine when all was said and done, but right now, well, this was bad. He was burning up, his voice was about six octaves deeper than usual, and he was constantly either blowing his nose or coughing. I tried to imagine bringing him to a formal dinner in this condition. Jonas was a force to be reckoned with when he was perfectly healthy. When sick? Forget it.

“Sorry, Mom,” I said firmly. “I don’t think we can make it. We’ll make it up to you soon. Maybe we can do a dinner next week?”

“Leah, what the hell?” She was flying into a rage. I braced myself. My mom had always had a short temper. “You know how important this to your father, and to me, but you’re choosing that accountant over your own family? I can’t believe you would - ”

“That man is my husband,” I said coolly, trying to keep calm. I was getting more frustrated by the second. Why, God, must I have to deal with Jonas being sick and my mother being, well, my mother, at the same time? What had I done to deserve this? This combination was quite possibly a circle of hell.

“I know he is, but even that is a decision I doubt! You know your father and I thought you could have done much better -”

Jonas, in my lap, snorted; it turned into a cough. “I see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he moaned. “But at least your parents won’t be there.”

“Look, Mom, that’s not even the matter at hand right now. The fact is, Jonas is very sick, and tonight just won’t - ”

“I can’t believe you, Leah! Such a disappointment to us. And now this accountant is getting in the way and encouraging this behavior - ”

“Still not an accountant,” Jonas interjected.

“ – absolutely ridiculous, we will have a serious talk about this, young lady - ”

Jonas grabbed my free hand in his and held it to his scorching, sweaty forehead. “Take care of me in my last hours on this earth,” he groaned, managing to wink at me before once again grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose, producing a noise not unlike an elephant.

“Was that him? He’s right there? Well, you should tell him that the two of you are unbelievable, and your father and I - ”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Between the screaming mother on the phone and the needy husband laying on me, I snapped. “Sorry, I have a clingy and feverish assassin on my lap. I’ll call you back when I’ve convinced him that a cold does not mean that he is dying,” I said sharply, and hung up.

After that outburst, Jonas and I sat in silence; he’d even ceased his sniffling. Finally, he reached up and stroked my face. “So, uh. Hell of a way to tell your mom what I really do for a living.”

I blushed. “I could’ve told her in worse ways.”

We pondered again, then he laughed. It turned into another long-winded cough; I patiently waited. When he was done, he choked out, “No, not really.”

I laughed too. “Okay, maybe not. But at least you don’t have to say you’re an accountant anymore.”

“A small victory emerges from being on my deathbed. Take that, germs.”

“Right, but like I told her, you’re not dying,” I corrected.

“I don’t know. I definitely feel closer to my life flashing before my eyes than I ever have after being shot any of the seven times.”

“I’ve never heard of an assassin dying from a bad cold,” I said.

“Ah, well, if we do our job right, you don’t hear about us much at all,” he said, smiling.

“I wish I’d never heard from you at all sometimes,” I told him.

“Nah, you don’t wish that. You love me,” he corrected. Then he promptly rolled off the couch, laying dramatically on the floor with a massive groan. “Now come on, save me, I’m dying. Save me from this illness that ails me and drains my life force, or else I will move on from this world.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re obnoxious when you’re healthy, but when you’re sick, you’re unbearable, you know that?”

Still facedown on the floor, he waved his hand dismissively. “Your mom’s said that for years, what else is new? Maybe if she knows I kill people for a living she’ll tread more carefully.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said flatly, knowing it was unlikely. “I’ll go get meds and a cool washcloth for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he called from the floor. I smiled to myself and began walking to the bathroom. Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and I felt something fly past me, within inches of hitting me. I screamed and threw myself down, frantically looking around to see that a large rock had been thrown through our front window and landed just a foot away from me.

I heard gunshots; I realized that someone was shooting through the shattered window. Bullets danced overhead as I crawled along the floor and tucked myself behind a chair, cringing. Where was Jonas? If he was still laying there, he could be hit, and sure, he’d taken seven bullets, but not any while he was so exposed –

Suddenly, there he was. He was upright, still looking feverish and sweaty but much stronger, his eyes intense, grasping his favorite pistol in his hands. I watched as he positioned himself behind a wall near the window and shot quickly several times, then ducked back, then shot again.

Outside I heard a thump, and the firing ceased. Jonas had hit whoever was shooting at us. Not a surprise; he was the best shot I’d ever known. He went to look at the window, clearly saw something he was satisfied with, and nodded, pleased.

He turned back to me, still holding his pistol but directing it downwards, away from me. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently, his voice still raw and gravelly.

“I’m okay,” I said. “But – you – I thought you were on your deathbed. I thought you were dying.” My words were getting less shaky as I went along, more teasing. “ You said that it worse than all seven shots you’ve been hit with. You said you were going into the light.”

He smiled as he came over and sat beside me. “I also said that I can’t take out germs with a gun,” he said. “That guy, I could take out with a gun.”

“Uh-huh. Well, at least we know you can’t be that sick - ”

Jonas quickly slid down the wall, moving himself so that he was again laying with his head in my lap. I rolled my eyes, knowing what was coming.

“No, no, this clingy and feverish assassin is dying,” he said dramatically, his dark eyes twinkling with laughter. “Convince me otherwise.”