This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

IF I’D HAVE KNOWN TODAY was the day I was going to die, I never would have left the house, never would’ve left my bed. But in this world, we have no idea what waits around the corner, what’s going to happen next, so I didn’t have a chance to avoid my fate.

BREAD, MILK, CEREAL. Bread, milk, cereal. I recite the three things my mom asked me to get at the market on the corner over and over again. You’d think they’d be easy to remember, but lists like hers tend to fly out of my head when I’d rather be where I was five minutes ago: camped out on the living room couch playing video games and eating Cheetos. I groaned when she handed me a twenty dollar bill and told me not to come back with candy or more salty crap as she called it. She smiled and winked and I felt like a jerk for groaning in the first place. She’s a night nurse and picks up shifts anytime one becomes available. She’s always tired and she’s thinner than she should be, but always manages to make sure I’m fed and have clean clothes. For those reasons and too many more to list, if she asks me to do something I do it. Period. This trip to the corner market is no different.

Stuffing one hand in my pocket, I reach for a piece of gum. As I bring it out, the twenty falls on the floor. I sigh and wish my mother had sent my sister, Kiera, instead of me. I kneel and scoop it up, standing just as the elevator doors open.

“Daniel! Hello, dear!” A stubby body waddles toward me. Mrs. Alder, wearing orange lipstick that’s smeared on her two front teeth, smiles at me. “So nice to see you.” I hold the door for her, and hold my breath, as she squeezes past me into the tiny metal rectangle that passes for an elevator in our apartment building.

Advancing a single step, Mrs. Alder’s foul breath mingles with her flowery perfume. Both make me feel a little sick so I slide back a few steps until I feel my back touch the far wall of the elevator. “Can you press number five, dear?” For a minute, I don’t know whether to be overjoyed that she’s not riding to the lobby with me or disappointed that I have to go up two floors with her. It’s a push I suppose considering we are on the third floor. I nod and oblige by depressing the number five. “I’m going upstairs to see Grace. You know Grace, right? Grace Kellerman?” She doesn’t wait for me to say a word or nod, but continues. “Her husband died, four, no maybe, five years ago. Or was it six? Let me think.” She brings a liver-spotted finger to her lips and taps it there. Her cloudy blue eyes light up after a long moment and her finger moves away from her mouth with an orange blotch on its tip; then she claps her hands together. “Seven! Marty died seven years ago.” She smiles proudly, and I can’t help but feel one side of my mouth lift as well.

When the elevator reaches the fifth floor and the door begrudgingly opens, Mrs. Alder shuffles out, leaving behind the vague stench of her perfume and her breath in her wake. Sighing and shaking my head, I close my eyes briefly once the door closes. I open them and resume my chant in my head bread, milk, cereal until the elevator stops and I step out. The vague smell of cigarette smoke and about fifteen different foods cooking mixes with the stuffy mildew smell unique to apartment buildings. All greet me immediately. All are familiar. All are what I’ve come to recognize as the scent of home. It may not be the substance of home and garden magazines but it’s fine by me. Home doesn’t have to be filled with frou-frou junk and look like a museum. It has to be filled with the people you love and who love you.

I smile to myself and think of my mom in her light blue scrubs plugging in a scented oil diffuser and saying, “Okay. That’s all the Martha Stewart I have in me,” before I force myself to remember the list again. Bread, milk, cereal, and M&Ms maybe?

My mind wanders around speculation about my favorite zombie show on television and my favorite video game as I walk along the crowded city street. The area is commercial. Cars and trucks continually drive by, an interesting blend of music thumping and horns blaring accompany the whoosh of air as they pass.

I’m lost in thought and the sensory overload of my busy street when I find myself rounding the corner and almost passing Joe’s Convenience Mart. My feet stutter to a stop and I yank open the door. A bell tinkles and Mr. Soon’s head snaps in my direction from behind the counter. “Oh, Daniel, how are you today?” Mr. Soon asks in his thick Korean accent.

“Oh I’m good, Daniel, always good.” Slim and probably not more than five feet tall, I can’t remember ever seeing Mr. Soon angry or sad, he’s perpetually happy. I suppose that’s why I’ve never heard anyone question why he kept the market “Joe’s” when that’s not his name. Mun-Hee is what I’ve heard him called. Regardless of the name, he’s a nice guy who flashes a toothy grin as I make my way down a narrow aisle to the back of the store where the refrigerated cases are. Scanning the selection of milk, I reach for one with a pink cap and rack my brain to remember whether my mom wanted two-percent or one-percent. I should’ve asked. I pat my pockets and realize I forgot my phone when I hear the bell above the door jingle loudly, louder than usual. I turn and see a man enter. Tall and broad-shouldered and with dark stubble covering his chin, half of his cheeks and his upper lip, he’s about as intimidating a man as I’ve ever seen. Looking away to avoid eye contact at any cost, I gulp hard and accidentally swallow my gum. I spin and grab the first gallon of milk my hand touches. As the door closes, I catch my reflection in the stainless steel frame of the glass. A stark contrast to the man who just walked in, I’m still built exactly as I was in eighth grade. Medium height, medium build, I haven’t filled out yet as most of the boys in my grade have. And let’s face it, a boy going into tenth grade who’s built like me might as well be invisible.

Filling my lungs, I exhale loudly, envisioning myself taking Mrs. Alder to my senior prom. But my breathing snags, catching mid breath when a loud voice fills the market, leaving in its wake a shrill ring in my ears that burrows to the center of my brain. “Give me all your money!” the man booms. Heart battering my ribs like a sledgehammer, I twist and look in the direction of the voice.

Every cell in my body shrieks at once, ordering me to run, to try to find an exit and get as far away from the shouting as possible, but inexplicably, my legs follow the trajectory of my eyes, moving as if of their own volition toward the front of the store.

Above boxes of tampons and tubes of athlete’s foot cream, I see the top of a head. Thick hair, sooty and blacker than the darkest night sky, looms, speeding the rhythm of my pulse dangerously. Still, my legs continue to carry me forward, toward what every instinct within me warns me to get away from.

Towering at what must be six foot four inches, every inch of him looking as if it’s carved from granite, the man who entered seconds ago would be threatening without a weapon. The shotgun he brandishes and points directly at Mr. Soon adds an even deadlier layer to the terror he exudes.

“I said empty the damn register!” the man shouts, spittle spraying from his mouth. And with his words, a volt of energy as potent as a bolt of lightning rockets through my body. I jerk, my right arm suddenly completely numb, and the milk I hold in my hand slips, falling to the ground with infinitesimal slowness. All sound, including the buzzing in my ears, is silenced. I watch it with stunned wonder as it descends, falling to the tiled floor in slow motion before it crashes; hard plastic shattering to sharp shards and jutting from a puddle of pure white.

The man’s head snaps in my direction. Eyes as dark as volcanic glass bore into my skull before he aims his weapon squarely at my chest.

Pounding a frantic tempo, my heart surges to my throat and lodges there. Raising my hands to chest height, palms facing out, my voice shakes. “Please don’t shoot. I won’t cause any trouble.”

Bushy brows knit, the man’s expression represents that he’s making a choice. He’s deciding whether or not to kill me.

Tears sting my eyes, my world suddenly surreal, a nightmare from which I cannot wake.

In my periphery, I see Mr. Soon’s upper body dip. He reaches for something beneath the counter.

Blood pounding so hard against the surface of my skin, I will the man with the shotgun to keep his eyes on me. But he doesn’t. He sees Mr. Soon. Turning quickly, his weapon is trained on Mr. Soon the second he lifts the handgun he’d reached for.

An earsplitting blast roars through the ether. A gaping hole appears at the center of Mr. Soon’s chest and his small body lurches backward into a display of air fresheners. Colorful plastic explodes, raining from the ceiling like fragrant confetti. Shelves collapse as the market owner’s body falls to the floor. Glass shatters. Papers fly. The once-meticulous space is reduced to a jumble of disarray. And Mr. Soon, the kind Korean man who always had a pleasant smile and a never-ending supply of Cheetos, is slumped against the wall, a craterous wound in his torso and a vacant stare glazing his eyes.

My face contorts and sobs rack my body. I don’t dare cover my face with my hands or wipe my nose. I keep both where they can be seen. Especially after seeing what happened to Mr. Soon.

Turning slowly, the man with the shotgun cocks his head to one side and regards me with a crooked, almost sad smile.

“Please, p-please. I won’t say anything,” I beg as fluid from my eyes and nose stream down my chin, but in my heart of hearts, I know my words are wasted. I’ve seen too much.

Still looking at me with the deadened amusement of a psychopath, the man purses his lips briefly then licks his front teeth.

“Sorry kid” are the last two words I hear before a deafening boom erupts like a clap of thunder, rattling the ground beneath my feet. Light flashes briefly, and then pain unlike any I’ve ever experienced explodes in my chest sending trembling veins of agony snaking through my body. My eyes rove about the market a final time before darkness reaches out to me, beckoning me, seducing me with the promise of an end to the suffering, the promise of release. And I fall to it.

IMAGES FLASH BEFORE my eyes, a swirling vortex of pictures shrouded in a gossamer mist. Nebulous puzzle pieces of my life float past me, ephemeral threads I grasp at that slip through my fingers. Turning my head left and right and blinking rapidly, the image of a man fills my field of vision. Hazy and blurred, the edges of his features are dulled, the details of his face unclear. But he’s large, far larger than me. He wears a white coat and handles me with care and caution. Distant but discernible, I hear crying. I feel wetness spilling down my cheeks yet I’m not sad. I’m frightened, naked, gasping for breath and small, so very, very small. I’m overwhelmed by a barrage of sounds and colors and desperately yearn for warmth and safety. But quickly, the noise quiets. The fear dissipates and the crying stops. The air around the man holding me ripples like a powerful ocean current. A charge like static electricity travels through my body. And another man appears; one I recognize immediately. My father, James, is with me. Hope explodes like a seedling shooting through black earth at the sight of him, though I know he passed away when I was just eight. But he’s with me. Buttery sunlight filters through wispy clouds and leaves glow like firelight along the treetops coloring the horizon. A crisp breeze blows and I’m on my bike, my father holding tight to the seat as I try to keep myself upright on two wheels. “I got you, son! I got you!” my dad reassures me several times, filling me with confidence and courage. He runs after me and I pedal faster, feeling a continual gust of wind kiss my face. Within seconds, my father’s voice grows faint and I realize I’m riding my bicycle on my own. “Go! Go! Go! You’re doing it!” I continue riding, steering and cycling forward, and as I do, the daylight fades, darkening to thin jets of light that filter through stained glass. The scent of frankincense surrounds me. I’m fidgeting, itchy and uncomfortable in a dark gray suit. Twisting, I look over my shoulder and see my mother. She beams at me looking so young and filled with love I can’t help but smile back at her and wave shyly. My father is beside her, his fingers interlaced with hers, alive and proud to watch his only son make his first communion. I turn and face forward, my eyes vacillating between the giant crucifix before me and the cherub renderings overhead.

Then in a flash, the church vanishes, replaced by snippets of my life that continue to flash like clips of a film reel bumping through an old movie projector. Bursts of color, laughter, tears, triumphs and failures rush at me in a flickering strobe. All lead to the present. I see every moment, every important event; all except for my death.

Quickly, however, the light dims. Thick silence smothers all sound. Darkness encroaches at the edges of my vision, narrowing it until just a pinprick of light is visible. And soon, the pinprick fades to shadow. I’m submerged in complete and utter blackness, utter stillness. Stretching, I reach with my arms and legs, searching for walls, a floor, a ceiling—something, anything—but all that surrounds me is pitch-black space.

Drawing my hands close to my body, the memory of the convenience mart swirls through my brain like snow dancing on an icy breeze. I see the flare from the muzzle of the shotgun, the bullet speeding toward me, and then I feel pain, blinding, searing white-hot pain, explode against my chest. My lungs collapse on themselves. My fingertips fly to where a craterous wound should be. I feel nothing, just the smoothness of my skin yet still half expect to see the pads of my fingers stained crimson. I flatten my palm there and once again am shocked when I retrieve it and see that my hand is devoid of blood.

Laughter effervesces within me, bubbling from my lips. But the sound is absorbed by the smothering darkness. I’m floating in a velvety abyss, free of pain, healed of my injury, and in the moments that pass, the realization of where I am settles deep in the core of my being. Admittedly, I always imagined where I suspect I am to be different. I never expected it to be an endless stretch of nothingness, a vacuous space of eternal night.

Squeezing my eyes closed, sweeping, lacy waves of anxiety prickle my skin. Mild at first, it quickly overwhelms until cold panic spreads from my chest and disperses through my body in an icy web. A whimper, trapped in my throat, begs for release. I grimace, allowing my chin to drop to my chest, and feel the first pang of despair settle deep in my chest when soothing heat engulfs me suddenly in an explosion of sifting colors. Reds meld into gold and green into blues. All that I see is suddenly alive and vivid. My heart pounds in my chest as the dizzying array of shifting light brightens until finally it is the purest, most intense white light I’ve ever seen. Though it is intense, I do not squint and I do not look away. Instead, I peer straight into it without pain, without fear. And from a primal place, inherent and profound, I’m drawn to it.

Rich, pale rays extend, stretching fair fingers, searching for me, reaching for me. The warmth is all-encompassing, enveloping me in a snug embrace. The light, so crystal-clear and inviting, summons me, imparts me with a sense of peace and happiness so complete, so filling, tears glaze my eyes. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be closer to the light, to be part of it.

Shuffling my legs in a motion that mimics walking, I move toward it. The nearer I get, the more bound to it I feel, as if a force greater than myself is compelling me. Every cell in my body is warmed by it, pulled to it as though it is magnetic fire, heating me and attracting me simultaneously. And while the urge to run to it beckons, I don’t. Inexplicably, the force of the light won’t allow it. I can only continue at the same pace I’ve maintained, a point that drives me to the brink of madness, for I am consumed by the light, possessed by it. Each step I take brings me that much closer.

Bathed in luxurious beams, I’ve nearly reached it when the sudden appearance of a figure crosses my path. Towering and muscular with pin-straight ebony hair that trails past his shoulders, the male form levels a gaze my way. Eyes as blue as ice covered water stare straight through me, into me. My movement halts, and a small shudder trembles through me. The man frightens me, though why is the question I cannot answer. Turning so that he faces me straightaway, a look of challenge carves his chiseled features. He blocks my path. He stands between me and the light.

Trembling from fear and frustration, I attempt to sidestep the man, but my feet refuse to cooperate. It’s as if they’re cemented to whatever indefinable surface I walk upon. I part my lips to speak, to politely ask the man to let me pass, but the words refuse to form. And the man does not budge. He remains where he stands, legs shoulder-width apart and formidable fists balled at his hips. His presence intimidates, though not the way the shotgun wielding man who murdered me in the convenience store did. This man before me stands with presence, radiating confidence and goodness, but also a glacial deadliness that raises the fine hairs on the nape of my neck. Still, I want nothing more than to step around him and into the light.

As if intuiting my thoughts, the man lunges at me. In one swift, fluid motion, he descends on me, lifting me off the ground and dragging me away from the light.

“NOOO!” the word explodes from me in a sonic boom, and in a flash, the light grows distant. Overpowering loss crashes against me like a wave. The farther I’m carried from the light the more intense it becomes. My chest tightens. My throat snaps shut. The peace, the joy, the hope it shared shatters, exploding into millions of painful shards. Darkness returns, thicker and smothering in its extensiveness. Any and all control I ever clung to has been ripped from me. I’m carried by this raven-haired man with ice-blue eyes through the void until without warning, I’m falling.

Stomach plunging to my feet, I plunge through time and space, my screams absorbed by oppressive blackness. My existence is a nightmare from which I cannot wake. I slap myself, try to shout again and again, but all my efforts are in vain. Sanity seeps from me. Heat is leached from my pores by an unseen force. And all that I know, all that I’ve learned in life in my sixteen years, leaves me. The only fact that remains that I’m certain of is that the man who tore me from my path to the light still clings to me.

HAWK-LIKE FEATURES greet me when my eyes snap open, and ashen light, stark and cold, floods my surroundings. Blurry and indistinct at first, the room I find myself in is an eddying bombardment of movement, color and sound. But quickly, it comes into focus. My gaze darts from left to right before zeroing in on a face marked by keen, dark eyes, a long aquiline nose and thin pursed lips. Tall and decidedly male, the figure hovering over me places his hands on his hips and lowers his head, muttering words that are indecipherable. Silver brows gather and he lifts his chin, turning so that he faces an analog clock mounted on the wall to my left.

A deep sigh follows. “I’m calling it.” Dejection laces his tone. “Time of death: ten-oh-eight.” The words pour in a monotone stream from the man’s mouth.

In a roomful of people, all trained professionals, no one sees that my eyes are open.

An anguished wail rips through the ether, the voice achingly familiar. My mom, the tortured cry belongs to my mother. Using every bit of strength I have, I lift my head. My mother, pale and frail looking in the stony light of the room, cries unabashedly as my sister huddles into her outstretched arms, sobs racking her body.

I try to call out to her. Swallowing, my throat feels lined with sand. I want to speak, but only hoarse, feeble noises make it past my lips. “Mom,” I hear the word in my head but it only makes it to my lips as a moan she doesn’t hear. Instead, she continues, her tears gut-wrenching, tortured sounds.

“Get them out of here,” the man with the silver hair orders, a combination of distress and annoyance spiking his words.

Tearing my eyes from my mother and sister, I train my gaze on him. He scrubs his face with both hands, pausing a moment before an incessant beep picks up in tempo, keeping time with my thundering pulse.

The doctor’s head whips around toward the direction of the sound. Narrowing his eyes to slits, he looks past me and to the right, to where a monitor shows a flat green line that spikes to regular peaks. Stunned silence stills the room, and I swear if I listen hard enough, I’ll hear the collective thoughts of everyone in the room. “What in heaven’s name?” He doesn’t say anything more, just remains with his mouth partially open. From the monitor, his gaze travels to my face. Eyes wide open, I stare back at him. He draws in a breath, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly, and closes his eyes for several beats before opening them. Part of me yearns to laugh, to mock this man for thinking that closing his eyes to the obvious will negate it somehow or make it any less true.

Eyes never leaving me, the doctor closes the distance between he and the bed on which I lie. A flurry of white coats and blue scrubs follows him like a surge of foam capped waves. Hands fly over my body, poking, prodding and examining. A stethoscope touches my chest while another is pressed to the side of my neck. “The equipment is accurate. His heart sounds fine,” one stethoscope wielding man says.

“His carotid pulse is strong.” I follow the sound of the female voice, my gaze resting on a set of almond shaped eyes sitting behind thick plastic eyeglass rims. “Impossible.” Though amazement doesn’t register in her stoic features, it is betrayed by her tone.

“His bleeding has stopped completely! How is that even possible Doctor Aaron?” A face, clean shaven and looking about the same age as I am lowers so near to mine I can smell that he had garlic in some form with his last meal.

“Dr. Evans!” The silver-haired man I now know is Dr. Aaron says sharply, a stern look of warning flashing in his eyes.

“It’s impossible! He sustained a pneumothorax, lost enough blood to fill an elephant, a-and his wound, the cavitation of the wound, it’s impossible for him to still be alive,” the young Dr. Evans continues, his words rushing from him in an excited stream of consciousness as he gestures animatedly.

“That’s enough Charles!” Dr. Aaron booms, his face colored an unhealthy shade of crimson.

Lightheaded and reeling from the surreal moment in which I exist, I wonder whether anyone even realizes that I’m conscious and hearing every word they say, that the guy whose time of death was called is alive and has the distinct displeasure of hearing the forensic analysis of his gunshot wound. If I could shout I would.

Fortunately, my mother, the only person willing to acknowledge my consciousness, does the shouting for me. “Danny! Danny! My baby boy, you’re alive!” Springing to her feet, she rushes toward me with my sister just a few steps behind her.

“Dan! I can’t believe it!” My sister, Kiera’s makeup is streaming to her chin in black rivulets. “I thought we lost you!”

“I-is he okay?” My mother’s voice is shrill and panicked as I’ve never heard it before as she pleads with Dr. Aaron for some kind of reassurance.

Turing to face a uniformed security guard near the only visible doorway, Dr. Aaron says, “Get them out of here!”

The guard advances several paces. “The doctors needs to work,” he says in tone softer and more sympathetic than the doctor used. He reaches out a hand and cups my mother’s elbow.

Yanking it away with a scowl, my mother snaps, “I’m not leaving my son.” Her tone, no longer strident, is calm and strong and shivers with a raw and untapped wellspring of power. At just a touch over five feet tall and a little more than a hundred pounds with blonde hair and pale green eyes, my mother may look small and fragile like a pixie, but what people soon learn is that Kathleen Callahan is ferocious.

The corners of my mouth curl upward, a chuckle dying to escape promptly followed by the words, “Good luck, pal,” for the security guard if he thinks he has the slightest chance of dragging her away from my bedside.

“C’mon, Kathy, I don’t want to do this anymore than you want me to. But I have to do my job,” the security guard whines.

“Dammit, Carl, that’s my son!” She shouts and uses the first swearword I think I’ve ever heard her use. “You’re going to make me leave my son?”

“We’ve worked together for more than ten years now. You know as well as I do there’s not a shot in hell of you getting me out of this room. I’m not doing it.” Her voice is a low growl, and another uncharacteristic profanity has slipped past her lips.

Dr. Aaron’s deep voice interrupts the exchange between Carl and my mother. “I-I don’t understand this.” A befuddled expression dominates his features. “The bleeding, it’s-it’s stopped completely. And the wound looks as if it’s begun healing.” He rubs the steel-hued whiskers on his chin.

“All of his vitals are stable, the bleeding stopped and he’s healing before our eyes. It’s not possible,” Dr. Evans chimes in, his voice loud and exuberant. “How can this be?”

“Charles, this is your final warning. Keep your opinions to yourself,” Dr. Aaron’s voice rumbles with the threat of serious consequences, and Charles Evans, the overly enthusiastic doctor, cowers immediately.

Gaining strength with every second that passes, I’ve had just about enough of a roomful of people talking about me as if I’m a potted plant—a very interesting potted plant, but a potted plant nevertheless. Mustering every ounce of energy I possess, I lift my upper body off the gurney and prop myself up on one elbow. “I feel fine.” The words echo in my head, and for a moment, I wonder whether anyone else heard them. No one reacts right away. A pregnant pause gives birth to roughly a half dozen sets of eyes focusing on me. “Hello how are you today?” I speak to an utterly silent crowd. “I’m fine in case anyone is wondering.” I drop my gaze and suck my lower lip.

The doctors exchange furtive glances before nervous half smiles appear on their faces. “Please, you need to lie down. More tests need to be performed to determine whether you’re bleeding internally.” Dr. Aaron’s demeanor is authoritative despite the fact that he looks as if he’s seen a ghost and possibly soiled himself.

After examining the faces of each doctor present to gauge their reaction, I shrug. “Okay. If you say so.”

More nervous looks volley about. Confusion, joy and disorder mark the movements that ensue thereafter.

Oddly, Dr. Evans, the young doctor cowed by his superior, is the only one brave enough to speak. Ticking off my wounds on his right hand, he says, “He sustained a pneumothorax as a result of a shotgun wound to the chest as well as additional pellet wounds scattered across his torso and neck. He received two transfusions but was losing blood faster than we could deliver it. He barely had a pulse when he was brought in and was unconscious.”

Refusing to acknowledge him, activity in the room resumes at a frantic pace. Calls to radiology and hematology and too many other –ology departments to list are made. My mom, refusing to be caught up in the chaos, barrels past doctors and nurses and carves a path for she and my sister straight to my bed. She stops right in front of me and throws her arms around my neck. She trembles, her sobs dampening my shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are muffled, choked by tears. Her heartache causes a clenching in my chest so profound it rivals the initial pain of the shotgun wound. “My baby Danny.”

Moving to the other side of the bed, Kiera hugs me as well. Generally prone to fits of either shouting at me or scowling at me wordlessly, her action stuns me. The two women I care about most in my life, the only family I have, cry hysterically. And it’s all my fault. Guilt lances my core. I hate what I’ve done to them, the pain I’ve caused them, even if only temporary. I should’ve run from the man with the shotgun in the convenience mart. I should’ve hidden. Anything other than what I did. Walking toward an armed and screaming man who’s every movement—including breathing—reeks of danger, of the promise of violence, was the dumbest thing I’ve done to date. And I’ve done more dumb things than I can catalog. But it was as if I was powerless, as if I were being tugged by an invisible line from which I couldn’t separate if I tried. Strangely, I didn’t try. I could’ve but didn’t. What the heck was wrong with me? As a result of my bizarre moth-to-a-flame draw to the shotgun-wielding man, I landed myself where I am now, and caused nothing but grief and agony for my sister and mother.

Guilt corkscrews through my gut as Dr. Aaron makes yet another attempt at getting them to leave. Little does he know, he has a better chance of producing a pigeon from his anus then getting them to go.

Lifting my arms, I embrace Kiera and my mom, tears burning my eyelids before spilling over my lower lashes. I’m grateful to be alive, grateful to have the only two people on this planet who love me unconditionally and who I love unconditionally in return, beside me. Their joy is contagious. It begins to push back the guilt, push back the self-reproach. But the one sensation impervious to the powerful emotions diffusing from each of us is deep within me. In the cavernous hollows of my being, a grief-stricken wind howls. It mourns that I did not make it into the light.

THE VAGUE VANILLA NOTES of my sister’s perfume mingle with the antiseptic scent of the hospital room. Together, they form an odd but not altogether unpleasant aroma. Monitors beep and hum and the soft shuffle of feet passing beyond my door are background sounds to the continual sniffling around me. Kiera sits on one side of me while my mother sits on the other. Eyes red and noses swollen, they both face me and are still a sight for sore eyes, though I’m sure both women would disagree.

“I can’t believe you’re okay. The way you looked when I got here . . . you were so pale, and there was blood, so much blood.” Pale green irises fairly glow against otherwise bloodshot eyes. I haven’t seen my mother so distraught since my father passed, and even then I don’t recall her looking as she does now. Cupping my face in both hands, she kisses my cheek and fresh tears shine in her gaze. “I-I just can’t believe it.”

“They said you were dead.” Kiera glares over her shoulder and clips her chin toward the few staff members who remain behind. “The doctors, nurses—everyone—said you were gone.” Her voice catches, her eyes glaze.

I can’t remember a time when my sister showed affection, not for me at least. Eye rolls and sarcastic huffs are about all I’ve ever gotten from her. To see her emotional, to hear the quiver in her voice, is out of the ordinary.

Nodding stiffly, I don’t trust that my voice will hold up. I glance at my mom and Kiera nervously. I want so badly to tell them that I was, in fact, gone, that I was somewhere else, a place unlike any I’ve ever been. I want to describe to them the flashes of my life I saw, describe the darkness so thick and heavy it assumed a smothering life of its own. I want to tell them about the light, about the strange ache in my chest so profound I felt the need to close my eyes between breaths. And I want to tell them about the man who stopped me from going to the light, how his presence lingers even in his absence, how I swear I can still feel his vice-like grip on me if I try. I’d love to tell both of them all about my experience, but I can’t. They’d never believe me. And I’d probably land myself in the psychiatric wing of the hospital. Instead, I mumble, “I can’t believe I’m okay either.”

Folding her arms across her chest and hugging them to her body tightly, my mom shakes her head slowly. She squeezes her eyes shut. “This whole evening, it’s been like a nightmare. I can’t explain it, but it feels like I’m asleep or something, like all of this is a bad dream.” Her eyes open, and her gaze is distant for a moment. And in that moment, I wonder whether she feels it, feels the distinct buzz of energy in the room that has nothing to do with medical equipment or electricity, the pronounced shiver in the air that resonates through my bones. But when she shakes her head as if clearing unpleasant images from her mind and her eyes resume their focus, I realize I’m the only one who feels the peculiar charge in the air. My mother smiles and grabs my hand. “Oh Danny, I’m just so glad you’re okay.” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

“Yeah, me too,” Kiera adds. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” She wipes under her eyes where tears have caused dark smudges. “I love you.”

Heat creeps up from my collar. I don’t think my sister has ever said she loves me before. She’s told me she hates me. That I’ve heard numerous times. She’s told me she wishes she was an only child, too. But love? No way. “You love me?” I screw up my features and my mouth blurts the question before my brain has time to stop it.

Kiera narrows her eyes to slashes, all softness seeping from her features. “Yes, you idiot! You’re my brother! Why’d you think I was crying?” She lowers her gaze and mumbles words that rhyme with crumb sass and my mother shoots her a stern look.

I’m taken aback for a split second by the swift change in her attitude, but recover immediately. “Now that’s more like it, sis,” I smirk and acknowledge her low comment. “I was worried there for a minute, worried you were going soft on me.”

Jade eyes, a shade darker than my mom’s, train on me. “You’re such a jerk,” Kiera snarls. “I take it back.”

“Kiera! That’s enough!” My mother’s tone is sharp, but still in keeping with how she usually deals with Kiera.

Whirling on me with eyes glassy and lower lip trembling, my sister looks pained now instead of angry. “Oh my gosh.” Sobs shake her shoulders.

“Kiera?” I sit up straight and swing my legs over the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t move, Danny. I’ll take care of her,” my mom panics. She stands then walks to my sister’s side. She wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her in.

Pulse drilling in my throat, I see my sister crying again, and again, it’s my fault. “Kiera, I’m sorry. What did I do? Tell me what I did.”

“You got shot, and you almost died, and I just don’t want to fight with you, and I-I just, I can’t.” Her words are swallowed by hiccups and sniffles.

“I’m sorry, sis. I’m sorry for everything, for what happened at the convenience store. I didn’t want you guys to be sad.”

“Gosh, you’re such a moron!” My sister erupts, jabbing one hand through the front of her hair. “You’re apologizing for getting shot, really?”

Stomping one foot in frustration, Kiera growls, “Don’t you get it? I was afraid, I was devastated. You were dead, or so these idiots thought.” She stabs the air with one finger and points it accusingly at a young looking doctor who promptly stops what he’s doing and resembles a deer caught in headlights. “We fight, but I love you.”

“Danny, shut up already! Or are you too dumb to do that too?” Balled hands fly to her hips and she glowers at me. “Oh just forget it!”

Realizing the conversation is no longer about playful sibling banter, I soften my tone. “No, I don’t want to. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Kiera chews her lower lip for a moment then drops her hands to her thighs with a slap. Sighing heavily, she says, “I really thought I lost you and it hurt. I never want to lose you little brother.”

A painful lump lodges in my throat. Though I don’t remember her calling me “little brother” my mother and her four sisters tell stories of how Kiera referred to me as that and not my name for the first four years of my life. Of course now, on a good day, I’m “moron,” “butthead,” “idiot,” and any other insulting name she can conjure up without riling our mother. But hearing her now, hearing her call me “little brother” causes an unexpected rush of emotions to burst forth. I’m speechless.

Fortunately, Dr. Aaron knocks lightly before stepping into my room. He clears his throat and trains his keen gaze on me. Tall and trim, he appears to be in his late sixties. Gray hair is coiffed meticulously and frames sharp features. With impeccable posture, he sweeps into the room exuding confidence and control, yet something in his eyes, a glint of something I cannot name glitters in their depth. Doubt perhaps. Disbelief maybe. I can’t be sure. But whatever it is, he’s unaccustomed to it and bothered by it. His frustration ripples from him like small swells on a still pond. “Hi Daniel. How are you feeling?” His voice is rich and deep and his eye contact is so intense I squirm a bit.

“Uh, I’m fine I guess,” I say as a nervous smile plays upon my lips. “I feel good. No pain really.”

One of Dr. Aaron’s brows ticks almost imperceptibly. Lowering his gaze to the foot of my bed, he reaches for my chart and examines it, though I’m certain he has the details of my case committed to memory. I’d guess not many people die and come back after being blasted through the chest with a shotgun. Regardless, he studies it and shakes his head.

His gesture catches my mother’s immediate attention. “What is it, Dr. Aaron? What’s wrong?” Panic saturates her tone. She rises to her feet and turns so that she faces him.

The doctor heaves a weighty sigh. He moves the door and closes it. When he returns to my bedside, the self-assured demeanor he entered with fades. “I shouldn’t be telling you what I’m about to tell you.”

“What? What is it? Is something wrong?” The words fire from my mother’s lips in a single breath.

Raising his hands to chest height with his palms facing us, Dr. Aaron’s eyes grow wide. “No, no. It’s not that.” His gaze drops to his feet.

Dr. Aaron hesitates then takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand how he is alive.” He nods toward me.

The doctor holds Kiera’s gaze for several beats. “It’s more than that.” He swallows hard and looks from his feet to us. “I’ve been practicing medicine for more than thirty-five years and never in my life have I seen anything like this.” He pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have to understand when he came into the ER, his wounds were so severe and his blood loss was so great that none of us thought he’d live. We didn’t think we could save him.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me we did everything we could to try. By the time we called your time of death you had lost more than a third of your blood in a short period of time.” Piercing eyes focus on me. “We gave you two transfusions. Your heart had stopped. There was no way you could’ve been saved.”

His words hang in the air like a mist, intangible yet present. I search my mind, search the far reaches of my brain to challenge what he’s said, but I can’t. I’m not a doctor, and I don’t doubt what he’s saying, what his decades of experience has revealed. In the dark recesses of my core, I know I was gone, that I crossed over, and for inexplicable reasons was returned. Still, I ask the question burning on my mother and sister’s lips. “I don’t understand. If there’s no way I could’ve survived, how am I alive?”

Dr. Aaron tilts his head to one side and studies me. A small frown creases his face. “Truthfully, I have no idea.”

Goose bumps dot my flesh. The eeriness of his statement as well as the shiver of foreshadowing in his tone raises the fine hairs along the nape of my neck.

“I can’t find a rational explanation to explain how you’re alive, much less sitting up talking to me,” he continues. He scratches his chin. “In light of what I said, I ask that you please don’t share with anyone what I’ve told you. I told you because I think you deserve to know.” Dr. Aaron holds my gaze for a long moment. What he seeks to convey in that span of time remains a mystery to me. Then as quickly as he swept into the room, he exits. He doesn’t offer a pleasantry and he doesn’t say goodbye. He simply leaves.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with what he just told us.” My mother turns slowly. She looks at my sister then at me. Her expression is one of shock and bewilderment.

Trying to diffuse the situation, I clear my throat and say, “Oh well, I guess we should just be happy I’m alive I suppose.” I shrug. Several moments pass before my sister begins laughing. Contagious, the laughter spreads to my mother who promptly snorts and starts to chuckle. Both women hug me tightly, and for the briefest of seconds, my grief at not making it into the light dissipates. I am happy and whole and loved. I am the embodiment of what life should be. But as the seconds tick by, the pang in my heart returns and with it comes the grief of being here and not in the light.

AFTER JUST A FEW HOURS of fitful sleep, my day consisted of being poked and prodded by every conceivable instrument in the hospital. Every square inch of me was examined and recorded in some way. Teams of people in white coats, scrubs or business attire visited. Lengthy discussions were had, and all in front of me, but not including me, the experience similar to gawkers at a zoo exhibit. Since returning from wherever I was when I saw the white light, I might as well be a juggling lion for all the attention I’m receiving. None of it is welcome. And as far as I’m concerned, it isn’t warranted either. I’m just a sixteen year old kid who beat death. I’m sure I’m not the first, and I’m sure I won’t be the last.

At times throughout the day, I grew frustrated, wanted to shout at them to get out and find someone else to study. I just wanted peace and to hear the sound of my own thoughts. But when compared to where I’d be if I’d been out of here, chattering doctors gazing at me like a rock star was better than anything I’d be doing.

I chuckle to myself thinking of school, which will be starting in a few weeks, of my chemistry teacher Mr. Haney and his nasally monotone voice. Yeah, I don’t miss him one bit. I close my eyes and envision his classroom, the rows of desks and chairs, and feel my body relax. I force heavy lids to open and glance at the clock on the wall. It reads five minutes after eleven. My eyes shift to the oversized window. The night is clear, and though I have no idea what the temperature is, I’m guessing it’s cool. Tree branches, plump with leaves that will soon be awash with vibrant color, reach toward a navy expanse, the sky unfurling like an infinite swath of jewel encrusted velvet. Every so often, the treetops sway, bending blackened branches and yielding to the wind. I love nights like this, love the nighttime breezes. I wish I could be outside, be out of this bed and this hospital and playing basketball at the local park with my friends. Heck, I’d endure Mr. Haney’s chemistry class for a chance to shoot some hoops with my friends. But I can’t, not for a while at least. So I allow my eyes to close. I push back the images of the lights in the park, of the brisk breeze cooling my heated skin, and allow every muscle in my body to relax. Feeling as if I’m sinking into the bed, I am claimed by utter exhaustion and drift off into a deep dreamless sleep.

I’m certain I’ve only slept for a few minutes when my eyes snap open, my body sparking to life as if I’ve been hit by a bolt of lightning. Every cell in my body vibrates, humming and firing, saturated with adrenaline though I haven’t the slightest clue why. Sitting bolt upright, I scan my darkened room, the air laden with impending danger. After glimpsing the time—three fifteen—my eyes settle on the door, and I’m overcome by a sense of panic and dread. Heart hammering and sweat beading my brow, the threat permeating the atmosphere is palpable yet unfounded. The room is as I remember it when I went to sleep. No one is hovering over me with a machete. All appears calm. All seems normal, yet total panic shrieks though my body. Nearly panting, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pulled as if by an invisible line toward the door and filled with determination that is uncharacteristic to unearth the source of my stress. The sense that I’m powerless to keep my legs from walking to the door combined with the sense of doom pounding like a war drum in time with my pulse makes me worry I’m having some sort of post-traumatic stress episode.

Careful to not disengage the IV linked to a vein in the crook of my elbow, I grip the pole my fluids are attached to and tow it along as I make my way to the closed door.

Pale light haloes the wood, and with each step I take, a sense of urgency compels me. Muscles twitching, that sense grows stronger the closer I draw. When I finally reach the door, I reach out with a trembling hand and place it on the doorknob. Turning it slowly, I pull the door toward me. My breathing is ragged and sounds as if I’ve been running but all I did was cross the room. Heartbeat raging, I peer out into the hallway. Sweat gathers between my shoulders and I feel as if I’m at the edge of a great precipice, so close to tumbling over I can feel the pitch of my stomach as it plunges to my feet. A growing sense that the culmination of all that I’ve experienced in the last twenty-four hours closes in on me. This sense multiples tenfold when I see the door across the hall open slowly. Throat suddenly dry, I lick my lips and lean forward, instinct so deep rooted and primal it teems in time with my lifeblood thundering through my veins. I half expect to see the boogey man, Santa Claus—a character of tremendous significance, a mystery revealed, something, but all I see is an orderly exiting the room. Tall and trim with dark hair, the fluorescent lights overhead shadow his features, deepening and darkening the hollows of his face. He glances left then right, his movements stealthy, as if he doesn’t want to be seen. His actions—his very presence—slinks down the length of my spine with serpentine deliberateness, causing a shiver of unease to sweep across my skin. Each nerve ending in my body inexplicably demands that I rush headlong out the door and attack. The overwhelming urge is insane. Why on earth does the need to attack a harmless orderly burgeon as it does? I don’t understand. The lack of governance I feel over my emotions and over my body’s responses terrifies me. I squeeze my eyes closed and rub my temples, breathing deeply all the while. In my head I tell myself to calm down, that I’m likely suffering from some sort of mental health crisis related to the shooting. Besides, notwithstanding a breakdown, attacking the orderly would be disastrous considering I’m only five foot four and weigh a touch over a hundred and twenty pounds. Even if an attack were justified, I wouldn’t fare well against a grown man.

Backing away from the door a fraction of an inch, an act that feels akin to yanking metal shavings away from a magnet, I look up just in time to make eye contact with the orderly. And when I do, my heart freezes mid beat.

Eyes as black and hard as polished onyx and devoid of delineation between irises and pupils clash with mine. A frictionless energy wars in a silent stare, punching through my skull like a steel fist as malevolence radiates from the man before me in waves that nearly stagger me, undeniable and powerful. Locked in place and incapable of looking away, I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of an enormous coned-shaped abyss, looking into a deep, dark, swirling void. The energy diffusing from him is pure evil. He’s a black hole in time and space that I would bet my life leads straight to the depths of hell.

A shiver of pure terror trembles through my marrow before panic and self-preservation unite and cause me to jump back away from the door. Shaking from head to toe, I close it and lean my back against it, holding my breath and praying for the soft shuffle of feet moving down the hall and away from the area.

Cold sweat gathers between my shoulder blades and trickles down my back, and my heart beats so loudly I swear the whole floor can hear it. I wait, seconds ticking by like hours, without exhaling.

As soon as I hear footsteps that grow fainter before silencing altogether, I release the air I held hostage in my lungs and pause a moment. Lightheaded and nauseated, tears threaten. I cannot explain what just happened any more than I can explain why I was so drawn to the light, or why I was robbed of my opportunity to reach it. And much like the experience of being ripped from that situation, the adrenaline-filled jolt bleeds from me as quickly as it arrived.

Draining from me as if an internal plug has been pulled, the nervousness and terror vanishes. All that’s left in its wake is exhaustion unlike any I’ve ever felt. Enervated, and feeling foolish, I start to wonder whether I truly saw what I thought I saw. All feels completely normal, and the recollection of the man in the hall as well as the sensation I experienced becomes as vague and muddled as a day-old dream.

I shake my head then tunnel my fingers through the front of my spiky hair, gripping it for a several beats, and shame sinks like a stone in my gut. Was the orderly the embodiment of evil? Were his eyes twin pits of blackness? I wonder. And the fact that I’m wondering makes me fear I’m losing my grip on reality, that I must have imagined all that just occurred, or dreamed it. The thought that my brain unhinged during the time I was dead presents itself like an unwelcome houseguest, setting up camp in all its unpleasant glory.

Dejected and questioning my sanity for the first time in my short life, I amble to my bed and climb in. Pulling the sheet and covers to my chin, the fear that I’m descending into some sort of mental breakdown rolls around my mind like a ball of barbed wire. To combat the mounting panic attack, I envision the white light, and fear is suddenly replaced with yearning.

The yearning is short-lived though. And so is the incessant questioning of my sanity. Another image forces its way into my mind, far more frightening and impossible to rid myself of. Black eyes, passageways to an equally black soul, fill my thoughts, become all that I see. I lie still, unable to eradicate them from my brain for several hours and do not get another second of sleep. Then at exactly six in the morning, a bloodcurdling scream tears through the stillness of the hospital.

“No! No! NOOOOOO!” a female voice cries out, unmistakable pain spiking her tone.

The blood in my veins turns to ice. I leap out of bed, dragging my IV pole behind me, and move toward the door. I yank it open and find a commotion underway. Doctors, nurses and an array of other hospital staff members are gathered around a woman who’s collapsed to her knees and is wailing in agony.

The nurse holds my gaze, and I get the impression she’s not accustomed to being challenged, but everything about my posture and words does just that. I’m not going anywhere until I have answers. “That woman’s six year old daughter passed away an hour ago.” She gestures to the crying woman.

Pursing her lips, the nurse arcs an eyebrow at me. “She was recovering from an appendectomy and her heart just stopped as far as we can tell. We don’t really understand what happened.”

Awareness prickles over my skin. “An appendectomy?” I repeat, my words coming out as a question rather than a statement.

The nurse closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve said enough to get my butt canned. Just go back in your room, okay?”

Inexplicably, guilt overwhelms me. I feel at fault for the girl’s death. And the sinking sense that I was supposed to stop it last night grips me so tightly I feel as though I’m suffocating. Silently screaming, I chastise myself for not listening to my instincts, no matter how confusing and muddled they were. Holding the nurse’s piercing gaze for a few seconds before she rolls her eyes then turns on her heels and marches away from me, I scan the hallway, the tingle of an unnamed understanding a faint whisper in my ear, haunting me, teasing me. More than a dozen people crowd the space. Many try to comfort the crying woman while others look on in helpless discomfort. One stands out among them, and to me he might as well be ringed in neon yellow. The orderly I saw last night leans against a wall farther down the hall. His posture is unlike anyone else around. Relaxed and watching with an expression that can only be described as amused, my gaze immediately targets his eyes. Pulse drilling my throat, I expect to see twin black holes of iniquity as I did just hours ago, but I don’t. The man’s eyes are an unremarkable shade of brown, a fact that shocks me. Did I hallucinate and imagine the entire incident? Is it possible that I’m suffering from a stress related mental illness? Suddenly I’m not so sure. I look to my feet and pinch the bridge of my nose. When I look up, my eyes fly to the orderly again. He hasn’t moved. He’s as still as a coiled snake, a viperous glint in his brown eyes. I swallow hard against the lump of dread in my throat and try to work up the nerve to say something when the woman whose daughter died cries out in agony once more. The shrill sound pierces the air like daggers, nicking my heart along the way. Her pain, the loss of a child, is a pain no human being should have to endure, and after seeing my own mother experience it before I returned, her hurt has an entirely different meaning to me.

Tearing my eyes away from the grief-stricken mother, my gaze travels to the orderly. The corners of his mouth are curled, a sinister grin carving his features.

Seeing it, something inside me stretches so thin it threatens to snap. Lunging, the words, “You bastard!” launch from my lips. I charge forward, throwing all caution and common sense to the wind, and race out into the hallway. My IV pole tumbles forward and the needle and line that runs into my arm rips from my vein. I don’t feel pain, though, and I don’t feel fear. All I feel is the burgeoning need for justice for the little girl whose life was claimed, for the mother who mourns her and will until she takes her final breath. I want vengeance. My blood demands it. I want to strike down the orderly who I’m suddenly certain is responsible for it to pay with his life.

Racing past the crying woman and leaving a trail of tubes and wires in my wake, I run toward the far wall where he leans, so arrogant and smug, as if he were admiring a masterpiece he created. I’ve only taken four or five steps when firm fingers latch onto either of my upper arms. Writhing, I twist and try to break the grip.

“Hold on there, pal,” a gruff voice orders. I look over my left shoulder and see Frank, a hospital security guard with shoulders that could arguably exist in two different time zones. He’s studying me with keen eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, you’re going right back into your room and wait for a nurse to hook you back up to your line,” another shorter guard who’s nametag reads “Paul” says.

“What’s got you all keyed up, kid? What the hell were you doing running out like a lunatic and cursing around that poor woman.” He inclines his head toward the woman, still on her knees and sobbing inconsolably.

Feeling my emotions detonate, I do not bother to temper my rage when I shout, “He thinks it’s funny!” I spin and point to where the orderly was just seconds ago, but to my surprise, he is gone.

“Who thinks what’s funny? What’re you all worked up about?” Frank rephrases his earlier question, his tone so careful it comes across as patronizing.

“The man!” I yell. ‘The orderly who worked last night! The one with pitch black eyes and no soul! He was right there and he was happy about all this!” I gesture wildly at the crying woman and the chaos, knowing fully that with each sweep of my arm and each incoherent thought I rattle off about the man and last night the crazier I sound.

“Whoa, whoa, settle down, kid.” Frank’s tone is firm but still bears the same condescending quality. “What man are you talking about?”

“The one that was right there!” I point to the spot he leaned against a second time. “He was right there but knew I was coming for him, that I saw him near the girl’s room last night, and disappeared.”

Frank dips his chin and eyes me from my feet to my head. He smiles. “Yeah, kid, I’m sure he took one look at you and how pissed you are and took right off.” His tone has graduated from condescending to completely demeaning. “I’d be terrified too if I saw you coming for me,” he adds quietly, making sure the grieving woman doesn’t hear his sarcastic tone.

In spite of being mocked to my face after trying to appease me like a child who said he just saw the boogeyman, the weeping mother hears what’s transpiring and rises from her knees. She rushes to my side, eyes and nose swollen and red. “You saw a man near my Brianna’s room last night? Who?” Her words pepper my body like gunfire. Remorse and shame collide, and in the farthest reaches of my soul, I know that had I acted, I could’ve prevented the little girl’s death.

“There was no man,” Frank waves his hand at me dismissively. Then to the woman, he says, “Ma’am, I apologize for all that’s happened here. The last thing you need is to listen to anyone ramble about nonsense.” He shoots me a withering glance. “Please understand, this boy just suffered a shotgun blast to the chest and almost died. He’s got lots of meds running in his blood and messing with his head.” He sighs heavily. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“I do!” I protest and stomp my foot like a willful child. I hate the fact that Frank is talking about me as if I’m incapable of speaking for myself, much less making a lucid statement.

Not entirely convinced, the woman turns to me with pleading eyes. I hold her gaze and try to convey that I wasn’t lying and that I do, in fact, know what I’m saying, know what I saw, but Frank jerks me hard.

“Let’s put him back in his room where he belongs.” He looks over my head to Paul and together, they haul me off. As I’m being escorted, Dr. Aaron catches sight of us. I shift under the scrutiny of his frosty silver eyes. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly then nods at the guards. I’m accompanied to my room by Frank and Paul and promptly directed to my bed. “Now stay put, kid. I don’t want to have to do this again.” Frank warns like a father to his petulant child. He even shoots me a look with both eyebrows high and eyes wide as he bobs his head before he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Alone in my bed, I know both men wait just beyond the door, lest I decide to make more trouble. Of course, they won’t get any more trouble from me. The events—whether real or imagined—have left me sapped of any trust in my judgment, in my sanity.

Taking my head in both hands, I draw my knees to my chest and lower my chin. Hot tears scald the backs of my eyelids. Images of the man swirl through my mind, and so do flashes of a mother whose life has come to an abrupt end from losing her daughter. The two are connected, floating around each other like hazy puzzles pieces with ill-defined edges so close to each other yet seemingly impossible to connect.

I grip my head tightly and allow the tears that threaten to fall. With each one that does, I question my sanity that much more.

BREADTHS OF RICH, VIBRANT salmon streak through the sky, interrupting an otherwise sapphire expanse, pushing back the darkness and welcoming the day. After a night filled with restless sleep, tossing and turning, and nightmarish images flashing through my mind like a flickering film, I sit upright in my bed and gaze out at the morning. The window in my room is larger than my one at home so I have a clear view of the sunrise. Watching it as I am, watching the sun, an eager ball of fire, crest the horizon line, fills me with peace I haven’t felt in days, maybe even longer. I’m not sure why, but as I watch it, I feel as if something is dawning within me, only unlike the break of day, what is awakening will be far more complicated.

Heaving a sigh, I’m about to swing my legs over the side of the bed when a knock at the door halts me. “Yes?” I say and wait for a response.

When I do not get one but see the door begin to open slowly, my heart skips several beats. Both feet hit the floor simultaneously, the cold tiles on my bare feet bolting through my body like quicksilver. In a split-second, I scan the room and look for a weapon, anything sharp or heavy, but after my behavior two nights ago when I accused a nonexistent orderly of murdering a little girl whose heart stopped after a routine appendectomy, my room was cleared of any objects harder or heavier than a stuffed animal.

“Daniel, are you okay?” Dr. Aaron’s imposing form fills the doorway and is backlit by the bright hallway lights. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

“Good morning,” I say quietly as I return to my bed and sit once again. “I slept some.”

“Some? How much is ‘some’?” The doctor cocks his head to one side, waiting for me to elaborate.

“I don’t know, two, maybe three hours,” I reply and watch as his smile capsizes.

“Hmm, that’s not very much sleep at all.” He pauses several beats and scrutinizes me. “Did you know that sixteen year old boys such as yourself require nine and a half hours of sleep?”

Shaking my head, I answer, “No, I didn’t know that.” Because I’m not a doctor, I want to add but don’t.

As if he’s read my mind, Dr. Aaron offers a wry smile. “Well then, certainly now that you do know, you understand why two or three hours isn’t healthy for someone your age, especially someone who’s just essentially cheated death in a big way.”

His words hang in the air, filling the space between us. I’m not sure how to respond so I nod woodenly and mumble, “Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah,” he parrots what I’ve said. He fills his lungs then exhales loudly. He consults the small laptop he carries then looks up at me. “So, I have some good news for you.”

“You’re going home today, if you want to.” Dr. Aaron grins like a proud parent.

I stare at him to make sure he’s not trying to trick me. When he continues smiling, I say, “Of course I want to!”

“Ha, ha, good because your mother is on her way right now as we speak to pick you up.” Dr. Aaron lowers the lid of the laptop and tucks it under his arm. “Good news, huh?”

“Great news!” I can’t help but exclaim. “Wow, I was starting to worry I’d be spending a holiday with you people.”

“Well Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. I could arrange for myself and Nurse Jenkins to have turkey from the cafeteria here with you if you’d like.”

Stunned by his sudden sense of humor, I feel my eyes widen briefly before laughter overtakes me. Chuckling, I envision Doris Jenkins, a portly, no-nonsense night nurse who’s doled out her fair share of attitude to me and everyone else on the floor in recent days, and the doctor huddled around my tray table fighting over a shriveled turkey leg from the cafeteria. The image is hilarious.

A part of me guesses Dr. Aaron is picturing it too because his laughter grows deeper and heartier before trailing off to small chuckles. “So yes, just say the word and I can arrange for that.”

“That’s what I thought,” he replies then ads, “Do you have any questions, concerns, anything on your mind you’d like to discuss before I sign your release papers?”

I chew my lower lip and debate asking him the one question burning in my mind. Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves. “I do actually have a question.” I clear my throat to stall. No turning back now.

The doctor’s expression reverts to its usual serious demeanor. “Yes, what is it, Daniel?”

“Well, I was wondering whether you found out anything about the man I told you about, the one who came out of the girl’s room that night.”

A small frown creases Dr. Aaron’s face. “I’ve asked everyone on this floor as well as searched the employee database. Not one person that I came across fits the very detailed description you gave me. Furthermore, there wasn’t an orderly on this floor, just doctors and nurses. And I even gave you the names of the doctors and nurses who worked that night, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.” Hearing the tone he used, the same one an adult uses for a young child when refreshing his memory of a basic skill he’s already mastered, makes me bristle. “Okay.” I bob my head and the relief I felt about going home today begins to wane.

Picking up on my frustration and disappointment, the doctor’s features soften. “Listen Daniel, you have to understand that what you went through was traumatic, and the brain processes trauma in many different ways, sometimes even creating scenarios that seem very real all in an effort to protect itself or to try to heal itself in some instances. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Good.” He tilts his head to one side and bobs it. “Now, with that in mind, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention poor Brianna Cardena’s mother. What happened to her daughter was a freak accident, an unanticipated reaction to anesthesia.”

“Oh, was that what happened? Is that what the M.E. said?” I can’t help but ask and use the fancy abbreviated term I picked up from watching too many crime dramas.

“Then how do you know it was an accident or a reaction to the anesthesia?” I can’t help but push a little further.

“I’m guessing really, an educated guess backed by three decades of practice, but a guess nevertheless I suppose.” I’m stunned to hear him concede the point that he isn’t sure until he adds haughtily, “But my guesses are seldom wrong. And I’d bet my career that her heart stopped as a result of an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.” He pauses and lifts a finger to punctuate whatever point he intends to make when my mother walks through the door behind him with my sister not far behind.

“Danny! You look good today, sweetie,” she says. Then looking right, she says, “Oh, good morning, Dr. Aaron. How are you?”

“Doris, what’re you doing here, picking up an extra shift?” my mom greets her.

“Damn right I am. That no good, lowlife ex of mine went and got himself put in the clink and I have to make ends meet.” Nurse Jenkins shakes her head and clucks her tongue in disgust. “Anyway, I’m here and I’m tired, and I’m not in a good mood.” She turns to me, her words fair warning that as she removes all the wires from me, she’s going to do so with a vengeance. “Danny, let’s make this quick. I have more beds than I can handle because that anorexic twit Gina called out again.” She shakes her head and mumbles hotly, “Damn girl needs to eat a meal once in a while. One of my breasts weighs more than her.”

I laugh and she shoots me a look that makes my insides curl in on themselves before lumbering toward me. She proceeds to tear tape from my skin and disconnect all leads. Within moments, all that I’m left with is raw skin and a gown that shows the back of my underpants. Nurse Jenkins turns to walk away.

She freezes as if I just cursed at her, and for a second I panic she’ll turn, remove her work shoe and wing it at me. But she doesn’t. She turns slowly and smiles, revealing even, white teeth worthy of a toothpaste commercial. “You’re welcome, baby.” Genuine affection twinkles in her eyes, and for a split-second, I see all that Doris Jenkins really is: a devoted mother, a loyal friend, a kind and gentle woman tested by life’s challenges. I see a truly good person.

I smile at her and nod, then she turns and blusters past Dr. Aaron without a word, only a clip of her chin to my mother, before she marches out of my room.

No one speaks for a minute. Stunned silence dominates. Finally, my mother breaks the silence. “Wow, if I didn’t see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears I never would’ve believed it.” She shakes her head and plants her hands on her hips. “Doris Jenkins just smiled at you and called you ‘baby.’ Do you realize how huge that is?”

“Doris Jenkins never smiles. Ever. Not a single person here has ever gotten so much as a smirk from her. The fact that you got an honest-to-goodness smile and a kind word, well, that’s one for the record books.”

I look to Dr. Aaron for him to confirm or dispute what my mother has said. He nods. “She’s right. I think we just witnessed another once-in-a-lifetime incident here. Daniel, I must say, I think it’s you. You have a special quality.” He chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Okay then, let me finish up your paperwork while you gather your things and we’ll get you out of here as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Dr. Aaron . . . for everything.” My mother’s eyes shine with gratitude and so much emotion my heart clenches.

“You’re welcome,” he replies with sincerity. After a small nod, Dr. Aaron leaves the room.

My mother and sister immediately set about helping me gather my belongings. I dress in clothes rather than a gown for the first time in what seems like forever and we leave the hospital in less than an hour.

Once inside my mom’s Honda CRV, the sound of the radio is the only noise I hear, that and the light chatter about the weather between my mother and sister. After we park and pull into a spot close to the building, we enter. Immediately, the assorted scents of home hit me: stale cigarettes, several different foods cooking, and the faint odor of mildew. The smell is welcome compared to the sterile odor of cleaning products and antiseptics. And the constant buzz and beep of medical equipment.

“You must be so happy to be home,” my mom turns as she inserts the key to our apartment into the front door.

“Yeah, I am. I’m really looking forward to sleeping the night through without someone coming in all the time to make sure I’m not dead.” I rake a hand through my hair and recall the many times I was roused from a deep sleep by someone with a thermometer or a blood pressure cuff. Sleep while in the hospital was virtually impossible. “Those nurses were killing me.”

“Hey, watch it.” My mom raises both brows and shoots me a stern look of warning. “Those nurses weren’t killing you. To the contrary, they were keeping your narrow butt alive.”

“Ha,” my sister laughs bitterly. “Narrow butt? Don’t you mean nonexistent butt?”

“No, Kiera, I believe we already covered that base.” My mom’s tone is strictly business. “I meant to say speaking of keeping you alive,” her gaze lands on me. “And safety and things of that nature, I’ve given it some thought and I think it’s time we move.”

My mother spins to face her and levels her with a withering look. Kiera doesn’t protest further. Instead, she drops her gaze to her shoes and folds her arms across her chest.

“This neighborhood is dangerous. I guess it’s been getting worse and worse for some time now. I just didn’t see it. Or maybe I turned a blind eye to it. Either way, what happened to you was a wakeup call.”

“What’s the matter with you, Kiera?” I ask though I’m secretly terrified to know the answer to my question.

“Nothing is wrong, right?” My mother enunciates each word to punctuate the thinly veiled threat she wishes to convey.

“Well, yeah,” my sister shocks me by saying. No one ever challenges my mother when she uses the tone she just used.

“And what exactly is wrong, Kiera?” My mom arches one eyebrow, her face etched in hard lines and frustration. “Please tell me.”

“I’m starting my senior year in September, that’s what’s wrong. Do you think I want to start my senior year at a new school? What about prom? What about graduation? Those things are meant to be spent with close friends you had since elementary school, not people you just met ten months earlier.” Kiera’s lower lip trembles, her emotions plain to see.

“I understand that you’re upset. Moving wouldn’t be ideal for you. But surely you understand that your brother was almost killed in a market just downstairs from our apartment, that this area is far too dangerous for us to live in.”

“You’ll make new friends, go to a nicer school where there aren’t metal detectors at every entry point. It’ll be a good opportunity to reinvent yourself.” My mom tries to put a positive spin on a situation that has the potential to destroy my sister. She’s good at that. So good, in fact, a patient once told her she’s so good at telling people exactly where to go she makes them actually look forward to the trip.

Kiera rolls eyes moistened with tears then turns away from both me and my mother.

Ignoring the gesture, my mom continues. “I’m willing to commute as much as fifty miles to get to work. I’m even willing to look for a new job closer to home once we get settled in.”

“So where are we going?” I ask. Heading into my junior year in high school, I don’t really have a group of good friends I spend a lot of time with. I won’t mind getting out of here and starting fresh somewhere else. I’d like a chance to reinvent myself after all that’s happened.

“I was hoping you could help me.” My mother moves to the desk in the living room and pulls a map from the top drawer. She promptly slaps it down onto the coffee table. “Take a look.” She unfolds it and points to counties she’s already taken the liberty of circling. “We could move to Rockland County, Putnam, Dutchess. We can’t afford Westchester County, but you tell me which of the other counties stand out to you and we can go look at houses. We should be able to rent a small house for what we pay here.”

I take a cursory glance at the map before me. For a split second, I feel nothing, and then in the space of a breath, I feel a tug, as if I’m surrounded by a magnetic field, every cell in my body pulled by it, guided by it. My finger points to a town, Patterson in Putnam County. “Here. This is where I want to go.” The tone of my voice is firm and final, so much so that my mother rears her head back and looks at me, astonished.

“Really? Okay, uh, have you ever been here, to this town Patterson?” she asks and cocks her head to the side.

“No, but you asked me to pick a place and I did,” I dip my chin and reply, my voice soft. “And that’s where we have to move.”

“What a freak.” My sister’s acerbic voice cuts through the atmosphere. She rolls her eyes to punctuate her words. “I mean, could you pick a more hick town? Ugh!” Then she turns to face Mom. “You can’t possibly be thinking about moving there, are you?”

My mother narrows her eyes at Kiera then smiles pleasantly. She turns to me and says, “I’ll put in a call to a realtor and my next day off we’ll go up and look at some places.

My mother follows her with her eyes. When Kiera is out of sight, she shakes her head and mutters, “That girl is going to be the death of me.” She chuckles then turns to me. “Why don’t you go to your room and get some rest?” The purest of love and warmth radiates from her, concern creasing the corners of her eyes. “You haven’t been up and about for this long a period of time since the—” She stops talking midsentence, unable to finish and speak of the day I was shot and killed in the convenience store. I smile sadly then stand and give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

My mother pats my hand before I remove it from her shoulder and walk from the living room to my bedroom. But instead of slipping into bed and relaxing as I promised to do, I slide into the chair behind my desk. A wobbly wooden mess that barely passes for a workspace, my desk is my safe haven, the one place I feel truly comfortable. Opening my laptop, my fingers dance across the keys and the screen illuminates. Without many friends, the computer has become my constant companion. And with it as a companion, I’ve learned many useful tricks. Chief among them is how to access a vulnerable website. I try not to make a habit of using my unique skills, hacking only when absolutely necessary, but today is an exception. Today, I need to find someone. The site I intend to access today is the staff database of the hospital I just left.

Using four simple steps, I log into the databank of hospital employees. Personnel files, complete with photographs, await me. I peruse them, scrutinizing each feature of every face I see. I’m looking for the orderly. I’m looking for those dark, soulless eyes.

Scanning page after page of pictures, I don’t know how much time has passed, only that my butt is numb and that I’m starving. And still, I haven’t found the man who lingered in the doorway of the little girl who died suddenly.

After scouring a little more than fifteen hundred staff files and still not finding the man I’m searching for, I realize hours have passed. My eyes burn and now I could truly use a nap, only my mother likely thinks I’ve been napping all this time. I check the last few dossiers then give up, conceding that perhaps the doctor is right. Perhaps my mind is far more fragile than I ever thought it was. Though I would swear on everything that I saw him, the orderly doesn’t exist in hospital staff records.

Rubbing my temples and squeezing my eyes shut, I decide to turn off my laptop for the night and leave my room in favor of the couch in the living room. I stand and stretch before ambling down the hallway. Light from the television flickers against the walls. My mother smiles at the screen, laughing to herself at whatever just transpired on the show she’s watching. I sit on the end of the couch and she looks over her shoulder at me. “Glad you’re home,” is all she says before returning her attention to the sitcom playing out before us. I stay as I am and watch TV with her until my eyelids grow so heavy I cannot keep them open. I return to my room and fall into bed. As soon my head hits my pillow, sleep wraps me in a warm and dark embrace. I feel as if I’m cradled, rocking ever so slightly, into blissful oblivion. But as I drift off, my mind can’t help but conjure an image of twin pools of utter blackness. I see the phantom orderly’s eyes.

AFTER ONLY A COUPLE of hours of sleep, my eyes pop open. Overwhelmed by the same feeling that gripped me in the hospital a few nights ago, I sit bolt upright, heart pounding and skin tingling with awareness. I scan my room half-expecting to see someone there, or something. But all that surrounds me is the darkness, and a presence so strong it settles deep within me, tugging me, unmistakable, undeniable. I try to lie back down, try to squeeze my eyes shut and sleep once again, but my efforts are futile. The pull is too powerful. I cannot ignore it any more than I can ignore the beat of my own heart, for the pull thrums in time with my lifeblood.

Fearing I’m having an episode related to the trauma of being shot as the doctor suggested, I try to gain control of my emotions. I sit at the edge of my bed and close my eyes. I breathe, filling my belly when I inhale deeply and exhaling through lips pursed to form a small “o” and focus on calm. I envision soothing landscapes—a gently rolling river, fall leaves twirling as they cascade to the ground—and try to distance myself from the inexplicable power drawing me away from my bed to an unknown location. But trying to detach from it is a waste of time. It’s simply too potent. It commands my limbs, demands that I move immediately.

Sliding forward, I slip from my bed, cross my room and quickly dress in the jeans and short-sleeved T shirt that sit on my dresser. A glance at the clock on my nightstand reads that it’s four minutes past midnight. Where I’m going or what I’m doing at this hour remains a mystery. All I know is that I’m in what feels like a magnetic field of energy, the air charged and shivering with currents of electricity, with raw volts of power. It seeps into my veins, infusing me, overtaking me.

Within seconds, my sneakers are on and I’m stealing down the hallway past my mother’s room and past my sister’s room. Both of them are asleep, the house is cast in shadows caused by the streetlights outside. Padding into the kitchen, I slide my mother’s car keys from a small bowl on the counter then open the front door, careful to close it behind me gently.

Griping the keys so tightly the metal bites into the tender flesh of my palms, I forego the elevator in favor of the staircase and make it down three flights to the lobby in no time. I step outside, into the cool night, and jog toward the lot to the left of the building. All the while, I feel as if my body has been commandeered by a foreign entity, a dark passenger who travels with me, claiming my body but not all of my mind.

I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m headed, how I lost control of my actions entirely and am now little more than a puppet to a force greater than myself, just that it’s happened. And now, clutching the keys to my mother’s SUV in my fist, I’m certain I’m in uncharted waters. Without so much as a learner’s permit, I’ve never driven a car before, and I’ve certainly never considered stealing my mother’s vehicle in the middle of the night. But this force, this energy that’s filled me, guides me, directing me into the SUV and behind the wheel.

Turning the keys in the ignition as if I’ve done so a thousand times before, I start the engine then shift gears, backing out of the parking spot in front of our building. Pulling out onto the busy city street, I should be more nervous than I am. Without a driver’s license or any driving experience whatsoever, I should be scared out of my wits, but instead, I handle the SUV with the practiced ease of a person whose been driving for many years, not less than five minutes.

Navigating several main roads and a short stretch of highway, I drive for almost half an hour without a working knowledge of where I’m going, just a sense that I’m headed in the right direction before I find myself on a stretch of road with stores lining either side of it. Every kind of shop imaginable pops up. Clothing stores, department stores, oil change service stations and furniture stores, all closed for the night, still light the lane with empty parking lots and glowing signs. Still, fast food restaurants and a handful of convenience markets remain open, their lots peppered with cars and people running in and out. Immediately, a small store catches my attention a few hundred feet down the road. A formidable energy seizes me, dragging me toward it with the force of a gravitational pull.

Powerless to resist the pull and yielding to my burgeoning instinct, I turn off the road and into the small lot in front. I park and strain to see through the half wall of glass. I don’t see anyone milling about.

Lightheaded and feeling the icy web of anxiety spread across my skin, I balk, fighting with the remaining drops of control I possess, and attempt to remain in my mom’s SUV. No matter how hard I try though, a trembling hand reaches for the lever and opens the door. I step out of the car and into the store.

My entire body trembles with a flood of adrenaline and sheer panic, and I’m parched, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as if I’ve been snoring for eight hours. But I haven’t been. I’m not asleep. I’m wide awake and being guided by a compulsion that supersedes any sixth sense I’ve ever heard tales about. A bell rings overhead when I enter, the sound eerily similar to the one at Joe’s, and the moment I lay eyes on the scene before me, I realize the bell is not the only similarity. Frozen in place, my blood crystallizes in my veins. I take a quivering breath, stunned that I’m able to inhale as my lungs feel as if they’ve collapsed on themselves. Blinking, I’m certain I’m hallucinating, that if I wait long enough the sight before me will vanish, that it’s little more than a product of my fractured mind. But when I open my eyes and see that it remains unchanged, my faith in that narrative falters. The scene before me where a man holds a shotgun aimed at a man behind the counter who appears to be in his thirties is real.

Swallowing hard, I try to dislodge the lump of dread wedged in my throat. I’ve been here before, seen this before. I recognize the gun wielding man, his face is all too familiar. His head snaps in my direction and our gazes clash. “Impossible,” the man with the shotgun growls, his eyes widening ever so slightly, eyes that lack demarcation between iris and pupil, eyes that are bottomless pits of inky darkness.

He is the man who shot and killed Mr. Soon in the convenience store by my house, the man who shot and killed me. And now he’s staring at me in disbelief with eyes identical to the orderly I saw while in the hospital. My galloping heart stumbles like a clumsy runner.

Curling his upper lip over his teeth, the man snarls, “Well I would say you’re the luckiest person I ever met to be alive.” He chuckles malevolently. “But I guess if you were lucky you wouldn’t have walked into this store.” He raises his shotgun, pointing the barrel at my chest.

Amazingly, the pure panic I felt moments ago dissipates, replaced instead by a sense of purpose so clear it echoes through my blood in steely reverberations. I do not feel fear, only instinct, and the need to act. Before I can even contemplate what my next move should be, my body responds as if it is separate and independent of my brain. Rushing toward the man who’s aiming his shotgun at me for a second time, I rush him, lunging with impossible speed and dexterity foreign to me. I watch his finger twitch over the trigger, see the shell about to discharge, when I yank the barrel with such force it is ripped from his hands. The bullet discharges, blasting through the front window and sending dichroic shards of glass raining all around me like glitter.

With his weapon stripped from him and lying on the floor behind me, the man’s expression is one of shock for a fleeting moment. Within seconds, he regroups, reaching to the waistband of his filthy and tattered jeans and unsheathing a large blade. “Guess we’ll do this the fun way.” The words rumble from him in a vicious snarl just before he raises the knife. The metal of the blade catches the light, shimmering with deadly intent in the seconds before it carves a path toward my head.

Moving with reflexes I never knew I possessed, I dodge having my head skewered like a kebob and catch his wrist as it lowers, the arc of his swing occurring in what looks like slow motion. But it doesn’t happen in slow motion. In fact, it happens instantaneously. Capitalizing on the momentum of his thrust, I drive the blade into his gut. As soon as I feel the faint resistance of flesh yield, I turn the handle, opening the wound larger and causing a ring of crimson to appear as blood saturates the front of his shirt. The man howls out, a horrid guttural sound unlike any I’ve ever heard. His eyes grow wide in shock, black, soulless pits of darkness staring up at me.

Pulse drilling the base of my throat, my hands are slick with blood. The man’s life force is seeping from him. And as it does, I do not feel regret. I do not feel sympathy. To the contrary, I feel anger, rage at his very existence that I’ve never felt toward anything or anybody in my entire life. I hold his gaze unwaveringly, watching as he loses his life in small increments. While I do, a strange phenomenon occurs. Eyes that resemble twin pools of doom transform. Brown replaces black, forming distinct irises where a solid block of color existed just seconds ago, and the light of life within him extinguishes for good. He slumps to one side, the remaining shreds of energy he possessed failing. I don’t bother holding him any longer. I release the hilt of the blade and let him fall. He crashes to the floor with a loud thump. I’m certain life has escaped him, still I don’t take my eyes off him for a second. I wait, watching and half expecting him to reanimate. For a moment, he is still. His chest doesn’t move and his muscles are inert. But seconds later, a sooty shape emerges from the vicinity of the man’s torso followed by a gust of flames that flare, winding and slithering like snakes of fire. Hot air whooshes in my face, the air just above him quickening before it explodes in a supernova of dark colors swirling in a cyclonic pattern. The fetid stench of brimstone, decay and blood hangs in the air, and the air heats to an uncomfortable temperature. The floor beneath my feet shakes. The walls shimmy, sending canned and boxed goods crashing to the ground. A ghostly moan howls, a doleful bay that claws at my eardrums until they feel as if they will bleed. I cup my hands over my ears, willing it away with every ounce of strength I have. Just when I think I can no longer withstand the sound, the whirlpool of malevolent energy is absorbed by the atmosphere.

Trembling as the adrenaline rush I’ve experienced seeps from my pores, I turn to face the man behind the counter. “Did you see that?” I ask him.

“Of course I saw that!” The man springs to his feet, his eyes wide with shock and awe. “How the hell did you do that? How did that happen? That guy was huge! And the gun . . . you got the gun from him.” The words stream from him in a breathless rush.

Perplexed, I scrunch my features, unsure of why he focused on the size of the man and the weapon and not the vaporous fog that emerged from the man after he died. “No, no, the black tornado, that smoky cyclone thing.” I try to articulate what I assume we both saw. But when the man behind the counter cocks his head to one side and regards me as if I’ve just started speaking in tongues, a sinking feeling settles deep in my gut.

“What’re you talking about, kid? Black tornado? Is that a code or something?” He lowers his voice conspiratorially and advances a step.

Shaking my head almost imperceptibly, I hesitate. How could he not have seen it, smelled the stench that accompanied its appearance? The entire store shook as if we were in the throes of an earthquake. “You didn’t see what happened?”

“Oh I saw it alright, and it was self-defense, no doubt. Don’t worry about that. I got your back.” He balls his hand into a fist and bobs his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll swear to it in court if I have to.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, reeling from not only the events that’ve transpired and what I’ve seen but from the realization that the gun-wielding man’s death is going to have to be answered for.

“I’m gonna call the cops now, but don’t you worry.” The man steps out from behind the counter, cellphone in hand.

“No! Don’t! Please!” I take several steps toward him, one hand at my forehead while the other rests on my belly.

“Huh? Kid, I have to call the cops.” The man arcs one eyebrow and studies me.

“Please, I’m not telling you not to call the police. I’m begging you to wait until I leave.” I plead with my gaze for him to do as I’ve asked and gauge the response I’m getting.

“But you’re a hero.” He looks at me incredulously for wanting to leave. “You’ll be on the news, in the papers. Heck! There might be a parade in your honor for what you did here.”

“Please, please,” I beg, tears moistening my eyes. “You can give the police a description of me, if you have to but I’m begging you, just let me leave. Can you do that for me?” My breathing is ragged, the notion of being questioned by police and possibly swarmed by reporters inducing a panic attack.

Seeing the state I’m in and that it’s worsening fast, the man reaches out and grips my shoulder, “Okay, okay. Everything’s okay.” He looks at me the way Dr. Aaron did when I told about the orderly in the hospital hallway. “But I have to ask why? Why do you want to leave? Are you in trouble with the law?”

“No!” My head rears as if I’ve just been slapped. “In trouble with the law, are you kidding me?”

“I don’t know.” The man’s hand drops from my shoulder and he tunnels blunt fingers through his hair. “What am I supposed to think here? You take down this huge guy with a shotgun aimed at your head and now you don’t want to take credit? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Please, I can’t explain! I can’t stay.” Urgency spikes my tone, a fact that’s not lost on the man before me.

Leery and unsure, he hesitates for several beats and I sense I have an opportunity to sway him my way.

“Why don’t you tell them you were the one who stripped the gun from him and fought him? Imagine the business you’ll do!” I play to his ego and watch his eyes spark to life with an idea. “Picture it. Picture the headlines.”

He doesn’t say whether he’ll do as I’ve suggested or not but judging from the sly smile curving one side of his mouth, I have to guess he’s leaning toward painting himself as the hero. Good. I don’t want any part of recognition for what I’ve done. In fact, I wish I could go to sleep and wake to find that the last two weeks have been nothing more than a nightmare. But I know they’ve not been, and that the dawn of a new reality has begun.

“I’m going,” I mutter as I stumble out the door and into my mother’s SUV. I don’t wait for the man inside to respond. The vehicle is in gear before he is framed by the doorway.

As I drive off into the night, I know for certain that my ride home will not be as smooth as the ride to the convenience store. I also know my life will never, ever be the same again.

THE RIDE BACK HOME is a blur. The driving skills I enjoyed on the way to the convenience store have disappeared, replaced instead by too many images to grasp that eddy and swirl in my brain. I narrowly avoid three accidents. Every ounce of adrenaline that coursed through my veins and the tingling awareness that hummed through me in time with my lifeblood has vanished. My focus is inconsistent and my reflexes awkward. I feel sluggish and drained, feel as though I’m wading through a thick, viscous fluid, struggling to make even the smallest of moves. Even my thoughts strain against a gummy tide, fighting to remain coherent. Blinking, I replay the events of the night, how I saw the man who shot me and then wrestled his weapon from him with strength and speed I never had before. It seems like a phantasm or a hideous dream. And the shadow that manifested, hovering over the man’s body like a spectral being before curling in on itself and spiraling like a black hole portal to hell, the smell of death it produced—the entire scenario—played out like a clip from a horror movie. But instead of having the option of turning it off and forgetting about it, the events that transpired are indelibly etched in my memory.

Trying in vain to force the unrelenting strobe of images from my brain, I realize I’ve almost missed the turn that takes me into my neighborhood. I spot my apartment building. It rises like a brick sentinel, the two visible window panes staring out over the bustling commercial area with sightless eyes, and I jerk the steering wheel to the left hard. I slow as I round the bend and make a right into the parking area by the building. The spots are allocated on a first come first serve basis, and if I don’t return my mother’s Honda CRV to the spot it was parked in when I took it, she’ll know someone took it. And that someone she’d blame is my sister, Kiera. Of course, I won’t let my sister take the blame should the parking space not be available. No matter how much we fight and how awful she is to me at times, she is my sister and I love her. I won’t let her take the blame for my wrongdoing. I’m not sure if she’d extend the same courtesy to me, but that point is irrelevant. The decisions we make in this life have to be based on what we can live with, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing she’s getting punished for stealing our mother’s car when it was I who stole it.

Turning into the driveway of the building, I immediately see that the spot my mom parked in is still open. I quickly pull into it and turn off the engine then make my way back into the building. After I scale three flights of stairs, I exit the stairwell and turn left down a short hallway, stopping at my door. I unlock it and sneak inside.

Enveloped in shadow, the apartment is dark save for meager threads of wan light from streetlamps that passes through the curtains. I replace my mother’s keys to the bowl on the counter then slip out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Passing her room, I peek in and see that she’s in a deep sleep, snoring softly. My sister’s door is shut and I don’t dare glance inside, but there doesn’t appear to be any light haloing it so I’m left to assume she’s asleep as well. Once I reach my room, I kick off my shoes and head straight to my bed without bothering to remove my clothes. I glimpse the time on my alarm clock. The red digital numbers read that it’s five minutes after three. Eyes burning and limbs leaden, I roll to my side and tuck my knees to my chest. Sleep finds me immediately despite the fact that my stomach is empty and my head is full—a combination that usually proves treacherous and unfavorable to sleep.

I find that only a brief period of time has passed when my body splutters to life at seven o’clock. Panicked and coated in a sheen of cold sweat, the memory of what I did at the convenience store lands like a blow to the temple with a sledgehammer. Pain exploding and ricocheting through my skull, I sit up slowly. Light filters in through my curtains and when it does, I see that my T shirt and jeans are covered in blood. A whimper slips from my throat. I stand, ignoring the blinding, white-hot pain behind my eyes, and tear the clothes from my body. Balling them tightly, I scan my room for a place to stash them. When a hiding place doesn’t present itself, I shove them under my bed with the intention of burning them later. Stripped down to just my boxer shorts, I stagger out of my bedroom and into the hallway. After a cursory glance to make sure neither my sister nor my mother are around, I rush to the bathroom. All three of us were supposed to look at houses in Patterson today. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think what happened at the convenience store would happen. I never dreamed I’d take another human being’s life, even though he didn’t deserve the life he’d been given. House hunting in Patterson is the last thing I want to do now. And I certainly can’t go covered in blood.

Slipping into the bathroom, I hurry to the shower and turn on the water, twisting the knob so that the water is almost as hot as it can be. Pulling off my boxer shorts, I step into the tub. Hot water streams in thin jets, spraying me and burning my skin as it cascades to my feet. But I ignore the pain, ignore the sting that’s so hot it itches, and grab the bar of soap from the ledge. Scouring my skin with it until a thick lather forms, I scrub the blood that stipples my skin. Tears mingle with the water, a wave of emotion crashing against me with the force of a tsunami. My shoulders curl in and my body shudders. I sob. The sound is absorbed by the spray from the showerhead, a fact that I’m grateful for.

Once the tears run dry and I feel as though my skin has been purged of the stains it bore, I turn off the water, yank my towel from the rack and dry myself. After wiping the condensation from the mirror, I glance at myself in the mirror and do a double take. My body appears to have transformed. Leaning forward, I strain against the thin film of haze that accumulates on the mirror again. I wipe it down a second time, my eyes widening at the sight of my chest. Definition exists, carving a path between my pectoral muscles that runs down past my belly button to the lowest point of my abdomen and wraps around abdominal muscles that resemble an ice cube tray. “What the?” I mumble as I take a few clumsy steps backward, my fingers tracing the hard planes of my torso. I’ve always been skinny, never had muscle tone of any kind, much less definition, yet my chest now boasts swollen peaks and laser-cut valleys. My gaze travels from my torso to my arms. My biceps bulge as never before, and thick ropey muscle twine from my triceps to my shoulders and down my back. “Holy crap,” I mutter aloud, shocked by what I’m seeing. After all that’s happened, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised in the least. I’ve seen things and experienced things so far out of the realm of normal, “normal” is no longer visible from where I sit. Still, my heart pumps a frantic rhythm, infusing my exhausted body with energy.

Wrapping my towel around my waist, I jog back to my room and dress. In clothing, the changes that have occurred are barely visible. But I know what’s under my T shirt. I saw it. My mind races in time with my heart, searching for an explanation I’ll never get. I stare into the mirror above my dresser and rake my hand through my hair. “What the heck is happening to me?” I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, the small weight bench I have tucked in the far corner of my cramped room jumps out at me. Up until now, I’ve used it almost exclusively to hang clothes on. But now, the urge to test my new physique burgeons, to see whether the eighty pounds distributed evenly on the barbell perched above the bench will be a weight I can bench press. I’ve never done it before. This would be a first.

Rubbing my hands together and feeling a small flutter in my belly, I cross my room and clear the laundry from it. I sit down then lie back, positioning myself so that the weighted barbell is just above my chest. I grip the bar, blowing out several breaths before I lift it off its clips. To my astonishment, it feels light, almost weightless. I complete ten repetitions with ease then replace the barbell to its cradle. I stand, invigorated and excited as I’ve never been and spy additional weight plates on the floor. They’re coated in a thick film of dust but I lift them and place a twenty-five pound plate on either side. I lie down and lift the barbell only to find that it, too, is more than manageable to bench press. It’s easy. Inebriated from the high of exercising and from the pride associated with being able to accomplish a feat I’ve never been able to accomplish before, I load every other weight in the set evenly to the barbell. I lie down a final time and manage to lift what I calculate at two hundred fifty pounds. Doing so is by no means easy, but I still am able to perform the task. I return the barbell to the clips after only two repetitions then sit up. My arms feel wiggly yet full and my chest flares with a burn that doesn’t hurt but rather motivates. All the while, I wonder what the heck is happening to me. Are the new muscles and newfound strength side effects of medications I was given in the hospital? Was one of them some kind of anabolic steroid? Nothing else explains what I’m able to do, what I see.

Dropping my elbows to my knees, I lower my forehead into my hands. When I do, I spy the blood-flecked sleeve of the shirt I wore when I stole my mother’s SUV and ventured out to the convenience store. I scramble to my knees and collect them, stuffing them into an old and torn backpack under my bed and just beside them. I dash down the hallway looking over my shoulder at even the slightest of creaks, terrified my mom or my sister will catch me with the bloody clothes. I’m halfway down the hallway, when my mother calls to me from her room. “Good morning, Danny.”

“Good morning, Mom. I’ll be right back.” I don’t hesitate and wait for her to question me, I rush out the door and head straight to the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time, I descend three flights and race out the door to the dumpster at the back of the building. I wedge the backpack between two trash bags that stink so badly I gag then run back inside. Once in the building and back in the apartment, I find my mom standing in the hallway in her pajamas.

My mother quirks an eyebrow at me. “That’s odd.” She makes her way to the kitchen. “The bag is still full in here.” She checks the garbage can. Filled to the brim, I feel my cheeks blaze with shame. “What garbage did you take?”

“Uh, just some junk from my room. No big deal.” I clear my throat and avoid making eye contact with her. Heat creeps up from my collar. The room is suddenly too warm, too small even. I take a step backward.

My mother stares at me. I can feel the weight of her gaze as she scrutinizes me. “Danny, that’s really strange.” Her face is unreadable, perfect if she were in a poker tournament, but not so much for a sixteen year old boy terrified of getting busted by his mother.

“I don’t see why.” I hear the tremor in my voice. Of course what I did was odd, and not at all in keeping with anything I’ve ever done before. I’m lying through my teeth and I hate lying to my mother, which is why I make a point of avoiding doing so whenever humanly possible.

She watches me for several beats, studying me to the point where I feel it necessary to shift my weight from one leg to the next. “You need to eat. We’re meeting a realtor in Patterson at nine and it’s about an hour from here.”

“Okay,” I say, amazed that she’s letting the whole garbage thing go so easily.

I start to make my way down the hall when she calls to me. “Oh and make sure Kiera is up and getting ready.”

I groan at the thought of tangling with my sister this early in the morning. But since my mom let me off the hook with my trip to the dumpster, I feel obligated. I stop outside Kiera’s door and knock. “Kiera? You awake?”

“Get lost! I’m getting dressed!” she barks from the other side of the door.

Shaking my head at what I’ve come to understand is her typical morning mood, I reply, “Don’t worry. The last thing I want to do is come in there.” I turn and walk away, the sound of her berating me growing distant as I make it to my room and close the door. I lean against it and sigh. While I’m relieved I was able to leave and return without getting caught and then get rid of my bloody clothes in the dumpster, the fact still remains that I killed a man, and not just any man, the man who inflicted a mortal wound on me. And though I don’t know the odds of finding him while engaged in the same exact act that landed me in the hospital and, well, dead, I’m sure they’re slim to nonexistent. Too many questions to ponder contend with the events of the night before. Adding to it the inexplicable physical changes that have occurred causes my knees to buckle. Hunkered down with my head in my hands, I clench my jaw so tightly the enamel threatens to splinter. I need to find out what’s happening to me, and fast, before I lose my mind completely.

THREE WEEKS HAVE PASSED. A cardboard egg box overflows with my T shirts and jeans. Balling the hoodie sweatshirt I hold in my hands, I toss it so that it lands on top of the pile. Admittedly it’s not the neatest way to arrange my stuff, but after spending the last two hours sorting clothes and shoes and every other article in my room, it’s the best I can do at the moment. Packing is a tedious and mundane task I hope I never have to repeat in the future. But deep down inside, I’m sure I will on many more occasions.

Huffing and letting my arms fall slack, I abandon packing for the moment and lean back. Sitting as I am on my bed, my head thumps against the headboard, a headboard that will be disassembled first thing tomorrow morning when the movers arrive. It’s hard to believe tonight is the last night I will sleep in this apartment I’ve known for most of my life. And while I’ve enjoyed many good nights of sleep through the years, I can’t say I’ve slept much lately. Sleep has eluded me in recent days, and when it has found me, it’s been troubled. Even now, as exhausted as I am, the thought of sleep doesn’t appeal to me, not the way it used to, at least. I know that as soon as I doze, images of twin swirling pits of black will fill my field of vision. Pits that lead to a dark and dangerous place from which return is impossible.

Allowing my shoulders to sag, I close my eyes, the vision of the man from the convenience store, the one whose blood dotted my clothes, flashes in my mind. I can’t believe the events of that night transpired three weeks ago. The sensation, the pull that towed me there, feels so fresh it’s as if it happened hours ago, not weeks earlier. Since then, news channels have reported that the police are looking for the person responsible for the stabbing for questioning. Initially, hearing that made my stomach plummet to my shoes. I fully expected to see a police artist sketch of me plastered on the screen seconds later. When I didn’t, when the grainy image of a man double my age and roughly double my weight filled the monitor, I breathed a sigh of relief, felt like weeping in truth, though I’d never admit to it willingly.

Apparently, the clerk gave a description that looked nothing like me, a point I’m both eternally grateful for and shocked by. I suppose if he had, no one would’ve believed a skinny kid like me could’ve overpowered a mountain of a man such as the one with the shotgun who lost his life. I still can’t believe it happened, even in spite of the spontaneous muscle mass I’ve gained since then. The entire night hovers in my brain like a mist, blurry and intangible but present. It haunts my waking hours as well as my resting ones.

Blowing out a thin jet of air through pursed lips, I try in vain to force thoughts of that night, as well as the orderly from the hospital, from my mind. It’s a challenge though. I haven’t been able to purge him from my brain. His eyes, identical to the eyes of the man with the shotgun at the convenience store, plague me. The only consolation I feel now, however, it that I know I didn’t imagine it, and I didn’t imagine the strange pull I felt to the hallway, to the orderly. In the hospital, Dr. Aaron and the countless other staff members who knew what happened that night had all but convinced me that what I saw and what I felt was a product of my imagination, a wounded brain in desperate need of rest and healing. Turns out they were wrong. And the phantom orderly is not a delusion. He exists. He’s out there somewhere, maybe even close by.

Sitting up, my eyes sweep the room. Boxes litter the floor. Seeing all of my personal belongings reduced to less than a half-dozen boxes strewn about the scuffed hardwood floors in my room is humbling. Especially since the vast majority of the boxes are only half full. But that’s not on the forefront of my mind. The orderly is.

With him in mind, my gaze narrows on my laptop. It hasn’t been stowed in a box as all my other belongings have, and it won’t be. And an idea begins to brew. Swiping it from my bare desk, I open the lid. My fingers dance across the keypad and the monitor comes to life, screen after screen illuminating until I return to the hospital staff database I visited nearly a month ago. This time, however, I set about retrieving the personnel files of former employees. I spend a half hour poring over names and birthdates until finally I reach the midpoint of the list. On a hunch, I click on a name. Hector Gomez, a thirty two year old staff member who worked at the hospital a little more than two years ago, is the name that strikes me. The details of his dismissal include the theft of prescription drugs from the hospital pharmacy along with a list of other lesser improprieties unfurls like a naughty list in Santa’s workshop. And when I open his sealed record and his photograph is revealed, I feel the room around me tilt. Suddenly parched, my mouth goes dry, the walls of my throat feeling as if they’re lined with grit. My breathing snags, becomes rapid and ragged. The face, this Hector Gomez, I recognize him. He’s the orderly I saw in the hospital, the one who lingered in the doorway of the little girl who died suddenly, the same one who watched, rapt, as her mothered grieved in gut wrenching waves of agony. Hector Gomez has eyes that inhabit my nightmares; that are my nightmares.

Heart pounding a fitful rhythm in my throat, trembling fingers navigate away from the hospital’s administrative site and move to a general search. I type in his name, just the two simple words, and am immediately rewarded with a current address that isn’t too far from where I live for the next twelve hours. Grabbing a pen from my backpack that leans against the interior wall near the doorway, I quickly scribble Hector’s address on my hand and shut down my computer. I cross my room, leaving the packing unfinished for the time being, and dash out into the hallway. Looking over my shoulder at my door to be sure it closed all the way, I narrowly avoid colliding with my mother.

“Whoa, slow down.” My mother chuckles as both hands launch forward reflexively to deflect taking a direct hit. “Where are you headed in such a hurry? I hope you’re going to the kitchen to get more boxes.” She stares straight through me, as she always does, and I swear for a moment that she sees what I see, that she feels the pull I’m feeling. But when she resumes speaking, I realize I’m only thinking such things to deceive myself into believing she truly senses what’s inside of me. “You have so much packing to do.” She rakes a hand through her hair. Dark crescents look like bruises beneath her eyes and her complexion is pallid.

“Uh, I’m not going to the kitchen for more boxes,” I mumble as I look down at my feet.

“Oh?” she arches an eyebrow at me, once again giving the impression that she knows far more than she’s divulging. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just, uh, running out for a bit,” I say. “I won’t be gone long, promise.” I can’t be sure I won’t be gone long and certainly shouldn’t have promised as much, but I did and now it’s too late.

“Danny! Really?” She turns her head and looks away from me in exasperation, planting her hands on her hips. “You room isn’t packed yet, is it?” I shake my head, a small feeble gesture. “You do realize we’re moving tomorrow morning, right?”

“Uh-huh,” I bob my head one time. “And I’m almost ready. I’ll be done soon. I won’t be gone long and when I get back, I’ll knock it out, okay?”

I give her a small smile then turn on my heels and jog toward the door. I need to move as quickly as possible, before my mother comes to her senses and realizes I’m nowhere near finished and decides to change her mind. She calls out to me the moment my hand rests on the doorknob. “Danny, I don’t know, it’s late,” she begins before my sisters strident voice cuts her off.

“What don’t you know about Danny? Whether he only brushes his teeth once a day and doesn’t shower long enough to even remotely come close to being clean? Because if you are looking for those answers, I have them.” Though I don’t see Kiera, I can easily picture her with her arms folded across her chest and a wicked smirk curling the corners of her lips. Ordinarily, I’d indulge her and fight back, but I’m in a hurry. Not sure why, but the need to travel to Hector’s residence becomes pressing. Even when my sister begins complaining to my mother that it isn’t fair that I’m going out when she was told she may not. My sister is right, of course. She’s older and likely farther along in packing up her room. That is if she isn’t finished already.

Ignoring my sister’s complaints as they grow louder and more pointed, I close the door behind me and race to the stairwell where I bound down the steps two at a time. Dashing out the main entrance to the building, I head straight to the nearest bus stop and jump in the first bus that goes in the direction of the address scrawled in blue ink on my palm. After riding for nearly a half hour, the bus stops in the general area and I’m forced to travel the rest of the way on foot.

The sun is low in the sky, a blazing disk of fire that stretches in bands of blood orange and rich gold through the summer sky. Night is slowly laying claim to day as waning beams of light make their final stand. Soon, navy darkness will encompass all that I see. Stout buildings, defaced with graffiti and broken windows and hunkered in varying states of dilapidation, will soon be cast in shadows.

The neighborhood in which I roam, dicey by day, becomes dangerous by night. As my eyes sweep the landscape, I consider the possibility that coming here may not have been one of my best ideas. Continually swiveling my head so that I can keep watch of my surroundings at all times, I notice a group of mostly guys exiting a house. If I had to I’d guess they’re in their twenties. They make their way toward me, eyeing me hard. The potential for confrontation crackles in the air like static electricity. Mumbled comments directed at me buzz before bolder, challenging words ring out.

I’m not lost. I know the area well, in fact. I’ve just never traveled it on foot. I don’t dare say as much though.

“We should beat him down,” the largest of them suggests then looks me dead in the eyes. “Looking to get beat down? You must be if you’re rolling on these streets.”

My stomach feels as if it’s filled with snakes slithering over and under one another and my blood drills through my veins. Hunching my shoulders, I drop my gaze to the cracked pavement at my feet, avoiding eye contact altogether and praying they don’t persist. Thankfully, they lose interest in me in favor of a group of scantily clad girls on the other side of the street. Catcalls and lewd comments replace the curse words and epithets aimed at me. Ordinarily. I’d feel relief, but given the neighborhood I’m in, I would bet just about anything that what just happened will happen again before I leave. That, coupled with the potent pull I feel to the area and what I’ve unearthed thus far when I arrive at areas I’m pulled to, doesn’t exactly leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling. A tremor shivers through my body as I lift my hand and refer to the address scribbled on my skin. It reads sixty three Allmont Avenue. Straining my eyes to see the street sign at the corner approaching, I notice that Allmont is the next right. I pick up my pace, hypervigilant of my surroundings. Broken second story windows stare out like visionless eyes at every turn while boarded doors and ground-level windows resemble gagged mouths, silenced mid-scream. Most appear unoccupied, but given the high rate of crime and homelessness in the area, I can’t be sure. Still, I continue, relying on the few mailboxes with numbers on them to guide me.

Number sixty-three, the last known listed address of Hector Gomez is the last house on the left before a small stretch of litter-strewn weeds separates it from another awful neighborhood. Green moss covers the roof, a roof partially caved in, and slithers down over siding that was once a shade of off-white but is now a dingy gray veined in grubby ivy that spreads like skeletal fingers clinging the house in a vise-like grip of death. Warning prickles across my skin, raising the fine hairs at the back of my neck. I look over my shoulder, sensing the presence of another but find that I’m alone. A warm breeze caresses my face, quieting the alarm shrieking through my cells to a slightly more manageable level. Night has fallen. Sinister looking shadows slink and wind about. I question what the heck I’m doing here. This neighborhood, this house I’m standing before and the man who likely waits within, makes this far more dangerous and foolhardy than my excursion to the convenience store. I wrestle with the notion of turning back, of abandoning an instinct that pulses within me with a life force of its own. My legs twitch to life, as if of their own accord, unstoppable. I’m powerless to resist it. This feeling, so foreign and new, has become so ingrained in my core it feels as if it’s rooted in my very DNA.

Looking around a second time, I take several bold steps until I reach the crumbling walkway. Weeds grow between raised stones, a walkway that leads to an empty driveway. There isn’t a car parked in front. Not that that matters in the least. I’m going in regardless. I’m powerless to stop the force driving me. I circle the house, checking for a way in, a window that’s open. Peering in the ones I pass, I note that the interior is swathed in gloom. I do not see movement of any sort. Staying close to the house, I am at the rear when I see that one of the ground-floor windows is unlocked. Heart thudding so loudly I swear it echoes through the surrounding streets, I reach out hands that shake and raise the pane. Once the glass is up, I lift myself up and slide inside carefully. I bump over the lip of the sill and half fall into what appears to be a living room. As soon as my feet hit the ground, a feeling hits me like a sledgehammer. I sense the essence of the orderly with the black eyes. I sense Hector Gomez, feel him as fully as I would scum on a pond. I freeze. Every muscle in my body stiffens as I take in the room. Gray walls brushed with streaks of black as mold from damp nights has seeped in and crept up the walls is the first sight I see. Of course, I smell it before I see it, smell the musty, dank stench. Looking further, I see speckles of paint and dust lining the floor, broken wooden furniture, rotting and ringed in stains of brown in varying shades, and curtains hanging limp and moth-eaten. After taking several steps inside, I pause. The room is still but the air is heavy, unnaturally so, laden with expectation, and foreboding. Shuffling forward, each step creaks over scuffed and stripped hardwood floors.

When I’m midway across the room, an image fills my brain, so razor-sharp in clarity and so horrifying, I double over, gripping my abdomen. My body temperature skyrockets. Sweat pours down my face and drips between my shoulder blades to the small of my back. Flashes of girls, young, so very young, flash before my eyes. Terror stricken faces lined with rivers of tears carved through dirt stained cheeks appear. And so does Hector Gomez. He’s abusing them, enjoying the fear and pain they endure at his hand.

Trembling from head to toe, my body quakes with rage unlike any I’ve ever experienced, unlike any I’ve ever imagined. The anger swells in me like a living and breathing entity, taking charge of me and guiding the magnetic pull that brought me to this house. Incapable of doing anything other than yielding to it, I am led to a door off the room I entered and at the end of a short, narrow hallway. At the bottom of the staircase is a basement. Dank and reeking of the stench of urine and feces, I hold my breath but remain undeterred. A heavy wooden door, newer looking in appearance and completely out of place in an otherwise dilapidated house, jumps out at me, and I’m drawn to it. But as I get closer, I see that a sturdy padlock dangles from a metal set of loops holding the door closed. Sensing with every fiber of my being that I need to get beyond that door, I turn from it. Throwing caution to the wayside, I dash up the staircase to the main level and check every single door until I find one that leads to the garage. Incongruously neater and newer looking than anything else I’ve seen in the house thus far save for the massive wooden door in the basement, the garage is immaculate. Walls lined with tools in descending size order catches my attention. I do not stop to admire, though. Instead, a crowbar, resting casually atop a metal chest, separates itself from all else that I see as if lighted with a floodlight. I race to it, scoop it up then turn and make my way back down into the basement. Once at the door, I use the crowbar to break the metal loops free from the wood and bypass tangling with the padlock. A loud cracking sound pierces the thick smothering silence of the house. I don’t pay it any mind. I’m in a magnetic force field, being compelled forward into the room beyond the wooden door.

Hinges creak and the world beyond the threshold is pitch black. Cautiously, I step inside, expecting that at any given moment, the boogeyman himself will jump out. But I don’t hear the deranged cackle of a monster. I hear whimpering, human whimpering. Blood rushing behind my eardrums, I slide my hand along the wall, searching for a light switch. When I don’t find one, frustration mounts. I venture a step away from the wall, toward what I guess is the middle of the room. The darkness disorients me though. I’m startled when a length of string grazes my forehead. I jump back, a small utterance making it past my lips. I swat it, inadvertently tugging it, and suddenly the room is bathed in stark light. And the sight before me renders me utterly shocked. Unable to breath or blink, I stare at three small cages that resemble dog crates. But dogs do not reside inside, young girls do. Clad in only underpants, they look to be no older than twelve. Painfully gaunt, their ribs protrude and their skin is ashen from malnourishment. Bruises mar their skin in an array of shades that vary from angry red to purple to brown. Filthy and hunched and cradling their upper bodies in fear at the sight of me, their terror is palpable, gut wrenching. I wouldn’t venture a guess as to how long they’ve been trapped as they are, but judging from the look of them, from their condition and the condition of their cages it’s been awhile. I see them as they are and want to weep. In my head, I also see soulless black eyes delighting in their abject misery.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I assure them in a soft tone. I look around and spy a ring of keys on a nail on the wall. I swipe them and unlock each cage. None of the three girls budge. They freeze in place like deer in headlights, lower lips quivering and bodies quaking. Paralyzed by fear, I realize I can’t help them. The damage inflicted upon them is too great. Shaking my head as the magnitude of the psychological damage inflicted on them hits me, I reach into the front pocket of my jeans and retrieve my cellphone. I dial 9-1-1 and tell the operator who answers what I’ve found. I tell him I heard crying from the sidewalk and entered the home. I’m instructed to stay put until help arrives. Of course I’ll do nothing of the sort and leave as soon as I end the call. I find a place to hide across the street and watch as two patrol cars and an ambulance arrives. One by one, the girls are rescued. Once all three are in the care of the authorities, I return to the bus stop and return to my neighborhood. I walk into the apartment and am immediately greeted by my mother.

Arms folded across her chest and a stern expression on her face, my mother speaks through her teeth. “Where have you been, Danny?”

I glance at my phone and note the time. My eyes widen. Five hours have passed and it’s now eleven o’clock. Without any valid or believable excuse, I say, “I was just, uh, out.”

“What the heck does that mean?” She glowers at me, her hands move to her hips.

“I, uh,” I stammer. I won’t lie to my mother. I respect her too much. But I can’t tell her the truth at this point either, not without landing myself back in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. I look past her and see a breaking news bulletin creep across the screen. The evening news is interrupted by a field reporter standing in front of sixty-three Allmont. The reporter is breathlessly discussing the details of an anonymous call about girls being imprisoned in a residential home. The orderly, Hector Gomez, was picked up at his job in a Connecticut hospital. An image of him fills the screen, wrists handcuffed behind his back. He lifts his chin and stares into the camera, and I swear he’s looking directly at me. “Look! Look at his eyes, how black they are!” I point to the screen and my mother spins.

Screwing up her features, Kiera says, “Um, yeah, I’m going to give you a no on that one. I didn’t see anything like that.”

I move to the couch and grab the remote. Since our cable box is a DVR, I rewind the segment and pause on a close-up of his face. His black eyes stare out at me. “See!” I say.

“What the heck are you talking about?” my mother says. “His eyes are blue.”

Ignoring my sister’s rude comment I stare at his face as he glares and guilt overwhelms me. I made a huge mistake. I never should’ve called the police. I should’ve waited for him. Every instinct I have screams that I shouldn’t have let him live because more will be hurt at his hands. More will die. I look at his face, the smug, cavalier air about him that accompanies the bottomless pits of doom that are his eyes. Everything about him taunts me, summoning me to end his existence on this earthly plane. He is a threat to humankind. He is evil incarnate. I realize as I stand watching the television screen that I have made a grave mistake. I’ve allowed a monster to live. My life will never be the same.

Jennifer and Christopher Martucci hoped that their life plan had changed radically in early 2010. To date, the jury is still out. But late one night, in January of 2010, the stay-at-home mom of three girls under the age of six had just picked up the last doll from the playroom floor and placed it in a bin when her husband startled her by declaring, “We should write a book, together!” Wearied from a day of shuttling the children to and from school, preschool and Daisy Scouts, laundry, cooking and cleaning, Jennifer simply stared blankly at her husband of fifteen years. After all, the idea of writing a book had been an individual dream each of them had possessed for much of their young adult lives. Both had written separately in their teens and early twenties, but without much success. They would write a dozen chapters here and there only to find that either the plot would fall apart, or characters would lose their zest, or the story would just fall flat. Christopher had always preferred penning science-fiction stories filled with monsters and diabolical villains, while Jennifer had favored venting personal experiences or writing about romance. Inevitably though, frustration and day-to-day life had placed writing on the back burner and for several years, each had pursued alternate (paying) careers. But the dream had never died. And Christopher suggested that their dream ought to be removed from the back burner for further examination. When he proposed that they author a book together on that cold January night, Jennifer was hesitant to reject the idea outright. His proposal sparked a discussion, and the discussion lasted deep into the night. By morning, the idea for the Dark Creations series was born.

The Demon Hunter series, the Planet Urth series, as well as the Arianna Rose series and the Dark Creations series, are works that were written while Jennifer and Christopher continued about with their daily activities and raised their young children. They changed diapers, potty trained and went to story time at the local library between chapter outlines and served as room parents while fleshing out each section. Life simply continued.

As the storyline continues to evolve, so too does the Martucci collaboration. Lunches are still packed, noses are still wiped and time remains a rare and precious commodity in their household, but it is the sound of happy chaos that is the true background music of their writing. They hope that all enjoy reading their work as much as they enjoyed writing it.

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