Help in the Night

"The time is 11:47 p.m."

A click resounded over the line and I knew I was going to be in trouble. Mom was going to kill me. I slammed shut my text books and stuffed them into my bag. "Come Dianne," I said. I grasped the handle to her harness and commanded, "home."

Dianne immediately started to lead me and we left the Library. I hurried down the steps of the campus Law building as safely as was possible. I could feel the cool night air whisper across my cheek as I picked up the pace. "I can't believe that I let myself lose track of time like that," I muttered. It sounded much different outside now than it usually did; much quieter. I couldn't hear many people around me and the traffic was faint and far away.

I was passing the park when I heard a rock clatter against the pavement, causing me to jump. I pulled Dianne to a stop for a second, listening. I heard nothing.

"Let's go," I urged my companion. A few moments later I was certain that I heard faint footstep behind me and I quickened my pace again.

The vibrations from Dianne's growl reached my hand just after the sound reached my ears. "Who's there?" I asked. I knew it was stupid, but it somehow made me feel better to hear my own voice. As unsteady as it was.

Dianne let out a snarl and I could feel that tingle that let me know that someone was nearby.

"Hey sugar," an oily voice came to me from close by.

I flinched away from the voice.

"Now don't be like that honey." There was faint amusement in the voice now, "tell Fido to calm down and we can get to know each other."

I cleared my throat, "I don't think that I want to get to know you," I said in the strongest voice I could bring up; though even to my own ears it sounded pathetically weak and jittery.

He chuckled from to my right and I could tell that he was circling me. Dianne moved with him, keeping herself between me and Oily. I jumped again when she let out a particularly vicious snarl.

"Leave the woman alone why don't you," a new voice broke in.

"This doesn't concern you," Oily said, though I could tell that he had stepped back a little.

"Clearly she doesn't want to have anything to do with you and the best thing for you to do would be to go away and leave her alone," he said. His tone was deep and carried a strong and soothing quality; a tone of command. Whoever he was, his voice was enough to make me feel safe at the moment.

"And what if I don't?" Oily taunted. He was moving away from me towards the other man.

"Then I will just have to make you," he said.

Oily laughed, "Bring it on!"

I went to my knees and buried my face in Dianne's neck when I heard the first blows, seeking comfort and trying my best to not hear what happened. I covered my ears, but I could still hear the sickening sound of flesh on flesh and the grunts of pain.

A few moments later there was nothing but the sound of heavy breathing nearby. I didn't know who had won the fight.

Dianne growled and I hugged her tighter, fearing the worst. That Oily had won and the strong voiced man had lost the fight and he was coming for me.

"Are you alright?" the strong voiced man asked.

Relief flooded through me at the sound of his voice. I nodded my head mutely, to shaken to say anything.

"Can I help you?" he asked gently.

A relieved laugh burbled up in my throat, "I think you already did," I said. I slowly released Dianne and stood up shakily.

"Can I walk you home?" he asked, "just to make sure you get there safe. You shouldn't walk alone at this time of night."

"Yes," I said and ran a soothing hand over Dianne to calm her, "I would be grateful."

As we moved in the direction of my home he kept up a soothing line of commentary. I didn't really listen to what he said, I just focused on the sound of his voice.

It seemed so familiar...

Hear and Listen

"Are you sure you lead me right?" I asked Dianne when we stopped in front of a door. She let out a huff as if offended that I might doubt her.

"I really hope they have the books I need on audio. It would be so much quicker than trying to read them in braille," I said and laughed as I patted her on the head. Here I was talking to my dog as if she could talk back. I must be losing it.

I greeted Joyce as I stepped through the door and waited my turn to be helped. I shifted my heavy binder to my other arm as I listened to the conversations around me. It was interesting how much I could pick up about people without knowing them. Just from what they say and how they say it. The difference between hearing and listening.

"Sarah," Joyce exclaimed when it was my turn; I smiled at her lilting accent, "what can I do for you?"

"Do you have any of the pre-law textbooks on audio? It's just that it takes me so long to read anything in braille. I've only been blind for about ten months," I explained.

"Oh my dear, I had no idea that it was so recent!" Joyce sympathized, "let me see what I can find. I'm pretty sure we have some somewhere."

I stroked Dianne on the head, lost in my own thoughts. I felt the tingle that told me that someone was near just before Dianne barked loudly.

"Sorry," A voice said from behind me.

I turned toward him and gently tapped Dianne on the head, “Dianne, no barking at strangers,” I said. I smiled in the man's direction, “I apologize - sometimes she’s a little overprotective, thinks people are threats when they aren’t," I said. I wasn't quite certain that he wasn't a threat, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"I didn't mean to make her nervous," he said.

Something in his voice struck me as familiar. I tilted my head to one side, listening, hoping he would speak again so that I could place his voice.

Joyce chose then to return. “I have an old recording of some of the pre-law books to get you started, but we haven’t had anyone record the new editions yet. As soon as we get new recordings in, we’ll let you know," she said.

I nodded my head; accepted the recordings and turned back to the door, "thank you very much," I said," I knew it was a little much to hope that the recordings were current, but it was a hope all the same.

I clicked my tongue at Dianne and I felt her jump to her feet, "let's go girl," I said and let her lead me down the hall. I hoped that the recordings were current enough to get me through my tests until someone read the new versions.

I let my mind wander as Dianne lead me through the maze of halls towards my next class. I puzzled about the voice. It seemed like I should be able to place it, but I couldn't. It was like I had heard it in a dream, or it was a voice I met in passing.

I shrugged it off and clicked at Dianne, "come on," I said, "we have to get to class."

'Show' and 'See'

"Will you stop that?"

I can hear the exasperation in my mothers voice and automatically stopped drumming my fingers nervously on the car door. I clenched my hands in my lap to stop them from their twitching.

"What if Dianne forgets her commands?" I ask, "what if I get lost? It's a big campus and I don't know anyone." I try to keep the blatant worry out of my voice but I can hear it creeping in.

"She won't forget," Mom said firmly. "You have been working and training with her for two months now; been all over the campus with her. You will be just fine."

I knew it was useless to voice further concerns and so I said nothing. I remembered back on all the training I had had with Dianne, the months of hard work and building trust with her. She would be my eyes; I had to trust her. It had been difficult for me these past six months; I had always been so independent before the accident that took my sight. Now I was dependent on others.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I hardly noticed the car slow down and stop. "I'll pick you up here when you're classes are over with for the day," mom said.

I opened the door and slid out, "No," I said, "Dianne and I will walk home. It's not that far and she knows the way."

I opened the back door and Dianne jumped to the ground; taking her place beside me, her warm body pressed against my leg reassuringly. "I'll see you at home," I said and walked away with Dianna.

**********************

"Is this the Student Services office?" I asked as I poked my head in what seemed like the hundredth door in my search for the seldom used office.

"No," a man said, "but I can show you where it is."

"Thank you!" I said and stepped out of the doorway.

"It's easy to get lost around here," he said. I could feel his presence near me, a peculiar sense that told me when someone was close. I patted Dianne on the head; more to reassure myself of her presence than anything.

"Ummm..."

I smiled at his uncertainty. It was clear that he didn't know how to 'show' me the way to the office. "It's okay," I said. "Just keep talking. Tell me where we are going and what you see so that Dianne can lead me to the office again."

"Okay," he said, though I could still hear hesitation and uncertainty in his voice. "Do you know how you got here?" he asked, and I nodded. "then from this door we go left," he said.

I listened to him describe what he saw as we walked along; landmarks that I could ask Dianna to find and she could do it. He had a pleasant voice.

"And here we are," he said. I felt a slight breeze as he opened a door.

"Thank you so much," I said and smiled in his direction.

"No problem," he said. "I was nice to meet you..."

"Sarah," I supplied, and held out my hand to him.

"I'm Chris," he said as he took my hand. His grip was solid. It matched his voice.

"Thank you again Chris. Maybe I'll 'see' you around," I said and smiled before stepping into the office of Student Support Services.

This One Thing

“Well?” Tobias asked.

“Well, everything’s gone to hell as much as it can, given that we have a telepath, a telekinetic, a pyrokinetic, an astral projectionist, a shapeshifter, and someone who can see the future on the team,” Keith said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“So I take it nothing we can do will get past the guards,” Gabriel said in a mock-reasonable tone.

“Yes,” Keith said.

Christian sighed. “There is this one thing.”

“What thing?” DJ asked.

Christian peered up over the edge of the barrier, cupped his hands, and blew.

Quislai diamond dust exploded across the gate.

Every Inch

"Would you like a copy watch?" Angel held open his coat. The irony was that all the Rolexes in his coat were real. There were never any takers, though, not when he greased his hair back and mocked up a thick Bengali accent and smelled faintly of curry. The man grimaced and waved a dismissive hand, turned away.

"Really, a new watch would help you attract the ladies, yeah?" Angel slung an arm around the man's shoulders, every inch the pushy salesman. The man turned, ready to protest, and Angel reached up with his other hand, snapped the man's neck.

Only Keith

“What’s the stealth rating on this mission again?” Keith asked.

Christian ducked down behind the wall and checked the clip on his gun, sighed. “Zero, obviously. Else we wouldn’t be having an action-movie shoot-out with the facility security.”

“Why are we sitting here shooting, then?” Keith asked.

“Got a better idea?”

Keith curled his hands into fists, and his grin turned decidedly wicked. “Got a better weapon.” He stood up, and flames flared to life on his palms. He began to hurl them across the room.

Christian cringed at the scent of burning flesh, the screams. Only Keith.

So Surprised

They thought he was insane; there was no reason to attempt to decipher his unintelligible mutterings as he sat in the corner, rocking back and forth and talking at nothing, grimy fingers drawing obscure symbols on the linoleum. If Cody kept his head down, they barely noticed him.

It was precisely the way he wanted it. It took days, weeks, almost a full-on month to secure the spell, and he’d had to restart several components because he was working from memory. What they took to be insane mutterings were incantations, and they looked so surprised when the walls fell.

All of Those Things

It was the smile, the slow, gentle curve of his lips, the coy tilt of his head, the glimmer of blue as he peered up from beneath his lashes; it was the slender lines of his body and the smooth ripple of muscle under skin as he moved; it was the fine lines of his cheekbones and jaw, the silky-smooth paleness of his hair. It was the song festooning the air as his long-fingered hands drew music from the strings of a guitar. It was all of those things that made people miss the first punch every time.

Seriously

It was the wide eyes, the trembling lower lip, the suspicious glimmer of tears on eyelashes, tears that would drop like crystals and draw shining silver lines down smooth cheeks, it was the hitch of breath in the throat and the beginnings of a sob –

It worked every time. Gabriel sighed and surrendered the sword. Instantly the tearful expression vanished, and Kyle leapt to his feet, brandishing his weapon like a miniature knight in shining armor.

Gabriel sat back and shook his head. A child that young shouldn’t have been able to defeat the general of armies of Heaven. Seriously.

On the Papasan

Bob knew he slept too much. These days it was easier than listening to his father and Shelley yell at each other. It was easier than standing around talking to his brothers and turning to share a joke with Dan, only to realize he wasn’t there.

The best place in the world was on the papasan chair shoved into the corner of the den. He was getting a little too tall for it, but if he curled up on his side in a teeny tiny ball he fit, as if cupped in the palm of giant hand, and he could sleep.

All he had to do was wait till no one was looking, slip into the den, curl up, and fling an arm over his eyes to block out the light. Shelley and his mother let it go, murmuring about how much the ‘illness’ was taking out of him. Bob liked to think he was finally catching up on seventeen years’ worth of sleep deficit from touring all the time.

The best way to nap was to crawl up onto the papasan while Clay was there and curl up behind him, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel the reassuring warmth of his presence, and listen while he practiced his bass softly. Without the amp, all he could hear was the rhythmic twang of the strings, but it was lulling, gentle. It was better when Clay hummed under his breath, a counterpoint to the beat.

Bob liked it when he woke up and Clay was still playing.

(260 words)

Cooking with Tobias

Cooking with Tobias was always a trip and a half, and the others loved it. It always started out innocuously, because none of them actually needed to eat, but Tobias would go off grid for an hour, and then Gabriel would worry. That would send of a chain reaction of panic across the web, carefully blocked from the Commander, and by the time the rest of the team was searching high and low for their beloved Intelligence officer, he’d be home, swanning into the kitchen loaded with paper bags full of fresh food.

“Dude, why did you buy food?” DJ would ask, but then the Sinatra or Glen Miller would kick up in the kitchen, and the answer made itself apparent.

DJ, Keith, Gabriel, Angel, and Christian would hover in the doorway, curious, drawn by the scents, and watch as Tobias turned the kitchen into an utter disaster. He was everywhere at once, chopping vegetables at the counter, mixing sauces at the island, Lindy-hopping from the microwave to the stove, jitterbugging in the corner, beatings eggs while tapping a swing rhythm with one shoe.

Tobias was by far the most dramatic of the six, and whenever he cooked he was dressed to the nines in black-and-white spats, neat pin-striped slacks, a pristine button-down shirt, a matching waistcoat complete with shiny golden pocketwatch, and cufflinks made from the teeth of his first kill.

He was sentimental like that.

The kitchen always looked like a tornado had hit it, with flour and sauces splashed across every available surface, food spattered in random places where food ought not ordinarily be spattered. Tobias, on the other hand, remained pristine despite his refusal to wear an apron, and he would jive his way through the mess while pots on the stove bubbled and timers buzzed and the oven billowed smoke.

Somehow, by the time the last timer buzzed and the final burner was shut off, the kitchen was perfectly clean again, and a gourmet meal was laid out on the dining table.

Tobias would stand back and watch as the boys swarmed the table, and then he would shift into wolf form and clear the rabbits off the lawn.

(344 words)

First Night Home

Clay staggered into the kitchen. Even though all the clocks in the house said it was two a.m., his body was still convinced it was noon, and lunch time to boot.

He paused in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at the scene before him. Bob was quite literally elbow-deep in a massive tub of ice cream, and Dave’s face was smeared with sherbert, the rainbow kind.

They froze at the same time and looked at him with matching guilty expressions. Then Bob said,

“There’s Rocky Road in the freezer behind the turkey.”

Clay nodded and headed over to the pantry where Shelley’s giant freezer was. He figured it was just bad luck on her part, to marry into a family where all four boys were teenagers at precisely the same time. They couldn’t help it, though - they were growing, and they needed fuel.

Clay plopped down at the table next to Bob and dug into the tub of ice cream. The cool chocolate hit his tongue and he smiled, pleased.

All three triplets froze when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Dad was a nutcase about staying in shape and healthy, and it usually took wheedling and a good dose of Shelley-persuasion before they could eat ice cream at all. Dan reached for the lid for the sherbert, and then Scott stood in the doorway.

His hair stuck up in all directions, and he looked disgruntled. He wagged a finger at Clay. “You’d better not have eaten the Black Forest.”

Clay waved his sticky spoon. “All yours, man.”

Scott grunted and shuffled into the pantry.

The first night home was always the longest.

(278 words)

Summer of 2005

Joe stepped out of the cool, dim building and into the bright oven that waited beyond the tinted doors. Joe glared up at the sun, irritated by the heat that was radiating both from the celestial body, and from the pavement beneath his feet, rising in shimmering waves. Joe wore the least amount of clothes that was acceptable in the world of the military. Joe slid a pair of sunglasses on and crossed the parking lot to his car, switching on the cooler to full blast as soon as he was settled. He growled under his breath, waiting for the first icy fingers to tickle the sweat rolling down his neck.


Joe hated Summer. The long hot days and muggy, bug filled nights. Hated Summer for the memories. Alec had died during the Summer of '89. Joe had spent that Summer in a daze, mindlessly walking from place to place, no brother for company; he felt hollow, incomplete without him. He caught himself turning to ask Alec a question, only to realize that he wasn't there, and never would be again.

Joe was glad that he was finally off base, he had put in for two weeks leave, and since there appeared to be no pending minor wars that his team would inevitably be shipped off to, his request was granted. Joe slipped an old CD from the visor above his head; it was faded and had many scratches. Joe slid it into the player and cranked up the volume. Music blasted into the cabin of his car, numbing his body from the vibrations, and numbing his mind, from the sheer volume. It was a CD that he and Alec had listened to, the only one he had kept.

Joe pulled onto the interstate after a brief stop at his apartment to pick up his bag, he was headed to Montana for two weeks. A place to relax, remember, and make peace with himself once again. He was heading home.

Springtime in Calgary

Springtime in Calgary was sharply cold first thing in the morning, and Dan could see puffs of his own breath in the air as he jogged down the icy sidewalk. The snow melted periodically, and then refroze into its own deathtrap, the last vestiges of winter clinging to the ankles of humanity and trying to throw people into the gutter.

Dan tilted his head up as he jogged and smiled when he saw new small green leaves slowly uncurling on the boughs overhead. He couldn’t wait until the blossoms arrived, because then he could pause by the wayside and gather wildflowers to take home to Joey. Joey, who was still asleep, curled around Dan’s pillow and snoring like a freight train.

These days Dan liked to get up early and run, get his homework done before he headed down to the police station for his shift as morning dispatcher. Joey preferred the laziness of summer, but somehow Dan had grown into the chipperness of spring, and besides, this spring meant spring semester, his final one before he was a proud purveyor of a criminal justice degree and could apply at the police academy.

Dan hummed along to the tune of a bird’s song, automatically kicking his voice into a harmony as he headed toward the end of the block. Scott, drunk off his rocker, had laughed himself senseless when Dan called to tell him of his master plan to become a police officer, to protect and serve, but Bob, winter-pale and frail in his hospital bed had been smiling and supportive of, well, everything.

Dan paused at the corner to wait for the light to change and tipped his head back, felt the first real warmth of the spring sun on his face. He liked spring because everything was new, and this year, he was going to be a new man. On campus, no one looked twice at him anymore, and in his spiffy dispatcher’s uniform no one thought he might be the keyboard player from Four Times Summer. He was just Dan Summers, student and part-time dispatcher, and he loved it.

(354 words - I've actually never been to Calgary and have no idea what it's like in spring, but in my head, Canada is abominably cold compared to where I've lived in the States)

Anymore

“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.

“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”

“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.

“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”

“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.

“Any word from your taller half?”

“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”

More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”

“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.

“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”

Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”

“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.

“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”

“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.

“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.

Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”

“I did, too.”

(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)

And The Boss Was Back

Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.

“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.

Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.

“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.

Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”

Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.

“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.

Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.

“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.

Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”

The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --

“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”

And the boss was back.

My Own Hands

My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.

Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.

They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.

Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.



(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)

Tiny Spiders

She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.

Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”

That just made her cry more.

Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”

Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.

“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.

“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”

Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.

Not Your Fault

“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.

Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.

His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.

“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.

She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.

“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”

“Summers, she’s obviously high --”

“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”

“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.

Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”

She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.

“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.

She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.

After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?

“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”

Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”

The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.

Which Wire

"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.

Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.

"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."

Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.

Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.

Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.

"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."