The day felt different.
The sunrise was painting the sky the same magnificent colors. The fall chill was the same as it had been for the past two weeks. Everyone was still asleep, and as usual, the little boy was the first one into the kitchen. He could not have told you what had changed; there was just Something different.
His mother complained that he had always been an early riser. Even as a tiny infant, his internal clock had awakened him with the rising sun. Despite cooing or singing, if he could see his surroundings he was finished sleeping.
Now that he was older and able to fend for himself a little, his mom had given up trying to keep him in bed so she could sleep. In actuality, she was usually sleeping it off. The boy didn't care, that was normal. He poured the last of the orange juice into his favorite cup, and carefully returned the empty carton to its shelf in the fridge. He sloshed a trail of liquid to the patio door and stood looking out at the lawn that had gone to seed, with the mist climbing the fence posts of the overgrown pasture. He sipped his juice and tried to figure out what was different. The old car was parked where it usually was. There was a big black, dirty truck in the driveway, but that wasn't so unusual, there were lots of people living in the house and a strange vehicle wouldn't make a difference to him. His wagon was tipped over beside the sand box, right where he had left it the day before. The crow was picking his breakfast out of the pile of garbage bags just like every morning. He couldn't understand what was making him feel so…uneasy. Eventually, with all the wisdom of a four year old he finally gave up his pondering and went back to the kitchen to find himself some breakfast.
There wasn't much to choose from in the cupboards. He didn't have the luxury of the cereals or Eggos like he saw in the flyers that he sometimes colored on. This morning he pulled out a sleeve of crackers and a half empty jar of peanut butter.
He thought about taking his fixins upstairs and eating them in his mom's room. Most mornings he would but, he knew it was too early, and he hadn't recognized the guy who had been sleeping with her.
Sleeping people frightened him, especially strangers. He thought their faces looked scarier when their eyes were closed and their lips were loose, dangling and sometimes crusty looking. He'd seen a lot of sleeping people but they scared him because he could never tell what the people would be like when they woke up. He didn't mind watching his Mom sleep. She was beautiful. Her lips were never dangly or crusty.
Instead, he carried his breakfast into the living room, and cleared a spot on the coffee table amid the empty beer bottles and overfull ashtrays. The T.V. didn't work. One of Gracie's friends had kicked it one night and they didn't have the money to have it fixed. He fished around under the coffee table, and found a pen. While he munched his crackers and peanut butter he practiced his writing. His Mom had taught him how to sing his ABC's, and started teaching him how to write his name. The "C" was easy, it was like a sideways smile. The letters in the middle of his name were harder though, he scrawled out an illegible "A" and an "R" but the last letter looked perfect "L". Carl wrote his name once more and then went on to drawing mustaches and oogley eyes on the pictures in the magazine he had picked.
The day was getting brighter when he heard the double THUMP of feet hitting the floor in his mother's room upstairs. He heard a low "Ughh!" and some quick scuffling sounds. He figured that his Mom was awake now, so he picked up his magazine and started for her room; she would be proud of his hard work and beautiful pictures.
The guy who had been in bed with his mother came flying down the stairs. Carl and the man met at the base of the stairs. The man had long greasy black hair, and his eyes were wild looking, Carl had never seen anyone with so much white in their eyes. The man sidestepped Carl; a pewter skull attached to the zipper on his leather coat hit Carl's cheek. Carl spun around holding his hand to his face. The guy didn't notice; he ran past Carl and fought with the patio door, franticly trying to get it open. Carl thought he must be a little bit crazy. Eventually the door slid open, and the guy ran across the yard, jumped in his big ugly truck and spun out of the yard. Some of the rocks his tires kicked up flew through the air and hit Carl's upside down wagon. He was pretty sure he didn't like that guy.
He rubbed his cheekbone as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried hard not to cry. At least with the creepy guy gone, Carl felt more comfortable going into his Mom's room to show her his handy work. Maybe she could kiss away some of the stinging that was going on where the skull had hit him.
The feeling of Different hit him harder than it had all morning when he walked into his mother's room. The feeling almost took his breath away. He strained to see through the semi-light of the curtain darkened room. The room smelled like the rest of the house, stale beer, cigarette smoke and sweat. The stillness in the room was absolute.
His mother was laying on her side, facing the far wall. He carefully rounded the bed. He had been convinced, downstairs that she would be awake. It didn't seem like she was now. Carl quietly sneaked to his mother's side and looked down into her sleeping face. He was a little disappointed that she wasn't awake. He let himself slide down into a sitting position between the bed and wall.
He'd just wait for her to wake up, and then he'd surprise her with his good writing and funny pictures.
Lola's scream woke him up with his heart in his throat. What happened next was so fast that it was a blur. He felt his mother's big bouncy roommate sweep him up into her arms, and carry him out of the room. She was half sobbing, half screaming as she rushed down the stairs into the living room. Carl had to fight for breath because she was crushing his face into her big breasts. She was clutching him the way she had when they were on the Greased Lighting ride at the fair last summer.
Lola plunked Carl and herself down on the couch and sobbed, despite his efforts, she held his head firmly in the massive cleavage of her bosom. She was talking to someone in gasps between the howling and sobbing.
"Oohh…hauuuu….upstairs….Oh my God!"
Each sob or wail was accompanied by an increase in pressure on the back of Carl's head; he was starting to get frantic and began kicking his feet.
"Gracie, upstairs…its Kim."
"Ow" Lola began to relax her grip on Carl's head; the little boy's foot had landed solidly on her massive shinbone and brought her to the realization that she was suffocating him. Carl lifted his head up to look into Lola's face trying to figure out what all the commotion was about.
Lola's big round, brown face looked like she had just taken her head out from under the tap. There were tears and snot smeared from ear to ear. Her eyes looked as white as the guy's who had run out of the house and spun rocks at his wagon. Her big black eyes were looking at him the same way she had looked at the dead baby bird that had fallen from its nest in the garden shed the day they went for a walk. When their eyes met she shook her head, more tears welled up and she once again pressed his head into her chest "Shhh, now you poor, poor baby." She said as she began to slowly rock back and forth.
"What's the matta Lo?" he asked.
"Oh Baby, you just rest your head now. Everything gonna be a'right."
Her southern accent, and the fact that she wasn't trying to keep him from breathing anymore, allowed him to believe her and do as she had asked. Carl had always liked Lola the best. All of his mother's other roommates were distant or bossy with him. Lola had been with them the longest and had always been there to help him if he couldn't find his mom. She was a big woman, taller and bigger than their male roommate, Don even. Carl figured she was bigger than most people, and because she was his friend she made him feel safe. Her skin was the color of his favorite chocolate bar and her hair was what his mom called jet-black, except for the speckles of white it had in it.
Carl started hearing Don and Gracie arguing upstairs. Their tones were hushed but occasionally one of them raised their voice loud enough to let the boy know they were angry. There was also a different sound in their voices too, but he couldn't understand the cause. He found it funny that hey were fighting in his mom's room. Other times when they argued he would have to move out of the living room because their bedroom was right above the couch. As the fighting escalated he started wondering about his mom and wriggled in Lola's arms to get down.
"Mom!" He called. His voice had the effect of a silencer. Gracie and Don stopped their argument. Lola stopped breathing. He squirmed himself into a sitting position on Lola's lap. She held his tiny waist with her big soft hands as he pushed at her trying to get free.
"Carl baby you're momma can't come downstairs right now." The tears started again in Lola's eyes and she slowly shook her head looking into the little boy's face. "She's gonna have to see a doctor…Ooh baby…It's gonna be a'right."
"Let me DOWN!" he said. Carl kicked his legs and stiffened his back trying to slide off of her big lap. But Lola sobbed again and hugged Carl back into her bosom like he was a big living teddy bear. He had to get to his mom. He was convinced now that she needed him and struggled against the big woman's grip with all his might.
Carl wasn't prone to temper tantrums. Being raised in a crack house, he had learned that blending into his surroundings and fending for himself was the easiest way of staying safe and happy. He didn't understand why they smoked from the elaborate pipes. He didn't know why his mother and her friends were normal one minute, and then all of a sudden they would become weird and jumpy. All he knew was that when he smelled the ammonia, and saw them take out their little torches it was time for him to become invisible. But right now there were none of those smells, and the torches were out of sight. Lola, Gracie and Don were acting strange though, and he wanted to be with his mother.
He started panicking, and nothing Lola could do was going to make him stop. He kicked and clawed and screamed,
"MOM!!"

The police stayed after the ambulance had left. They spent a long time talking to Gracie and Don. They wanted to talk to Lola too but she kept telling them to "Hush up now!" while she rocked Carl who was in a state of semi-consciousness. He was exhausted from fighting her. He had seen the ambulance attendants wheel up an empty stretcher, and then come down loaded with something covered in a sheet. Nobody was looking at him. Their eyes would pass over him, and then move on. It was as if nobody wanted to look at him; it was like he was being invisible without trying. Lola let Carl watch the red flashing lights of the ambulance as it pulled away. She was still having little fits of crying. When she would, she would hug Carl tighter. He'd learned to kick her in the shin when she got carried away - since then he hadn't felt so squashed or breathless.
One of the policemen walked over to the couch and squatted down to Carl's level. He was the oldest guy Carl could remember seeing. His face had deep lines in it and his eyes looked like the skin was trying to wrinkle them shut. At first the face scared him, but when the police officer smiled, Carl could tell the man liked him. Lola seemed to relax too, she wasn't telling this guy to "Hush up."
"Hello Carl," he said. His voice was soft and raspy. Carl liked the way the man sounded. The police officer's eyes looked into Carl's in a way that made him feel important and safe. He had seen policemen before. They came to the house all the time, but when they did, everyone in the house acted like they were real bad guys and nobody was nice to them.
"Hullo," Carl said. He leaned back into Lola feeling shy now that someone was paying attention to him.
"I'm Officer Joe." He shifted his weight and Carl heard his knees make popping noises.
"Would you like to come for a walk and show me some of your stuff outside?"
Carl looked up at Lola to see if it was alright. She smiled at him but he could see that she was still very sad. She nodded and for the first time in what seemed like forever, released her hold on him. Carl slid down off her knee and stood in front of the policeman. He hoped that no one would notice the wet spot in his pajama bottoms. Sometime during this whole ordeal he had peed his pants, but he wasn't sure when or why. Officer Joe stood up, his knees made more popping sounds and he held his hand out for Carl. The little boy took it.
They left the house and Carl lead Joe to the overturned wagon. Carl wanted to check out the damage the guy had made when he spun rocks at it. Joe watched Carl turn over his toy and inspect it like a seasoned used car buyer. He also noticed that the rusty little wagon was the only real indication that a child lived here. Even in the house, there were no action figures, no building blocks. The "sandbox" was an accident, three sandbags, probably used for weight in the car during winter, had ripped and the little boy had made the best of it. Carl was pale and skinny. There were no bruises on him but the old policeman knew that the haunted look in the boy's eyes was not a result of one day of stress.
Carl pulled the wagon a short distance and let the handle drop, he looked back at the policeman, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. "Can I go up to see my mom now?" Joe bent down to the boy's level again, his knees made the same popping sounds they had in the house. Joe gave the boy a sad smile and shook his head.
"Carl, do you know your dad?" Joe asked in a quiet voice.
Carl had to contemplate that question..
"How about you Grandma and Grandpa?"
The boy looked at Joe like he was talking a foreign language.
After twenty-five years on the force Joe had dealt with as many different situations as he thought possible. He had hardened himself to the brutal realities of human nature. The atrocities people were capable of bounced off his tough hide and rarely touched him on an emotional level. He had knocked on parent's doors in the middle of the night to inform them that their child had died joyriding in stolen vehicles, he'd sat with grieving wives in emergency wards while their husbands were "bagged". He had learned to cope -Well. He'd built a box with a lid that he could close, the little boy standing in front of him was an exception.
Carl asked again "Can I go see my mom?". Joe reached his arms out to the little boy, Carl stood where he was. He liked this Officer Joe but he wanted his mom to hug him. He couldn't understand; what was the matter with people today?
Joe didn't want to tell the boy. He couldn't guess how the boy would react and he was sure things would go much smoother once the social worker was there to help. But He was running out of time. As frail and confused as the little boy seemed, he was determined. He needed his mom. The guys inside wouldn't be finished their questions and he didn't think that the boy would be too keen on sitting back in the big woman's lap, she hadn't even let the boy up to pee!
Carl headed for the house.
"Carl. Your mom…"
The boy stopped and looked into the officer's face.
"Your mom had an accident. The men from the hospital came and got her." He didn't want to lie. The little guy had gone through so much and was going to be going through a lot more. Joe's heart was aching for the little guy. He wanted to hold him close and stop all the pain that he would be feeling.
"My mom's gone to the ho'pital?" he asked, a little fear crept into his eyes "How come she di-n't say g'bye?"
Joe felt tears begining to form, he tried to warm his smile "Well, she didn't have time Pal. Don't you worry though, everything is going to be alright." He had to fight to keep his emotions stuffed in the box.

Carl was suspicious. Everybody was acting funny and everyone was telling him everything was going to be alright.
"Hey, what's that?" Joe asked pointing toward an apple tree with a piece of plywood leaning against the trunk. "That's my playhouse. You wanna see it?" Carl asked, picking up his wagon's handle and starting for the tree. Joe exhaled his relief and followed the little boy, thankful that his diversion had worked.
They were sitting under the plywood when the brown station wagon pulled in. Joe had managed to entertain Carl with a story he used to tell his kids. Carl sat mesmerized, hearing for the first time about Arthur and Merlin. Joe stood up, the story unfinished, when he heard the car door slam, he told Carl that he'd be right back and went to talk with the lady who had arrived.
Joe knew the social worker, Susan Litke; she had been down similar roads with Joe before. As he approached her car they could hear someone getting very agitated inside the house, thankfully the apple tree was out of hearing range. "Hi Joe, how are you?" she asked, not really expecting an honest answer. Joe shook his head and leaned against her car.
"Sue, what the fuck is the matter with these people? I've been doing this shit for a long time -I thought I had it all worked out." He kicked a pebble with his foot "That stupid little bitch, cracked herself to death, and this poor little bugger doesn't have another soul in this world. When I asked him if he knew who his grandma and grandpa were, he looked at me like I was asking him to explain Plate Tectonics. The roommate found him sleeping on the floor beside her body, holding a magazine he'd colored for her." Joe clenched his jaw and looked out over the same pasture the boy had, earlier in the morning.
Sue had never seen Joe in this shape. "We'll take care of him Joe." She touched his arm and looked toward the house.
A young officer was just stepping out. He held an evidence bag. Joe turned his attention back to the real world and waited for the rookie to reach them.
"Sir, we've got about two ounces, assorted pipes and cash. The couple won't give us much except that the deceased was the dealer."
"What about personal effects? Did you get ID? Any contact numbers?"
The young cop shook his head. "She had some bad fake stuff. No drivers license, birth certificate -Nothing." He continued past them and deposited the bag in the trunk of his cruiser.
Joe turned to Sue and asked her "Do you want to go in first or do you want to see the boy?"
"What do you think?" She asked. "Is there anyone inside, who could help him through this?"
"There's a big black woman, who was holding him when we got here."
"Lola." She said. "She scared the hell out of me the first time I was here. She's alright though. I don't know how she got tangled up with this bunch."
"Alright, I'll go finish my story with Carl." Joe turned to leave then stopped. "Have you ever seen a four year old like him? He's still sittin' there waiting for me, look at him."
Carl sat right where he had been. When Joe had left, Carl had spotted some ants trying to help an injured one back to the hill. They weren't having much luck. Carl slid a blade of grass under the injured ant and carefully lifted it closer to the ant's tiny hill, around the backside of the apple tree.
Sue walked into a Hurricane.
"You Fuckin' Liars. You're all crack heads, -'cept me 'n the boy." Lola stood wide legged, arms out to the side, circling like a bear surrounded by dogs. She had listened to Don and Gracie feed the cops line after line. "I oughta have kicked your asses a long time ago. Now look what you done!"
"Y'all wanna know the real truth of this here matter?" She was seeing red. "These two is too fuckin' stupid to be dealha's. But they was smart 'nough to make Kim fall off the wagon. I had that girl fixin' herself up until they come along…now what you gonna do huh?" Lola turned to Don "You 'n your asshole friends -makin' Kimmy shut me up when I raised a fuss…How you feel now, Asshole?"
One of the officers carefully moved closer to Don, worried that the big woman was about to rip his head off. "You happy? Look at that lil' boy out there…who gonna dry his tears now…Huh?" she lowered her head even further and locked Don's sunken eyes with hers "You get your belly off the ground an' take your lumps. You hear me? And you TELL them where it came from, Kim never brought it here, you tell them the truth."
The officers had timed it well. Don would have rotted in jail before giving up his dealer's name. Lola's attack had touched all the points they would have tried themselves in the interrogation room. Lola had "broken" him better than they could have. With her voice ringing in their ears the officers cuffed both Gracie and Don on trafficking charges and led them out. The big woman stood breathing hard in the middle of the room as it cleared out.
Sue was a little uneasy as the door closed behind her and she found herself alone with Lola.
"Are you gonna be okay, Lola?" she asked
Lola gave a little start, realizing Sue was there.
Now that the battle was over the big woman was calming down. Her sadness seemed amplified by her size. She swayed over to the couch and lowered herself, still breathing hard. She didn't look at Sue. "Well, I guess you gonna have to take the boy now." She closed her eyes and Sue could see her whole body shake as she started to cry, silently.
Sue was like Joe with her emotions. Yet, she couldn't help feeling sorry for the woman. She sat across from her on the littered coffee table and reached across for one of her big hands.
"We need to think about Carl right now Lola." Sue waited for Lola to open her eyes.
"We need to find Kim's family. Was she from around here?"
"She never would say. I only heard her talk 'bout her papa once. She never told me 'bout her mama or where she'd come from." Lola wiped her face with a tissue then continued, "I think that girl had some ghosts chasin' her. She weren't all bad y'know. She loved that boy…Couldn't keep her head on straight long enough to fix her problems, but when she didn't smoke that stuff you couldn't ask for a better momma. You couldn't a-seen that when you was here last time, that's why I lit your tail outta here. I know that lil' boy should have better… but him an' his momma were all each other had. I figured with me watchin' over them, they wouldn't fall too far…they'd be better off than apart…I guess I was wrong."
"We have to tell him." Sue said.
Lola sniffed and wiped some more and nodded. "I'll tell 'im. He don't need to hear it from a stranguh."
Sue agreed.
Joe and Sue waited outside. They watched as the little boy reached for the doorknob and went inside. They were both raw with apprehension, knowing the pain that waited for him on the other side of the door. They gave each other an embarrassed smile as they wiped tears -professionals weren't supposed to act this way.
After a long time, the door opened.
The pair took this as Lola's message to come in. They made their way into the quiet house. Lola cradled Carl as if he were an infant. Neither of them noticed Joe and Sue's entry.
Before the other policemen left they had agreed that Joe would stay behind and look for more clues about Kim and Carl's past. It was important, for the boy's sake, to find a relative. Foster homes were a wonderful resource but they lacked the closeness and security that a lonely and scared child needed. Sue followed Joe into Kim's bedroom.
Clothes covered the floor, hung from the headboard of the bed and poked out of the dresser drawers. The top of the dresser was littered with fake jewelry, earrings, imitation perfumes and pennies. Joe lifted the top off a jewelry box, The container was crammed full of pawn tickets: Sony portable cd player…$25.00, Remington blow dryer…$5.00, Sm. Leather jacket…$25.00, English saddle…$250.00, Antique photo album…$10.00, Lil' Tykes child's bed…$50.00.The list went on and on. Joe's heart sank and he lost a lot of respect for Kim when he saw Carl's bed "ticket"…What a Loser! The tickets all originated from the same pawnshop on Metcalf Rd. Joe noted the address and tucked a couple of the tickets in his book. In the drawers he found a couple of empty baggies, a broken pipe and a syringe, no information about her past, nothing.
It was starting to look like little Carl was going to become a Ward of the Court.
Sue came out of the walk-in closet carrying a turtle backpack. Her eyes were sad, she motioned for Joe to join her. He noticed a slide bolt on the outside of the closet door and experienced a pang of distaste for what he suspected lay on the other side of the door.
This was Carl's room.
His bed was a sleeping bag on the floor, the hangers were empty. Carl had decorated the walls of his little room-prison with surprisingly good stick people. Some had big eyes and sharp teeth, others were softer looking…None of them were smiling. In the corner behind the door was a half-full, antique chamber pot. The smell of urine was strong with the door open, Joe hated to think what it would be like with the door closed and then bolted. The floor was littered, like his mother's, but not with clothes. There were empty potato chip bags, chocolate bar wrappers and empty pop cans; obviously Carl's favorite food was ketchup chips, Oh Henry chocolate bars and Cream Soda pop.
Joe made a quick search of the clothes laying about the room. Turning up nothing else useful, he joined Sue, who was waiting for him at the door.
"Where will he go tonight?" Joe asked
"I've got a couple places in mind but I'll have to check once we get back to the office," she said.
"If you'd like…"
Sue smiled, knowing what he was getting at, "Do you have any extra room at your place?"
Joe nodded. "I haven't finished my story. My shift ends tonight and I'll be home for a couple days. That should give us a couple of days to track down his relatives."
"Your kind of getting involved, aren't you Joe?" Sue smiled, happy that Carl would be saved the trauma of being shifted to a complete stranger's house.
"I don't care, once in awhile you've got to go with your heart instead of some goddamn ol' manual. Joyce won't mind and aside from Lola the boy hasn't got a friend in this world…that we know of anyway."
"Alright then, lets go talk to him."

Carl craned his neck, trying to see over the dashboard as the cruiser pulled out onto the highway. The radio crackled giving the boy one more distraction to help keep his mind off things. Joe wondered whether he should drop the boy off at his house, or let him tag along until the end of the shift. He decided to keep Carl with him. The Captain would frown on him for getting involved and especially for bringing the boy into the office, but Joe wasn't one to spend much time worrying about little things. He was a good cop and the Captain knew better than anyone -that unless there was real cause for intervening, to give Joe room and let him do his job the way he saw fit.
"Are you hungry Carl?" Joe asked.
"Only a little."
"Great, cause I'm starved! Do you like hamburgers?" Carl opened his eyes wide and nodded his head.
Joe let Carl carry the bag of burgers and fries into the station. He carried his briefcase and the drinks. He settled Carl at his desk, laying out the kid's meal, toy included, and munched his burger while he called Joyce and gave her a rundown of his day. She seemed excited with the prospect of having a child in the house again.
He checked on the guys' progress in figuring out who Kim really was. Gracie and Don had been released. They hadn't been able to provide any further information about the deceased. Gracie had broken down and a unit was on its way to the dealer's house to bust as much of the deadly crack off the streets as they could. The captain kept his distance and never said a word.
Joe was amazed. Little Carl was as good as gold. He played with his new toy, and doodled on a pad of paper he'd been supplied with. Joe caught him staring at nothing a couple of times. He knew the biggest challenge would come that night at bedtime.

2
The big tree landed with a "Whommp", some of the big branches at the base cracked sharply sending pieces of wood and dust back up into the air. He thumbed the switch and the chainsaw's engine died. Setting it down he turned and looked back over his creation.
Several small rustic cabins sat nestled in the groomed forest. The horses, well accustomed to the noise of construction grazed in the rolling pasture, a couple more ate further up the low hill that eventually gave way to a steeper ridge that ran the length of his property. The dogs lounged around his trailer disinterested in his efforts.
Stanley Douglas Stevenson stretched his back and wiped his dusty forehead. This was the last tree, the culmination of nearly five years of back-breaking, sometimes heart-breaking labor. He'd sunk his whole life into this place. From fighting politicians and the Pulp Mill to begging with bankers, he'd set precedents and accomplished what most people said couldn't be done. There were those who saw him as a hero and others that thought him eccentric. The closer he came to his goals, the number of people that called him crazy dwindled.
He collected his gear and headed for the trailer. Night was closing in and his belly was screaming for a fill up. A couple of the horses nickered to him as he neared. "Hi Patch. Whatta ya' doin' Reddy." He said. His voice seemed foreign. The rest of the horses picked up their heads when they heard his voice. Queenie and Mocha started down from the hillside. The dogs danced around him, familiar to the evening routine. He unrolled the bag of dog food and dished out three individual piles. He pulled the starter cord on the little generator before going inside.
The inside of his trailer was a contradiction to the well ordered work site. The interior was a mass of piles, papers, work clothes, tools, cooking utensils. To the casual visitor it was a mess. To Stan it was a well calculated arrangement of necessary items. The trailer was a 30 x 10 feet wide holiday camper that he had skidded onto the place at the start of his construction. It was home, cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but it was dry and paid for.
He removed his work boots and chainsaw pants. He leaned back in the only free seat in the place and checked his cell phone messages.
There were none.
Reaching the stove without getting up he lit the burner under the kettle, tonight Ichiban soup, cheese and the last of his bread. Tomorrow he'd have to go into town for groceries, mail and another heart to heart with his banker.
After he'd eaten he started his night shift, clearing his tools, plates and other clutter on the table he powered up his notebook computer and spent a few hours working on his website design. When his brain got fuzzy and his eyes burned he called it a night and turned in. He had all winter to finish it, there was no sense in pushing himself too far. It was only September.
Sleep came fast while the last of the sunset's colors washed his little home.

3
Carl woke up completely disoriented. A big lump of fear lay in his belly and he felt sad all over. He slid out of bed and quietly left the bedroom. The house was still mostly dark. Yesterday morning he had thought the day felt different. Today was just plain scary.
He started remembering where he was as the sleep cleared his head. He liked Joe and Joyce. Joe had finished telling him the story of King Arthur at bedtime and Joyce had made him supper with pudding for desert.
Then he remembered what Lola had said. She had told him his mom had gone to heaven. She'd told him that when people die they don't come back, but that they stay with you in your heart. He didn't know where his heart was and he couldn't find his mom anywhere. Carl slumped down in the kitchen doorway and started to cry. His thoughts kept flashing pictures of his mom; brushing his teeth, seeing her through tear filled eyes as she rubbed his hurt elbow and laying beside her in bed, the way she would stroke his cheek and sing him to sleep. She had been a good singer and he didn't know how he would fall asleep again.
Joe found him there a few minutes later, sitting up in a ball, his bony little knees tucked into his chest silently weeping. Joe picked him up and hugged him close. Carl didn't resist. Joe felt the little boys tears drop onto his shoulder. Carl squeezed Joe's neck so tight he had a hard time breathing -he didn't mind. He just squeezed him back and stood quietly, allowing Carl the time to grieve that he had needed.
A few minutes later, when Joyce came out of the bedroom she found them in the same position. She rubbed Carl's back and saw the tears in her husband's eyes. She turned on the kitchen lights and went about making breakfast, even though she didn't think anybody would have a very big appetite.
The smell of bacon helped pull Carl out of his despair. He had eaten like a little horse at supper last night and he was hungry this morning. Joyce smiled as he wolfed down the egg, toast and back bacon she'd put in front of him. She thought the poor little guy probably hasn't eaten like this in his whole life -she was right.
"What do you say we go and pick up your wagon after breakfast?" Joe asked him
"Aakay." Carl said, nodding, a little toast fell from his over full mouth.
Joyce came downstairs with a set of clothes for Carl. They had been their son's, neatly stored away for nearly twenty years. She helped him dress, brushed his hair for him and told him how handsome he looked. Carl beamed back at her. "Would you like to watch some TV?" She asked. Carl nodded and followed her into the living room. She flicked through the stations until she found a kid's program and watched him fall into the fixed gaze of the TV buzz.
When Joe had finished his morning business he came downstairs and found Joyce in the kitchen.
"I'm going to take him back to his place and pick up his wagon. It's the only toy he has." He said.
Joyce touched her husband's face and nodded. "Okay, he's going to need something. Are they going to be able to find his relatives?"
"I don't know."
"There were no birth records, ID…nothing." He said
Carl didn't crane his neck over the dashboard this morning. He was still pleasant and polite, but the shock was wearing off. Carl was becoming depressed, and Joe hoped the little wagon would help.
The old farm house was dark. Carl brightened as they pulled up to the house. He unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out before Joe could make it around to help him. Lola came to the door wearing a flowery night gown that could have doubled as a two man tent. Carl ran to her as fast as his legs would carry him
"Oh baby. Did you sleep good?" she asked picking him up and hugging him. Carl nodded and hugged her back.
"Joyce made me breakfast and I watched TV. I had some eggs and bacon and juice and Joe bring me to get my wagon." Carl stopped. He looked at Joe and then back to Lola. "You wanna come to Joe's house?"
Lola gave him a deep chuckle and gave him another short hug. "Oh boy, no. Lola's gotta stay here and watch this old place. Gracie and Don left so I've gotta look out for all of our stuff."
Carl started to wriggle in her arms so she let him down. He ran off toward the apple tree and his wagon.
Joe looked at Lola. "How are you, Lola"
"I'm a'right. I worry 'bout that boy though. You takin' good care of him?"
"As best we can." He said. "Do you know which hospital he was born in? Anything?"
The big woman shook her head. "He was 'bout four months old when I moved in here. Kim was in awful shape. I tended to the boy more 'n she did at first. We would talk sometimes and after awhile she left the dope alone and started lovin' the boy."
She gathered up her night gown and sat down on the step. "We used to sit out here some nights and she'd sing him to sleep in her arms. She had a singin' voice like you've never heard. I think she used to make money with it but I could never get her to talk about her past."
The wagon made a racket as Carl came running back toward them.
"If you find something that would help us can you give me a call?" Joe asked, handing Lola his card. "I sure will" she said taking it from him.
"Well Carl, we better get going." Joe said as the boy came to a stop at the base of the stairs. "Is there anything else you want from here?"
Carl thought for a moment then shook his head "Jus' my wagon."
"C'mere baby and give Lola a hug." She was tearing up as the little boy moved into her arms. "You don't be a stranguh now, okay?" The little boy looked up at her face and gave a solemn nod.

Joe turned the radio on as they hit the highway. Within a few minutes he glanced over and saw that Carl had fallen asleep. He took his time driving back to town. He remembered doing this with his kids, driving slowly to allow them time for a good nap on the way to or back from places they'd been. He didn't really have any plans for the day so there was no rush to get anywhere. A light turned red and he pulled to a stop.
The street sign read, "Metcalf road." The road meant something but he couldn't quite recall why. The light turned back to green and he started driving again. His forehead was creased, trying hard to piece the name with the reason for its importance.
He cut off a green Beetle when he remembered. He circled the block while he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. The address on the pawn ticket said, "10895 Metcalf road." He found the hole-in-the-wall shop tucked between a liquor store and a tattoo parlor.
He pulled up in front of the store. Tilted Carl's seat back, and gently moved the boy's head so that he wouldn't have a sore neck when he woke up. He locked the van and went inside.
His first thought inside the store was that Lola would never have made it in here. The aisles were narrow, the shelves overflowing with a wide assortment of personal effects, claimed by the shopkeeper for nonpayment of overdue loans, or stolen goods pawned for a quick buck.
The man behind the counter looked as shifty as the stuff on the shelves.
Joe handed him the tickets. Hoping that Kim's stuff was still there.
The man went to his desk behind the counter and pulled out a large, black ledger. He had to flip through a few pages to find the spot. He jotted something down on a notepad and came back to the counter.
"$180.00" He announced.
"What do you mean!" Joe said. "The tickets are for $70.00"
The shopkeeper didn't flinch. "You are three months late." He said pointing to a sign beside the counter.
UNCLAIMED ITEMS: $20.00 PER/MONTH STORAGE FEE
Joe thought about leaving and coming back with a warrant, but Carl's bed wouldn't be considered as necessary to the investigation. He pulled out his wallet again and handed the man his Visa card.
Carl woke up when they bumped over the curb at Joe's house. He smiled at Joe and stretched.
"I've got something for you" Joe told him. "It's a surprise so I want you to take your wagon and pick some peaches off the tree out back…okay?"
"Aakay" Carl said.
Joe got Carl set up in the backyard and returned to the van for the bed. Joyce and Joe worked together. They dismantled and stored their old bed and replaced it with Carl's Little Tykes bed that was shaped like a racecar. When it was ready, Joe carefully laid the second item on the pillow.
The photo album was ancient. He didn't know if Carl had ever seen it before, but he was sure there would be some insights into the boy and his mother's past. Joe had quickly leafed through it in the pawn shop, there were pictures of a young Kim -these Joe thought would be precious to the boy as he grew older. He went to the backdoor and called him.
Joyce and Joe tried to contain their laughter. Carl had two peaches in the wagon and one in his hand. His face was shiny with juice, the front of his shirt was soaked as well. He had been feasting. When he reached the back step he put his own peach down and offered one each to his hosts. Joyce took them and thanked him. They walked inside together, stopping at the mud room sink to wipe Carl's hands and face.
"My bed!!" He squealed as he launched himself toward it. He sat on the pillow and started to drive. His whole being was glowing. "RRRrrrrmmmmm." It was like Christmas for him.
"What this Joe?" he said after parking the car and noticing the album aside.
Joe came to the side of the bed and sat on the floor. He reached over Carl and pulled the old, ornately decorated, leather covered album toward him. "It's a picture book I found. It used to be your mom's." Carl laid on his belly ready to look at the pictures.
The first page held four pictures: the first picture had been taken in a hospital, a tired looking woman held a newborn - presumably Kim, bundled in a pink blanket. The next picture was the same infant sleeping in the hospital nursery. The bottom two pictures were much the same, sleeping infant, except that the pictures were taken in someone's house. In the center of the page was a lock of soft looking, golden hair.
It was obvious from the layout that this had been Kim's baby book. "Do you know who this lady is?" Joe asked Carl, pointing to the mother in the pictures, but not really expecting him to know.
"Yup!" Carl said proudly "That's a momma an' a baby."
The second page showed the infant a year older, in a jolly jumper and then taking a first step. As the pages turned the child grew. The album had been created with obvious care and love. Unfortunately there were no easily identified landmarks or road signs in the pictures.
The fourth page gave Joe some hope. The young girl sat holding a trophy on a small brown horse. The shot had been taken at a fairground. Her proud father stood beside her, helping to hold the trophy and steady the horse. Behind the pair, the announcer's booth could be seen and a part of a banner read:
C------n County -air
Their heads blocked out most of the name but Joe was sure this was his first lead.
Turning the pages the child grew, Carl started to recognize the girl as his mom. He stopped chatting about the individual pictures and stared.
"I miss my mom." He said
"I know you do, pal." Joe reached over and rubbed his back.
On the last page the girl was holding another trophy. This time she was on stage. Musical instruments were set up in the background. She was dressed in tight pants and a halter top. Her smile was brilliant. There were no clues except the band name, "Mud Wash" on the big bass drum.
"That's my mom!" Carl announced, fully recognizing her in this last picture.
Always the cop, Joe took out his note book and wrote the band name down. He then flipped back to the other picture he needed and carefully removed it from the book. "I'm going to take this picture for now Carl; I think this will help us find your grandma and grandpa."
Carl gave him the same quizzical look that he had before, "What a gran'ma 'n gran'pa?"
Joe ruffled Carl's hair and said, "A grandma and grandpa, would be your mom's mother and father." He pointed to the man in the picture, "That would be your grandpa" Carl took a closer look at the man and nodded, deep in four-year old thought.

Joe left Carl with Joyce while he took the photograph to the station. The initial toxicology report was on his desk -it was no surprise to anyone. Kim had died as a result of an overdose. Heroin.
He found Tim, the young rookie who had bagged the evidence at the house yesterday. He gave him the picture and sent him off to make copies. His hope was that even if the picture was old, someone might recognize the background and be able to give them a location to start their search -it was a long-shot at best. A finger print search hadn't turned anything up and the dental records were days away. He had to be careful not to ruffle any feathers; Kim was just another dead junkie, and their protocol didn't allow for much expenditure of resources to find and notify next of kin. Most were either estranged from their relatives or untraceable.
He sat down at his desk and tried Sue.
"Sue Litke speaking."
"Hi Sue, it's Joe."
Her tone softened "Hi. How are you making out?"
"Great. We went out to the house this morning and got his wagon."
"Listen Joe, I've got to run right now but I've arranged for him to be placed at the Jorgensen's. Could you drop him off there for me?"
"No." He said, a tone of finality edging into his voice. "He's fine at our place Sue. Joyce has him set up in Jake's old room. He's fine."
There was a pause on the line. "Joe, I know this will seem…absurd, but you and Joyce aren't foster parents…he can't stay with you."
"Well then we'll become foster parents!" Joe said. "He's not going anywhere, Sue. I know you have your rules but this little guy needs some peace and quiet. We've started a search for his relatives this morning, and I hope to have some answers tonight or tomorrow."
"Joe…"
"Sue, for Christ sakes! Tell your higher ups I'm his third cousin twice removed."
Sue sat back in her chair and shook her head. There was no use in arguing with Joe. "Not that it's going to do any good, but stop by my office and fill out some forms for me. Okay?" she said.
"Okay. When will you be back in the office? I've got a photo I want you to look at." He said.
"I'll be back in around two."
"I'll see you then. Thanks Sue…Bye."
Tim returned with the photograph and sat down. "I put it in digital format and emailed it to everyone. Anything else you want me to do?" he asked.
"Thanks Tim. I guess we just have to wait now." Joe said looking at the picture.
"I thought this was your day off?"
"Ya, it is. I just want to get this kid where he belongs."
"Well, I could do a search of the newspapers. If the girl in the picture won a prize they might have done a write up about it."
Joe shook his head. "There'd be too many. God, every little jerkwater town would have something like that…we don't even know what year this was. And it's not very likely she was using her real name."
Tim smiled "Ya' but there aren't that many counties that start with a "C" and end with an "N". Want me give it a shot?"
Joe liked this kid. He was a digger. "Sure, but look out for the captain, he'll flip if he finds out your spending time digging up a trail on a dead junkie."
"Gotcha." Tim got up. "He'll be pretty impressed if he sees you here on your day off." Joe smiled at him. "Don't forget, I've been getting things done behind his back since you were just a twinkle in your daddy's eye; if he sees me in here today he'll think I just forgot to stay home."
Joe shuffled the papers around on his desk for awhile; he had time to kill before Sue made it back to her office. He worried, a little, that Child Protection Services would try and move the boy to a real foster home. He'd been to many of the homes, over the years, they were run by wonderful people, but they were also paid for their work. Most of the homes contained two or three kids and he just couldn't see little Carl bouncing around with other kids…not yet. He doesn't know what a grandparent is…chances are he hasn't spent much time with other kids either.
With that thought in mind he packed up his stuff. He had a couple of hours, Carl would probably enjoy getting out of the house for awhile. There was a park just down the road from their house, it was his day off, and Tim could handle whatever turned up in his search. And Joe was confident the young cop would let him know as soon as he heard anything new.

4
Stan left the bank feeling hopeful. He'd finished his business plan and the commercial loans officer had appeared impressed. She'd raised some concerns about the property being a government lease, but had said that considering the amount of work he'd put into the place and the size of personal investment he had injected, things looked good. He'd have to wait a day or two for their answer, but with or without them he'd be in business next spring.
The loan he had applied for would carry him through the winter. In the past, he had locked things up for the winter, and gone to work. Investing his earnings every spring to fulfill his dream. He was so close now, and he'd done it all from the ground up. The operation would house tourists, and provide them with wildlife viewing, horse-back riding, fishing and historic tours. All based from his place, which lay at the entrance to a pristine mountain valley. He'd gotten the idea from a famous artist he'd met years ago, they had spent two weeks riding the valley and camping. The artist used rolls and rolls of film, shooting the abundant wildlife for his next series of paintings. Around the campfire at nights he eventually convinced Stan that the area and his skills were marketable and in high demand. A little research had substantiated his claims and Stan had gone to work. The hardest part of his venture had been securing land from the forestry department. He'd found out just how corrupt the government and big business was -there were a lot of stuffed shirts in high-rises, that would like to see Stan land on his head falling from a real tall horse.
After leaving the bank he did some shopping and headed back to the place. There were signs of the battle going on between the logging companies and environmentalist everywhere. Bumper stickers; Hug a logger - you'll never go back to trees marked the forestry workers. The environmentalists had free newsletters stationed at most bulletin boards and news racks. He thought they were both being a little extreme, and tried to stay way from both sides. His heart was with the tree-huggers, the vast strips of clear cutting fouled the scenery and made it hard for him to pick his tour routes through the forest without having to ride through the jumbled mess they left behind. He'd seen far too many deer and elk lame - he thought, because of the raw condition the land was left in: sharp sticks, broken rocks and potholes in the earth.
He had to pass the pulp mill on his way out of town. A small group of protesters marched back and forth in front of the main entrance. He smiled to himself, the protesters all looked like they'd been cut from the same cloth, dreadlocks and Rasta hats. Where did they get those kinds of clothes? He'd never seen the likes of them, in any store he shopped in. They could have been protesting for the legalization of marijuana or the release of captive whales; they were a small contingent of throwback or remnant hippies from the sixties…thirty years late…actually he didn't see one that was old enough to even remember the "Summer of Love".
He could relate to them though, he'd spent his time as a protester. He had never quiet managed the dreadlocks or the earthy clothes, but he'd been involved in a couple demonstrations one summer. His thinking hadn't been all that clear, he'd been madly in love and she had convinced him that making a stand would bring them closer together. It had. They'd formed a human chain across a logging road. They were really close until the cops arrived and they were separated -men in one cell, women in another.
Laura.
This was a dangerous spot in his memory.
She had been his one real love. As the years passed, it was getting easier, but occasionally, like now, the memories would flood back in, and everything would come back to him.
He'd taken a job at the Driftwood Ranch. The ranch catered to tourists, and provided trail rides and hunting expeditions. He'd been hired as summer help around the barn. A little brown horse had changed all that.
One night around the supper table the trainers were joking and talking about a horse they'd just renamed "Stupid". They told the owner that there was not much anybody could do with him. He'd thrown every rider that had been on him, and just wouldn't take to training.
Stan walked back to the bunkhouse that night with the old teamster, (where did the old teamster come from: introduce him) and asked him which horse they were talking about. As they walked passed the main corral the old man pointed the horse out. The horse was tiny. He sure didn't look like a killer to Stan.
That night after the other guys had gone in and were involved in their card games and beer drinking, Stan went outside.
In the growing darkness he walked through the herd. Several of them crowded around him, and followed. Eventually, in the far corner of the corral he found Stupid. The little horse was what he would call a pony. His coat was dull and rough looking compared with the other sleek, well-groomed horses.
With the other horses close behind him, Stan walked up to the pony. He was surprised when the pony didn't move to get away from him. He held his hand out to the young horse and experienced something he had never known horses to do.
Stupid put his nose out to Stan and then licked his palm once. Then again. Stan didn't move and the pony kept on licking. Stupid would have licked his hand raw! Thinking that maybe there was something on his hand the horse liked, he put it out to a different horse that were standing nearby - nothing; none of the other horses were the least bit interested. When he moved away -Stupid followed, not behind him like the other horses, right beside him. The little pony had found a friend, and was letting Stan know without question that he wanted to be his pal.
The other ranch hands had all been there for years. Stan kept mostly to himself. He did his job well, and everyone liked him. The next afternoon when they were between trail groups, they brought up Stupid again.
"The little bastard threw Darren this morning. I think the old man oughta ship him to the glue factory," said Bruce, the lead trainer.
"Yea, he's sure dumber 'n shit, that horse." One of the wranglers added, "there ain't an ounce of sense in him."
Stan knew they were wrong. "Let me try him." He said to Bruce. Stan felt his face redden as all of the hands laughed at him…except the old teamster.
"You go right ahead, Stan." Bruce grinned always ready for some excitement. He had never seen the new kid ride. The other hands grinned and elbowed each other readying themselves for some fun.
"I'll go catch him for ya'" one of them said.
"No. That's alright. I'll get him, which one is he?" Stan asked covering up what he knew, but also a little uncertain because there were three or four young brown horses that looked much the same.
"He's that one over in the corner there" The same guy said pointing to Stan's pal from last night. He stepped into the tack shed and collected his saddle, blanket and bridle. He set it down outside the corral and walked in to catch his little friend. Stupid stood like he had been waiting for him forever. Stan knew what he had to do, but this was the first time he had performed with an audience.
Stan lightly touched the horse's nose. He felt the horse reciprocate, nudging his hand, gently pushing at him with his nose. There were no licks from him today, but Stan wasn't worried about that. He stood stalk still and slowly moved his feather-soft touch up the horse's cheek to the sensitive area behind his ears at the top of his neck. He slipped his thumb under the halter's throat latch and lifted it, giving the pony a brief moment of relief from it's weight. His other hand came up between the horse's eyes and he rested it there gently. Stupid's head started to lower. Stan could feel the muscles relaxing on the horses neck. The horse was nearly ready.
"Hey, are you going to do this today?" One of the hands yelled. A chorus of laughter followed.
Stan inhaled sharply, it was involuntary, and the horse's head popped up, looking toward the now laughing and chattering group of men. Stan could feel his face getting red again but it wasn't from embarrassment this time.
He clipped the lead-shank to the pony's halter and in a soothing whisper said, "Come on Pal, lets show these assholes what you're made of."
He opened the gate, and led the horse out of the corral. The group of men stood in a rough semi-circle.
"What're you doin' with him out here?" the smart-ass said.
"Saddling him," Stan answered, keeping his attention fully on the horse. He circled the horse and brought him to a standstill beside his pile of tack. He was jumping ahead of the way he would normally have worked the horse, but the need to show his boss that the horse was not stupid, was worth the risk. The "Feeling" the horse was giving him allowed him to skip one very crucial step, but compared to what the little horse had gone through at the hands of the cowboys, he felt pretty certain there wouldn't be any bucking.
That feeling changed when he picked up the saddle blanket and moved toward the horse with it. The pony's eyes widened and he sidestepped, acting like a colt that had never been saddled before.
"HEY! Aren't you going to tie him up!" Cowboy Smart-ass said
Stan had to get rid of these guys. They were too close, and the horse was picking up on his frustration. He put the saddle blanket down and turned to them.
"Look you guys. I'm going to do this my way." Giving them a hard look he took a step toward them, away from the horse. "By the sounds of it your way hasn't worked. You can watch, but go stand over there and be quiet." He pointed to a hitching rail some distance away, All heads turned to where he pointed, a spot where the old teamster was already resting.
Bruce grinned, and led the group of hands away from the horse and Stan. A couple of the cowboys weren't smiling anymore, acting like kids that had had their hands slapped away from the cookie jar. Bruce was quietly impressed; Stan had been quiet, polite and laid-back since his arrival, this was a different side of the young stable-boy and he kind of liked it.
Stan went back to focusing on the horse. He had to repeat the petting and calming he had done in the corral. With the men moved farther back it only took a few seconds. The horse felt secure with him.
He picked the blanket up again and held it up to the horse's nose, keeping it low he rubbed the horse's cheek with it and slowly moved his way up to the neck and then down to the horse's shoulder. All the while he did this he talked in a low monotone voice, holding the horse's eye with his peripheral vision, only when the horse started to get distracted would he look directly into one eye, his body parallel with the horse. Once the blanket was on the horse's back, he bent over the saddle and hooked the stirrups over the horn, he laid the cinch on top of it all and carefully picked it up. By now the horse was under Stan's spell. His eyes were soft and relaxed and he hardly lifted his head when Stan put the bundle of leather under his nose.
"You better tie him up!" Smart-ass said
"Shut up and watch," said a voice full of authority. Smart-ass jumped aside as the Owner joined the group of men.
The young horse didn't care about the men anymore, they were far enough away and the feeling of security he was getting from the man handling him was complete.
Stan finished saddling him and then slid the bridal over his halter. Usually he would have taken it off, but he wasn't going to ride him for long and he wanted to lead him for a short distance with the saddle on. Stan moved him around a little with the weight on his back, the horse didn't seem to mind. He reached back and let one stirrup down and then the other. The horse sidestepped a couple of times looking, back at the flopping straps at his side. Stan maintained his calm composure and tone with the horse - the pony believed him, and calmed down almost instantly.
The pair started down the road toward the recreation area of the ranch. The men held their spots not knowing what Stan had in mind. When it was obvious that he wasn't planning on coming back they all followed, the old teamster limping behind.
Stan planned on mounting the horse on the volleyball court. The deep sand would be a good place to land if he was wrong, and a good place to take the first few steps with the horse if he was right. If the horse was uncertain about his footing he would be less likely to act up. They arrived ahead of the men, and it gave Stan some time to reassure the horse, put weight on the saddle and slap the stirrup leather to show the horse there was nothing wrong, even if there were things that felt different or sounded scary. By the time the men caught up he was ready to get on.
The men knew the rules by now and kept their distance.
Stan took hold of the horse's headstall, and gently brought his head around so that he was watching Stan put his feet in the stirrups. He held onto the bridal and reins in one hand and took hold of the saddle horn. Stan forced himself to keep the same tone in his voice as he pulled himself up over the horse's back. He kept the horse looking at him by hanging onto the bridal, while he fished for the stirrup on the far side with his toe.
Once he was all set he freed the horses head and kept talking and stroking his neck. The young horse turned his head to look at Stan's right leg, sniffed his boot and then turned his attention to the group of men who stood -very quiet now, waiting for the action to start.
It never did.
Stan pulled the pony's head to the right, clucked a little and shifted his weight to the right. The pony was gently thrown off balance and started to move to the right. As soon as this happened, Stan centered himself in the saddle and stroked the horse's neck. He let the horse walk a short distance and then gently pulled on the reins and said, "Whoa." He repeated the whole process in the other direction, then back the other way allowing the horse to walk in ever increasing arcs. The pony quickly caught on to what Stan was telling him and after the second set of "stop's" and "go's," Stan didn't have to throw the horse off balance to get him going. When the horse did this, Stan steered the horse into walking a straight line (away from the men). He stopped the pony at the edge of the sand and stroked his neck, hoping that the excitement he was feeling from their success wouldn't scare the horse.
He turned the horse around and rode him right up to Bruce. Stan reached up the horse's neck and got hold of the headstall, he pulled the young horse's head around so it could watch him get off. He dismounted and stood in front of his boss and the other men. Bruce smiled at him with new found respect and admiration.
The group of men parted as Stan led the horse through them, back to the barnyard. He unsaddled the pony, and turned him loose with the other horses. He returned his tack to the shed, picked up the wheelbarrow and shovel and went back to work cleaning stalls.
"You did pretty good out there, Kid."
Stan turned to see the Old Teamster grinning at him.
"Thanks." He said, continuing his work.
"The Big Boss wants you to go up to the house when you're finished here." The old man took out his hanky and blew his nose, "I think you might have found yourself another job."
Stan had been bursting with excitement since getting off the horse. He'd managed to do something that the others admitted they couldn't do. Luck had allowed the Owner to be watching, and his mind had been racing with all kinds of possibilities. If he could get hired on as a trainer, he wouldn't have to worry about finding another job in a couple of months. Only the trainers stayed on the ranch year-round.
The rest of the barn cleaning flew-by. Stan brushed his clothes off as he headed for the big house. There were a three people sitting in the shade of the veranda as he entered the yard.
"Stanley. Come on in." The Owner said, greeting him from the top of the stairs, "Have a chair, young man."
The Owner's name was Owen Callaghan, he was a soft spoken Irishman who had fought his way up, raising, showing and selling thoroughbreds. His wife Ruth was seated with their guest at the patio table.
"Stan, you know Ruth, this is my daughter Laura."
Laura smiled at Stan…
She was breath-taking. Stan could hear bits of what Owen was saying, but his thoughts were consumed by his daughter's smile.
"Laura…home from school…musician…"
Stan forced himself to take his eyes off her, and concentrate on the conversation.
"…How did you manage to get that pony to let you ride him?"
Stan shrugged his shoulders and said, "I guess he just trusted me."
Owen nodded "Where'd you learn to train?"
Stan shifted in his chair, "My Grandpa taught me." He forced himself to not stare at Laura.
"Would you like some iced tea" Mrs. Callaghan asked.
"Yes please," Stan said, "Thank you"
Stan felt very self-conscious as he tasted the cold sweet drink. His three hosts watched him. "Oh, this is very good, thank you," he said to Mrs. Callaghan. She smiled and thanked him for his compliment.
"What are you plans for the winter, Stan?" Owen asked him.
He didn't want to sound like he had none. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well, I planned on heading back to my grandparent's in October, to make sure they're set for winter. After that I figured I'd go back into the oil-patch for the winter."
The Callaghans warmed even more to him. Ruth thought, "Such a nice lad. Taking care of his grandparents like that, and hardly more than a teenager, such a responsible sort."
"How would you like to work here for the winter?" Owen asked.
There it was. The question he'd been waiting for - the one he wanted to hear. Stan looked at Owen, trying to suppress his grin, "Well, I think that would be great. I love it here."
"Good, you spend the rest of the summer in the barns. In your spare time I want you to work with that colt you had out today, and show me what you can do. We'll talk about your wage for the winter, come September. Alright?"
Owen stood and put out his hand. "Of course, we'll give you a week or two to go and check on your family," he said shaking hands with Stan. Who had risen from his chair and was standing on shaky legs.
He was elated. His grandpa would be so proud of him. He wanted to be a trainer, but he had thought the other guys, with more experience would have been the boss's first picks. He had thought that after a few years of working summers he may eventually get a chance to escalate to trainer status. Not in his wildest dreams, had he imagined the boss would be offering him the opportunity part-way through his first season at the ranch. He couldn't believe his good fortune.
There were men twice his age that would drool over the chance he had just been given. His feet barely touched the ground on his way back to the barnyard. He was only twenty years old, but he knew enough about human nature to keep quiet about the offer. All the hands on the ranch vied for the position of trainer. Bruce, the lead hand, left every fall to return to his own farm; before he left, Owen and Bruce made their selections for the two people to keep on over the winter.
Bernie Moberly was a shoe-in, he had been working the Callaghan's horses for fifteen years and his 2nd was the only real decision there was to be made. Bernie was getting on in years and not able to handle the rough colts anymore. Bernie did the polishing phase of training the new horses. He knew the right amount of pressure to put on a horse to have it become "Bomb-proof". The trail horses needed to be calm, relaxed and sure of themselves in any kind of situation. Bernie was the experienced hand in this department. Stan would work with him through the winter and do the "roughing-out" of all the young horses.
The rest of the summer went by quickly. Stan would finish his barn chores early and spend the late mornings and early afternoon with Stupid.
He tried to keep to himself; while training, he didn't like distractions or audiences. The young horse progressed quickly. Stan could whistle and the colt would break away from the herd, running as fast as he could to him. Stan would open the gate and let him out without a halter or rope, the young horse would follow him anywhere. Stupid preferred Stan to his own kind. Stan had stopped riding him after his first demonstration. He focused the colt's attention on learning ground manners and bonding. His goal was to have the horse's riding commands instilled before ever getting back on him. Over time, he could have Stupid "stay" like a dog and then tell him to "come", then stop the horse half way to where he stood. The colt loved the games and his eyes twinkled like an eager student whenever Stan initiated another phase of his training.
Stan's biggest distraction was Laura. He found himself thinking about her constantly. All too often he found himself looking for her, and more and more often he would spot her, busying herself with one thing or another - always in his view or just standing near a corner watching him. The times when he would catch her looking at him he would smile, and allow himself the hope that she might be attracted to him, as much as he was to her.
With two weeks remaining in the summer season, Stan decided it was time to ride Stupid.
The day before, Stan had saddled him up with a packsaddle and boxes filled with noisy pots and pans. Stupid had stood patiently while Stan loaded him up and tied everything down. He was ready for the colt to kick up a fuss when the clanging and banging started from inside the boxes, but instead the colt turned his head to look at the foreign objects on his back, he gave the pack box a push with his nose, turned to Stan and walked toward him, unconcerned and bored looking. Stan was proud of the little horse and laughed to himself out loud. He ruffled the ponies mane and affectionately patted his neck. He couldn't find a way to fluster the horse anymore. He knew he was ready to ride.
When Stan lifted his riding saddle onto the horse, he did it in one smooth throw, the same way the old, seasoned horses were saddled. This was Stan's final test for the pony and he passed with flying colors. The cinch and stirrups slapped his belly on the far side, Stupid acknowledged the bump and weight by turning one ear back. Stan smiled and shook his head as he reached under the colt's belly and pulled the cinch tight.
The ride was as uneventful and smooth as Stan had hoped it would be. Stupid performed like a seasoned saddle horse - better in some ways. When Stan asked him to stand still the colt didn't shuffle or fidget. He rode the colt up to the gate of the small pasture he had been riding in and reached down to open it, still on the horse's back, they passed through the gate and Stan backed him up and closed it. He patted the colt's neck, grinning from the inside out.
Even though he had kept Owen's offer to train horses to himself, some of the ranch hands had figured out his motives for working with the young horse. It was only because he had accomplished something they hadn't been able to, that kept them from being openly contemptuous.
The old Teamster accepted him and appreciated his ability. There was one other admirer, Laura; to everyone but Stan her interest and affection for him was obvious. Her mother and father had noticed her new found interest in the barnyard area, particularly when Stan was out working the horse. Her distractedness at meal times and her lack of interest in going to town with her friends also indicated there was something new happening within their child. Both Owen and Ruth were tickled by her new infatuation. Compared to her last boyfriend, a long haired and tattooed drummer from a band that was eventually split up by drug trafficking charges, Stan was the sort of boy any parent would be happy to see their daughter with.

Stan pulled himself out of his walk down memory lane as a big semi-trailer unit passed him on a downhill grade. The town had disappeared behind him and only the smoke from the stacks of the pulp mill showed in his rear view mirror.
A hitchhiker appeared at the side of the road. He held a cardboard sign faintly announcing his destination. Stan rarely stopped for hitchhikers but this kid looked forlorn and harmless, and by the look of the building clouds on the horizon he would be soaked in a short time as well. Stan pulled off the road and waited for the kid to catch up.
He threw his backpack in the box of the truck and climbed in the cab.
"Thanks!" said the hitchhiker, out of breath and disheveled.
"No problem, where are you headed?" Stan asked
"Vancouver."
Stan pulled the truck back onto the highway. "Have you been out there long?"
"Not too long, maybe an hour."
"Where are you coming from?" Stan asked
"I've been hitching down into the States and out west here, for the past six months."
Rain started to dot the windshield. "What are you going to do in Vancouver?"
The young man pushed his long hair back over his shoulder and straightened his jacket. "I'm going to try getting into the movie business." He said. Stan looked at him while they drove and wondered if the kid knew what he was in for.
"Ever done any acting?" Stan asked.
"Ya, I did some community theatre back home. It was great. What do you do?"
"I'm building a guest ranch." Stan said.
"A couple of dreamers", Stan thought to himself.
"Wow. Like with horses and stuff?" The young guy asked.
"Yup, horses, dogs, cabins and boats."
"Cool, where?"
"Just up the road here, about thirty miles. I'm back in the bush off the highway a few miles. It's a real little paradise."
"It sounds great, my dad used to have horses."
"It is. What happened to your horses?" Stan asked.
The hitch hiker paused, "I don't know. I haven't seen him since I was six or seven. He and my mom split up and he kind of dropped out of the picture."
"That's too bad." Stan said. He liked the kid; there was something about him that reminded him of himself at a younger age. They drove in silence for awhile. The rain stopped and started in bursts as they drove under the rolling cumulus clouds. When they neared the turn off to the ranch Stan asked, "How far are you heading tonight?"
"I'll just try and get as far as I can and then camp somewhere." He said.
"Well, if you want you could camp with the horses and get an early start in the morning." The kid's eyes lit up and he said, "That'd be great, thanks. I'm Bret, Bret Kincaid."
Stan reached across the cab and shook Bret's hand, "I'm Stan Stevenson."
Bret quieted as they left the foothills and entered into the real mountains. He had never seen them before, except in pictures. The snowy peaks and their massive size consumed his full attention. His face was so close to the window that he smacked his forehead when the truck hit a bump on the trail leading into the place. They both laughed at his blunder while he rubbed the red spot on his head.
"Oh, this is great Stan." Bret said getting out of the truck. The dogs ran up to them. The horses whinnied from the pasture. Stan grabbed a couple bags of groceries and headed for his trailer. Bret helped with a couple more bags, and then stood admiring the surroundings.
"You can bunk in one of the cabins. The outhouse is over behind the big spruce, there." Stan said, pointing the way for Bret. "You'll have to come down here for water. I won't be hooking up the well until spring, all the cabins are plumbed, but I'm going to need a backhoe for a week or so to trench in all the lines."
Bret nodded, but his mind wasn't on plumbing, his eyes were still scanning the area while his hands scratched and patted all the dogs. "Do you mind if I go see the horses?" he asked.
Stan smiled, enjoying the expression on the young man's face. He thought it was like watching a kid on Christmas morning, "Go ahead. Watch out for the Black one, he just got here and he's a little nippy."
While Bret visited the horses, Stan went about his work, unpacking groceries. He kept an eye on the young guy, and was pleased to see him making friends with most of the older curious horses. He was allowing them to approach him, and not pushing his affection on them too strongly. The Black kept his distance, and watched the other horses getting scratched and patted. He was a problem horse that Stan planned on spending a lot of time with over the winter.
He'd bought the horse from an auction a couple weeks ago. The horse had been run into the ring in front of two guys with long stock whips. He had been brought to auction as a "Meat" horse. His previous owner had declared him dangerous. Stan had seen something else in the horse; a wild and frightened soul with more spirit than any other horse he had seen before. He hadn't really been able to afford it, but he had out bid the buyers for the meat plants, and brought the young horse home.
Stan checked the time, and decided that it was too late in the day to get started on anything major around the site. He went inside, and started making an early supper. As it cooked, he showed Bret to a cabin and walked the place with him. Bret was overwhelmed; the beauty of the area and the amount of work that Stan had done was astonishing. The young man voluntarily imitated Stan, and joined in picking sticks and roots as they walked, tossing them on the frequent piles as they passed. As the sun touched the tops of the nearby mountains, they returned to the trailer and filled up on Stan's Bachelor Stew.
They sat around the small table listening to the patter of rain that had decided to fall steadily once night arrived. Bret was good company. When Stan powered up his laptop and showed him the online marketing material he was building the hitchhiker became the expert.
"What are you using to build that with?" Bret asked
"I downloaded an html tutorial. I'm teaching myself to write code."
"Can I see it for a minute?"
"Sure." Stan said, sliding the laptop over to Bret.
Bret typed in an address on the computer's search bar, and then slid it back over to Stan. The web page that loaded was artistically perfect. A brief video swirled in a multi-colored splash of light and settled into a title page that announced Bret's Home Page. Stan clicked on the page's Enter button and surfed into the site. It was one of the most complex and beautiful sites Stan had seen.
"Wow! Did you build this?" Stan asked.
Bret smiled and nodded his head. "I've been building pages since I was a little kid. My mom is a programmer for YaHoo."
"How did you build yours?"
"I used code, but there are some programs you can get that make things a lot easier. I could load them up for you."
"Great." Stan said, sliding the laptop back to Bret.
Bret spent the rest of the evening downloading and installing the programs Stan would need. While Bret worked, Stan went about his evening chores of feeding the dogs and horses. He was excited about the programs Bret was getting, and the potential of creating such pleasing and effective web pages. The experts all touted the use of the Internet as a marketing tool. But Stan had been floundering with the lines and lines of code needed to create a simple box with text inside it.
The dogs were wet and hungry when he got to them. They all dove into their food except Old Scrabble, he stood at his food bowl looking at Stan through the growing cataracts. Stan sat down under the dog's shelter, and scratched the old dog's ears.
"What's the matter old guy?" he said, hugging the dog's big furry head to his chest. The dog slid his feet closer to Stan and leaned on him. Stan could feel the moisture soaking through his shirt. They had been through a lot together, and Stan hated to think about how close the dog was to the end of his days. Scrabble was pushing 15 years old, almost double the life expectancy for his breed. Stan remembered the first time he had seen him as a puppy. His Grandfather had brought him home from town, and given him to Stan as a birthday present. The pup had been big even then, his mother had been a St. Bernard and his father a Newfoundland.
Scrabble decided he was hungry, and took his weight off Stan; he shuffled his way back to the food bowl, laid down in front of it and started eating. The other dogs had their food cleaned up in minutes. Stan waited for them to finish, and gave them both a scratch behind the ears. Tuck and Marsh were generic mongrel dogs, nearly as wide as they were tall, black and tan, with energy to burn and the intelligence to use it. There had been more than one occasion when the two young dogs had teamed up to chase off bears from their home turf. And on one occasion their fearlessness had saved the life of one of Stan's young horses that had been attacked by a mountain lion. Tuck had leapt from the ground to grab the cat off of the back of the panicked horse while Marsh, with the most speed had slowed the horse so that Tuck could catch up. Once on the ground the two dogs cooperated to convince the big cat that horse was not a very good idea for meal times.
By the time Stan finished his chores and returned to the trailer Bret had finished installing the programs on the computer.
"These are pretty easy to use, but you'll have to go through the lessons they come with." Bret said "I'll show you a little bit of what they can do, right now if you want."
"Great." Stan said, sitting down beside him. Bret flew through a couple of maneuvers, the monitor showing a split screen. The top half was filled with the cryptic code that Stan had been struggling to learn, and the bottom half contained a blue background and text that Bret had typed in. When Bret slid the laptop over to Stan, he clicked on the preview button and the Internet browser opened, showing Stan the results of what he had made.
Stan was amazed. It would have taken him days to create what Bret had accomplished in minutes. When he rolled the cursor over the title; Stan's Page, the lettering changed color and increased in size, a drop-down menu popped up, and the computer made a pleasant ting-a-ling sound. Bret looked proud of himself.
"Unbelievable!" Stan said.
"Great program, isn't it?"
"Thanks Bret. This is going to help so much." Stan grinned and slapped Bret on the shoulder as he got up. "You're a pretty handy guy, Bret."
"Thanks." Bret said. "Well, I better get some sleep if I'm going to make it to the coast tomorrow."
Stan lent him a flashlight to find his way to the little cabin. After he'd gone, Stan cleared off the table, and had a quick look at the programs Bret had loaded. They were overwhelming at first, but Stan found a lessons section in each of the programs. The lessons walked him through the basic steps of what each program was capable of, Stan was sure he would be able to figure it out.
As he faded into sleep the dream came back.
It usually did.
Every time he allowed his memory to wander back to Laura during the day, his subconscious seemed to need its turn - thinking about her, remembering. The dream was always the same; occasionally there were twists. This time it was brand new…
This time it was at his ranch…
Stan was peeling logs. Sweating with the effort of drawing the knife down the long, rough trunk of the tree that would, one day, be a part of the wall on the cabin he was building. He stopped work when he heard the car pull in. He watched it bump its way into the clearing that would soon be the parking lot. It was an old brown Capri. Rusty and spray painted. The car sputtered and died.
Both doors opened and the passenger got out. The passenger stood and stretched, then reached into the back seat and pulled out his backpack. He brushed his long hair back as he slung the pack over one shoulder and started walking toward Stan.
It was Bret, he was smiling.
The driver emerged; Stan's heart skipped a beat when he recognized Laura. She walked toward him like a ghost. Her expression was blank. She looked past him with staring eyes. She'd lost weight, her cheeks were sunken, dark circles under her eyes gave her a skeletal appearance. Her hair was matted and wild looking.
The pair approached Stan and stopped in front of him.
"I brought her home for you Stan." Bret said.
Stan looked at Laura. Her gaze was still focused on nothing, unblinking. "Laura, where have you been?"
Stan's eyes were filling with tears as he reached for her. He stepped toward her to take her hands.
His hand passed tthrough her. All he felt was cold air. Nothingness.
Stan screamed.
The horses lifted their heads in the pasture. The dogs barked. Stan's shriek pierced the night like an owl flying in for the kill. He sat up in bed, sweating as if he had been peeling logs. His heart was racing. Tears soaked his cheeks. He lay back and sobbed.
It had been five years since he had last seen her. He wondered if he would ever get over her.
She had disappeared.
The winter Stan spent training horses for her father; he also fell in love with Laura. Her mother and father had approved, whole heartedly.
They had been inseparable. The whole winter had seemed like a fairy tale. Laura would watch Stan train the horses. He would spend the evenings listening to her write her songs. Their closeness was all consuming. It had been the best of times for both of them. He couldn't remember a time when he had smiled so much. After that winter he knew what all the country songs meant.
As spring came around that year, Laura had started practicing with a band. With her good looks and incredible voice they quickly started booking weddings and gigs in bars. It wasn't long before a six week tour was scheduled, and they were forced to part. Stan stayed on the ranch and drove out to wherever Laura was playing on his days off. She was always glad to see him, they would spend hours staring into each others' eyes. It was a tiny world when they were together. But, looking back he had noticed subtle changes in her, the weight loss, tiredness, indecision and the mood swings. As the weeks progressed, he couldn't help feeling alarmed. She kept telling him everything was fine, and when he pressed her she was convincing. Eventually he would let it go, and hold her close for as long as he could before his time came to leave.
She had disappeared without a trace, no note, no phone call, no conversations with any of the band members. They had formed a huge search network. The police weren't much help, because all indications pointed to Laura leaving of her own free will, she had taken all her possessions from the hotel room (and left a tip for the house-keepers).
Stan and Laura's parents had hunted for her as long and as hard as humanly possible. Stan still kept some of the flyers they had plastered far and wide. The missing person's organizations recognized her parents and Stan by the sound of their voice on the phone.
Owen had eventually sold the ranch to be able to devote his full attention to finding his only child. They were nearing retirement and their loss had been too great. Stan had moved on with them. They had gone through the grieving process together, experiencing the sadness, blame and anger phases at different times. Ultimately, they ran out of places to look.
Stan slowly distanced himself from Laura's parents as a measure of self preservation. They occasionally met in town or he would stop by for coffee, but the reminder of their past was more than any of them wanted to face and it was just easier on their hearts, to keep their distance.
Stan was exhausted when he woke up. He hadn't dreamed of Laura in months. The gray light of early morning was filtering through the darkness, matching the way he felt. He took a deep breath, stretched, and dressed himself quickly, the chill in the air reminded him of how close winter was getting.
He felt better after a cup of coffee. The knot of anxiety in his chest made his whole body feel heavy. This was a sensation he had become used to in the five years since her disappearance, but he was getting better at shaking it off, letting it go and moving on.
He left the trailer as the sun cleared the eastern ridge. The clear sky promised another warm day. The dogs lifted their heads, but failed to stir any farther, they were late risers, prone to patrolling throughout the night and sleeping in. They were used to Stan's routine, they knew he would be back after checking the horses.
The horses were used to Stan's routine also, yet this morning they weren't standing at the fence waiting for him. All the horses, except the new black, were out near the middle of the pasture circled around a big spruce tree. He looked a little harder and saw that they were gathered around Bret. Each horse in their turn was nuzzling him and receiving a gentle stroke on the forehead. Stan watched in silence. Bret moved away from the tree and the herd followed him. He walked to the next tree in the pasture and placed his back to it, from there he continued the petting of the ever affectionate horses. Stan smiled, this was a game he played with every horse he had, individually at first and then, with all of them together. The exercise made the horses easy to catch and willing to follow, it wasn't something anyone had taught Stan, it was just a practice he had developed.
Bret finally noticed Stan watching him and waved, "Good Morning." Stan waved back. The young hitchhiker joined him at the fence. He was energized and excited.
"Wow, they're great." He said, as he climbed through the fence.
"They followed me around out there like a bunch of dogs…whew! You've got a great place Stan. If you ever need anybody to work out here, give me a call."
"I need somebody now. But if the bank doesn't come through, I'll be out looking for some work for the winter." Stan said.
"Well, let me know if they do, I can pick sticks, help you with the cabins. You name it!" Bret looked back at the horses "You've got my website on your computer, you can just email me. I'd rather do this than audition for parts that I probably won't get."
They started back toward the trailer. Stan asked, "Do you want some breakfast before you head out?"
After they had filled up on eggs and toast, Bret readied himself to leave. Stan gave him a ride to the highway.
When they pulled up to the corner, Stan reached into the center console and pulled out one of the aging flyers. "Take this with you would you?"
Bret looked at Laura's picture and skimmed the missing person information. "Who's this?" he asked.
"Her name is Laura,I've been trying to get along without her, for the past five years. She disappeared without a trace. The cops didn't think there was foul play because it looked like she just up and checked out of her hotel room. Her parents and I haven't stopped looking."
"Alright, I'll keep my eyes peeled, good luck. And thanks for everything, Stan. Let me know if the bank comes through. I'd love to work for you out here."
Stan watched him lug his pack down the road, bouncing with too much energy as he exaggerated his thumb for the first passing vehicle. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the faded "Vancouver" sign he'd been carrying when Stan picked him up.
Bret hit it lucky, a long haul truck driver spotted him just as his need to pee overcame his need for speed. Fourteen hours later, He hopped out of the truck at the East Hasting St. traffic lights. The day was just fading into dusk.
He stopped at a phone booth to give his mother a quick call, to let her know he was alright. As usual her answering machine picked up and her smokey voice solicited the caller to leave a detailed message. Bret let the twinge of disappointment pass; he called faithfully every two days. Yet he hadn't spoken with his mother in over two months. Her freedom now that her nest was empty, meant that she wasn't home much. "Not that she was home before I left" Bret thought to himself.
The contrast between where he had woken up this morning, and the city's noise and smells was shocking. He thought it was funny how quickly his wishes had changed from wanting to be a Star to hoping Stan would be able to hire him on to work at his fledgling dude ranch.
Bret had no plans, no contacts and very little money. He wandered toward the high-rises of downtown, passing the mothballed Pacific National Exhibition site. He remembered hearing about his classmate's summer vacation trips to the PNE and how he always wished he could go there. It didn't seem like much in the cool, dark night. The roller coaster sat like a giant skeleton structure, dark and ominous looking. The other rides were just as dark but less definable as he passed by.
The walk downtown was longer than he initially expected. The buildings at the city core appeared closer than they were. He stopped for a snack at a McDonald's and asked one of the employees directions to the nearest hostel. The worker either didn't know what a hostel was, or didn't understand English, beyond "Would you like that super-sized?" He left the restaurant, and continued what he now considered a trek.
The closer he came to downtown, the rougher the terrain and its inhabitants looked. The alleyways crawled with activity, just out of reach of the streetlights. The store fronts were barricaded with security bars, protecting the hand scrawled discount signs announcing the best deals in town. Out-of-date prostitutes heckled him as he passed, their layers of makeup fluorescing from the shadows. Sirens seemed to announce his arrival. The smell of crack cocaine wafted from the darkened stairwells, its paranoid users motionless in the recesses. Bret was nearly knocked off the sidewalk by a couple of drunks that left a barroom airborne, fighting as they fell. He had to side-step quickly and grab a signpost to keep from falling into the street himself. He didn't pause to watch the outcome. He could hear spectators emerging from the bar, cheering for their favorites.
He'd made it, his destination and the future was now in his hands.
He gave up looking for a hostel, and took a cheap room in one of the sleazy welfare hotels that bordered the business district of downtown. The desk clerk had the look of a terrorist, and his conversational grasp of the English language extended to the amount of the room.
The room itself was filled with years of despair. It was like walking into a morgue, worn green carpeting, a tattered brown bedspread and an antique television were its only furnishings. The smell of stale booze and smoke permeated the room. The bathroom was down the hall. He looked out the window, and was gifted with a view of a brick wall belonging to the next building, six feet away. His dreams of grandeur started to crumble.
"What the fuck am I going to do now?" he asked himself.
The sound of two voices coming up the stairway drew his attention away from his dilemma. The pair were loud and clumsy. It sounded like one of them tripped, and slid backward down the steps. Laughter followed, and the male and female voices rested at the top of the landing. Bret couldn't make out what they were saying; their voices sounded mumbled and slurred. The pair laughed again, and continued. One of them fell against the wall, more laughing. He heard them start walking again; they were nearing his room, now. The woman was slurring something to the man, she gave a "Yip!" and he heard a thump-thump as she tried to regain her balance. In the process it sounded like she ran into her partner. The next thing Bret knew, his door was flying open. The man fell backward through the opening, the woman coming down on top of him. They hit the floor heavily, the woman's head was whipped down onto the man's forehead - she'd have a fat lip to remember the night. They laughed and rolled onto their sides trying to get up, before they realized Bret was in the room.
The man's face looked like a patchwork quilt. One eye appeared larger than the other, and didn't look in the same direction as the other. His arms were covered in more scars, over and under a layer of tattoos. During his fall he never let go of the brown paper bag he carried. In contrast to the scarred appearance of the man, the woman was pretty. If she hadn't been so inebriated, Bret would have found her very attractive.
The man was the first to recover and stand up. "Hey, sorry man." He grinned, one of his front teeth was missing and another was badly chipped. He lifted his date into a standing position and pushed her into the hallway, closing the door as he went. Bret quickly stepped to the door, closed it and slid the security chain into place.
He could hear the couple careening down the hall laughing, swearing and stumbling. "Welcome to Vancouver," he thought.
The rest of the night was quiet. There were no more drunks crashing into his door. Once he heard someone retching outside in the narrow space between the buildings. The normal sounds of the city soon became ambient noise to his ears, and except for the occasional ambulance or police siren passing directly in front of the hotel he didn't hear a thing.
In the morning, he went out and began his search for auditions. The city looked like a different place in the daylight. Well dressed business people filled the streets; where hours before, addicts, drunks and dealers ruled. Bret felt more comfortable, almost cheerful. He sat down at a street-side bagel shop with the day's newspaper, and turned to the classified section. He had started hitch-hiking after his summer job had ended. There were very few jobs in his home town, but here in the big city Bret was amazed at the number of ads looking for help. He felt confident that he would be employed by the end of the day. He finished his bagel and coffee and headed back to his room to grab a handful of resumes.
He had decided to keep his room until he found a better place. The hotel was a dive, but it was cheap and that was more important to him right now than atmosphere.
A barricade awaited him; the stairwell in the lobby was taped off with yellow police ribbon. A bored looking officer stood guard at the bottom of the stairs. Bret turned to the front desk; the terrorist guy from last night was nowhere to be seen. It appeared to him that with the police blocking off the stairs, the guy figured his place was safe, and had gone off somewhere until they were finished.
Bret approached the officer.
"Can I help you?" the officer asked, still looking bored.
"I kind of need to get to my room."
"Which floor are you on?"
"The second." Bret said.
"Which room?"
Bret produced his key, "201".
The officer pulled his radio out and talked to someone. Turning back to Bret he said. "Just a minute". The officer returned to his "Guard" stance, and shifted his gaze over Bret's head ignoring his presence. Bret tried not to fidget, he was feeling nervous. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs announced the arrival of another officer, his tall frame barely fit under the doorway. He made eye contact with Bret and gave him a twitch of his lips, "was that a smile?" Bret wondered.
"Good morning, I'm Constable Murphy." He said, extending his hand to Bret.
"I'm, Bret Kincaid," he said, taking the tall cops hand.
"Bret, we've had an incident upstairs, and we're questioning everyone who was on the second floor last night. We need to ask you some questions."
"Okay."
"Great. We're not quiet finished our initial pass. We should be able to let you return to your room in half an hour or so." The officer said, turning to go back upstairs "You're in 201 is that correct?"
"Yes."
"I'll come and get you when we've finished examining that part of the hallway." Murphy nodded at him as he turned back toward the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later, Constable Tim Murphy returned to the lobby, and escorted Bret to his room. Bret opened the door and led the way in. Tim took out his note book and sat in the worn chair. Bret sat on the bed, facing him.
"Bret, we had a suspicious death here last night. What time did you check in?"
Bret stiffened, "About nine-thirty, I guess." He felt his face reddening, a little voice screamed a warning in his head, "they don't think its me, do they?" his own conscience thought, argued.
"Was there any unusual activity in the hallway or noises from other rooms?"
Bret sighed and relaxed a little, he told Constable Murphy about the drunken pair falling through his door. The officer looked pleased when Bret described their appearance.
"This is great Bret. I'm going to see if the coroner has any Polaroid's of the victim -if you can identify her as the woman you saw, you might be our only real witness. Will you help us out?"
Bret noticed the change in the cop's face when he asked for help. There was a heaviness that came into his expression, a firmness that left little room for anything but cooperation. Bret nodded and forced a smile. After Officer Murphy left, Bret sat in his little room and arranged his belongings. His earlier plan to stay in the hotel, until something better came along had dissolved. He was just zipping his pack up when the cop knocked on his door.
There was little room for doubt. Aside from the new bruise on the side of her face the woman in the picture was one of the drunks that had landed in his room last night. Her neck was covered but the stained shirt she was wearing was the same one she'd had on when Bret had seen her, her hair was as disheveled and matted as it had been. Bret could see the puddle of blood spreading out from under her; it looked black on the faded floral carpet. Bret looked at Constable Murphy and nodded.
"We'll need to get you out of here." Said Officer Murphy. "I need you to come with me and check out some mug shots. Just like the movies." Murphy smiled for the first time; Bret thought it looked foreign on his strong, unlined face.
"That's okay, I kind of figured as much. I don't think I want to stay here anymore." Bret said.
They left the room together. Bret threw his room key on the still vacant desk in the lobby, and walked out into the sunshine beside the tall policeman. They left downtown behind with the police radio squawking. Bret felt excited, he'd never been in a police car, and Murphy drove with speed and confidence, authority in every lane change and merge, the radio chattering a staccato of codes and responses. They drove with silence between them, Murphy absorbed in the case, Bret filled with apprehension and curiosity.
They entered the station from the backdoor. Murphy led the way down a short hallway, past small offices and a door marked "Evidence Room". He unlocked a windowless room that had seen some rough characters; the white walls were marred with graffiti, pock marks and fist impressions. "Would you like a coffee?" Murphy asked him. Bret declined and took a seat.
The room was bare except for a table and two chairs. A video camera and tape recorder huddled together in a corner. "I'll be right back," said Murphy. The door closed automatically when he left, the latch clicked loudly. Bret was sure he was locked in, he fought the urge to test the knob…just to see. The room was cold and silent, the white, soft looking material covering the walls was a sound-proof material, designed to minimize distractions and give the person in the room a feeling of isolation and confinement without appearing like a cage. It was working.
Murphy returned a few minutes later with several binders under one arm, a coffee for himself, and an unopened can of Pepsi.
"I brought this for you in case you get thirsty," he said, sliding the can across the table toward Bret. He set the binders in the center of the table, and put the top one in front of Bret. "This is just like the movies," Bret thought.
"We'll try this, the old fashioned way first," Murphy told him. "We've been compiling this group of suspects for a long time. Until now, no one has seen this guy. If you can pick him out of these shots we'll save a lot of time. I'll leave you with this and come back in a few minutes. If there are any faces you think might match, just make a note, each photo has a corresponding number."
Bret nodded, "Okay."
"Jesus, it's cold in here!" Murphy said, "I'll turn the heat up for you too."
"Ya, it is. Thanks."
Murphy left, and Bret opened the first binder. Scarred and fearsome faces starred back at him. Page upon page of them, all different faces, yet they shared the same desperate, wild look.
Half an hour later Murphy poked his head in. Bret shook his head. None of the faces in the photos even came close to resembling the guy he had seen the night before.
An hour later Bret closed the last book and cracked the can of Pepsi. He got up and tried the door; it was locked. He knocked on the small pane of glass inset on the soundproof door. An unfamiliar face appeared and gave him a sign that meant "Just a second."
A few minutes later Murphy returned.
"Sorry. He's not in there," Bret told him.
Murphy nodded "Okay. Now we go to plan B."
Murphy started collecting the binders, "I'll have to see when we can get in with the artist. We'll get you to work with him to come up with a sketch. I'll see if we can put you up in a hotel, you're pretty important to us. Come on."
Murphy led Bret into the main office. The room was littered with desks and milling cops, some working at their desks, others in casual groups standing and drinking coffee.
Murphy showed Bret to a chair beside his desk and left him there. Bret could see him talking to an older cop in a partitioned cubicle across the room. Eventually they made their way back to where Bret was waiting. Murphy introduced his colleague "Bret this is Inspector Porter, he's in charge of the case."
"Hi Bret," the Inspector said, offering the young man his hand.
Bret took the older cop's hand. He noticed the deeply etched lines around the man's eyes.
"We're pretty excited about finding this guy, Bret. I'm sure Tim has told you that much. Tim will get you set up in a hotel just down the street from here - if that's alright with you?"
Bret nodded.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions of my own while Tim gets it ready for you, okay?"
Bret followed Porter to the cubicle. The inspector's desk was a pile of papers, notebooks, empty coffee cups and framed pictures. A computer monitor peeked out from behind a brightly wrapped box with a bow on it. Porter sat himself down with a tired sigh and cleared a space on his desk. He pushed the box precariously close to the edge of the desk and dragged the keyboard into a useable position. A 4 x 6" photo slid from the pile, bouncing off Bret's knee on its way to the tiled floor.
Bret reflexively picked it up and glanced at it before handing it to Porter's waiting hand.
The gray, lifeless face of a corpse stared out of the picture from a stainless steel morgue table. Bret passed the photo to Porter but at the last second he pulled it back, looking closer at the glazed eyes, flattened hair and delicate bone structure of the cadaver.
Something about the picture was holding Bret. He couldn't figure out why he had held on to it. He stared, looking closer than his initial glance and instinctual repulsion had warranted.
The face.
He knew that face.
From where?
Bret tried to imagine the body's face as it would have looked before death. One part of him tried to dispel his curiosity, make sense of this unusual, morbid fascination with a picture of a dead woman.
Dead woman.
"What is it?" Porter's question, startled Bret.
He looked up from the picture shaking his head, yet still holding on to the picture.
"Who is she?" He asked.
"We don't know." Porter said
"…Her parents and I haven't stopped looking…"
Bret frantically tore the top flap open on his pack. He pulled the pack's contents out, unashamed of the dirty clothes he was strewing on the floor of Porter's office. Down near the bottom he found what he was looking for. He pulled the crumpled piece of paper out, quickly stretching it back into a rectangular shape. Porter watched with patience, wondering what the boy was up to.
Satisfied that the sheet of paper was presentable, he picked the photo off his lap and turned his discovery to Porter.

Ruth dried her hands, and threw the dishcloth on the counter. She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she opened the door to welcome the police car that had parked at the gate. Their old friend, Sergeant Robert Strand worked the latch and made his way up the sidewalk. His demeanor made her heart sink. As he got closer, she could see his eyes were red rimmed. She let the screen door slam behind her. She raced through the house and opened the back door. "OWEN! Come in here quick!" she hollered toward the barn.
Owen left the barn in at full steam. His wife never raised her voice, she had sounded panicked. He cleared the barn in time to see her returning into the house through the backdoor.
Robert was inside when she reached the doorway dividing the kitchen from the tiny living room. He held a large brown envelope in front of him. His knuckles were white from the amount of pressure that he was exerting holding onto it. They both turned as Owen joined them.
The silence in the room was stifling. No one seemed to breathe.
"I think you two best sit down." Robert said.
Ruth and Owen obliged. Robert pulled the footstool between Owen's armchair and the loveseat where Ruth sat holding her husbands hand tightly across the end table. He sat down and forced himself to look at them.
Robert's mind raced to find the right words. His years of training and practice had receded to a dark corner of his mind, shirking the duty that would shatter the last remaining hopes of his two dear friends. He had known the face pictured inside the envelope he carried, since before she had been able to walk. He'd been there when Owen ran down the driveway, and tentatively let go of the bicycle seat on her first solo ride. He'd sat with her parents in their kitchen, as she sang them her "New" song, chocolate cake smeared at the corner of her mouth. He'd watched her parents glow with pride as she won competitions on her horse. He'd cried with them during the Crying Times since her disappearance…
Robert shook his head and wiped at his face with his big hand. He sighed deeply, producing a sob-like sound, releasing the last of his professionalism. His eyes welled up with tears, and his lips quivered. Shaking his head he said in a barely audible voice, "They found her." He placed the envelope on the table. He couldn't hold it anymore.
Owen and Ruth were drawn together in an embrace like two magnets held apart and suddenly released.
They didn't need to hear anymore.
Their friend's grief explained it all. Neither of them made a move for the envelope. It had become a specter, oozing a poisonous fog that would soon envelop the whole house. Owen could feel Ruth shrinking in his arms. The silence in the room was only broken by the small sounds of their clothes rubbing together. While their bodies heaved silently with the grief that had been tempered and contained over the last five years.
Robert shifted in his chair feeling the need to give his friends a moment of privacy. Then, while wiping his eyes, he moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He knew their grief. As a surrogate Uncle, her disappearance had caused a deep wound in his heart too. Now, the wound had resurfaced and the pain was as fresh as it had been five years ago. He could well imagine his friends' pain - there were no right words for this situation.

Stan perched at the top of his property, sitting at the highest point of land. The horses grazed below him on the meadow.
With a small shift in his mind he could still see the place as it had been four years ago. Densely covered in junk wood and deadfall. He could return his mind to the back-breaking work he had done; every stick and twig, hand picked, stacked, each root, clutching the rocky soil, fighting to remain a part of the land.
Today, he could relate to those roots.
He was clutching and fighting to remain a part of his land. The letter he held was crumpled and stained from sweat. The loan he so desperately needed to make it through the winter and complete his place for opening next spring had been declined. His choices were limited now. He would have to leave the place and find work, or starve and sell off all the horses. That wasn't an option.
He couldn't imagine it getting any worse.
He chastised himself for being so glum and pulled himself to his feet. The horses noticed his movement and lifted their heads.
The young black pulled away from the herd and walked a few steps toward him. Stan watched his newest horse with a sense of accomplishment and excitement. Just a few weeks ago the horse had been too shy to even eat grain from his hand. Now he was leading the other horses in coming to greet him!
Stan decided, somewhere between the top of the hill and the corral, that he would go to town and purge the blues, with a night on the town. He rarely drank and didn't have many friends to provide the ritualistic peer group camradarie that he saw in other people.
He did his evening chores early and went in to clean up.

The neon lights fought with the last of the sun's rays as Stan parked the old truck in front of the High Country Saloon. The parking lot was already filling up, old cars with fresh paint, 4X4 trucks with four-foot tall tires, pickups with hay and manure lining the boxes.
A couple sauntered up the sidewalk for the door. The guy, dressed in his newest blue jeans, cowboy shirt in a glowing checker pattern, snapped up tight around his short, thick neck. The girl also wearing jeans, except that hers justified the phrase "Painted on;" her spandex top strained to contain her large, youthful breasts. The couple were a fresh item. Stan noticed the way the fellow walked; his bunched muscles betrayed the relaxed swagger he was trying to put on. Stan could tell he would have gladly been somewhere else, preferably alone with his new love interest. She, on the other hand, seemed ready and anxious to get inside, and spend the night tearing up the dance floor.
Stan climbed out of the cab, and locked the doors. He stretched his back and noted the tension he was feeling. His antisocial tendencies would have to stay in the truck. He waited for a carload of girls to pass, bass thumping and their heads hanging out of the windows. He shook his head as he followed them with his eyes. The girls in the car had looked too young to be driving, let alone out on the town. "When did I get so old and crotchety?" he thought to himself.
The smells of tobacco smoke and spilled beer scraped the fragrance of mountain air from the inside of his nose, like a vegetable peeler removes the rotted eye of a potato. His vision adjusted to the darkness of the place. The bar's stereo system blasted an unfamiliar two-step beat. The noise of the music mingled with the cacophony of the patrons was almost enough to send him back out on the street. "You just gotta get in there and HAVE A GOOD TIME!" The outgoing part of his personality argued inside his head.
When his eyes had adjusted and he could see well enough, he made his way through the tables and chairs to the back of the room where the pool tables resided.
At one of them, a short, stocky man with long hair, circled the table, the epitome of cockiness in his every move. Several watchers talked loudly among themselves, following the player as he strutted around the table.
Then, in a move that was quicker than any Stan had ever seen on a pool table, the long haired guy dropped to the table with his cue in hand and shot. The force of the strike, sent balls rebounding and clinking off of every bank. Except the ball he had so briefly aimed at, it disappeared into the pocket with a definitive clunk
His fans ooo'ed and ahh'ed their hero's brilliant shot, as he began circling the table, looking for his next prey.
Stan picked a spot near the pool tables and sat himself so that he could watch the proceedings. He ordered a beer from a tall, bare bellied waitress, and scanned the ever-increasing crowd, that was pouring into the bar.
Stan had lived in the area for nearly 6 years, yet the numbers of people he considered friends were few. None of them would be in here; they all had families or were too dedicated (or addicted) to their work to be so frivolous with their time and money to waste it in this fashion. All the same he scanned the bar, looking for familiar faces. A couple of tight knit groups held individuals he recognized from different construction stores and supply houses that he dealt with.
His beer arrived, tucked in tightly with the other drinks on the round tray the waitress carried. He paid her, and watched as she floated her way between chairs and tables, through the crowd, expertly balancing the precariously balanced cargo. Her load was lightened considerably near the pool tables. He listened as she suffered the badgering and innuendos of the Stocky-cocky guy's crowd.
Stan had never been a well-versed pool player, but he enjoyed the game and after sipping on his beer awhile he stepped up to the table and put his quarter on the rail. He gave a friendly nod in the direction of the Stocky-cocky guy, and returned to his seat.
Stocky-cocky missed his next shot, another lightening attack on sleeping pool balls.
A tall, slim man of stark contrast to his strutting friend stood up, and approached the table. He took careful aim, shot and missed; the cue ball banked off the bottom rail and rolled toward the eight ball, hanging on the edge of the side pocket. "Whoa" he cried watching helplessly as the cue ball slowed. The group held their breath as the cue ball continued to rotate slowly toward the precariously placed eight ball. The white ball was moving so slowly when it touched the eight ball that there seemed to be a pause. Then the shiny black ball moved. It wobbled on the edge and dropped into the pocket, ending the game.
Tall skinny guy made a disgusted noise, and looked around for the newcomer. He walked toward Stan, smiling sheepishly, shaking his head. He handed the cue to him saying, "Here you go. Kick his ass for me."
Stan took the cue, and approached the table. As the challenger, he racked the balls in their necessary spot and then stood. Stocky-Cocky left his spot near the wall, putting down his beer, and smiled at Stan. He offered his hand to Stan.
"How ya doin', I'm Stuart." He said
"Stan."
They shook hands in that age-old tradition of weighing out each other. Stan was aware of something he hadn't noticed in the man before. There was magnetism in Stuart's eyes, in his demeanor - swirling layers of complexity were contained beneath the surface. What Stan initially had taken as a "Show of Bravado", he could now see was pure confidence and playfulness. Stuart's eye contact was steady but not threatening. Stan had the feeling that he was being measured in equal proportion to the measuring he was doing with his opponent.
Stuart's style of play remained the same. Stalking. Attacking. Stalking. Attacking. Stan began to see that his opponent played the game with no strategy other than to intimidate his opponent with his ferocious attacks on the balls. All the same, his vicious assaults on the balls left no room for setting up shots…if Stan missed, the balls would be completely rearranged by the time it was his turn again.
He quickly felt at ease with Stuart. As a Watcher, he had thought his opponent would be the sort he would end up brawling with rather than the growing camaraderie he felt.
"Where you from?" Stuart asked, as he circled the table looking for his next target.
"I'm building a place west of town." Stan answered.
"Oh, you're the guy doing the horse ranch thing." Stuart said.
"I'm working on it…I was until this morning anyway."
Stuart sank his striped ball with a loud CLUNK.
"Why? What happened this morning?" He asked.
"Well, the bank said "No" to my business loan, so I've got to get working so I can feed my stock through the winter."
"Fuckin' banks. I've never had any use for them." Stuart said, "What kind of work do you do?"
Stan lined up his next shot and looked across the table at Stuart, "I've been working with horses since I was 14 years old. And there ain't much of that these days; I don't know what I'm going to do."
"You should come out to my place one of these days; try your hand with my critters."
"What do you do?" Stan asked, his ears twitching with interest.
"I supply animals for the film industry."
"You're kidding?" Stan said straightening up from the table - for the moment forgetting about the game in progress.
"What kind of animals?"
"Bears, lions, tigers." He answered. "Are you going to shoot or stand there with your mouth hanging open?"
"Oh ya." Stan said, returning his attention to the table, quickly missing the next shot.
"What are you doing way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere?" Stan asked.
"This is my home town. I grew up here." Stuart stalked his way around the table toward the cowering cue ball. "I spent ten years in California and now I'm home."
They finished their game, and sat at Stan's table.
"I'm always looking for Trainers." Stuart told him.
Stan watched his new acquaintance from across the table. Even sitting he wasn't at rest. He was always in motion. Stan thought of the wolves he had seen in the zoo, always in motion, always watching, never missing a thing.
"I've got a big show coming up for Disney, and I'm going to need some help with it." Stuart said.
"What about your friends there?" Stan said, indicating the group at the pool tables.
"Fuck, those guys couldn't get a pigeon to shit." He laughed.
"What makes you think I'll be able to help you?" Stan asked
"I don't know if you can. But we won't know unless you try." Stuart leaned across the table in a conspiratorial way. "There aren't many of us that can train, but the ones that can…Have you ever made three hundred a day plus expenses?"
Stan shook his head. "Where do you live?" he asked.
Stuart gave him directions to his place, then like a dangerous humming bird, flitted back to his den of friends.
Stan sat for a while, wondering if what had just happened had been real. A little hope was what he needed. He sipped on his beer. Stuart and a few of his friends headed for the back entrance, and were gone.
Stan turned his attention back to the crowd in the bar, and quickly spotted the girl in the painted on jeans. She was chatting up a husky logger type fellow, sitting on the arm of his chair and laughing. Her date that she had arrived with was no where to be seen.
"Would you like to dance?"
Stan was startled by the voice in his ear. He turned and looked at the young lady that had asked him the question. She was smiling and holding a near empty drink. Her head tilted in a questioning fashion. She was obviously feeling the effects of the booze, but he didn't think she was too drunk. Stan wasn't a big fan of dancing, but in his current mood of optimism he smiled back at her, and nodded.
On the dance floor, Stan quickly realized he had been wrong about his partner's state of mind…She was very drunk. He had to hold her up for most of the song. She encircled his neck with her arms, and hung there. Stan felt her breasts against his chest and the occasional undulation of her hips; her hot breath against the side of his neck was anything but exciting, his main concern was trying to keep from stepping on her dragging feet. The smell of alcohol on her breath was acrid and mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. The song they were dancing to just wouldn't end.
The girl lifted her head and said something to him. Stan couldn't hear her over the music. He drew away from her, as much as her clutching arms would allow and said "WHAT?" She looked at him, small beads of perspiration visible on her face and repeated herself. Again he couldn't make out what she had said.
He put his ear to her mouth, "I'm Cathy. Whus your name?" She slurred
"I'm Stan." He answered.
She tilted her head back, he could tell she was trying to focus her eyes. "Stan? You're nice." She said before letting her head fall back onto his chest.
Eventually the song ended.
He helped her off the dance floor. He felt embarrassed for his partner. He wondered how she would make out now that the song was over, and if she would be able to walk once he let her go.
Her hold on him tightened as they left the dance floor. She leaned on him and asked in a slurred voice, "You wanna buy me a drink?"
"Sure, where are you sitting?" He asked, trying to find a way to get her off his arm without letting her drop.
She led him to a table with a semiconscious old man. The table was littered with half full beer bottles and overfull ashtrays. He helped her into her seat and took her order. He thanked her for the dance, and headed for the bar. The waitress who took his order told him that his dance partner had been "Cut-off".
"That's probably a good thing." He told the waitress.
He returned to his table, sipped back the last swallow of his drink, and decided to get while the getting was good.

Outside the bar, night had fallen, with it came the drop in temperature that warned of the coming of winter. Stan hurried to his truck. The noise of the bar receded as he left the area. The music and shouts diminishing as he neared his truck. He returned to his quiet world as he closed himself into the cab. The truck fired up, heater set to High, Stan felt no sense of loss, but loneliness lurked in the shadows as he pulled out of the crowded parking lot.
Driving home, he couldn't help his thoughts from raveling around the "what-ifs" of his meeting with Stuart. He daydreamed of working with bears and lions.
Bits of movies played in his mind… snippets of: Born Free…Gentle Ben…Charlie The Lonesome Cougar.
He saw himself taking the place of Grizzly Adams, walking through a pristine alpine meadow, a golden eagle on his arm and the Bear, lumbering along behind him.
A large deer bounded across the road, breaking the gray surface in the truck's headlights. Stan chuckled to himself as he slowed the truck. He tried imagining himself explaining the cause of the accident to a policeman.
The trip home seemed short. Stan drove up the long driveway slowly, savoring the warmth of the heater. Parking the truck he scanned his home, fear and despair battled pride and tenacity. His house on wheels, surrounded by all of his essential tools, containers and parts - in the wrong light it could be viewed as a shot from the Barrios.
On his door, a white piece of paper glowed brilliantly in the headlights.
Even after the truck was turned off and the lights were killed, the paper glowed. His The dogs barked from inside the trailer.
familiar world had taken on a surreal quality. Flashes of his dream returned. And the piece of paper glowed.
Walking the last few steps toward his home, Stan tried to shake the feeling off. He tried to guess who the note was from, but instead of names, the un-natural feeling of the moment overwhelmed all other logical thoughts.
The instant he unfolded the paper he knew why:

Dear Stan,
We need to see you.
Owen

He hadn't heard from the Callaghans in over a year.
From the time of his parent's death, when he was 7 years old, Stan hadn't questioned his feelings.
He had been playing in his yard when he had experienced a shock, as if someone had slammed a door -hard, inside the space of his body. He had stopped playing and spun in a slow circle, looking all around him with white in his eyes. He had been so afraid. What made him afraid was not visible. It was nothing real. He couldn't understand why, in broad daylight he was terrified beyond anything he had felt. He was more afraid than at night in his room, before the creepies came out of the closet and from under the bed. He knew something bad was close.
Stan's grandma had come out to check up on him and found him standing there. His arms out to his sides, head tipped back with his face to the sky. She saw the fear in his eyes. The boy had rushed to her and hugged her apron. She had asked him what was wrong, but all he was able to tell her was that he had heard a Bang and it had scared him.
A little later a policeman had came to the house. He told Stan's grandmother that there had been a horrible car accident. Both of Stan's parents had been killed instantly. It was then that Stan's grandmother knew what the Bang had been that Stan had heard.

Ruth stared at nothing. Her hands cupped a large wad of damp tissue. She hadn't moved in hours, she couldn't. She felt like her guts would spill out if she did.
Five years of hoping that Laura would come home. Five years of trying to convince herself that she would see her only child again.
At the same time Knowing.
Five years of unofficial grieving had not prepared her for this.
Owen tried to comfort her. Ruth tried to comfort him. But for them, there would be no solace anytime soon. Only time would heal the Closure that had finally come.
Each of them carried guilt. They both blamed themselves for errors in raising Laura. Neither would or could accept the consolation that the other offered.
They were together, but very much alone with their grief.
The headlights bouncing in the window announced Stan's arrival. It was too late for anyone else to be visiting.
Owen slowly pushed himself from the chair. Ruth watched his movements, and thought that her husband had aged ten years in the past few hours.
The tapping on the door carried the knocker's apprehension. It was hardly audible in the quiet room. Owen opened the door.
Stan stood breathless, as the door swung slowly inward. His eyes quickly swept the room as it became visible. Ruth sat in her chair, eyes fixed to the coffee table and the envelope, still lying untouched. When the door had opened enough so that he could see Owen, all of Stan's fears were realized too. There were no words needed to confirm their reason for leaving the note on his door.
Stan's face twisted in anguish. A sob escaped his throat and the two men embraced in the doorway. They stood that way for a long time. Owen broke the embrace with a slap to Stan's back. Stan nodded and looked toward the floor as he sniffed and stood on his own.
He took a deep breath with his lips pressed tightly together and went to Ruth. Her crying took on a fresh edge and she hugged Stan's head to her breast. When her sobs had subsided he left her and took a seat where Robert had sat while breaking the news.
The quietness of the room was heavy. Even with the lights on in the room it felt too dark. The temperature as neither too warm nor too cold, it was just uncomfortable. To the occupants, it was as if the house itself was retching with grief.
Eventually Owen helped Ruth to bed.
While they were occupied, Stan reached for the envelope.
When Owen returned he found Stan clutching the envelope. Stan had slid to the floor and was sitting between the coffee table and the chair. His grief was fresh. Owen watched Stan; hugging the envelope, his breathing coming in wet gasps as he talked to Laura in a voice tormented with pain,
"Ooh, why…" (Sniff) Stan cried, setting the envelope on the table and moving a blue and white legal looking document to his lips and kissing it. "We could have…Oh baby why?"
"I'll do my best." He said looking through the ceiling, talking to his lost love in heaven.
Owen purposely, made noise as he lowered himself onto the couch.
Stan turned his pained face toward him, a questioning look broke through the unconcealed grief as he gestured toward Owen with the document in his hand.
The Birth Certificate exchanged hands. It took Owen a few moments to realize what he was looking at, but he moved like a man half his age when he realized what he was holding. The paper fluttered like a child's flag as he ran for the bedroom and his wife.