I hit the ground - the soft ground. I don’t know if I lose consciousness. Spinning around in the pitch dark, falling through impossibly cold air, that might as well be losing consciousness. But not only is the ground soft when I land, not only do I land lightly, as if I’d been falling through water rather than the rushing winds, but it’s bright too, like noonday bright. The black of the fall and the dimness of my room are lost, somewhere above me I guess. It’s cloudless skies and beach vacation bright. And warm too. I still have scaly goosebumps from the cold. My ass hurts, my elbow too. I whip my head around, trying to make sense of what happened.

“I’m still fucking tripping.” I say out loud. The sound of my own voice takes me one small step down from the panic attack that threatens to buckle me.

“Still in that god damn house I bet. Not even once.” I gasp out a kind of safety net laugh and continue trying to orient myself.

“Okay, fine, I’m high as birds, I’m dreaming of a-” Lush dark green grass surrounds me. I seem to be at the edge of a forest, but it looks more like a lawn than a meadow.

“Somebody definitely cuts this grass,” I say, feeling its robust blades between my fingers.

“Some kind of park.”

[park: parks are made to be enjoyed.]

“Garbage came to the party.” I drily reply. “Joy.”

He’s right though. For all I know some adorable couple will come around soon, walking their excitable golden retriever, gazing into each other's eyes and talking about normal people shit. What’s for dinner. Did you fill up the chevy? What the fuck is that homeless looking dirty man in two pairs of scrubs doing staring at us?

I check my six quickly but don’t find any suspicious lovers. I decide to heed my better’s advice anyway. Never know. I stand up. My ass hurts so it takes me a second. Then, cradling my elbow, I limp toward the forest. Skinny light-colored trees grow up in slants and twists somewhat sparsely. They’re punctuated by occasional big cedars, tall birches, and brambly bushes with dark purple berries. I make my way through some distance to be sure I can’t be seen from beyond the woods. I feel the squishy leafy earth give way each step and know that I’m trailing obvious footsteps.

[steps: steps always lead somewhere.]

“Yeah,if anyone’s around,” I counter.

I rest, back against a towering pine. I’m talking to him again. Something I haven’t done much since the Home. But hell, all bets are off now, this is just a grand hallucination anyway. I sit down, lay my head against the tree, and try to think rationally.

“I just have to wait it out, sober up, find Gus, and get out of this house. That’s all. I’m probably just lying in a pile of people, zuted to shit and dreaming of. This.”

The forest is beautiful meanwhile. It’s green and brown all around, smells like earth and water. Like a stream or a cave.

“Just wait it out.”

[out: you’re out of your mind.]

I take a deep breath in and let it out like I’m dropping a stone in a pool, my pulse gradually begins to slow. As the silence extends and my muscles unclench I simply observe the woods around me. Steadily it seems to wake up, as it deems me nonthreatening. Birds perch closer to me. A skunk ambles by, just in sight. I probably woke the thing up with my crashing. Sorry skunk. The birds are quite brave in fact. Braver by the second. A little fluff ball ground tit takes a sideways hop toward me, pointing its eye directly into mine. Its beady little eye.

“Name.” It chirps.

I feel my blood quicken again for a moment, but I reign myself back in, watching the bird closely.

“Just a weird fucking trip.” I whisper.

“Trip.” The bird answers. “Trip Trip.”

Another one flutters down from a nearby branch, landing half on top of its contemporary. It takes up the chant. Now both of them hop back and forth, eyeing me as they go.

“Trip. Tritrip.” Maybe they’re just chirping now.

“Y-yeah..” I say slowly. I look away but am startled by a carpet of birds strewn across the leafy forest floor behind me. They all, with eager energy, copy the first one in piping little voices, eerily human. Then at once, they go still. At this point I’m halfway to standing, ready to take my bad trip to a less trippy part of the woods. But in looking around as I rise to my feet, I see something that catches me there, half crouched. Frozen, like prey.

A fox stands a few paces off. It’s statuesque, thin and dirty. Watching me watch.

[watch: watch out.]

It eventually saunters away, vanishing behind a thicket of purple berries. When I stand again fully I see that the welcoming committee has halted their incessant hopping and ‘trip’ing. They stand in a clear formation, now with two smaller denser crowds facing into an aisle. I feel within me, deeply, the compulsion to step forward. It feels natural, like a walk sign has lit up at the other end of an intersection, like a queue is moving forward.

[forward: can’t turn back.]

Just a dream. Just a long fucked up dream on a dirty couch in a stupid house.

I walk. Each step I take I fall farther forward. In four steps I fall onto my front paws, and by the time I reach the end of the aisle I no longer tower over the crowd of ground birds. I barely have a half foot on them. My muzzle protrudes from my face, my paws feel the soft earth. I can smell, I kid you not, I can smell every feather of each of the birds around me. I scamper to my left and back, testing out my legs. I’m powerful, small, fast, and I always have been.

I dash forward, through the crowd of birds, smelling my way toward where I saw the other. He’s powerful, I realize, when I catch his scent. But I’m fast. He’s in my territory. I weave through trees and over rocks, stopping on a dime to continually sample his direction. Leaves move beneath me, I try to keep quiet.

[quiet: quiet the fox. you are taken.]

The voice gives me pause. I gaze around dimly, trying to see if another is near. Finding none, I continue, scurrying forward, coursing toward the threat. His scent is stronger, I must be nearing him. Just to my right, I have only a moment’s notice and he’s on me. His teeth flash and a low snarl wraps him and weaves through my own warnings. It’s a close thing. His surprise almost ends me, but I am fast. I roll to my feet. My back leg is bleeding, I smell it strong in the air.

Slowly we circle one another, hackles raised and fangs bare. I snarl my threats. He answers.

[answer: answer me, please! you are taken! Taken!]

He dives again, jumping at my hesitation, and rips another wound in my side. He barely misses my neck. I’m weakened. Everything in me screams to get out, get out and live to fight another day. But I know this forest. This is my home. I know the stream to the west of here. I know the tall tree that stands on its bank, whose tangled web of roots forms a hollow. My kits, too young to see or eat without me.

Then a long high sound perks us both. Coming from the east. The clearing. Our fight stops for a beat while we watch for the noise. It’s a keening sonorous sound. Another. I don’t let it take me from the task at hand for long. I spring to my fight, snarling, snapping. I finish it. The other is gone. I lick my wounds and watch the trees.

[trees: the forest has you. Us.]

The sound again, the new other, closer. I know it. I know that sound. I remember, and when I do, I see it. Dog. The panic electrifies my limbs. I try to bolt west, to the stream and safety, but my wounds pull me down. Before I manage to get more than a few bounds away I feel a force slam my chest. The arrow shaft drives into me. I’m knocked to my side. I try flailing upright again, letting squeals of terror escape my jaws, snarls of panic. The dog bounds up to me, approaching to fetch me away, and beyond him, a man. He’s dressed in a silk cloak and carries a longbow. I see his face. I have seen it before. In a different life, in a different time.

Darkness without pitch. Emptiness with no apprehension.

____________________________________________________________________________

[garbage] started awake, memory of muzzle and paw fading away. The feel of the arrow through his side dissolved into realization of where he was. He felt his arms beneath the blanket and shoes heavy on his feet, tangled with the throw he lay under, wedged as he was into the couch a few feet too short for him. He opened his eyes and let reality wash away the panic. Gus sat on a reclining chair opposite their small coffee table. He looked distracted. [garbage] rolled his head around and slowly rose up.

“Nice nap?” A voice next to him asked. He looked to see the source. The figure on the chair next to him sparked a further rush of memory. A large asian man, with a soft sleepy expression.

“Yeah, yeah, weird dream.” [garbage] answered. Don smiled vaguely back at him.

“All dreams are weird, aren’t they.” He said.

There was a thin pale woman next to him with eager green eyes and long matte pink hair, the color of her name. Coral pouted her lips and blew air through her nose.

“Not my dreams.” She said to Don. “You guys are lucky, you know. All my dreams are about walking in the woods, and that’s it. I don’t even get any company. Every night I wander through the trees and nothing happens. I’d kill for weird.”

Something bright and painful splashed across [garbage]’s mind and dripped away before he could catch it. Don snorted mildly.

“I’d kill for yours. I don’t have the wherewithal for the ridiculous things my brain decides to show me.”

“How bout a trade?” Coral asked. From her expectant look it was hard to tell whether she really believed it was possible. Don dismissed her suggestion with a wave of his thick hand.

“So [garbage], the vote is two-one now, either Hug Point, which is illegal I might remind you,” He stressed the word like all the weight of the gods sat behind it. “Or the much prettier forests of Ecola Park, which are lush and green and well within the law.”

The three of them looked at [garbage], waiting for his answer. Gus was biting his lip. His eyes were far away.

“Tie goes to the driver.” He said lazily.

“You can’t make up rules like that!” Said Don. Coral had laid back against the ratty plaid couch and was giggling softly to herself. “Fine,” Don said, when it was clear Gus wasn't going to compromise. “Why did we even have a vote if it was just going to be Gus’s decision anyway?”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Donny don’t be sour,” Coral said back. She put her thin, long fingered hand onto Don’s shoulder, but he wasn’t taking consolation. He fumed while Gus pulled out his phone and swiped silently at it, then flipped it around to show us the route.

“Bout an hour and a half there,” he said. With a ding, a message flag flashed at the top of the map. Gus hastily withdrew his phone and pocketed it.

“I think we should take two cars.” Don said. He was sitting with his arms crossed. His jaw was set. Gus shook his head.

“For what?” He asked, incredulous. But Don wouldn’t budge.

“I like mine.” He answered. Coral gave his shoulder a little shake. It was like trying to loosen up a wax statue.

“You can drive whatever you want.” Said Gus. “Alright. So we have food, ice, tents, everything’s ready to go.”

“I’ll go with you Donny, we can sing show tunes on the way.” Said Coral. Gus’s phone dinged again from his pocket. He didn’t move.

“[garbage] can go with Gus and give him road head.” She wiggled her eyebrows. That earned a reluctant chuckle from Don. [garbage] laughed his full throated laugh and leaned to slap Gus on the back. When Gus merely smiled, [garbage] withdrew, wearing a concerned frown.

“Alright then let’s get packing.” Coral sprang from the couch and headed into the kitchen.

“You’ll love Hug Point,” [garbage] said to Don. “Illegal or not, there’s an incredible spot, you can see the ocean right out there but you’re still in the thick of the forest. Anyway who the fuck cares if a few dumbasses pitch a tent or two? It’s not like the cops are about to climb around the cavern to put us in irons for it.”

“That’s not the point.” Don said. He looked sulky. [garbage] rose and followed Coral into the kitchen, patting Don’s shoulder on the way out.

“You’ll love it,” he repeated.

Coral and [garbage] worked together to compile their supplies on the dirty carpet by the door. Cooler loaded with food and beer, marshmallows and chocolate, all the wilderness staples. Each of them had prepared a duffle and they were already stacked in a pile. Coral’s stood out, a vibrant and hand crocheted rainbow bag. The tents were packed in their sleeves and leaning against the door. While they gathered the rest of the food and double checked their bags, Don and Gus sat across from each other, glaring, until a third ding sounded from Gus’s pocket. He took his phone out again, breaking their little staring contest, so Don stood up to help [garbage] cram everything into the second cooler.

[garbage] looked warily back toward his boyfriend.

“Gus what’s up?” He asked from the kitchen. He could see Gus still hammering his thumbs away, an intent expression fixed on his fair face. After a moment he looked quickly up from his phone, then down, not meeting [garbage]’s eye.

“There’s a draping that was torn.” He tucked his phone away. “For the show tomorrow.” He was watching his hands. “Birdie wants me to remake it, but it will only take a few hours.”

[garbage] pushed the lid of the cooler closed and sat down on top of it.

“Some kind of magic draping?” His voice had a bit of venom in it, but his eyes were still worried. “One of those drapings only the master Gus can replicate?” Gus’s eyes stayed down. He was playing with a thread from the hole in his jeans.

“It’s a hard one. It would take them too long alone. Plus I’d have to explain how I did it. Better if I just remake it myself.”

[garbage] didn’t have an answer. He knew it was pointless to call Gus out on a lie. Flat denial or outright anger wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“We can wait for you here,” Coral said.

“I could go with you to hang out?” [garbage] threw out his last line. But Gus waved them down.

“No you guys go on without me, I can catch up later. Besides,” He flashed them his winning smile. “That way I don’t have to set up my tent.” He rose up and made his way to the door, brushing past [garbage], still without looking at him squarely “I’ll see you out there,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

A peculiar silence hung in his absence. [garbage] shook his head. He could feel his throat tightening and tears threatened to fall. Coral walked to him slowly and wrapped her arm around his shoulders in a warm side hug.

“He’ll make it either way.” She said softly. “He wouldn’t just blow us off.”

Don hefted a cooler and squeezed through the door quickly, leaving them alone.

“He would.” [garbage] said.” His words were calmer than he felt. “You never knew him before. He blew me off all the time.”

Coral rubbed his back a bit but didn’t say anything more. She bent to grab her colorful bag and slung it over her back, then headed down to the car after Don. [garbage] took a moment to collect himself. As he stood there, for that moment, he gazed off into the shabby painted wall of the two bedroom he shared with Gus.

“Because I don’t fucking feel like it.” He spat into the empty air. Then, jaw set, he collected his duffel and joined the others in loading up.

The trip to hug point would have been made in a seething silence if it hadn’t been for coral. She made good on her promise to sing show tunes, and if it didn’t bring [garbage] and Don around to the cheerful mood she always seemed to be in, it at least served to prevent them from stewing, and from growing so sour they might just turn around and throw their camping plan away in favor of another weekend at home. It was hard to stew when an off-key rendition of ‘spoonful of medicine’ was being unforgivingly sung around a mouthful of skittles.

In the blessed unmusical moments between songs, usually when Coral was checking her phone, [garbage] sent a short series of texts to Gus. They progressed from the first angry “Thought you said honesty was important?” through the backtracking “I know it’s not easy but you don’t have to make it harder.” and finally came to rest at “I’ll be really sad if you don’t come. I love you.” Finally, finding nothing else to send, and just growing more upset by the idea that Gus wouldn’t see the messages anyway, he stowed the phone and decided to try siphoning some of Coral’s energy.

One full sing-through of the wizard of oz later, they pulled into the small parking lot just north of Cannon Beach. It was an unmarked little square lot with an old wooden outhouse and a stairway that led down to the beach. The group, laden with their tents, bags, and rolling coolers, made their way down to the beautiful Oregon coast. The place was peaceful. It was a lesser known spot, not advertised or sold as prime tourist real estate. As they made their way north along the shore, they only saw one other person, standing back against the mouth of the spiral rock cavern with a bulky camera to his eye, beard blowing in the crisp breeze. They carried a reverent silence with their tents and bags. They felt the salty wind from the water, heard the rushing rhythm of waves against the beach, and felt the hard rock crusted over with barnacles, uneven beneath their feet.

The ‘hug’ of hug point was a rocky outcropping with a small footpath extending around it which was only exposed during low tide. Cold water occasionally sloshed over the path as they traversed it. The tide was rising. Their planned site would soon be inaccessible except through the thick forest to the east. When they rounded the far edge of the hug, even Don took a moment of stillness to drink in the sight of their campground. A short cliff faced the ocean, about fifty feet back from the waves. It was the same course stone that made up the cavern, but all along its center ran a colorful sheet of water, falling from the top, made to appear red orange and green from the algaes and moss beneath it. The stream was from a spring up in the forest, emptying its cool mineral rich water over the rock before it spread out below as an estuary that branched into the pacific.

Still silent, [garbage] led the way in climbing around to the top of the cliff. It was a well worn pathway up, not steep enough to be a challenge. When they reached the top they once again took a holy moment to let themselves fall into place in the little nook above the beach. Long lush grass surrounded the noisy little stream and just a few paces off the edge of a dense forest , the site was rich with color and heavy with the scent of earth and water.

Coral had taken her shoes off and was slowly making her way up the stream, bent double to search for fish and frogs. She held her waist length pink hair up with one hand while the other turned stones and splashed in the fresh mountain water. Don set himself the task of laying out the tarps and pitching tents. [garbage] sat at the edge of the cliff, watching the mist shrouded rocks in the distant ocean. Waves crashed against them, spraying white hands of foam upward, reaching for the clouds before being sucked back to rejoin the flow. He sat hugging his knees, contemplating the beauty of the scene. Trying to let himself be just another part of the coast. Just an animal in the world.

That night, when the three of them sat sharing a smokey fire under the reddening sky that cast their shadows back toward the forest, [garbage] started telling a story to the group. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to tell it, it just seemed to him that it was time somebody else heard it. Somebody who was more likely to stick around after. His voice fell into a rhythmic intonation. Coral watched him, astute. Don stared unwavering into the flames, occasionally shifting the logs or adding a branch.

____________________________________________________________________________

The first time I came here was with a big group of us kids from the Home. We took this cushy van. I guess it probably wasn’t as amazing as I remember it. The van I mean, Hug point itself has always been just as good as ever. One of the few things that keeps its magic I think. Anyway yeah the van was like an adventure in itself. Back then I was really tight with two other boys. I must have been eight or nine when we all finally got to go on the beach trip. That was a big deal to us. We had watched the older kids go every summer growing up, so it was kind of a rite of passage thing. A trip to Hug Point meant you were really a big kid, you know? So these two that I was close with, Matty and Paul, we called ourselves the three brothers. We were a few weeks into a kind of club I guess. I mean the main purpose of the club was just for us to not let other people join it, so not much of an organization, but we all considered it like the most important thing at the time.

So on our way there, in this fancy van, we were talking about what kind of ‘brother test’ we could make this other kid Carl perform. We were all sitting on a kind of secluded back seat, pitching test ideas while the van bumped along the highway blasting AC and some inane children’s song we all hated on the grounds that it was for children.

“We should make him pee in the sand.” I said, with all the gravity of a banker pitching a new acquisition.

“No, he has to eat some!” Piped Matty.

“He has to pee in the sand and then eat it.” Paul said, which had us chorusing out our ‘ew’s, grinning like prepubescent alligators.

“I bet I can swim farthest out in the water,” I said confidently. Paul’s expression grew dark.

“You’ll get eaten by a shark. He confided.

“I’m not afraid of a big damn fish.” Our group grew silent for a moment to relish my use of a swear word, then we moved on.

The rest of the trip west was just like that. We were high energy little shits enjoying being somewhere new and talking about how we might exclude and torture Carl. When we arrived it was like I was visiting another planet. I ran up and down the coastline, racing Matty and Paul. We poked at the helpless creatures of the tide pools, daring each other to pick up one of the stinging anemones or leechlike starfish draped over and stuck fast to the rocks. Our chaperones were two young men, much younger than I’d realized at the time. Everybody over sixteen was essentially elderly to us back then. I guess they must have been interns or students, roped into watching a handful of eight year olds at the beach. They had a hard enough time keeping us under control back at the Home. On the coast it was as futile as trying to keep a candle lit in the wind. So they allowed some leeway, their only hard rule was that nobody could go farther out than the point at which the water reached their knees.

The little enclosed semicircle of the wall around the point and the entrance to the spiral cave allowed them to set up their camp chairs, each facing outward, toward the ocean, and simply let us run wild, with the natural rock boundary on one side and the long empty beach on the other. It didn’t take us too long to start messing with Carl. Kids are seriously little assholes you know? I’d say we didn’t know any better but we all liked being mean. And we knew it was mean too. Otherwise we wouldn’t have liked it. Maybe we were just too stupid for empathy. Whatever.

We had that kid drinking sips from the tide pool, pressing his hands onto the tendrily anemones, sticking his head in the water, all while dangling the carrot in front of him, telling him he could join the brothers. Of course we never intended to welcome him into the fold. Every test ended with our derisive laughter and the ponderous claim that there were ‘only a few tests left’. To his credit, Carl wasn’t a fool. He seemed to genuinely enjoy proving himself to us for its own sake. He was proud of every test passed. But eventually we grew bored of tormenting him.

“We need to have a club meeting to talk about it.” Matty said after Carl had successfully wrapped his head with the stinking purple seaweed that littered the sand. We left him to his unwrapping and went as a trio to the gem of the point: the spiral cavern.

____________________________________________________________________________

[garbage] paused for a long moment, watching the fire the three of them were huddled around. Don looked up at him, then back down. Coral opened another beer, shifting in her seat. [garbage] was eyeing something in the flames. Something that was growing out from the white orange wavering coals. He was holding his hands to the warmth. Night had fallen. They were there in the isolated flickering bubble of ancient origin. The safe space that had ensured their ancestors’ survival. It was in their bones to feel that safety. To feel free around the crackles and brightness, free to be vulnerable with one another. Humanity’s first therapist’s couch was a circle of logs. [garbage] took a deep breath, but didn’t go on. He squinted down to the fire. In its center there seemed to be a white light that wasn’t flickering like the rest of the flames. It was a diffuse cold light. A little circle among the cheery glow that was eerily still. Eventually he did take the story up again. But his eyes stayed on the aberration in the fire.

____________________________________________________________________________

On our way over to the cave I was walking along the stripe of beach where the rocks and shells had collected, keeping an eye out for any cool looking stuff. Shiny shells, sand dollars. I’d been collecting a little hoard that I kept in my swim shorts’ pockets. In my hurry to pick up a clump of barnacles attached to a rock, I stepped down, running, on a piece of a broken bottle. When I sat down to examine the cut on my foot, Matty and Paul gathered around me to look.

“Damn glass,” I said, fighting tears. The offending shard was passed among us. It was green glass, probably from a beer bottle, but to us at the time, it was a mystical shard from the unknown.

“Someone in England probably threw it in the ocean a hundred years ago.” Said Paul reverently, passing it back to me. We stared at it for a while in a hush while I held my foot. When I pulled back my hand there was a spot of blood in my palm.

“Come on guys let’s go into the cave.” I said. I ran on my hands and feet a few paces before lifting up and sprinting over. When we arrived at the entrance we stood yelling into it for a while, swear words and insults mostly. I didn’t want to admit it but the darkness of the space in front of us scared me. It was Matty who took the first steps in. He shouted “Echo!” and looked back grinning, then dashed in and around the corner, disappearing. The alien nature of the entire beach experience made the separate cold stillness and pressing dark that much more unusual to me. It was like I had discovered a room in the Home that wasn’t there before, and which had strange lights and furniture, then further found, in its corner, an inexplicable closet with stairs leading upward. Paul gave me a little shove.

“Go.” He demanded.

“You go.” I said back. Then Matty’s voice came drifting out from the cave, lifted to a sonorous commanding quality by its reverberations.

“You’re Gay!” It echoed, ‘gay, gay, ay..’ His repeating peals of laughter followed.

I was encouraged by the claim, and took the plunge. At first it was pitch dark and I had to feel my way along the left hand wall. I felt Matty’s hand stop me, planted in my chest.

“Hey watch it.” He said. His voice played off the walls. After a while of shouting, playing with my own voice in the unique little space, I felt my boldness return. My eyes had adjusted to the dimness enough to see the other boys dimly. It was the perfect place for what I had in mind. I took the sharp green glass from the sea and explained my plan to the other members of ‘the brothers’. A way we could cement our bond. Prove that we would always have each others’ backs.

____________________________________________________________________________

[garbage] has his eyes locked on the white circle in the fire. It’s growing. It’s surpassed the size of a quarter and begins to approach CD width. The beer is twisting in his head, making the scene around him judder. He’s strangely compelled to continue his story. A sense of dread, itching at the corners of him, says that whatever he does, he has to continue relating the tale he’s telling the others. He knows that some ensnarement, a hazy confinement beyond words, awaits him the moment he takes longer than a breath of pause. But instead of continuing, he stares, transfixed, at the white circle. It’s expanded to nearly the size of the fire itself now, and shows no sign of it slowing. It’s almost comically out of place. He wants to look up at the others, ask them if they see it too, but he fears that the moment he does, he’ll realize something. Something dreadful that he doesn’t want to see. Despite feeling the comfortable camp chair below him, he simultaneously knows that he’s seated on a cold hard floor, against a concrete wall. He dimly smells an artificial citrus cleaning product. The remnants of overcooked cafeteria food. Don speaks, but speaks with the voice of a woman. A patient, caring voice.

“I’d like to hear more about Gus.” He says. “We can continue talking about your upbringing later if you want. Last session you said you were looking for your boyfriend when the police found you. Can you tell me more about that?”

[garbage] falters. He presses himself back against the chipped paint wall. Madeline looks from him back to the door, shaking her head minutely at the nurse in its frame. [garbage]’s tense arms and gripped fists relax a bit. Just Madeline. Just Mercy Providence. He tries to place his memory of the fire in the cold sterile hospital room. It’s falling away from him. Coral, Don, falling away, and the reality of his situation crystallizing. The fine sand of the firelight story falls through his fingers and the wind catches it up. Just Madeline. Did he fall asleep? What did he dream about? The last drops finally elude him. He’s in the hospital. He overdosed on (_____). Madeline needs his story so he can go home and find Gus.

“Where was I?” He asks. His eyes are still wide, his voice small and meek.

“You said Garbage was holding you back.” Madeline replied. She flips to a page in the sheaf of paper she holds and runs her finger down it. “You said that you had always wanted to be with Gus, but ‘Garbage’ was holding you back.” She looks up, her face still passive, professionally curious. “What did you mean by ‘Garbage?”

“Garbage is a voice I hear sometimes.” He replies. His voice has a bit more strength. His eyes are less shocked now, but more distant. Madeline leans forward and drops her tone to one of caring commiseration.

“We aren’t going to keep you here longer.” She says. “Hearing voices isn’t something to be ashamed of. People all over the world hear them, for many reasons. It can be managed, especially when you have help. So. Garbage was keeping you back from asking Gus out…”