Town Pump’s lone security guard stood inside the store looking out. The night wind ruffled Alan’s hair as he approached the driver’s door, feeling suddenly sober.

“Hello?” He knocked on the SUV's black window. “Hey?” He knocked harder.

The rear window rolled down, and a woman’s voice came from inside. “Please get in, Dr. Smith. It’s cold.”

“What’s the deal?”

“I assure you, I mean you no harm.”

He looked back at his car where Gwen was watching.

The door to the SUV opened, and he climbed inside. The door closed behind him on an automated mechanism. The air inside was chilled and purified.

The dark interior was lit by an indirect, blue glow. The front of the SUV was partitioned by mirrored glass, and a classical violin played distantly over the sound system.

A woman in a black, leathery bodysuit sat across from him. Her hair was sharply bobbed, and her face held the blue tint from the lights. Over her shoulders rested the glistening midnight pelt of some unfortunate creature, which she stroked as she appraised him.

“What the hell is this?” he said.

“My apologies for alarming you. It was urgent that I talk to you tonight. I tried calling, but you didn’t answer your phone.”

Alan pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was on silent and showed he had missed six calls from an anonymous number over the course of the evening.

“And who are you?”

“I am Sister Jillian.”

“Sure you are. So, you’re a nun? Well, I’m an atheist.”

She smiled as her fingers continued to run through the fur of the dead animal. “I have taken vows, but don’t let the title confuse you. I don’t care about your soul. Tonight, you were contacted by this woman.” She held up a tablet and showed him a picture of the woman who had tried to speak to him on the dock.

“So she dresses like Halloween every day? You could have talked to me at the gala.”

“I was otherwise engaged, and it wasn’t the place for a scene.”

“Right. Scenes are for midnight rendezvous at gas stations.”

“I need to know who I’m dealing with.”

“Dealing with?” he said.

Her hand stopped petting. Her eyes stopped on his, unblinking. They were, like the rest of her, sharp, and they held a quality he’d only ever seen in predaceous animals.

“You want to know something about me? I’m the most boring person you’re ever going to meet. I’m a washed-up shrink with a drinking problem. I’m always late for work and never make my bed, and I don’t wash my dishes until I’m down to the very last one.” He crossed his arms. His temple was pounding. He wanted to go home, sleep, and forget.

“Correct,” she said. “And you graduated from Montana State University—a mediocre school at best—with a doctorate in adolescent psychology.”

“How did you like my dissertation?” he sniped.

“Pedantic. Idiosyncratic. Esoteric,” she said bluntly. “You were married. Your wife—” Full stop. She scanned him for a reaction, as if she were waiting for him to do something before she continued.

He swallowed the saliva instead of spitting in her face. Beads of sweat tickled the nape of his neck. His hands clenched into fists. This was Becky’s work.

“You tell Becky I’m going to get a restraining order.”

“Yes, Rebecca Madison. Your wife’s lover—”

“Fuck you!” He grabbed the door handle. It pulled impotently. “Open this goddamn door, you hoary cunt.”

The mirrored partition slid down. A bald face in black glasses peered back.

“I’m alright, Sister,” said Sister Jillian, never taking her gaze off his face.

The window slid back up.

“It’s all in my dossier.” She reached into a black case that had been resting beside her and held out a folder.

He took it. It was an inch thick. He thumbed the pages, letting them fall open as he scanned the contents. It was all there. His diplomas. The time he was written up in college for drinking in the dormitory. The marriage certificate. The report from the hospital. The birth certificate. Everything, even the death certificates and… He choked down the heavy lump in his throat.

“I’ll kill her,” he whispered through dry lips.

“I investigated Dr. Madison. She doesn’t concern us. You concern us, Dr. Smith.”

The final pages contained photographs. One of Francis when he was a little boy with wild, black hair and an impish grin. The next page was his mug shot, followed by the documentation of the scars on his body. The very last page was a picture of a CCTV capture of Alan kneeling before the prison bars, holding the boy in his arms.

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“What did he say to you?” said Sister Jillian.

“Fuck off. Where did you get this?”

“I work for a firm that deals in sensitive information. We’ve been contracted by Senator John Taylor to help him with this situation.”

“This conversation is over. I don’t talk about my patients.”

“You’re recently unemployed.” She returned to her petting of the pelt.

He opened the dossier and let the papers scatter at her feet. This time, when he pulled the handle, the door opened with a mechanical whirl.

“Talk to Mickey Verona,” said Alan.

“I will, eventually,” said Sister Jillian.

“We’re done,” he said.

“Very well. I’m obliged to warn you, Dr. Smith—”

He laughed. He wanted her to feel his hate. “Fuck you.”

“My job is to pursue things outside of court,” she said as he stepped out.

The door slowly shut.

The vehicle drove off into the night like a cat slinking into the jungle.

He went into Town Pump and bought two hot, black coffees. His hands trembled as he paid.

“What was that all about?” asked Gwen.

“I think it was a threat from John Taylor.”

“98 Highland Avenue,” said Gwen.

----------------------------------------

At night, Highland Avenue was dark and lined with tall evergreens that would block any view of the lake during the day.

They drank the coffee on the front porch. The night wind blew the smoke from their cigarettes back into their faces.

“I want to see him tomorrow,” he said.

“Comstock is delaying your paperwork,” she said.

“Fuck him. Can he do that?”

“Yes, but he’s only working a half day. He’s going to watch the game with his militia buddies. Come by in the afternoon. I’ll let you in. You’re his counselor. Francis still has rights.”

He shook his head. “I quit my job for him.”

“Why did you do that?”

“They took me off his case. One of the mucky-mucks doesn’t want me working with children.”

“This Becky?” A gust of frozen wind blasted their faces. “Because you were on Escape?”

“You pulled my file,” he said, grinding his teeth.

“Dr. Madison came by the station.”

Alan went to his car. He threw his coffee into the road and slammed his fists on the hood.

BEEP BEEP BEEP went the horn. FLASH FLASH FLASH went the lights.

“Disarm!” The car fell silent. He held his hand. “That bitch will never stop.” He jerked the door open.

“Alan, it’s okay. Come see him tomorrow. He asked for you tonight. He didn’t eat. He said you were going to bring him McDonald’s.”

“I can’t fucking do this.” Alan cried.

She was next to him, her soft hands finding his. “Come inside. You don’t need to be alone tonight.”

“You want me to come in?” He felt like a little boy asking the question.

“Or get into your spaceship and fly away. There are options.” Gwen climbed the steps to her porch.

“I’m drunk,” he said.

“Beer’s in the fridge. Booze is on the top.” She went inside, leaving the door ajar.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Her house was spartan. A lamp on the living room wall lit the stage of her modular existence: an empty living room but for a pair of pants on the floor and a sofa burdened with a pillow and a rumpled blanket.

“You live alone?”

“Yeah.”

She faced him, a bottle of rum in her hands. She tipped it back, took a long, deep pull, then passed it to him.

“Gut rot,” he said before drinking deeply.

“Yeah.” She shrugged. She reached behind her back and undid something, and the flowing white gown was falling to the floor like a pair of discarded angel wings.

She was nude beneath but for a pair of light-green panties. Her breasts were small and firm, studded with pink nipples that faded into her freckled skin.

She approached him.

He could feel her heat. He lifted a trembling hand but dropped it before he touched her.

“How long?” she whispered.

He cleared his throat. “I… um…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Fourteen years,” he whispered, “almost.”

She gripped his hand and brought it up to her tit. He felt its shape fill his palm. He brushed his thumb across the nipple.

She bit her bottom lip.

He felt obscene. What he touched turned into shit. Say no, his mind shouted.

He traced her collarbone up to her shoulder, thin yet toned. With the back of his hand, he made to caress her cheek, but she caught it and stopped him.

“I guess we’re a couple boxes of damaged goods,” she said.

Her emerald eyes sparkled in the soft light.

“You don’t need to,” he said.

“Maybe I do.” She groped at him through his jeans. “I can take care of this.”

She undid his belt and pants and let them fall to the floor.

With both hands, he explored her breasts. He twirled her hair between his fingers and brought it to his nose. It smelled of apples and spices. He found her hips and toyed with the weak elastic of her panties. But when he tried to remove them, her hands covered his.

She pushed him back onto the sofa and knelt between his legs, her red hair webbing over his thighs. She laced her fingers through his as he thrust. She coughed and pulled off, looking at him with flushed cheeks and puffy lips as she caught her breath.

“Can I ask something?” she said.

He nodded and guided himself back to her lips. Soft wet tongue on tender skin.

“Do you remember me?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, almost a cry.

“Show me.” It was a plea.

As pathetic as he was, maybe she also needed something from him. He tried to touch her face again, but she moved her head.

“Show me,” she repeated.

Fourteen years. He would not think about Zoey, not tonight.

He pulled Gwen onto him. She was light. His lips found her left nipple, and he suckled. She panted. He reached between her legs. She shaved. Smooth and wet.

“Please,” she whispered, as if afraid someone lurking in the other room might hear.

He wrestled her over, pushed her knees back to her head, and roughly yanked the crotch of her panties aside. Her sweet, musky scent caught his nostrils, and he went down on her like a starving man.

“Oh, God!” she squealed.

When his jaw could work no more, he fell back, dizzy. She crawled over him, griping him hard at his base, and sat herself down, riding him. He teased her nipples between his lips. She came first, thighs trembling, grinding against his pelvis. And then him, releasing into her.

And they were still. Panting. Breath mixing. Their mingling fluids dripped down between his legs.

On the sofa in each other’s arms, he moved to kiss her. She pulled away.

“Sorry,” she said. She laid her head on his chest.

After a time, when sleep threatened them, she got up and went down the hall into a back room without a word. He heard a door shut; its lock clicked.

He remained on the sofa, listening to the night. Somewhere off, a dog barked. She was not coming back. He went out, locking the door on the inside knob. Behind him, it secured a dream he was unsure he had experienced. Highland Avenue was deserted. His eyes watered from the night wind.

His car took him home through parked caravans of climate refugees and bundles of shrouded Gretas, hiding from the cold.

He turned on the radio and listened to a news story about the Eastern Front. The war dragged on with no end in sight.

He felt a wildness that he could not tame. The feeling had been lost for so long that it was new. It rose through him like a surge, and he screamed inside his car until his throat was raw, and he was coughing and sobbing.