“You can’t do this, Peter,” Mark said in a slightly raised voice. He gripped Peter’s shoulder.

Mark’s hand on him was a threat, Peter knew, but he was a larger man than Mark. He could hold his own if he had to.

“I can’t just sit by, Mark. I have to do something.”

“Yes you can. You can sit right here and wait for Johnson.”

“I’m not waiting for him. He’s dirty, Mark. He doesn’t have the company’s mission in mind.”

“He is the company’s mission, Peter. He is the company.”

Peter looked at Mark with disbelieving eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why do you think he was brought in six months ago, Peter? Why do you think the men upstairs have been shuffling around like they’re about to get the ax? Because they are, Peter. Johnson’s cleaning house, and it’s finally our turn to prove ourselves.” Mark crossed his arms. His explanation was painful. He didn’t want to tell Peter anything. Survival of the fittest.

“We developed this program to help people, Mark. Hospitals need this for all of their equipment and computers. We can’t sit on this one. I can’t. I refuse.”

Peter turned his back and left the room. He hastened to the elevator and pressed the down arrow several times. He shoved his hands in his pocket, feeling the small disc neatly tucked away. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he had to run. He hoped that all of the hospitals in the area would install the mysterious discs that had been mailed to them. He had a connection in a few local medical centers who worked in IT, so a few locations were a sure bet. Others, though, required his faith, and he had some left to give them.

He entered the elevator and pressed “CLOSE DOOR.” He felt safe as the metal box closed in front of him. That is, until a beefy hand shoved its way through, causing the doors to open.

“Peter Matius,” came a husky voice. “Mr. Johnson wishes to have a word.”

It was Johnson’s right hand body guard, Maverick—a pseudonym, to be sure. He entered the elevator with Peter and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

Peter said nothing. He felt Maverick’s thick fingers around his forearm as the machine slowly rose. He kept his hands in his pockets. He could still feel the disc. They don’t know about the other copies. They don’t know about the hospitals already installing the life saving software. Peter’s heart raced, but not in fear—in hope.

“Mr. Matius,” Johnson grinned. He was sinister, and his smiling mask only amplified his monster in Peter’s eyes. “Come into my office.”

Peter wasn’t led in the direction of Johnson’s office. Maverick gripped him firmly as he followed Johnson, who walked down a long corridor to a room with an unlabelled door. “Right this way, Mr. Matius.”

Peter’s jaw clenched as Maverick shoved him into the room. At its center was a large box with thick cords and colored wires attached to wrist and ankle cuffs. At the room’s perimeter were dozens of computers, all making up a large circle surrounding the strange machine. There was a bottle of Wild Turkey and an orange prescription bottle on a small table to the left of the machine.

“What is this?” Peter asked. “What’s going on?”

“Patience, Mr. Matius. You’re going to be the first to learn about our new information gathering technology,” Johnson explained. “Mr. Maverick, if you please.”

Maverick gripped Peter’s shoulders and shoved him toward the machine.

“I’m sure you’ll praise the technology’s efficiently, Mr. Matius,” Johnson said as Maverick forced Peter’s limbs into the restraints.

He heard several machines turn on. Johnson walked the perimeter looking at computer monitors. Something behind Peter surged into life with what sounded like incredible energy. It was the large, mysterious box behind him. It sounded like it could electrocute someone with the same power as a lightning bolt fresh from the angry heavens.

“Open wide,” Maverick smirked. He pulled Peter’s jaw down and threw several pills into his throat. He quickly poured Wild Turkey into his mouth, cupping his meaty hand over Peter’s mouth and jaw to ensure he’d swallow.

“Excellent work, Maverick,” Johnson said. “Let’s allow Mr. Matius to see what this technology is capable of.”

Johnson walked to Peter’s right and stood for a moment, looking at something behind him.

“What are you going to do to me?” Peter asked. His heart beat furiously in his throat.

“Patience, Mr. Matius,” John smiled devilishly.

Peter felt a surge of electricity come through his limbs. This would be his end, he knew. This would be how he would die. His vision failed him—he would be in eternal darkness soon.

“Give him some more Wild Turkey, Maverick,” he heard Johnson’s voice through the pain and the darkness. “The pills will keep him alive, the Wild Turkey will keep him buzzed, and the machine will make this feel like an eternity.” He laughed. “I wonder how many bottles of Wild Turkey it takes for a man’s liver to completely give out.”

I unzipped my suitcase and let the cover hang onto the bed. It smelled stuffy like old, dusty air and a bit like cigarettes. I bought this suitcase set—seven pieces for the low price of $79.95—when I went to Toronto. My first passport stamp. A rite of passage.

I threw things into the suitcase. There wasn’t much time. Just some clothes and whatever else I needed to get through this.

Twenty-six years old and dead. Died on the surgeon’s table for an appendectomy. Sons of bitches with scalpels and degrees and cotton masks covering their smug faces but not their beady greedy eyes.

I exhaled. It was cleansing.

How many outfits would I need for four days? Well, one outfit was already decided. I pulled the modest black dress covered in a black trash bag from the closet and folded it in half in the bottom of the suitcase.

I grabbed a few books, one of them a Bible, and laid them all across the bottom, making a hilly foundation for the rest of the stuff going in there. My Bible was worn. I’d been reading Ecclesiastes and singing The Birds in my head as I read.

To everything

Turn turn turn

There is a season

Turn turn turn

I grabbed some jeans and t-shirts, critiquing their quality as I haphazardly folded them and tossed them inside. I grabbed underwear and socks. I grabbed perfume and deodorant. I threw in dress shoes and sneakers, one at a time. I would be wearing my flip flops on the plane.

A time to be born

A time to die

Why couldn’t I be packing for a better trip? Like going to the beach. Well, I live forty minutes from the beach. All I would pack would be some cash and sun block. Forty-five SPF. Water Babies. The serious sun block that pale blue-eyed girls like me cake on to avoid our porcelain skin to turn fire engine red because we can’t tan. I’d probably bring a book. Something small that I can put down at a moment’s notice. Something easy. Something lacking commitment. Maybe Eragon or Northanger Abbey. Something small. Something easy.

A time to sow

A time to reap

What about a trip to Europe? I would need a week to pack for a trip to Europe. Or just a backpack, rough it with as little as possible like you hear from other people. It’s the stuff of legend. Can it really happen? It would be hard for someone like me, who packs a variety of things to prepare for my wavering moods. Maybe Ender’s Game, Wuthering Heights, and Deathly Hallows—suiting all types of tastes and moods. And a notebook, so I can pretend I’m Orson Scott Card or Emily Bronte or J.K. Rowling and write a saga of my own.

A time to kill

A time to heal

Wait. Did I pack any books? Oh, of course I did. There was The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe next to The Once and Future King. She would describe Peter Pevensie as an admiring fan, making him tangible. I would read it to her, and she would swoon, “Oh, Peter!” in her best British accent. We should have been studying for exams, but what college sophomore actually studies? I took her to the movie for her birthday. She and I cried into our popcorn when the White Witch ran the dagger through Aslan. She always got extra butter and emptied a bag of M&Ms into the bucket and never gained a pound.

Liam Neeson has a beautiful voice. He should read books on tape.

I grabbed my hairbrush, mousse, and blow dryer. I couldn’t possibly leave without these.

I looked at her picture on my dresser. It was wedged between my mirror and its wooden frame among others from my life. Twenty-six and dead. She was happy in this photo, standing in front of our college dorm freshman year. That was so long ago. That was yesterday.

A time to laugh

A time to weep

I was her maid of honor. I helped her husband figure out a way to propose. I helped her pack her life in boxes to move to Cincinnati with her new husband and new life. I told her she would hate the cold and not to call me at Christmas to complain about the ice on her windows while I wore shorts and flip flops to deal with Florida’s constant summer in winter. (Florida always confuses the seasons, so it sticks with what it knows: blistering heat. There are a few days out of the year that I have to break out my college sweatshirt.)

College sweatshirt. Cincinnati is going to be cold. I grabbed that from the depths of my closet and threw it over everything else in my suitcase. It smelled like the suitcase. Would I have enough perfume? Never mind. She’ll let me use her washer and dryer.

Turn, turn, turn.

Oh, yeah.

            The professor always did what he could to look his best.  In the cooler months, he was always in his best jacket; in the summer, he was never without at least a vest and tie. When he knew no one was looking, he’d comb his hair and beard, preening every chance he got.

            The professor was a quiet soul. He brushed off cell phone conversations and impertinent insults, and cared little for the fashion of the moment or the newest blockbuster movie.  He never looked stressed, never seemed to falter, and never broke down. He just watched the world with the wise eyes of someone who had seen it all, and sat with his coffee and paper or sandwich and book while the world insisted on changing around him.

            The professor was a wise old sage.  He quietly lectured the students about life, and surprised a few with his rare, but poignant exclamations of great importance. “Peace abroad will only mean as much to us as it does in our homes!”  “If Christ died for your soul, then John Lennon died for your culture.” “It is not what your country can do for you, but who you didn’t bother to vote for!” Mostly, the students didn’t bother to end their conversations when he spoke. The ones who heard were afraid to listen. He never punished them for not caring, not heeding him. Time, after all, would reveal the truly gifted student.

            One morning when the professor had accidentally fallen asleep sitting up, coffee and paper in hand, a police officer prodded him with his foot.

            “Hey you, you can’t sleep here. The shelter is two blocks down, and you have to be on this corner?”

            I watched while the professor set down the coffee, straightened the tie that hung around his bare neck, brushed off the vest that hung around his sun-aged, leathery dark skin, pretended to flatten the shirt he wasn’t wearing underneath both, folded up the garbage-stained paper he’d fished out that morning, gathered the few dollars in change from the container lying at his feet, slung a beat up knapsack over his shoulder, retrieved his now cold 25 cent coffee, and followed the policeman without a word.  His book was on the ground still, and I hurried to grab it and return it to him.

            “You forgot this!” I said, quickly catching up to the pair.

            The professor turned around and looked me in the eye for the first time. Maybe it was the first time one of his students had ever bothered to approach him. He looked at the book, then back at me. Without a word, he took the book and held it tightly to his chest.  The realization that he might have been parted with it forever left a trace of fear in his quiet eyes.

            “Come on,” the policeman huffed, shooting me a look that told me that it wasn’t in my best interest to converse with the homeless. They turned and crossed the street together, leaving me to be jostled by my fellow students on the streets of New York City.

            No one noticed that the professor had retired. They all continued on to their classes, most without ever having heard a word he said. And I wondered what I could have learned from the homeless man in the tie and vest if I hadn’t been afraid to listen.

Winner of the Wesley Ryals Award for Fiction 2006

The bedroom was dark and cool in the morning. The floor was cooler than the air, and I felt little particles of dirt stick to my feet as I crossed the room to silence the shrieking oval projecting red numbers into the room. When I turned on the bathroom light, the human still in bed grumbled, but did not attempt a direct attack. I tiptoed cautiously towards the sink and–making note of my Human-Life Instruction Manual –approached the items I identified as the “toothbrush” and “toothpaste” The top on the toothpaste tube was sticky from remnants of forgotten paste, so I turned on the water to rinse it clean. The liquid hissed into the sink and smelled slightly of sulfur; I can’t personally account for the odd smell, but the HLIM noted that this area of Earth had poor water quality. After cleaning the tube, I put the requisite amount of paste on the bristles of the brush, turned the water off, and began applying the mixture of water and paste to my teeth. The sweet, cool smell bit my nose just before the matching taste reached my tongue. As the bristles scrubbed with a muted scratching, I studied myself in the mirror, noting–almost like a human might– the elements of my person I would need to improve before emerging from the bedroom. Concentrating on correctly cleaning my teeth while simultaneously assessing the haphazard pile of makeup on the corner of the counter and mentally reviewing the day’s schedule was difficult, but I did remember to swish and spit at the appropriate time.

My next challenge nearly put me in mortal peril. Tiptoeing quietly out of the bathroom area, I made a valiant attempt to open the drawer I was informed held attire for human torsos. To my great distain, the wood seemed to be swollen with the humidity the HLIM warned me about, and as I pulled the container open, the wood squeaked! The human in bed turned over away from the light without a sound. I breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed the first thing my hand fell on. I returned to the bathroom area since it contained the closets as well. I identified the first closet as “Casey’s” and knew the human in bed–Casey–would not appreciate it if I attempted to pair the torso cover I’d chosen with her lower appendage attire. Instead, I rummaged through the other closet, testing each “pair of pants” as they are called (for what reason I’m not sure since each “pair” is really one item with an extended cover for each appendage). I searched for the appropriate combination of thickness, color, and fit in order to find the “pair of pant” that would be suitable for the weather projected for the day in the HLIM, for the color of torso cover, or “shirt” I chose, and for the proportion of my figure. Finally the correct pair appeared and as I yanked them hurriedly out of the closet, the plastic item they hung on flew out of the closet, knocked into the glass mirror behind me, and clattered noisily into the sink. Casey growled and turned this time, and I knew my third warning had been delivered. I quickly selected a “pair of shoes”–a true pair this time since they are nearly exact copies of each other with the exception of an allowance for human foot-shape variances and minor design flaws revealed through age–put on the apparel, slipped my feet into the flimsy shoes and began to hurry back into the bedroom to gather my supplies for the day. As my feet moved, a horrifically loud “FLIP-FLOP-FLIP-FLOP” sound followed me. The Casey in bed lobbed a small pillow in my direction as I realized my mistake: I’d chosen the flip-flops the HLIM noted as the cause of so many deaths and decapitations of previous expeditions. I froze in my tracks, hoping the Casey would make no further attempt at decapitating me; to my great distress, the bathroom light revealed her full human face, and I couldn’t help but scream in terror. She screamed at the sight of my face as I dashed back around the corner of the bathroom. Not a moment later, she’d stopped, obviously rethinking her reaction, and I heard her curl back up under the covers as if she’d had a bad dream and not an encounter with an alien life form. My first note for this revision of the HLIM: use cloaking devices when enacting morning preparations in the same room as a Casey.

A crash in the art studio upstairs ruins the effect. Hammers on frames drone out the silence that was once brushes on canvas. The class next door lets out, and every sorority gossip decides to sit outside the Writing Lab door. I glare at the big blue slab of metal and will it to literally growl at anyone who thinks they need writing help this afternoon. I should put up a sign reading “Out for Lunch” or maybe one that says, “Don’t bother. You won’t pass anyway.”I need the music, not the money. I crank up my iPod, turn the computer speakers up a little higher, and drown out the ruckus upstairs.

The crowd snaps appreciatively as Janis kicks butt on stage. My Coca-Cola tastes more like lukewarm Zephyr Hills. I go back to writing on my napkins that feel strangely like computer keys. Oh well. At least I’ve got the music.