“I think I may have accidentally put it in the pie.” 

“You think you might have put some of the incredibly powerful future-sight potion that I made into your pie?!”

“Yes. To be fair, the vial looked exactly like the vanilla. And you decided to store it in the kitchen cabinets. Who stores potions in kitchen cabinets?!” Belle said. She paced through the kitchen as she held the phone close to her ear. Her husband, Julien, sighed over the other end of the phone. 

“Alright. Fine. You’re right. Where is the pie?” He asked. Ah. Now that was the question she hoped he wouldn’t ask.

“It’s at home, in the oven, but…” She paused her pacing, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “I definitely tasted the filling more than a few times before baking it.”

“Have you seen any visions yet?” Julien’s voice was quiet. He had made this potion for this year’s Starwatch Festival, coming up in just a few days. Every year, the small kingdom would spend a night under the stars in camaraderie with the Fortune Teller. This person was a sorcerer, chosen from volunteers, who was given a dose of future-seeing potion. Though it wasn’t required for the visions to appear, it is said that staring up at the stars soothes the pain and helps dull the senses for clearer visions. In the morning, the premonitions for the coming year would be announced. 

“No, not yet. I’m going to the balcony and I’m going to try to wait it out,” Belle said. Already on the move, she was collecting a blanket and some soothing potions to bring upstairs. Her familiar, a raven named Hera, carried her gloves she used for her own magic. They were black with white summoning circles carved into the palms, used to summon lesser spirits on the fly. Unfortunately, she doubted that her own magic, which involved communications with and summoning spirits, would be very helpful in this situation. 

“Belle, I’ll be home soon. Hang in there. And stay on the line for me. Please.” Now she could hear Julien’s worry. Still, she nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.

“Of course. See you soon, love,” Belle said. She left the call on and shoved the phone into her skirt pocket. She rushed upstairs as quickly as she could while continuing to avoid the various ingredients and potions strewn about the house. The first symptoms started to appear; her head started to hurt and her eyes felt strained by even the small lights lining the hallway.

The door to the balcony from the attic opened easily. She had come up here many times before. It was her favorite place to perform her own rituals, and it showed. The ground was stained with salts she used to contain what she summoned and the railings had many scratches and dents from times when her containment didn’t work as well as she liked. Belle made a mental note that they really needed to redo this balcony. Maybe she could move her work to the garden for the time being. 

Returning to her mission, Belle dropped the blanket onto the ground and spread it out. The small hurt in her head began to develop into a deep ache, one that hummed in her blood and pierced her bones. Her hands shook violently as she managed to drink the dose of pain-soothing potions, almost spilling it. Her brown eyes dipped in and out of focus. Hera dropped the gloves in front of her, and did her best to help Belle put them on with her talons. Normally, the gloves were meant to both summon spirits and to form a barrier between the user and the ingredients, so there was no chance of being dragged back to the spirit world with them. Belle took them as a form of comfort as she collapsed back onto the blanket, making her yellow skirt pool beneath her. 

It was late at night; the sun set long ago. The stars glowed bright in the sky, and the moon cast a faint light around her. The moon was a small crescent, almost a new moon. The town around her was empty with a comforting quiet. The only sounds were the faint songs of the cicadas on the trees below. 

The pain-soothing potion helped, but only for a moment. The soul-wrenching ache returned with a vengeance. Belle was frozen; any movement sent intense pain through her muscles. Hera squawked and shoved into her pocket to pull out her phone and lay it next to her. Once she had, she hopped onto Belle’s stomach to rest there.

“Belle? Are you there?” Julien’s voice came through the phone again. It comforted her, knowing he was on his way to be with her.

“Yeah, here. On the balcony now,” Belle croaked. Her voice was hoarse and she could barely hear it herself. 

“It’s gonna be ok, alright? I’m almost home. The visions… should be starting soon,” Julien went quiet for a moment again, before he started talking. About his work, what mischief his familiar, an otter, had gotten up to, what he had for dinner, what his new boss was like. Anything and nothing, trying to help by keeping her mind off the pain she felt. If this was the result of only a fraction of the intended dose of the potion, she couldn’t imagine what it felt like for the Fortune-Tellers. 

Belle appreciated it, but the sound of his voice was morphing into something strange. It grated against her ears, filling her with a sense of dread. Thankfully, blood began rushing through her ears, drowning out all other sounds. Her only comfort was the warm glow of the stars; wrapping around and embracing her.

A gash ripped through the sky, blinding light outshining the darkness of night. It grew and grew until it swallowed her whole, and she was somewhere else.

—

Belle stood in the middle of a long hallway. Stained glass windows lined the walls on either side of her, separated by hanging flowers. Strings of what looked like opals zigzagged through the air above her. Above those, the ceiling soared high, and, further down the hall, led to a massive chandelier. That was covered in opals, too, and the light from the candles refracted through them to throw rainbows across the hall.

Although she’d never been there, Belle guessed that this was the royal palace. And her suspicions were confirmed when the doors at the other end of the hall burst open. The King, or who she assumed was the king judging by the large crown on his head, stormed down the hallway and one of his advisors frantically chased after him. He had black hair, pale skin, and furious red eyes. He was much younger than Belle expected. 

The King was heading straight for her. Just as she was about to try and get his attention, he walked straight through her. Right. Belle had to remind herself that this was a vision of the future. No matter how real it felt, no one here could see her.

“Your Highness, we must start negotiations! They’re overtaking the palace walls, we don’t have a chance!” Belle followed the pair as the advisor started speaking.

“Call our strategists to the war room. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, we must push back against their surprise attack. I will not have a revolution during my reign!” 

Belle felt dizzy–A revolution? Certainly, their country was one of the few that still had a monarchy, but revolution? Her sight grew muddy. The palace around her smudged and twisted until she was somewhere else.

When Belle opened her eyes again, she was in a tent. It was quiet. At first the only sounds she heard were gentle footsteps on soft grass outside. If she really listened, she could hear the whispers of wretched screams in the distance. But then, a familiar voice met her ears. 

“The destruction of the inner wall was successful. It won’t be long now until either they offer a truce, or we overpower them.” Belle turned to see Julien, her Julien, at the helm of a table in the center of the tent. Her heart fell. There were three others around him, carefully hunched over the map of the kingdom’s capital draped on the table. His hair was longer, and she could see silver streaks peaking out beneath the hair’s usual dusty brown. And his eyes–they held an exhaustion she hadn’t seen in him before, dulled from their vibrant forest-green to a faint yellow. 

“She saw no further than this. We’re on our own now, our fate is in our hands,” Julien looked like he was going to say more, but he paused. He looked up from the table, directly where Belle stood. Her blood went cold as his eyes met hers, and the world around her disappeared again. 

The first thing she recognized was the smell of smoke. She felt it immediately fill her lungs and she doubled over, coughing. Her eyes watered. Belle stumbled forward until she was able to catch a glimpse of the world outside the smoke. The shock from seeing Julien faded, and her thoughts came racing through her. Is this what Julien has been doing outside of work? How long has he been doing this? Why did he decide to turn against the crown? Have I been complacent?

Why didn’t he tell me?

She was on one of the inner palace walls. Tears stung her eyes and the wind was so strong that it whipped her red hair out of its bun. She could see most of the capital from here, and it all burned orange with fire. Glancing down, she saw people scrambling up the side of the wall, gripping the near-smooth surface with hands slick with blood. Belle’s stomach churned. One person stood out, sprinting towards the wall not far below her and carrying a small box. They reached the wall, paused, and placed the box on the ground. They spent a moment tinkering with it before they got up and sprinted away again. Seconds passed before a blast shook the wall. Dust exploded up from the earth and the ground beneath her feet shook, throwing her to the stone floor of the wall. 

—

Belle slowly opened her eyes. The night sky had returned to its whole, peaceful state. The stars were the same place they always were, though she couldn’t see the moon anymore. She had probably been asleep for days. A few light-dancer bugs rested on the railing of the balcony. The breeze was nice, and she took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with crisp air for what felt like the first time in years. There was a weight on her chest, but a glance told her it was only Hera, fast asleep. Finally, she turned and saw Julien sitting on the blanket next to her. He smiled down at her. His eyes were green again; this was the Julien she knew. Maybe the vision was a mistake.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Are you back?” He asked. Belle nodded as she slowly sat up. She winced as a pain shot through her head for a moment.

“The palace just announced another ‘year of prosperity.’ I’m glad you probably didn’t see anything too bad, then,” Julien said. As Belle slowly regained awareness, her focus sharpened on him. Something was different. He fidgeted with his hands, turning them around each other over and over again. Her brows creased as she inspected him again.

“That’s all you saw, right?” He asked. There was an unusual edge to his voice. Belle slowly got to her feet with his help, narrowing her eyes as she inspected him. 

“Julien. You know that’s not what I saw, don’t you?”

As Belle took a step towards him, confusion lacing her voice, Julien flinched back. His hand twitched. Julien made no effort to disguise his emotions. Worry, shame, and fear filled his eyes as they stared at each other. Both of them stood stone-still, waiting for the other to make a move. 

The door back inside flung open, and Julien made his choice. He turned on his heel and sprinted into the house. Belle was hot on his heels, already summoning smaller spirits from her gloves in an attempt to catch him. 

They tore through the attic and down the stairs. Julien took a sharp left to his office. Belle nearly slipped, bumping into shelving in the hall. Knick–knacks and glass crashed on the floor behind her. That will be a mess to clean later. She scrambled after him. 

Julien’s office was a small room with all sorts of potion materials and instruments on the counters, but he grabbed the chair in the corner. He shoved it at Belle to slow her down, with little success. Past the office, they took the staircase down to the main floor.

In the living room, they brushed past the television, barely avoiding knocking it to the ground. Belle summoned another spirit as they rounded the corner to the kitchen. The only way for him to escape from here was through the front door. The spirit stretched and turned, reaching out for him. Last chance. It hit. Its hand clasped onto Julien’s wrist with an iron-like grip. He tried in vain to yank his hand away. She quickly moved around him, holding one hand out, until she was between him and the door.

“Julien, please just talk to me–” Belle’s pleas were cut off when Julien reached onto the counter behind him and grabbed a small potion vial. Glass shattered on the ground as he smashed it over the spirit’s head. A mournful sigh filled the room. It vanished, leaving Belle with a pain in her chest as the connection was severed. 

Julien tried to sidestep around Belle to get to the door, but she was faster. In a swift motion, she shoved him against the wall and summoned another spirit to keep him attached there. This time, there would be no escaping for him. Hera, after following them all through the house, perched on Julien’s head to watch.

Belle was just about to begin questioning him when the doorbell shrieked, making Hera squawk in surprise. She slowly walked towards the door, keeping one hand aimed at her husband to enforce the spirit’s strength. A quick look through the peephole in the door told her exactly who was there. Three men, dressed in purple officers’ cloaks and decorated with the highest-ranking medals, stood outside. 

Belle hesitated for a moment. Julien was still behind her, unable to move until she called off the spirit. 

“Don’t open the door, Belle,” Julien quietly called out to her, “Please. I can explain everything, I just–I need time.” Belle looked into his eyes. She saw sincerity. She had known this man for ten years. She trusted him. Belle turned back towards the door and put on her best smile. She knew what she had to do. 

Lowering her hand, she gave one last nod back to Julien. Gripping the doorknob, she pulled the door open just enough for the officers to see her.
“Good evening, officers. How can I help you at this late hour?” Belle said. 

“Hello, Mrs. Wittebane. I’m Officer Bailey. We’re here to speak with your husband. May we come inside?” The one in the middle spoke first. His eyes didn’t match his cheery smile. They were ice-cold and empty of care. They wandered, and she knew he was trying to see past her into the house.

“Of course, sir.” Belle’s hand gripped the doorknob tighter and she pulled the door open. In a fluid moment, she pulled off her gloves and slipped them into her pocket. 

They walked through the empty hallway into the main part of the house. She showed them all the rooms and let them take all the time they needed, a pleasant smile on her face all the while.

They found nothing.

As I stared out into the beautiful nothingness, I thought about my day. I started off my morning by going to my local coffee shop. I go there almost every day because how could I survive without my daily large Americano, no cream? She wasn’t the usual old lady that memorized my order. She was young, elegant, and had the smile of a beloved queen. She greeted me like no other person has greeted me before. A smile was swirling deep inside me that almost broke through the surface before she looked beyond me. She wasn’t talking to me, she was talking to her good friend who had just walked through the door behind me. For a moment, I felt joy. I felt hope. That was gone in an instant. 

“Hey hun, what can I get for you?” 

Nevermind. 

“Hi uh let me see, what do I want today?… you know what whatever is your favorite I’ll take that,” I said with a big smile. 

I notice her eyes light up like Christmas lights when it hits November 1st. She gives me a warm smile and an excited giggle as she starts preparing my drink. 

“How long have you been working here?” 

“This is actually my first day. Can’t you tell?” She laughed a little too hard at herself because she spilled the almond milk everywhere. 

“That explains it. I come here every day and have never seen you. I’ve tried almost everything on that menu so I hope you are getting creative.” 

“Trust me, I am,” she said as she turned her full attention to the drink. 

As I waited for my drink, I sat on one of the four top tables next to the window with huge strawberry-red curtains, kind of like the beautiful barista’s cheeks. I have a weird feeling about her, something about her feels different. 

“Almost done?” 

“I’m actually finished. I hope you like it!” 

“Let’s see…” I take a sip pursing my lips to pretend I’m taking a minute to taste it. 

“It’s great. Could use better flavor, maybe vanilla.” I say with a sarcastic smile. 

“But seriously it’s one of the best drinks I have had” as I took a fake sip again to not make it obvious that I’m lying. 

  “Thank you,” she said blushing. 

“So how much will that be?” 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s on me”

“Are you sure? Come on, at least a tip.” 

“No I’m good, I had fun making it, and if you like it so much. It’s my treat” 

“Can I at least have the name of the pretty and now generous barista?” 

  “Eleana,” she said with a giggle reaching her hand out to shake mine.

I grabbed her hand and an electric shock went through my body making butterflies arise in my stomach. “Eleana, pretty name for a pretty face.” 

She blushes and giggles again releasing my hand. 

“Until next time, Eleana.” 

“Wait, your name,” she yelled as I start walking out the door. 

“Until next time,” and the door slams. 

I rise from the dock and start walking through the woods. I didn’t make a huge mess this time so I can walk in public freely. As I’m making my way through I start to hear the sound of cars driving fast down a road. I don’t have a vehicle of my own although that would be convenient for me. So I stop on the side of the road and wait for someone who would be stupid enough to stop their car to help a stranger. It took longer than usual but after a couple of minutes, I saw a woman slowing down her car and flashing her lights. As she approaches, I notice a familiarity within her eyes and features. She’s the barista. She gets out of her car and says “look who it is, no name man. I think this is next time.” I let out a big laugh. 

So fast forward a bit and I’m in her car. We are talking, laughing, listening to music and you know the normal things people do in a car. She was so eccentric yet elegant. She made me forget about my day. The funny thing was I never even told her where to take me. We were just driving. I find it a bit odd that she was just driving endlessly with a complete stranger that she picked up off the road. I could be a murderer for all she knew. For some odd reason, she is the first person that I have spent more than five minutes with and didn’t want to decapitate their head. I enjoyed her presence. Finally, she asked me where I was headed. 

“505 Hollow Road. It’s not too far just make the next left and drive straight for about two miles until you an old blue house.” 

“Wait… you live there?” she said very timidly. 

I could tell her demeanor completely changed. She was scared. Like she just let a murderer in her car. I knew why. My parents, my sister, and I all lived there together for almost my whole life. Not anymore (bet you could guess why). Once they “left” everyone started making very judgemental rumors about my family. She probably heard the stories. I don’t want her to be scared of me. 

“No, I’m house-sitting for the man that lives there. He’s kind of creepy but I never have to see him so I’m fine with it. It’s good money” I replied. 

“Oh thank god,” I could feel the anxiety release from her body. 

“That house. That family. The stories. Ever since I was a little girl it has spooked me. My friends and I would sometimes walk by that house on our way to school and the mother would be standing by the window just staring. She never spoke. Never waved. There was one time we heard screaming coming from the house. And she was still standing by the window, staring. To this day I cannot get her image out of my head. I feel like it haunts me. I know it’s terrible but I was sort of happy to hear of her passing four years ago.” 

I let out a laugh and she started laughing too. Except she was laughing because she thought what she said was so ridiculous. Yet I was laughing because of those screams she heard. Let’s just say I could have caused that. In my defense I told my sister not to scream, she was never a good listener. 

When we finally approached my house, the tension in the car began to rise. I noticed her hands turn white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. I don’t plan on hurting her. I like her too much. So I asked her to come inside for some coffee. She surprisingly agrees and we enter the house. She seemed excited. When she agreed she stared deep into my eyes and grabbed my arm as she nodded. I think my heart actually melted. 

“So how long have you been staying here?” she asked, looking around curiously. 

“Only one night. I don’t spend too much time here though because like I said it’s creepy.” 

“I can’t believe I’m actually here. I would have nightmares about being in this house and my dreams are actually scary accurate. I can’t believe you agreed to do this alone.” 

We make it to the kitchen and she sits. I never actually make coffee but I guess since that’s what I said I gotta make coffee. I get so nervous around her and I just end up saying whatever. Every time she looks at me, I get these butterflies that make my stomach turn. I don’t like it. But yet I don’t want to get rid of it. I don’t wanna get rid of her. I reach up to the cabinet and grab two mugs. I walk to the pantry and grab some coffee beans that are probably old and set them by the mug. I bend down to the drawer by the island in the kitchen to get out the coffee maker; I plug it in, get some water, and beans and begin to make the coffee. As I turned around to look at her to see if she wanted anything to eat, she stared at me very intently. 

“So you have only stayed here one night?” she said, looking away at the window seal. 

“Yep. I got here last night then went on a walk this morning and that’s where you found me.” 

Her gaze comes back to me with a sparkle of fear in her eyes, “Then how do you know where everything is?” 

Shit. I stare back at her not knowing what to say. She’s making me even more nervous now. She directs her gaze back to the window seal. Staring at it with tears in her eyes. 

“Why are you in this photo?” pointing to a family picture that was placed along the window seal. 

“That’s my family. I brought it here cause I bring it everywhere. My family is very important to me, I love them too much.” I replied, stepping closer to her. 

She winced, pushing her body back into the chair not looking at me. 

“It’s her.” she says, staring at the photo. She brought her eyes back to me and timidly expressed “That’s… her.” 

She tries to let out a scream before I lunge at her covering her mouth, “I didn’t want to do this.” 

Everywhere was just so far. How am I supposed to dispose of the body if I’m too lazy to carry her within more than a 1-mile radius? That’s how I ended up at this lake. I watched as her body started to sink to the bottom. A bunch of fish starts poking at his flesh making her go down faster. Within fifteen seconds, I could no longer see her body. Now I’m kinda sad. I miss her. I have the same feeling every time this happens. I feel like I have to mourn. Grieve the life lost. So that is what I will do. 

The air was cool. The water sound. The sky was as grey as some of my hair. I sat on the dock while I replayed the memories of the last few hours in my head. I thought to myself… Why? Why her? It’s funny how one person can change the whole course of the day, maybe even your life in just one simple moment. I thought this was that moment. My brain wasn’t even trying to figure it out. I was just numb. My feet were literally numb from dangling them down in the water. 

 Was that grief? I feel like every time people talk about grief they always talk about their guilt. What if they did something differently, would the outcome be different? I think I should get A+ for my effort. Caring is just not really my thing. I mean, neither is life. You can’t grieve death if you love death.

AJ sees his dad sitting where he usually sat for all of his football games:  perched up on the hill towards the opposite end zone that overlooks the whole field.  He always sat away from the other parents, and AJ never knew why.  His dad never got angry over bad calls by the refs, piss poor play from other kids, or crazy parents from the opposing team.  The ref blows the whistle and AJ shakes away his daily thoughts that had nothing to do with what he was currently doing. Through his facemask, AJ stares down the tight end while lining up inside of him and at a depth of 5 yards.  AJ was happy only playing defense now that there was a new kid at St. Joseph’s who drank half a gallon of whole milk a day and took AJ’s spot on the offensive line.  Now he can finally blow up people like this tight end across from him, and he knows that the eagerness to hit one another is there like a dog waiting for his owner to throw a stick across the yard.  

“HUT!”  

The tight end comes bounding towards AJ.  With every step, AJ’s confidence declines.  The kid seemed AJ’s size from the line of scrimmage, but when their paths finally meet, AJ’s only wish is to survive to the next play so he can line up on somebody else.  The tight end punches back AJ with both of his hands and knocks the wind out of him, his breath frozen in time.  AJ, now staring right in the eyes of the grown man who apparently was an eighth grader, is lifted off the ground and then thrown down.  AJ closes his eyes and lets his limp body tumble.  He tries desperately to breathe.  Still nothing.  Finally, he manages a small heap.  AJ opens his eyes and faces the hill where his father sits.  Expecting a concerned dad looking at the play, AJ looks to where his dad is sitting.  

“The fuck?!”  AJ says under his weak breath, as he sees a young woman wrapped in his dad’s arms and kissing him passionately, almost like she was finishing her favorite dessert and trying to enjoy every last bite. 

AJ cannot make out who the woman is or any of her features, but he knows it is not his mother.  She would never pull a stunt like that in public, and even if she could, she was not in town.  He glances up to his dad’s “situation” one last time but can only see a bright purple smudge.  It looks like a winter jacket, but AJ does not trust his eyes after a hit like that.  The thought of AJ’s dad cheating hurt worse than the tight end’s hit, but both were making him nauseous.  AJ gets picked up by the shoulders from two of his teammates and they carry him to the St. Joseph’s sideline. He feels better, but it would be weeks before he could be on the field again.  He realizes he has to take that stupid concussion test with all of the lines and shapes again.  Before that, he has to go home and talk with his dad who would be lying when he said he watched the game.  AJ knows what he was doing, but he also knows he can’t bring it up to him.  He can’t even take out his anger on the football field anymore, at least for a few more weeks.  He needs something that will release his thoughts, but definitely not a diary.  

…

9/5/25

My Dumbass Dad

Ok.  Let’s get one thing straight, AJ.  This is NOT your diary, you pussy.  This is you just putting your thoughts down so you don’t spill the beans to your innocent mother.  She needs to find out from him.  Not you.  Anyways, just keep your mouth shut and act normal.  If it helps, try to find out who the fuck was mackin on your dad.  Not the best way of describing it, but you know exactly what I’m talking about.  

Sincerely, Google Doc You.  

…

AJ wakes up with a splitting headache.  If there was any doubt that yesterday’s hit did not concuss him, that was now gone.  It probably did not help that he made that google doc last night either.  After slowly removing his covers and inching out of his bed to avoid any dizziness, AJ’s vision is noticeably worse: his sight is even more blurred— it feels like he’s walking through a thick fog.  He manages to make it to  his bathroom and do his morning routine.  He brushes his teeth, fixes his hair, splashes cold water on his face (it did not help with his vision), and finally makes his way down the stairs.  Slightly out of breath, he finds his usual stool and awaits his breakfast.  Looking down at the counter, a plate is slid to AJ:  slightly frozen hashbrowns and burnt bacon.  He looks up to see his father attempting to clean the pan he used.  He used hand soap and a paper towel— I guess one can say the gender roles are defined in AJ’s catholic household. In some odd way, AJ feels bad for his dad.  He knows his job as a police officer is demanding but unappreciated in today’s social climate.  He also has noticed that his mom has been leaving home for work more frequently.  Only a man who feels both disrespected and useless at his job and in his own home could cheat on his wife.  Even though he’s cheating, he does seem happier.  His gray hair is growing back to its thick, jet black color.  His “meatball” stature that ironically came from eating his mother’s Italian meals is now slimming down.  But no matter how happy his father may seem, he can’t help but feel sorry for his mother.  

“See ya buddy,” his father said between the front door’s creaking when it opened and again when it came back and closed.  

AJ assumes that he’ll need a ride to school.  This kind of stuff always happens when it is just his father at home, but now that he knows that his dad is kind of a dirtbag, the little things are pissing him off.  AJ slides his plate to the side angrily and plops his computer in its place. 

… 

9/26/25

My Dumbass Dad Continued

You’re such a bitch.  You still use MLA format for your journal?  Shut up… not a journal.  Anyways, this shit will not fly.  Knowing how antisocial your dad is, he’s gotta be with someone who he already knows.  Like somebody’s mom?  Divorced mom maybe?  I don’t fucking know.  Help me out, Jesus.  It’s adultery, right?  

Sincerely, Google Doc you. 

…

With an aching head and still foggy vision, AJ closes his computer and calls Sarah for a ride to school.  

“We’re outside, don’t worry,” she manages to say before AJ can even explain his situation.  

AJ hangs up the phone and jogs to the car.  He feels awkward after running so fast only to be slowed down by the automatic opening of the van door.  The door makes its weird locking noise and AJ buckles in.  He sees Sarah’s mom peering at him through her rear view mirror.  

“Hi, Mrs. Smith!” AJ says with a somewhat fake grin.  

“Hi sweetie! How are you?”

“I’m good!”  Except for the fact that I feel like I’m constantly walking through fog and I witnessed the supposed “man of the house” break his most sacred vow.  

Sarah notices AJ’s sudden change in mood and taps his shoulder.  

“You ok?”

“Yup.  Fine,” AJ mutters under his breath.  Trying not to think about his stupid father, AJ deflects to Sarah’s family problems.  “How’s your dad doing?”  

“Still asleep… It’s been an entire week where I talk to him and get no response or reaction.  The doctors say he can hear me, but I’m having a hard time believing them”

Mrs. Smith peers at us through the rear view mirror for a split second and then focuses her attention back to the road again.  

“I’m sorry to hear that” AJ whispers, trying to keep the conversation away from Mrs. Smith.  

“I’ve been praying every Wednesday during school mass.  Probably the first time I wasn’t playing on my phone or doing my homework from the night before.”  

AJ would have to make the same adjustment for her dad and his own mother.  However, he cannot help but think that there is a possibility the “mistress” is Mrs. Smith.  She’s younger than most parents and has a sweet spot for AJ’s dad.  But, like most parents who send their kids to St. Joseph’s, she is overtly Catholic.  Not only would she never cheat, but she would never have the church know that “God never entered her relationship.”  If it were to be her, it would take a drastic change in her life— Like her husband dying while in a coma.  

…

AJ is sitting down.  He thinks it’s in a wooden chair.  Everything is still a blur.  He cannot completely recall how he got here.  He hears a voice; it sounds like Sarah’s.  

“I’ll see you in class, AJ,” she says.  At least he thinks it is her.  It would make sense, he rode with her to school.  He remembers, barely.  Sarah opens the door, and the usual noise from kids talking between classes, lockers opening and closing, and teachers screaming how much time there is left for their class briefly enters the room until the door is finally closed.  

“Hey AJ,” another familiar voice says.  It’s Ms. Martinelli, AJ’s counselor.  He knows that someone is sitting in front of him, but the fog is still making it hard to see clearly.  However, he has talked with her enough to know that it is her.  Also, he is slowly figuring out why he is in her office.  

“I heard about what happened at your game yesterday.  I Just wanted to let you know that if you need to take a break from school, you can come in my office or go to the nurse”

Immediately AJ breathes a sigh of relief.  She is always so nice to him.  The tone in her voice is so soothing.  When parents come to the school, she uses the same voice — probably to let them know that their kids are treated well.  After her reassuring talk and AJ’s small daydream, he heads out of Ms. Martinelli’s office and makes his way to the blurry hallway.  He can manage to see the opening of a door and a teacher walking out.  

“AJ, let’s go buddy” 

I guess that’s where I’m headed for the first period.  

… 

AJ cannot focus in class.  The board is a blur, and the teacher’s sporadic movements from his desk to the board and back again make him dizzy.  

“Now, open your laptops!” AJ hears from the front of the classroom.  By the unnecessary enthusiasm and commanding tone, he assumes it’s the teacher talking.  He follows directions, but opens another google doc instead of embarrassing himself by asking what they were supposed to be working on probably right after he just said what it was.  

…

9/26/25

My Dumbass Dad (Second One of the Day)

It can’t be Mrs. Smith, right?  No way… That would be too messed up.  If it is her, God has a horrible sense of humor.  Dude… might sound crazy, but talk to a counselor about it.  Don’t name names.  Be SUPER vague.  It might clear your head and narrow down the people who it could be.  

…

The bell rings, and AJ makes his way to the counseling office.  Just thinking about getting his thoughts out is clearing his mind.  The fog is dissipating.  He can finally see straight down the hallways.  He sees the old, dark wood paneling that is wider than the rest of the other classrooms.  On both sides of the slightly larger door, there is church stained glass.  The right side is a Red Cross surrounded by a baby blue background with the black lines that separate the glass.  The left side is Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus.  AJ is so happy he can see the beauty of his school again.  He opens the door, and there she is, front and center.  His favorite counselor, Ms. Martinelli, sitting in her black, spinning chair.  He can finally see her now.  Her brown, curly bangs, and olive skin are now visible to AJ.  Even her slightly awkward-looking freckle right below her mouth.  AJ turns back to shut the door, and in the corner of the room is a coat hanger.  I’ve seen that before.  

“You like my new jacket?  I know, it’s a little purple, but…”

In the early 20th century, when Vietnam was under the colonization of France, Saigon of South Vietnam was named “La Perle de l’Extrême-Orient”, or “The Pearl of Far East Asia.” That is always true. Saigon has always been akin to a “classy mademoiselle.” She is busy and bustling with businesses in the morning. And when the sun goes down, she puts on her gorgeous looks and immerses herself in the parties all night long. LED lights, night markets, street food, pubs on top of skyscrapers, open mic cafes, horn honking 24/7, and more. She never sleeps, and that’s for sure.

Born and raised in Saigon, that nocturnal lifestyle was in my blood. I was attached to this place that way.

July 2021, Saigon was dead. This golden city of 10 million people was completely silent. Not a single motorbike on the road. The police and army troops were guarding 24/7 on every street to make sure no one left their house.

__________________

During all those months, I was not at home. In fact, I lived somewhere else. Hung Vuong Central Hospital, Zone K1 – frontline area for treating Covid F0 maternity women. I wore the most fashionable outfit of all time: 3 layers of nylon protective suits, 3 layers of N-95 masks, a face shield, and gloves. Although it usually takes 9 years before we’re allowed to treat patients in Vietnam, at the time, doctors were in such high need that an 8th-year medical student like me was directly in charge of treating patients along with other underclassmen. And there were barely enough people on duty in each zone; consequently, none of us was allowed to rest.

“You’re doing great. Breath in! Deep breath! That’s right. Keep going, Mom!” I tried to calm her down as I turned over and yelled toward the hallway: “Bring me a phone, please!”

My left hand was constantly putting the nastrogastrictube in and out so the patient could talk; my right hand hastily opened the Phone app. The others were ineptly pumping air and replacing inhalers.

“Mom, you’re doing great. I’ll get your family on the phone with you. Stay calm and read me their number, okay?” I said.

“0.. 0.. 72.. 3..”  She whispered each number out in between those tough breaths.

“Good. Breath in. Keep going, Mom!”

“0.. 53.. 014.. 5.. I’m so scared.”

“No, you’re doing great. You’ll be okay. Keep breathing, okay?”

The phone was ringing for more than 10 seconds before someone picked it up on the other end. “Hello, are you the husband of patient Vu Phuong Anh?” I spoke.

“Yes, I am,” a man’s voice answered.

“I’m Dr. Kim. Your wife is hardly breathing so we will try to place tracheal intubation. But I’ll let you talk with her first, okay? You’re now on speaker.”

“Honey, I’m.. I’m.. so scared..!”

“Are you okay? How are you?” he asked her. I’m on fire, God damn it, she is dying, we’re struggling to keep her breathing, say whatever you need to say, you idiot! “Sir, please say the last words you need to say to her.” I tried to stay patient and spoke to the phone, then I handed it over one more time.

“…Honey, are you okay? What should.. What should I say? Umm…”

You lost your chance dude. I ended the call and moved on. Thinking back, he was probably too panicked and did not know what to say at the time. We put her on a ventilator and she fell asleep shortly after. She was probably tired from the past 5 minutes.

I sighed out and walked backward a few steps until my back hit the wall. It was 3 AM. My exhausted body slowly slid down along the wall until I sat on the ground. It was not until then that I felt all of my muscles were aching. I cowered, arms wrapping my legs, and dopily sat there zoning out for a bit. Random thoughts were rambling in my head as I somnolently closed my eyes right on the ground with my head on my knees although I tried to keep myself awake. I’m not supposed to sleep. Seconds before my eyes completely closed, I caught a glance out of the opposite windows. Saigon is dark, the color of hopelessness. As dark as the lives of everyone right now. There is no light, but the Moon. It has never been this poetic. Or at least, I have never realized so. The dark of Saigon makes it even brighter. Saigon has slept for quite a few months now. When will she wake up though…? Will she be alive? Will both of them be fine?

__________________

An hour later, Beep… Beep… Beep. “CODE BLUEEEEEEE. Dr. Kim! CODE BLUEEE!!!” I woke up in that room filled with the smell of disinfectant and people shouting my name. Without any second hesitating, I immediately rushed to the resuscitator bag, pressed continuously as hard as I could, as I glanced at all the numbers to check what was going on. “She passed out. Why is there no oxygen? What happened?” I vomited my thoughts out. It was raining.

I grabbed a nurse, handed her the bag to pump, and jumped on the bed to start CPR. “Call more people! SpO2 is dropping. Replace and reconnect the tube before pumping. Dr. Minh, change a new oxygen inhaler for me!” I yelled.

“There are no more available inhalers, Dr. Kim!” someone yelled in from the hallway.

My eyes stretched. What the fxck? Who the fxck in charge did not stock them up? “Keep chest compressing for me!” I ran to the phone station in the hallway. Hit 100, no answer. Hit 009, no answer. Hit 201, still no answer. Where are these goddamn people? Are they fxcking sleeping on duty or something? Pick up the goddamn phone!!! I attempted to dial all the numbers on that “Emergency Number List” on the wall in front of me. Hit 510, still no answer. Hit 245, someone picked it up. My goodness! “Code Blue, 1st floor, Zone K1, please. Inhalers needed. Prepare for a C-section. RIGHT NOW!” I hastily yelled to the phone and hung up.

I rushed to the changing room, quickly changed into a new disinfected suit as the hospital speaker announced: “Code Blue in Obstetrics. Zone K1. Available resident physicians, anesthetists, pediatricians, obstetricians, cardiologists, and podiatrists, please report to K1 immediately!” Available? I don’t even know if any of them are available. It is still pouring rain.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway. Thank God, they’re here. I ran over after changing. All types of beeping alarms were going off. “Whoever’s gonna perform the C-section, leave to wash your hands! The rest stay here to move her into the PT room (surgery room). We need to take the baby out ASAP to reduce pressure on the Mom!” I tried to talk over the beeping sounds.

Ten people were talking over each other, multitasking, and doing all we could basically. The patient was no longer conscious. Four of us were taking turns doing chest compression. One was pumping the resuscitator bag. Two were giving injections. Three were struggling to push the bed toward the PT area.

Fxck it! Her SpO2 keeps dropping no matter what we do. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The BEEP goes off faster as her heart rate drops. At least, I felt so. 84… 71… Fxck! She is dying. Oxygen saturation also drops. 95% to 75%… And we’re only halfway there.

“CPR CHANGE!! MOVE FASTER!!”

“BEEPPPP. BEEPPP. BEEPPP.”

“PUMP HARDER!!! FASTER!!!”

“CPR CHANGE!!!”

“5 MORE MILLILITERS! RIGHT NOW!”

“CPR CHANGE!!”

Her SpO2 went up a bit. For a tiny second, that gave me hope. Mom, you got this! We’re just a few more meters from the PT area. But then it dropped again. Even more rapidly than before. Heart rate and oxygen saturation went deep down. 65 and 30%… Please. Please. 57 and 20%… FXCKKKKK! 37 and 8%… 20 and 5%… 0 and 1%……. “BEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP.” A long last beep before all the chaos stopped and it went completely silent.

One second passed.

…

…

Several seconds passed.

I slowly climbed off the bed, looked down at the ground as my eyes closed tightly regretfully. We all dopily fell into the silence. I speechlessly looked at my patient, my right hand on her fetus. “July 27th, 2021. 4:17 AM, Patient Vu Phuong Anh has passed away in her 30th week of pregnancy.” Someone called time, and I couldn’t care who. Our tears couldn’t help but drop to the ground. I looked out the window and glanced at the sky. A hate glance. They did not deserve this. It’s still sprinkling rain. I see something different. Not pain nor regret. But relief.

The next few hours before sunrise, I managed the procedures to hand her over to the care of her family. Her husband could not hide his sorrow. Her parents sobbed painfully. They did not even know she was sick at all. Later that morning, when I had a few hours off duty to get some sleep, I could not. I kept thinking about her. I admire her. Vu Phuong Anh. A Mom, who gasped for life, and for her child until her last conscious second. A daughter, who did not want her parents to worry about her. A remarkable human being.

__________________

For 25 years, the endless bustling life cycle of this city fooled me into believing that was all it was about. I had always lived on the surface of Saigon, yet never dived deep down to explore its core. As a native of Saigon, I had never truly understood this place. What a shame!

“Saigon never sleeps.” It was not until then that I understood what that actually meant. When there are no more LED lights, cheers, parties, horn honking, or night markets, but Code Blue, disinfectant smell, PT rooms, ventilator sound, and oxygen pumping instead, Saigon is still awake to every single heartbeat. Its powerful and phenomenal vitality resides nowhere but in the heart of Saigonese.

I glanced around the gallery, at the shining lights, the clusters of people, and the paintings hanging on the wall—my paintings. The lull of the chatter floated around and the occasional flash and click of a camera flitted back and forth. I strolled through, nodding, smiling politely and shaking hands with curators and viewers. 

 “Absolutely wonderful…”

“Stunning…”

“A freshly artistic statement…”

“Phenomenal expression…”

“The rich application of colors is just groundbreaking…”

I bowed my head at each comment and murmured my thanks. But those weren’t the words I wanted to hear, nor were they said by the person I wanted to hear it from. This had to be enough—closure for Yoon, closure for me. 

---

“FORTUNE, come back, you cannot run away, you mess up again! You need to finish practice piano!” My mother’s shrill voice followed me as I pushed open the back door, grabbed my pink scooter, and shot off down the road. 

As soon as my mother’s voice disappeared into the wind, I took a deep breath, letting all of the air expand into my lungs. The fresh air never smelled better. I absolutely despised piano, and I despised the fact that my mother forced me to play it because I needed to live up to the ‘Zhao family name’. I hated the fact that my mother disapproved of painting because it was “useless” even though I loved it, perhaps because I loved it. Instead, everyday, 4 hours, continuous practice, and I think I’ve slowly lost track of myself because all I saw were those black and white keys and the bunches of tadpoles swimming between the lines on paper. What nine year old wants to sit still for 4 hours staring at tadpoles? I hated tadpoles. 

I pushed myself, one push at a time, up the hill and as soon as I hit the flat peak. I let the momentum carry my scooter down, my eyes squinting against the wind blowing in my face, my chopped, black, shoulder-length hair billowing around my shoulders, tangling in knots, and my big t-shirt flapping at my back. I loved the downhills because for a moment, I could feel completely free, unrestrained, and open. 

My neighborhood was like a lollipop: a circle with three big hills and two tiny ones and one singular straight road sticking out; we all called that road the Stick. No one from the lollipop part went down the Stick though because apparently, a kid with blue clouds lived there. Neighborhood kids said that he was wack and talked in squiggly riddles. Even weirder—the rumor was that he was blue as a blue raspberry ring pop. I didn’t believe them, but then again, I couldn’t say anything since I’ve never even seen him. 

I started pushing myself up the uphill of the last big hill; my arms were outstretched in front of me, hands gripping the handles as I kept my head down, focused on my feet, the ground below me, and my scooter. Down, push, down, push, down, push, down, push—BAM! I collide scooter and head-first into another small head. Our scooters tangle with a clang and crash on to the grass of fall leaves, intertwined, one pink, one blue. 

“I’m so sorry, are you ok? Are you hurt? I wasn’t looking…I’m so sorry!” 

I held my head. Then I reached out a hand to the small boy sitting on the ground, dazed. His shaggy black hair was in disarray, sticking up in every possible axis and direction. His thin, dark eyes peeked out from behind his curtain of bangs, and he just looked at me for a long moment, his eyes seemingly scanning my face. After a while, they fixated on my pin-straight, fine, jet black hair. I waved my hand tentatively in front of his face, trying to get his attention. Suddenly, he turned to look at the scooters on the ground and blurted out, “I like your scooter, it has nice blues in it.”

“But… my scooter is pink.”

“No, no it’s got blue in it.”

“Are you seeing things?”

“You just need to look for it.”

He grabbed my hand that I had left sticking out and helped himself up. He was shorter than me, scrawny looking, a bit pale, and seemed maybe my age. That’s when I noticed the clothes he was wearing: a deep red t-shirt that hung awkwardly off his thin frame and medium green pants that were a couple inches too short. He paired everything with some purple socks, yellow slippers, and a light red scarf on top. In all of my meager 9 years as an artist, I’ve never seen someone wear something so grotesquely mismatched with absolute confidence. Yet someone, this boy, who called “pink” “blue,” did so with an utter lack of shame.

I was still staring at his outfit when he bent down to pick up my “pink” scooter and handed me the pink grip of the handle bar. 

“I’m Lee Yoon-ji, but you can call me Yoon.”

“Fortune, Fortune Zhao.”

He stuck out his pale, skinny hand to shake mine, but his palm had tracks of mud and grass from when he fell. I eyed the mush on his hand and tentatively gripped the top part of his fingers, hoping to avoid getting my hands muddy, only for Yoon to pull my entire hand towards him and grip it fully, smushing the grass and mud tightly between our palms. I inwardly cringed, but Yoon smiled broadly with all of his crooked teeth showing, “We’ve smushed blue together! That means we’re now best friends!” as he shook my hand enthusiastically. His hair moved with the entire movement of his arm, “Blue? Smushed blue? Best friends?”

A bit incredulous, but also amused, I couldn’t help but smile with him, shaking my own arm enthusiastically in return. His energy was infectious and it made me forget all the sad things like the tadpoles I still needed to stare at or the paintings Mama ripped in half to deter me from doing art. 

“I don’t know about blue, but yah, best friends.” I smiled, it was nice to have a friend. I hadn’t had a friend in quite a while. 

“As your new best friend, I’m going to show you the best mochi spot ever!” Yoon exclaimed, beaming, as he started pulling me down the hill, with his scooter in his other hand, clanging loudly behind him. 

“But I don’t have money.” 

“Don’t worry, they have the best blue mochi!”

“Blue mochi? They make that?” I asked, momentarily forgetting the money problem as Yoon continued leading me down the street. 

“Yah! I’ll show you! Besides, I can pay!”

“You have money? Where did you get it from?”

“It’s my weekly chore allowance!” 

“Oh, I do chores too, but my parents don’t pay me,” I said dejectedly, wishing my parents would do the same. At least then I could buy ice cream or mochi myself. 

“That’s ok, you have me! I’ll help you!”

“Yoon, you’re half my size and half a head shorter…how are you going to help me?” I mean… I admired his confidence, but let’s be realistic, he looked like he was going to be blown away by the wind and if anything, I should be the one holding him down.

“Hey! Don’t judge appearances! I’m eight years old! I can do alot of things! I also know a lot of things too! I can teach you!” He puffed out his chest and looked up at me. 

I laughed, “I’m nine, and you’re younger than me.”

“So?” He tilted his head and looked at me.

“What could you possibly teach me?”

“You’ll see! But let’s go get blue mochi first!”

“Right. Blue Mochi. Lead the way.”

Yoon grabbed my hand, the hand that’s now also caked with grass and mud, and led me through a backyard and some woods out to a neighboring mini shopping plaza. We left our scooters next to a bike rack and walked to a small shop in the back, where a dingy sign at the top read “Mochi Delight”. The sign flickered dimly, and unless you knew this shop was back here, you would probably never step foot in here. 

Yoon pushed through the front door and hollered, “Nai Nai! I’m back”

An old lady with grey hair streaked with black, wrinkles around her eyes that crinkled when she smiled, and glasses so thick that her eyes looked huge, popped up from behind the front counter. Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw Yoon.

“Yoon-A, I missed you! What would you like today?”

“The usual Nai Nai!” He beamed at her, his smile radiating like a halo.

“Of course, my angel.” Nai Nai then proceeded to pull a pink and a green mochi out of the freezer, put them on a plate and handed them to us.

Yoon gave her $4 and took the plate with both hands. 

“I’ll be back in a couple days Nai Nai, take care!”

Nai Nai waved at us as we pushed out the front door. 

We squatted down and sat on the ledge of the sidewalk, and Yoon said, “look, there’s blue.”

“What do you mean blue?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. There was clearly a pink mochi and a green mochi, but definitely not a blue mochi. 

“Ok ok, just listen to me. You need to be open minded and you need to look, ok?”

“Ok, I will.”

“Ok, Fortune, look at the trees over there. What color are they?”

“Green.”

“Yes, but look closer, is it only green?”

“There’s green, brown, orange, some red, and a little yellow.”

“Ok, now look at the shadow and the space between the trees.”

“What? They’re just either really dark versions of those colors or just black.”

“No no not black. Look at the sky. What color is it?”

“Blue.”

“Good. How big is the sky?”

“It’s infinite.”

“Good. Does it cover all of us and everything we see and live among?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now look at the trees again. What color are they?”

I sat for a moment, not answering Yoon, just looking at those trees in the distance. Gradually, I noticed something: the shadows I thought were black began differing into shades of blue, and the crevices and negative spaces between the folds of leaves projected just a slight hint of blue. There was green, brown, orange, some red, and a little yellow, but somehow, there was also a little blue. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? I squinted again and tried to look closer, but I couldn’t see the blue anymore.

“I thought I saw something, but it disappeared.”

Yoon’s eyes lit up, “yes yes you’re getting there!”

“What?”

“Ok, just don’t think too much about it, just let it happen. Feel the colors and their energy.”

“Ok, I’m trying.”

“Look at the car. What color is it?”

“Silver.”

“Now look closer.”

I stared at the car and I noticed that the top of it shined slightly blue. 

“It has a blue hue on top!”

“Yah! It reflects the blue from the color of the sky.”

“Yoon, is your favorite color blue? All you talk about is blue.”

“You see, blue is in all of us and everything around us, there’s blue, but too much blue. The world is so blue now. Water is blue, but so are tears. When people frown, the lines that form on their face reflect blue. That’s the way the world works, Fortune, the blue in us sometimes drowns out the rest of the colors.”

“So everyone is blue? What about me?”

“When I first saw you with your scooter, your whole face was fifty shades of blue! Your hair was blue too!”

“How? It’s black.”

“No, no, look again, the shadows, the lines and what it reflects. Your hair shields your face, so obviously it reflects blue!”

“My face was blue?”

“Yah. Why were you riding your scooter today?”

“Because I felt like it?”

Yoon shook his head, raised his eyebrows—though it really just looked like the top of his eyelids went up because his eyebrows were lost underneath his shag of black, well I guess maybe, blue hair—and looked at me pointedly.

“Well…my mom was yelling at me about piano and I hate playing piano. It’s so boring, so monotonous, and all I do is stare at black and white keys and tadpoles!”

“Right, so you came out to ride your scooter to avoid that?”

“Yah,” I sighed, looking down at my hands and picking at my hangnails. 

“That’s ok, Fortune, your face isn’t really that blue anymore. You just have to be able to see the blue, embrace, and understand it. Then it will be ok!”

“I’ll try, Yoon, I’ll try.”

“Here, look at the mochis. You see, alone, they aren’t blue, but when they come together, they form a small crack that reflects their colors. See,” Yoon pointed to a spot in between the mochis where they sat together. “It’s blue. But mochis are supposed to be eaten. So here.” Yoon handed me the pink mochi and we both scarfed them down. 

“See Fortune, they aren’t blue anymore,” Yoon said as he shrugged with a smile.

“Yah, cause they’re in your stomach!” I giggled. Yoon was a funny kid. “We should probably go back now, I need to keep practicing piano.”

“Ok, fine. Can we meet here again tomorrow?”

“Yah, of course!” I smiled, excited to be doing things with my new best friend. Maybe I’ll learn about more blues.

“Sounds good!” Yoon smiled at me.

“My house is in the opposite direction, so I’ll see you tomorrow!” Yoon told me.

I grabbed my scooter and started walking towards the woods to my house, and Yoon stood at the edge of the sidewalk and waved goodbye.  

“Fortune!” I turned my head around to look at Yoon.

“Don’t forget to look for the blues!”

“Ok I won’t forget!” I yelled back. A smile creeped up on my face and I started walking home. 

I made the trek home, propped my scooter against the wall, and pushed open the back door. My mother was nowhere to be seen.

Maybe I’ll try to practice piano again. I sat down at the bench and just stared at the black and white keys.. As I placed my hands on the keys, the black keys slowly didn’t seem so black anymore and the white weren’t so bone white anymore. C, B, A, E, F#…one note at a time, one melody at a time, the keys and the tadpoles on the paper begin morphing into… blue, myriads of hues and shades of blue. It was so beautiful, stunning—the shades of blue. And as I fell deeper into the music, immersing myself in that world, the blues surrounded and engulfed me. But, they didn’t seem so scary, and for the first time, practicing piano and staring at tadpoles wasn’t so bad after all. 

---

Just like that, days, weeks, months flew by, Yoon and I always met at our regular mochi spot on the sidewalk and he would impart the wisdom of blues on me. Yoon and I were inseparable and he was my rock. 

It was interesting, to be able to look at a chocolate chip cookie and see blue. At least I tried to see blue from Yoon’s point of view, and tried to fit in Yoon’s world. His world meant a place of just colors and simple things and the artist in me reveled in that. At home, if I even picked up a paintbrush, Mama would smack it out of my hand and destroy any of the supplies or work she could find. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t let me paint, and she maintained her position. I’d resorted to painting in the middle of the night and hiding everything in the panel of the back of my closet. 

---

Today was like any other day. I slipped out of the house and ran to the “Mochi Delight”, but I didn’t see Yoon standing at his usual spot by the edge of the sidewalk. I walked over and pushed the door open to “Mochi Delight” and saw NaiNai sitting at the edge of the counter rolling out orange mochi balls. 

“NaiNai, where’s Yoon? Have you seen him?”

“No, he hasn’t come by today yet. Why don’t you wait for him for a bit?”

I walked back outside and plopped down on the sidewalk. I stared at the trees, but now bare and spindly, in the distance—like skeletons. They didn’t really have the same blues as before, but now they seemed bluer than ever, bare and juxtaposed against the hazy backdrop of distant hills. A cold breeze swept past, and my sherpa jacket suddenly felt too thin. I glanced at the smattering of cars throughout the parking lot, they were mostly black or grey with a couple random greens or reds scattered throughout. No silvers though. Why wasn’t he here yet? Did something happen? He always showed up. My feet started tapping erratically, either from nervous apprehension or the cold, or both— I couldn’t tell. I shoved my hands in my pockets and buried my nose into the collar of my jacket. I don’t know how long I was sitting there, but my butt had long gone numb and my ears were so cold they were burning. I gingerly stood up and scanned the plaza and parking lot. Yoon wasn’t here. I sighed, too tired and too cold to debate staying and trekked home. The trek seemed longer than it had ever before and I barely looked at the trees or the nature around me like I usually did. Thoughts were racing through my head: Where is Yoon? Why didn’t he come? Did something happen to him? Is he ok? I hope he is. Did he finally realize that I’m a failure like my mother always said? Maybe he didn’t want to be friends with me anymore? No. I shook myself out of my downward spiraling thoughts. No, he must have just been busy right? Right. I just walked home, cold and concerned for Yoon. 

---

I waited at our mochi spot the next day, only to again return with numb toes and a frozen butt. I went the next day and waited, munching on mochi and stomping my feet trying to stay warm; I returned home with numb fingers and still, a frozen butt. And so it went on like this, for the next week: I would go, wait, return home with a frozen butt and growing disappointment and the creepings of despair. I couldn’t contact Yoon, I didn’t even know where he lived. I realized, I really didn’t know much about Yoon, other than the fact that he was a 10 year old boy that loved Mochi and blue. 

I kept returning to our mochi spot, but every single day of a week soon turned to 4 days, 2 days, then 1 day, then once every two weeks, and finally to once every while. My mother was pushing piano practice harder everyday and I wasn’t able to get out of the house so often anymore. But, I always made sure to check back at least one with NaiNai for the mochi and to ask, “Have you seen Yoon?”

She would always dejectedly tell me, “No, he hasn’t come in so long. I miss him so dearly.”

Me too, NaiNai, me too. 

---

It had been 2 years since the day Yoon disappeared and there isn’t a day I don’t think about him and his blues. Today, I walked to the neighborhood community center a couple houses over to pick up some larger packages that were shipped there instead of our house. As I was carrying the smaller boxes out to the wagon I brought over, I overheard some of the older kids that were standing in a circle, talking.

“Yo, did you hear that kid living on the Stick died.”

“Like the one they call ‘the boy with the blue clouds’?”

“Yah, that one.”

“Actually?”

“How?”

“What happened?”

“I think they took him to the hospital one day and he’s been there ever since.”

I didn’t think much of it when they first said it. I didn’t know the boy with the blue clouds and I’ve never seen him either. I dropped my box off at the wagon and came back. 

“…diagnose him?”

“I think blood disease? It’s like the one where you don’t have enough oxygen in your blood so your blood starts turning blue. I think you also turn blue too bruh.”

“Oh, maybe that’s why they called him ‘the boy with the blue clouds’.”

“Haha, yah probably, I mean I think it was also cause he was wack as shit and talked real weird. He’s apparently a bit cuckoo you know.”

“Oh yah, my mom also told me they said he was hella color blind, like he literally couldn’t see any color too.”

“Man’s life must have actually sucked ass.”

“Yah imagine, can’t relate.”

I grabbed another large box off the pile and started making my way to the door. 

“You know that the kid’s name is?”

“Yah, I think it’s something like…Yoon?”

I dropped the box; my heart, my mind, my brain, everything froze. A chill ran up my spine into my head and I couldn’t think, I couldn’t think. No, no, no, not Yoon. All I could hear was the roaring silence and the world spinning. The world that Yoon taught me was blue. Not Yoon. I forgot the boxes, the wagon and I ran and sprinted towards our mochi spot, the path now overgrown with grass and nature. My lungs burned and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine, only had my feet take me there by sheer habit from all those days making that trek. I made it to that spot, his spot, on the sidewalk and collapsed. Tears fell freely down my face, and my heart just hurt. Why Yoon, why did the world have to take him from me, he was a beautiful soul, my beautiful best friend. 

I buried my face in my hands, crying, tears going in salty tracks down my face. I cried, until my eyes were dry and there were no tears left to cry, until I was numb, from the cold, and from the pain. 

I walked home slowly. My mind flitted through all of our memories, scooters, the blue trees, the blue car, the blue mochi, the blue world, our blue selves. I could see Yoon’s shaggy hair, blue hair, and his eyes that would narrow into a line when he laughed. His thin hands that he would use to hand me mochi, motion to make jokes, point to teach me the world, and wave goodbye from his spot on the sidewalk. I could hear his twinkling laughter that would always accompany everything he would say, or the stupid things I would say, and all the pep talks he gave me about pursuing painting. Yoon was my light, and now he was gone, for good. 

No. This wasn’t what Yoon taught me, this wasn’t what Yoon would have wanted. No. I had to keep his soul in my heart and bring his energy and spirit to everyone. People deserved to learn about the blues, the beautiful blues. 

When I got home, I picked up my paintbrush and began to paint. 

---

The paintings looked good, basking under the mellow glow of the spotlights, accompanied by the soft classical and hushed whispering of the crowd. One of the men with cameras approached me, walking up carefully and reaching a hand out.

“Jeremiah Cloak, a pleasure.”

I dipped my head in acknowledgement and smiled, my generic response to all men with cameras. But, this man didn’t let go of my hand. 

“May I… just ask you one question? Truly, your work is so ground-breaking, and you’re an inspiration for many other fellow artists, including myself. We all want to know your story and the story of this collection. May I?”

I thought for a moment. Perhaps, I could say, just say a little bit about that one person, the one that taught me all the blues we could see, the blues of the world. The one that showed me that we can see the world through whatever lens we make it despite all that restricts us. The one that proved to me, dreams might seem blue, but they were worth chasing after. 

“Yes. Ask your question.”

“Who inspired your style and your art of painting in every hue of blue?”

It was enough—closure for Yoon, closure for me, closure for the blues that belonged to us.

“The boy with the blue clouds.”

Today the sky is a soft baby blue color with marshmallow clouds across it. The weather? Mild spring breeze. My favorite. I note everything down. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always just had one routine: write. From the moment I woke up, to the last minutes before I fell asleep, I carried a little mandarin orange notebook where I wrote everything I saw, heard, and thought about. I love my notebook because it contains my most precious treasure––my memories.

Each morning was the same. I woke up with no recollection of yesterday or the day before that or anything after December 5, 2021; so, the first thing I did was grab that little orange notebook placed on my nightstand and read the entries from the past few days. I learned word by word who I was, what I had done, and where I had left off the day. Every single page was a rich text that led me through my jumbled story of details from my life I couldn’t place together, but at least this way, I still had a small purpose in my life.

—

“Can they just get her to talk about something useful now!” 

Of course Joel was exploding now. It had already been 48 hrs and with no lead, he knew if he didn’t find some new information, our case would soon become lost.

“Hey, calm down Joel. They’re just trying to get her to open up, a l right?”

“By what, by letting her stall telling us her nice little routine with her little notebook? We know about the notebook! That’s WHY we brought her in, Carla!” 

“I know, I know but the poor girl doesn’t have a memory, and she’s only 19, ok? Imagine how hard it is to talk about anything, knowing you won’t remember it the next day. A timeline must be so hard for her to comprehend and you know… well…  she has to start somewhere.

Look, I know you care about this Joel, but she will tell us the information on her own terms ”

Joel sighed and crossed his arms. 

“Fine. I’ll leave you guys alone while I go look in the house for the notebook again, but can you at least go into the room to tell Hannah to center her questions around the fire? All we need is some kind of proof.”

“Yes, Joel, but you should just rest a bit before, yeah? You should sleep some, I know it’s been a long morning.”

Reluctantly, Joel finally listened to what I was saying and started to grab his jacket to leave.

“Hm. Ok. 

 Just call me whenever she talks about the fire.”

—

I touched my earpiece to talk to Hannah on the inside of the interrogation room. 

“All right Hannah, Joel is getting impatient, so can you try to probe her with some questions about where she thinks her notebook is right now? Or if she can tell us what she wrote the day of the fire.” 

“Yes ma’am.”

I looked at Hannah as she took a seat in front of Zaya, who was sitting down behind the cold metal desk. 

 “Very nice Zaya, but, well we’re gonna switch up the questions a bit now ok? What can you tell me about the specifics of what you wrote in your notebook yesterday?”

“I mean…like I said I write about the weather, activities I do in my day, just whatever I find interesting and I want to remember the next day. You know, it’s just the way I live my life… what’s still unclear??”

“Hey, you’re doing great Zaya, but my team on the other side of this room are people on your team that are just really looking for some very specific and valuable information that we think you might be able to tell us. I know you can’t see them but they’re waiting to see if you can help them. 

So how about I just ask you some direct questions and do you think you can tell me some straight-forward answers?”

“All right… ok I can try.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Zaya, so let’s go back to your notebook. You mentioned that you place it on your nightstand every night and take it with you as the day passes, so where is it right now?

“Uh… well it’s complicated. I have it here. In my mind, inside my memory for today at least.”

“Wait, so it’s not a physical material then?”

“No no, it is. I just choose whenever I want to take it out to write something but it’s not always visible for others.”

“Zaya, do you know where your notebook is right now?” “Do you know what you wrote in yesterday’s entry?”

“I’m confused Ms. Hannah, did I not just give it to you?” “If you don’t have it, who does?!” “If no one knows where it is, uh… uh…. how do I know who you are, how do I know if I’ve met you before? Where am I again?!”

Oh shit, she’s panicking. “I’m going in Hannah.” “We can’t have her breakdown” 

I opened the door quickly and entered the room. 

Hanna and Zaya both stared at me. Zaya looked both desperate and clueless as I saw in her eyes her fear. Fear that her mind was not enough to help us, and fear that she actually couldn’t even help herself.

——-

Man it was already 10:00 pm and the stars were shining bright but I just couldn’t go home and sleep like Carla had told me. I decided to just go straight to Zaya’s property instead to see if I could find any trace of the notebook there. 

“Godammit. Look at this place.”

I was at the house where Zaya lived, which was in the Pine Tree neighborhood––a place where wealthy families often came to live. 

From her file, I knew she had inherited a good amount of money from her parent’s death but for being such a young girl with her mental condition, I was surprised to know that she still lived in this area. 

I made my way into the driveway of her house and got out of the car. Her porch was big and only had a couple of flowers that were drying out. 

“Huh, that’s interesting”

The door was locked so I began to look for the spare key that I figured couldn’t be hidden too well. 80% of the time, homeowners hide the spare key under the mailbox so I looked there and what would you guess, I found the key. 

The door creaked as I opened the door slowly. It was cold inside. 

In the living room there was no TV, games, or books, just a small couch. 

There were no big pictures or decorations and only the bare minimum of furniture. 

I walked up to the second floor where there was a master bedroom and a guest room. In the guest room there were only big boxes of cardboard but in the master bedroom, there was finally some sign that there was a person living here. 

Two big lamps on each side of the bed, long navy blue curtains, posters of a band around the room, and several loose clothes on a chair. That’s when I finally turned around and noticed the big wide open window. 

The house next door was perfectly visible from this angle. The master bedroom of the neighbors was especially clear looking out this window. 

“Ha, so this is where she could have seen everything.” 

I started to look for some place where she could have hidden the notebook close to the window. I opened drawers in a small cabinet next to the bed and then looked in the closet but nothing was obvious. 

I searched the room top to bottom but there was nothing I could find and just when I was about to give up and leave, I heard the front door open. 

Shit, I’d left my phone in the car and before I could exit the bedroom, I heard someone coming up the stairs.

Two voices became louder and louder as they approached the room and with no escape, I quickly ducked and hid below the bed.

“Hey, come take a look at this, Frank. This looks like her room.”

“Tim, you go look in the other rooms, I got this one.”

I heard footsteps right alongside the bed and I tried to hold my breath. Sweat was now dripping from my face and my heart beat so fast I thought its thumping would give me away. I saw his feet moving as he walked around the room and straight towards the open window. 

Stupid, why would I leave it open? I timidly peeked out from below the bed and saw as the man put his head outside the window and then reached to grab something. 

“I’ve got it Tim! Let’s clear out before anyone else comes!”

The man exited the room quickly but right before he was out of sight, I caught a glimpse of what he held in his large hand––the small orange notebook. 

—-

“Hi, Zaya. We haven’t met yet but my name is Carla and I am the head of the bureau of investigation of Lance Township.” “I realize how scary and confusing this experience can be, but this is the moment where we most need you, so just take a deep breath.”

Zaya did as I told her and briefly closed her eyes.

“Hi ahh… so can I just say that I still don’t know what you want from m—”

My phone rang loudly just before Zaya could finish her sentence and I answered the call, annoyed already at the person who had interrupted the conversation that was just beginning. 

“Hello?”

“Carla Santiam, you have under your possession one of our most valuable consultants. Let her go immediately, don’t ask any questions, and no one else will get hurt.”

“Excuse me, how did you get this number? Who are you?!”

“Oh Carla, you already broke the first demand. Unfortunately we won’t have time to fully introduce ourselves today but I doubt this will be the last time seeing you. Now, given that you don’t seem like you’ll be cooperating today, we’ll just have to do this the hard way.

They hung up the phone and then gas began coming out of the air vent. 

“Hannah! Open the door now!”

Hannah quickly grabbed Zaya and led her out the door, closing it behind her as she said:  “Sorry Carla but you were always in the way. Vitia etra!”

“What!”

I took out my keys and tried to open the door only to discover it had been locked from the outside. 

Knocking on the door I began to scream for help but there was no one on the other side for me. 

I began to breathe harder now. All the fog was surrounding me now. The air was getting thinner. I was getting dizzy. My vision became blurry. 

I collapsed to the floor. 

“Joel… _help”

—–

Carston Miller stood under the 700-ton granite U.S. Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington, Virginia. He felt used and manipulated by these men that he had looked up to ever since he could remember. His life felt destined to be another name inscribed at the bottom of a rusting plaque, just like his grandfather’s would soon be. Carston did not desire fame or even money. He still revered the service of the fallen Marine men who the Millers had come to honor. But he had felt forced into being a Marine. He felt trapped between what he wanted for himself and what his family wanted for him, for them. More than all, he resented the expectations and traditions that his father had placed on his shoulders. Expectations and traditions he was about to defy. 

Carston Miller’s path to the Marines had been set for him from the moment he was born. Underneath his picture in the fifth-grade yearbook from Central Cunningham Elementary, he wrote “When I am older, I want to be a Marine.” When he brought the yearbook home the following fall, his words came as no surprise to his two parents. 

The front porch of the Miller’s house in Cunningham, Illinois appeared to be straight out of a commercial for the American government. The stars and stripes hung out over the lawn in front of the Adirondack chairs beside the stoop. A shiplap sign with the words “Tradition, Faith, and Family” hung over the front door, visible to anyone walking past the house on their way to town. The Marine slogan “Semper Fi” hung on a flag over the back door, a constant reminder of the roots of the Miller family. Carston was raised on these values. But as he entered his junior year of high school, the boy that once dreamed of becoming a Marine had begun to resent the traditions that would soon be forced onto his shoulders. 

Entering his third year of high school, the football, basketball, and baseball star towered over his teammates and the opposing players at six-foot-four 190 pounds. As the infamous, grueling summer football workouts lay ahead, Carston faced a seemingly impossible choice. Although he had had a football in his hands for as long as could remember, Carston was now in love with the game of basketball. The creativity and the freedom on the court were a distant cry from the rigid formations and play calls on the gridiron. Carston’s elegance with the basketball was lost to the brute force, rough and tumble style of football. The concussing hits that men such as his father adored were no match for the swish of the net to Carston Miller. In fact, his athletic build, refined skills, and strong work ethic on the court had even attracted the attention of several small division one basketball programs. But if Carston wanted to truly impress the college scouts, he would need to quit football and focus his time on basketball during the fall and summer. 

There was only one thing stopping him: his father. Carston’s parents had placed him in peewee football the day he was eligible; Rick Miller believed that football taught life lessons that nothing else could. Football was supposed to provide Carston with the toughness, grit, and spirit to succeed when he would inevitably become a Marine like his father and grandfather. Carston thought that notion was rather dumb. His father, Rick, a retired gunny sergeant who now worked as a carpenter after leaving the Marines five years ago, used to kick his ass in their morning workouts; now he could barely keep up. Carston’s father had even been a star at running back for Cunningham High School. However, upon graduating he turned down numerous football scholarship offers to follow in the footsteps of his father, Arnold, and enlist in the Core. 

Two days before he was set to show up for football preseason in mid-June, Carston summoned the nerves to tell his father that he would be quitting. 

Carston looked up at the Marine slogan “Semper-Fi,” meaning “always faithful,” as he walked from the driveway where he was shooting hoops up onto the cedar porch where his father sat reading the daily newspaper. The title of the headline article in the sports section read, “Cunningham High Looks to Stars to Boost Promising Football Season.”  

“Nice hat,” his father said as he sat down at the wooden table he and Rick had built when Carston was entering sixth grade. He realized that he was wearing his worn-out Marines hat that his grandfather had given him over five years ago; when Carston first got it in middle school, he ate, slept, and went to school in the camo hat. The now ratty cap had practically lived on his head. As Carston prepared to tell his father that he wanted to quit football, he fiddled with the Marine dog tags he had worn since second grade: he did this when he was nervous. He ran his fingers over the cool stainless steel and the engraved letters that spelled out “Miller.” The tags used to bring him comfort when he was away from his family for an extended time. Now, he would fiddle with them before a big game or before an important test. The dog tags symbolized tradition; a tradition he was about to break. 

Several seconds of awkward silence passed before Carston finally managed to force the words out of his mouth. “Dad, I want to quit football” is all that he said. Rick Miller sat in silence as Carston bit on his dog tags, waiting for a response. To avoid looking at his father, Carston gazed out at the backyard; he wished he could still go climb on the treehouse and swing freely on the rope swing. However, his father sat indifferent, staring at his son. His emotionless look is what Carston imagined was drilled into Marines like Rick, who still had a high and tight haircut typical of the Core. Carston had grown his hair out once he reached high school.  “Are you sure?” his father asked. “Yes,” said Carston. Rick got up from his seat and walked back into the house, where he proceeded to have a long and rather heated discussion with Carston’s mother. His son sat in confusion, wondering what they were possibly talking about. 

Several days later, Carston’s parents announced that the family would be taking a road trip to Washington D.C. Arnold Miller, Carston’s grandfather, had been “selected” to receive a plaque at the US Marine Corps War Memorial. Arnold had served as Private First Class in the Core, and Carston knew that his honorable service demanded respect from others. However, Carston got the sense that the visit to the monument was less about honoring his grandfather and more about the tradition that he was expected to uphold. Regardless, he wasn’t looking forward to it. He would rather spend his waning summer days playing pickup at the park. 

It was August by the time the family, including Arnold Miller, headed to the nation’s capital. Rick Miller had still not attempted to convince his son to return to playing football. In their first two days on the trip, the Millers visited the typical boring tourist spots: The Smithsonian, the Lincoln Memorial, the White House, and several others. Carston’s sisters had been relatively disappointed with the first two days, as the family usually traveled to the beach or somewhere a bit more entertaining. But this trip was different. On the third day, the Miller family headed to the monument to witness the unveiling of their grandfather’s new plaque. The cloudy overcast of the humid summer morning had given way to warm sunlight by the time the Millers arrived at the memorial. In their usual fashion, they had arrived before any others that would be coming to see the monument and pay their respects.

Carston had expected to be greatly moved by the significance of the monument. He had watched countless movies and read endless books about stories of courageous, heroic Marine men and women. He had experienced firsthand the life of a Marine, and he understood the sadness and tragedy that came with the job. His father and grandfather had been in a state of dejection since they had woken up that morning; they knew the power of the sacrifice that the fallen soldiers had made for their country. As the family walked around the memorial reading the names of the deceased, Rick and Arnold Miller became emotional, which was something that Carston had hardly ever experienced from his father and grandfather. Rick even pointed out two men in his battalion that had been killed by a landmine in the Gulf War. Carston recognized the names of these two men: a picture of his father and them in front of a large dune in Kuwait was propped against the fireplace mantel. However, Carston did not feel the emotion and weight that he could see in the faces of his father and grandfather. With his family’s dog tags wedged in between his teeth, he stood underneath the image of six Marines raising the American flag over the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. To the sixteen-year-old, the ten-foot-high granite memorial was impressive, yet no different than the others he had seen in Washington D.C. earlier in the trip. 

By the time the plaque was set to be unveiled, Carston’s feelings toward the Marine monument had still not been affected in the way that his parents had hoped. However, while walking to the site where the plaque was to be revealed, Carston realized many other families similar to his who all seemed to be waiting around the memorial. The curtain was drawn over the new section of the monument, which included Arnold Miller’s plaque, to the applause of the crowd that had been gathering. As those around him whistled and cheered to honor the new names, Carston pulled out his phone and found the Marine memorial website. As he scrolled to the bottom of the page, he was shocked to see an image advertising the purchase of a plaque at the memorial. All this time Carston had believed that his grandfather had done something particularly outstanding to receive this recognition, when in fact it took his parents simply paying a $600 fee. Carston began to question why they had even come to the monument. If it was not to honor his grandfather, then what was the point? 

But Carston’s spiraling mind was halted by his father, who scolded him for having his phone out and disrespecting the men and women whose names now were inscribed in the monument. “Who knows,” Rick Miller said, “maybe your name will make it up there someday too, son.”

At this moment, under the monument honoring those that he had looked up to all of his life, Carston realized that this trip had very little to do with honoring Arnold Miller. Instead, his parents, but especially his father, had tried to use this “vacation” to get to Carston, to convince him to become a Marine and forget his passions. Much of what Carston has done in his life, except basketball, has solely had the intention of guiding him to the Marines, just like his father and grandfather. The signs above the door haven’t been there to remind Carston to live faithfully and honorably. They have been there to brainwash him into following the path that his father has set for him, which was the path that his father’s father had set for him. Carston realized how he had been used, even manipulated, by his parents, and he hated that. He hated that if he didn’t play football or he didn’t get the sides of his hair tapered like his father’s, then he would never be a real Marine. 

But as Carston bit on his dog tags in angst, he also realized that he, in fact, no longer wanted to be a Marine. All that he had ever known about serving in the Core was what his father and grandfather had known; never had Carston thought about what he truly wanted. It took until the family’s trip to the monument for him to understand the manipulation that he had experienced, and he resented his family’s actions of pressuring him into their desired path. Carston still loved his family, even his father, but he no longer desired to hang Marine slogans in his house or raise his kids to become Marines. In fact, at the monument, Carston decided, and knew, what was right for his future. And it was not the Marines.

But little did Carston know the disappointment that he would bring to his father and his family with his decision to pursue his interests instead of what his father had wanted for him. When he told his family as they returned to Cunningham after their road trip to D.C. that he wanted to play basketball in college instead of enlisting, the tears from his mother spoke for the silence of Rick and Arnold Miller. Carston had never heard his mother cry before; he did not think she even was capable. 

Carston never regretted his decision to go against the wishes of his family and play basketball in college. But standing under the monument at sixteen years old, Carston could not understand how he would feel as he watched his father’s mahogany casket being lowered into his grave. He could not predict the stream of tears that would cascade down his face and onto the dog tags he still wore as he reflected on the disappointment that he had brought his father. But at the same time, he knew he would never forget the manipulation, the way Rick Miller forced him to follow the only traditions he had ever known. While Carston had always loved his father, he would not forgive him until the priest recited the final prayer over Rick’s grave in the cemetery where three generations of Millers before him had been laid to rest. In the moment before he turned to leave his father for the last time, Carston’s anger briefly faded in sorrow and remorse. Carston knew that his father would never have called him a disappointment, but he knew that he would never have called him a Marine.