It was a traveling fair attraction at first. Free for everyone. Called the Best of All Possible Worlds, people at first thought it would show them some sort of utopia.

They were wrong.

You entered a booth, attached to your temples a couple of electrodes which were linked to a computer, put on some VR glasses and discovered why yours was the best of all possible worlds. Everyone's experience was unique to what the program gathered from their minds. And it was an experience, lived fully, not a vision. Though mere minutes passed, it felt like hours, days, months, years, depending on the person. People stumbled from the booth and fell to their knees, kissing the ground in absolute joy to be there and not...elsewhere. It didn't matter if they lived in a mansion, a shack, out of a car or on the street: the responses were all the same.

Theirs was the best of all possible worlds and they should be grateful.

The catch was you couldn't talk about your experience.

Some people thought it couldn't hurt to tell a spouse or a best friend.

They were wrong.

It only took the investigation of a few cases of spontaneous combustion to find the connection and for most to realize silence was the price of admission.

Of course, that realization meant the booth quickly fell out of favor at fairs, people not being very good at keeping secrets. Even so, various entities recognized the value of the program. It was sold for a very respectable sum, the inventor retiring to a private island in the Pacific.

Or so the story goes.

Public psychiatric hospitals began to use the program to cure depression. The world seemed so much brighter after a visit or two in the BPWC (as the Best of all Possible World's chamber came to be known). The incurably suicidal merely shared their experience. The rest went on to lead happy lives.

Prisons used the BPWC and found behavior improved in 99.% of cases. (The outliers were executed, so one could argue behavior was universally improved.)

Public schools had multiple booths installed. They were used at the beginning of each school year and throughout the year with students who found it difficult to follow the rules. Or who came to school hungry or bruised. Or who had lost parents to any number of violent occurrences. Even teachers unhappy with administrative mandates took a turn in the booth.

Results are unclear at this time.

The most effective use of the program has been by countries struggling to maintain order in their own lands or in those they are endeavoring to enfold within their borders. BPW camps have been established all over the world.

It has been nothing short of miraculous how docile people become when they realize how good they really have it.

Our government's three-year plan includes providing personal BPWC's for every home in the country. For free.

It really is the best of all possible worlds.

"Clyde, I don't know about this."

"C'mon, Bonnie girl. Don't you love me?"

"Aw, Clyde, you know I do, but this is crazy talk."

"Ain't you tired of being poor? Goin' to bed hungry? Barely makin' a living waitin' tables? When there's tables to wait. Livin' in a shack on the wrong side of town while the other side drinks champagne in mansions?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"I want to give you champagne," he said, pulling her close. "I want to give you pretty dresses and all the hats and shoes you want."

"I don't need all that. I just want you, Clyde." She paused then said, "And maybe a camera with some film."

He laughed. "Whatever you want," he said, kissing her. "If you really love me, you'll do this. For us."

"Clyde, I just don't know..."

"All you have to do is drive, Bonnie girl. I'll do the rest."

It was a rural gas station. No one got hurt and Clyde took Bonnie shopping when they got far enough away.

But the money ran out, as it will when there's none coming in, so Clyde planned the next job.

And the next.

And the next.

And each time, Bonnie argued a little less.

Then he planned a bank job.

"That's too much, Clyde. The gas stations, the small stores, they're all far from everything. But a bank? In the center of town? We could get caught. You could go back to jail."

"I ain't going back to jail, Bonnie," he responded angrily. "It ain't no place for nobody," he said more softly, thinking back to the head he'd bashed in after the guards looked the other way while he got bent over in the john. He'd make them all pay.

"This ain't no different than the others, Bonnie. And we can take a longer break. Maybe settle down for a bit somewhere, living off what we get from the bank. Take some pictures with that new camera I'm gonna get you..."

"Clyde..."

"In for penny..."

She sighed. "In for a pound...all right."

So, they pulled off the bank job.

Then a few more.

And then they stole a new car, or three, kidnapping the owners as well to keep them from notifying the police too soon. Clyde gave them some money and food when Bonnie dropped them off on a dirt road somewhere far from where they picked them up.

And then he killed a sheriff. Or two. Or ten.

And Bonnie stayed by his side.

The police raided one of their hideouts, but Bonnie and Clyde escaped though they'd had to leave their stuff behind. The authorities developed the film in the camera they found. Amongst the pictures was one the newspapers published, and the public loved, which showed Bonnie smoking a cigar and holding a gun. Cigar smoking gun moll. She was just posing for the camera, they thought.

What they didn't know was that it was the gun with which she'd killed the man standing between her and the exit from the bank.

I mean, her man was in there.

The gun was aimed at his head.

She pulled the trigger first.

I mean, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

Everyone in town agreed the lake was haunted, but only I knew what was actually buried beneath it.

I live in a small town nestled between green mountains and surrounded by seven lakes. Unexceptionally, the name of my town is Seven Lakes. We are a vacation destination during the summer. People come from all over to hike our mountains, camp in our forests and swim in our lakes.

Five summers ago, people started disappearing around Lake Number 7 - we are not an original bunch - and the local flock of mocking birds started echoing what sounded distinctly like women screaming.

I should say that it was women who started disappearing. Young, beautiful women, with their whole lives ahead of them. Snuffed out in an instant.

Well, perhaps a wee bit longer than an instant.

They never had a chance to scream. I mean, I'm no amateur - I've had quite a few years of practice. I don't give them an opportunity to do anything but die. No, those last moments are for me alone. The sudden fear when they know they have been betrayed as they realize I am their worst nightmare come to life. The terror-stricken eyes as they discover they cannot yell, or move, or fight. The silent screams as the blood seeps from the thin slice around their necks.

It is a rather slow process, actually. The dying, that is.

Then I swim with them down to the cave I discovered while swimming in the lake as a child. A perfect graveyard for my many treasures.

The townspeople keep away. The disappearances along with the inexplicable screams of the birds has convinced the town the lake is haunted with evil spirits whisking away the unsuspecting living. Many vacationers, however, think we're a superstitious lot or just like the idea of scaring themselves in their own real life horror film. They think they'll just walk away as they do at the end of their favorite flick.

I know better.

"Mrs. Nichols? Is Mr. Nichols home?"

"Not at the moment. May I help you?"

"I'm Detective Mason," he says, showing his badge. "This is my partner, Detective Hobbs." She shows hers. "We need to speak with your husband with reference to a case we're investigating. Perhaps you wouldn't mind answering a few questions?"

"Of course. Please, come in. Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee, tea?"

"No, but thank you," both detectives say as they walk into the kitchen.

"You haven't been married long, correct?" asks Detective Mason.

"Ours was a whirlwind romance," Mrs. Nichols says a little wistfully, sitting down at the kitchen island.

"How did you meet?"

"Artie and I met online on MeetYourMate .com, the first AI dating app. It's incredible. It makes it impossible for anyone to lie. You enter your name, address and social security number. Within minutes, the AI bot has created a profile including pictures as well as five perfect matches based on all available information including your social media footprint, education, work history, interests based on verified experiences, travel history, any past legal or psychiatric troubles. I can't praise it enough."

"Sounds invasive."

"Detective, if you have a cell phone, buy things online, walk city streets or post comments or pictures anywhere, you have no privacy."

"Fair enough. So, AI helped you find each other."

"Yes. We were each other's number one perfect match. We both love to travel, museums, world music and languages. He's an anthropologist as well as an archaeologist. I'm a museum curator." She pauses, smiling at a memory. "We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on our first date."

"How long did you date before you married?"

"Not long really. Two months." She lifts a shoulder and smiles. "When you know, you know."

"And how long have you been married now?"

"Six months."

"So, you still don't really know each other, do you?"

"Well enough."

"Hmm. Did you know your husband collected shrunken heads?"

"Of course!" Mason and Hobbs look at each other, eye brows raised. "He showed them to me the first time I visited his house in Connecticut."

"You have a home in Connecticut?" Detective Hobbs asks, jotting something down in her notebook.

"Yes, but Artie goes up more than I do. It's quieter so he can concentrate better, he says. Also, he has an extensive library and a powerful computer up there so that's where he gets most of his research done. He's working on a book at the moment, as well as some essays for various journals related to anthropology and archaeology.

"Anyway, when he showed me his collection, I was impressed, but as a museum curator of Latin American artifacts, I suggested that they belonged in a museum."

"What did he say?"

"He preferred to keep his collection private."

"I see. Where did he say he got them?"

"I didn't ask."

"Really? Someone shows you a collection of shrunken heads and you don't ask where they came from?"

"I work at a museum that used to house a small collection until we repatriated them to Ecuador. A genuine shrunken head can only come from one place: the northwestern Amazonian rainforest amongst the Jivaroan people. In particular, the Shuar tribe which was the only tribe amongst the Jivaroan that practiced ritualistic head shrinking. They were a collector's item in the early to mid 20th century in both the US and the UK."

"And what made you believe they were genuine shrunken heads?"

"I've dealt with real ones and fake ones. The fake ones are usually made from goatskin or monkeys or sloths. I know the difference."

"I mean, how did you know they were, let's say, 100 years old and not, let's say, eight months old?"

"That's ridiculous. Head shrinking is no longer practiced."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I haven't been to the Amazon recently, but I am fairly certain they are not shrinking heads any more."

"But are you sure your husband isn't?"

"Isn't what?"

"Shrinking heads."

"Don't be ridiculous. How would he even do that?" She pauses, thinking, then shakes her head. "That's absurd."

"Mrs. Nichols, I wish it were. Our investigation leads us to believe your husband has been killing, beheading and subsequently shrinking the heads of women and men, largely runaways and/or homeless, for the last fifteen years."

"I don't believe it."

"We have a witness."

"Someone saw him boiling heads?"

"No. Apparently, shrunken heads are still collected and go for upwards of $100,000 a head. Our collector has a genuine collection, which has since been confiscated. He realized that the ones he'd purchased from your husband were not only fakes, but he was fairly certain they were, um, made recently."

"Oh my God."

"When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Nichols?"

"Two Sundays ago. We went to Connecticut for the weekend. I came back to the city to work and he left for a trip to the Amazon. To participate on a dig." She looks at them, a little scared. "He was hoping to add to his collection."

"Can you give us the address of your Connecticut home, please?"

After the detectives leave, Mrs. Nichols, Millie, goes to her desk and unlocks the bottom drawer. It is empty except for one object: a shrunken head. She takes it out and kisses it.

"We really were the perfect couple, Artie."

"Baby? Baby, wake up."

I opened my eyes groggily at the sound of my dad's voice. I assumed I was waking myself up from a dream since my dad died several years ago. Standing next to the bed was my five year old, Jonathan.

"Hey, sweetie," I whispered, not wanting to wake my husband, Bobby. We had to be up early. I slipped out of bed, picked up my son and headed back to his room. He had always been a night walker, although he'd done it less in the last year or so.

"Did you have a nightmare, honeybun?" I asked as I tucked him back in his bed.

"It's me, Becky. It's Daddy."

I jumped ten feet back. I don't know how I didn't run screaming from the room.

"Don't be afraid, baby," said my son with my dad's voice.

I have to stop for a moment. You need to know two things. One: I am not crazy. I do not regularly have hallucinations, visions or hear voices. Yes, I miss my dad but he's been dead for five years.

And that brings me to number two: My dad died in almost the exact moment my son was born. He was declared dead at 10:52 am. My son was born at 10:53 am. My mom wrote a beautiful poem about how their souls passed each other as one came into this world and the other left. It was sweet. I used to say my dad's soul was getting a second chance at a better life as my son since he'd been so unhappy throughout his 47 years.

I was not serious.

I was not serious.

Back to last night.

"Jonathan?" I whispered from near the door of his room.

"Don't be afraid," said my dad's voice, again from the mouth of my son.

"Um, don't be afraid?" I quietly screeched. "I'm freaking out over here thinking of the Exorcist which I never actually saw, as you know, but, Jesus, Mary and Joseph this cannot be happening. Clearly, I'm dreaming." I closed my eyes and pinched myself. It hurt. I opened my eyes.

My beautiful kindergartner was sitting in his bed looking at me with eyes not quite his and said, "I'm sorry to frighten you, but I needed to tell you something and you weren't listening when my boy here tried to tell you. Oh, by the way, you're a great mom."

"Thanks. What? God. Okay, what did you need to tell me that you have virtually come back from the dead to tell me? Oh, wait, are you in heaven?"

"Can't talk about that. I'm breaking the rules as it is. This will be my only chance to speak with you, sugar."

"Oh, Daddy," I said, crying. He always called me sugar when I was a little girl.

"Becky, pay attention. Jonathan asked you the other day if you were getting divorced. You laughed and said of course not, assuming he asked because of his various friends with divorced parents.

"That is not why he asked. He heard Bobby talking in the car."

"What?"

"You are a great mom, Becky. The best. A wonderful daughter. But you are losing your husband even though I think he loves you and I know you love him.

"I know you work hard, you both do. And I know you try to give any time and patience you have to Jonathan. Just, try not to treat Bobby like a roommate who helps pay the bills."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's all I can say. I love you, sugar. Take care of yourself and my handsome boy here. And your man. He's a good man. He's good for you. Bye, baby."

"Daddy!" I said, kneeling next to my son's bed.

"Mommy?" he said, reaching his hand to touch my face. "Why are you crying?"

"Oh, sugar plum," I said, holding his hand close to my cheek. "No reason. I love you so much."

"I love you, too. I'm sleepy," he said, laying down, closing his eyes.

I kissed his forehead and said good night.

"Night, Mommy."

When I got to the door, he said, "Mommy?"

"Why did my grandpa call you sugar? Is it 'cause you're so sweet?"

My whole body went ice cold. I didn't turn around as I said, "What, honey?"

No response. I went closer to the bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even.

I told myself it was nothing.

This morning, everything was back to normal. Jonathan made no mention of the events of the middle of the night. He woke up talking about the book we had read before bed, My Mother was a Neanderthal, by Jon Scieszka. We had laughed so hard we cried which was a new experience for him.

I keep telling myself it was a vivid dream.

But what if it wasn't?

As I think about it, Bobby and I haven't had time alone since I don't know when. Maybe since we bought the house, so going on four years now. All our time and attention goes to Jonathan and work.

That's probably not good.

Before I leave for work, I turn to him and say, "Hey, you want me to get my mom to babysit this weekend and have a Mommy and Daddy play date?"

His eyes light up in a way I haven't seen in a while.

"Yes!"

"I made a diorama of the planets in our solar system for my science project. I was able to use every day objects like an empty box, string, glue, tin foil, plastic bottles, flour, food coloring, salt and soot from the wood stove. I used the stones my little brother Johnny and I collected during summer vacation for the planets."

"Oh, did you go away this summer, Sam?" Mrs. Miller asked, smiling.

I looked down at my second hand sneakers and the jeans Mama had mended so many times I almost had more patches than denim. Mama always said there was nothing shameful about being poor. We were hardworking, god-fearing people and that's what mattered.

"No, ma'am. We had what Mama called a staycation. She and Papa took off a week from work and we watched movies together, and built forts in the living room, baked cookies and pies and we even went camping in the woods down the road a bit. It was great fun.

"Anyway, Johnny found the prettiest, smoothest rock down by the creek. He let me use it for the Earth in my solar system. Third rock from the Sun." Everyone laughed, knowing the show even if it first came out years before we were born.

"When we lay the stones together, we put them in size order and Johnny's rock was the fourth smallest which made it the best one for Earth."

"But Earth is the fifth largest planet," Annie Mae said. Annie Mae was the smartest girl in the class from the richest family in town. Her project was a rocket. Came from a box her Daddy bought online somewhere. It was really cool. Thinking about it, I started to feel less confident in my own project, but I had worked hard on it, so I went on.

"That's true Annie Mae, but it's also the fourth smallest. Just depends on how you look at it I guess."

"That is correct, Sam," Mrs. Miller said. "Children, please hold comments and questions until the end of the presentation."

"Yes, ma'am," Annie Mae said, apple red because no one ever reprimanded her.

"Well, I painted each of the stones based on the pictures in our textbook. I made the paint with flour, cornstarch, salt, water, soot and food coloring. I made the rings around Saturn out of homemade clay."

"Uranus also has rings,"Annie Mae said then covered her mouth with her hand and looked at Mrs. Miller. "Sorry, Mrs. Miller," she mumbled.

"That's true, Annie Mae," I continued, "but they are quite faint according to our textbook, so I cut a plastic bottle and used a very thin ring of plastic to represent the rings of Uranus. I used string and glue to hang them all in order in the box." I held up the box so everyone could see. "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Noodles. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune."

"Very nice, Sam. Tell Johnny that the Earth's stone was particularly perfect."

I smiled big at Mrs. Miller. "I will. Thank you, ma'am."

battered

by youth's follies

my heart

never broke

though I drowned

myself

in tears

and scribbled

page upon

page

of

insipid

poetry

of love

and

loss.

i only thought it was broken.

i knew

the difference

when i felt

it crack

and shatter

in my chest,

the pain

physical,

excruciating,

the day

you told me

you wanted

to die,

my sweet

lover of life

whose

joie de vivre

had

long ago

silenced

my own lifelong

melancholy.

only then was my heart truly broken.

"Gone, but never forgotten."

"To Charlie," they all responded, downing a shot of his favorite tequila. Everyone's eyes were on me, the poor widow. They seemed to be expecting something though I wasn't sure whether it was a speech thanking them for showing up for the memorial, more tears of grief, or the customary silence they were used to from Charlie's little wife.

"Another round," I said to the bartender. "It's what Charlie would have wanted,"I said to the myriad faces that seemed surprised to hear me speak.

"Here, here!" A few voices shouted.

Two more shots and I was three sheets to the wind and ready to say what I'd come to say.

"I want to thank you all for coming out to help me celebrate the life of Charlie Nichols, the best man I have ever known." I heard a spattering of affirmation amongst the group.

"Charlie was always there for everyone, whether to help paint a house, listen to a problem, or with a dollar or two." I paused. "Or thousands."

Some uncomfortable laughter.

"So, imagine my surprise when slowly, one by one, all of Charlie's besties fell into a black hole as Charlie battled for his life these last ten ears."

Some squirming ensued.

"Where were you then? When he needed to hear a friend's voice, hold a loved one's hand. Of course, he had mine, bur what happened to you?" I asked in a soft voice full of hurt for my beloved.

"Were you afraid he'd ask you to pay back all the loans he gave you over the years to help pay for his medical bills? He had every right, but you knew him. He would never dream of asking anyone for anything. He was a giver through and through.

"So, where were you when he was still here to appreciate your presence? Where were you when he needed reassurance he was loved and needed and that his was a good life worth fighting for?" I looked around.

"Was it too hard to watch a friend suffer and die?" I paused. No one would make eye contact. "Imagine how much harder it was for Charlie to endure that suffering with only my shoulder to lean on after having been there so often for so many, if not all, of you. Was it too much to expect that you be there for him? To expect even a phone call on his birthday?"

"Charlie was my husband, but he was also my best friend. My heart broke every time the phone rang and it was a scam or a telemarketer when he was hoping it was one of you. I watched the light die in his eyes as his illness ravaged his body. When he needed you, really needed you, he discovered he had been forgotten.

"So, forgive me when I say you are full of shit when you say, 'Gone, but never forgotten.' You forgot him a long time ago."

It was so quiet in the saloon I could hear Beardless Bart breathing behind the bar.

"What was that you said, boy?"

"You heard me," I said, turning to face him head on. "Though I'm hard put to know how you managed it seein' as you been runnin' your mouth so long and loud we was all wonderin' how you ain't dropped dead yet from lack of breath."

A few men coughed to cover up a laugh. No one wanted to have eyes turned on them. Everyone knew how this was gonna end.

"You know who I am...boy?"

"I ain't your boy, Zeke. 'Course I know who you are. Ain't nobody here don't know who you are. You been talking all damn night 'bout who you are, where you been and who you done killed. Nobody cares, Zeke. You still a stranger here." I paused then added, "And we don't take kindly to strangers."

As I spoke, the crowd had quietly stepped back, giving us both a very clear shot. No one wanted to get in the way of a bullet intended for someone else.

"You got a big mouth, boy."

A few more coughs.

"What's so funny?" Zeke asked, looking sideways without taking his eyes off the hand hovering above my gun.

"You, Zeke. See, 'round here, they call me Silent Joe."

His eyes nearly bugged out his head as he reached for his gun.

He was lying on the ground, a bullet to the gut before he could pull the trigger.

"Guess you heard about me, too," I said, standing over him. "And I didn't have to say a word."

I always let my gun do the talking.

"Drinks are on Zeke," I said. Cheers went up as my boys emptied Zeke's pockets before carrying the body to the edge of town.

As for me, I had a whisky on Zeke as I carved a new notch in the walnut grip of my Patterson Colt. Then I let the prettiest little filly in the saloon take my hand and lead me upstairs.

Thanks, Zeke.

I press the button for Jerry to come get me, but within seconds, Mrs. Mortimer and the head of security, a kind man named Adam Samuels, are entering the room.

"Where is he?"

"Louis? He left."

"How? The door was locked."

I make a show of looking around the room and under the table then shrug my shoulders. "Apparently not. It must not have been completely closed. Or maybe the locking mechanism shut off with the lights."

"The lights went out?"

I feign confusion. "Isn't that why you came instead of Jerry? Security lost the video feed, no?"

"Samuels, I need a moment, but don't go far."

"Yes, ma'am."

As he shuts the door behind him, his phone rings. It's Pete. "Mr. Samuels, I have a visual of Lily with Mrs. Mortimer, now."

"Did you see the brother leave?"

"No, sir. When the picture came back, Lily was alone in the room and then Mrs. Mortimer and you entered."

"Copy. I'll be up as soon as we're finished here."

As Samuels finishes the call, Jerry comes jogging down the hall. "What are you doing here? They just pressed the buzzer. Is Lily okay?"

"She's fine. You can return to your duties. Mrs. Mortimer and I will take it from here."

"Mrs. Mortimer? Roger that," Jerry says as he hurries back the way he came.

We sit down. I am silent as Mrs. Mortimer taps her manicured nail on the table. Finally, she reaches a hand across the table and says, "Lily, I am so sorry you had to experience that."

I keep my hands in my lap and say, "Experience what?" I have no idea what she knows.

"Some stranger claiming to be your brother...knowing you are an only child who is all but abandoned by her parents here at Elysian Fields."

"Abandoned."

"Well, as good as."

"If I were abandoned, you would no longer get paid and I am pretty sure you would not keep me here out of the goodness of your heart."

"Lily!"

The way she says my name I realize two things: I hit the nail on the head and she does not like to see herself as selfish or greedy. And, two, I really don't know anything so I had better not alienate the hands that feed me. Yet.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mortimer," I say as I reach across the table and take her hand. "I know everyone here at Elysian Fields has my best interest at heart.

"It was so weird seeing and speaking with this boy, this man, who looks like me and says he's my brother. I told him that was impossible. That I am only child."

"Good girl."

"I mean, I wish he were my brother," she grips my had a little tighter, perhaps unconsciously. "But wishing doesn't make it so." She relaxes a little.

"We will get to the bottom of this, Lily. It won't happen again."

My heart twists painfully as I fear losing myself again, but I just say, "Thank you, Mrs. Mortimer. May I return to my room now? I feel completely drained."

She releases my hand and stands. "Of course, my dear." She walks to the wall and presses the button. The director of security opens it immediately. "Samuels, would you take Lily back to her room, please?"

"Right away, Mrs. Mortimer."

"You okay, Lily bird?"

"Never better, Adam. Just need a little time to process it all. Thanks for asking," I say as we leave the spy-movie elevator and head back to my room.

Later that night, I take the pills from under my tongue and flush them.

For the first time in seven years, I dream.

Over the next seven days, I remember.