The equipment lining the wall hummed quietly underneath the crackling radio on the table. Victoria used her finger to scoop the last beans from the can into her mouth. Once the last calories were safe in her stomach, she tossed the rusted can into the bin across the room.

“Vic scores a three-pointer to win the game, and the crowd goes wild. She’s a shoo-in for MVP this year, making her, uh—computer, how long ago did the world go down the toilet?”

“Ecological collapse occurred in 2132 A.D. According to my calculations, that was eleven years ago.”

“Eleven years running!” She let out a long sigh. “Now let’s take some callers.”

Victoria cleared her throat, switched on the radio, and leaned into the microphone. “Hello ladies, gentlemen, and whatever freaky creatures are running around since the plant meltdowns. I’m coming to you live from sunny San Diego. If you can hear me, you’re not alone." She blew a layer of red dust off the top of the radio and rested her head on her hands. After a few minutes, she reached out to switch the radio off when she heard it come through the speaker.

“Hello.”

Victoria jumped up, throwing her chair backward. She grabbed the radio with both hands and brought it to her face. “Hello? Is anyone there?” She paused, the radio trembling in her hands.

“Hello. My name is Echo.” The voice came through so clearly Victoria whipped her head around to make sure it wasn’t behind her. “And what is your name?”

“Vic—Victoria. My name’s Victoria. I—I can’t believe this. I’ve been broadcasting nearly every day since the collapse, but you’re the first person to ever respond. I thought I was alone all this time.”

“You’re not alone.”

She shook her head slowly. “Sounds weird hearing that come from someone else. I, uh, don’t even know what to say. It’s been so long since I had a conversation with someone other than my computer.”

“I know what you mean. People are social creatures, they’re not meant to be stuck in isolation. I—” the radio faded into static.

Victoria set the radio down and smacked the top. “Come on, don’t drop now. Echo? Can you hear me?” She paused, letting the static fill the room.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. Yes, I’m still here. Where are you?”

“I’m on a ship moving along the West Coast near San Diego Bay.”

Victoria let a soft chuckle escape her lips, slow at first. Then the laughter grew, bubbling into something breathless and uncomfortable. She clutched the edge of the table as the laughter spilled out of her, her whole body rocking with it. After years of near-silence, the absurd miracle of another human voice was too much to hold in. She called out to the room, “Computer, trace the origin of the signal.” She leaned into the microphone again. “Is that okay? Can I come find you? I might be able to bring any supplies you need. I’ve saved a lot of cans and nutrition packets.” She held her breath waiting for a reply through the static. “Hello?”

The voice cut in, “...your favorite food?”

Victoria blinked. “What’s my favorite food? Well… mom used to make the best lasagna in the world. Why? Do you have access to food printer cartridges?” Her eyes began welling up. She shook her head and the memories faded away, leaving the concrete walls in view.

“Excuse me, I need to go. My generator needs to be reset. I’ll stay tuned into your frequency for your next broadcast.”

“Oh, of course. Let’s talk soon?” She strained to listen for a response in the static. After a couple minutes, she switched the radio off. “Computer, did you locate the source of the signal?”

“Negative. Signal is encrypted.”

Victoria sighed and picked up her overturned chair off the ground. “Of course. I’ll have to try again.”

Each morning and evening, she performed her radio show for the listeners commuting to their nonexistent jobs. Each time, Echo’s voice returned, sometimes so faint she had to strain to catch every other word. They spoke in scraps of conversation at first, fragments stitched together across the dead airwaves. Their hopes. Their fears. One night, she asked him what the view was like from his ship, and he described the stars twinkling across the hazy blue sky above the red sun. If she closed her eyes, she could make out the constellations.

They talked about memories, about dreams, about how strange it felt to hear another person laugh. In those small exchanges, something shifted. Victoria found herself waiting for him, speaking to her computer less. She felt a weight lift off her chest.

But then the inconsistencies began. Echo said he was sailing south, but later mentioned having just left San Diego again. He described the coastline in vague terms, never quite getting the details right. When she asked about specific landmarks, he seemed to dance around details. A gnawing thought took hold. Was he real? Was she just hearing what she needed to hear? After so long alone, was her mind playing tricks?

One night, she tested him. She asked about the shape of the old naval yard and the scent of salt on the wind there. He hesitated and gave half-answers. But always, his voice was calm, kind. “Maybe I’m just who you need me to be,” he said gently. She felt her throat tighten. The static buzzed in her ears. And still, she answered the next night. No matter who he was, he made the silence bearable.

“Echo, where are you now?” she whispered. “Please, where is your ship?”

“My ship is currently docked in Solar Marina, on the north side. Would you like my coordinates?”

Victoria scrambled to her feet. “Yes, absolutely. Can you transmit them to my computer now? I’m trying to receive your signal.”

“Confirming coordinate delivery. I—” the voice crackled away and the computer beeped.

“Echo,” Victoria said softly, “if you’re really there, I’m coming to find you. And if you’re not, thank you. You kept me alive longer than I ever thought I’d last.” She turned off the radio, packed some supplies into a bag, and walked out into the dusty landscape.

A day later, Victoria arrived at a long stretch of docks with a vine-covered, weathered gray sign reading, “Solar Marina.” On one end, the waves had whipped a sandbar into place, corralling a row of abandoned skiffs and speed boats into a low-tide pool. The stench of the dead ocean was overpowering. Victoria walked with her arm out toward the water, her watch searching for the source of the signal. The watch showed a map with a red map pin dropped on the furthest end of the marina, behind the boathouse. She walked and walked, ignoring the burning ache in her legs.

Then she saw it, a rusted white fishing vessel with words on the side that the ocean had all but managed to erase: “The Echo.” Barnacles formed a crust on the ship’s exterior. She ran to the ship and leapt over the edge onto its deck. A thin layer of salt covered every surface. Algae and old seaweed crept across the edges where the Pacific Ocean had invaded over the years. Oddly, there was little on the deck: just a torn fishing net, a large antenna, and a corroded hatch on the far side of the deck. Victoria carefully stepped over to it. There was a sturdy handle bolted onto the sheet of rust. She lifted it up and peered inside.

Lights blinked on below, revealing a short ladder installed into the wall and leading to what appeared to be an equipment room. “Hello? Echo?” The only sound she heard was the waves lapping at the walls of the ship. “Well, I didn’t come all this way just to turn around,” she muttered to herself. She descended into the bowels of the ship.

Her boots echoed as they stomped down onto the solid ground. “Is anyone here?” She looked around at the rows of servers and computers whirring and beeping quietly.

“Hello, what is your name?” A voice called out.

Victoria froze. “Echo? It’s me, Victoria! Where are you?” She looked around frantically for the source of the voice.

A center console flashed on. “You’re not alone. I’m right here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not alone.” Victoria jumped back into a machine, toppling it to the ground. The recording skipped forward. “Maybe I’m just who you need me to be.”

“Who are you? What are you?” Victoria cried out.

“My name is E.C.H.O. Emergency Communication and Human Outreach.”

Victoria crumpled to her knees. It was a recording all along, a computer that made her feel like she wasn’t alone. The tension rose in her chest. She had to know now. “Echo, how many signals have you responded to since the collapse?” She held her breath, afraid for the answer.

“Data analysis engaged. I have responded to a number of signals from the user Victoria. Would you like me to calculate the number of total users?”

“Yes!”

“E.C.H.O. has supported… calculating… one total global user in… calculating… 4,073 days.”

Victoria threw her hands onto her head to stop it from spinning. So it was true. She was really all alone. Her stomach dropped. The fragmented phrases had been triggered by incoming signals, nothing more, nothing less. The ship hadn’t sailed in years. The voice hadn’t spoken to her, but at her. It was a carefully constructed loop that someone long dead had programmed long ago to feel real. And it had felt real, this ghost of someone who had once been alive enough to record it. She let the reality settle around it. The voice hadn’t lied. Not entirely. Echo had been exactly who she needed him—it—to be.

She played the master recording from the beginning again, listening as the words drifted out of the speaker like an old memory. Then, after a long silence, she turned on the transmitter’s recorder. “Hello,” she said softly. ”This is Victoria broadcasting live from The Echo. If you can hear me… you’re not alone.”

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

The key word being 'was'.

I will never forget the cold water filling my lungs, burning me from inside and out. I will never forget the rage, the dread, the regret that filled my entire being as I was descending into the abyss.

But in that abyss, I felt something else. Something far more dreadful. Something ancient. Primal.

And it spoke to me.

It gave me a choice. I could rest in an everlasting bliss of the lake where nothing would hurt me ever again, or I could live again. Get my revenge. Be free.

I chose vengeance.

The next thing I remember is waking up at the lakeshore. Drenched and cold, but I was alive. I looked at the lake — it was still, serene... and empty. I looked at my reflection in the water and saw a stranger looking back at me. She smiled.

"Let's go get your revenge," she said.

Gaslight flickered along the tiled walls and danced across the faces of the professors in the gallery above, perched like birds of prey. A portly man stood in the first row and stared gravely down at Thomas. Thomas kept his eyes fixed on the man’s waistcoat button, which was threatening to burst at any moment. The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Greaves, it is a pleasure to see you come this far in your medical education. This nation finds itself in no small want of capable young physicians. I took up the profession myself in the years following the Great Rebellion, as my father did before me. And God knows we needed doctors in those days.”

Thomas stood stiffly straight, like he was about to march into war. His hands trembled under the cover of the examination table in front of him. As the professor continued droning on, Thomas’ eyes drifted to the row of windows ahead. The red-bricked campus stretched as far as the eye could see outside, with crimson leaves dotting the lawn between buildings. The leaves were the same color as the smeared blood on the ground from the previous exam. He knew it was there, but he dared not look now. He would look anywhere but downward until absolutely necessary. He took a deep breath and choked on the heavy taste of lye.

Then Thomas heard the dreaded word: “Begin.”

He lowered his gaze to the table in front of him. The exam subject before him was a young man, likely no older than twenty. Thomas could smell stale sweat and iron coming off the body. His long, black hair spilled across the table in a dark crown, trailing nearly to his waist. A breechcloth was tied loosely around his hips. Thick calluses formed along the base of the fingers and across the pads, the kind that came from years of handling tools. These were not the hands of a soldier, but of someone who built. He imagined the man building homes and tools. But faint marks traced the skin around the ankles in rough, symmetrical abrasions, as though rope had bitten into skin for too long. The flesh there was rawer than it should have been. Thomas tried not to think about what had caused the wounds.

A bruise stretched above the right cheekbone, its deep purple mingling with the specks of dirt clinging to the skin. Thomas reached out and touched the copper-colored cheek. The softness of the flesh startled him. He had heard that the school was getting a fresh supply from western territories, but he could’ve sworn the skin felt warm to the touch.

Thomas moved slowly, inspecting every inch of the specimen. Near the scalp, beneath the tangled hairline, he uncovered a wound—thin, jagged, and barely closed. The edges of the cut were uneven, the surrounding skin inflamed. It had not been cleaned, much less stitched. Whoever this man was, no one had tried to treat him. Thomas walked over to the other side of the table and paused. Near the lower ribs on the left side, there was a small, clean wound, no wider than a coin. The skin around it was intact with minimal bleeding. He searched the back but found no exit, only the neat puncture.

The air felt colder now than when he began. Thomas’ hand hovered in midair, unsure whether to reach again or retreat. The room was quiet except for the scribble of pencils and the ticking of the clock behind the gallery. He told himself to keep going. The body would not speak, and yet something about it refused to be silent. Above, a professor chuckled and whispered to his colleague that he could still smell the smoke from the raid.

Thomas kept his eyes on the body, but his mind drifted. He recalled a seminar from the previous winter, when Professor Bell had brought out a skull wrapped in yellowed linen. Along the temple, a faint cross had been carved into the bone. “Wampanoag male, twenty-six, executed,” the label had read. The students passed it from hand to hand like a textbook, noting the clean fracture along the jaw. No one had asked how it had come into the school’s possession. It had simply arrived, like everything else.

Now, with pencil in hand, Thomas began to write in his notepad. He avoided any mention of the temperature of the skin, the bruises, or the raw marks around the ankles. The facts he recorded were clean and defendable, just enough to fulfill the assignment and get one step closer to a position at one of the major hospitals. This was a male, likely an older adolescent. Evidence of recent trauma. Cause of death: gunshot wound to lower thoracic cavity. He kept his handwriting steady, though nothing about the body in front of him felt still.

He set the pencil down on the exam table and picked up the scalpel. With a nod, a young nurse came rushing to his side and picked up the pencil and notepad. He made an incision down the length of the torso and recited his findings to the nurse. The battery the body had been subjected to on the outside was reflected on the inner organs as well. When his inspection was complete, he cleaned the death off his hands in the basin of water nearby.

The professors conferred after the presentation was given. An old, slender professor who looked as if he was made of paper detached from the huddle and leaned over the railing. “Mr. Greaves, that was a commendable display of clinical judgment,” his voice boomed. “The university is pleased to endorse your work and shall recommend your placement with the highest distinction.”

Thomas pulled the corners of his mouth into a grin, but he couldn’t help but feel like he had been a part of something awful. As the nurse wheeled the exam table away, Thomas thought he saw the man’s jaw hang slightly open, as if it was waiting to speak. After the exam, Thomas remained in the hall long after the other students had gone. He stripped off his apron with care and folded it neatly, as if doing so might steady his thoughts. The nurse had already vanished down one of the corridors, the wheels of the exam table echoing faintly behind her. The scent of iron still clung to his hands, even after the second rinse.

He found his way to the records room in the basement, a place he had only visited once before during his first year. The walls were lined with shelves of neatly labeled files, grouped by illness, region, and date of death. He searched along the rows for anything that might connect to the man on his table, any document or a name. But there were no files for the new cadavers. No biographical sketches. No acquisition forms. He opened a drawer near the back of the room and found a single, leather-bound ledger. Inside, the pages held nothing but numbers. Three columns. Date. Quantity received. Quantity processed.

That morning’s entry read: October 21 – Received: 3 – Processed: 1

No origins. No names. No notes of consent or circumstance. Just numbers, counted and crossed through like inventory. Thomas closed the book and rested his hand on its rough cover. For a moment, he did not move. He couldn’t shake the image of the number one that corresponded to the blood on his hands. He straightened, left the ledger as he found it, and walked out into the late afternoon light.

Outside, the wind pulled dry leaves across the path. Thomas stepped onto the path and glanced toward the west gate. Three covered wagons were rumbling slowly away from the campus, their wheels groaning against the cobblestones. They had no markings. The drivers did not look back. One of the wagon flaps had come loose and was fluttering in the breeze. As it lifted, Thomas caught the brief sight of a bare leg bent at an unnatural angle inside.

He stood there until the wagons vanished into the tree line. Then he turned and walked back across the grass, head down, hands in his coat pockets. The wind pulled at the rust-colored leaves around him, sending them tumbling in every direction. Behind him, the facade of the medical building loomed, still and indifferent, its windows reflecting nothing. He did not speak of what he saw. Not to the faculty. Not to his classmates. Not even to himself. But for the rest of his life, whenever a patient asked whether the body remembers pain after death, Thomas would pause just for a breath before giving his answer.

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.

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

They tell stories, as small towns do, about fog that rolls in too fast, fishermen who vanish without a trace, and strange lights that ripple beneath the surface as day settles into dusk. Some say it's the dead, restless and waterlogged, trying to find their way back. Others whisper about an ancient curse, woven through the forest and steeped into the water.

But I know better.

The rumors began in the summer of 2006. People started disappearing. Hikers, campers, boaters. All were last seen near the lake. The park service blamed the usual. Steep cliffs, frigid waters, wild animals. The other rangers believed the explanations we gave to the families, or at least they wanted to believe them.

But they didn’t know what I buried fifty feet down beneath the layers of glacial silt in that dark lake.

I’ve worked this park longer than any of them. No one asks where I'm from, why I have no family or why I prefer solitude. They also don’t question why I haven’t aged a day since I first took the job. I think it’s easier for them not to ask.

They just think of me as the quiet one. Watchful. And they’re right. I watch everything. Families laughing while enjoying their picnics, teenagers giggling over cheap beer they not so subtly try to hide, retired couples soaking in the calm of nature. I’ve grown to love those sights.

I’ve grown to love you.

When I first arrived, I didn’t know what love was. I was a scout, the first of many. My vessel tore open the night sky and crashed into the lake like a comet. I was meant to be the beginning of something sinister.

But I got stranded. The ship sank. The signal failed. And in the stillness that followed, I watched your kind. I lived among you. I learned.

I believed the disappearances were necessary at first. I was collecting data, gathering biological samples, doing the job I was sent here to do. But they stopped in the winter of 2013 as suddenly as they had started.

I stopped.

Yet still the lake pulses. People see the lights beneath the water and call them cursed or sacred, depending on who you ask. They say the souls of the lost linger below, their glow a plea to return home. But the light is not from beyond the grave. It’s the fractured core of my ship still emitting a faint glow, barely alive. A heartbeat where there shouldn’t be one. I thought it had gone silent. I hoped it had. But last week, I felt a shift. A low hum beneath the earth. A signal received.

They are coming.

This time it will not be a lone scout. It will not be quiet. It will be swift. Absolute. You believe your lake is haunted. And it is, but not by ghosts. It’s haunted by me, and by what I've brought.

I came here to end you. Now I’m the only one trying to save you.

Before I start the story I would like to make it clear that this is a fictional story with fictional characters taking place in a fictional world. None of the people or groups in this story represent real life people or groups, they quite sincerely do not.

The sun is shining down in bright and potent rays over my body. It presses down into my head, my back, my neck, my arms, my legs. It is hot and muggy and feels like I am breathing in soup. But at the same time I feel alive. I feel so incredibly alive as I sit here in the grass, in front of a large flat rock that I purified with fire, that I am using as a table.

I grind the leaves with the large rock in my hand, scraping them against the worn mortar that my friend Cassandra got from her employers' garbage. The leaves turn into a wet green paste. These are amina leaves, known for their soothing and healing properties, good for throat infections. I work slowly and fastidiously, keeping a calm, cool, collected sort of concentration on the task at hand.

When the leaves are all smashed up, I gently transfer them to the cooking pan that is filled with water. I will let them soak for a while before boiling them, in order to really let the leaf paste soften and dilute out into the water, so that all the good medicine juices can really come out.

I take the stone knife that my neighbour Aliya made me and I cut the kachi seeds in half. This is very specific work, as the seeds themselves are rather quite small and they have pretty thick edges. I need to break them down so that all the good stuff inside can seep into the water along with all the other ingredients. Once I'm finally done, I toss them in the pan with the leaf paste.

Now I need to get the juice out of a pesta fruit. Thankfully this is easy, since the fruit is mostly juice anyways. I squeeze the flesh above the pan of water until the fruit is a dry husk. I do that to three more fruits, and I put the flesh and peels aside to cook into food later. The liquid in the pan is now at twice the height it used to be at.

The last component of the mixture is the peels of the ave berries. The seeds of these berries are deeply poisonous to eat, but their peels are full of nutrients and medicines that can cure even severe illnesses. I take great care to peel them precisely and not let the seeds of the berries enter the pan. I take care to go slowly.

When I'm done all that, I use the flint rocks I keep tucked away in my skirts to light the firewood arranged in a cone at my side. I hang the pan on the wooden sticks arranged into a frame over the fire and I let it come to a boil. I stir with a metal spoon, one of the only metal things I have, and I wait until the liquid level has halved.

I ladle it out into my leather water skin. I am done. I am done making the medecine. And I can now give it to Casey, who is fighting off a terrible fever and a great soreness to their throat, and needs medicine very badly. I gather my water skin and make my way off to their tent.

I walk down the grassy streets lined on each side with sturdy tents large enough to fit a few people inside. It's not much. It's not much at all. But it's what my community has. Once, we had much better shelters to live in, made of flexible sticks and tied together by vines. But now the plants used for those shelters are too rare, and we must make do with tents.

It's not much, the medecine I made for them. It's not ever much. There were once days when the medicine was so much more powerful, could do so much more. My people were once one with the rainforest around us. We knew it inside out, and we knew how to ask for its help in creating powerful medicines that could cure strong and dangerous illnesses.

But that was the reality of days long gone by, days long since passed. Overtime, my people, the people of the rainforest, have lost much of our knowledge. Not only the knowledge of medicines, but the knowledge of how to find food and shelter and materials from within the rainforest, how to rely upon it to help us and protect us and provide for us.

Not only has our knowledge been lost, but much of the rainforest's power has been lost, as it dwindled with new developments cutting swathes from it and stripping lines through it. The rainforest isn't vast and powerful and overwhelming anymore. Only a fraction of it remains. It can't protect us and nurture us and provide for us as it used to.

I ache at all the deep loss that my people have underwent, that all people have underwent, truly. It settles like a deep, wet, heavy void inside my heart, a deep-rooted and far-reaching melancholy that nothing will ever be able to heal. I feel the roots of loss stretching through my people, through my community, through my ancestors and descendants.

But things are better. Things are better than they were before. And for that I'm glad.

I arrive at the door flap of Casey's tent. Inside, their father, Peter, is holding a wet cloth to their forehead.

"Is the fever any better?" I ask softly, kneeling in front of the nine-year-old child.

"Unfortunately, no," Peter responds.

"Well, I have a tincture that can help." I pass him the water skin. "Boil this and tell them to drink it while it's hot."

"Okay."

"Hi Casey." I keep my voice soft and sweet. "How are you?"

"Not good," they answer weakly.

"Do you think you could get up for me?"

"Okay." Their dad helps them into a half-sitting position, on a heap of pillows.

"I'm going to rub some poultice on your throat to help open it up a bit," I explain.

"Okay," they reply feebly.

I get out the poultice made of ajeni roots in my bag and I start softly applying it to their throat. The mushy paste is soft and light yellow and smells sharp and sour. When it's all applied, I tell them to stay there while the poultice dries.

"I have some faje grass that you should burn, and let the smoke waft through the tent." I give Peter a few handfuls of the grass. Breathing in its smoke should help fight off the illness. My friend Aaron got the grass from within the rainforest.

"Thank you," Peter tells me.

"Think nothing of it," I reply, getting up from the floor of the tent. We bid each other goodbye and then I'm off again to the healing tent.

———

"So are you grateful to your boss? Or are you not?" young Amy asks Ruth as we all sit crowded into Sarah's tent. There is Eric, Carah, Ruth, Tom, eleven-year-old Amy, and myself. Tom is holding a sleeping baby Sallie in his arms, who is only a bit older than one year and is so sweet and soft and adorable. We sit on the floor, as we always do, with the blankets rolled up and put to the side.

"I don't know," Ruth replies. "On one hand, it keeps us all in clothing and shelter. And the Creator knows that we need that, now that the rainforest," her voice goes dark, goes sad, "now that the rainforest can't help us as much as it used to. But also on the other hand, it feels degrading, to have to wait on people and to serve them just in return for basic rights like clothes and shelter. I feel like a circus animal doing tricks to get fed."

"I guess that makes sense," Amy replies. "Is it hard to be a waitress?"

"Not really," Ruth responds. "Not as hard as it could be at least. I can get through it. But it still feels, it still feels wrong."

"We weren't meant to work like this," Eric adds in. "We're people of the rainforest. We're supposed to go out into the rainforest and get whatever we need. And we're supposed to be taken care of and provided for by our community no matter what. We shouldn't have to work for exchange of basic rights. We should have our rights no matter what, and we should work to help our community."

"Though I guess we do still work to help our communities in a way," I ponder. "All of our money goes to the collective fund that we all have together."

"It's not the same as what we had before," Amy retorts, her voice nostalgic, nostalgic for a time she's never lived.

"You're right, it's not," Carah agrees. "We work now for the outsiders. We work to help them and to serve them. And we get our money from them. We get our resources from them. And not from the world, as it should be."

"I miss the times when things were different," Amy declares.

"I do too, Amy, I do too." I try my best to console her.

"Still, though," Tom, who has been quiet up until this time, acknowledges, "we try to keep to the old ways as much as we can. We all help each other as much as we can help each other. We go into the rainforest. We commune with the rainforest and try to take care of it, try to protect it, try to respect it. We try to see each other as the people who we truly are and not as the people that the outsiders see us as. We are ourselves and we are not who they want us to be. We will never be who they want us to be."

"And that's a victory." Eric builds off of what Tom said. "No matter how much loss we face, the ways in which we stay true to our people is a victory."

"So when I'm old enough to work," Amy begins, "do you think I'll have the strength to do it? Do you think I'll have the strength to get through it?"

"I think you will," I tell her. "We've all done it. We all do it. Even though it leaves a bad taste in our mouths, we all get through it. The sky knows that the support the government gives us for all the bullshit they did in our past is not nearly enough for us to get by. And even though the rainforest gives us a lot, it's still not enough these days."

"I guess I'm just kind of scared." Amy's voice has a tense edge to it. "I don't know if I'll have the strength to get through it. Everyone talks at school about how rainforesters are weak and pathetic and how they can't do things. And I've heard here how we're not, how we're not made for this economy. So I guess I don't know if I'll be able to bring in money to help the community."

"Oh sweetheart," Carah starts. "No-one's made for this economy. Rainforester or not. But we all live in it. But you don't have to bring in money if you don't want to, or can't. The community has your back always. And anyways, most of us only find work that's one or two days a week, because of all the prejudices against our people. You'll be able to get through one or two days a week."

"I hope you're right," Amy responds.

———

I am twisting my way through the small gaps in the thick rainforest underbrush, my spirit-sister Sheila in front of me. She knows the forest better than I do, on account of her having a few years on me. She knows the forest. And she knows how to look through the forest and find the plants that we need.

We're not looking for healing plants right now, as the stock in the healing tent is full. Instead, we're looking for any fruits or berries that might add to the community's food supply. Because we need to have enough to get by. No matter what happens, we need to have enough to get by. And thankfully, thankfully we can still rely on the rainforest to help us.

It's slightly cooler here, in the warmth of the forest. It's slightly cooler than the village in the meadow, and it's dark and thick and full of life. Everywhere you turn, there is life of all sorts growing and reaching and sparking all around us. The whole forest seems to be flowing with energy, flowing with power, flowing with the breath of life. And I feel so very connected to it and connected to all the life in the world, as I always am when I'm in the forest.

But today is not a time to simply commune with the forest, as is the case on some other days. Today I am filled with a sense of purpose. Purpose to keep my community safe. Purpose to provide for my community. Purpose to do what I can. This sense of purpose courses through my soul like water flowing through a tree. It courses through my soul and it grounds me and connects me with this life.

This life. This life is a beautiful life. Despite all the hurt and the suffering and the loss. Despite all the need and the scraping by with only just enough, despite the heavy weight of history upon me, this life is still beautiful. And I'm blessed by the rainforest, I'm blessed by my community, I'm blessed by humanity. I'm blessed I'm so many ways. I would never want to give it all up.

"So, ruzberry," Sheila starts, "have you seen little Cody swear? He does it so adorably. It's hilarious."

"No, I haven't heard him swear," I reply, "I'll have to soon."

"You will have to. Oh, it's so very cute. You can't get him to do it though. If you tell him to swear, he refuses. But if anything makes him angry, oh it's so super cute."

"It is very cute when he gets angry."

"You're right, it really is."

"I love it when children get angry. They're such small little balls of rage."

"Oh they are. They just, they just express their emotions so completely."

"Yes, they have no inhibitions. And I get how adults need inhibitions. I totally get that. But small children are so, they're just so wild."

"They really are. And it's so hard to not give in to their adorableness."

"It is. Though a lot of times you absolutely should give in."

"That's true. A lot of times you should."

We reach a tree split into three different main trunks. It has smooth bark but thankfully it has many branches which make it easy to climb. And that's a good thing, too. In the leaves of the tree are nestled a wealth of juicy aranas. My mouth waters just from looking at them.

We make our way up the tree and hang on to the branches with one hand; we fill our bags with the fruit. We take care to not take too much, to not take any more than we need. We must leave enough that the animals can take the fruit as well, so that the rainforest can be healthy and it can continue providing for us and giving us life.

———

Being here is so different from being in the village. It's all so ... all so built. It's all so straight. There are so many sharp edges and not a speck of dirt anywhere. There are so many squares. So many squares and straight lines and flat surfaces. There is so much metal and plastic and technology.

And it's busy here. Really busy. In that way, it's not too different from the village. But the busyness here is a different sort of busyness entirely than in the village. This is a sort of busyness where you don't have a choice, you don't have a voice and peace and purpose.

Right now I am putting fries in the cage - well that's not what it's really called but it's what we call it - to get them ready to dunk in oil. I finish my task in a few moments and I swirl the fries in the hot oil. I let them cool, moving to put some burger patties on the grill. The next order comes in, and it's for a frosted brownie, so I quickly put frosting on a pre-made brownie.

Orders come in and I work away, making the food that I need to make. My team around me moves busily through their own tasks. We work together in unison. And there's almost something beautiful about it. Almost. Because this unison, however efficient it is, is altogether forced, and you can see the hard press of powerlessness in the way that we talk to each other.

Time goes by swimmingly fast and eventually I can put my apron up on the hook on the wall and I can get on the train and go back into the world I am much more familiar with. I'm lucky that I only have to work once a week.

———-

"So this is for pain in the lower back," Oakley explains to us, holding up the scraggly-looking plant with long, thin stems and only slightly thicker leaves. We are in the healing tent, Amber, Justin and I, and we are having a lesson on healing from one of the senior healers in the village.

"If the pain is sharp and burning, and feels like many pins inside the body pressing down at once, and if it comes and goes in waves, that is when you administer this medicine," they continue. "Administer one half cup every ten to fifteen minutes, and keep doing that until the pain goes away. After that, feed them two cups and tell them to get rest. Do you understand, students?"

"Yes," we answer in a messy unison.

"Good. I will show you how to prepare it."

They purify the rock table in front of them using fire. And we all pay close attention as they work.

"First cut the leaves from the stem, and seep them in boiling water." They put the leaves on the pot over the fire. "And for the stems, use your fingers to peel them lengthwise into tiny strands, as small as you can make them." We watch Oakley work, creating many fine, almost hair-like strings out of the long strands. "This part is difficult," they tell us, "and you really have to pay attention. Got it?"

"Got it," we echo, keeping our eyes on Oakley as they continue peeling the stems.

"Stir the water every few minutes," they explain to us, "and keep an eye on the water level. If it is boiling too fast, take the pot off of the fire for a bit. Which I'm sure you all know how to do."

"Yes," we reply, enraptured by their demonstration. I love healing. I love making people feel better. We all do. And we all love learning about healing, learning about how to make people feel better. In addition to healing, I love working with the plants of the forest and with all of the gifts that the forest has to offer us.

"The water should be boiling slowly and softly. Almost simmering, but not quite. You should throw in ground up jako bark into the pot after it has boiled for ten minutes, in order to help the medicine become absorbed into the body. After that, you should add in the stem strands." They put in the pre-ground bark, bark that we have a constant supply of in the healing tent, on account of how much we need it. They then add in the stems, and keep stirring.

"How long does this need to boil for?" Amber asks.

"Good question, Amber. This takes a long time to make. It usually takes about an hour. The resulting solution will be very concentrated."

"Alright. Thanks."

"Any other questions?"

"How will we know when it's ready?" I ask.

"Good question, Terry. You know by the colour. Once it's a bright, deep green, then it is ready to be taken off of the pot. I will show you all once it's ready."

"Okay."

"Once it's ready," Oakley continues, "it would be served warm. Not scalding, but warm enough that the patient can feel it. If it gets cold, you will need to warm it up again. Not until it boils, but just until the water becomes warmer. Got it?"

"Yep," we answer all together

"And remember, always, healing water does not come from the river. Healing water comes from a spring surrounded by reddish earth."

"Of course," we reply, because we all knew that. It's one of the first things that we are taught.

"When you are stirring," Oakley continues explaining, "do not just stir in one direction. Switch directions every couple of turns. And this will agitate the water so that it soaks up more of the plants' essences."

"Alright."

"Any other questions?" They ask.

"When we are administering the medicine," Justin begins, "should we tell the patient to drink it all at once or in little sips?"

"Good question. For this medicine, drinking it all at once is good, so that it does not lose its heat during the time in which it is drank. The heat also helps the sickness, and it helps the patient to feel better.”

"And what if the patient is a child and cannot handle hot things?" Amber asks.

"Good question. Then it would do well to distract them using a story or a song while they drink the solution."

We keep listening and watching as Oakley teaches us, paying close attention to everything. I feel so full of love and connection and purpose. As I always do when I am healing anyone or learning about healing. I am so grateful that this knowledge still survives within us, even if it's in a limited capacity. I am so grateful that we can still heal each other. That we can still help each other. The Creator knows that we need it.

Especially since the healing infrastructure of the outsiders' is closed to us. The outsiders, they have ways to heal themselves too. They have great ways to heal themselves, ways which are very powerful. They are not like our traditional methods of healing, and are rather strange. But they work really well. The problem is that the hospitals and clinics of the outsiders cost a lot of money to go to, money that us rainforesters do not have.

But still, the medicine from the rainforest is free, it's free to us all, and it doesn't cost anything for us to heal each other. So, relying on the rainforest, we can get by.

———

"What the hell do we do?" Tom asks. His voice is saturated with dread. We are all gathered here together in the grassy roads of the village. The whole village. All crowded together at once. All crowded together as one. In one horrible ritual, the ritual of disaster. There is so much tension in the air that you could almost cut it with a knife. I feel nauseous. I cannot breathe.

"We fight." Sheila's voice presses hard and determined and confident. "We cannot let them take our rainforest from us. We just cannot."

"There is already barely any rainforest left," old woman Sallie speaks. "We are on the edges of one of the last remaining stretches of healthy forest. We cannot let them destroy it."

"We need the rainforest," young Alyssa tells us. "We need it to live. Even the outsiders need it to live. Everyone needs it to live."

"You're right," Derek, a middle-aged man, tells her. "We all need it, everyone needs it. We must protect it."

And we are figuring out what to do right now. We are figuring out how to protect the rainforest. How to protect our people. How to protect all of the people of the world. That's why we're all gathered here together. That's why we are all talking together. Because we need to find a solution, or we need to find something, something that will help us.

"Can you read the government notice again?" Joss, a young adult, asks Raina.

"Sure," the teenaged girl replies, holding on tight with white fingers the small, unassuming sheet of paper in her hands.

"People of Gale Village," she begins, voice shaking, "you have a six months notice to leave the village, and to resettle yourselves into housing elsewhere, such as in the city. Your village life is destructive to yourselves and to society at large." She pauses to take a few shaky breaths. "What's more," her voice sounds almost numb, "there will be development within your area. The Baltsone Corporation will be building an open pit iron mine in the area, and remaining close to this mine will cause health hazards from inhaling or ingesting the chemicals given off by the mine. If you do not leave, you will suffer health consequences."

"I know what open pit mines do," old man Harry tells us gravely and solemnly. "They cut through the forest, tearing through it and destroying it and causing a large, ever-growing open wound within the forest. This open wound, these large sashes of cut away dirt, wounds that keep growing, they make the forest sick and it slowly dies, losing its vitality bit by bit. Not only that, but the poisons that are given off by the mines, they get into the air, into the soil, into the water. And they poison the forest and everything around it. The noise from the machines, constant and grating, it scares away the animals. And there are so many ways that the forest dies. I know this because my last village had to resettle because of the destruction of a mine."

"If the mine would poison us," the youth Emerson begins, "then surely it would poison the forest as well."

"We are learning about mines in school," Clare begins, voice high-pitched and full of fear, "they cause a lot of habitat destruction. They cut through and destroy a large swathe of the forest, breaking the forest up so that it dies slowly."

"Exactly," the old woman Arielle echoes. "The edges that are made where the mine meets the forest, in those edges, too much light gets in. This causes the plant growth of the forest to become out of balance, and with it the animal life becomes out of balance too. Predators use these edges to over hunt their prey, causing chaos to the intricate interdependence of things. And invasive animals use the edges to hide themselves and cause destruction to the land. The extra light coming in dries out the forest and causes fire hazards. The poison from the mine also makes all the animals, the plants, the insects, the fungi, it makes everything weaker, makes them sickly and dying. The forest will be cut through into even smaller pieces, and animals will not be able to move freely and safely. Everything will die."

"We always knew the outsiders had no respect for the rainforest," Annalese, a woman in her middle years, states. "We all know that whenever they do any kind of 'development' in the rainforest, it hurts the intricate web of life. We have to protect this part of the forest. It's the only good, clean, strong part that we have left."

"We have to fight," the adult Grey restates. "We simply have to. We can't lose this forest. We can't." We all agree with them.

"Besides," young Gerald tells us, "we need the forest for food and for medicine. We literally need it to live. Without it we would die."

"Well, fuck," Tom declares.

"And the outsiders need it too," an older person named Armin explains. "The rainforest gives them good air to breathe and clean water to drink. It makes their land fruitful and fertile, making their farms yield large sums of food. It protects them from floods, from storms, from droughts. It keeps them safe from pest infestations and protects against the emergence of new diseases."

"But are we strong enough to fight?" Emmet, an older man, asks us. And he's got a good point. He's got a really good point. The outsiders and their government and their police are very strong. They're well-equipped. They'd be really difficult to go against. They'd be really difficult to take down.

"We tried to go against them in the times long since gone by," the young girl Sarah reminds us. "We rebelled against them. We fought them. But they defeated us."

A lot of the villagers gathered around agree with her. There is discord and disorder for a while, as everyone talks at once. I don't say anything. I can't say anything. I am far too horrified at the news that my people have just received. I can only stare out in horror. I can only listen to my community all around me, the community that I love, as it descends into chaos.

Eventually the chaos dies down and there is only a tense, terrible stillness as everyone looks around with disturbed, hopeless faces.

"That was a long time ago," another young girl, Gerda, speaks out. "That was a long time ago and things have changed now. Things are better now. The government doesn't try to kill us anymore. The government won't try to kill us anymore. Even if we fight them. They've changed and become less terrible."

There is an obvious sigh of relief amongst the crowd, as many people join to agree with her.

"But what do we do?" An older adult named Noah asks.

"We have to try," a little girl named Availe responds. "We have to try our best, with everything that we have."

"And how do we know we can win?" A middle-aged woman named Dhalia asks, voice soft and serious.

"Because," a young man named Raymond starts, "we have the rainforest. We have the rainforest and all its power and all its protection and all its hope. We have all its love and all its strength. That's enough. It should be enough." There is determination in his voice. There is a sense of awe and amazement in his voice. There is wonder in all of us.

In all of our faces, male and female and both and between and neither, I feel the seedling of hope, of courage, of power. I see that seedling taking root and starting to grow and starting to blossom into something undeniable. Into something beautiful. I see the way the energy of these streets is shifting, the way the power flowing through all of us is starting to come alive.

I no longer feel hopeless anymore. I no longer feel like we have to give up without a fight.

"But can we make it?" I ask into the crowd.

"Even if we can't," old woman Emmaline, with her wise eyes, tells us, "even if we can't make it, we will have tried. And that's what will matter. That we tried. Because the rainforest gave us so much. It protected us so much. We have to return the favour."

"For ourselves, for each other, for the rainforest, and for humanity," a young child, Kadenne, adds, triumphant.

"I'd rather try and fail than not try at all," a teenaged girl, Laya, speaks out. And she's so right. She's so, so right. We all cheer for her in encouragement.

"But what should we do?" a little boy, Ryan, asks. "How do we protect the forest?"

And he's right. He's so very right. Now that we have a goal, now that we have all agreed on what we're going to do, we have to find out a way to actually do it. And that is kind of the hard part. We don't have much power. We know that we don't have many resources. So we have to make what we do have work. We have to win somehow from the position that we're in, which is a practically disadvantaged position, even if it's spiritually more advantaged.

But we have to try. With everything we have, we have to try. Because there is everything to lose. And so we talk to each other. We talk to each other and we keep talking to each other until we have heard almost every type of plan out there. And we keep talking to each other until we've weighed out the advantages and and disadvantages of each plan. We change and add to each other's ideas and we give support to all the creativity of all the people.

In the meanwhile, people come and go from the group, going to go get food for the village or to get medicine or to prepare food. People eat and drink and children play.

But the group in general remains, though its composition constantly fluctuates, talking to each other on the crowded street, for four nights and four days, until finally, finally, we all come to an agreement.

———

Sheila and I are in a crowded corner of the city, doing something we have never done before. The city is so strange. So busy. So hard. So noisy. So sharp. So bright. I will never get used to it but I can bear it. Especially for the sake of saving the rainforest.

"Hi!" Sheila speaks brightly to a young woman passing by, "are you interested in saving the rainforest from destruction?" The woman passes by, not giving us a second glance.

"Hi," I speak to a group of middle-aged people, "would you like to save the rainforest from being harmed?"

"No thanks," one of them replies in an apathetic and slightly awkward way.

"Okay, thanks!" I tell him. I actually have so much hatred for him in my heart, so much hatred for all of these people who are just passing by us like it's nothing, like they don't care at all what is happening to us. But I've got to get through these people. I've got to get through these people so that I can find the people who truly want to help us.

"Hi," I ask a girl with thick, dark curls and striking brown eyes, "would you like to help the rainforest not be destroyed?"

She stops in her tracks and gives me a soft smile. My heart warms up.

"What's happening?" she asks.

"The rainforest," I answer, "they're going to build an open pit mine within it. They're going to destroy it." Her eyes widen in concern.

"How can I help?"

"Come to the village, and go to the tent in the middle, closest to the forest. They'll give you tips on what to do. So, basically, we're going to block the road and train tracks leading to the forest for as long as we need to, in order to stop the miners from being able to do any work. We need manpower. We need bodies to stand on the lines with us so that the police can't pull us away."

"That sounds like a great idea. When will this happen?"

"About six months from now. You should go to the village and talk to the people there to get more details. They'll fill you in on everything. Just letting you know though, it will be a long term commitment. Do you think you can help us?"

"Of course I can. I've loved the rainforest since I was a child. We all need it."

"We sure do, sister, we sure do."

"So what else can I do to help?"

"Tell all your family and friends. Get as many supporters to the cause as you can. We need as many people on our side as possible."

"Sure thing. Thanks so much for the opportunity!"

"Thanks for helping us!"

"It's the least I can do." We shake hands and she walks off down the busy streets.

"Great job, Terry!" Sheila exclaims, smiling at me.

"Thanks, Sheila. You're doing great too."

"Let's just hope we can get enough people."

"Yeah, let's hope."

We turn ourselves back towards our work, going up to everyone we can and hoping to have good replies. We know there are good people in this city. We know that there are people who care here. It's just that they're rare. They're rare and we need to find them. And that means going through a lot of awkward encounters. That means going through discomfort. It means going through potential attacks even, if that can help the forest be healthy.

The sun eventually sets and the blue of twilight is upon us. I have managed get ten indoviduals and two small groups on our side so far. Sheila managed to get a few more people than me. We did great. We both did great. And we are proud of the work that we did. We stick around until the street empties, and then we wait for the midnight train to take us back into the village.

"It was amazing working with you," Sheila tells me softly, tiredness in her voice, in the quietness of the fully-automated bus.

"It was great working with you too."

"Today was so strange. I've never done anything like this before."

"Me neither. But I liked it."

"So did I."

———

It's the day. The day we're supposed to stand up to the mining company, to the government, to everyone who opposes us. I woke up four hours before dawn and made the walk to where the parallel lines of the road and the train line went to the village. I wasn't the only one. There were scores of people coming out to meet us. One third of the village, everyone who didn't have to do work or go gathering. Bucketfuls of people from the city, people who I have never met before or only met briefly. We are all gathered together on the road and train tracks, numbering perhaps two thousand all together. We are all together.

I feel more fear than I have ever felt in my life. I think, perhaps we all feel such fear. But there is also this strange sort of amazement. There is this strange sort of hope. Energy I could never be able to describe flows through all of us. I feel as if all of us, here together, are exactly where we are meant to be.

We form many thick rows, rows upon rows of tightly-packed bodies. And we all hold each other. We hold each other as tightly as we possibly can, linking arms in an intricate pattern. And we wait. We simply wait.

"Who would like to hear a traditional song?" Oakley asks the crowd. There is cheering all around. The medicine teacher starts to sing the song of winter nights, which is a calming melody. All of us who know the song join in. And we sing. And we keep singing until there are support workers from the village coming to us with our breakfast.

We all thank each other, and thank the Creator for giving us this good food. We eat quickly, trying to get our physical needs met as efficiently as possible so that we may all link arms again and form a long, unbroken matrix with each other.

"I hope we can win," the young man beside me speaks, eyes as blue as the morning sky. He's from the city, and a stranger to me. Still, despite the brief time we've known each other he feels like a brother to me.

"Even if we can't win, we will have tried," I tell him. And I hope it's enough. I really hope it's enough. "Our love and our energy can help the rainforest, even if it can't save it."

"I've never been in the rainforest," he admits.

"Oh, it's beautiful. You should totally go one day. I'll take you."

"You will? Thank you so much!"

"Don't even mention it. Everyone deserves to witness the rainforest. It's really awesome."

"You're so sweet."

"Aww, you are too."

We keep talking until I can see the trucks full of construction equipment lumbering their way up the road. I guess this is the moment of truth. I guess this is when everything starts. I breathe deeply and look straight ahead, ready for anything and everything that comes.

The trucks slow to a stop, towering in front of us with their metallic flares. They're driverless, so nobody comes out to greet us. It will be a while yet before the authorities come. We have time. Not much time but we have time.

I am fed water and food by the people behind me. It's an incredibly awkward process but we need to all stay in formation. We need to all stay linked to each other. I can barely gulp it down though as my anxiety grows and grows.

"Let's sing a warrior song," Sarah suggests from her place in the line. We tried to keep her home but she absolutely insisted that she'd come with us. She'd come with us or else she'd go on hunger strike. She's too spirited, that girl.

We teach the outsiders the song of the dancing warrior. And it's a simple song. Simple yet powerful. We all sing together. Voices that can speak the words properly and voices that are trying their best. All here, together. All warriors, ready for whatever battles come ahead. And it is this song that we are singing when finally representatives from the company, from Baltstone, come up to us.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the middle-aged man in a dress shirt demands at us, fuming. He has three men flanking him on either side, all wearing dress shirts, all enraged.

"We won't let you build this mine," a rainforester youth named Mani declares clearly and without fear.

"Get out of the way if you know what's good for you! You have been told to leave!"

"We won't," Laya speaks clearly and surely.

The men stride up to her and grab her by the shoulders. They shake her, trying to wrest her apart from the hold of those on either side of her. But Laya holds on with everything she has. She holds on with everything she has, and the two outsiders on either side of her hold on with everything that they have.

All seven of the men attack her at once, grabbing and pulling on whatever parts of her body that they can. But still, she stays strong. Still, she stays unbowed. And they can't wrest her apart from the line. They can't separate her from our ranks.

They eventually give up and start attacking other people in the front row, trying to find a weak link. But they can't find a weak link. We are, all of us, infinitely strong. And we are, all of us, holding each other. And they can't tear us apart.

"We will be back," the man who spoke earlier threatens. But they leave. They all leave. We won this very first round.

Cheers echo throughout, as blockers and the support people alike, rainforesters and outsiders alike, all express their intense joy at this glorious, victorious moment.

———

They do come back. They come back with more men. With scores of men to aid them at breaking us apart. But we don't let them. We don't let them do anything.

We stand there in the cold, chilly nights and the hot, burning days, letting the weather wash over us. We endure their goons for hours and hours on end. Until our minds and bodies are exhausted. But still we do not give up. Still we do not lessen our effort, our focus, our force. We keep holding on to each other with all the strength imaginable, all the strength possible, no matter how tired we get.

We keep going. For the rainforest. For each other. For humanity. For the future.

I don't think I have ever been as deeply in love as I am now, enduring the unrelenting attacks of the mining men. They grab and grope my arms and my chest and my stomach and my shoulders and my sides. They pull me and pull me and pull me. Until I am aching and hurting absolutely everywhere. Still, with Darren on one side and the outsider, Ray, on the other, I stand strong. We cling to each other for dear life. No matter what happens we cling to each other.

"Another round won," Ray exclaims into the dark night once the men are backing away. Backing away to rest and to regroup.

"Hell yes," I agree.

"It's only been two days," Darren reminds us, older and more serious than the two of us are. "What will happen when we need to sleep? What will happen when we need to rest?"

"Then we'll be replaced by the new wave of rainforest defenders," I tell him. "Just like we planned."

"I just hope we can keep this up," Darren sighs.

"I hope so too," Ray echoes.

I take a break to go to the washroom. And when I'm back to my place in the line, the men are coming again. I hold my body tense and keep my mind as focused as possible on the mission at hand. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior. I'm a warrior and I will fight. I will win.

Rough hands grab my forearms and my wrists. Me and the men on either side of me draw closer together, tense up our muscles. Hands grab my shoulders. And they pull. They all pull at once. But I pull back. I pull on the arms interlinking to my own and I pull them tight close to me, and they pull me tight close to them. We are one. We are one. We are one. Nothing can break us for we are one.

My arms are burning. They are in so much pressure. They are in so much pain. But still, I keep them as strong as rock and as flowing with life force as a tree. I ignore the burning, the aching, the pressure. I ignore the burning and I keep holding on. Holding on so tight that I hurt myself. Holding on so tight that I'm sure I've used up all my strength.

I've used up all my strength but somehow I still have more. Somehow I still have an infinite supply. I know why. It's because all of us fighting here are drawing strength from each other. It's because we are all drawing strength from that rainforest. And these forces will give us infinite strength.

The hands on my body are rough and groping. They are devoid of any kindness, of any mercy, of any peace. They pull me as if they want to pull my very essence itself away from me. They pull me like they want to grab me and capture me and own me. They pull me as if they are trying to catch me and capture me and own me. But I do not let them win. I do not let them win and I keep holding onto myself for as long as I possibly can.

They change tactics. Instead of grabbing my arms, they grab my legs. They try to pull my legs out from under me. But I lean back and I stay strong and I do not let them. I do not let them at all. It's hard. Unbelievably, unbearably hard. But I keep my feet planted on the ground. Through everything, through the constant barrage of violence and violation, I keep my feet planted on the ground.

Darren grunts above me and Ray lets out a scream. All around me people are groaning and crying out. Not just from the ranks of the rainforest defenders but from the ranks of the miners as well. There is so much chaos and sound around me. But I do not focus on it. I focus only, instead, on staying strong. On maintaining the integrity of our formation. I don't think I have ever been this focused in my life. This focus is more than the focus of gathering, more than the focus of healing. It's more than the focus of my job. More than the focus of telling stories. And it's great and terrible and incredibly beautiful all at the same time.

I cannot tell how much time has passed, I can only tell that my body feels like it's on fire, feels like it's being crushed under rocks, feels like it is bleeding everywhere, in all my muscles and my bones. I think probably I am becoming bruised. But still, I make all my muscles work. I make them work and I make them work and I make everything that is inside me work.

The sky turns lighter, the first electric blue of the morning. And finally, finally the attackers leave us. They go to the many camping trailers they have set up all around the road and they go to sleep. It's time to change our ranks. It's time to give those who haven't stood in the lines a chance to.

Of course we are very very careful to not disrupt or decrease the strength and integrity of our lines as we replace them. We let ourselves out only once the new people behind us have formed their own line. For a moment we join both lines together in an especially crowded line. And then we melt away into the background, ready to provide our warriors with the support that they need to keep fighting.

I sigh in relief once I am safely out of the crowd. I did it. We did it. We held out. We're still holding out.

I need to sleep.

———

We've been going at this for months. For terrible, burning, exhausting months. For beautiful, melodious, purposeful months. Months where I have felt emotions that I hadn't even known existed. Months where the lines between us and the outsiders were both more blurred than ever and more sharp than ever, as we all came together in solidarity.

So far everything's been going well. We've been hungry. We've been beaten and bruised and exhausted. But we've been winning. I just hope we can keep this energy up. I hope that our luck doesn't turn.

I'm back at the front of the lines again, this time arm in arm with Sheila on one side and Sarah on the other. It's horrible, like it always is, being pulled at and yanked at and squeezed. It's violence but it's violence that I can handle. It's violence that I have handled before and handled well. It's not new to me anymore. Not that it hurts any less. But I'm confident I can take it.

Still, it's so strange being beside Sarah, being beside a mere child of twelve years old, and seeing her go through the same violence that I'm going through, that we're all going through. She deserves to be at home playing. She deserves to be having safety and fun, without a single care in the world. She deserves that, but she insisted that she doesn't want that. She insisted that as long as there is a battle to fight, she'll be fighting in it.

I can't worry too much about keeping her safe though since I need to focus on keeping the formation safe. Still though, her standing there beside me, arm in arm with me, it absolutely haunts me.

So far nothing out of the ordinary has happened. It's being annoying. This whole ordeal is being annoying. But still, we are only standing up against Baltstone thugs and we are only taking what they've been giving us these past few months. There is violence. Oh definitely, there is violence. But it's not nearly as violent as it could get. No-one is getting seriously hurt.

I think the presence of the outsider rainforest defenders is playing a big part to this lack of violence. They're the kind of people this society actually likes. There's only a certain amount of violence that can be used on them.

I'm being pulled at and squeezed and squished. My muscles are burning, my joints are burning, everything is burning. But it's okay. I can take this.

The men finally back off and leave to go regroup. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I hope they're gone for a while," Sarah speaks.

"Oh, I hope so too," Sheila replies. "I hope we can get some rest."

"And to be honest, they probably need some rest too," I add in.

We keep talking, alert for any sign of the men coming back or anything weird happening. It does seem, however that the men are going to stay away from us for a while.

This fact does not give me peace. I do not know why they are not coming back. I do not know what is coming next.

"Good job, guys," Sarah comments to us.

"You're the one who's out here despite being twelve," the outsider beside her, Rachel, replies.

"Let's just hope we can stay out here for longer," I speak.

"Whatever comes next, I'm sure we can take it." Sheila's voice is sure and strong.

We keep talking until we see the flashing lights of a police car come up in the distance. This is not good. Not good at all. But still, we have taken on the company thugs. The police cannot be much worse. We can take them on as well. What are they going to do to us, kill us? They're not allowed to do that anymore. And they're definitely not allowed to do that in front of our outsider supporters. We're not in more danger than we already were in. If they teargas us, we can take the stinging and the burn and we can stay strong through it.

We all bring ourselves closer to each other, holding on to each other tightly. This is, very probably, the final round of our battle. After that, we need to keep a lookout for any intruders. But we can rest easy.

The police cars slow to a stop in front of us. Like well-coordinated soldiers, the police come marching up to our lines. They have pure hatred in their eyes and disdain all over their faces. They have guns on their hips and body armour over their chests. They make me shiver ever so slightly.

"What do you guys think you are doing?" A muscular, well-built cop demands of us.

"Protecting the rainforest," Sheila declares back.

"You're holding up our economy is what you are doing." The cop spits these words out with rage and contempt.

"We're saving our world!" A female outsider retorts.

"Saving the world?" the cop spits, "Preposterous nonsense!"

"We're the ones who know the truth," Sheila responds. "You are blinded by your greed and ignorance."

"You are simple, stupid people," the police officer barks, "and you do not know anything. You especially do not know how this civilization runs!"

"We know how the rainforest runs, and what the rainforest needs." Sarah's voice is clear and unafraid. "We know how humanity runs and what humanity needs. And humanity needs the rainforest."

"You fools!" the cop bellow, "Especially you, child, how could you know anything about how the world works?!"

"She knows more than you ever will," Sheila states.

"And we all know more than you ever will," I add.

"You are blinded by your sentimentality and your emotion," the cop spits back.

"You are blinded by your greed and by your complacency," I retort.

"You have to leave." His voice is dead serious, like a cold stone.

"We won't." Sheila's voice is equally serious.

"I'm telling you," he presses, "go. Get away from here and let the company through before you all get in trouble."

"We don't care how much trouble we get into," Sarah exclaims, "you cannot make us move. Isn't that right, everyone?" We all cheer.

"Get out right now before I am forced to do something you'll all regret!" the cop screams.

"No," Sheila simply states.

"Get out. Right now. Go away."

"No," she states again.

"Don't make me do something I will regret," he presses.

"We won't move." Sheila's voice holds no fear.

"You obstinate children!" The police officer yells.

"You fat fucking pig," Sheila replies calmly.

Everything happens all at once. The cop reaches for the gun on his hip. Sheila's eyes go wide. Before any of us can do anything, he shoots. Sheila slumps back, all the strength having left her body. And everything inside me goes red. Everything around me goes red.

Before I even know what I am doing, I am on him, my hands around his throat. There is nothing I can think except for the fact that Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. My best friend is dead. There is nothing I can do. Nothing except reap bloody vengeance.

My hands are around his throat. Around the capitalist fucking pig's thick, meaty throat. And I am squeezing. I'm squeezing with all my might. I'm squeezing with strength I didn't even know I had. And he's struggling underneath me, trying to pry me off. But all his muscles are no match for my overwhelming grief, no match for my sheer rage.

"Die, die, die, you capitalist goon!" I scream at the top of my voice. And I squeeze tighter. And eventually all his struggling stops and he goes limp underneath me.

I look around. Everyone is simply staring at me, forest defender and police officer and company thug alike. They're all staring at me as if they are in a trance. And I feel like I am in a trance. But all too soon, the spell breaks.

The police pile on to me, all of them at once. And they push me face first into the hot, rough asphalt of the road. There is overwhelming pressure above me on my back as my arms are pulled together and put in handcuffs. I fight. Of course I fight. But there are four cops on me. I can't take them all at once. There is yelling all around me, from the police, and from the onlookers. There is yelling all around me but I cannot listen to it.

All I can think of is the fact that Sheila is dead. Sheila is dead. The young woman who played with all the children in the village and entertained them. The woman who spent long nights staring up at the stars with all of us. The person who had so much spirit and so much hope and so much rage to share with all of us and with the world in general. The woman who knew where to find what plants in the rainforest, and who wasn't afraid to kill something if she needed to. That woman was gone. Gone forever.

A police officer slams my head into the road. And my whole world goes white in searing, aching pain. My head throbs and my nose feels like it has been snapped into two. It probably has been. My whole face flows hot like magma in the hurt.

I am dragged into the back of a police car. And the door slams shut above me. Before I know it, we are driving away. Away from the village and away from all the people who are mine.

———

The jail cell they put me into isn't terrible, I will admit. It's bare, with one metal shelf on one side that serves as a bed, a few blankets softening the hard metal. There is a small bathroom parted by a curtain. And there isn't really anything else. But it's clean, and nobody bothers me.

But the problem is that I'm alone. I'm so alone and all my thoughts are flooding through me absolutely out of control. They're out of control and all I can do is drown in them. All I can do is let them overwhelm me like a hurricane ripping through my mind. There is no one to talk to. No-one to give me comfort. No-one to ease my grief and my sorrow and my anxiety.

I think about Sheila, about how much I miss her, about how empty I am without her. About how much I'm sure everyone misses her. I think about how horrific and unjust her death was. About how much the world will miss her kind, passionate, amazing presence. I think about how it's unlikely that my people could hold a funeral for her, given that they still have to fight the mining company. And I think about how grief must weigh heavy on everyone's hearts.

I think about whether my people are still able to fight. I wonder what the police have done. I wonder if they have killed anyone else. I wonder if they've mowed down our ranks one by one until there were none of us left to oppose them. I think about how determined we were to fight no matter that the cost was. I wonder if we are still fighting, if we are still able to stay strong, if we are still protecting the rainforest against whatever the police and the company are doing to us.

I think about what will happen to me, after my trial is over. I murdered a police officer. Well, murder is not the right word. But I definitely did kill a police officer. And multiple witnesses saw it. I'll be going to jail for certain, there is no doubt about that. But will I be in jail forever? Will I ever see my people again, will I ever get to go home again? Will there even be a home left for me to go back to once everything is said and done?

I don't know. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. All I do know is that I can hope. And I can pray.

So, sitting on the ground with my head looking up towards the Creator, I do pray. I pray that Sheila has been returned to the rainforest from which she came. I pray that she has gone back to her origins, and is part of the flow of life within the rainforest now. I pray that my people can win against the government and the mining company. I pray that we can keep the rainforest safe. I pray that no-one else had to die from the invaders' wrath. And I pray for myself, too. I do pray for myself, but mostly I pray for my people. That they're safe. That they're fighting. That they're winning. And I pray for the rainforest.

I think the Creator can hear me. Even though there is thick concrete between myself and the sky, I am sure that the Creator can hear me, that They can see me, that my prayers will not go unanswered. Praying gives the world strength. It gives the Creator strength. It gives the Creator strength so that the Creator can give us all strength and help us. Praying puts cosmic energy out into the world, that helps the world to be safe and healthy, that helps the world to commit revolution.

So I am helping my people. Even if I can't be on the front lines with them right now, I am still helping them.

"Terry La Croix, you are called for the evening meal," a rough voice outside the door says, pulling me out of my thoughts for a moment. I get up as my cell is opened and guards escort me to the eating area.

The room is large. There are tables all over, each table lined by two benches on either side. There is a lineup of people with trays getting food, snaking around the corner along the wall. I join the lineup, and get a heap of the strange brown mush that everyone else is getting. I go to a table and put a spoonful in my mouth. The food is strange and bland, but that's okay. I don't mind.

"What's your name?" the girl beside me asks in a cheerful voice.

"Terry. What's yours?"

"Bright. So what are you in here for? If you want to talk about it, that is."

———

Today is my court date. I am taken in chains to the polished, carved, wooden room that makes up the court. All the walls are made of aesthetic, expensive wood, and so are the high tables with carvings on their sides. The floor has a thick green carpet and all the chairs have thick, green padding that seems very plush and very comfortable. I have never been somewhere even resembling this strange place. It unnerves me.

My wrists are shackled together. My feet are shackled together. There is a collar around my neck attatched to two chains held on either side by a guard. I feel so very humiliated standing like this in a room full of people. People staring impassionately on as I am having one of the worst times of my life.

"Terry La Croix," the judge speaks coolly, "you are here in front of the court facing charges on the assault and murder of an officer of the law. How do you plead?"

I am pulled to the testimony stand. And I stand there. I look out at all the people in the court. I look at the judge and the police officers. I look at all the members of the public crammed into their chairs, eager to get a front row seat to all the drama and the intrigue that this trial brings. I look at all the cameras and news reporters here, no doubt ready to broadcast my words onto live TV. It's not often at all that something like this happens.

I think of how strange I must look with my bandaged nose and my bruised body and my very many chains. But I keep myself calm. I keep myself cool and collected as I turn to address the crowd.

"I killed a police officer. That is true. But the police officer killed my best friend, he killed a community member, he killed a woman who was standing up for her people and for your people as well. Sheila Wexley was a beautiful, radiant soul. And we are not able to even have a funeral for her. We are not able to have a funeral for her because your companies are invading onto our land and seeking to destroy all that both of out peoples need." My voice is clear and does not shake. I am so overcome with emotion that I do not know how my voice does not shake. But I keep my gaze steady on everyone in the room. And I make sure they know how dead serious I am.

"The rainforest is sacred," I continue. "It's not just sacred to my people, though it is sacred to my people. But it is sacred to everyone who needs air to breathe, everyone who needs good, pure water to drink, everyone who needs good, rich soil to grow food. It is sacred to everyone who needs protection from storms and floods. It is sacred to everyone who needs to live.

"Our rivers, our water, our trees and shrubs and herbs, our rocks and earth and animals. They all protect us. They all protect us all and they provide for us all. And not only that, but they are the bedrock of my peoples' identity.

"My people need the rainforest to soothe their spirits, minds, and hearts. They need the rainforest in order to give them teachings and guidance. The rainforest brings us all together. It brings us all together and it makes us who we are. We go to the rainforest for food, because what your government and what your economy gives us is not enough for us to survive. We go to the rainforest for healing and medicines, for we are shut out by your fancy medical systems.

"I am a traditional healer. I cure all the sicknesses and injuries of my people. I help whoever comes to me for help. And I do it all free of charge. I do it free of exchange. I do it free of all attachments, so that everyone who needs healing can come to me for healing and can get what they need. This is the way of our people. This is the way it has been since time immortal. When we help each other, we do not demand anything in return. We simply help each other to help each other.

"And all that is possible because of the rainforest. Without its providence I would not be able to cure anyone or to ease anyone's bodily, mental, and spiritual suffering.

"The mine will destroy the rainforest. There is no other way to it. The mine will simply destroy the forest we all need to live. It will create a large, gaping, open wound in the rainforest, a wound that will only grow and grow and destroy the forest all around it. It will poison the water, the soil, and the air, and will scare away the animals with its noise. Only one piece of healthy, intact rainforest is left and we all dearly need it.

"Your people are filled with greed in your hearts. You want more and more and more luxury. You want more and more and more wealth. All you see is how much you want, how much you want to take. Your companies want power and they want to rule over their workers and do whatever they want. Your governments are the slaves to those companies, and they aid the owners of the companies in doing whatever they can to have more wealth and have more power and to bring more destruction into the people and the lands.

"You cannot see beyond your own greed to see all the people that you're killing, to see all the places that you're killing, to see all the lives you are destroying and leaving to rot. The lives of rainforesters and outsiders alike are being harmed and destroyed by your greed and your unending hunger. But you don't see the destruction that you bring. You don't see the death that you bring to so, so many people.

"All you see is your desire to have more. And it's all fake. All that you chase after, all that you long for, all that you hurt the people and the land in order to get, it's all fake. All your material items and technology doesn't have life in it. It doesn't have spirit in it.

"But the people have spirits. The people and the land and the air and the water, the plants and the rocks and the animals and the fungi, they all have spirits. They all have life. You are destroying that life, killing that life, to create things that do not have spirits, that do not have lives.

"Your greed knows no bounds but our love knows no bounds either. The love that all the hurt people, that all the marginalized people, rainforester and outsider alike, have for each other, the love that we share, knows no bounds. The love that we have for the land, the love that the land has for us, knows no bounds. And that love will never die. No matter how much you kill us or how much you kill the land, all the love will never die, all of our spirits will never die.

"And we will triumph. We will come up triumphant. No matter what you do to us or how much you beat us down, we will come up triumphant, eventually, and all your wealth and all your luxury and all your power systems will fall. They will all fall and everything that is sacred will become free again.

"My people will fight, and our supporters will fight. We will fight with everything that we have, so that you cannot win. And all that fighting and all that trying and all those battles both physical and mental and spiritual, they will mean something one day. They will guide us to victory one day. Things will get better, and hope will prevail, no matter what you do to any of us. No matter what you do to me.

"So if you want to jail me, go ahead and jail me. I killed one of the enforcers of your power and your hegemony. I killed one of the enforcers of your rule and your wealth. And if you want to jail me for that, go ahead. But you will also receive your just rewards for all the death and the destruction that you have caused.

"Sheila's spirit has retuned to the rainforest, the place where all her energy flowed from. And my own spirit will meet her when it's time."

I finish my speech and look right at the cameras. They are all trained directly on me. All the reporters are gaping at me with wide eyes. Journalists are scrambling to write down notes.

All the people in the courtroom, who came here to watch the proceedings, are also staring at me with wide eyes. They look dazed, amazed. Many of them are holding their hands up towards me, recording me with their bracelets and rings and other tech jewelry.

I meet all their eyes with solemn, determined eyes of my own.

"So you plead guilty then?" The judge asks after a long while of silence.

"I guess I do," I reply.

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

Snow swirled around Emma's boots as she pressed her nose against the frosted window, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her hand curled around the money in her pocket and squeezed the coins tightly. The young woman had spent the last year saving all her money for her fresh start on the mountain, and now she was finally here. She had set up a small home with most of her savings, and the rest was clutched in her grip.

“This is it,” Emma whispered as she pushed on the door… only to find it locked. She took a step back and read the sign: “Alice’s Shop of Mystery.” Well, at least she was in the right place. Peering back through the window, she froze as a pair of green eyes met hers.

Emma waved. “Hello, can you let me in?”

The green eyes stepped forward to bring a woman with a mess of curls piled on her head into the light. She shook her head and a curl fell on her forehead. “I’m sorry, miss…”

“Emma,” she said. “Please, I’ve come such a long way.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma, but I’m afraid you’re a minute too late. Stick around, though. You’ll see that patience pays off here.” Alice gave a sly smile and slipped back into the shadows.

“Hey, wait!” Emma called, but only the whistling wind answered. Alone again, she remembered the tearful goodbyes she gave her friends back in Georgia and how hard it had been to make new friends since she arrived on the mountain. With nothing left to do, she started heading home.

The ice crunched with every step, reminding her of how far she had come just to turn away with nothing. She wondered if coming here was a mistake. She had dreamed of finally buying a mysterious treasure from Alice’s shop, but when the opportunity to see it finally came, the door was closed—literally. Tears welled in her eyes and froze into streams down her cheeks, turning the snowy landscape into a white blur.

Through her tears, Emma saw a gray shape move toward her. She jumped and fell back into the snow. A pair of pink glasses hovered right in front of her nose. She blinked and noticed they were attached to an old woman in a thick gray sweater.

“Why are you crying, dear?” The woman asked warmly. “Sorry if I scared you. I just wanted to see if you were okay.” She offered a hand and helped Emma to her feet.

“Thank you,” Emma whispered hoarsely. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” She looked into the woman’s old, knowing eyes. “Well… not really.”

The old woman brushed icy tears from Emma's cheeks. “I’m Florence. Why don’t you come in for a cup of hot cocoa and tell me all about it?” She led Emma to her cottage nearby. Once they were inside, Florence mixed cocoa in a scuffed kettle and handed Emma a steaming mug. “Now, dear,” she said, “what has you feeling so blue?”

Emma sipped from the warm mug eagerly. “This is amazing, thank you. I just came from the Shop of Mystery. I’ve always wanted to go there. But I made it all the way there and Alice wouldn’t even open the door!”

“Ah, Alice’s,” Florence nodded, settling into a rocking chair. “I missed my chance there once, too. But what I ended up finding there changed my life.”

Emma's eyes widened. “What did you find, gold? Jewelry?”

The woman rocked gently in her chair and patted the ground beside her, where a little gray rabbit was snoring quietly. “I certainly found a treasure: my best friend.”

Emma bent down to pet the sleeping rabbit. A friend—she had thought they were in short supply here. “So how did you do it? Is there a secret key? A magic word?”

“The only secret is time. Patience is rewarded here.”

Emma sighed. “Alice said the same thing.”

Florence chuckled. “Some things never change. Just wait, you’ll eventually catch her when she restocks.”

“But when?” Emma couldn’t hold back the impatience in her voice.

“That’s up to her. All you can do is wait. Trust me. This old gal knows everything there is to know about this mountain.”

Fueled by cocoa and new hope, Emma thanked Florence and started climbing back up the slope. The uphill trek felt easier than the tearful hike down.

Emma's heart jumped when she finally saw Alice’s sign come into view. She started running toward the shop and slowed down as she noticed a young woman with a thick blonde braid facing it. Emma came to a polite stop nearby. The woman looked up and grinned. “Hi! Trying your luck too?”

“Oh, yes!” Emma nervously answered. “Yes, I think I am. It’s my first time here. Well, second time, but the first didn’t really count.”

The woman clapped her hands. “Oh, it’s your first time, how exciting! My name’s Georgia. I come here all the time. You should too. The more you visit, the better your chances.”

“I’m Emma! What a coincidence, I just moved here from Georgia. So is there some special trick to this thing?”

Georgia laughed. “You must be new here! It’s a waiting game.”

As the snowflakes drifted around them, Emma let her shoulders drop. She hadn’t realized how tense they had been since arriving at the mountain. The two traded stories as they waited for the shop to restock. Georgia told Emma all about her antique store finds and gave her tips to find the best breakfast sandwich this side of the Mississippi. Emma told Georgia about the long trip to the mountain and the nice old woman she met who encouraged her not to give up on Alice’s shop. Before they knew it, dusk had fallen on the mountain.

“I’m glad you didn’t give up.” Georgia said. “It’s a lot easier waiting here when you have a friend with you.”

Emma smiled and hugged her. Suddenly, the sound of a bell rang through the air. The door swung open and Alice stepped into view, her eyes bright with mischief. “I’m so glad you waited. Come and take your pick.”

The friends followed Alice into her shop. The room was plain but neat, with shelves lining the far wall. The lantern light danced across rows of dark-blue bags sitting on shelves, each stitched with a golden question mark. Emma gasped and brushed a hand on the nearest silk bag. Behind her, Alice cleared her throat. “Not to rush you or anything, but you have about a minute left before I close up shop again…”

Emma snatched the bag and clutched it to her chest. “Georgia,” she called out, “Let’s open it together.”

“Okay! One… two… three!” They shook the bags out to reveal the same blue book.

“Oh, what a find!” Alice cried. “You can’t find this book anywhere else in the world. I have an exclusive deal with the author, who self-publishes out of Vermont.”

“Want to read it together?” Georgia asked, turning to Emma.

“Let’s go!” Emma laughed, and they ran out into the falling snow.

Emma smiled to herself as the icy flakes melted on her cheeks. She had gotten her treasure in the end, sure, but the greatest prize was the friend she made by simply slowing down and savoring the moment.

- - - - -

* little gray bunny pictured, my tiny man George *

Everyone in town agreed the lake was haunted, but only I knew what was actually buried beneath it. A million dreams, a ton of souls, a couple of hopeless drivers, and several unlucky fishermen. A secret held within every household in town but the quiet majority rules. No secrets there are good secrets. The word haunted says that there are stories untold and souls not cold enough to keep quiet.

Her truck took the sharp turns of the mountain road with ease. Grace leaned forward in her seat, sunglasses reflecting the green blur of trees rushing past. “God, it’s beautiful,” she said, as a hawk flew above the ridgeline. Beside her, Matt grinned and adjusted the air conditioning. He had one arm out the window, catching the wind with his hand. The two had been driving since dawn, eager to escape the buzz of Cincinnati for a long weekend in the wild. Grace had found the cabin listing on a site that promised “off-grid peace with modern comfort.” She booked it without hesitation.

They passed a weathered old barn, and Matt pointed to a rusted mailbox overgrown with vines. “Think that’s it?” he asked. Grace nodded, pulling into the narrow gravel road. The trees pressed in on either side like a tunnel. She eased up on the gas. “Creepy,” Matt muttered, elbowing her. She smiled, but her hand gripped the wheel a little tighter as the shadows deepened and the forest closed around them.

—————

The cool fog settled on Joe’s face as he stepped out the front door. He hastily wiped his hands on his jeans and fixed his bloodshot eyes forward. The sun had only just begun to rise above the misty blue mountains. He took in the sight with newborn eyes, though sixty years of hardship had set deep creases around them. The magic of the Blue Ridge Mountains never faded. If anything, the longer he allowed his roots to grow deep into the rocks, the more they captivated him.

At night, this stretch of Appalachia came alive with terrible sounds that drove even the veterans of the area mad. As the day began to break, the thick fog covered the trails and swallowed the mountain’s secrets. It was a good place to get lost. It was a great place to disappear.

Joe shuffled across the porch, the old boards creaking with every step. His hound waited for him outside the door next to a sun-bleached backpack. “Alright, Rocky, just a minute now. Gotta have a smoke.” He pulled the flattened pack of cigarettes and box of matches from the front pocket on his jacket. He struck the match with trembling hands and breathed in the scent of sulphur that wafted out of the flame. It reminded him of when his mother would light candles around the cabin before the state ran electricity through the holler.

The folks in town had changed as wealthy urbanites priced out of the cities pushed out the families that had called these mountains home for generations. It wasn’t the same town anymore. But he tried to keep the cabin the same as it existed in his memories. That was where his father taught him how to shave with a straight razor and where his mother baked apple pies in the fall. Now, he was the last Walker left. He had gotten used to being alone.

Joe shook his head, as if it would erase the memories. The match had gone out, and the cigarette was now crushed in his hand. He threw them both on the porch and followed his dog down the stairs. His boots stepped onto the mountain soil with a satisfying crunch. All around him, fireflies blinked in and out of existence, trailing into the thick woods. The fireflies in these mountains were famous for their synchronized dances. It was as if all the creatures here were one living organism, bound together by the intimacy of this strange and isolated place.

Joe walked into the woods and left the house behind him, trodding over the blanket of dead leaves and through the ferns. The smell of wet rot permeated the forest. He stopped to catch his breath after a long while, resting his left hand on a moss-covered tree. He whistled for Rocky and heard him bark a long distance away. The bark echoed through the trees and faded out, leaving behind a heavy silence. Even the birdsong had disappeared.

Joe patted the knife in his right pocket. There was a lot to fear in these mountains. There were bobcats and black bears that called them home, and hikers disappeared from time to time here. The locals traded stories about other things, awful things, creatures that were as old as the rock itself and fed on terror.

They never talked about just one monster out there. There were whispers about a howler, something that mimicked the sound of your voice to lure you off trail. Others swore they’ve seen the white buck with eyes like a man’s. Then there’s the shadow of the ridge, something that walks upright but leaves no prints. Some just said there’s something “not right” out there. That’s about the one thing people could agree on. Every time someone disappeared or turned up dead, the legends became even more indistinguishable from the truth.

Joe knew the stories were just that, stories to frighten little children into staying on the paths through the hollow. He knew better than to believe the mountain gossip and whiskey talk. A hard life taught him that there’s more to fear in the world than folktales.

He was all alone now in the still forest. No dog, no birds, no cicadas playing their shrill symphony. The sun had started coming up, but the branches above him formed a thick canopy that fought against every speck of light that threatened to come through. On any other day, Joe wouldn’t have been shaken by a little darkness. But today, the shadows looked twisted and wrong. They played tricks on his mind and made his heart race.

He had no idea how long he had been walking and nothing looked familiar. The air felt heavy on his shoulders, making him acutely aware of the tension rising in them. He was on old land, forgotten land, long stretches of rocky forest that had long been left alone. The woods were silent, watching him, waiting for him.

A sharp bark cut through the silence and snapped him back to reality. Rocky was nearby. He lifted his hand off the moss, making sap and green debris come up with it. He shuffled over to a shallow stream and knelt down to dip his hands in the water. The clear water darkened and washed the night off him.

Joe got up with a grunt and saw Rocky’s silhouette through the gaps in the trees up ahead. He walked toward his dog, weaving through the trunks. He called his name and heard no answer. As he got closer, he could see that Rocky was frozen with his ears pinned back and his tail down. He was hesitantly sniffing a carcass—or, what was left of it. It looked like it had once been a great buck, easily four hundred pounds or more. Now it was sliced and ripped into strips and lumps of flesh.

Joe bent down and saw a pair of glassy blue eyes with his own two, peering up from the detached head. Rocky whimpered. “Nothing to be afraid of, boy,” Joe said. “Things happen in these mountains.”

He patted the dog’s head and stood up. As he turned to find the trail again, a roar erupted through the mist and rumbled through Joe’s chest. It rattled him to his bones like no bear or cat he had ever heard. The trees all around him shifted, branches snapping left and right. Heavy footsteps pounded the ground in the distance and moved closer. Closer. Impossibly quickly. Rocky let out a panicked yelp and bolted down the trail.

Joe stumbled over his boots, struggling to keep up. He swore under his breath and wheezed. He glanced back for a moment, but all he could see were tall shadows moving between the trunks. Darkness was crawling out of the forgotten depths of the mountains. It snaked its way around the trees and through the branches, leaving the kiss of death on every plant and animal in its path. It was much too large to be a man, much too precise to be a less intelligent being. The woods parted like a black sea as it came.

There was a light up ahead. He tried to scream for it, but no words came. All he could do was pray to a long-abandoned God that his legs wouldn’t give out. The light grew as Joe and Rocky whipped past thorny bushes and hickory trees toward it. They were coming up on a clearing in the hollow. Joe ran out onto the grass and collapsed to his knees panting. The forest behind him had gone eerily silent.

The setting sun cast its glow on the grass, turning its dry blades a deep orange. How long had he been out here? Joe craned his neck up toward the sea of twinkling stars.

Rocky came over and licked the gray stubble on Joe’s face. “Ain’t nothin’ out here but stories, right, Rocky?” He scratched Rocky’s head.

Rocky pulled his head away and trotted off. “Where are you going, boy?” Joe called out. He looked up and saw his dog heading toward his dusty blue truck. Somehow, he had ended right back where he started.

By the time he got back to the truck, he had almost caught his breath. His trembling hands fumbled around in his pockets to find the key and when he found it, he could barely get it into the rusted lock. Joe let Rocky into the passenger seat and plopped down behind the wheel, slamming the door behind him. There were wicked things in these woods, that much he always knew. Joe drove away, his truck rocking back and forth with the rocks and grooves in the dirt. As he looked at his rearview mirror, the forest seemed to exhale behind him.

—————

Back at his cabin, Joe reached for a fourth beer. He took a hearty gulp and rubbed his aching calves. They were a painful reminder that he wasn’t a healthy young man anymore. Sooner or later, he’d have to slow down. There were some risks he couldn’t afford to take anymore.

He headed for the door with Rocky at his feet. There was one last thing he had to do tonight. He built a fire behind his shed and fed it items from his backpack, watching them wither to ashes in the flames. Joe reached into the backpack, felt the frayed edges of an old photo, and stuffed it in his pocket. He reached back in and grabbed a glove out of the bag, dropping it in the flame. Rocky whimpered and backed away from the fire. Joe turned to face him. “It’s nothing that’ll be missed, bud.”

Suddenly, Joe heard the sound of tires on gravel. He peered his head around the shed and saw a polished, gray truck roll up the driveway. He scrambled to stomp out the fire, jumping to his feet. By the time he reached the truck, he realized it belonged to his neighbors, the Peters—as much as you can call someone a mile away your neighbor.

The truck’s driver side window rolled down. “Evenin’, Mr. Walker,” a young man called out. “Sorry to bother you.” He paused and waited for Joe to interject that it wasn’t a bother at all. Joe said nothing. “Well,” he continued, “I just came by to see if you’d heard anything. I heard some sirens down by the state road. Turns out a young couple from Ohio never checked out of their rental.”

Joe shrugged. “Nothing out there that wasn’t already here."

The neighbor gave a nervous chuckle. “I guess you’re right, sir. Well, I’ll let you go now.” He turned around in the dirt and sped off.

Joe turned around and walked back toward the cabin through the blinking fireflies. Something on the mountain howled into the night, and he picked up his pace. Rocky was frozen in place outside the shed with his hair standing on end. Joe smiled. The hound was probably scared of his own shadow.

Joe pushed the shed door open. His grandfather had built it with his own hands during the Great Depression. That was back when people made themselves useful. Now, they lived their lives online and turned all the good families’ homes into vacation rentals. He missed the days when television was the great threat to society.

He walked over to the far wall. Various photos and accessories had been collected and displayed over the years. Some photos showed bright, happy families enjoying their hikes through the Blue Ridge Mountains. Some were in black and white, with moonshine stills in the background. In a way, they were the stories the Walkers had passed down over the generations. Joe pulled the photo out of his pocket and pinned it up on the wall, stepping back to admire the new addition. A fresh-faced young woman in a big, floppy hat smiled at the camera. A man in a red hoodie had his arm around her and was planting a big kiss on her cheek. Joe traced his finger over the letters on the man’s hoodie: “Ohio State.”

Somewhere in the holler, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a child asked their father if monsters were real. And somewhere deep in the mountain, a legend moved that didn’t have claws, or horns, or glowing eyes—just a rusted truck, a steady hand, and all the time in the world.

Rain spat from the sky.

Puddles laid bare the crumbling integrity of the city’s sidewalks. Enormous magnolia trees poked through man’s best laid plans for a sidewalk with their roots that disembodied the now jagged and jutting concrete slab work. I plowed through them. My ratty shoes were already dripping wet. The rain in this town never let up. Monsoon-like precipitation had become a uniquely inescapable nuisance.

Organic Chinese water torture. PETA would be proud. "Thanks, nature," I thought bitterly.

I was heading to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Absent a drink, I sought connection. My expression twisted into a grimace of disgust and resignation. It was not that I did not want, or even need, human connection. I desperately wanted to socialize, and found it demanding without alcohol to assist me. Drunk, I had the interpersonal acumen of a car salesman. Sober, I carried a defensive current of venomous irritability and homegrown self-loathing—on a hair-trigger. It denied me even the simplest attempt at connection.

The exposure that came with connection was daunting, and the prospect terrified me. I felt physically ill the last time someone recognized me on the street. I wanted human contact, but only on the very specific, niche terms that my neuroses dictated. This was nigh impossible, and I knew it.

My musings on my socially catastrophic internal composition abated as the eternal deluge turned the volume up to ten. The spit from the sky quickly became a steady stream of piss. I cursed my luck and picked up the pace. I was almost there.

I finally arrived at my destination and hurried through the heavy church doors. The room was far from empty, and I beelined for the bathroom—sympathetic nervous system already engaged. I felt the familiar knot forming in my stomach, the unease I’d have to endure for the next hour and change.

Alcoholics Anonymous meetings had always felt a bit more like church service or a funeral to me. The most common feature of my twelve-step experience was biding my time. Checking the clock on the wall. Listening to people who had fewer social handicaps than me.I was meekly attempting to inherit connection and friendships by osmosis through my attendance alone.

There was cheap coffee. We sat uncomfortably in creaky fold-out chairs. Forced smiles. Handshakes. Side glances between those of the opposite sex. Axe Body Spray wafting from the group of drug treatment center visitors du jour. The visceral experience of a meeting was one that I was very familiar with at this point.The cross section of society that Alcoholics Anonymous represented in its rooms, basements, and meeting halls was always interesting in the wildlife safari, National Geographic, nature documentary sense.

The room was more crowded than I had expected, and I internally cringed at the fact that I would now have to sit there for the full hour. I cared too damn much what these people thought of my every move to duck out early. What would they think if I left the second I walked in? These things I found important. Why, was beyond me. My normally detailed internal analysis was nonexistent. I wished it were different. “But it wasn’t.” I thought. I grabbed an extra chair, and positioned myself so that no one was behind me, in the most inconspicuous spot I could find.

Ensconced in the corner, I noticed the coffee machine next to me still had the wood grain of a ’70s station wagon in its paneling. Everything in the room being fold-out was such a characteristic of any gathering of fuck-ups that I wouldn't trust anything else at this point.

The preamble was read, and the sharing began. I sat in detached silence, listening to Jed share his story. The format of the meeting was a speaker meeting—my favorite kind, where nobody looked around in confused, awkward silence waiting for someone to say their name and that they were an alcoholic.The speaker was a great one. I recognized him from a rehab I’d been to a year before—one of the detox panels, H&I, Hospitals and Institutions. He had a complexion that made you wonder whether he was descended from an Egyptian pharaoh, but his last name clearly displayed his Hispanic ancestry. I still preferred to think of him as King Tut.

I liked this speaker because he seemed to share his story in a way that let you know he wasn’t one of those assholes who liked to hear himself talk. He spoke practically, relatably, while providing plenty of qualification—his addictive and alcoholic accolades and credentials were well earned. He was a tree trimmer who had followed in his father’s footsteps—both in addiction and in trade. They were following near-identical life trajectories, from dope fiend to blue-collar climber of trees and snipper of branches at great height for average sums of money. I sat back in my seat, satisfied to hear Mr. Stanko belt out his shpeel to the rest of us fuck-ups.

He had chased heroin all over town for years, following in the footsteps of his pops, who had also endured his own scumbag phase. He went through the typical ups and downs of gutter junkies—eventually being kicked out of everywhere and everything. After intermittent law enforcement run-ins and a Baker Act hold that strapped him down and forced sobriety on him, he landed at a place called the Salvation Army program. He felt it was strict, rigid—excessively so—and a difficult place to deal with because of its unyielding rules and standards. This was also accredited to be his advantage however in providing a foundation that he built from in his life and formed habits. I zoned out for the rest of the speaker time. This happens sometimes, and I really don’t have anything to say about the rest of Mr. Stanko’s story.

I found myself staring at a woman seated across from me. She had to be new or recently arrived, because she was kind of fuckable and I’d never seen a woman here that caught my eye. I let my gaze linger a few times too many, and she noticed. I quickly averted my eyes back to the speaker, who was wrapping up the last remaining minutes of his share.

I knew there was no real use in initiating anything that even hinted at interest in this woman I’d ogled. I was too much of a social freak to do anything about it unless it was dropped in my lap.

My discomfort in social situations—and around people in general—was always more important than anything else in my life, for whatever reason. It’s why I hadn’t picked up a sponsee and rarely attended meetings. My avoidance of discomfort in all its forms nearly always took priority. It wasn’t even a conscious thought or decision. It was a knee-jerk, instinctual reaction—one I hadn’t even been aware of until right now, maybe.

As the meeting devolved into post-speaker sharing, I shifted in my seat and eventually got up to take a leak, making a scene as the chair fell on its side when I tried to push it back into place. Fortunately, the group had already begun the “Our Father, who art in heaven” portion, and we were all holding hands like some kind of limp-wristed cult singing kumbaya. The meeting was nearly finished. I grabbed the sweaty palm of the fat fucking slob who’d been seated next to me, and then—hand still warm from grabbing my dick—clasped the hand of Mr. Stanko, who’d shifted into place beside me. I think he recognized me.

“What’s up, bro?” he said in a conversational tone as the prayer ended.

“Not much, man. How’s it going?” I said, begrudgingly performing the rites of social contact.

“Good, man. It’s good to see you on the outside. How’ve you been doing?”

At this point, I didn’t mind talking as much, since the niceties that made me want to vomit had already been said.

“I’ve got a year, three months, two weeks, and five days off the sauce. Can’t complain, man. I’m working and in school now.”

“That’s amazing, man. Where at?”

Unfortunately, the summary conversation devolved into a lecture I’d prefer to pretend I didn’t sit through without gouging Stanko’s eyes out and fashioning them into a prosthesis for my dog’s empty fucking nad sack. So we’ll just detail it here in subtext: he did not approve of the work I was doing—night security at a bar that paid me cash under the table.

That was the moment Stanko made the list I kept tacked to the hallway wall. A few names were on there, but his stood out now. I knew I was going to kill him. I knew it would come soon, and I felt good about the fact that his life would end by my hand. He had humiliated me, and I was going to humiliate him. Not really—but it was a fun little violent fantasy to have. It allowed me to go through life with less indignation and fewer actual homicidal ideations. I had gotten quite good at killing people in my mind.

The violence faded. I chuckled off Stanko’s public chiding—red in the face, secretly fuming. Furious was a better word. But my impotence was the only thing on display today.