Waking Up

I hate waking up.

You're there, sleeping peacefully, enjoying wonderful dreams. Your wife is tucked up next to you and your infant daughter is snoring away in the room next door. The morning light comes through the windows and the alarm clock goes off - and all you want to do is enjoy a little more peace.

Of course, it never works that way. You get up, you trudge to work, you battle through your day and you look forward to sleeping again later that night. When it comes time to wake up, I have an aversion to adventure. Yes, I do have a career. I've even recently applied for a promotion. But there isn't really much adventure in that.

Most mornings, I battle the alarm clock - putting off the inevitable. All my half-baked reasoning abilities array themselves against the clock, explaining why I don't need to get up. The clock battles back, but it is hopeless. The arguments are about to overcome the simple mechanical device when one of two things happens. Either my wife prods me to wake up, offering her far more cogent arguments in defense of the clock. Or, as is happening now, my daughter Sophia starts crying because she's hungry.

Inevitably, the tide of battle is turned. With its allies behind it, the clock proudly declares its victory. Just out of spite, I yank its cord out of the wall.

I stumble out of bed, making my way to Sophia's room. I pop her up on the change table, change her diaper, sit her on the ground and head to the kitchen to make her breakfast.

At this point, everything is normal. But it's about to change. I'm placing Sophia  in her high chair when I hear a knock at the door.

That is unusual.

I put Sophia back on the floor, shout up to my wife, "We've got company!" and trudge to the door. I open it, wearing my pajamas.

Standing on my front porch are three men, all wearing dark blue suits. They have somber faces and, to a man, blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

What the hell are they doing here?

"Are you Mr. Kleeban?" one of them asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"Mr. Kleeban, do you work as a network security officer at Lower Lakes Bank?"

Uh oh. I must have missed something, or screwed something up. This is not going to be good.

"Yes," I nod.

"May we come in?"

I'm going to welcome them in when I realize it is probably about time to start protecting myself. Still half awake, I ask: "Are you with the authorities?"

The man looks at me. He smiles. And then he says, "No," in a thick Slavic accent - something he had covered earlier. "We are not with the authorities."

I am doubly confused, for a moment. And then I understand. I am a network security officer, an Internet gatekeeper, at a bank with $25 billion in assets. I've read the reports before - gangs visit people in their homes, and hold the families hostage until a heist is complete.

I guess it's my turn. And then, finally, I wake up.

In an instant I make up my mind. I try to slam the door with every ounce of force I have. But the man sticks his foot in and starts pushing back.

I know he'll overcome me, but I might have some time. "SUSAN," I shout, "GRAB SOPHIA AND RUN!"

Susan bounds down the stairs, confusion in her eyes. I'm glad I let her know we had company. Given how little she knows, she moves like its an old practiced drill. I guess there are benefits to being a nurse. She scoops Sophia up in her arms and rushes towards the back door. She's just about to get there when it opens. Two more men in suits are waiting outside. Susan backpedals in fear. With a few gestures, they stop her and guide her back into the house.

Sophia starts screaming and I get a knot in the pit of my stomach.

The men force the door open and I back away in fear. "Upstairs," they say to Susan, pointing. She goes, leaving me with a worried glance. Two men accompany her.

"Please, Mr. Kleeban, take a seat." The man gestures to the sofa.

I sit.

"Mr. Kleeban," says the man, back in his American accent, "My name is David Anderson and this is all going to go very easily. Your wife is going to call in sick - I'm sure she has already. Your daughter is going to spend a day home with her mommy. And you are going to go to work."

"And?" I ask, wondering what they need me to do. In my mind, I assign 'Mr. Anderson' his chosen name.

"And nothing," says Mr. Anderson. "You are going to go to work, you are going to sit at your desk, and you are going to do nothing more than you absolutely need to. Follow your routine, but don't pay too much attention to any reports or keep your eyes too alert for any suspicious activity."

I'm confused.

"Mr. Kleeban," says Mr. Anderson, "We have a way into your bank's network. We are going to steal a great deal of money. In this operation, we would not be so stupid as to actually rely on you doing something for us. All you have to do is not notice what is going on. Believe me, that will be better for your career than spotting something and failing to pass it on."

I nod, stupidly. A hole big enough to steal a vast quantity of money. How? I'm pretty careful and any substantial transfers will be watched by the receiving bank. How can they hope to pull a large-scale cyber heist off? Not only that, but this is just weird. I've heard of gangs taking bank executives hostage in order to pull off conventional heists. But taking me hostage to pull off a cyber-heist is very very different - and possibly brilliant.

"Don't concern yourself with the details," says Mr. Anderson, "Go to work, don't do you job and when you come home, your family will be here safe."

I nod.

"Now," he says, "Get dressed."

Mr. Anderson's bodyguards follow me upstairs. I get dressed. I come back downstairs and he is waiting for me. "Here are your things. I've taken the liberty of replacing your cell phone and your Bluetooth with identical copies. You can't make any calls or send any emails - but you can receive my calls."

I nod and take my briefcase, keys and cellphone. The Bluetooth goes in my ear.

"And don't think about doing anything stupid." says Mr. Anderson, "You aren't the only man in your position. And some of the others have instructions to watch you. So, we'll be watching and listening to everything you do."

And look at his eyes, and they are deadly serious. He isn't lying. I decide to press my luck in either case.

"Just to protect my job," I say, "When can I notice a problem?"

Mr. Anderson considers, and then states, "We'll be done by 10:30."

He gestures and I go to the garage, and head to work. One of the bodyguards accompanies me.

I've seen the movies. I've read the reports. They'll let me go. Right?

Except... I've seen all of their faces. I've heard their voices. They know I can pick out details about them. I don't know much, but it might be enough to convince them they can't let me, or my family, live.

I've got to find a way out.

It can't be something obvious. They are watching me. They have spies.

I get to work, and there is nothing amiss. I walk through security with a nod, a flash of my badge and a smile. I walk past my team with 'a Good morning.'

I can't help but wonder who is watching me.

My phone rings just as I'm approaching Saul Frank's desk.

In my ear, Mr. Anderson speaks, "Tell Saul to help Jim with his project."

Saul is my backup, monitoring web security.

They know where I am, and they've thought through the angles.

I tell Saul to change tasks, he's confused but with a little discussion, he complies.

"Good," says the voice of Mr. Anderson.

I head into my office, turn on the lights, put down my briefcase and sit down behind my desk.

I'm in no hurry to log in. Maybe somebody will notice.

Mr. Anderson does. "Log in, Mr. Kleeban," says the voice in my hear.

I comply and he hangs up.

Immediately, I notice a small red icon in the lower right corner of my screen. Tech Support is on my computer. Somebody is watching my screen. I'm supposed to not notice and so I look away and try to get the icon out of my head. My head notices the clock: It is 8:45.

No computer, no cell phone, I can't trust any people. What can I do? They'll be done by 10:30 and I'm sure they padded it. I have until 10:15 at the absolute latest.

But I don't know what to do, so I begin my daily routine.

The clock says 9:25 when I'm struck by a solution. Tech Support can't see my second monitor. With a few keystrokes, I quickly send a web browser to that screen. I'll be able to send out a message and they won't be able to see.

I start typing, and then my phone rings again.

"Don't try it again. We aren't stupid."

Indeed.

I close the browser.

How do I save my family?

As if to answer my question, Mr. Anderson states, "Just keep working."

And so I do. And he hangs up.

At 10:05, I decide to let nature call. I get up. Predictably, the phone rings.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I state.

"Fine," says Mr. Anderson, "But understand we're watching you there as well."

I understand.

I need to get a message out, and they can't know or they'll hurt my family. I hope to bumpto  somebody and give them a message - but I know it won't work. I see people, but I wonder about every one. Will they report me?

I use the restroom and return to my office. I'm searching desperately for insight. But nothing is there. And so I sit at my desk and stare at the small red icon. The clock is threatening vengeance - 10:15.

I'm out of time.

And then inspiration strikes.

I can't risk telling one person because. But if I tell everybody, it will be too much for them to stop. I will know my message will get out and they won't have any more chips to play or any more threats to make. The tables will have turned. I pick up my desk phone and dial the public address system.

My cell phone starts to ring.

I ignore it.

I speak slowly and carefully into the desk phone.  "There is a cyber robbery in progress. Call the the Treasury and the FDIC immediately. My family, at 5634 N. Hillside Drive is being held hostage. Call the police and get them there as soon as possible. They should be looking for five men wearing dark blue suits. All are white with light colored hair and blue eyes."

I put down the phone.

And then with a shudder, I pray to God that it works. I pray to God that the thieves decide it's better to run that to commit any more crimes. Crimes against my family. I pray to God that the police can get to my house fast enough.

My cell phone is still ringing.

I hope there is something I can do to convince Mr. Anderson he is better off cutting his losses instead of making a point.

I quickly prepare my arguments, and then I pick up the phone.

Mr. Anderson speaks first. "Mr. Kleeban," he says, "I am not Russian. I am actually an investigator working for your Bank. I was tasked with confirming your problem-solving skills prior to our extending you your promotion. Congratulations, you have passed our test."

I sit in stunned silence.

Mr. Anderson continues, "I expect you will take the position - not to do so might result in significant embarrassment. Just as a legal matter, you will note that at no point did we actually threaten you or your family."

I nod, knowing he can see me.

"Good, report to HR when you get a chance."

With that, 'Mr. Anderson' hangs up.

Siren's Call

I set up my tripod carefully. I get behind the video camera and turn it on. The couple is perfectly in frame. I give a thumbs up and the woman smiles in that grandmotherly way that says she's enjoying helping a youngster like me out a bit.

She is helping me out. This is an interview like no other and it was hard even to get introduced to the couple involved.

The husband well, he doesn't seem to be paying attention to me. Whenever I say anything, he appears to just grunt in my general direction. And every time he does it, without fail, his wife's face brightens and she gives him a long and loving look.

I haven't heard him grunt though, and I haven't heard her speak. At least not directly.

Legend has it, correctly, that to hear her speak would result in my death. Thankfully, whatever part of her voice does this doesn't seem to have any effect over the telephone. And so I've got a Bluetooth microphone tucked away beneath my over-sized and double-insulated ear protection. And she, well, she has a speakerphone.

I motion towards the phone, and she picks it up and calls me. I answer and her voice comes through - only slightly delayed, "Can you hear me, young man?"

I nod. And she smiles again.

"Can you hear me?" I ask.

She nods. Her husband grunts. I sense some disguised desire to be friendly. Apparently, so does she. She elbows him gently in the ribs and smiles that adoring smile again.

"Mrs. Snowman?" I asked.

She turns back to me, her voice projecting into my right ear, "Oh, deary, you can just call me Victoria."

"Victoria," I ask, "And how should I refer to Mr. Snowman."

"Oh, you people have such a hard time pronouncing his name, just call him Aybo."

"Okay," I answer.

I flip open my notepad and start with my first question, "Victoria, can you tell me a bit about your life before you met?"

"Sure," she says, with an open smile, "I was living in Thailand. I was making my living there, in the way of my kind. You know, singing to men, drawing them in, and eating them. I know you people tend to be horrified by this - I do read the press. Anyway, I was a pretty lonely Siren, as most Sirens are. We eat the men of your species - so they don't provide much company. And the men of the monstrous species - well, they generally consider us a bit on the desperate side. The singing and coy glances and all that do lend themselves to that impression. Not that there's much we can do about that. Biology is biology. Anywho, that's where I was. Me and a few of my girlfriends just getting by, playing cards to pass the time."

"And you, Aybo?"

Aybo, more commonly known as Abominable Snowman raises his shaggy head. His glowing red eyes are framed by his dirty white mane. He looks right through me and I feel an incredible chill. He opens his mouth, his breath the smell of rotted Yak breath, and then, he grunts.

Victoria smiles up at him. "He doesn't talk much. Kind of the strong and silent type, you know?"

I write in my notebook, trying to get the image of his face out of my mind.

"So, uh, how'd you meet?"

"Oh, that was a strange day," says Victoria, "It was back in '43. I was living in the Thailand. I think I said that already. Anyway, I was living in what I thought was a sunny little seaside village. But one year, it got very cold and snowy. And us Sirens - well, we aren't built for cold and snow. We're actually allergic to clothing. We built a little fire in our cave and tried to stay as warm as could, but we were fading fast. We were in real trouble. But then, when we were on the brink of death, in stepped Aybo here. He rescued me." She pats the matted hair of his arm appreciatively.

"Was it love at first sight?"

"For me, yes. I was smitten. Of course, he had no way of knowing that. I'm a siren, we always act smitten. And my girlfriends were acting exactly the same way. I think, more than anything, he wanted to get out of there. He built us a bigger and better fire. He put up some doors on the cave. And he got us all battened down. And not one of us made any progress on luring him. I did mention we're generally regarded as the desperate types, right?"

I nodded.

"Right," she said, "I was really falling for Aybo though."

Her eyes twinkle in remembrance, "My girlfriends were just acting on instinct. There wasn't any love or desire there. But Aybo couldn't tell the difference. So I pulled out all the stops and just as he was about to leave, I said, 'I'm still cold here.'" - with that the little old siren indicated a key portion of her upper body - "'Can you warm me up?' He grunted and grimaced, but he finally agreed.

"And let me tell you, his hands were freezing. I mean icy cold. I wasn't cold before, but I got cold awful fast. And this sweet teddy bear of a man," she pauses and smiles up at him, "He kept looking down at me and asking, 'Are you sure I'm helping?' And I kept looking up at him and, lying through my chattering teeth, insisting that he was."

"Was that it, instant love all around and you got happily married."

"Oh, lord no," says Victoria, "It didn't really work at all. All it really did is get him to stop working and strike up a little bit of a conversation with me. This Aybo of mine, he was all work and no play. He was doing doing doing, but he wasn't stopping to smell the flowers. I could see he needed some love and some help. Anyway, once I actually got to talk to him, I'm sure he could see that there was more than the standard Siren routine going on. I was more than a body and a sweet voice. And we sort of began to click. And then, just as I thought things were going great, he was gone. Some other monster needed help - or he had a snack to finish - who knows. I was forlorn."

Aybo grunted.

She patted his arm.

"When did you meet again?" I ask.

"It could have taken years," she says, "But I took things into my own hands. I left my girlfriends in sunny Thailand and I moved into a cave in Nepal. Next thing you know, I was in the middle of another snowstorm and I needed rescuing again."

"And Aybo showed up?" I ask.

"Well, no," says Victoria, "His brother did. I could tell they weren't the same. And I pouted and refused his help. He must have been extremely confused - Sirens just don't act that way. But I said he wanted his brother and, seeing I was next to death, he agreed. A few hours later, my Aybo was there. We talked and talked. Well, I talked and he grunted amenably, and we spent a wonderful night together."

"And then you got married and lived happily ever after?"

"Well, you'd expect a little drama. A little spat. Wouldn't you? We are monsters. Well, we had our little drama. Aybo is a bit of the jealous type - and I can't help but, shall we say, put myself forward. I kept on luring monsters and men and he got more and more angry about it. It looked like things would never work out. We fought and he left for a while - he never liked fighting. I got myself stuck on an ice-floe in the Arctic, on a mountaintop in Colorado, in the middle of the Andes, all sorts of places. But his brother always came to rescue me. He never ever came. And I was falling to pieces. I almost wished the snow would take me."

"But you're here now?"

"Yes," says Victoria, "I finally realized how we could both be happy. I sent him a letter explaining: I'd sing 'em in, and then, to satisfy his jealousy, he'd get to kill them. He got it out of his system and I got to keep doing what I've always done. In fact, it was a really successful little operation. People are prepared for a Siren near the sea, but I'd be on a glacier or something unexpected. They wouldn't have any protection. I'd lure in climbers and hikers and anybody who thought about travelling through those parts and Aybo here would finish them off. We were eating well and making a fantastic living selling excess equipment. It was a great partnership and we were truly happy."

"What happened next?"

"Oh, before long, I was expecting and we moved to a bigger cave. Life was really great."

"What did you have?"

"It was a god-awful thing," she says, playfully, "My cute little Johnny. Being as we're monsters, the greatest risk in childbirth is that your offspring will eat you. So our obstetrician recommended a prenatal surgery to put a muzzle on little Johnny. And little Johnny, that cute little guy, bit her arm off from within the womb. That's when we knew he'd be something special. When we was finally born, he had the voice of a Siren, the body of a Siren, and the hair and smell of Aybo here. We didn't think he'd ever get married. But he did, eventually. I guess there are all types."

"Do you have any grandchildren?"

She gave me her best grandmotherly smile, and said, "Of course!"

She reached into her purse, pulled out a photo wallet and was just about to show me the pictures when she thought better of it. With a disappointed look, she put the photos back and then said, in a slightly depressed voice, says, "I'd show you, but you might not survive."

I closed my eyes and counted to five.

Then, I turned to Aybo and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to add."

He looked straight at me and I resisted shivering. And then he grunted.

Victoria smiled warmly and translated, "He says 'We've lived happily ever after.'"

They both gave me their best smiles.

And with that, I closed my notebook, packed up my gear and headed home.

Jason Webster

Under his breath, Jason Webster recites the Shahadah to himself, again and again, "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."

He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.

He doesn't need to worry.

Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.

Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.

He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.

Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.

He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.

His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.

"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.

Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.

And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.

It started with swallowing two latex balloons.

Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.

His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.

The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.

Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.

The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.

He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.

5 more minutes.

He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.

In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.

And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.

It is what his service demands.

He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.

It is done.

He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.

And so he waits.

Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.

In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.

They are two parts of a binary explosive.

Jason Webster closes his eyes.

The explosives mix.

And the airliner splits apart in the sky.

----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.

And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."

----

Walls alone can never make us safe.

----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.

Betrayal

The smell is what I love the most. The smell of wet fir and pine and cedar. They assault my nostrils and I draw them in. They remind me of simpler days, of childhood days playing in this self-same forest.

I inhale deeply and keep running.

I love this land.

The land, however, seems to be, at best, ambivalent.

The brush is tearing at my soaked clothes, the chill of the air is beginning to pierce what is left. The rain is coming down in sheets, obscuring my vision. They are conspiring against me.

I run harder.

Perhaps, somehow, I will outrun my pursuers. But I am not hopeful. They are on horseback and I am leaving a trail as clear as a red carpet. And they are not fools.

I run past a tree, and then step behind it. I need to catch a moment's breath - and I need to listen for my enemies.

I hear nothing.

Then, with frightening stealth, an arrow strikes the tree, just above my head.

How can they be ahead of me?

I look up, but I see nothing. The forest is empty.

Cowards.

I step away from the tree and pull my sword from its scabbard.

They will kill me, I know. But at least I will choose how I die.

My body will not fall hiding behind some tree.

Whoever shot at me is slow with a crossbow. So death does not come immediately.

Instead, I hear the horses coming. Moments later, with fogging snorts, they draw up in front of me. Lord Phillip and two of his soldiers.

Phillip nods his head in mock courtesy, "My Lord," he pronounces.

I nod in return.

Only the day before, the man was my most loyal vassal. The Kingdom had rested on him. And I had rested on him - enjoying the privileges of royalty, occasionally wielding its power, but rarely watching the politics of court. They had never interested me.

A fatal error.

I heard a rumor - Phillip was raising an army to dispose of me. But I knew it was too late. The man would have spies everywhere. I had abrogated to him without even knowing I had done so.

So I changed my garments, to commoners clothes. And I fled.

I was King. I could build my own support. I could raise my own army. Or at least I hoped so.

I got as far as the gate of the city. As I ran towards it, I saw a group of horsemen approaching: Lord Phillip had arrived.

I felt naked as he rode through the gateway. Common clothes were suddenly no disguise. I could have bowed my head, but my pride held me back. I was King, not he. So, instead, I tried my best to stealthily slip my way through the crowd - and to the gates of freedom.

I was almost there when Phillip saw me.

They could have killed me then and there. But I was King. To commit regicide in the public square would have undermined Phillip himself. He could arrest me. He could charge me with treason. And then, in time, he could hang me. But he could not execute me.

I was not going to die in the noose, and so I ran. And Phillip gave chase.

I ran for the forest and disappeared into the brush moments later.

It felt like a lifetime ago - but it had only been a few minutes.

Hours before, I'd been King. Now, everything had changed. Everything, even the Land, seemed to be conspiring against me.

I had been a weak King. But I was not going to be a weak man.

"On your knees," I command, solidly.

Phillip laughed. He seems pleased with his position.

"My Lord," he says, "You want to die a King. But you are no longer a King. And for my part, I harbor no desire to kill you."

I hold my ground.

"Think about it," he states, "I could dress up in the Articles of State; I could don the crown, the royal garments and the scepter. But I would never be legitimate. Such heights are beyond a man like me."

"So why betray me?" I ask.

"My Lord," says Phillip, "I might not desire Kingship, but I do seek power. And I do seek wealth. An so I just want to modify our old relationship. You will be King, and I will be your vassal - de jure. But de facto, I will rule. I will collect the tax, I will command the Lords of the Kingdom, and I will provide you with a bodyguard to keep you and your family safe."

In other words, I was to live as his hostage, under the watchful eyes of his servants.

"I am King," I state.

"Of course," says Phillip his cheerful demeanor unaltered, "You may still be King. The terminology will just be altered some. You wouldn't be the first King to serve in title alone."

"I am King," I repeat, "And this is my Land and my People. I will not betray them with falsehood."

Phillip leans forward in his saddle, and his cheerful expression disappears. His eyes turn threatening..

"Betray them?" He asks, "Your weakness has already betrayed them. If you will not be King - my King - then I will rule without you. But there will be uprisings. There will be battles. There will be wars. And your beloved People will be slaughtered by your pig-headed stubbornness."

"I am King," I repeat.

And so Phillip draws his sword.

"If it is your will, then that is how you shall die."

He spurs his horse forward and raises his weapon. I resist the urge to cower or cringe in anticipation. I extend my blade in defense.

With a deft stroke, he disarms me. He raises his blade for a final sweep. I hold my ground.

And then he stumbles back, a silent arrow suddenly protruding from his chest.

Phillip falls from his horse, gasping for air.

Moments later, a look of fear and confusion in his eyes, he is dead.

His soldiers, confused, frightened, and suddenly without a commander, stay as they were.

I order them to dismount and disarm. And they do. I pull their weapons from them.

And then I turn to the forest.

It still appears empty.

"Reveal yourself!" I command.

There is a rustle amongst the brush and then a serf rises from the forest floor. A crossbow is in his hand. I could not imagine how he had laid hands on such a weapon, but I push the question out of my mind, and ask another.

"Why?" I ask.

He drops to one knee, bows his head, and then solemnly pronounces, "You are King."

The $115 Dress?

I hate myself for it, but I can't help it.

I pick my daughter up from school, and all I can see are dollar signs.

It started before I got there, of course. My used Toyota Corolla, $125.00/month in payments. Her backpack, $43.00. Her books, G-d knows how much. Dollar signs, everywhere.

With a hop, she was in the backseat. She gives me a cursory smile and a "Hi Dad."

It's our custom

I ask her, "You learn anything new at school, or was it another wasted day."

It'd been years since she'd answered anything other than, "Nope, just another wasted day."

It was our routine, and she doesn't deviate today.

As always,  I'm worried there's more than a grain of truth in her answer.

I remember when she didn't hop. I remember when she was born, and we named her - in some fit of insanity - "Z."  Everybody always thought it was short for something. But it wasn't, not even for "Zee."

I could swear it was the day before yesterday.

I look in the rearview mirror and smile. She's a beautiful kid, and a smart one.

She's reading something and doesn't look up.

I stick the car in drive, she sticks her earphones in her ears, and we head home. Silent.

My cell phone rings. As I pick it up, the dollar signs flash once again. $57.00/month. They promised something cheaper, but the fees and taxes seemed to boost it up pretty consistently.

Cathy wants milk, so I stop at a 7-11 on the way home and pick it up. $2.79.

I can't get the dollar signs out of my head.

What's the total now? Is it daily, monthly - how do I group things? I put off the question.

We pull into the driveway. I grab my briefcase, Z grabs her books, and we head inside.

Cathy greets me at the door like we're some newly married couple. Most days, I feel like we are. She works from home, an artist. Her work is penetrating, beautiful and engaging. It is worthwhile, but I can't help myself from thinking about how little she actually earns.

"Hey dear," she asks, "How was your day?"

"Just fine," I say, a smile in my voice.

It's our routine.

She's wearing a new dress. I comment on it, and she twirls beautifully, smiling.

I don't ask what it costs, she hates that. It robs her of the joy of buying it - and of wearing it.

But I guess anyway, and keep it to myself. I can't help it: $115.00.

Z runs up to do her homework, and I join Cathy in the kitchen. She's cooking and I'm following her around as she tosses dirty pots, pans, measuring cups and assorted items around the room. I like to keep the place clean - Cathy, she couldn't care less.

As she measures the ingredients, I count the costs - the cash register in my head logging ever increasing numbers. $20? $30? I don't know.

Dinner time comes and we, the whole family, go to the table. For a woman with a dirty kitchen, when it comes to dinner, the rules here are strict. If you want to enjoy her cooking, you've got to eat it with her. So we sit down for dinner every night.

A bottle of wine, $7.99.

I'm losing track of the numbers. I wish I didn't care so much. But they are seeming to overwhelm me.

We finish dinner. Z dashes upstairs, saying she needs to finish her homework. Of course, she's just talking to friends. We know it, and ignore it. As Thomas Jefferson once said, "A little rebellion now and then is a good thing."

Cathy and I share a smile. She grabs a drink from the fridge, and I begin to clean up.

As I'm washing the last dish, Cathy comes up behind me. She's been watching me.

She gives me a tight hug and in a knowing voice asks, "What's wrong?"

I don't know the right time to tell her, so I just blurt it out.

"Cathy," I pronounce, solemnly, "The company closed."

She doesn't say a word, she just hugs me more closely with her $115 dress.

She tries, and I love her for it.

But I can't forget those dollar signs and I can't help but fear that they'll overcome me.

Amber

The doctor had kindly eyes. He shook Mr. and Mrs. Johnson's hands as they came into the office. Mr. Johnson appeared calm. His wife, however, was visibly agitated. Noting these sorts of things came with his line of work. The Doctor smiled and then he gave a very curt and professional handshake to their little daughter, Amber. She, unlike her parents, appeared totally normal.

"Welcome," he said, in a subdued and professional voice. His office was painted in earth tones with calming, one might say boring, art along the walls. The one piece of unusual furniture was a large, red, mask - from some African or South American Tribe - sitting on a coffee table.

It was his conversation starter, in case he had problems getting people to talk.

He gestured towards the furniture, a few couches and some comfy looking leather chairs. The parents made their way slowly over. Amber ran, jumped and settled herself comfortably in a large leather chair.

The girl was about four, and cute as a button.

"Tea? Soda?" he asked.

Mr. Johnson asked for a tea, Mrs. Johnson passed. Amber just ignored him.

As he prepared the tea - he had a small sink, an electric kettle and a bar fridge in the office - the Doctor began to take a history.

He'd done it a million times before and he could see it unfolding in front of him. The father felt nothing was wrong, the mother was freaked out about something, and the daughter was perfectly fine - but could be ascribed some minor neurosis to comfort the mother and get a few checks in the door.

"So," he said, his back turned as his filled two cups - one for himself and the other for Mr. Johnson, "Can you tell me again what happened?"

Surprisingly, it was not Mrs. Johnson who answered.

"She was in the shower," said Mr. Johnson, "And she just started screaming and shouting and banging the walls - she kept up for almost 15 minutes."

"Okay," said the Doctor, "Children are often afraid of showers."

"No," said Mr. Johnson, "She's never afraid of showers. She loves them in fact. She's fascinated by them. By showers, by sinks, by toilets, even by storm drains. But she wasn't shouting scared - she was shouting angry."

"Okay," said the Doctor, "What was she angry about?"

It was Amber who spoke up, "I'm angry because nobody will listen."

Everything seemed normal to the Doctor, this was just a family that had to work on communication a bit.

"Listen to what?" asked the Doctor, facing Amber, teacups in hand.

"Listen to the song," said Amber.

This was a bit of an unusual twist.

"What song?" asked the Doctor.

"Oh, it's just a silly song she's been singing for years," interjected Mrs. Johnson, "Pay no mind."

The Doctor smiled a warm smile, totally absent of condescension or judgement, "Sometimes a little listening is all that's required. Amber, can you sing the song."

"Sure," said the cute little girl, "But you have to listen carefully."

The Doctor nodded. And she began to sing,

"Ba ba black sheep, have you any wool? Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three Bags Full..."

The Doctor smiled, it was a cute nursery rhyme,

"... One for the Master, one for the Dame and one for the little Boy who lived down the Drain."

"You mean 'Lane'" suggested the Doctor.

In an instant, the girl's face changed. It burned with anger. "LISTEN!" she shouted, "THE LITTLE BOY WHO LIVED DOWN THE DRAIN."

The Doctor gently put down the tea. He hadn't expected this.

"Mr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson," he asked, "Do you know some boy who may drowned or something like that."

They shook their heads no.

"Amber," he asked, facing the now tightly wound girl, "Do you know a boy who drowned."

"NO!" she shouted, "THE BOY LIVES DOWN THE DRAIN."

"Mr. and Mrs. Johnson," said the Doctor, "Can I ask you wait in the waiting room. I'd like to speak with your daughter alone."

"Sure, sure," said Mrs. Johnson, uncertainty spilling out of her voice.

Mr. Johnson guided her out of the room.

The Doctor sat down across from Amber. Perhaps she was just daydreaming, and caring a bit too much about it.

"There's a boy down the drain?" he asked.

"Yes." she said, calming down.

"How do you know?" asked the Doctor.

"He taught me the song," said Amber.

"He speaks to you?" asked the Doctor. She was a bit involved with this imaginary friend. The long-term diagnosis might be poor - perhaps schizophrenia. He hoped it was just a touch of overactive imagination.

"Yes," said Amber, breathing evenly.

 "Amber," he asked, "Can anybody else here him?"

"People?" asked Amber.

"Anybody," said the Doctor, open to surprises.

"Dogs," said Amber, solidly, "Dogs can hear him."

"How do you know?" asked the Doctor.

"They bark when he talks," said Amber.

"Could you be imagining that?" asked the Doctor.

"No," said Amber, "Ask my parents. Wherever I go, the Boy speaks to me. And dogs always bark."

He didn't believe her. But she had to think he did. So he walked to the door, opened it a crack and asked the parents, "Do dogs bark around Amber?"

"Always," said Mr. Johnson.

He closed the door and considered. The answer surprised him. But dogs were sensitive animals, perhaps they could smell something wrong with her. Perhaps she set them off. He was beginning to get worried.

He turned, and Amber was staring at him.

She spoke evenly, "And One for the Little Boy who Lives Down the Drain."

He looked away, gathered himself, and turned back to her.

"The Boy," he said, "Have you seen him?"

"Yes," she said.

"How big is he?" asked the Doctor, trying to flesh out her story.

She held her fingertips about four inches apart.

The Doctor nodded.

"Is there just the one, or are there more?"

"Just the one who talks to me," said Amber.

"And the others?"

"They are around. They talk to each other. But I can't understand them."

"Does the Boy do anything but talk?"

"Yes," said Amber.

"Like what?" asked the Doctor.

"He made my parents get married."

That was a strange answer. Maybe there were problems at home?

"Why?" he asked.

"To get me."

"Why?" he asked again, intrigued.

"Because I can hear them," she said, "They need me because I can hear them."

"What does the Boy want?" asked the Doctor.

"I dunno," said Amber, "Stuff. Maybe a bag of wool?"

The Doctor laughed.

"Don't laugh," said Amber, "They don't like that."

He stopped. Imaginary friends generally liked laughter. This little girl was beginning to frighten him. Something was wrong.

"Why don't you sing the song correctly?" asked the Doctor.

"I do," said Amber, "Everybody else sings it wrong. It took the boy a long time to come up with the song. And he taught it to a little boy a long time ago, in another place. But nobody believed him either. They changed the song. And then they killed him."

Amber seemed very familiar with the concept of violent death. "Why did they kill him?" asked the Doctor, a concerned edge in his voice.

"Because they thought he was crazy," said Amber.

'I'm glad times have changed,' he thought to himself, sardonically, 'Now we just drug you to submission.'

"He wasn't crazy?" asked the Doctor.

"No," said Amber, "The Little Boy taught him the song."

"Why him?" asked the Doctor.

"That boy could hear him," said Amber, "It is very rare. It took them all this time to make me before they had somebody else who could."

The Doctor nodded. She had established a reason, albeit something imaginary, for why she was important. That wasn't unusual in children. But she had put so much thought into it, and so much emotion, that it was, well, borderline insane. But she was clearly a bright girl and he was hoping for the best. He didn't want to tell the parents anything bad.

"Why should we give them wool?" he asked.

"Because," said Amber, "Then they'll clean."

"Clean what?"

"Everything," said Amber, "They love to clean."

Odd.

"How do they clean?" asked the Doctor.

"They eat," said the girl, "They eat poop. But they also have little vacuums and zappers stuff for the stuff they don't eat. They showed me."

"Are they friendly?" asked the Doctor, a little amused - but remembering not to laugh, but smiling just a touch.

"Yes," said Amber, "If they weren't, they'd just eat you."

The Doctor stopped smiling.

"Amber," he said gently, "What if I were to tell you there was no Little Boy down the drain."

"I'd tell you you didn't know what you were talking about."

"Amber," said the Doctor, gently, taking the risk of trying to prove there was no imaginary friend, "Why don't you show me the Boy who Lives Down the Drain?"

"Can he trust you?" asked Amber.

"Why shouldn't he?" asked the Doctor.

"Because people have killed the Boy's friend before."

The Doctor waited, impassively, before he answered. There was a lot of death, he had to be careful.

"I promise that I won't hurt the Boy."

"Okay," said Amber, "I believe you." And with that, she pointed.

The Doctor looked, pretending to care what he looked at - but expecting nothing.

But there was something. Perched on the edge of his kitchenette sink was a little man - about four inches tall. He glistened with sewage, he looked strange, and evil, and alien.

He opened his mouth like he was speaking, but nothing came out.

Amber, though, spoke.

"The boy says 'Pay us, and we will clean.'"

The Doctor stared.

Then the Boy took a small device out his pocket and a slideshow of strange cities appeared on the office wall. Before and after shots. Open sewers becoming parks, manure-filled streets become boulevards.

The Boy wanted to clean. And he was using a PowerPoint presentation to show how well he could do it.

"Well?" asked Amber, "Expecting an answer."

But the doctor just stared.

One thought kept going through his head, "What am I going to tell the parents?"

ADMIN: Friday

Today is Friday, the day before Shabbos. This is traditionally a very busy day and I won't normally have time to write a story. In order to keep on track, I will normally post either two stories Saturday night or two on Thursday. I'm hoping to get one in today though - it is a day off.

Catherine of Sedir

The dungeon was dimly lit. Damp and cold stones lined the edges of the underground cavern. In the middle was a stone table, most commonly used for torture. Tonight, however, it had quite a different purpose.

There were three in the room. They were totally silent as they waited. They were listening, trying to determine if anybody had been following them.

After a minute, the silence was broken. It was Queen Maria who spoke, in hushed and careful tones.

"I've called this meeting," she explained, "Because a bride has been chosen for our son."

The others nodded. This was not news. The boy was five - a marriage was bound to be arranged at any time.

"Who?" asked Guiseppe. His brain had been studying the political impacts of this choice since the child had been born.

"Catherine, daughter of the Duke of Sadir."

Guiseppe grimaced. He'd expected the answer, but he had hoped for something better. The Duke's was a powerful family, and ruthless. Their rise would not fair well for the Queen's family, or for his own.

"What efforts have been taken to block it?" asked Guiseppe.

"My family has exercised all of its influence. But it has not been enough." the Queen explained, "I was chosen as Queen because we were a safe choice. Even with my position, we've haven't the influence to stop the Duke. The Duke has grown wealthy, extremely wealthy. He has acquired significant force in his 'bodyguard.' And he has been blessed with a child who is expected to be smart and beautiful. She is an appropriate Queen-to-be from an appropriate family."

Guiseppe thought, and then spoke, "It will not be good for us. They are a powerful family. With royalty, they will be dominant."

The King watched their conversation with mildly interested eyes. He was King, his son would be King - and their lives would be identical. He had no real power, he was just a figurehead. He lived a life of luxury and a life of constraint. He was a gilded and weak man behind whom were concealed the family that actually dominated the Kingdom, the family of the Queen. The choice of Catherine marked the next step in the line of succession - the path of power.

"Why are we meeting?" he asked. He saw no useful course of action that could justify the risk this meeting posed. He was a man who was watched - nobody wanted a strong King.

The Queen smiled. "We are meeting because I want our son to be different. I want our family to have the power."

Giuseppe smiled at the inanity of it. "Your Majesty," he said with a tone of deference, "The boy's ball will occur on his 21st birthday, just as your husband's ball did. At that point, he must become engaged. When he does, the woman's family will manage the country. And unless Catherine were to die, she will be that woman. The ball is just for show, as you know. And even if another girl were to be chosen, your son will not be a man of power. You could sooner move mountains."

"Perhaps," said the Queen, confidently, "I can also move mountains."

Guiseppe and the King leaned forward, intrigued.

"We need a girl from an impeccable family - but no family at all."

"A good riddle," said the King, "But I do not understand."

"We need," said the Queen, "A noble orphan. An orphan from a minor family, and the sole survivor of that family. If our son were to marry such a woman, he would be King in more than name."

"Do you have a girl in mind?" asked Giuseppe.

"I do," said the Queen, "She lives with another noble family, one of little means. Her parents and her brothers died in a fire just after her first birthday. It was four years ago."

"And when," asked Giuseppe, curiously, "Did you pick this girl?"

"Just before the fire," said the Queen.

Her words sank in. The girl had had a family, but the Queen had burned them alive so that she could become the perfect bride.

"And how?" asked Giuseppe, "Is this minor noble girl to be chosen? The Duke would revolt."

"We'll hold the ball," explained the Queen, "And all the noble girls will attend. And this girl will attend. She will arrive in a gilded coach like none anybody else has ever seen. She will wear the most beautiful of clothes. And she will dance and speak with perfection."

"An orphan girl adopted by a family of little means. How is she to dance and to speak?"

"Because," said the Queen, "I have been visiting her on numerous occasions. The family does not know - I do not arrive by carriage and I do not announce my presence. But I have been training that girl. When the time comes, she will be ready."

"And how" asked Giuseppe, "Is she to be chosen as Queen?"

The queen continued, "Nobody will know who she is. She will be a non-entity with an appearance like that of angel. The families will investigate. But they will find nothing. She is to arrive in a gilded carriage, but one that we have designed to collapse and be hidden. She will wear beautiful clothes - but beneath them will be servant's garbs. She will attend the ball, our son will be enchanted, the common people will be given a glimpse of this magical woman, and then she will disappear."

"And then Catherine's elevation will occur, just as before."

"No." said the Queen. "We will call a second ball. An unprecedented event. Justified by the intrigue of the mystery girl."

"And then?" asked Giuseppe.

"And then," said the Queen, "This girl will appear again. She will be even more radiant than before. The Kingdom will know the Prince is in love. Catherine will be weakened. And then, for the second time, the girl will disappear."

"The second time, the prince will be forced, by public outcry, to find her. The Duke of Sedir will be searching as well, to eliminate her. But they won't find her - she is a noble, but she is an orphan and poor - they would never associate her with a gilded carriage." said the Queen, "We will throw the common people into the search, we will make this magical girl a folk hero. Even the Duke will be forced to accede to her elevation, should she be found."

"And how?" asked Giuseppe, "Are they to find this girl?"

"That, Guiseppe," said the Queen, "is easy. We shall have her wear something that will fit no other girl. She can leave it behind. Then we'll simply launch a search for the girl who matches the clothing."

Giuseppe nodded. His mind was already working on options. But he was not satisfied, "Your majesty," he said, "I concede there is some small chance this could work. But if it should fail, your family will be destroyed."

The Queen nodded. It was a risk she had considered.

But the King, powerless though he was, was satisfied. "M'lady," he asked, "What is the name of our son's new bride-to-be?"

"Her name?" said the Queen, suddenly realizing she'd managed not to mention it. "Her name is Cinderella."

"And I," added the Queen with a pleasant smile, "Am her Fairy Godmother."

Violin Boy

The building had the feeling of grand dreams worn away by time and reality. Solid brick walls pockmarked and dirty. Huge glass windows, covered over in places with cardboard and tape. Hallways littered with graffiti. It was a high school, but not the place to nurture dreams.

For the vast majority of students, it was simply a way point along a path to nowhere.

Jerome Smith was quite possibly the only exception.

Jerome was short and dumpy. He was a quiet kid. And he was the school's only promising academic. He listened to teachers. He not only read his homework, he read other things as well. He was, in other words, a smart kid who wanted to grow.

Almost nobody in that school knew his real name. They called him something else, "Violin Boy." For years, he'd been carting his violin case everywhere he went. Nobody at school had seen him play - but the rumors multiplied. The dominant theory was clear: he'd inherited the violin from some rich relative and it was too valuable to leave at home. Maybe he didn't trust his two sisters, his mom, or their various and sundry boyfriends.

No matter.


It was a cold December morning when the Principal knocked quietly on the door, thrust himself into the classroom and passed a simple note that changed Violin Boy's life. The teacher read the note and a long-lost expression - and expression of hope and pride - crossed her face. She stood up, banged on her table for a modicum of quiet and then read the note to class:

"Jerome Smith," she started.

"Who??" said some kid in the back row.

"Violin Boy," another voice announced derisively.

"Jerome Smith," the teacher started again, "A college representative is waiting for you in Counseling."

You wouldn't have known it from his face, but Jerome wanted to cry. For him alone, this school was a rung on a ladder - and for the first time in his life it looked like he might just reach his dreams.

The class erupted in catcalls. Every student in there knew what college meant, and every student was jealous. Some were jealous angry, but more than a few were jealous and proud. Violin Boy might make it. Violin Boy was their hope too.

But they catcalled nonetheless. Just as they'd beat him countless times.

Social decorum required it.

Violin Boy stood up, quietly. Meekly. And he shuffled out of the room - leaving it to its explosion of conversation and its absence of hope.

He made his way down the littered halls - preparing himself for what he was going to say. "Disadvantaged kid. Single-parent family. Black. Awful neighborhood. But a persistent kid. A kid who had overcome massive odds to get out of the ghetto." He knew his story well, but he rehearsed it nonetheless. He'd never told it to anybody, but he still hoped it'd work in its first reading.

He approached Counseling, knocked on the door and waited.

"Come in," announced a deep voice from behind the glass. With a buzz, the door was unlocked.

Jerome Smith opened the door, stepped inside, closed it and then looked up.

The man facing him was no college administrator.

The man facing him was dressed in a $1500 suit. He was polished and clean. His diction was perfect. While he'd come from the neighborhood, everybody in the city knew who he was. He was the CFO.

Violin Boy turned back to the door - hoping he could leave. But the CFO spoke one simple sentence and Violin Boy stopped. "Boy," he said, "Sit down, I want to talk."

When the CFO asked, you tended to listen.

So Violin Boy did as he was told. Reluctantly, he sat - his violin case laying across his lap. He lifted his eyes and allowed them to meet the CFOs.

He expected hard eyes, cold eyes - but the CFO's eyes were soft, and seemingly caring. It was easy to forget who he was.

"Mr. Jerome Smith," said the CFO, "I hear you wanna go to college?"

Meekly, Violin Boy nodded.

"Well, Mr. Jerome Smith," said the CFO, "I would like you to go to college."

Violin Boy nodded again, silently.

"Some excitement?" said the CFO, a little edge in his voice.

Violin Boy nodded again. He was trying to hide his fear.

"I guess that'll do," said the CFO, "Here's the deal. I will pay you to go to college. Tuition, room and board, everything. I want you to have an education. Specifically, I want you to have an education in Finance and an education in Chemistry. You think you can do that?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"I didn't hear you," said the CFO.

"Yes," said Violin Boy, quietly.

"So," said the CFO, "You are going to get yourself a BA, and then I'm going to provide you with your Masters. On the street."

"Can you do that for me?" asked the CFO.

Summoning every ounce of his will, Violin Boy whispered, "No."

"Excuse me?" said the CFO.

"No," answered Violin Boy, slightly more loudly.

"I thought you said that," said the CFO, sitting back in his chair.

He paused for a moment, pursing his lips, his soft eyes resting on Jerome Smith's shaking hands.

"Boy," he said, "Do you know why they call me the CFO?"

Everybody knew that. But Violin Boy waited for the explanation.

"They call me that," the CFO explained, "Because I recognize I'm only the second-in-command. I might run the money and I might run the gangs, but the Devil himself is still my boss."

"Now," continued the CFO, "You know how this works. You're a smart kid, a promising kid. But you go to college, some black inna' city nigga', and they'll eat you alive. I know, I was there. But you go with me behind you and you will succeed. No worryin' about tuition, no worryin' about a job after school. You will be on a ladder. And I will put you there. Now, what do you say?"

Violin Boy again answered, "No."

The CFO leaned forward, "Boy," he said, "Look at me."

Violin Boy lifted his eyes - fear written across them.

"Boy," said the CFO, "Let me tell you something about my job."

Violin Boy waited.

The CFO continued, "I run a multi-million dollar enterprise. We clear over $150M a year in profits - tax free. We have a superb organization from sales and marketing to distribution and competitive analysis. And the entire organization hinges on one thing. You know what that is?"

Violin Boy shook his head.

"Boy," said the CFO, "Everything rides on people. Now, I've got three kinds of people who work for me. I've got Bodies. Grunts. Pushers. They stupid, but they'll do anything for me. You know why?"

Violin Boy shook his head again.

"Because," said the CFO, "I've broken them. Bodies is all they are. Their souls? They sacrificed their souls early on. And they are so ashamed of what they've done - what they've done for me - that they've written themselves off. I've got Bodies who've put caps in they sisters, they mothers and they baby brothers. Those Bodies, they'll do anything if it means they don't have to look in a mirror. Of course, you've got to keep those boys busy or they'll likely kill themselves."

The CFO paused.

"Do you want to be a Body, boy?"

Violin Boy shook his head, no.

"Didn't think so," said the CFO.

"Now,", he continued, "In the second group we've got the Spirits. These boys, and even a few girls, I didn't need to break them. They come broken. They are killers - but not outta shame. They're killers because they love it. They love the danger and they love the blood. They are spirited, so you gotta keep a tight leash on 'em. Of course, these boys - you gotta give 'em sometin' to do or they'll find sometin'. And you don't want that. Now, I'd ask if you are a Spirit, but something tells me you ain't one of these."

Violin Boy didn't move.

"And then," continued the CFO, "We got the last category. The Brains. These boys are cold, calculating - they see the angles, they know the numbers, they have a feel for the business. They make everything dance. Now, boy, you are a Brain - and there aren't a whole lotta you out there. Understand?"

Violin Boy muttered, "Yes."

He raised his hand. "Yes?" asked the CFO.

"What are you?" asked Violin Boy.

"I am a Spirit and a Brain and as far as I'm concerned, motha fuckers like me are better off dead."

He chucked, paused again, and regained his train of thought.

"So," he continued, "Mr. Jerome the Brain. You are valuable. And so I want to recruit you. No, no,"

The CFO paused, his eyes hardening.

"I WILL recruit you. You will become my trusting and loyal friend. Now, you know how this works - you've seen it done and I know you pay attention. You ain't stupid. In most cases, I'd start off offering protection - and then I'd go straight to the threat. But you, you need something else. You need a future and so I started off very generously. I offered you a future: A college education. A guaranteed job. A real challenge in life. And it sounds like you want to turn me down. Is that correct?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"Well," said the CFO, "If you were a Body, I'd just kill you. I can't have people in this neighborhood ignoring my needs. But you ain't a Body. You valuable. So I'm not gonna to kill you. Here's how it's gonna work. And remember, you can stop me at any time and I'll become your best friend. You understand?"

Violin Boy muttered, "Yes."

"Okay," said the CFO, "So, I'm gonna start by killing your sisters. Then I'm gonna kill your momma. And their deaths will be on your head. And then, I'll just start killing kids at this school and kids at the playground. Bodies are gonna pile up until you agree to my offer. Do you understand?"

Violin Boy nodded.

"So," said the CFO, "Do you want to go to College for me?"

"No," answered Violin Boy, as firmly as he could muster.

The CFO was surprised. And then Violin Boy, without waiting for dismissal, got up from his chair and walked out the door.

The CFO pulled out his cellphone, speed-dialed a number, and said simply, "Tonight."

And then, with a touch of anger in his voice, he added, "I'll come."

---

They weren't driving a flashy car. It was a gray 1985 Buick Lesabre and they planned to torch it in about 15 minutes.

The lights were off and it was sitting in Park at the beginning of Hamilton Road - Violin Boy's road. The driver, the CFO, had his foot on the brake.

Next to him was a Spirit - a MAC-10 in his hands. He was looking forward to the screams that would come. Behind him, a Body, his SKS aimed out the window. He was soullessly going through the motions of murder.

The Spirit and the Body chambered their first rounds.

The CFO lit the wick on his Molotov cocktail.

And then, he stuck the car in Drive.

But before he could punch the gas, the windshield was shattered by a bullet.

And then, in quick succession, three more rounds came flying through where the windshield had been.

One bullet in each man's head.

The car slumped forward as the CFO's foot came off the break. It bumped into and old Chevy parked along the side of the street and came to a stop. The wick on the Molotov cocktail burned down and the car exploded in flames.


Nobody saw him, but Jerome Smith smiled.

And then he methodically unscrewed the silencer from his rifle, pulled the scope from its mount and collapsed the stock. And then he carefully placed everything back into place - in the custom foam mold in his violin case.

And then he stood up and walked away, once again the image of a meek, and slightly overweight, child.

He allowed himself a small chuckle.

He'd enjoyed his evening.

The CFO, like so many others, had misjudged him.

He was a Brain AND he was a Spirit.

And he was going to college.

Dr. Rajiv Chaudry

Dr. Rajiv Chaundry looked proud as he stood in the gleaming lobby of his newest building. The press huddled around, waiting to hear the latest from the world's wealthiest man.

"My family is not Christian," he began, "But I still remember Christmas, 2009 as the best day of my life."

Everybody already knew what he was referring to, it was a story he'd told many times, but they waited nonetheless. Rajiv spoke in a perfect American accent - according to legend, it had been honed in one of India's many call centers.

"On that day, America passed Healthcare Reform.

"On that day my father cried and spoke the most prophetic words of his life. 'India's day has arrived.'

"It can be hard to remember those days. India's was an economy just beginning to flower. Our GDP was just over 1 trillion US dollars. American healthcare spending only was over 2 trillion dollars. It represented a tremendous opportunity.

"The Republicans in those days were worried about the death of innovation - about massive costs - about twisted incentives. But we had other ideas. Indian hospitals had competed with American hospitals for international patients. The rich went to America. The middle class of the UK, Canada and a few other countries - well, they came here.

"When American stepped down the road of an even more unnatural and stilted health care economy, we knew our day was here. Healthcare is a massive industry - today larger than any other. And with reform, what little remained of the power of ownership and profits to drive quality in the United States was eliminated.

"We'd seen it a dozen times before. India was no stranger to the phenomenon: In what are essentially state-controlled industries, quality declines. Services become apathetic, buildings derelict, equipment shabby. And in healthcare, that means death.

"But we were already moving in the other direction. Thrust into international competition for middle-class patients, we applied the lessons of industry to healthcare. We were specializing our facilities and delivering cheaper, higher-quality services than anybody else on the planet. Even in those days, some Indian hospitals could deliver the world's best open heart surgery outcomes for an average of only $2,000 per operation. Today, India has grown into the world's largest economy on the back of healthcare. We provide fully 30% of all the world's health services - public or private. Our industry employs tens of millions. We've studied, we've learned and we've built.

"What you see today is a culmination of that effort."

Rajiv turned and the horizontal escalator we were on began to move. The facility was a gleaming, massive, machine of life. We were in what appeared to be a lobby.

As we moved, Rajiv continued to speak, "Folks, this hospital has 50,000 beds - by far the largest in the world. It is a medical city. We don't have a traditional admissions area. Instead, incoming patients are immediately assessed and sent to the area of the hospital most appropriate to them. We find that eliminating waiting times results in not only happier, but healthier, customers. Once in the appropriate area, patients are assessed by a doctor before we even begin to collect their paperwork. Past patients have radio ID cards that enable us to check them in without any paperwork at all.

He gestured out the window and towards a runway outside. "As many of you know, many of our efforts are geared towards enabling people around the world to take advantage of our fantastic care. That is why we started MediAir in 2014. With dedicated medical transports, including long-haul A380s, MediAir provided a huge number of innovations - FAA approved hospital beds, tracked loading to enable patients to get on and off the aircraft without even sitting up, a full suite of life support and medical systems, a fully trained medical staff, including an emergency OR on the A-380s. And last, but not least, onboard passport control, to enable patients to get from aircraft to hospital without delays. But we never had direct access to one of our hospitals - we always had to fight Indian traffic and Indian roads. Now, that has been changed. Aircraft can land on that runway right there. The aircraft pull into hangers and discharge patients directly into the hospital. The process is incredibly smooth - and admissions complications have been dramatically cut."

The escalator continued moving.

"We've built the best into every aspect of this hospital. The escalator system use RFid tags on patients to direct them to any portion of the hospital quickly and safely. Despite having a top speed of almost 15 miles per hour, the escalators are gentle. When they stop and go, they do so gently. This single innovation has enabled us to build a hospital on a scale never before seen."

The escalator whisked us into a large and darkened room. In all directions, on several floors, were individual workstations, encased in sound-proofing plastic.

"This is the hub of our virtual clinic system. Naturally, we want to reach our customers in their home countries. Not everything requires a long flight, and not everybody is willing to wait for the shoddy care their local health utilities can provide. So we built 30,000 small-scale clinics globally - but staffed here. We essentially built medical vending machines. In a private area of a shopping center, for example, a patient can walk into the kiosk, slide their credit card, and work with a doctor - no appointment required. Our doctors interact with patients and using advanced robotic technology can physically interact with patients. It takes a little practice, but our doctors acquire amazing tactile abilities using these devices. They can actually 'zoom in' on a small area and feel it in more detail than a human hand could possible provide. In addition, because of the number of doctors available, we have further cut waiting times. Of course, for an additional fee, you can be seen by 'your' doctor."

A hand went up.

"Yes?"

"Do you plan to provide surgery's using this equipment."

"No," said Dr. Ragiv, "We can't provide sufficient control of the environment through our virtual clinics. However, the clinics can be used to book MediAir flights. And we expect to deploy our first medical ships for more involved and emergency outpatient procedures. We will be parking the first ship in international waters off of the New Jersey coast. Future ships will serve other major population centers."

The reporter nodded and our escalator continued.

"I'd love to show you are R&D facility, but it is top-secret. We are in constant competition with other facilities in India and our secrets are, how shall I put it, sacrosanct. Needless to say, we have a full-scale research facility pushing the barriers of medicine to offer our patients more than any other hospital chain in the world. We have 200,000 beds throughout the chain, there is ample opportunity to profit from the best in medicine. Of course, we submit to the Indian Review Protocols for efficacy review on every innovation we deploy. The IRP has enabled India's healthcare system to provide unparalleled levels of patient safety even as it cut out the waste and red tape associated with the FDA. This is a competitive field, but it is also critical to India's future. The IRP has ensured we have the processes in place to both grow it and protect it."

We passed over a large artificial lake.

"Our innovations has slashed costs for a wide range of care. But they have also improved outcomes. I will admit that IndiaCare offers better gastric outcomes - particularly in diagnosis - but we are at or near the top of every other specialty. Specialist facilities do crop up now and then, offering innovations in specific areas and it is our guarantee that if they provide something you need, we'll hire them to do the job. We have sub-contracted no fewer than 150,000 procedures this year alone."

We were whisked onwards. The escalator shifted upwards. The opaque ceiling was replaced by a massive glass skylight. We were rising towards a gleaming tower.

"Health is a wonderful industry. Our employees change lives every day. It is amazing to consider, but only a decade ago, India was exporting doctors. Today, we import the best from all over the world. Fully half of our medical staff is from the US - doctors and nurses fed up with the hassles of providing care in the US, and the costs of doing so. Here, they just need to do their jobs. They work hard, they are paid very well and they never see an insurance form. We compensate them based on performance and, if they'd like, they can reside in our own on-site luxury condominiums. The housing complex has every conceivable facility - including synagogues and Kosher restaurants for our many Jewish doctors."

The escalator veered to the left and we reentered the hospital proper.

"Before this tour ends, I want to show you our next generation patient rooms."

The escalator came to a stop outside a cut-out room.

"We find that costs are far lower when patients are housed in wards. Of course, our patients also value privacy. So we offer compact, high-density beds. Where traditional hospitals had sliding sheets or drapes separating patients, we offer room separators that can be electrostatically tinted to be either opaque or clear. This approach cuts the risks of infection while providing a truly low-cost high solution."

Reporters nodded.

And then, unexpectedly, each of the walls suddenly lit up with images.

"Of course," Rajiv continued, "We didn't stop at making them opaque. Each of these walls is a low-cost O-LED monitor. Nobody wants to be cut off from the outside world. These monitors can allow a patient, sitting down, standing up or laying on their backs, to immerse themselves in almost any environment. They can put themselves in their own living rooms or at a cafe and interact with relatives or friends. Or they can just hang out on the beach and forget their troubles. And when it comes time to medical care, any portion of the wall can be used to display medical data, including X-rays, MRIs, test results, medical probe views and, of course, vital signs."

Rajiv paused and smiled his famous grin. "Folks," he said, "Welcome to the future."

He paused again.

"Any questions?"

Steam 21 LLC

"Mr. Williams?" said the man, inquisitively.

We were seated across from each other in a sparse conference room. The kind that shouts 'start-up' in the 21st century. The man's name was Jonas Feickart and he was the CEO of Steam 21 LLC.

"Yes," I answered politely. I wasn't sure why there was a question - I'd included my name in the letter.

"Mr. Williams," Mr. Feickart said more decisively, "Did you design the model you sent us?"

Seated in the middle of the conference table, weighing on its articifial bones, was 'the model.' It was a compact steam engine. And, in my opinion, it was almost the perfect design.

"I did," I answered.

"Well, Mr. Williams," Mr. Feickart continued, "I've asked you to come in today because I've never seen anything like it. Of course, you know the project we're working on - high-performance, high-efficiency, steam-driven cars."

I nodded.

"Well," he continued, "We've been looking to perfect what came before. Did you know a Stanley Steamer built in 1906 did 127 miles per hour?"

I knew, and I nodded.

"Well," he continued, "We didn't beat that until 2009. Imagine what the designers of that 1906 car could do with modern technology. That is our concept. Take those old ideas and just re-engineer them with modern materials and parts."

He'd given the speech a million times.

"Turns out," he continued, "It isn't so easy. Those old timers may not have had much, but they knew what they were doing.

"And then," he waved his hands expansively, "You come along and send us something that just seems generations ahead of anything that's ever been built."

I nodded.

"Why?" he asked, "Why did you send us your model?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"I want a job," I answered, truthfully.

"A job?" he asked. "You don't want an equity position or something like that."

"I'll take that too" I answered smiling. Fact was, I would have taken just about anything.

"And why wouldn't I just take your design," asked Mr. Feickart.

I was ready for that one. I could play to his better nature, but I knew his type. He didn't have one.

"I gave you a flawed design," I answered, "I can make it better. And when I do, there's nobody in the world who knows better than I how to make it part of a functioning system. You work with me, and you'll get something you'll never find anyplace else." None of that had been made up.

Mr. Feickart nodded. His company had raised $150 million in venture capital promising the world - and they didn't really know what they were doing.

But I knew what they had to do. And he knew it.

This Mr. Feickart, though, was a cautious man. He was wary of investing in himself.

"Mr. Williams," he said, "Do you have a resume."

I shook my head, no.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm a full-time hobbiest," I answered, truthfully, "I've done some construction work, but it didn't seem appropriate for a job like this."

"But," I added, "I know what I'm doing."

Mr. Feickart nodded.

"The fact is, your model is like nothing I've ever seen before. I have a hard time thinking a mere hobbiest could put it together." He was poking for a resume.

I smiled. This was the part I'd practiced a million times.

"When I was a kid," I said, "I came across an old dump full of Stanley Steamers and all sorts of other steam engine parts. I've just been obsessed ever since. I probably know more about steam engines than any man alive."

I knew what was coming next.

"Mr. Williams," he said, "I'd love to bring you on board. But as impressive as your work it, you just can't be a part of our company. I took the liberty of running a background check - and you have a criminal record."

"What?" I asked, feigning surprise.

"A felony," he said.

"I never committed a felony," I answered.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a report.

He opened it, showed it to me, and gestured with his finger. "Right there, he pronounced."

I tried to laugh convincingly. "There?" I said, "The one marked 1965? Look at me. Do I look old enough to have committed a felony in the 60s?"

It took him a moment, but he laughed too. I didn't look a day over 30.

"Must be some kind of computer error," I offered.

"Or you've taken somebody's identity," he suggested.

"I'll do a fingerprint, polygraph, whatever. I am Bill Williams."

He nodded. He'd already run my fingerprints. I was Bill Williams.

"Do you have drafting skills?" he asked.

"I do."

"AutoCAD?"

"Pen and paper."

He was a little surprised. But not too surprised. I did work with steam.

"Can you give me a few minutes?" he asked. "I'd like to confer with my team."

"Of course," I nodded.

So he got up and walked out the door.

A few minutes later, he came back in. "Let's talk terms."

I folded my hands on the table - ready to bargain as if I had a fallback position.

But the fact was, I didn't.

I'd been homeless, on and off, for almost 50 years. I really was Mr. Bill Williams, and I really did have a criminal record.

I'd run down a man in 1965. An accident - I was never a very good driver.

I did five years for reckless endangerment. I was a black man in the South.

The criminal record stuck until people realized it had to be an error. I never stopped looking like a 30 year-old man. You can't outrun the law, but - it seems - you can outlive it.

And, I knew more about that Stanley Steamer than any man ever had. I'd been the one to engineer it in the first place.

My name was Bill Williams, and I'd been born, in 1853, to slavery.

My mother was a sickly thing - and poorly cared for as a result. But she prayed for a baby that could live and, rumor has it, a voodoo priestess more than obliged.

She died in childbirth, but I lived.

Nobody expected much of me - the son of a dead, sickly, slave woman. But I was smart - and by the time I was six-months old, every slave hand in that plantation knew it.

I was smarter than any baby they'd ever seen - white or black.

But I was too little to know to hide it.

So they got me out of there. I don't know how, but they did.

So I grew up in the North, a brilliant boy and then a brilliant man. Becoming a steam engineer was the obvious next step. I was a still a black man - my name didn't go on my work - but I was also the best steam engineer in all of the United States.

And my skills were in hot demand.

In 1906, at the age of 53, I set that record - not knowing a thing about aerodynamics or advanced materials.

And I kept working in cars through the 20s. And I kept living. And then I worked on trains. Until the 50s. And I kept living.

And then, there was nothing to do.

Times had passed me by - but I hadn't aged a day beyond 30.

The work just stopped.

And so, for 50 years, I'd worked odd jobs: I was an occasional mechanic, I was a street beggar and I even tried busking, but music wasn't my skill.

Rent was something I couldn't cover.

But I kept on living.

And I kept on working. Not for pay, of course. But for my own reward. Steam may died in the 1950s, but it lived on in me. It was buried in my brain and a part of my very bones.

I fixed the old mistakes and shortcoming. I dropped weight, improved responsiveness and designed an engine that could best anything called Internal Combustion.

Of course, nobody wanted it.

But as Mark Twain said, "History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme."

Out of the blue, Steam 21 LLC was born.

I waited for them to fall prey to the hubris of thinking they could outdo the greatest minds of my generation.

And then I stepped in, wearing a stolen suit, and ready to blow my old Stanley Steamer out of the water.

And it'd worked.

You see, I may be an old dog, and you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

But when it comes to those old tricks, well, I know them better than anybody does.

Jonas and I?

We settled on 20%.