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þÿCorpus Christine

B. Mason

    There hadn’t been a first time—not that she could remember.
    The bones, it seemed, had always occupied the same space between the trees, and she had always walked by. That winter she used a cane. In the spring her legs were pale and shaky. By summer it was two brisk trips a day. She never lingered. All the same, she was sure they were female. She was sure they were human—or had been.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her return to work prompted a daylong cupcake party. Between hugs there were gag gifts. Between gag gifts there were musings from thirtysomething executives on the preciousness of life. It was all very nice. She tried to blow up a whoopee cushion and was ordered to pace herself. She broke away to sort the mail and was sent home at three.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The second day, it took ten minutes to catch up on six months&#8217; worth of gossip. She considered chiming in, telling them about her walks, the woods&#8212;everything. But Marnie was still breaking down every time their eyes met, and Diane still spoke to her as if she were an imbecile. To mention it now, in light of all that had happened, seemed a little grim.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A few weeks later, they swarmed.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Where have you been?&#8221; asked Marnie.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;What&#8217;s wrong with you?&#8221; asked Diane.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She crossed her eyes. &#8220;How much time do you have?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Marnie shook her head. &#8220;So inconsiderate.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;What are you talking about?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;One minute we&#8217;re sitting here,&#8221; said Diane, &#8220;and Marnie&#8217;s telling a story about how her granddaughter&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, it was my grandson,&#8221; said Marnie.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, was it?&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;Okay, Marnie is telling a story about how her grandson is allergic&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, that&#8217;s <I>your</I> grandson,&#8221; said Marnie.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Anyway,&#8221; said Diane, &#8220;you were nowhere to be found, and one of Marnie&#8217;s grandkids sat on a bee.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She smirked. &#8220;And somehow I&#8217;m the one with a pain in my butt.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Marnie pointed at her. &#8220;Don&#8217;t get smart.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;For crying out loud, ladies.&#8221; She held up a bag of yogurt-covered raisins. &#8220;I just went to the vending machine.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Well,&#8221; said Diane, &#8220;we thought your nose was bleeding.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Or you had to throw up,&#8221; said Marnie.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;I&#8217;m</I> peachy,&#8221; she said. &#8220;But what&#8217;s the story with your grandson?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He&#8217;s fine,&#8221; said Marnie. &#8220;He&#8217;s joining the marines right after graduation.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;That&#8217;s not the point,&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;We were scared to death.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They stared at her.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She shrugged. &#8220;Fine. I&#8217;m sorry.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They started to shuffle back to their desks.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;But I should let you know,&#8221; she said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They stopped.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I do have to tinkle.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Their eyes, she could tell, followed her all the way down the hall to the restroom.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She invested in top-of-the-line, ultra-lightweight sneakers. She walked more, earlier, longer, later. For a time, she even spent her lunch hours circling the office park. That was short-lived. Without the usual landmarks, she felt aimless, her legs heavy.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When she showed up in the lunchroom again, Marnie and Diane had lifted their prohibition on diet soda. They were not eager to discuss their reasoning. After some half-hearted protesting, they let her pick up the tab for dessert&#8212;but then wrapped their cookies in napkins and tucked them in their purses for later.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That fall, when the invitation for her 30-year high school reunion came, she filled out the RSVP card immediately. A month or so later, just before the early registration discount was due to expire, she mailed it. In the interim, she bought a dress that was much too expensive.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She&#8217;d scarcely set foot inside the auditorium when Dale Yoder mistook her for Mrs. Littlejohn, a social studies teacher who&#8217;d retired the year they graduated. She shrugged it off. Dale himself bore more than a passing resemblance to Santa Claus, and his companion for the evening was, it seemed, a cockatiel.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Moments later, however, she was tearing up at the reception table. Her name tag read:
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;HELLO, I WAS CHRISTINE SMITH
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bud Nix and Hazel Mobley&#8212;the reunion committee&#8212;were very sweet. They explained it was simply a way to accommodate the women&#8217;s more-familiar maiden names. They&#8217;d have used one of the extra men&#8217;s tags had they known she&#8217;d never married.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;m the only spinster in the <I>entire class?&#8221;</I> asked Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I love your dress,&#8221; said Hazel. &#8220;Don&#8217;t you, Bud?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I think you&#8217;re the only one,&#8221; said Bud.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Teddy Listache, &#8217;84 alumnus and Christine&#8217;s on-again-off-again flame of roughly fifteen years, had recently wed for the third time. Long after she&#8217;d finished her two complimentary drinks, and paid cash for a few more, Christine lingered at the bar to watch wife number three go through the buffet line. There were no surprises. She was buxom, buck-toothed, averse to vegetables.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There were no surprises where he was concerned, either. He ate with his hands and took great pains to avoid eye contact. This time, he&#8217;d been the one to end it. He&#8217;d said he was afraid of contracting her illness and passing it on to his bride-to-be. Christine had been too sick to object. Ovarian cancer was, among other things, hard to explain.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She asked Martin Gidnitz, the boy with whom she&#8217;d shared her first kiss, to join her for &#8220;a trip down memory lane.&#8221; They strolled through the cafeteria, past their old lockers and into the band room. She pinned him against the blackboard.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Dang. You kiss way better, Marty,&#8221; she said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Thanks,&#8221; said Martin.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Of course my mouth is more relaxed probably than ever.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Wanna go back out, get some coffee or something?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Her eyes narrowed. &#8220;That&#8217;s awful gentlemanish for a guy who&#8217;s got a handful of&#8212;.&#8221; She yawned. &#8220;Boobs.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Heh. Good point. Still&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Don&#8217;t I seem skinny now, Marty?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You look great.&#8221; He started to pull away. &#8220;But we really should&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Take a peek at my bra if you want.&#8221; She reached back, tried to unzip her dress, spun around a couple of times. &#8220;It&#8217;s real boosty but also kinda see-through.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Martin looked around. &#8220;I dunno...&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Uh oh,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Martin steadied her. &#8220;What&#8217;s wrong?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I whizzed around too fast. Got dizzy.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Here,&#8221; said Martin. &#8220;Sit down.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She slid down the wall until she found the floor. Once there, she placed her hands atop her head, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Then vomited all over Martin&#8217;s shoes.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>Happy Days</I> was a bleary, soft-edged kaleidoscope. Richie and Malph leaned across the booth at Arnold&#8217;s to whisper, and it looked for all the world like they were sharing an infinite kiss. She woke up wetting her gurney.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Sorry, we probably gave you too many fluids,&#8221; said the nurse. &#8220;I like your dress, though.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Why am I still here?&#8221; asked Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Don&#8217;t worry. We&#8217;ll get you a new gurney, a gown.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Don&#8217;t bother. I have a DNR.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;A DNR?&#8221; said the nurse. &#8220;That doesn&#8217;t really apply to, like, laundry and so forth.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;They told me this was just precautionative,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;m sure it is.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Then why&#8217;s it taking so long?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Please be patient, ma&#8217;am. We&#8217;ve gotten two separate MVAs, and some guy jumped off the science building at the community college&#8212;all since my shift started.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Jumped?&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;If he wants to be dead, why should he get to go first?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;In case he wakes up and feels differently, I guess,&#8221; said the nurse.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You think he&#8217;s gonna wake up?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Mmm. Probably not.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;For crying out loud,&#8221; said Christine, rubbing her temples.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The nurse squinted. &#8220;I feel like I&#8217;ve seen you before.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;ve been here forever. You told me the TV was loud enough, remember?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The nurse flipped through Christine&#8217;s chart. &#8220;Why would you have a DNR?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;From before. I knew if I ever got to leave some knucklehead would just kill me in a car crash on the way home.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The nurse wrote something in the chart, closed it. &#8220;I&#8217;ve heard of that happening,&#8221; she said. &#8220;On the way here, too.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Huh.&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;I never even thought of that.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Midway through a winter morning walk, she screamed. She <I>tried</I> to scream. She squeaked. In the distance, a black lab lay gnawing a long leg bone.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Leaves crunched beneath her feet. A twig snapped. A knee popped. Fists flashed in and out of her vision. She was running. She was gnashing her teeth and making a beeline for the dog.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bone in mouth, he raised himself slowly, haunches together, then one front leg at a time. He sniffed around for a few seconds, found his spot and started digging.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine thrust her neck forward. Frozen breath streamed from her nostrils.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From all directions, a girl&#8217;s voice echoed. <I>&#8220;Gordon!&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The dog jerked its nose skyward and scanned the horizon, ears pricked. At 9 o&#8217;clock it spotted Christine and cocked its head.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine skidded to a halt.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Gordon!&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Their eyes met for a long moment. A bead of sweat dropped from the tip of Christine&#8217;s nose.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Gordon, come!&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The dog&#8212;Gordon, presumably&#8212;gave a half-hearted w<I>erph,</I> lifted his leg and peed.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Hey! Git!&#8221; said Christine, and charged forward.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She felt fast. She felt light. She felt too light. She wondered if a kick from her unsubstantial shoes would do any damage at all to such a large, piggish animal.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Here, Gordon!&#8221;</I> It was closer, clearer.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gordon lay back down and resumed chewing.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine slowed to a jog, walked to within a few feet of him, rested her hands on her knees. &#8220;Knock it...<I>off.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His tail gave a single, limp flop. Spread tightly around him were several other bones&#8212;part of a pelvis, a hand, a skull. There were more than she&#8217;d imagined. They were smaller than she&#8217;d imagined.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;I said come, you asshole!&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Hear that?&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;You&#8217;re a bad dog.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gordon rolled over on his back, whined expectantly.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, please,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;Get real.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Gordon!&#8221;</I> It was right on top of them now.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Fine.&#8221; She patted his belly a few times with one hand while picking up the skull with the other. &#8220;But that&#8217;s all you get.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With that, she turned and ran for a nearby stand of bushes, her first step landing deliberately on Gordon&#8217;s tail.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He yowled.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Gordon?&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She found a full, leafy spot close to the ground, fell to her knees and shoved the skull inside.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When the voice called again, she went to meet it.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The girl pointed to the phone tucked beneath her ear.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Excuse me,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;But your&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The girl held up a finger. <I>&#8220;Well, I didn&#8217;t think I ever had. I just didn&#8217;t know it was called that.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Excuse me, but your&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;I don&#8217;t know,&#8221; said the girl, turning her back to Christine. &#8220;Some lady.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine cupped a hand on either side of her mouth, bellowed. &#8220;Listen, blondie. I know where your dog is.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Let me call you in a&#8212;. Hello? Hello? Hello?&#8221;</I> With each <I>&#8220;Hello?&#8221;</I> the girl looked skyward and jogged a few paces, as if she were trying to avoid a falling object.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yeah, it&#8217;s hard to hear calls out here,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The girl gave a final, plaintive <I>&#8220;Hello?&#8221;</I>, stuffed the phone in her pocket and trudged back. &#8220;So where is he?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine pointed vaguely into the distance. &#8220;Over there. He&#8217;s, uh&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Retarded?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine nodded. &#8220;Very possibly. But for now let&#8217;s just say &#8216;absorbed&#8217;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, god,&#8221; said the girl. &#8220;He&#8217;s eating shit, isn&#8217;t he?&#8221; She removed a plastic bag from her jacket pocket. &#8220;He&#8217;s a disgusting shit-eater.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Not exactly,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;But I wouldn&#8217;t go over there if you can help it. I was thinking if you have, like, a treat or something, I might be able to lure him back for you.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The girl&#8217;s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, started tapping. &#8220;That&#8217;d be <I>amazing.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Okay, then,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;So I&#8217;ll just&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Wait. Are you on your period?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Am I&#8212;? Me?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He&#8217;ll attack you. I can&#8217;t even get near him sometimes.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Well,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;That sounds like a personal&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Nevermind,&#8221; said the girl. &#8220;Here he comes.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She&#8217;d had dozens of scans, all without incident. But she could feel the blood filling her esophagus, was certain it would start to spill out of her mouth at any moment.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;That&#8217;s just the contrast&#8212;the dye,&#8221;</I> said the voice from the intercom. <I>&#8220;It&#8217;ll pass.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;I&#8217;ll drown.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They pulled her out, let her sit up.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;We can give you a sedative,&#8221; said the technician. &#8220;Just to take the edge off.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I forgot something important last time.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;It&#8217;s very mild,&#8221; said the technician.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;That&#8217;s what they said last time.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Last time, the hospital chaplain had listened just long enough to clean his glasses before suggesting the edge be taken off. She was delirious, he&#8217;d said, talking in circles&#8212;not to mention squeezing the hell out of his hand.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When she&#8217;d come to, she could remember pleading with the nurse to summon him to her room. She could remember knowing that he, of all people, would want to be let in on the mystery that had been revealed to her.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She could remember nothing of the mystery itself.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After the scan, she was relieved to find that she at least remembered the chaplain. He offered a friendly wave from behind the counter as she exited through the gift shop.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She was fairly certain her dishwashing liquid had featured in a commercial with crude-soaked ducklings. At the very least, the label said it was &#8220;MILD!&#8221; Once the water in the sink was lukewarm, she added a squirt, agitated, and lapped a few handfuls over the skull.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There was still no word. Multiple specialists had to be consulted, apparently, at least one of whom was spending an Easter holiday in Thailand. She would know the moment the results were in, they&#8217;d told her. In the meantime, she should simply try to live her life&#8212;and quit calling.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After several minutes of gentle washing, there was no discernable change. She picked up the phone. Diane and her husband, Dennis, favored a western motif in their home, which was chockablock with wagon wheels, lassos and bovine skulls.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;ve been thinking about taking a page out of your interior design book&#8212;doing a rugged but tasteful kinda deal in here,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;How do you keep those things white, though?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I have no idea,&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;Dennis killed them.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Dennis <I>killed</I> them?&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh yes,&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;I figure I&#8217;m probably next.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The conference room window overlooked the parking lot. A sheriff&#8217;s cruiser straddled two disabled spaces, a shirtless man asleep in the back seat.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The deputy sipped his coffee, set it on the table. &#8220;Any questions?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine looked up from the folder. &#8220;I don&#8217;t understand what most of this means.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yes, ma&#8217;am. It&#8217;s highly technical.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over the deputy&#8217;s shoulder, the man yawned and scratched his ear with the chain between his handcuffs.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine scanned the page with a finger. &#8220;Oh, okay. It says &#8216;Adult female&#8217; right here.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yes,&#8221; said the deputy. &#8220;I believe they derive that from the pelvic region.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Wait. Does this mean she died seventy-five to <I>two-hundred</I> years ago?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Approximately.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Geez,&#8221; said Christine, flipping a few pages ahead. &#8220;That&#8217;s&#8212;. That&#8217;s, uh&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Honestly,&#8221; said the deputy, &#8220;the rest is fungal information and whatnot&#8212;molecular jargon.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, she was tall,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The deputy stood. &#8220;Like I said, Sheriff wanted me to bring you a copy since you&#8212;you know, since you&#8217;ve shown so much interest.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;So we probably won&#8217;t know&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;The information&#8217;s in the system now,&#8221; he said. &#8220;Obviously the chronology is an obstacle.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;That&#8217;s it?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Only other thing would be artwork&#8212;again, forensic. Of course that&#8217;s not possible without a skull.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;And from a resource standpoint, we have to prioritize active threats.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Like him?&#8221; said Christine, nodding towards the parking lot.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The man had huffed a few heavy breaths onto the back passenger window and was writing &#8220;FUCK YOU&#8221; in the fog.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He&#8217;s a recidivist,&#8221; said the deputy. &#8220;Whatever happened to this woman is no longer a threat.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Really?&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;What if it was cancer?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Marnie entered with a pot of coffee. &#8220;You look like you could use a refill, young man.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine gritted her teeth. &#8220;Marnie&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, thank you.&#8221; He motioned out the window. &#8220;I have to get him back.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;What happened to his shirt?&#8221; asked Marnie.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He won a First Amendment case&#8212;or half of one, anyway,&#8221; said the deputy. &#8220;I assure you, ma&#8217;am, he <I>is</I> wearing pants.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The women in the yearbook photos, mugshots and severe-angle Polaroids were all &#8220;Missing&#8221;&#8212;and all otherwise unremarkable. Yet Christine devoted the bulk of her time on jaynedoe.org to flagging comments. <I>&#8220;Too bad nice tits&#8221;</I> appeared beneath a black-and-white wedding portrait of Edith Sanger, last seen March 1967. <I>&#8220;Runt cunt&#8221;</I> referenced a Bobby Sox trading card featuring Preeti Bringhi, 8, of Abilene.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Even the haunted, rambling faces in the artists&#8217; renderings of the &#8220;Unidentified&#8221; spawned remarks faster than she could have them taken down. <I>&#8220;Why do all these bitches have the same name?&#8221;</I> showed up in response to a sketch of Jayne Doe 198801.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In between, she enquired on any remotely plausible match. Replies were rare. Follow-ups led nowhere.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She&#8217;d created her own &#8220;Unidentified&#8221; post, spending the better part of an afternoon retyping the sheriff&#8217;s report nearly word-for-word. Without an image, however, it attracted no attention&#8212;save from those who objected to Gordon being characterized as &#8220;fat.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Top Hat Motel had changed hands. Before they could even undress, the man who&#8217;d checked them in stopped by to ensure they weren&#8217;t harboring any unpaid-for guests.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Just us,&#8221; said Teddy. &#8220;Unless you wanna come in, slick.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The man&#8217;s eyes lingered on Christine through the open door.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;What?&#8221;</I> she said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Afterwards, she flipped channels. He blew smoke at the ceiling.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;There&#8217;s no smoking in here,&#8221; she said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;It&#8217;s like a hundred degrees outside.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She came to the news and stopped, gestured with the remote. &#8220;Did you hear about the thing at the college?
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Nope.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;They never say what she was studying.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He scratched his stomach. &#8220;You looked different at the reunion.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yeah? Better?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Skinnier?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He shrugged. &#8220;Maybe.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She started to flip again. &#8220;You know, I saw an entire show about a five-thousand year-old man,&#8221; she said. &#8220;They figured out his last meal.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He dropped his cigarette in a glass of water on the bedside table. &#8220;Yak, right?&#8221; he said. &#8220;I saw it, too.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Later, after he&#8217;d fallen asleep, she watched an infomercial. An NBA Hall-of-Famer, a man whose name sounded vaguely familiar, was hawking a DVD collection of &#8220;Classic College Matchups.&#8221; Between fond reminiscences of his own school days and surprise visits from former teammates, there were highlights of the classic matchups in question. At first, they were indistinguishable. Players scored. Announcers yelled. Crowds went wild. After a couple of hours, after she&#8217;d seen the whole thing a few times through, she decided they fell into three rough categories: comebacks, underdogs and otherwise uneventful games that featured stars-to-be.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When she finally turned off the TV, it was after midnight. She&#8217;d been cancer-free for a year.

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It was a space she&#8217;d seen in movies many times. Old people played checkers, watched TV, crocheted. Very old people stared out of windows, flanked by immigrants in scrubs.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Marnie never comes,&#8221; said Diane.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine took a seat beside her on the sofa. &#8220;Marnie moved to Arizona. She retired.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I retired too,&#8221; said Diane.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;That&#8217;s right,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;But it seems like they keep you busy.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I take classes. I take walks.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine tugged on the front of her blouse. &#8220;It&#8217;s starting to get chilly. The leaves are pretty, though.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I always take one of the nurses,&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;In case Dennis&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No one&#8217;s trying to hurt you,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Kill,&#8221;</I> said Diane.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &#8220;And if you do see him, it&#8217;s only because he loves you and wants to make sure you&#8217;re okay.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;If I <I>do?&#8221;</I> She looked out the window. &#8220;So you think&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine took her hand, stroked it. &#8220;No, no, no. I&#8217;m sorry.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Diane lifted one side of her collar, dabbed her eyes. &#8220;Because sometimes I&#8217;m <I>sure&#8212;.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Just relax,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;But I take a lot of pills.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine shushed her. &#8220;I know. I know.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;How about your skulls and all that?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine withdrew her hand, looked around. <I>&#8220;What?&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Didn&#8217;t&#8212;. Didn&#8217;t you call? Or wait. am I&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, yes, yes, yes,&#8221; said Christine, re-seizing her hand. &#8220;Of course, I remember.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Diane closed her eyes, exhaled. &#8220;I thought I was losing my mind.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Sorry,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;They&#8217;re white enough for you?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I wash them every day.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh.&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;That&#8217;s sad.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I wouldn&#8217;t say that.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Diane dug a piece of hard candy out of her pocket, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. &#8220;Did you get anything else?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Else?&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;No.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Nothing?&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;What should I&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Two wheels per skull,&#8221; said Diane. &#8220;Three lassos per wheel.&#8221; She shook her head. &#8220;That&#8217;s just common sense.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The first few days, Christine followed up every instruction with, &#8220;Do you understand?&#8221; Within a week, Yolanda was handling all of Marnie and Diane&#8217;s duties. Within two weeks, she knew everything.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She wept over the worst days in the hospital. She covered her mouth and giggled as Christine described the homeliness of Marnie&#8217;s grandchildren. She tsked upon hearing that Teddy was divorcing yet again.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You&#8217;re <I>sure</I> you understand?&#8221; Christine asked after revealing the particulars of the skull.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yolanda nodded. &#8220;If is me, I do too.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Not long after, a new addition appeared among the Halloween decorations on Christine&#8217;s desk. Yolanda seemed unable to avert her eyes. Finally, around lunchtime, she approached.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Christy,&#8221; she said. &#8220;Is her?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yes,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;Is that&#8212;? Are you&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Okay, okay&#8221; said Yolanda, patting Christine&#8217;s back. &#8220;But she need to move at night.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Sorry?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Puts her in your desk so she don&#8217;t get broke,&#8221; said Yolanda, pointing at the large drawer where Christine kept her purse.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Why would she get broken?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;My cousin is the cleaner lady,&#8221; said Yolanda, shaking her head. &#8220;She nice, but she have shits for her brain.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the month or so since Christine&#8217;s last visit to jaynedoe.org, she&#8217;d received 147 new messages&#8212;all from a single sender. The final three had come in ten-minute intervals:
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Please respond, as I have reason to believe this is my sister Dora.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8211; Lionel Winter
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Please respond, as I believe this is my sister Dora.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8211; Lionel Winter
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Please respond; this is my sister Dora.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8211; Lionel Winter
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She told Yolanda to go to lunch without her and started from the beginning.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The significance of the genealogy was not immediately clear. Dates were sporadic, surnames rare. Only after a century or so did the first biographical asides begin to appear: <I>&#8220;Killed by ox.&#8221; &#8220;First brewer in village.&#8221; &#8220;Harelip&#8221;</I> showed up more than once. When she tried to skip ahead a few generations, she landed in the middle of an extended commentary on beekeeping. When she tried to go back, she got wrapped up in the story of someone named Hilde and the contents of her hope chest. By the time a Dora made the scene, Yolanda was leaving for the evening.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You needs something before I go?&#8221; she said.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;Not unless you can tell me what fish scissors are.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine had just finished taping the box when Yolanda flicked the light switch.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Morning, Yolanda.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;Wha&#8212;?&#8221;</I> Yolanda spun around, sploshed coffee on her pants.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, I&#8217;m sorry,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Christy?&#8221; She set the coffee on her desk, took off her sweater. &#8220;What you doing in the dark?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I was just leaving, actually.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;What? You didn&#8217;t never goes home?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Not yet.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, no.&#8221; Yolanda wrung her hands, rushed over to Christine&#8217;s desk. &#8220;Is you stroking?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Stroking? Come on.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She jabbed her finger at Christine&#8217;s chair. &#8220;You was sitting <I>right there&#8212;.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;m fine. I was just reading.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You was <I>crying.&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I was not.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, Christy. You has a strange&#8212; I can say <I>aura?&#8221;</I>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine gathered her purse, her coat, the box. &#8220;I&#8217;d prefer you didn&#8217;t.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Where is you going?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine stopped in the doorway. &#8220;I&#8217;ll be back in a few days. You&#8217;ll be fine.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You wants me to say you is sick?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine shrugged. &#8220;If they ask.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The vinyl <I>hoarked</I> every time Christine tried to reposition herself in the giant booth&#8212;and every time, Lionel wheezed &#8220;I beg your pardon?&#8221; through his oxygen mask.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, no. It was the seat&#8212;again,&#8221; said Christine, squinting.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Are you...ill at ease?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;It&#8217;s just&#8212;. The sun&#8217;s right over your shoulder.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lionel cupped a hand behind his ear. &#8220;The sun, you say?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She slid down until her eyes were nearly at table level.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I beg your pardon?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, no. Nothing,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;That&#8217;s better.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lionel&#8217;s hands shook. He unfolded a paper napkin, tucked it in his collar. &#8220;Was I saying something?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Let&#8217;s see...&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;Amputation?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Last month,&#8221; said Lionel. &#8220;Left leg to the knee.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, no.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He rested his hands on the table, fork and knife upright, ready. &#8220;Did I already thank you?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You did,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;But it&#8217;s not necessary. The thought of her sitting in some box in the coroner&#8217;s office&#8212;&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lionel eyed the box at his side.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;&#8212;or, on some shelf, I mean. I just couldn&#8217;t&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Better watch out for this one,&#8221; said the waitress, winking at Christine. She set their plates down, poured half a carafe of syrup over Lionel&#8217;s pancakes and walked away.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I think she likes you,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lionel picked up the syrup, added another dash. &#8220;They&#8217;re taking a couple of my right toes next week.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Small ones, at least?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I don&#8217;t travel well,&#8221; he said, cutting his pancakes into quarters, eighths. &#8220;Thank you for coming&#8212;and so quickly.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;m happy you found me.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Time is&#8212;.&#8221; He shook his head, sighed. &#8220;Well. You know.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I do know.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He continued cutting&#8212;sixteenths, thirtyseconds. &#8220;Come again?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine leaned forward, spoke up. &#8220;I said I <I>do</I> know.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Know what?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She poked at her omelet. &#8220;That time is&#8212;whatever you were going to say. Scarce?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He pulled his mask away, let it hiss against his adam&#8217;s apple. &#8220;You said a mouthful.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;It makes you grateful, at least.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He took a bite, looked at the box again. &#8220;Or desperate.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Didn&#8217;t you tell me she wanted to see the Grand Canyon?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yes,&#8221; said Lionel, chewing. &#8220;She did a painting at Camp Wampanoag. We were thirteen.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Well,&#8221; said Christine, &#8220;that&#8217;s practically the next state over from me.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He nodded, looked up from his pancakes. Syrup streaked his chin.&#8220;Do you know what your name means?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine dabbed at him with her napkin. &#8220;Yes.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;My ninth great-grandmother was a Christine, you know.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;There was bound to be one in there somewhere.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;She was burned at the stake.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Really?&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;I&#8217;d have guessed drowning.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He started to dig in his shirt pocket. &#8220;Would you like to see a picture of my sister?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;You already gave it to me, remember?&#8221; Christine pulled it from her purse, held it out for him to see.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Yes, yes.&#8221; He pointed at it. &#8220;You see, it&#8217;s black and white, but you can still tell&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I know,&#8221; said Christine. She flipped it around, studied it. &#8220;She had red hair.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Just like a donkey,&#8221; said Lionel. &#8220;I always thought so, anyway.&#8221;

<center>***</center>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine had just decided on a small artificial fir when she heard the voice.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>&#8220;It takes a few tries if you wanna be totally sure.&#8221;</I> The girl was waiting for her tree at the flocking station. She was still on the phone&#8212;but had a different dog in tow.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine approached. &#8220;Merry Christmas.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The girl&#8217;s eyes narrowed, then widened. &#8220;Ohhh,&#8221; she said, and hung up.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Who&#8217;s your friend?&#8221; asked Christine, bending down to pat the dog.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Margaret.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Pomeranian?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I think.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Where&#8217;s&#8212;?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Hey,&#8221; said the girl, tugging at the drawstring on her sweatshirt. &#8220;Did you ever, like, hear anything? I mean, did they ever find out?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;They didn&#8217;t, no,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;But I&#8212;.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;ve been having nightmares.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I&#8217;m sorry.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I get lost in the woods.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Like Goldilocks,&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;And one of the sheriffs is stalking me.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;That&#8217;s scary.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;It sucks.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She placed her hand on the girl&#8217;s shoulder. &#8220;But they&#8217;re just dreams. They&#8217;ll pass.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;No, that part&#8217;s real,&#8221; said the girl, fiddling with her phone. &#8220;He got my number from the report, I guess.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He sends these really&#8212;. These texts.&#8221; She flicked her thumb up the screen. &#8220;I&#8217;ll show you.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Wait,&#8221; said Christine. &#8220;Where&#8217;s Gordon?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;He ran off.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Oh, no. When?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;A few months ago. He joined up with this, like, bunch of strays that runs around my neighborhood.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Around here?&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;I spot him sometimes,&#8221; said the girl, still scrolling. &#8220;And I know he notices me. But he doesn&#8217;t come when I call him. He&#8217;s completely wild now.&#8221;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Wild?&#8221; said Christine.
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&#8220;Okay, here&#8217;s one.&#8221; The girl shoved her phone to within a few inches of Christine&#8217;s face. &#8220;Seriously,&#8221; she said. &#8220;Have you ever seen anything like this?&#8221;



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