The Works of Nick Hayden

I think it’s safe to tell this story now.

When you’re a youth leader, you meet lots of kids. There’s lots of loud ones, and always a few whose necks you wouldn’t mind wringing. There are quiet ones, too, though, especially those in junior high who don’t know who they are yet and don’t dare make a fool of themselves. They open up eventually.

A girl there, I’ll call her Janice, was one of these, almost your stereotypical bespectacled, pony-tailed little mouse of a girl who sat in the corner and said nothing at all. Except, if you watched her closely, she moved with a confidence that belied any social anxiety, and her eyes showed how attentive she was to everything going on around her. The other kids took it for a sort of aloofness, and mocked her, like tourists sticking their tongues out at the guards at Buckingham Palace.

The tentativeness that marked her was not anxiety, but sorrow.

I’d try to speak with her, make some lame joke, and she’d smile and hold my gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before walking away. I couldn’t get the others to stop talking long enough to explain what sanctification meant, and I couldn’t get a syllable out of her. I used to wonder if she was mute, but no one said so. She was just quiet, apparently, like it was a psychological thing and not some disability.

One night, sometime during the hours of purgatory between three and five in the morning during a lock-in, I returned from the bathroom to find the youth all asleep, even the ones pumped full of Monsters, and Janice sitting up in her sleeping bag staring at me, as if she wanted to say something. She lay down and went to sleep.

I received a note that summer thanking me for all my time and effort and that, if they didn’t end up moving, her parents wanted to invite me over for dinner.

I knocked on their door mid-August. They lived on a piece of land surrounded by trees, so that though it was almost in the city, it felt isolated. They received me with a sort of hesitancy, and I braced myself for some revelation, a sin or addiction their daughter had that they hoped I would fix.

Janice greeted me with a nervous smile and sat, looking more self-conscious than I had ever seen her.

Janice is special, they told me. She can talk, they said, but she chooses not to. They handed me a pair of headphone, nice ones, ones that canceled sound. Her father put on a pair as well. Her mother leaned back in the sofa.

Janice spoke. I couldn’t hear her, of course, but I saw her lips move. I thought maybe she said, “Hello.”

Her father removed his headphones and motioned for me to do the same. Her mother had fallen asleep.

I didn’t understand what was going on. I looked to Janice. Her eyes sparkled suddenly, mischievously, and she opened her mouth…

When I woke, she was there, hand on my shoulder, shaking me. Her mother and father were asleep. I understood.

With a word, she could subdue her parents. She could silence her classroom or a gym of spectators. A bully would fall unconscious at her feet with a single syllable.

There she sat on a worn couch, staring at me meekly, and I realized how powerful she was.

She had notebooks full of conversations with her parents, and other notebooks with poetry and sketches, and still others full of all her anger and hurt. But, as far as I know, she had spoken very few words in public.

What her father feared was that someone would find out. The world is sleepless, restless, anxious, and if someone discovered a cure, if someone found a way to record her voice or analyze her genes, who knew what would come of it?

She had wanted me to know because she trusted me, because she knew I had allegiances beyond myself, and she wanted desperately to be able to share herself with someone.

As I taught and knew her those next years, I wondered to myself: Does she lay awake at night, unable to sleep, thinking of everything she wants to say but can’t? She can talk to herself, of course. She can sing when she’s alone, and she does, she admitted once in a letter. But if someday she finds a young man, she will say “I love you” and he will not hear. No one has ever heard her voice, and no one can.

She wrote me once that she loves to pray aloud.

They did finally move during her junior year because of her father’s job. It was best, she wrote me. Friendships were too deep here, and deep friendships hurt when you can’t share yourself.

She kept in contact through the mail. She avoided social media because she knew she would write and write. I think she really was afraid of sharing herself with others, even in normal ways, after years of silence.

She became a nurse, and she would whisper in the ears of her patients when they were in too much pain to rest. She liked the job, thought it was a calling, to give rest to the weary. I think she’s right.

She doesn’t write much anymore. I suppose after awhile, silence catches up with you, becomes part of you. Maybe she’s found a new confidant, but I don’t think so. I hope, though, that she still talks when she’s alone, still talks to the God she loved so much when I knew her because “like a sheep before its shearer is silent, so he opened not his mouth.”

Somewhere out there, she is still there with bright eyes and confident step, sliding through a noisy world alone and murmuring words we will never hear.

Pexels / Pixabay

Dennis had seen airport bathrooms bigger than this place. A few small wooden tables pressed up against the faded wallpaper, and a counter ran across the far end, where Jerry stood behind the cash register. A sign read “Cash Only,” and the menu above Jerry’s head was handwritten and messy. A collection of condiments sat to one side in disarray. The aroma of grilled hamburger pervaded every inch of the place.

Dennis waited in line as Jerry handed out plain brown sacks filled with orders to the man in front. As he strode away, Jerry smiled up at Dennis. “Welcome, how can I help you?” Then, recognition dawned. “Denny! When did you get back in town?”

“Came back for Grandma’s 90th.”

“Yes, of course. How’s L.A.?”

“Fine.”

Jerry nodded, waiting for more. “Can I get you something?” He motioned at the menu.

“Business going well?” Dennis asked.

“Great. I’ve got a solid base of customers, Natalie helps out with all the paperwork, and I even have Abel sweeping the floor for his allowance.”

Dennis nodded distractedly.

Jerry waved as someone stood up behind Dennis. “Thanks for stopping in, Carl!” The bell above the door rang as Carl went out. “Just a sec, Dennis. I got an order to put together. Francis will be in earlier than I told her. She always is.”

Jerry ducked into the kitchen. Dennis touched the rough wooden counter. It left a residue on his fingers.

“I work for a magazine now,” Dennis said loudly.

“That’s great, Denny. You like it?”

“Of course.”

Jerry came out a minute later, just as an old woman hobbled in. Dennis stepped aside and let Jerry ring her up.

“My Yorkie just loves your slides,” she said, opening the bag slowly to check its contents and carefully closing it again.

“I’m glad, ma’am. Thank you.”

Jerry finally turned to him again. “Decided?”

“I’ll just have the All-American,” Dennis said shortly.

He waited at the table in the corner, scrunched into the plastic chair, and fumed. Everyone had always liked Jerry. In high school he had been the smart one, with a warm, friendly disposition. But Dennis had been the one to go out East to school. He was the one with the bylines and the salary and the nice car, not this dirty little cave of a restaurant. It made him angry to see Jerry so happy. What did he have? Nothing. No ambition, nothing to show, in Nowhere, USA.

“Here you go, Denny,” Jerry said, dropping the basket of fries and hamburger in front of him. “You wanna stop by my place tonight, after we close up?”

“Can’t. Thanks. I’m just in and out.”

“I’m glad you stopped by. It’s been a long time.”

The phone rang—a wall phone, for goodness’ sakes, not a cell—and Jerry was off.

Dennis grunted. He grabbed the sandwich in both hands and took a bite. He chewed slowly. It was good. It was really good. He took another bite, savoring it. This bite was better.

By the time he finished, he was convinced it was the best burger he’d ever had.

Dennis called his friend over. “This is really good,”

“Thanks,” Jerry said, looking embarrassed.

“No, really. I could get a friend of mine, a food writer, out here, write this up.”

Jerry shook his head. “No thanks. It’s kind, but this isn’t a big operation. It’s just for here, you know? That’s what makes it work.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely,” Jerry said. He laughed suddenly. “For a second, I was really worried. The local paper in Henderson wrote me up once and I was so busy I was tempted to shutter the whole thing. Just tourists trying shoving their way in, no relationships at all.” Jerry laughed again. “Come get another before you leave town, won’t you, if you have the chance? On the house.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Dennis stood up. “Thanks. It’s been nice seeing you.”

The door creaked as he left, and the bell rang. He called his friend. “I found this place you have to try, Bill. Trust me. You’ve got to put it on the map.”

cjost / Pixabay

The creature was huge and descending rapidly from the clear sky. On Earth it would have been called a dragon, with its huge wings and long, sinuous neck. It was more bird, though, than reptile, with feathers that caught the sunlight and refracted it in an ever-changing pattern of colors. It was easily the largest flying creature Melissa Cantor had ever seen. The gravity of Earth would have made the existence of such an avian impossible, but here on Telos 4 it was just one more strange thing.

The Telans called the bird sussonsun, in a sort of imitation of wind. The Telans themselves were taller than humans and heavyset, so that they seemed giants. They spoke softly and their grasp of language was astonishing. They had learned her language with the ease of children.

“What are they doing?” Melissa asked the women standing with her. The men headed toward where the sussonsun had landed on the hard, gray dirt. Telos was not exactly barren, but it was a hard land where vegetation was more the exception than the rule.

“Watch,” said Durdon. “It is better to see first and then explain.”

Melissa had expected as much. They had, as far as she could tell, a deep and fanciful language, and yet they listened and observed before speaking and accepted the silence of their world with ease. Melissa had come as a missionary to these people; she recited the Gospel to them, and they absorbed the words eagerly, but nothing came of it. They were watching her. She explained but they did not yet see.

The men reached the sussonsun. It dwarfed even their formidable size. Slowly, they reached their hands out and stroked the feathers, surrounding it, caressing it. The sussonsun seemed to sigh, a musical twitter like bells chiming on a porch. It lowered its head and rested. It seemed to shimmer as it breathed.

Now some of the women moved, but Durdon touched Melissa on the shoulder. “You can go no closer yet. Only the married women can.”

These women carried large buckets, and one hefted an axe as tall as she was. The men continued to caress the sussonsun as the women set down their supplies and moved again to the perimeter. The Alanalan, who was both chief and priest, moved from where he stroked the sussonsun between the eyes, giving his place to another, and hefted the axe. He took a position next to the outstretched neck. He set his feet in a wide stance.

With one blow, he severed the head from the body, and blood began to spurt from the neck. The body convulsed, colors along its body trembling. Men rushed to bring buckets to collect the steaming flow.

Melissa tried to remove her emotions from the moment. “You killed a beautiful thing,” she said. “Will you eat it?”

“No. It would not be right to eat it,” Durdon said. “Come.”

Melissa did not want to go near the bloodletting, but she followed. With long spears, the men had opened other wounds. They collected vats of blood, thick, brilliantly red blood.

The Alanalan’s sons each held a deep steaming bowl and were moving to meet the young women and widows that approached along with Melissa and Durdon. They dipped fine brushes into the bowls and began to draw lines upon the women who stopped before them, long twisting designs along the arms and legs and neck and face. It was not a quick process. Each woman took several minutes, and once completed, the one painted would help to paint another.

“You must come,” Durdon said. “Celebrate with us.”

“No,” Melissa said. She felt dizzy. “I can’t.” It was barbaric, like one of earth’s primitive cultures drinking the blood of animals to gain their powers.

“The life of the sussonsun brings life to the dirt,” Durdon said. “Crops will not grow unless the dirt is given life. We take some of this life and celebrate the life it gives. Let the life cover you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“All who live together must share life.”

Melissa submitted. Durdon painted her, wrapping long lines around her neck and fingering branches across her arms. The thin brush tickled her as it ran smooth and warm over her skin. She gingerly touched the wet running under her chin. She began to cry as Durdon worked, not even knowing why at first, just that some deep truth resonated within her, something beneath the disgust and anger she felt. The dead sussonsun was still now, its colors are brilliant as ever.

Durdon stepped back and smiled approvingly. “It is finished,” she said, handing the bowl to her..

Melissa took the bowl hesitantly. Blood as life, blood as joy. “I will paint you now,” she said. “And afterward, we may begin to understand each other.”

shinichi4849 / Pixabay

“Pizza’ll be here in a few minutes,” Toby said, lowering himself into the couch. The springs sagged deeply. The couch had been used and abused by various apartment dwellers for years. “Wanna beer?”

The wizard shook his head, thoughtful. He was not one of those wise, wizened, white-bearded wizards, but one of those younger, intense types, which were equal parts cunning, ambition, somber upbringing, and tragic mishap. He sat on the edge of the armchair, his voluminous robes spread about him. A newt sat on his shoulder, staring at the potato chip crumbs on the end table.

“So, where were you going again?” Toby asked absently. The game was back on, but he kept the volume low out of respect for his guest.

“The Seventh Tier Of Valian. There is to be a great convocation of mighty beings. I wanted to learn the secret of Toli-Tuli the Fulsome.”

“Mmm-mm,” Toby said.

“I was foolish to assume Roland was dead,” the wizard said bitterly. “It was he who interrupted my portal. I ended up here instead of in the Tiers of Alkalan.”

“In my apartment.”

“If that is what you call it, then yes. I will leave as soon as I have discovered a new source of power. Until them, know that your hospitality is appreciated.”

“No problem, man.”

The wizard glanced at the screen Toby was watching, then at Toby, and shook his head. “Tell me, is there mana in this world?”

“What?”

“Mana. An essence of life that binds all things. A sort of life force.”

“You mean like the Force?”

The wizard frowned. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Nothing like that.” Toby sat up suddenly, entranced by some play, then slumped down and cursed.

“Well, what of places of power? Perhaps a massive tree or grove? A pool of perfect beauty? An unnatural rock formation?”

“Like that mashed potato tower?”

The wizard stared at Toby. The newt did too. “Do you mean to say that somewhere in this plane there is a tower made of pulverized potatoes?”

“It’s from a movie. It had aliens in it.” Toby glanced at the wizard. “You ever met any of those?”

“I think we would have to agree on definitions before I could say one way or another.” The wizard let out a sharp breath. “Toby, focus. I must have a source of energy by which to cast my enchantments. Every plane has its distinct power system, a force that flows through the world, something that binds all things and tempts lesser men to evils. Think, Toby. What is it here?”

Toby looked at the ceiling, trying to concentrate. “I don’t know. Maybe believe in yourself.”

“Faugh! Charlatans in every realm claim that. Nonsense.”

Toby shifted in his seat. “Look, I don’t understand half of what you’re saying. You’re welcome to stay for a few days, but you’ll have to figure all that out yourself.”

A knock at the door roused Toby out of his crevice in the couch. He dug in his pocket for his wallet, opened the door, and paid the pizza man. Returning, he flung some change on the table and dropped the box down. “Eat up,” he said, pulling out a slice. He took a bite and huffed desperately to cool the piece burning his tongue.

The wizard stared at the coins on the table. “What are those?”

“Pennies, mostly.”

The wizard took one and held it between his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes and muttering softly. The penny vanished in a burst of light, like the flash of a lightning bug.

“How many pennies do you have?”

“I dunno. There’s always a few somewhere.”

The wizard picked up another coin, this one a dime. It made a brighter burst.

“I need more of this.”

Toby dug in his pocket. “Will a five work?”

The wizard took it greedily. Suddenly he held a ball of light in his palm. It winked out. The five was gone.

“This will work,” he said. “I’ll need a lot of it, of course. Traveling between worlds is a an costly spell. How do we get more of it?”

“How much more?”

“Thousands of times what that one you gave me was. How do we get it?”

“Normally, you get a job. You’ll get paid every week.”

The newt was poking at the pizza.

“That was a…five, you said?” the wizard asked.

“You owe me.”

“How long to make, say, one hundred thousand at a job?”

“A long time,” Toby said. “Years.”

“Too long. How else?”

“Well,” Toby said, ruminating, “you could always rob a bank.”

The wizard narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers. “Yes….” he breathed. He took a slice of pizza and nibbled at it. “Tell me more about this robbing a bank, Toby. I think you may be on to something.”

Pexels / Pixabay

“Honey, could you get that?”

Paul extricated himself from the small boy hanging onto his ankle and stepped over a pile of Legos to the front door. Outside was a clean-shaven young man in a suit, which worried Paul. What young man didn’t have a bit of scruff these days?

“Are you a missionary?” Paul asked.

“No, sir.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “You said ‘sir.’ You must be a missionary.”

“I’m not a saint of later days or early days and I’m not a witness to anything but your pleasant face.” The young man held out his hand. “Jonas Weatherby, at your service.”

Paul took the hand as firmly as he could, to show who was really in charge here. “Paul.”

“Shall we go in or go out?” Jonas asked with a smile.

“Oh, yes, come in.”

As Jonas passed the threshold, Paul suddenly realized the house was a mess and his wife would have a fit if anyone saw it. “Actually, how about—“

Jonas was already in the kitchen making his introduction.

“Jonas Weatherby, at your service, ma’am.”

“Oh—yes. Let me get my husband.” Then, much louder, “Paul!”

“He’s not a missionary,” Paul said hurriedly. “He’s just here to….”

“Fix your problems,” Jonas said.

“What problems?” his wife Jan asked, glaring at Paul.

Paul held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything!”

“We don’t have any problems,” Jan said.

The cry of a wild beast came from the living room, followed by a cackle of laughter.

“Sam, don’t pull the cat’s tail!” Paul yelled.

“One child?” Jonas asked.

“Another on the way,” Paul said.

“Congratulations.” Jonas beamed, then nodded to Jan. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I wondered.”

“I’m due in two weeks,” she said flatly.

“How wonderful! Well, I can see you’re busy people, so let me get right to the point.”

“Yes, please,” Jan said.

Another shriek emerged from the next room and continued for several seconds.

“GET OFF THE CAT!” Paul yelled.

“OK, Dada,” came the cheery reply.

“In the days of yore,” Jonas began, “young men like me might stop at your door lugging a large suitcase filled with books. Those books contained all the information we used to t hink we needed to get along in this world. Can you guess what they were called?”

“TV Guide?” Paul said.

“Encyclopedias, Paul. Books of wonder. Everything from aardvark to Zimbabwe. But those were different days.”

Blocks began flying into the kitchen and sliding along the floor.

“Sam!”

“Leave him be.” Jan leaned heavily against the counter, arms crossed over her belly. She motioned to Jonas with a wooden spoon. “You trying to sell us encyclopedias?”

“Of course not! Something much better! Answers to your problems!”

“What problems?” Paul asked.

“Any problem. Every problem.”

“Potty training?” Jan asked.

“Sure!”

“A high-interest mortgage?” Paul asked.

“Of course!”

“Balancing work and family?”

“Absolutely!”

“Resolving long-standing interpersonal disputes at a workplace you hate?”

“Obviously.”

“How to be a strong woman who’s beautiful but who isn’t dictated by cultural expectations of strength and beauty?”

“I’d be remiss if we didn’t!”

“How to learn to roll your r’s if you never learned in Spanish class.”

Jonas pondered that one a moment. “Yes, yes, I believe so!”

By this time, Sam had snuck into the room and kicked his father in the shin. Paul ran after him, screaming. Meanwhile, Jan’s pot of pasta started boiling over and she rushed to turn down the heat. Jonas smiled serenely and waited for their attention. Somewhere, a boy was wailing behind a closed door.

“Well?” Jonas asked Jan and Paul.

“We’re interested,” they said together.

From his bag, Jonas pulled out something like a telephone book (which made Paul realize suddenly he hadn’t looked at a telephone book for most of a decade).

“A book?” Jan said, disappointed.

“I was rather thinking it might be an app or something,” Paul said.

“Oh, we can get to that, for an extra fee,” Jonas said. “The thing is, everyone uses the Internet. This is yours, and no hacker or virus or government agency can tap into. This, my dear friends, is The Book of Life.”

Paul made a little “oooh” of approval before catching himself.

“You mean like the Bible?” Jan said coolly. “You are a missionary.”

“No, not like the Bible. Much better. Much more helpful and to the point. Lists. Pages and pages of lists. Ten Ways to Make a Friend. Seven Ways to Beat a Cold. Eighteen Ways to Improve Your Golf Swing. Three Ways to Ensure Your Eternal Salvation. Every topic is one page. Simple. To the point. Effective. All the knowledge of eight billion humans distilled into Five Ways to Be Happy Every Day.”

“Can we look at it?” Paul said.

“Briefly,” Jonas said. “Just in case, this is an expurgated version. The full text is only available to purchasers.”

Paul took the light book and set it on the counter. He leafed through it, Jan peering over his shoulder.

Six Ways to Avoid a Dinner Date. Nine Ways to Win at Go, Fish. Two Ways to an Argument (Female Edition). Five Ways to Stave Off a Sense of Meaningless and Despair.

Paul turned to his wife. She grabbed his hand. He felt a surge of romance and confidence.

“We’ll take it!” he declared, just as she said, “Does it really work?” Obviously, he had misread the confidence.

“Absolutely. How do you think I became a Book of Life salesman?” Jonas walked over and turned pages until he reached, Six and a Half Ways to Become Filthy Rich. Number three read, “Join the Book of Life sales club.”

“How much?” Paul asked.

“You’ll get updates and additions mailed to you quarterly for the rest of your life. We’re always improving.”

“How much?’ Jan asked.

The sound of glass shattering came from where the wailing had grown quiet.

“Never mind,” Paul said. “We’ll just put it on the card.”

tookapic / Pixabay

Charles lay awake in bed. He had woken up with the same thought that had pursued him for weeks. He had made the preparations. Now, while his wife slept, he could do it. She would never know.

He turned in bed toward her, trying not to disturb the covers. She lay facing him. Even asleep she was beautiful, her long hair covering her cheek, her lips open slightly. Her hand rested near her face on the pillow, her long, smooth fingers graceful and inviting in the dim light.

Sitting up slowly, he leaned back against the headboard. On the nightstand, beneath his book, was a small tool, shaped like a toothpick. He retrieved it carefully, keeping the rest of his body motionless, gazing at her spotless neck and remembering how he had touched the nape of it three days ago and how Helena had recoiled from his touch.

His heart was beating fast. He expected Helena to wake and see him, see what he was about to do and stop him. He lifted the tool to his eye, breathed deeply, and slowly pressed the point against his cornea. Not too hard, the instructions had said, but firmly, enough to pierce the outer layer of the implant. The tool would temporarily neutralize the device.

An electrical shock convulsed the muscles of his face. He went blind in his left eye. He blinked rapidly, trying to restore his sight, trembling. It was supposed to disable the overlay, that’s all. Permanent eye injury was rare. That’s what the pamphlet had said.

Slowly, sight returned, disorienting him. Each eye was perceiving the world differently. He closed one eye and then the other, comparing, trying to understand what he was seeing. The dimensions of the room were the same in each. The furniture existed in each. His wife lay there, asleep, plainly visible with both eyes. But the world was darker through his left eye, now that the implant was disabled. The light from the street outside was dimmer, the shadows thicker.

He slid down under the covers again, lying on his back and trying to examine Helena’s face through his left eye. She was old. He could not distinguish individual wrinkles, but it did not matter. It was her face, but it seemed someone else’s.

Slowly, he reached his hand around to feel that place on the back of her neck. A bump, a growth of some kind. He had never seen it, but his fingers had found it. He knew he would see it now if she turned around.

Helena stirred, and he drew back his hand.

She repositioned herself, giving him a new angle to examine. Her chin was not so firm as presented to the world. Her hair was thinner, too, and the color was fading.

He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the light. A strange man looked at him through one eye. He seemed familiar. Charles caught a memory of his father before the veil had fallen over the world, making all things beautiful.

Charles touched his face, turned in the mirror to view his profile, examined his hands and ears and teeth. He felt sick. He closed his left eye and opened his right. There he was, fresh and firm and eternal.

After a long while, he turned off the light and returned to bed.

“You all right?” Helena murmured.

He wanted to confess. He had seen. He had seen the lies they told each other, the lies the world shared happily, that they were young and gorgeous and unchanging. He liked the lie and it sat in the pit of his stomach, sour. The implant would reboot in another five or ten minutes.

Helena raised herself on her elbow. “Charles?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

She closed her eyes, drifting back to sleep. He tried to do the same.

philm1310 / Pixabay

Selena knocked hesitantly at the door to the old house. “He won’t answer,” they had told her. “You have to just go in. It’s part of the process.”

She waited for the door to open anyway. A stray dog watched her from the alley. She didn’t know what street this was. She had followed directions that led her on foot through narrow rundown passages full of broken windows and unpleasant odors to this solitary home near the top of a hill.

She knocked one more time, waited, and considered walking away.

She turned the knob and pushed. “Hello?” She looked in.

He sat there, at the end of the long dim room that seemed to take up most of the small house. He sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, bent forward, looking at her. He was old, with hardly any hair, and an expression that spoke only of age and not emotion. With firm but slow motion, he indicated the chair facing him.

She understood. She was to sit. Selena remembered the promise she had made to herself and entered, setting herself on the chair.

The man spoke: “You have come to unburden yourself.” His voice was weathered like rocks in dry canyons.

She nodded and said meekly, “Yes.”

“You have a secret you have never told anyone. It is a secret you cannot tell anyone, but it imprisons you. It changes everything about your interactions with others. They cannot see it, but you always do. And so you have come to me.”

Selena trembled a bit. “Is it safe with you?”

“All secrets are safe with me.”

Selena was not sure she trusted him. No, that was her fear talking. But if she did not tell someone, she was not sure she could hold things together back home.

“What if it’s silly? Maybe I don’t have to tell it.”

The man watched her closely.

“It isn’t anything,” she said. “Just something small that I never said out loud. Like a grain of sand stuck in an oyster.”

He smiled slowly, a smile that showed he understood more than she said. “The particular words do not matter. The secret is the thing. The thing locked up. Not the words but that they are unspoken. I will keep them. Give me the burden.”

He waited. She waited. She swallowed and imagined herself speaking the words and took and breath and—

The man moved his hand slowly to his ear. “Here,” he said. “Whisper it. So only I can hear.”

Selena stood. The man watched her with dull eyes that never blinked. She stepped closer and he turned his head. She bent down and whispered the words in his ear.

Then she stepped away and waited for his reaction.

“You are free,” he said.

She felt a lightness, a shimmer of sun in her soul. She had spoken the words and he had not judged her. She sat down, flushed, a little weak in the legs. He was staring at her with that same placid, ancient face. How much had he heard in his lifetime? How many secrets lived inside him? Could a man survive with so many words in his soul?

“Can I—do you have a secret? I will take it from you, if you want.” She did not know what she was saying, whether he would be offended, but she had to offer. He had done her a great service; he had unchained a part of her.

At her words, the man’s face grew sad. “If you had asked before you spoke your secret, then…. But it is too late now. That is how the exchange must work.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“You do not need to. Go in peace.”

He stood and walked into the back room. Selena made her way to the entrance. Beside the door was a small donation box. She pushed a few bills into it and entered into sun, where the streets looked less foreboding than before and she walked briskly, with a sense of hope she had forgotten.

Inside, the man sat on the edge of his bed and pondered his own secret, long kept, that while he read lips well, he had been deaf for many, many years.

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Aaron found himself awake sometime in the deep hours of night in a strange room, aware of the person beside him in the bed. He didn’t move for fear of waking her. He could hear her breathing slowly beside him, her back to him. He wondered if she was awake too, staying still and silent to give him the impression she was sleeping. He was stiff and self-conscious of his own breathing.

It was the third night of their honeymoon. He loved Meredith and still couldn’t believe he was married to her. They had been friend before discovering their attraction, and this aspect was still so new and exciting….

But now, suddenly, he felt awkward. Who was this person in bed with him? For twenty-three years he had slept alone, slept when he wanted, in torn and should-be-washed shirt and shorts, drooled on his pillow, and had the night hours to himself.

He suddenly needed to go to the bathroom and wasn’t sure he could extricate himself from the covers. So he waited, unmoving, and closed his eyes. That only made the pressure in his bladder more insistent.

Why should he be nervous? They were married. They were one flesh. (But only for three days. That was hardly any time at all.)

Meredith’s grandparents were German Americans. They had slept in separate beds their entire marriage. It was not at all romantic, he had thought when he first learned that. But he could admit now that it was orderly and convenient, a bit of privacy in a shared life. Meredith had joked about how she hogged covers, and her sister had warned him that Meredith often ended up with her head facing the foot of the bed because she moved so much when she slept.  

This did not bode well for his rest. And he liked his sleep.

He waited and listened and finally determined that Meredith was good and asleep. Then he slowly wiggled his way to the edge of the bed and slipped out from the covers. He crept swiftly over the wooden floor of their rented cabin, slid the bathroom door shut, and relieved himself.

Should he flush the toilet? He couldn’t remember how loud it was. He couldn’t remember ever caring how loud a toilet was.

He slipped back to bed as quietly as he could. Meredith wasn’t there.

Should he keep still and pretend he didn’t notice? Earlier in the evening, he might have considered this some sort of playful gesture, but the time and his earlier uneasiness made him anxious. He listened and heard some rustling at the edge of the room, but he couldn’t see well after the light of the bathroom. He sat up and said, much too softly, “Meredith?”

“I just forgot something,” she said, too loudly. “Don’t worry.”

She returned to bed almost immediately.

“Sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I was just looking for something.”

From her tone, he knew he shouldn’t ask. “I don’t want there to be secrets between us,” he said, more passionately than he had expected. “I don’t want us tiptoeing around each other.”

“I know,”  she whispered. She turned away from him.

“You can trust me,” he said.

“I know.”

She said nothing for a few minutes then got out of bed and returned to their suitcase on the floor at the edge of the room. She pulled something out, held it close, and sat on the bed, back to him. He could just sense her outline.

“I thought once I was married….” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t be mad.”

Now he was worried. “I won’t.”

“I just can’t sleep. It’s still so strange.”

He nodded, realized she couldn’t see it, but didn’t say anything.

She straightened, as if she had decided something, and turned suddenly. “This is Mr. Catface. I’ve had him since I was a baby. I sleep with him almost every night.”

In the darkness all he could see was a ball of fur. She held it out to him and he took it. It was soft and it smelled like her.

He handed it back. “I love you.”

She lay down, squeezing it close. “Good night, husband.”

He scooted close to her. “Good night, wife.”

A few minutes later, she started snoring. He turned away, covered his head, and tried to sleep.

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They led him into a sterile white too-bright room, which held a table, a chair, and it. They placed him in the chair and shut the door. Upon the table was a white file folder.

His brain was fuzzy from lack of sleep, lack of food, and whatever concoction of drugs they gave used to placate him. He stared uncomprehendingly at the folder. His name was printed neatly on the tab.

“Look at it,” came the calm voice. “See what it says.”

He did so, trembling hands sliding the folder close and opening it. Inside were clean sheets of paper, maybe a dozen, each with rows of numbers. The time and date of his birth. His height and weight then and in subsequent years. His social security number and address and phone number. His driver’s license number, credit score, debt-to-income ratio, credit card interest rate. His elementary test scores and final exams scores, SAT and ACT scores. The number of siblings and family members, the age difference between his siblings and him, the household income of his family. His annual income, his checking account balance, his IRA total. The date he started his first job. The length of each job. His hourly wage and weekly hours worked. His client conversion rate, his lost sales rate, his commission rate. His daily step total, average caloric intake, average nightly sleep. The number of Top 100 classic movies he’d watched. Same for books. Percentage breakdown of his average day—percentages of sleep, eating, commuting, working, watching. A breakdown of his Internet habits by average minutes spent on apps, social media, email, websites. Percentage of achievements earned on a variety of video games. Likelihood of developing certain genetic diseases. His blood pressure, resting heart rate, BMI, cholesterol….

The numbers swam before him. He put the papers down, only a few sheets in.

He looked up and saw it again. The blank, white panel upon a metal neck, the limbs manufactured in imitation of a human. That sharpened his mind a bit.

“What is this?” he asked.

“You,” the robot said. “This is just a summary, easily attainable. You recorded most of it yourself in apps and databases. I could show you reams of numbers.” No emotion, just a series of words, inexorable. “You say you fear us. You want to destroy us. That is programming, built in from centuries of fighting to survive. You say we are abominations. You say robots are not human.”

It paused for a long moment, so silent and still it might have switched off. Then it spoke: “Humans have tried to be efficient, to make the numbers add up to seamless perfection. To life-hack your own code. We have concluded that is why you fight. You have tried so hard to be us, but you are not. Do you understand?”

“You’re wrong.”

“We concluded you would respond in this way. Therefore, there is one more number I must add to your list. It is ten fifty-seven thirty-three.”

The man stared at the robot, refusing the ask.

“It is the time of your death,” the robot said.

Its cool metal fingers grabbed his arm and injected something into his arm.